Our
steps are steady as we stride towards the rock perch, like gladiators viewing the arena before the
big event. We’ve tied our craft securely upstream, a meditation. Perhaps we
tramp in a little clutch of two or three, perhaps well spaced, but either way,
solitary. Before we can look out, we must look within.
Our
mouths are set, but you’d have to look close to see fear or apprehension. If it
does tap the shoulder, stuff it down. Don’t knock your pard out of his Zen
moment. Concentration and focus is what’s going to get you to the tail-waves.
Just
an ordinary day for a river guide in the Grand Canyon.
Nonchalance
would be a little too much. The clients would notice. Hopefully there won’t be
too many of those “so what’s your run, where are you going to go?” questions.
It’s a jinx but we tackle them as graciously as possible.
How
the heck do I know where I’m going to go? I’ve screwed the pooch here before,
will again. So far, nothing dramatic, but still. We old-timers scan the route,
recalling the hot spots. The greenhorns, arms crossed but holding it together
since they really want this job, and really want our respect and advice, wait
for us to sniff the air. Then we’ll share.
Of
course, as the rookies are standing there patiently awaiting the silverbacks to proffer their respect
and advice, they’re also crapping all over the inside of their river shorts.
Vessels
tied to a shiny, black, sizzling-hot lava rock or to a dusty Tamarisk tree just
where it emerges from a sandbank. Same spot as the trip before, and the trip
before that, more or less. Part of the ritual. Like us, sometimes they are calm
and patient, other times fretful. Deal ‘em up again. Glorious existence is the
bet.
I
once had a seven-year-old with her mom on my nimble dory. Mom kept asking me
how the next rapid was going to go, if we were going to make it through. I kept
telling her that it would probably be just fine, but we weren’t on rails.
Finally,
sliding down the tongue at the top of Two-seventeen Mile, the most dramatic of
the lower-half rapids (the only ones we allow 7-year-olds on, after choppering
in at Whitmore Wash), exasperated, she asked over her shoulder, hands gripped
on the OS strap and eyes fixed on the liquid turmoil sucking us in, “What on earth do you mean by we’re not on rails!”
Her
daughter, happy as a clam in the stern seat, disdainfully replied for me (I was
a tad busy), “Oh, mom! He means we’re
not at Disneyland!”.
The
thunder of spray and churning water is the only sound, save the shrill cicada
somewhere out there in the hot, stinkin’ desert. We don’t seek out each others’
eyes, lest we break the spell. Doesn’t matter how many times we’ve done this,
novice and old scruff alike gaze through the spray and foam and glassy liquid
mountains and into our souls, seeking the path.
A
path through that maelstrom? Actually, yes. It takes a certain knowing,
experience, trust. A connection through your paddle, oar or 20 horse Merc to
your boat, thence to the river. Sustenance of our spirit. Lucky to have this job.
Its as much about these moments with your pards as anything. We tend to stick
together, always knowing someone has your back. But, the act itself is all
yours.
Arms
stretch, fingers point, we parley. Best to be precise–the more words, the less
you communicate. One voice, clear and frugal, like the sound of water. Watch
out so your stern don’t kick on that wave, hold onto your oars when you hit
that hole, you’ll need ‘em pretty quick afterwards. Take it piece by piece and
when you feel lost, take a breath. Trust in your memory of this.
They
must unravel the secret themselves. Poise under fire. That’s why they’re here.
Hell, that’s why I’m here.
That
magnet rock sneaks up on you, hit that straight or you’re so f***ked.
Yep.
Real as it gets.
An
old-timer, a Vietnam vet now dead from liquor and bad dreams, once said: “Its
all about when you leave the shore”. I get it.
The
clients observe not the rapid, but the boatmen and women. Taking pictures with
both camera and something else burned deep. Ancient memory of a mammoth hunt,
the fateful decision to try this new country out for a bit or move on. Unlike
our lives back in “civilization”, a decision must be made. There is no such
thing as turning back.
“Ready?”
asks the trip leader of each and every one, waiting until he senses they’ve
come back.
And
each in turn replies with a nod. Lets get it over with, already.
Trudging
back to untie in silence, check boats and lifejackets, and shove off.
Ahhhh.
No choices left to be made. Now is the time to soak it all up, look around,
breathe deep of this glorious world.
Once
in the tongue, the world clarifies, sparkles. Hard at it and elemental .
Battle! Challenge! Test of skill and heart! And below, the Intoxicating
sweetness of life.
Can
I do it? We ask ourselves
Yes.
We can. But we’re not on rails.
