Odofur Oldbuck had built it himself. The skills had been handed down. His ancient family tribe, the Stoors, had no apprehensions about water and considered themselves skilled fishermen and adept with a small boat.
His water craft was no balky rowboat or wobbling dory. It was still flat bottomed, but narrower and had a grace to it. It would glide through the water, but would be comfortable for sitting at a favored spot on a pond or marsh channel.
Its fishing prowess would go untested today as Odofur was determined solely to cross the river and poke around the forest on the other side. The river had been running low and the crossing would not be burdensome. He had packed second breakfast, lunch, and a mid-afternoon break of sweet cakes and nuts. His pipe was secured, along with some Longbottom leaf.
And just in case, a short sword and hunting knife. The former had been passed down from times before the Shire had been home, journeys from hazy origins along the Anduin, over mountain passes into Dunland then eventually to the Marish, his corner of the Shire. He had never used it though on occasion felt the need to take a swipe or two with it at some imagined adversary.
In the many hours he had watched the wooded eastern shore he had seen little, other than a curious buck staring back. Neither man nor hobbit made known any presence.
He launched the boat, sat at the oarlocks and made efficient work of the crossing. The western shore, his shore, receded. Odofur had tied a great swath of red cloth to a stout oak to mark his destination on the return trip. A wise move as the further he rowed from the western bank, the more all the trees lost their identity and merged into the river’s alluvial woods.
Soon he found the east shore. It was different than the west. There was a short strip of level ground near the river that quickly rose into a steep bluff. Odofur dragged the boat up and out of the water. He tied a length of rope to the bow hole and pulled it up onto the land, securing it between two small willow trees.
He had a bit of a climb ahead of him, finding a manageable route up the bluffs some 100 feet above the river. He spent several minutes walking up and down the narrow riverbank. Then, there it was, a gully where a rainy day freshet wound down from the woodlands beyond the rim of the bluff. It had cut a narrow gash into the sandy cliff, enough of a passage for Odofur to scrabble up on a tolerable angle, grabbing roots along the way.
Suddenly he was at the top, out of breath, sweating. Looking back west the Baranduin glimmered in the late morning sun. Beyond, he could see his own ordered fields marching back to the farmhouse, a tiny box amidst flowers at this distance.
Very well, he thought to himself, you have crossed. Sightseeing can wait for the trip back. You are here to explore. Time to get to it. With that, he turned, faced east and marched into the forest.