19km of life part 2

Part II

 

The squishing of rubber against hardwood cast an audible vibration which rushed past hungry eyes, thirsty lips, expectant bellies. Drinks swayed threatening the confines of the frosty clear mugs. Salty droplets of sweat clung to near tan, tired looking cheeks. A conversation with another spilled past the bubble of privacy and into the peripheral ambient noise where it was soaked into wooden walls. “They were making bets on how old I was and where I was from” came words floating out of my mouth toward the bar.

“How old are you and where are you from?” came a sudden questioning reply from the table to my right. My eyes shifted past my right shoulder, studying the faces which awaited a response. They were the same faces I had seen move past my bar a few days ago. Then, I could not shake the feeling that I would once again study the contrasting features of each girl, or woman maybe, except now with the care of one who wants to see past the venire. “18 and Oregon” I said as I quickly spun backwards making sure not to spill the drinks, and disappeared out the door toward my table. I could hear the whispers, “What did he say?” “Oregon and 18.” I smiled, but just continued to rush from the bar to the assortment of tables in and outside, shorts swishing against the apron wrapped tightly around my waist. Night slid across the streets stealthily but with a welcomed presence. I stood outside, tray tucked under my arm relishing the now present peace. “Is it impressive we climbed the Volcano?” the words rushed into my brain and sat down, waiting for the nerve pulses to commence with response. I cast a studied glance at the five girls before me. Would it be impressive to them that they stood on the backdrop of Pucon, the fire spewing chain smoking monument of nature’s ever moving presence? Probably. “Yeah…it sorta is…” came a weak response of the affirmative. “How many people climb the volcano?” came a reply from the New York looking girl. “I get like two tables every couple days who say they have done it.” That answer seemed to taint their accomplishment. They gave me more reasons for which to be impressed. I was confused. Why would my approval mean anything? I agreed with them that it was impressive, my own opinion of the matter still locked in the jury room. Soon enough, as it always does, my kayaking experience came up. I got anxious, why? I still don’t know, but I suddenly didn’t really want to discuss the sole reason for my being in Chile. Halfway through a story, another table was filled by a Chilean family. I left, lost among the recesses of my brain, searching for answers. Answers to what? Only the night could know, and the day could interpret. With tables stacked, the labored addition of gates to windows and door, and the final rhythmic motion of cloth against polished hardwoods, work ended with a nervous signature.

The key turned with a familiar resistance, the thudding of feet against the narrow wooden stairs echoed among the multi roomed apartment. I stumbled into the living room and slung my bag off of my aching shoulders, my sore feet. Within moments my computer was illuminating my face. I knew what I was about to see. I had felt it coming like the warning of the red morning sky. I could see the storm. I could feel the impending thrashing of boats against moorings, the collapsing of piers, and the fury within. The message caught my attention. Every fiber of my being suddenly tensed. Breaths grew shallow and fast as the pulsating pump in the left of my chest succeeded in turning my face red. The words were an olive branch. One coated in pain, held out by the selfish hand of the bewildered. My eyes darted across the page, burning from the cold light of the computer screen. I read and re-read the message a few times, seeing the perceived hypocrisy, hearing the conflicting accounts. Whether she missed me or not, it was not her choice to speak to me. It should have been mine. It should have been me to delve back into the torments of the love, the insecurities fertilized by ill-timed words, ignorant actions. My fingers moved rapidly across the keys. They expressed the anger felt, the injustice which welled in my flesh. My hand moved in a blur slamming the screen shut, moving my landlord, and friend, suddenly into a sitting position. My calves strained as I shot upright, words of anger which can only come from perceived lost love spewing from my mouth shaking the house with their calm yet cold execution. “I am going out! And drinking and drinking!” I proclaimed seeking refuge from my mind, the memories of that night. Marco, my friend, noticed the sudden change in tone, the foreboding look in my eyes. “Buy me a beer” he said as he slipped quickly into a jacket. We rolled out of the house, two more roommates noticing the slammed door and following in hope of good time, a few beers. Rock and roll music akin to the 1950s blared with foreign words, as Marco and I sat outside at the bar, two beers fit snugly into our hands. “Jon!” I heard the words but did not look. “Jon!” it came again, and I knew who it was. The group of girls from before. I excused myself from the bar and went over to their table urged onward by their inviting hands. A beer down, and two Piscolas later I was staring into light blue captivating eyes, silhouetted by mid length blond hair. Her mouth moved and words tumbled from her lips, but I did not listen to the meaning, but instead fixed on the eyes. More drinks later, the conversation between the girls deteriorated with words were that seemed harsh between friends. I could feel the mood shift as a scene familiar to high school was acted out between two of the girls. The tables were being put away for the night as the moon moved low in the sky.

