A Paddler's Life: Part Two

Part Two (If you haven't read part one first, it is immediately below this post. This one won't make much sense if you haven't read the first part.)

            The next morning the old man loaded his boat and shoved off into the river. Paddling through a wide placid section of the stream he thought about other rivers he had paddled, trips he'd made to remote places filled with beautiful mountains and ribbons of white water trailing through them.

            "Trips," he muttered.

"That's all life is," he thought. “Everything is a trip. Getting up in the morning, going to work, falling in love, raising kids, finishing jobs. They are all trips. Some are long, some short, some are wonderful, some not much fun, but they all take you somewhere."

            That afternoon and the next three days, in the calm spots between deadly rapids and while camped, he brooded over the trip that had been his life. He had roamed over the entire damn continent as a young man, looking for adventure, coming to Alaska to strike it rich in the oil fields, finishing college, then starting a geological consulting business. With new computer technology he'd made a fortune, then sold his share of the business to his partner; so he’d have more time to paddle with his family, to write, to adventure.

            They had hit the road the summer the girls were 12 and 13. The paddling had been grand. Camping and canoeing through Mexico, Costa Rica, California, Colorado, the Great Plains, the Deep South, Newfoundland, Boundary Waters, the Northwest Territories, and the Yukon. Finally after three years they were back in Fairbanks for the girls to attend high school.

            Jan was ready for college at 16, but he and her mother had insisted on a couple of years of high school to let her mature a bit. Liz, however, never settled down after the three years of tramping. That first trip on the Susitna, followed by their roaming years, had been just the beginning for her.

All through high school Liz chafed at the structure of town life and organized studies. Eventually she dropped out of school at 17 to paddle on a newly developing white water rodeo circuit.

            Liz was great. Her enthusiasm, lack of fear, and natural beauty made her a hit with the fans, the corporate sponsors, and with the boys. As she traveled and competed postcards from West Virginia, Scotland, Zaire, New Zealand, Chile, Oregon, India, and other spots found their way to the mailbox at the family cabin back near Fairbanks.

            The old man smiled as he remembered how angry he'd been at her for quitting school, but how proud he'd been of her independence and success as a vagabond paddler. He remembered when she'd called from Southern Oregon crying, saying she needed money. He wired her twice what she'd asked for and a week later she was home with a beat up kayak, two duffle bags of gear and a broken heart. The boy friend had split after the abortion and the old man swore if he ever found the jerk he'd wring his neck. He would have too.

            Liz spent the next two years guiding trips on several rivers and working odd jobs around Fairbanks. She never seemed content unless she was on a river. Father and daughter canoed together a few times, but her skill had grown so great that she kept wanting to run bigger and wilder rivers than he was capable of. She became obsessed with first descents of steep creeks and with big water. Several times she'd almost been killed in huge rapids with sharp undercut rocks or frothing holes that kept boat and paddler pinned beneath the turbulent water far too long. Her mother believed that she had a death wish. The old man knew she didn't, but feared she'd never be able to control the desire for wildness. He knew the need all too well.

            The old man's writing hadn't gone so well. He'd written some stuff, but never tried more than couple of times to find a publisher. His poetry had been pretty good, and his wife and the girls professed to like the novels, but as much as he loved creating with words he just wasn't into doing the work to get published. He still loved the magic of putting words to paper, and he wrote every day. “Being a writer was both a long and a short trip,” he thought.

            Jan liked the academic life. She'd done well in college and law school. She gravitated to environmental law with a special interest in causes related to rivers. The man smiled to think of his tall red headed daughter. She was always intense, but full of fun too. He was proud of what she'd accomplished with the Seattle firm she worked at.

            He paddled on, reminiscing and feeling good to be on the river, feeling alive, almost young again. He had made slow work of this trip, taking time to work his way back and forth across the river to play in as many rapids as possible. He'd spent afternoons napping, walking up hills near the river and reading from the books he'd packed along. The normal five day trip was turning into ten or more days. It was a good thing he’d packed extra food.

            At camp one night, thinking of his girls, he wondered aloud to the rocks and trees "How is it that two sisters could be so different when they'd had the same upbringing? The mysteries of nature versus nurture," he muttered. “Does our biology determine anything more than the physical form. Perhaps. Perhaps not”

            A meteor shot across the sky and he thought of Liz, blazing through life, burning up in glorious splendor.

            The river had grown wider, deeper, and more powerful over the course of his trip. The late spring run off from the glaciers and snow fields in the surrounding mountains had swelled the water; so that the river roiled and rolled between its banks, crashing off piles of rocks at the base of frequent cliffs.

            The man recognized a tight bend a quarter mile down stream, which hid from view the beginning of the steep walls and narrowing gorge that formed Hell's Canyon. He pulled over on the riverbank between some rocks and climbed out of his canoe. He walked a hundred yards up an open slope along a path, turned and looked back at his canoe, the river, the impossibly blue sky, and down stream toward the mouth of the canyon. He stretched in the morning sun then lay down on a patch of moss and grass. The sun felt good on his tanned, bearded face. He closed his eyes, listened to the sound of the moving water, felt the breeze swirl through his hair. The paddling, the camping, the solitude had all combined to drain the tension and grief from his body. For the first time in a long while the world felt right, almost. In a few minutes he was dozing.           

