Up above, high beyond the trees and the clouds, the stars shone brilliantly, the firmament dotted with the possibility of worlds other our own.

Only I didn't see any of them. Up past those trees, the clouds weren't too far away. They stretched to the horizon, and then they opened -- not to reveal the Milky Way stretching over the trees, but to douse us with a summer shower.

And so the tradition of Bryan's annual summer rafting trip continued this year -- rain. Cold. No need for shorts and t-shirts on this trip. From our arrival in Millinocket, far up I-95 in the midst of the Great Northern Paper Company's 2.2 million acres, on Friday night through our camp breakdown on Sunday morning, roughly 90 percent of our time was spent wet. The rain began moments after we'd set up our three tents for the six of us and Karen had gotten far enough on dinner preparations to wrap al the food in tin foil and steam the chicken, burgers and potatoes beneath another layer of foil, which kept the fire burning.

Saturday we awoke to a cool, overcast morning and trudged the hundred yards or so to the camp lodge to check in for our day on the Penobscot. Bryan had requested our guide be Tony, one of the co-owners of the company and a skilled and entertaining rafter, and the six of us roared when Bryan's name was called.

Dressed in our still-damp life vests -- personal flotation devices, or PFDs -- blue or white plastic helmets and toting our paddles, we lumbered aboard the old, run-down school buses for the 45-minute ride through Millinocket and along the few roads in the region to the put-in at the power station. About 10 minutes before arriving riverside, we turned off what must be the last main road just before a sign that announced ROAD ENDS/10 MILES.

Off the buses, many of us made our way to the outhouses for one last bathroom stop before the day on the river and then Tony found us standing alongside the bus. He introduced us to his girlfriend, Stacy, who was up from Boston for the weekend and joining us as the eighth member of our crew. Perhaps as one of the company's owners, or maybe as an experienced and knowing guide, or more likely because of both, Tony announced we'd be the last boat of the dozen or so rafts through most of the tougher rapids. It was our job to trail the fleet and offer any assistance needed along the way. That made us one of the last boats to slide into the river, just below the white water gushing from beneath the power station, where other guides shouted paddling instructions to their crews as a warmup. Tony gave us a few calls of "All ahead, nice and easy," "All back" and "ALL AHEAD! ALL AHEAD!"

"If we do everything right," he told us, "Those are the only instructions you'll hear me say." We were a good crew. During our eight hours on the Penobscot, we heard maybe one or two of the other common commands, instructing one side to paddle back while the other pushes ahead for a sharper turn.

After the other boats had turned downriver, we followed to the first rapids of the day, a Class V known as The Exterminator. I was second from the front on the right -- starboard -- side of the raft, with Bryan's brother Patrick behind me and Stacy last. Bryan took the lead position on the left side, with Jim and Patrick's girlfriend Gianna behind him, then Tony.

Exterminator wiped a few of us out, christening us right off the bat. We paddled hard into the crest of a wave over a submerged rock and crashed down into the hollow created by another rock beneath the water in front of us. Holding on to the ropes inside the boat, I saw a blur of white water come into the boat, then nothing but orange coming at me as Karen was thrown back into me. We popped up on the other side of the hit to find Stacy and Tony in the water behind us, but they were back in the boat in seconds. Bryan may have gone in on that first hit too, but by the end of the day, I'd lost track of who went out when.

It was the first of five unintentional dips for Stacy, who seemed, at one point, to fall out of the boat at the mere mention of a rock near the surface on a lazy float down a calm, wide stretch of river. I noticed the rock at the last moment, just before it hit the boat beneath my seat, fishtailing it to the right and sending Stacy backwards into the copper-hued water.

The Maine rivers seem to take on the color of a penny or a beer bottle, particularly when the sun shines through the surface to the rocky bottom. The Sheepscot down through the woods of my uncle's property looks the same, and as a result the Penobscot felt familiar and welcoming to me, despite the Class III, IV and V whitewater that punctuated it. Yet the water's as clean and clear as you could ask for in the 21st Century. Though I've never done it, I could imagine being thrown in the Colorado River down in the Grand Canyon might be more gritty, the sand of red rock country stinging your eyes if you can't keep them closed and ending up in your mouth when the water forces its way in.