 We walked with them a block, parting ways as the alley that lead to our apartment appeared. I watched them walk away. People I would have like to spend more time with. People for which my studying gaze could wander taking in the subtle movement of the eyes, the hand as it grazes my arm, the sudden downward look of unsure emotions. I knew I should not look at the computer, I knew what it would say. A response from my swaying hands, clumsy fingers poured out on the screen, a visual representation of long harbored feelings. A response which turned into a fight. A fight which saw four in the morning turn to five, and another slamming of the computer screen. A day which I wished to never forget, full of beautiful whitewater, learning, and new friends now tarnished by the need for closure? Closure of what? I believed the door to be closed the night I hung up the phone. Sun saw my face, eyes popped open to the afternoon. The beach lent itself to a rolling session of hours. A manifestation of energy which needed to be expelled.

I stepped onto the bus then next day, paddle smashing into the seats, scraping the windows. The driver tried to tell me that it was not allowed, but I waved him off saying “esta bien” with the repetitions of a psychopath. Gear piled upon my lap, the bus sped toward the Palguin, as the confused looks of my fellow passengers allowed for no seat mates. With a flurry of smoke followed by an attack of sneezing, the bus rolled away from the turn off for the Palguin, and into the afternoon. I waited. Soon I was prone as heat boiled my skin. My lifejacket lent itself as a pillow. I checked my phone. They were very late. I contemplated catching the return bus back, and spend a few hours on the beach, but shoved the thought away hoping for their arrival, needing to kayak.

19km of Life Part 1

Cool droplets of salt, the draining of pores, slid down form a curly matt of golden hair into eyes, sending nerves reeling in stunned fiery pain. Feet burned, the canyons of toes tearing from the cheap rubber soles and ill placed straps. Muscles strained against the swaying pack, the clinging of broad straps to skin, the eternally forward fixated head. Deep in a valley, surrounded by granite peaks, familiar green pastures, and the mammoth volcano signifying an Argentinian presence, I was wandering into a place of peace. A place I now wished to be my home. A place where I had wandered down crystal clear streams, watched smoke slither from thatched houses while smells of carnivorous ecstasy stirred the primal nature within, and where I discovered the man I knew I could attempt to emulate. Now I walked. I walked with the purposeful nature akin to those who crossed the west, possibly I was subconsciously succumbing to my exploratory nature. The bus had smelt of sweat, tasted of freedom, and allowed for the studying of those on their way. Way to where? Homes, lives, families, the loving arms of the husband, the soft eyes of a wife, the honest eyes of a brother. The bus ended short of my destination, 19km to hitch hike. After a kilometer of casual strolling outside of town, thumb signaling the passing car, I realized the length I may have to walk. 5km later, and with no cars rushing by, casting a breeze against the back of my neck, my thoughts left the pain which was creeping from my feet to my legs, and found themselves among the last few days.

The word hit my ear. Muscles contracted and moved plastic against the friction of wooden ramp. I launched into the air, eyes focused on the candy cane colored first gate. Turquoise was split by the red nose of my kayak as hips tightened holding the line, shoulders burned, and biceps propelled the fiberglass blades toward the goal. First gate, aim high, turn, watch the paddle. Move to the right, catch gate 2, move right, catch gate 3, hard boof, keep speed, second boof, sprint, next gates easy, be on line for the last gate, move hard left, get a stroke. I missed the stroke sliding the 15 feet sideways into the recirculating torrent below. I braced, holding the blade with practice precision away from the hole and toward the finish. With the last final sprint, my second lap of the Upper Palguin slalom race was over. Faster, cleaner, and with more focus.

My body was thrashed, the race laps on the Palguin had torn my muscles to exhaustion. I had to work. I stood behind the bar, the heat of stagnate summer air rushing into my senses. Handle pulled, perfect pour, dishes washed, dinner devoured, the clock struggled toward midnight. I slogged back to my apartment. In the morning, the beach beckoned a midday breakfast with a good friend, the afternoon held tired bones to couches, and the evening once again saw the quickened movements of work. I saw the faces of five people, tourists I guessed. They passed by me at the intervals of full bladders, each time with a noticing look from me, a questioning look from them. What question? How old I was I guessed. The smooth features of my face betrayed the look of one much younger than my eighteen years. That night I found myself with the familiarly bitter taste of beer burning my lips, refreshing my mind, my hand wandering toward the girl to my left. Hours swirled by, the morning saw my feet rushing toward the local bar. They did not carry me fast enough.

