This short work of fiction was inspired by a dream I had fairly recently. Enjoy.

The creek began to open up a bit, the thick underbrush giving way to more sunlight and a much more pleasant adventure.

This portion of Annabelle Creek could run deep and fast given enough storm water; it was now on the tail end of some recent heavy rains, much benefiting the local flora and fauna. It had been so dry and brown for so long, I had forgotten how green it could be in this part of Kansas. Late spring into summer had only one flaw, though, and my sudden sneezing fit reminded me of it.

I paddled easily over a shallower part of the creek, skipping past a couple of larger rocks and letting the faster current carry me into thicker undergrowth. Tamarack bushes lined the sandy shore; farther inland, tall cottonwoods rustled in the heavy breeze, scattering blooming cotton snow all over -- the cause of my allergies. That sound, of cottonwood leaves being tussled and teased by Kansas breeze, provided a nice soundtrack to an already wilder part of the state than most people ever see. I was within myself and letting the whole serene scene soak in.

Thoughts reminding me that I was in a race crept back to the forefront, and I incrementally picked up the pace. After the long-borne success of the Dirty Kanza gravel-grinding bicycle race -- a 200-mile endurance trek through the Flint Hills, and a penultimate a test of one's fortitude that attracted worldwide attention -- others across the state began looking at other ways people could pay to torture themselves. This kept the marketing gurus and economic development types busy for many years. Eventually, they came up with other pursuits, including the one I was in now. Numbers of participants came nowhere close to the Dirty Kanza's, but this day-long excursion over Kansas waterways was close to finding its niche. This was the second time I had paddled it, but the first to be alone.

Two years before, I had a partner-in-adventure join me in a sleek canoe. We finished in the middle of the pack, which wasn't bad for us newbies. I was in-between jobs, she was seeking a new thrill. It wasn't quite what she had in mind -- "not enough whitewater" she said -- but it was still enjoyable. She wasn't able to join me this year; her aging parents needed her more and more frequently these days. I made a mental note to call her when I finished.

I adjusted my backpack and skirted over more shallow parts, just barely scraping the bottom of my kayak on pebble-lined shore. I had bought this one brand-new, a bright green example with an open design, so my knees and feet were exposed. I thought it'd provide a cooler ride with temperatures soaring unseasonably, and it indeed was comfortable. It also meant my boots and pants got scuffed by brush that I came too close to. Chalk that up to "learning for next time."

I checked my watch. I had done nearly 30 miles since lunchtime, and the sun was getting ever lower on the horizon. Soon I'd have to drench myself in more bug spray, wolf down a granola bar and power through the last dozen or so miles to the finish. There was no doubt someone was already crossing the finish line, or getting incredibly close, so I picked up the pace once more, dodging more rocks and going deeper into thick brush. Last year's trek taught me that tamarack branches could both leave welts when they slapped you, or long shallow cuts when drug across bare skin. I wore a tough long-sleeve shirt this time, but the sting of those branches would still leave bruises later.

The creek mercifully opened up again, running deeper and faster. I chose the quickest current and let it carry me. This would eventually dump into the Kanza River, where it would be a mad dash to the finish line and awaiting party.

My thoughts of a beer garden were interrupted by something slithering in the water near my feet. I jerked to attention, watching closely as a water moccasin became very interested in my paddle. On the upstroke I slapped it away, turning my body away from it and making as big a stride I could further downstream. I got fairly wet in the process, but that didn't phase me. I was just glad to be away from the snake.

Oh, by the way, I hate snakes. I've always been unsettled by them, ever since I was little, living in rural Comanche County. I was never bitten, but they've come close to nabbing a chunk of me. My trusty folding knife was clipped to my pocket just in case a snake came too close for comfort. I felt it with my elbow as I paddled towards more thick brush.

As I rounded a small bend in the creek, I spied a woman. Standing on what looked like a converted bongo board and paddling laboriously, she must've been about the same age as me, but much more physically fit. Her purple athletic clothes were tattered, and she had evidence of tamarack bush encounters in long red streaks on her arms. Her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she had a waterproof lunchbox strapped to the back of her board.

I slowed down, and was thinking of how to go about passing her when she carefully sat down on her board, bare feet dangling in the water.

"I wouldn't do that," I shouted, paddling up closer. She turned, almost flipping over. I held out my paddle for her to grab on to. She used it to turn around backward on her board and steady herself.

"Sorry to scare you," I said. "But there are snakes in here, so…"

She looked down at the water. "Oh, I'm not too worried. I'm sure at this point I don't look like food to them. But thanks anyway." She outstretched her hand. "I'm Reagan."

"Andy." We shook hands lightly. She looked through her pack, pulling out a granola bar and biting off half of it. I did the same, and we rested, ate and talked about how our races were going. She had been surfing for a long time, growing up in southern California and going out with her dad to catch waves before dawn. I told her I lived out there now and had tried surfing, but couldn't quite get the hang of it.