A trip on the Penobscot is the kind of rafting I love -- four or five good, hard rapids, a few more calmer yet still exciting sets and then stretches of calm river, wide vistas and a current that allows you to pull up your paddle and enjoy the float. At one point, half of us tumbled backwards out of the raft to enjoy the float down the river in the river. I put my head back, allowing the pillow of my PFD to prop me up and I watched the sky move above me, holding onto the boat so I wouldn't have to swim back to it when I was ready to get back in. I took the dip hoping to appease the rafting gods and prevent them from tossing me against my will into the river, but it also allowed me to get a hang of getting back into the boat should I need to later in the day. Its tougher than pulling yourself out of the side of a swimming pool, I can tell you that. The ropes on the side of the boat are at or just above eye level, so you pull on those and kick with your feet as someone inside the raft grabs your PFD at the shoulders and hauls you in. Inevitably, you end up face down on the bottom of the boat, your feet dangling over the side.

The rain stayed away all morning, but 15 minutes before we paddled our way across a lake to shore the temperature dropped and the blue sky and sunshine that had made us so hot in our fleece tops before setting out from the power station disappeared. The surface of the lake rippled with the first drops of rain and by the time we stepped out and walked up to the buses for the short drive to the lunch site, a steady drizzle was falling.

On a different bus this time, we were treated to Twisted Sister's "We're Not Gonna Take It" on the way to lunch via the home-stereo-sized speakers mounted at the front and back of the vessel and connected to a CD player in the dash. We managed to get on the same bus for the drive back to camp later in the afternoon, which made for a faster, more enjoyable ride back.

The rain continued throughout lunch, collecting in the tarps strung up over the food and tables and soaking us as we waited in line to get to the food beneath the tarp. After getting our food, we scampered back to another tarp 10 yards away that covered a lone picnic table but left ample room to stand and eat. We shivered and cursed the rain and I spent the entire break looking off to the north at a patch of blue sky above the hills. When the call came to return to the boats, which had been motored down to our lunch site, the rain began to dissipate. By the time we boarded our raft again, munching on granola bars Karen had brought for dessert, the only water we felt was beneath us.

Soon the sun was out, which would serve us well. The first rapids after lunch were known simply as The Waterfall. An 8-10 foot drop into what quickly became a calm pool was all we had to face, and after an exhilarating first run that provided us with a hard hit and a big splash inside the boat, we turned around and made our way back up for another go. We lined up behind the boats as their crews got out and scrambled up a set of rocks in the middle of the river. When it was our turn, we paddled hard into the current until Tony's call of "Hang on!" and we slid towards the middle of the raft and grabbed onto the inner ropes. Tony steered us into the falls and we dropped over as smoothly as the first time.

Except we were at a slightly different angle as we hit the second, smaller bump in front of us that had provided the splash the first time down. The boat started to flip and turn, the front right section -- right where I sat -- down in the water, the back left rising up behind me. I was turned so that I faced the boat, but with my feet wedged beneath the pontoons in front and behind me -- now, as I was turned, to my right and left -- I was secure. I felt myself being pulled backwards, into the water, but I was OK. The boat in the air blocked the sun and all I saw was the gray raft in front of me.

That's when I felt that we were surely going to flip. I sensed the raft coming down on top of me, and if I'd hung on, I would've ended up beneath it. No problem, I would've had my hand on the rope and I could've simply pushed myself out from beneath it and held onto the outside rope. Instead, I let go. I don't know why. I wasn't scared of being trapped beneath the boat, but something inside me didn't want to be. So I was tossed into the Penobscot, remembering to hold my breath and close my eyes. I popped up quickly, outside the boat, and saw a wall of white water in front of me.

I managed another quick breath before going under again, and as I kicked and paddled to the surface, I felt someone close by. Head above water again, I turned to see Karen right next to me. Remembering Tony's instructions in such an event on this part of the river, I started swimming to the left bank, where the water was calm. But that was his second step in what to do if thrown in at the Waterfall. The first was to look for the boat. Had I turned around and done that, I would've seen Tony -- still in his seat -- calling us back to the boat, which wasn't far away at all.