I awoke, my head swirling with the dehydrated pain of the nights vices. The great debate began. Should I stay in the confines of Pucon, or accept an invitation to my old home of Camp Puesco. Nostalgia won, swayed by the need for the faces of friends. I walked to the bus station, “Don’t want this to become a 19km mission into the night” I said, the words of unnoticed foreshadowing.

As the night fell, the delirious vocalizations on the border between singing and shouting, came tumbling form my mouth. My shirt had been cast aside an hour ago, allowing for the setting of the sun to cool my sweat. 3 hours and 30 minutes later I came limping into Puesco, the familiar panting of dogs met my ears. My friends were nowhere to be seen. My heart sank. An image of sitting alone in a cabin, hungry and exhausted formed in my mind. Just as I started to let my heart sink drowning my positive nature, the headlights of a mid 90’s van came swinging into the drive way, five kayaks perched on top of the rig. My friends emerged from the van, surprised looks were cast upon my comically attired figure. Morning came. The sun burst through the clear windows, allowing for a view of the castle spires of the mountain across the river. Soreness had not yet found itself among my bones, but a kayak found itself around my body a couple hours later. Friends, whitewater, and a familiar passion coursed through my blood, forcing a smile from my lips.  I stepped onto the bus that afternoon, the sun draining my energy, and smiled, full from the day. I had no way of know the violent storm of contrasting emotions and experience that would meet me that night.

The haze of Pucon

His beard, gray, stretching out, creeping down, grasping for his chest, matched an exterior which to Oregon would have been common, here, it was foreign. “I am a hippie” had come his heavily accented words to me before. Now he stared into my eyes, his breath a mix of foul liquor and yeast. I did not notice. “Every person I meet makes my life better. Look at all these people, these womans, they here for my wife, my best friend, her birthday, and it makes my heart cry. These people are made from love, these people are made to always be happy….and they are here for her. Do not forget, you may, that every person, these womans, will always make your life better.” His words were true, though sometimes hard to see as so. To the philosopher, to the man, to the boy, in me truth is far from true, and far from right, far from wrong as well. He was a baker, making his bread to better the bellies of the hungry, to feed the wanting, to sustain the man. His words always of wisdom, brought from the recesses of his smoke filled brain, his dream filled eyes, his contented heart. He wandered away into the crowd, foreigners from the adjoining country, friends in my eyes, and I in theirs. Where had my friends gone? I no longer saw the familiar figures of the kayakers I knew well. A phone call later I headed to the club, they had fled, three in the morning signaling a change of scene. I walked down the dirt road, the cold not meeting my flesh, I not noticing. A car sat idling in the middle of the street. I opened the door. The faces of those surprised but not caring stared back at me. In broken Spanish I conveyed the need to go to town with the combination of the willingness to pay.  While they declined my money, they were inclined to drive. After a drive of me jabbering in Spanish, inducing smiles on their faces, they dropped me two blocks from the club. I walked into the pumping of music, the cluster of people, the smell of sweat, intoxication, and ego, looking for a cute face. None were found, as I stumbled out of the club hours later as the lights switch on, the music off, and the crowd dispersed outside.

Swirling, with a light airy feeling in my head, smile plastered to my face, eyes showing the longevity of the night, I spun around. Staring up at me were two beautifully dark eyes, and a surprisingly welcoming smile. The face, one of an expression I wished to hold onto, smile stretching the reaches of my heart, caught my spinning brain and slowed it down.  Words from a tongue familiar to my ears materialized in my head. She spoke English. My smile spread wider, eyes glimmered. It was infectious, her smile, and it stole into my brain, locking the image there in nostalgic perfection. I did not know how I got here, how the conversation started, but I knew I did not want her words to cease. The noise of the others, waiting for taxis, clinging to railings, making out in the bushes, evaporated into the ancient night. Memories now are hazy, faded by the deprivation of closed eyelids, the consumption of local flavors, but her eyes stay. The face smiling up at me, eyes begging for more. More what? Details I want to remember have vanished, details that mean little to me stay. She took my phone, her hands moving rapidly adding the number and name. “Call me now!” she said as hands dragged her into the full taxi. I sprang into action, thumbs clumsily finding the number, “Llamar” pressed. Spanish words of disconnection hit my ears, causing my heart to sway from the buzz felt.

