Sunday sunset at Claiborne landing cloaks sandbar in long shadows

While Crystal and Harper were out school shopping Sunday, James and I made a late afternoon trip to the river at Claiborne. He’d been tinkering with his boat motor on and off for most of the day, and he wanted to put it in the water to see if everything was good to go. A glance at my watch told me it was after five o’clock, the sun would be down in a couple of hours.

“If we’re going to go, we’d better hurry.”

Thirty minutes later we had the boat in the river. James captained us up the river and after a brief field trial, he was satisfied that his motor was working fine. His 18-horsepower outboard had lived to churn the waters another day.

With the August sun sinking towards the western horizon, long shadows cloaked the far bank as James guided the boat to the nameless sandbar across from the mouth of Limestone Creek. Five minutes later, with the boat aground in the sand, we were swimming in the shallows, the dark water as warm as wool. There wasn’t a breath of wind, the surface of the river was as slick as a polished mirror.

We took turns skipping rocks towards the east bank, discussing the various merits of each stone before sending it side-armed into the distance. Three fishing pole lengths from the bank, I could no longer feel the river bottom. Only when invisible minnows began to nip at my toes, did my thoughts turn to Two-Toed Tom and the Stokes Alligator.

As the day continued to wane, other boaters began to make their way, one by one, to the landing. All of these boats were piloted by young men, some with female companions, some without, lone wolves on the water. We could hear their voices, small in the distance, as they took turns hauling their boats out of the water.

Ba-bump, ba-bump went the trucks over the Highway 84 bridge.

Sitting in the shallows, my hand fell on a dark brown freshwater mussel, about the size of a Skoal can. I examined it closely, the thin line of its two halves sealed tightly in my fist. To see if it was alive, I worked the shell open with my thumbnail.

James watched quietly.

I told him that these mussels probably tasted good if cooked right and that they had likely been a big part of the diet of the ancient Indians who lived here thousands of years before Europeans arrived. I thought of the burial mound not far from the mouth of Limestone Creek and imagined the smell of mussels roasting on their cook fires. My mouth watered as I recalled that I hadn’t eaten all day.

In the end, we climbed back into the boat. One ignition turn later, we were headed towards the landing, the truck and eventually home. The sun dipped below the edge of the earth. Another day had come to a close.