This year my Birthday just sneaked up on me ;sorta like the extra five pounds on my bathroom scale. One morning it was just there and instead of casting blame on the usual suspects like the Devil and the extra piece of cheese cake and I had to scramble about and do something significant for the half century plus I have been graced to walk and work this planet. My wife; never one much for idling my time ; cast about a series of secret phone calls;; where she contacted a naturalist and guide to take me 60 miles down the Mississippi river by canoe along with my 18 yr.old newphew, Jeff , from the University of Vermont in a surprise tour of this fascinating and powerful river. 5:30 am We pack up what amounts to be sun and water survival gear and few creature comforts and head out to Clarkesdale ; the magical Delta town where Robert Johnson sold his soul to the Devil at the infamous cross roads of hwy 49 and 61. To the casual visitor the town itself appears locked in a sleepy time warp somewhere between the "Last picture Show" and a Walker Evans WPA photo. However scratch a little at its peeling facade as the sun goes down and you will discover the Blues and its origins hosted and feted by an international fan club who reside in this proud Delta town.. I meet my guide John at his river front studio ; a colorful collective of hand made huts decorated with the flotsam of bleached and twisted drift wood found through years of river exploration and travel.His canoes are hand crafted from local wood and his spirit matches his craft Deep and resourceful; his conversation plunges you into the life and the spirit of the river without the trappings of ego or over education. His viewpoint is refreshing in that it is Non political; He lets the river speak for itself letting you reflect on its inner beauty and power.. . The warm Delta sun is well up as we pour over old river maps cradling cups of "cowboy " coffee and discuss landfall and camp sites on th is ancient river.We will probably make for the islands in the stream; Islands of no names that are formed every year only to disappear with the periodic changing of the current So that an island with trees may last 5 or ten years but rarely more than 20. Islands untouched by man; little nature sanctuaries protected by treacherous currents and fast whirlpools" made new" every year by the sculpting waters of the mighty Mississippi. With the passing of the Ides of March the spring floods hearld the melting of the snows at the upper tributaries of the Mississippi and contribute a virtual vortex of deep water flowing down a narrow chasm that separates the East from west in what is the United States. These spring floods not only bring new life to the river but they help purge and cleanse the river through the daily passage of millions of tons of water. John informs us that the Mississippi has been for millions of years sculpting its river bottom to where it is now an average of 150-200 ft deep.. We pack the canoe carefully and head off from a point known as Montezuma . The current is deceiving, at first glance it appears slow ; and easy mile swim if one had to. Then the reality kicks in as you notice the land moving by real fast and your not even paddling. We make immediately for the curves of sharp bends where the water will take and sling us in its fast moving volume; and therefore help us reach our destination faster . Every time we hug the coast we are witness to flocks of red wing and white pelican; commorant and Canadian Geese.The trees are a virtually alive with all species and song serenading the sun and the arrival of Spring. Jeff photographs and I paddle; I like the work out. We see a lot of beaver and some otter ; I throw out a fishing line and let it drift with us . The sun is now high and dazzles the water with 70 deg temps . We shed shirts and let the warmth of its rays bake through the doldrums of a winter of rain. Ahead lies an island in pure white sand with a stand of cottonwood trees gracing its Arkansas side; we put our backs into the paddles and make for the lea of the shore. The shore sand is bejeweled in tiny polished agate and multicolored chert.Unusual shapes of bleached driftwood lay scattered among the remains of logs and eel grass. We make a small fire for green tea and take our mid day dinner on the beach amid a rag tag collection of impromptu furniture created from what the river left behind . We dine simply and elegantly on brie; and tomato and fresh crusts of French bread followed by a tossed green salad in balsamic and fresh fruits. After a week of rain we have been blessed with some fine weather ; . We now strip down to shorts and make the circumference of the island barefoot with a water jug,old floppy hats and sticks . Jeff wants to take the 410. for snakes ; but the sticks will work just as well. Nothing needs killing unless its upon you . We make for what is called a Blue Hole, crystal clear water left behind by the Mississippi that has been filtered clear through the sand . Some holes are 20-30 ft deep and so clear that you would think they are shallow. We strip naked and with the help from a green limb swing high into the air and let go with war whoops to take the plunge into the mystical icy blue hole. ; The cold water cuts my stagnation and refreshes my body. I break for shore in a series of well timed strokes as my nephew sails overhead. We laugh and repeat the maneuver before I retire to a grassy spot in the shade of a tree. There I stretch out and with tired eyes and tingling skin sleepily watch the majesty of a mighty river roll before me . Happy Birthday old man; ......