I was alone.

The crowd had left the outskirts of the club, my friends had disappeared, my hostal felt hours away. With directions received after a worried few dials of my phone, I started up the block.  Just around the street corner, my friends had waited. We wandered slowly to the beach, with the speed of those with no motivation for the morning. In the horizon, the blackness of night was met with the groaning and labored light of the coming day. The lake came into view. Clouds met the lapping waves, lightly crested with ivory, giving the water a familiarity of an ocean. Artificial lights cast a glow only seen in soccer stadiums. Overturned wooden boats awaited the languid morning of a Sunday. I lay down, half my body underneath a boat, the other sprawled out toward the lake, a stray dog curled up next to me, black coarse sand clung to my hair. My phone buzzed, a txt. My hand slid to my pocket. “You can call now” it said. I dialed. Her voice answered, and I said something that is now lost among the waves. “I will txt you later, but now I am going to try to sleep” I said before ending the call, my words seeming profound among the reassuring calling of the waves. I drifted in and out of the stranglehold of sleep as the others around me continued to talk, staring at the approaching of the sun. Oranges, pinks, and gray contrasted each other as heat warmed our backs, blue escaped from the clouds, and the next day began. I woke for the last time, and headed toward the city. I walked with one purpose, the purpose of sleep. I caught a collectivo to my hostel and laid in the bed, the room lit brilliantly from the clear skies. Sleep did not come. I forced myself out of bed, paid, and caught another collectivo into town. I ate. It was now four in the afternoon, the day had blown by, mixing with the night. Once again I caught the collectivo, headed to meet up with the rest of my group. I sat in the van, kayaks adorning the roof. Inside the weariness of those around me spread like a virus which would soon deprive the host of the functions of life. Where were we headed? An asado I was told. Where? Up it seemed, up toward where? The van crept up the last incline and swung into a large grassy field situated on a large mountain top, guarded by a well built gray house. On the grass, the view extended for miles, the green of pastures nestled against the imposition of mountains, shrouded by plump gray clouds. I laid down on a blanket, the smell of cooking meet drifting past my face. The feats of that night pressed on my eyelids, and the warmth of the sun relaxed my body. Sleep. The sun raced for the horizon, an hour had passed by. I woke, ate, and watched the sun. Yoga someone suggested. Led in Yoga, on top of a mountain, as the sun cast its dying glow across the valley, I could not help but smile. Another weekend in Pucon, another night of haze, another time for learning. The next day would wake me, the next few months will age me.

Life, and Thanksgiving

Eyes creaked open. The turquoise coloring was soon consumed by the ever dilating black. I rolled onto my side, the bed squealing with a noise of strained springs. Radiant, the light flooded through the large window, causing a sudden revolt from my eyes, for a moment it was black. The warmth of the sun coaxed them back open. Dust swirled in the rays of sun, each particle the lost cell from its host. What day is it? Who cares? Came the clashing of thoughts. The bathroom forced me from the familiarity of sheets. Exhausted, hands covering heavy lids, they lay in their beds, refusing to allow the day to wake them. I stumbled out of the cabin, pausing only to make sure the old wooden door does not creak too loudly. The grass glistened from dew left by clear blue skies, the swing set lay crooked, the result of abuse, the river rushed onward toward where? I did not know. I unloaded the van. It came back to me as I pulled trash, beer cans, and bananas from underneath the seats. Yesterday was Thanksgiving.

                “Hey I am Chris” came the unique raspy voice of a familiar face. A face I had seen before, but not in the ever less foreign Chile, but the increasingly so rivers of California. Chris, well build and with shorter hair than I remembered pulled the ipod from his ears, and methodically unzipped his paddle bag. “205” he said, handing the noticeably longer paddle to me. “I brought two, but then grabbed this one last second, didn’t know it was 205 (centimeters) so we will see how it goes.” Always forthcoming with paddling knowledge, always part of the team, always having advice, Chris emanated confidence, betrayed nothing. The Palguin had become routine. No drop made my blood race, no move unfamiliar, it had the feeling of a playground, and I was jumping off the swings.

