Dear Reader, This morning we awoke to the buzz of mosquitoes in our thicket and quickly broke camp, slipping into the calm mist of the river, beaten only by one fishing boat. Water like glass. Sky like calm water. Sixteen and a half nautical miles of glorious paddling through the white of fog was our reward. We paddled all morning by compass to the charted mound of Rock Island. I love paddling in the flat and silence of fog. Tilting the rudderless Miss Pink starboard, the compass heading nudged east, and tilting port it would nudge west. Thus we kept …