A fish splashed the water between a couple of bald cypress knees partially submerged near the muddy bank. A gentle curse floated through the night and was absorbed by the overhanging tree limbs. The man dropped his canoe to the ground and sat down, nursing his barked shin. Damned cypress knees everywhere, poking up from the slippery mud, guarding the river bank. The crescent moon did not shed enough light to show him the bald-headed woody gnomes all around him. After the pain subsided, he pushed the canoe the remaining ten feet to the bank and slid it quietly into the water. The water was warmer than the early September night air and swirling mists rose from the dark water in thick eddies. He stepped into the canoe and carefully took his seat at the stern. Pushing off with his paddle, he arrowed his way into the small bay of the Blackwater River and began paddling toward the open water. The mists parted from before his bow and left a dark gap in his wake.

When the canoe emerged from the bay, he steered against the sluggish flow of the current, headed upstream. A glance over his shoulder showed a slowly brightening horizon as dawn drew near. Ahead of him a ragged skyline of solid masses of bald cypress, oak and pine trees loomed darkly over the misty waters. As he paddled, strongly but leisurely, the mist forming on the water's surface thickened into a soft, cottony blanket, fortifying itself against the coming of the sun's banishing rays. He rested the paddle across the gunwales of the canoe and let himself drift briefly, imagining he was gliding over the surface of a cloud. He closed his eyes and listened to the twittering of the birds roosting in the trees and beginning to flutter nervously, anxious to greet the dawn. A breeze brought him the cedary scent of cypress from the northern bank of the river.

When he opened his eyes again he saw he was approaching a wide curve to the left. He picked up his paddle and began steering around it, keeping to the center of the river. As he rounded the curve, he noted the brightening eastern horizon moving to his left shoulder out of the corner of his eye. When the river resumed a straighter course he scanned the surface ahead of him. The mist was beginning to break up as the sun began peering over the left bank. Suddenly, he tightened his grip on the paddle. There was something there, maybe fifty yards ahead. It seemed to be swimming toward him. His heart began to pound and he held the paddle just off the surface of the water slipping quietly beneath it.

It looked like the head of some critter, swaying from side to side as it swam down the river toward his canoe. When it swayed to the left, he caught it in three-quarter profile. It seemed to be shaped like the head of a horse, or perhaps the head caught on one of those fuzzy photos of the Loch Ness monster. Suddenly the twittering of the birds on river's banks took on a more ominous tone, sounding almost like a band of angry chimps raging on the banks of a river in a dark African jungle. He dipped the paddle into the water to slow the canoe and used it as a rudder to keep the bow pointed toward the approaching head. Whatever it was, it just kept calmly swaying back and forth as though on a leisurely swim. Presently, it became apparent that it was not getting any nearer. The man chuckled nervously to himself. He started paddling again, aiming for whatever the thing was. As he got to within a few yards of it, the rising sun revealed a capped Clorox bottle. He laughed loudly.

It was a trotline for catfish, caught on a submerged tree limb.