"You basically have to start young to be pretty good," she said between bites. "It's one of those things."

We talked about life and work -- she was a physical therapist in San Diego, working on starting her own clinic with her sister. She was in this race because of a friend from Overland Park, who ended up not being able to go. Plane tickets are expensive, and the thrill of an endurance test kept her here. I told her about my experiences with the race, how I came back to visit family and friends in May and June, jetting back to work in Los Angeles in July. For both of us, this race was our vacation from awful co-workers and SoCal traffic. We commiserated on that note, ate the last of our snacks and stayed close by while chatting and carrying on our separate races. I passed her at one point, playfully splashing her on the way.

"Hey! No chivalry?" She was laughing as I spun around and floated in reverse in front of her. I was floating farther away; a stronger current had found me. She was still laboring to catch up. I drug my paddle in the water to slow down.

That caught the attention of a snake. I froze.

This one slithered out from the undergrowth, giving me a good look before diving under the water. It was a yellowish hue, glistening in the late evening sunset and stretching up to eight feet at best. It reminded me of those yellow ball pythons from more exotic locales. Reagan saw it too, shouting at me "Wow! Did you see that?"

How could I not.

The snake disappeared under the surface for a moment, paralyzing me. I slowly pulled my paddle up to the opposite side of the kayak, ready to whack something. Suddenly the snake appeared, half out of the water and mouth open. It bit down hard on the end of my paddle, trying to twist it in its mouth. I could feel its powerful jaw at work. I shook it off, almost flipping over. Still going in reverse, I looked behind me. The Kanza River was near, and I would have more room to paddle like mad. Reagan was watching this whole episode, a worried wrinkle on her forehead. I noticed how attractive she was in that moment, the setting sun in her blue eyes, but the moment evaporated when the snake reappeared.

This time, it found the open end of my kayak and started slithering up past my feet. I sat perfectly still, leaned back in my seat, holding the paddle with one hand. I dared not move, so as to not agitate the giant snake crawling up to me. It tasted the air with its tongue as it moved, gliding slowly past my belt and up my ribs. Then it wrapped its head around my arm, trapping the paddle. My other hand was white-knuckle-gripping the kayak. I held my breath.

The snake rested its head in the crook of my arm, looking up at me and flicking its tongue. I looked at it in horror, trying not to move. The current was carrying me ever closer to the larger river. Reagan was getting farther and farther away. She called out to me but I didn't respond, for fear of angering my new slimy friend.

I've never known snakes to be the cuddly type, and I wasn't about to let this one get too comfortable. I couldn't push it off because of how it was wrapped around my arm. Grabbing it by the head "Crocodile Hunter" style might work, but then I had to release it somehow. What if it had a vengeful streak later?

Then I remembered my knife in my pocket. My opposite hand was free, but I risked tipping the kayak over if I let go. Large, unforgiving rocks dotted this part of the creek. So, I waited until I got closer to the main river. If I could get my knife out and open, I could stab the snake in its baseball-size head. I didn't like the idea of killing it, but I wasn't going to get kayak-jacked by a monster.

I slowly began sliding my knife out of my pocket. Reagan was paddling up closer to me now, and she could see me clicking my knife open. The snake was resting, apparently comfortable cuddling my arm.

I brought the knife up slowly, ready to strike.

Suddenly the kayak lurched violently as it struck a rock under the surface of the water. This pitched me into the faster-moving waters of the Kanza River, splashing water over me, blurring my vision.

The snake opened its mouth wide, ready to strike. I brought the knife down hard, aiming for its head. The kayak flipped, sending me and the snake into the muddy brown river. I wrestled with the snake for an eternity, feeling it wrap its mouth around my arm and wrist. I kept stabbing and twisting the blade, hoping it was having an effect.

The wounded snake swam away, hissing at me as it left. I splashed wildly for my kayak.

Reagan grabbed my bleeding arm and dragged me over to my kayak. She had abandoned her board to come save me. I had lost my knife in the struggle but I didn't care. I was just happy to not be snake food.

Reagan helped me into my kayak, tending to my wounds. Luckily it wasn't a venomous snake, but it definitely left its marks. Deep punctures in my arm and wrist were dully throbbing. The snake had tried to twist its head to rip more skin, and I noticed where I had inadvertently cut myself on my chest with the knife.

She bandaged me up with a tiny first-aid kit in her pack. "You're going to need stitches, but I can't do that unless we stop."

I didn't want to stop. Neither of us did. We had a race to finish.

She handed me my paddle, and side by side we rowed toward city lights and the finish line. Immediately an EMT spied my bloody arm and rushed toward me, asking what happened. I was quickly stitched up and given infection-killing pills.

After the commotion of finishing the race, Reagan and I changed into dry clothes and sat on a bar patio, sipping on beer and laughing about the yellow snake that just wanted to cuddle. I had a new story to write when I got back to L.A., and a new friend who vowed to visit on her days off.

She kept her hand on my bandaged arm as I stared into the stars, dreaming of California sunshine.