Hmmm can tell it’s a Marine 
It’s missing a thought - women.
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That’s more true than most people know.
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Grandson and I with Tundra, who we lost last summer and miss terribly. River now weighs about 50lbs more than the red PilgrEx.
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Great picture, I know you are glad to have it
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Bella the chihuahua. She’s 15. She’s come on boating and now camping adventures.
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Some they start little,
then they get big.
A friendly O’Cur-ence to this Voyager’s rig.
Some seek new Prospects’
or bow bilges they sits.
Allegheny’s gone zany and it hounds me to Pits.
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We need a picture. 
I never realized you were a “local” to my watershed. NY or western PA?
More of an “all too infrequent visitor,” really. Per these many years of P-netting, my paddling associations widened my horizons, especially due to that once glorious October Mosh-pit of Camping-Canoeing-Carousing Machinations, The Lake Raystown Rendezvous. Those halcyon days, wherein Hieronymus Bosch’s Trippy Tych, The Aquatic Garden of Mirthly Delights and Tumblehome, may well have have been inspired to canvas (should he have lived so long and felt so brazen, with supplemental readings of John Barth’s The Floating Opera serving our Hiero as further inspiration), still find me occasionally in states (and States) of mini-rendezvous.
In this particular pooch-in-pixel-portayal, I find myself bow-backwards, stern bow-wows forward, and heading my Prospector down the Allegheny from the base of Kinzua dam, just then passing the lovely tank farms of Warren, heading for my campsite at Buckaloons about 3 miles further. Sometimes it’s been Buckaloons to Tidioute. In all honesty, can’t really claim to have gone “zany” all the way down to Pitt. Just here I’m with a Pit (my daughters), who had just moments before that snapshot introduced me to its Tasmanian Devil Reflex Syndrome. Sort of a frenzied triple-axle within forward and confined rounded bilges as the boat noses over a small pair of 15" ledges three-or-four feet apart. HIGH BRACE! LOW BRACE! AWW HELL, GRAB GUNNELS! It was like I was holding onto Shakira’s hips in the middle of the big show’s finale while wearing a pair of roller blades. Swear I could hear, “BODIE SIT” bouncing echolocutions off high tank walls for thirty seconds thereafter. Finn, ever the non-plus West Virginia porch hound, continued his bilge-sopping repose. I believe what this particular image effectively captures is Bodie’s bewilderment at the strange photographer’s sweetly coo’d, “Good dog,” and “Good boys,” which only seconds prior, as we broke from the frothy and into the placid, were preceded by a cannonade of fiery expletives directed Tazbo’s way. Well, at least we managed to keep the open side up.
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