Dense fog loomed and billowed through camp throughout the short dark hours, all through breakfast, and ensured all of our kit was saturated as we packed up to get back on the water.
On-water visibility was good enough to see suspicious seals (just beyond Doom and Brett, below) but not much else. As we ferried ever left, 45 to 50* across the current of the river, we could hear diesel engines somewhere out there. We knew they were fishing boats scooping up reds by the millions, thus we endeavored to head in their general direction -- with the understanding that they'd be in deeper water with stronger current.
What we'd forgotten is how well sound travels over water. Eventually it occurred that those diesels were 10+ miles away, out at the edge of the delta. It'd take us many more hours to slog and slosh our way there.
These gents had been so fixated on their catch that they'd paid a little too little attention to a prominent sandbar on the chart. Dohp. Note the shovels and the pile of mud perpendicular to the boat. Hours of toil had given them half a chance at getting out on the next tide swing, but they had a lot of work left and not much time left to do it.
At the far SE end of Softuk Lagoon we dragged our sodden carcasses ashore and packed, finally, to ride.
The beach was glorious -- firm and fast. Spirits were high as we left the tedious travel of the delta and steamrolled into the evening.
Jaybs scouting from the highest point around.
A public use cabin appeared on the beach right about dinnertime, and who were we to say no to an out-of-the-wind-and-spray-and-bugs place to sit and cook and relax?
Hauling ass for a few miles along mirror-smooth beach had lifted our spirits and hopes substantially. But now, almost 2-days into our trip, we were already a full day behind our must-make schedule. Had we been overly optimistic with this itinerary? Or was the riding to come really *that* good?
I can't speak for mis amigos, but I was hoping against hope that it was.