4.25

I grabbed my bag and snapped off the lights in the room. I rolled down the hallway to Mr. Bills' classroom, my normal Wednesday haunt. I'm the nominal co-sponsor of a writing club that meets on Wednesdays, but this week I was not showing up except to beg off.

"I won't make it today. I'm going to go float a creek."

"Oh! Good. Have fun."

Bills gets it. Apparently, when he was in his early twenties, he bummed a ride to the bottom of the Pacific Crest Trail and took off northward. He met his wife on that trail. He knows what wanderlust can do to a mind. I turn on my heel and thrust myself through the doors of the middle school. It was 3:05, the earliest I had ever left the building. I was going, and nobody would stop me.

The real problem with canoeing is that the canoe doesn't just magically appear next to your car at the end of the trip, and I was running a small local river that gets maybe forty paddlers a year, so there wasn't an abundance of help for me. I had to get back to the truck all by my lonesome, and with a wet butt, and racing the sun. For me, the solution was obvious. Canoe atop, bike on rear, and I drove to the bridge I knew would make the best pull-out. I swear I could already hear my knees creak and groan as I lowered the steel framed monstrosity down the rockface and to the safe hiding place under the road. I admit it was a touch anticlimactic, driving away from my thousands of dollars of hidden hobby.

I put in at the Pinnacles Youth Park near my house: a spine of stone, a storehouse of memories, a favorite haunt of slightly outdoorsy college kids. The rock face is staggeringly high for such a flat part of the country, and Silver Fork below it is strictly seasonal. This year, the actual runnable days might number below two dozen. It's a humorous understatement to say it's not a big canoeing destination. Puffing like a freight train, I carried the canoe the quarter mile to the creek, clipped into my life vest, and pushed out into the creek. At that exact moment, three men riding in two canoes came flying downstream from my left.

You can't imagine my shock.
I can honestly say I have never seen anybody running this river but me and the few people I drag along with me. I've heard stories, but I always felt like a Sasquatch when I put into water here. To see a paddler--no, three--put me all out of sorts. I asked a few gormless questions, got a lecture from a man who probably assumed I was an amateur, ("Are you going downstream?" "Yes, sir." "And how far?" "Just to Old Number Seven." "Well, be careful down that way. There are some dozen trees down in the stream bed where a farmer let the bank fall in." "Oh?" "Yeah, I would be careful." "Looks like I might have to do some walking." "Just be careful.") and then I just left without actually asking his name, or giving him mine. I'm bad at meeting people, maybe.

When us kids were young, Dad had a way with people he'd just met. This was during a time in the nineties when America was just coming down from its yuppie high and beards didn't have the je ne sas quoi that they enjoy today. Dad's bushy beard communicated something his words didn't. He just screamed "I'm wearing this suit and tie, but I would rather be planting walnut trees in the rain." And to be honest, that's his preferred activity.

Sometime during a trip to southern Missouri for a float trip, we stopped at a little country store for some sandwich ingredients. Dad left Philip and I in the car and went inside, apparently forever. We watched him through the windows and made up dialogue.

"How's your day?"

"Eh?"

"I said how's it going today?"

"Slow."
"I remember when I worked in a gas station. [Editor's note: Dad has worked in every conceivable occupation] The slow days were the worst. I started yearning for someone to come in and shoplift something."
"You ain't stealin' nothing, is you?"

"Just a bit of your time." Big cheesy grin. "Do you know how far it is to the Current River?"

"Oh, you're goin' for a float? Let me tell you, the river is top-notch this year."

Ten minutes later, our gregarious father finally rolled out to the car and got underway again. Apparently, I did not inherit the same gift of gab, even if he somehow carved a paddle in my heart. That's why I was out this Wednesday afternoon: the wanderlust was upon me, and only a canoe would satisfy it. I splashed my way out of the park and on down the river. I only saw one other human in my four mile gallivant: a man who had walked down from his truck to the river, just to see the water go by I guess. Otherwise, I was alone with the birds and the trees.

I rolled through a couple big bends of the river, shot some small riffles, scraped against at least one rock. I'm only half-decent at handling a watercraft. I passed the low-water crossing that runs parallel to Silver Fork, the last reasonable rescue point where I might call for help and a pickup. My hands twitched. I mean, I was sure I could make it back to my bike, cycle to the Pinnacles, get the truck, pick up the canoe, and head home--all before dark. I was positive. But I am also notoriously overzealous with time estimates. I slowed, backpaddled. I needed to make up my mind, and quickly. The river was pulling me towards a chute. I would have to carry the canoe back up if I wanted to get out of the river early.

I sat back in my seat. This was why I was here, after all.

Then, exactly what I wanted happened. I was floating along, and I looked up. There, through the trees and looking down the little farm road, I saw a rich amber light cutting at a slant through a soft, verdant scene. I stood up.
I know I was in a canoe; I stood up.

I stared at it. I sat down and pulled hard to throw the nose over into the mud. The back end whipped around in the current, and I tossed my legs over and ran up the bank.

Down from the right, the bluff fell away into a farm field. The little double track wended its way through a rich springtime grass and down into the field. The trees on the right and left leaned over and made a leafy tunnel through which I could see a lone tree off in the field, shot full of golden light filtered through the wet after-rain air. I think I sat and drank in that scene for five minutes or more. I didn't find much joy in talking to the down-to-earth men in their aluminum canoes. I'm a good listener, but I just can't find myself launching into new friendships as easily as I want. I feel disconnected from humanity, but I'm in love with the Earth. Every few days, a scene like this will just catch me up and pull me to a halt. It's been happening more and more recently over the last year, like I just suddenly opened my eyes to the beauty in small things, like I just suddenly became sentimental, like I just out of nowhere gained the ability to sigh. Do you know what I wish? I wish I could see people the same as the golden atmosphere falling through trees that guard the roadside. Maybe someday.