It’s 8 p.m. and I’m on a gravel bar just above Welch Bluff on the Buffalo National River pondering my wife’s question - just what the hell do I do this for anyway? I’ve driven ten hours from home, spent two hours more arranging a shuttle, and canoed only about a mile below the Pruitt bridge put-in. It’s hot, humid, and I’m cranky and covered with sweat from the effort of putting up my tent and fighting the no seeums. After dinner, I swim au natural in the river, change to clean, dry clothes and puff on my pipe. In the cool of the evening I start to remember.  I sit mesmerized by the gurgle of the river, watch the stars come out and the fireflies dance among the trees. It comes back to me now, the feeling of utter peace and freedom which only a solo trip can bring.

I am up early the next morning and, with no one’s schedule to consult save my own, I’m on the river long before the morning fog lifts. I drift through a surreal world where the splashing water of a fern fall or riffle is heard long before seen. Blue heron appear as ghostly apparitions in the fog, flapping their great wings and silently gliding off into nothingness. I pass the mouth of the Little Buffalo, largest tributary to the Buffalo itself, and slip silently past Welch Creek and Lost Hill. Soon I reach the low water bridge at Hasty. There is just enough water that the bridge might be safely run, but with no one about I decide to line across on river right. The fog has lifted by now and I drift with the current watching the day come alive. Later, I stop at John Eddings cave. The day has already warmed enough that the cool breeze off the creek here feels wonderful. I welcome the opportunity to stretch my legs and take the poorly marked trail along the creek to the cave, even though I know it is closed off this time of the year to protect the nesting bats.

 Back at the boat, I sneak a peek at my watch in the ammo box. It’s 11:30 a.m. and I’ve just  completed my planned mileage for today. Instead of stopping, I go on, paddling very little, letting the river do the work. I feel just like I did when I was a kid, floating the irrigation canals outside Phoenix on an innertube during those long, hot, Arizona summer afternoons. I know it’s time to quit for the day, but I can’t. I stop briefly at Carver to swim, refill my water bottles, and empty the trash.  Later in the afternoon, I pass the Mt. Hersey access. There is a great campsite here on river right, but it’s visible from the access point. Too close for a solo camp.

Just below Mt. Hersey, the river takes a 90 degree turn to the right and suddenly I am confronted with a long train of three foot waves  and the need to maneuver quickly to avoid a nasty hole on river left. After a day of lazy travel this is a real eye opener. Soon a good gravel bar presents itself. It has a beautiful bluff across the river for a view, a breezy point to keep off stinging bugs, and a tent site well above the river with a good line of retreat in case rains should swell the free-flowing Buffalo in the night. I pull the Old Town well up on the gravel bar and tie it off to a willow tree which has survived many years of spring flooding.

 A quick dinner of beef stew leaves me a couple of hours in which to swim and to sit in the beach chair with my feet propped on the ammo box while I read and watch the spectacular sunset. One last swim to cool off and clean up, then off to the tent for the night. A check of the map shows I have come over 22 miles today, about twice as far as intended.

 I am awakened sometime before dawn by thunder and lightning. I zip up the tent, make sure no gear is touching the sides, and fall back to sleep listening to the patter of rain. When I awake again it’s light and the rain has stopped. I breakfast on coffee and cookies and leave camp after the fog lifts. The map warns of a two foot drop somewhere just ahead. I keep my eyes and ears open. The river is fairly high, six feet on the gauge at highway 65, and at this level it turns out to be a piece of cake - a small curling wave followed by a line of two foot standing waves. That and the coffee are enough to wake me up. After the rain, the morning fairly sparkles. I pass the "Narrs" on river right and give in to the little boy in me who can’t resist the urge to paddle the canoe through the eye socket of Skull Rock just downstream. Since I am way ahead of schedule, I stop at the Woolum access long enough to wait for a shuttle driver through whom I can relay a request to have my car brought to Gilbert a day early.

About a mile below Woolum is Horseshoe Rock, a u-shaped pourover responsible for more wreckage and lost gear than any other spot on this stretch of the river. I run it on the right, avoiding the willows in the swift current by using just the corner of the hydraulic behind the ledge to quickly turn the boat. Another beautiful day, the adrenaline has sharpened my senses and the forecast is for severe pleasant. Temperatures are in the low 90s, and puffy white clouds dot the deep blue sky. I drift along enjoying the scenery, and pull over early in the afternoon to set up camp. The site is on a gravel bar, fifteen feet above the water, and provides a terrific view of Whisnant Bluff across the river. The front door of my tent overlooks the bluff and a long shoal which will sing to me all night long.

The hot part of the day is spent in the shade of the trees across the river, reading, swimming, watching butterflies and clouds.  The afternoon stretches on forever. In the evening I have some Wolf Brand jalapeno chili (they were out of "regular" at the supermarket) and crackers, followed by Rollaids and root beer. In a torpor from my languid afternoon, I sit and ponder the eternal questions; why are we here, what does it all mean, who the hell invented jalapeno chili, and why is it that a river which feels so cold when swimming will only yield up a lukewarm root beer?

 The light from another magnificent sunset lingers on the bluff across the river. Venus and Jupiter appear low in the west, slowly followed by thousands of stars. Fireflies put on a show of wildly flickering lights in the trees all around. Later, I lay peacefully in my tent watching the full moon rise over the bluff, feeling the cool evening breeze, and listening to the sound of water running over gravel.

 Again I awake just before dawn to the sound of thunder, followed by light rain. I doze off and on until the rain lets up just after sunrise. I am reminded of Camelot. Today’s scenery reminds me of it even more. The river is flanked by dark green hills and tall bluffs crowned with trees and streaked by the minerals which leach out from the soil above. The river is a clear green and glides smoothly over a bed of white gravel. The boat  dances through a number of delightful shoals, and the river provides just enough current to preclude paddling in all but the longest of pools. By one p.m. I am at the Gilbert General Store  enjoying a cold coke and an ice cream bar. Ah, the little pleasures of civilization!

 The beauty, peace, and tranquillity of a solo trip on the Buffalo defy description. Everything is done on your own schedule, with no adjustments for the needs of others. A rare treat in today’s hectic life. Without the presence of others, wildlife is more abundant, thoughts and reactions are more personal, and you very quickly become one with your surroundings. The dangers of an unforeseen accident while canoeing are very real, however. Most days I saw no more than two or three other parties on the river, and none at all after 4 or 5 in the evening. If you’re going solo, be sure to take a very complete first aid kit and all your common sense. Some ice for the root beer wouldn’t hurt either.