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We camped on a sand spit that evening when we saw a cabin and a sign that read: “River Miles. Rapidan, 7 miles. Motts Landing, 15 miles. Fredericksburg, 21 miles.”
The man who owned the cabin arrived to spend the weekend while we were cooking dehydrated “Beef Almadine.” He waved, then turned on a generator or a lawn mower. That night what sounded like a raccoon ran across the overturned aluminum canoe.
Saturday morning was much better. Packing a canoe after getting into the routine of river cruising, then pushing off for the confluence seven miles down river, was exciting. We pushed purposefully along. The mist burned off and the morning was hot.
BUT IMAGINE swinging a canoe around at the sight of clear broken water half a milfe up the Rapidan and to find the point a sandy campsite, shaded, so that a tent could be pitched to
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