Somehow the raft hadn't capsized. As it turned out, six of the eight of us bailed, leaving Tony and Gianna aboard and dumping all the weight from the side that was weighing us down. When we all fell in, their weight brought the boat back down on the river, upright.

It took some time to gather the six of us back into the boat, and by the time I swam back to it -- against the current, barely feeling like I was making any progress -- I couldn't lift my arms. I ended up treading water, knowing the raft was moving faster than I was and that if I could go against the current even a little, the boat would come to me. When it did, I held onto the rope for a moment to catch my breath so that I could help myself back into the raft when Patrick hauled me in.

By the time we all made it back aboard, we were too far downriver to want to paddle against the current for another go at the Waterfall. So we waited in an eddy for the other boats to finish their runs and then turned east again and paddled with the current.

The sun emerged again, and so did Mount Katahdin, Maine's highest peak and the northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail. I learned in my fifth-grade report on the state that Katahdin's peak is the first point in the U.S. to be touched by morning sunlight. I'd looked for it all day and knew it when I saw it, though it was my first glimpse ever of the mountain. Moments later, Tony pointed it out: "There she is." On a calm stretch of river, he turned the boat to face Katahdin and sent all of us into the bow for a photo with the mountain behind us. Later, after we'd passed it, he turned the boat with a few strokes of his paddle so that we were going backwards in the current and we looked upon it one more time.

"Welcome to my office," he said. Earlier, when Gianna was talking about her cubicle mate who brings her pet rabbit to work, Tony, sounding confused, asked her to explain a cubicle. Knowing his sense of humor and his job at pleasing the customers, he may have been exaggerating, but his declaration, "I could never do that," about working in such an environment was clearly genuine.

I do envy him in many ways. While the training and responsibilities needed to guide a raft of paying cityfolk down the Penobscot, or any river, would be taxing, it would be quite the life to live in the quiet of the Maine woods, visiting the river day after day.

Bryan was the last to fall out of the boat, on our third trip through the last set of rapids for the day. When we paddled over to shore and carried the raft up to the trailer on the road, we managed to get ourselves up onto the bus with the last ounce of strength we could muster. We'd chosen the rock-n-roll bus again, and the ride home was made easier with sing-alongs to "Mony Mony," "It's the End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)" "Pretty Fly For a White Guy."

Back at our campsite, we changed into drier clothes and then went back to the lodge for the slide viewing and video showing. A modern campground, the lodge not only has bathrooms with showers and the check-in table (selling all kinds of Three Rivers merchandise), but also a full-service bar and restaurant with a pool table, TVs mounted in the corner and a dart board. Later that night, a band set up to play. We got a table for the six of us and had dinner at the lodge, feeling like we'd earned the right to pay someone else to make our dinner that night.

After dinner, Bryan stoked the fire and we made s'mores as it grew darker. Then, around 9:30, the rain came again. I stayed up a little longer, maybe an hour, but then succumbed to the lure of my dry tent. Though the trees provided some shelter, keeping us out of the direct hit of the raindrops (provided they weren't too heavy), soon the leaves were sodden and couldn't hold the weight as well. I slept well til morning, awaking around 7 a.m. to the pitter-patter of the rain on my tent and the trees. I rolled around in my sleeping back as long as I could, but by 8 a.m., I couldn't take it any longer. Outside, in the cool morning, our campsite was soggy but the rain light, and the trees kept it off us for the most part. We broke camp quickly, having everything packed in the rented minivan and my car in less than an hour. After a quick stop at the bathrooms to change clothes once more and to brush our teeth, we went our separate ways. I was headed to my uncle's in Whitefield, half an hour past August, two hours down 95.

I bid them farewell at the lodge and headed back to the highway. I cruised at 80-85 through the 27 miles of loneliness and pine trees from Millinocket's Exit 244 and the next one, 227. In between, the town line markers on the side of the highway indicated that I passed through the unincorporated areas known as T2 R9 and T2 R8. I was truly in the wilderness -- as much as one can get into the wilderness in the northeast these days -- and headed back to the bustling, tourist-laden areas of Maine's mid-coast villages.

I hated to leave, but as the rain continued to fall and the sky seemed brighter to the south and west, I was eager for sunshine and warm air and a shower. But I was also sure that I'll be back next year.