Your Scribe has always thought that a river is the best place to take a dip.

Last place goes to the ocean. It looks great on tourist material but the water in the Atlantic in Maine is bone-numbing. More times than not, my ankles seemed semi-frozen. If I dove under water, I was in pain. (An aside: That was then, in Fortunes Rocks Beach, Biddeford. Today I would have to worry about cardiac arrest).

Pools are No. 3. Face it, Maine is not a pool state. The number of hot days is limited, plus a lot of people have shade trees that obscure the sun for some part of the day. And who goes into a pool after Aug. 1? Only people who get thrown in at the Labor Day Party.

Lakes are good. But there are too many boats and jet-skis. (An aside: I must admit, it's hard to beat a sun-warmed float about 50 feet off-shore.)

For me a river is the best. Above is a photo of the Sandy River in front of my property, where I hope to be splashing around on July 4.

It took me years to dunk a toe in the Sandy. For the first two decades I owned the land, the (public) road did not reach my property. So if you can't drive a car onto your acreage, it's hard to think about camping, cooking or swimming.

Then the road reached the property, and I built a cabin. But for several years I had trouble finding my way back from the river. It is 2,200 feet through heavy woods from the road to the river, and I am no Ethan Allen when it comes to navigation skills. (An aside: It should be clear that I would be a terrible candidate for "Survivor, Maine.").

Several years ago I ran a piece of twine from the cabin down to the water. But Maine winters are tough, and each spring the twine would have "gone missing."

My joy came last year, when Bob the Reluctant Woodsman cut a path to the river. (An aside: If that was his last project before going from "reluctant" to "inactive," he did himself proud). The path is marked by yellow tent stakes on the ground, and hunter-orange strips of cloth on the trees. I can make it down and back now.

The river bank, and the water, on my side of the Sandy River slope straight down, meaning you walk out six feet on a sandy bottom and then you drop to 15 feet.

I have a rope along the river to cling to, and I wear a life preserver (though I am a decent swimmer).

The river is clean. There are no boats, not even canoes.

If it is 90 degrees on July 4 (as it might be today), I will be splashing in this warm and inviting river that flows slowly (in July, anyway) through Franklin County.

E-mail this entry to a friend