Lean hard right, ride the pillow, hold, pull, paddle, lean hard right, hold, pull, land, the first drop cleaned with practiced precision. We paddle to the second drop, I let the blue kayak in front of me disappear before pulling the large red fiberglass blade into the boiling light blue water. Left to right. I reached the lip, below me I saw the bottom of the blue kayak. I refrained from my boof stroke, penciling underneath the boat rather than slamming the top. With violent jerks my boat kicked and flailed at the base of the drop. “Hold on” came reassuring thoughts to my limbs. The violence above me cease and I rolled to the surface, sucking in air. Third drop next. Easy boof, hard stomp. I landed slightly more right than preferred, but continued downstream. Next the crack drop, “the vagina drop” as referred to by most. Some shouldered boats, and snaked through the jungle and back to the river. My kayak slid to the lip, my paddle held above my head like harpoon searching for a whale. I rocketed down, tapping the edge of my boat along the side, sending me upside down into the pool below. A roll, a shake of the head, a smile. A portage, boogie water, rapids, boof to a swim. I was not feeling the fire. I could not see a clean line today. Attacked by large alien looking flies, slipping, straining and fighting through the bushes, I portaged. We loaded up the van, the others the truck, and drove away. Where? To Thanksgiving it seemed. “So many Gringos” the first thought to enter my brain as the van pulled into the mountain top quincho. Turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, beer, cheesy looking slop, some sort of interesting looking salad, cookies, pies, and a strange gelatin looking pie? the variety and quality overwhelmed my senses.  Seconds turned into thirds as our group sat like a clique in high school. At the picnic table, the volcano always announcing its presence with a visual display of authority, I gazed upon the mountain top clearing, where trees and grass, well-manicured, surrounded the quincho. Families started to leave as the sun fell away, casting a shadow upon the quincho. Inside, there was the shaking of dice and the slamming of cups, as a heated game of liar’s dice continued. I slammed my cup announced “bullshit” lost a dice, took a swig of a mostly pisco, pisco and coke (the price of losing), threw the dice back into the cup, shook, the dice bouncing off my palm, and with a noise we all had heard before, slammed it back down. 

It grew cold as I walked outside for a moment of peace. The night had grown old, aged by the illusion of time. An old man, came inside, ordering us in rapid Spanish to leave, the quincho was closed. We rode home, the van making uncomfortable noises as it sped up the hills toward Puesco. My eyes drifted closed, not to open again until the alarm of the sun. My dreams haunted by memories of what? Her voice defending what? The family around the table, laying out the facts, going over the relationship with statistic of emotions. The room layered in the slightest semblance of a dream. I sat hands folded in my lap, staring across at her parents, sister, her. Lips moving, but the words sliding past my face with the coldness of a slap, the torture of memories which I try to forget. With a jury like huddling of her parents they wait for me now. Eyes prompting my defense. I tell the truth. They huddle again. Glancing ever few seconds my way, their eyes seeing into my soul. Finally they rule, in my favor, and she storms out spitting venomous words toward me. I say I never wanted for this to happen. I say I wish it was different. I say lots of things. A shiver among the heat of the summer breaks my deep thought of the dream. I bask in the heat, skin hopefully turning the golden color which was part of my facade in the summer. I smile. Sleep doesn’t need to come often, I can hide from the closing of eyelids, but only once or twice a week. It will work itself out, I can tell. Memories fade as Spanish pours from my lips, and the tranquility of the Chilean lifestyle sets in.