            The man dreamed during his nap. He dreamed of his wife, dreamed that she had returned from wherever it was she'd gone five years ago. It was a good dream and he smiled while he slept. He dreamed of his daughters when they were young and life was carefree.

             Dreaming more, his mind's eye saw young Liz paddling into a giant hole in the middle of a frothing, rock filled, maelstrom of a rapid. He saw her kayak pop up out of the hole and go bobbing down miles of the most horrifying water a paddler could imagine. Liz never reappeared. Tears rolled down his checks as he fitfully napped. 

            Suddenly, he was startled from his nap by the sound of voices. He sat up and looked toward his canoe.  There were three large rubber rafts on the sand bar just below the rocks where he had beached his canoe. People were climbing out of the rafts and dragging them up the shore. There must have been 14 or 15 brightly clad, noisy customers and guides of Alaska Wild River Outfitters.

            "Damn," he swore softly. He'd been hoping to avoid seeing anyone on this trip. "You just can't get away from the tourists, even in remote Alaska," he said to himself.

            He sat on the slope watching the paddlers mill about. They were talking and laughing, unloading, their gear and deflating the rafts. Obviously they'd had a fun trip. Within a few minutes they began to portage their gear up the hill toward the man. There was an old grass airstrip on a flat ridge less than a mile further up the hill behind the man's napping spot. He guessed they had a couple of planes chartered to pick them up there. There were no roads, no ATV tracks, accessing this part of the river. Actually there were no roads within a hundred in any direction from where he sat.

            Two young men came puffing up the hill carrying a large waterproof box between them.

            "Hi," they sang out as they walked by.

            "Hi," the man replied with a friendly smile.

            A young woman with a dry suit open enough to reveal that she had nothing on underneath came by next carrying a pack and a smaller box. She stopped and stared at the man.

            "Is that your canoe?" she asked, tipping her head back toward the river.

            "Yes, it is," he answered trying not to look at her heaving chest and the breast that kept threatening to slip into the unzipped opening of her paddling suit. Failing miserably he stared anyway.

            She grinned as she turned her head back and noticed his gaze. "These damn suits get so hot when the sun comes out, and every piece of clothing I have is soaking wet. Nearly naked seems better than boiled in the suit," she flirted.

            "I agree," he replied with a sly smile.

            "How long have you been on the river?" she asked.

            "I put in ten days ago at Grub Stake Creek.”

            "Nice trip!"

            "Did you portage the big rapids?"

            "One of them," he said.

            Her eyebrows raised. "That's some darn big water for a canoe, even with the deck covered. And you're paddling solo?"

            "It is exciting," he said as he smiled and stood stretching his long arms to the sky.

            "Do you have a plane coming?" she asked.

            "No," he muttered, picking his hat up from the ground.

            "Surely you aren't going to hike out of here. Why it would take a week to reach the nearest road."

            "At least that long," he agreed.

            "So?"

            "Nice talking with you mam," he smiled again and turned to walk down the hill.

            "So, where are you going?"

            "Down river," he called over his shoulder.

            She stood still, staring after him as he ambled down the trail.

            The old man nodded and exchanged greetings with the rafters as they passed each other. He paused at his canoe and began putting his paddling jacket and life vest back on. He looked up the hill. The woman was talking with one of the river guides and pointing at the man by his canoe.

            "Oh, great, a do-gooder," he whispered to himself.

            The young guide set his pack down and trotted back down the slope to the beach, then over to the rocks where the old man was fastening his paddling helmet.

            "Pardon me, mister," the guide said.

            The man said nothing, but fixed the youngster with a steely, blue-eyed stare.

            "Are you going down stream?" asked the young guide.

            "Planning to."

            "Do you know what's down in that canyon? It's class five and six water with un-runnable falls. It’s ten miles of river hell!"

            "Yes it is." he replied as he stepped into his canoe with one foot and shoved off from the river rocks with the other. He quickly settled in to his canoe saddle, adjusted the thigh straps and picked up his paddle.

            "Man there are monster waves, big as houses, and giant holes down there! The walls are too steep to portage out and the river rocks are undercut. It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen. With the water this high there's no way anyone can make it through. A couple of folks have died trying," the guide extolled.

            The old man nodded and lifted his hand carved paddle in salute to the young guide.

            "I know," he finally answered, drifting away from the shore, about to be swept up in the quickening current.

            "Do you really know what's down there?" the guide yelled frantically.

            "Dreams and ghosts," the old man shouted back. "That's all there ever is."

            His paddle flashed once, twice. Quickly he was in the channel lining up the entrance to the canyon -- a curling wave between two large rocks. A few more stokes and he was gliding up the face of the wave and plunging down the other side out of sight.