I caromed from the raft and crash-landed on top of Buck and Jim. We sprawled on the ice in a soggy-tangled heap, overwhelmed with the laughing sillies-summer goofies (summer was still two months away)-but close-call, life-saving sillies. Rolling over, I welcomed the wet-woolly smell from our jackets. I said, You guys are steaming like fresh horse turds. -Little Eric, ice-out on the Little Muddy River, April 1945