Since sunup I’d been out on the Missouri River, riding around in my 14-foot metal boat. The river was running high and fast, swollen from heavy fall rains. Lots of debris floated past, mainly branches from the willow trees that grew along the shore.<\/p>\n
Every once in a while an entangled mess would come my way, and I’d have to maneuver around it. But I was used to the outdoors, and to adventure–small boats, single-engine planes, hiking in nature.<\/p>\n
I liked excitement, and I liked that God always made sure I came home safe. This evening I would thank him properly over a fresh duck dinner with my wife.<\/p>\n
As I motored along, the sun was high in a bright blue sky. A raccoon at the water’s edge took a little dip. A doe slipped quickly, silently through the trees. Nature was abundantly on display, but I had not come across one other boat the whole day.<\/p>\n
“Bill!” The call startled me. Who had snuck up on my boat like that?<\/p>\n
I turned around and looked in every direction. Hunters don’t play games. There was no one out here on the river. No one but me. Just as I’d suspected. But still, I could have sworn I heard my name, clear as day.<\/p>\n
“Bill!”<\/p>\n
This time the call came with more urgency. It was a warning call. Unmistakably.<\/p>\n