The River

The River

Who would have thought when I got dragged into organizing this canoe trip that it would see me through the annual currents of my life? Each spring as I pull out the mailing list and revise the flyer, I think it will be my last time dealing with the chaos of it all.

More than a hundred people gather each year to run the rapids by day and camp at night on the shore with another fifty or so just coming to hang out. I really only know a few of the people personally. I am just the facilitator of one man’s annual escape that has grown into this motley group over the last twenty-five years. They all know my name, where to send the checks, who to call.

I watch for their registrations in my mailbox – they come from across the United States, each on their own journey downriver. Sometimes they send personal notes like they know me, or like I should know them through the little boxes on the registration form. Some of them have been making this pilgrimage longer than I have; I sort of fell into the opportunity when no one else would step up, is all. They grant me an importance that has no meaning, and I let it be. I just want a piece of the river.

Twenty-six miles of the river, over nearly a decade on this trip, and I feel as if I know every rock and eddy. Once I get on the water, though, I find that the storms, the droughts and the debris have redirected the currents as they do my thoughts. Once I asked a mentor about meditating. I thought it would be the perfect thing to do while drifting downriver. She is the most spiritual person I know and she practices what she preaches. I was ready and willing.

She said, “Why don’t you just try contemplating first?” She knows I am not ready. I smile, and I try.

I find running the river to be an analogy of my last year. If I have a partner, it’s much easier to dwell on him or her, but in two days with no distractions and no electronics, it’s impossible to completely escape myself.

On the water, control issues rise immediately to the surface. Outside troubles drown quickly. Those are givens. When the sides of the canyon are steep, my thoughts are drawn to grace. We are most vulnerable there, in the middle of the run, where the only direction is down river. It is at those moments I am most willing to surrender and see where God will lead me.

As the cliffs give way to flat pastures, my thoughts wander to my choices. Escape, or continue? It could be the relationship of the hour that I am analyzing – nothing like working a canoe or a kayak with a partner to figure out who likes to lead and who likes to follow. This trip has even produced romance for me, and through rain and wet tents and peeing outside, it has killed romance as well.

I find the most peace in the forested areas, where outcroppings, eddies and small islands are perfect to pull off to skip rocks or take lunch or pretend to be scared of the water bugs. Singles and couples and families snake their way from one small group to the other as they make their way downriver. Each encounter imprints another snapshot into the geography of my memory.

I can only keep the years straight by the weather and the new comers. That was the year I met Buddy, I think. We laughed so much that day our stomachs were sore sitting at the bonfire that night. He’s been coming ever since with the same group. There was the year my canoe partner taught me the real meaning of 'Let It Go', when he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to steer or row.

One year the water was so low my partner and I watched those who couldn’t maneuver the canoes through the cracks practically hike down the river for 17 miles. Talk about surrendering to the pressure when there is only one way to go. One furious man left his sputtering wife in his canoe and hiked across to another canoe and joined them. Others slowly made their way through the subtle currents where the water broke through the rocky ridges, smiling through their tenacity at the others in their stubborn struggles.

Most trips had at least one scorching day where the life jackets got used for head rests and props in the canoes. And then the next year the water was so high and fast we did the first day in only a few hours. We were just along for the ride in the current, so high there were hardly even rapids and no use for the paddles; it was probably the only year we appreciated the necessary life jackets, and everyone knew He was in control.

Every year I am amazed by the newbies – the ones who have never been in a canoe, who climb in with someone they don’t know and go downriver for 17 miles that first day, to sleep in a borrowed tent with a borrowed sleeping bag for their first night ever outside. And then get up and do it all again (hopefully) the next day. Courage or craziness, I wonder.

In the evening I watch the youth group struggling with the camping gear. They are the ones most out of their element - no cell phone coverage here of any kind. Being forced to talk instead of text messaging each other must be a bigger shock than meeting Pillow Rock in the last big rapid of the day.

It’s as if the camping section of the outfitters store has vomited all over the field. Everywhere you look is a camping gadget of some kind. There are outdoor showers, propane torches, remote controlled lanterns, foldable tables with sinks and every tent ever marketed on the east coast; no two the same.

Something magical happens in the meadow at night with a fire reaching up to the sky and the embers falling among our sunburned legs. Our faces are aglow in the light of the fire as each one shares thoughts of their journey, on the river and off. “This is the day I quit smoking,” someone says, “it’s been five years.” “My father died last year. I know he was with me on the river today.” “Last year I had breast cancer,” shares a woman. “This year I am a survivor of breast cancer.” “Thank you family,” “Thank you God,” Thank you thank you thank you thank you…

We sleep in a meadow below the train tracks. The engineer that watches for us every year blows the horn – at midnight, and, of course, at four in the morning - at the dozens of bonfires in the meadow below. The craziness of dinner has died to crackling embers of campfires and the murmuring of soft conversations. The guitars and the drums and the stereos are quiet now, but as I wind my way through the tent ropes to the Sani-Jons I hear the river singing the songs.

The wet dawn comes soon, as nearly two hundred people start to stir, and coffee is made in makeshift kitchens next to dew-covered tents. Messy hair and baggy eyes hatch from the multi-colored cocoons scattered through the field as the group starts responding to the smell of coffee and the occasional man-made rooster.

No matter the lack of experience when they arrived, all who enter the water the second day are transformed to seasoned professionals. Some choose to stay on the shore for a quiet morning; breaking camp to head out for long trips home, or just taking their time as they wind down breakfast. The campfires have molded friendships overnight and even the most reticent of the youth group is seen making eye contact with other humans.

The last leg of the journey runs a little smoother downhill than the first day – less paddling so we can float more and drag out the best moments. The river is as peaceful as the morning. And then I know - it is this peace of the river that I return for each year - it's what makes sense of it all. The sun warms my kayak and my heart. All the turbulence of the preceding months has been washed downriver while we slept. We are renewed. The day is full of promise and hope. It washes over the edges of the canoes and into our hearts and the healing continues.