As far as we can see up and down the river is another armada: a fleet of canoes and kayaks all turned out for the Seventh Annual Spring Paddle the Border festival. It reminds me of nothing else so much as the lines from Longfellow describing the British Army crossing the Charles River the night before the Revolution began:

A line of black, that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

No revolution here, though. No lines of black, either. Today’s canoes and kayaks come in all sorts of bright colors. They’re stretched out on the river for about 12 miles, from a rough launch site just downstream of Woodsville to a state-maintained boat ramp at the site of the former Bedell covered bridge in Haverhill. Kind of a brightly decorated long-distance party.

Late May in northern New England isn’t just the time of germination and explosion of seeds and buds; it’s the time for winter-worn human beings to emerge from their various hibernacula and get outside. Parking lots at the roadside heads of mountain trails are packed with Subarus. Parking lots at fishing access sites are jammed with Silverados and boat trailers. Parking lots at ski areas harbor more Subarus with bicycle racks sticking out their backs. Canoes and kayaks go by on the roofs of all kinds of vehicles – even one Old Town Discovery on top of a Prius.

On the way over here this morning of Pentecost, I passed two small pelotons of serious-faced, helmeted road-bikers, perfectly togged and headed up the Connecticut Valley, utterly unaware of the celebration taking place in the churches they passed. Almost every pond was enlivened by an elderly couple or two sitting in lawn chairs on the bank and tending fishing lines. Every stream, from the Jail Branch to the Waits River, had fly fishermen up to their waists in water, as silent and intent as great blue herons. It was as if we had turned our selves and our communities inside out.

Paddle the Border, which travels along the great liquid zipper connecting New Hampshire and Vermont, is, for such an informal event, amazingly well organized. It appears to be essentially an excuse for large numbers of paddlers to get together for company, a bit of a challenge, mutual support, and a look at what other people are paddling. I heard about it a couple of months ago when one of the organizers, Scott Edwards of Woodsville (nom d’affaires Hemlock Pete; summmertimes, he runs a paddlers’ shop) e-mailed me an invitation. The event is sponsored by four different river valley organizations, one of which, the Woodsville/Wells River Rotary Club, has set up a hamburger barbecue in the Bedell Bridge State Park at the end of the run.

Most paddlers today dropped off their boats at the put-in near Woodsville, where volunteers kept an eye on them. Then they drove their vehicles to the other end, from which a free school bus shuttle ferried them back to the start. It’s been a while – shades of the Canadian Ski Marathon – since I’ve been on a school bus with a load of like-minded enthusiasts. I’d forgotten how much fun it is – except that somehow I always manage to pick the seat over the rear wheel well.

At the moment I’m paddling in Scott’s lovely 18-foot Lincoln. He’s up front delivering a running commentary and making us look very good with regard to speed. Sitting in the middle is his friend and erstwhile paddling partner (currently nursing a painful lower back), Dale Feid. Between his knees Dale has the commissary, a pack basket loaded with cheese, bread, beef jerky, and water, which he passes backward or forward at the slightest provocation. Whenever we get a lusty puff of headwind, he also picks up a paddle and pitches in.

Scott knows all the designated and maintained free campsites in this section of the river – is, in fact, the guy who maintains them. Most are equipped with a picnic table, fire ring, and open-air privy. One we stopped at even boasted a pile of freshly split firewood.

A few minutes ago the usual first-day-of-paddling complaint awoke in the muscles of my lower back: sort of a slow fire that nothing but stopping and lying down will put out. Stopping isn’t an option in a headwind, and going ashore only means you’re losing traveling time and have to start again, anyway. So I asked if anybody aboard happened to have an ibuprofen. Dale rummaged in the pack and came up with a bomb about the size of a peanut. The pain is still there, but it won’t get any worse. And my truck seat, when I get to it, has great lumbar support.

Then I weakened again and asked the question: how much farther? I was cheered by Scott’s response: only about two miles. Now, as we approach the end of the run, I can see boats and canoes being pulled up onto the ramp and hovering spectators with cameras and video equipment (Is my hat on straight?). The aroma of sizzling burgers and hotdogs is in the air, and we can hear the Strawberry Farm Band. A lovely finish to a warm, sunny day on the river.