The almost sad ending to a amazing journey

Light fell away. The world I knew grew to resemble death. The finality of life seemed to have formed the entrapping boulders which surrounded me. I opened my mouth gasping for the sweet nectar of life, but instead water filled my lungs. I sealed my mouth, hoping to contain what breath was still imprisoned in lungs. My knee braces flexed from the continual pressure of the water. One hand grasped the boulder to my right, the other fumbled for my spray deck. White froth clouded my vision, but I knew where I was. I assessed the situation. From what light stole into my turquoise eyes, I could see the bleakness of my situation. My boat threatened to succumb to the pressure, sliding underneath the boulder, dragging me with it. One thought settled warmly into my brain, making itself a home where it could watch the impending absence of life. I was going to die. The sieve I was in appeared to by my casket. My final resting place. I had a chance to live if I could get air. I had a chance if I could get the onslaught of water form my noise, my ears, my searing lungs. It seemed a cruel joke now, the entire run of the Nevados styled, and now, on the last drop to die? I was not scared. There was no panic in my movements. Just a realization. What would it be like? To slip under the boulder, to disappear forever? As a child I would always dream about one day packing a bag, and wandering into the woods with more conviction than Thoreau ever had. I would not dwell around a pond in the middle of a neighborhood, but instead make my name the same way as Jeremiah Johnson, Davey Crocket, and Daniel Boone. With gunpowder, determination, and the hunger for freedom. I doubted death would be like the daydreaming of my youth. Less than five seconds had passed in the illusion of time since I had fallen suddenly into the this cavern of destruction. The seconds had felt like years. I thought back to the days leading to this moment. The illusion of lost love, the hours of unnatural speed across oceans, the rain filled clouds swirling from the volcano, the tranquility of life, the realization of a dream. The boof above I timed, hit, and soared. The freedom, peace, focus, until the landing. Then to charge left. Not the line. I though it was the line. It did not seem right, but I had asked if it was so. Could he have possibly been talking about the small drop below? My spray deck popped. Suddenly my kayak stared to shift unpleasantly to the left. I stood up, liberating myself form the onslaught of water in my face. It shifted. Like the clamping of a bear trap upon an suspecting fox, the kayak pinned both my legs against he rock. I squirmed, twisted, ignoring the pain and pressure. I was able to turn one hundred and eighty degrees. I could now see the opening in the casket, the preverbal light and the end of the tunnel. The opening between two rocks. My legs, however, were too trapped to allow for an escape. It then occurred to me that even if I was able to be rescued, they would not be able to free me from the vice like grip of the kayak. I wanted to let the others know I was not dead, with two loud exaltations of help, my words seemed to disappear among the water. It shifted again, I leapt seizing the opportunity. My ankles came free and I landed outside the sieve. A throw bag landed in my hand and I gripped the rope. I was fine. I was alive. My helmet camera had recorded the entire 25 seconds. It does not seem like much time. 25 seconds. Inside of a sieve, fighting for life, it felt like a few years. My friends watched to video back at the cabin. It was the same as watching a car wreck, sickening, but oddly addicting. We stopped at an internet café in Curarrhue. I had a new message from my ex girlfriend. "I miss you" it said. I was unbelievably speechless. Those days before I left were horrible. Those days I had put past my mind. Those days I never wanted to repeat again. I could not say anything back. When I had needed her most, she was not there, and now it was over. I had moved on. I did not want to deal with this today. I did not want to deal with this ever. I wanted to forget the memories and enjoy the moment. Enjoy life. Enjoy Chile. I kayak. Kayaking is I. Never can I see a happy life without it. There are more creeks to be done, more  rivers to be navigated, and more runs to style.

Aprendo Espanol ahora

It could be anywhere. The sound. The tears of the Andes plinking off the cold metal roof. Delirium sets is as my head detaches wearily from a pillow. I hear the first notes of a song cling to the wooden walls and slink up the small staircase to my shared room. I look at the time. My clock is still lost in the united states, I can only guess the hour. The past few days blurred together like the memories of a drunken night, hazy, spinning, fast. I cannot help but let the realization of where I am sets in. A summer spent in the hot sun of another state, in a town that hell itself would find unbearable, to work toward this. I feel lucky. Somehow I had managed to navigate the sea of immigration, terminals, customs, trams, trains, and busses. Though I am alone, very much so, I do not fully realize how alone I really am. The owners of the hostel Nativa saved me at the bus station. To say I was unsure of my next move would be to say that class V isn't hard. Melanie, a German National and part owner of the hostel, stepped in and figured out what the deal with my bag was, back in Santiago, and offered me a very low rate on her and Alejandro's hostel. His face flashed with a smile. "Lj!" he laughed, the motion causing his smoke defined face to show its many snaking lines "El es in Curahue."
 I agreed, and explained in broken Spanish that I needed to get there eventually. Alejandro puffed on his cigarette, blew the smoke toward the green wall of mountains and laughed again. "Eto es kayak pucon." Sure enough the small storefront read the name I had only seen in pictures. I chatted with Rodrigo about a boat. I needed one, but it was proving more difficult that I thought to obtain the familiar piece of plastic. Then again, I was being picky. I wanted a Jackson, a brand that was not well known here. Alejandro and I walked back to the hostel. We turned onto the alley, wandered to either side of the street to avoid a large brown puddle, and stared down a stray barking dog.  Upon forcing the ill fitting door of the hostel open, I trudge up the stared and fall onto the small bed. Sleep seems to spin into my brain, and blackness consumes my thoughts. I awake to hear the sound of a loud speaker and what seems to be an air raid siren. Am a dreaming? I did not know. Somehow I swing out of bed and managed to navigate the small stairway without falling. In the room below no one seems alarmed so I refrain from asking about he noise. Melanie and I head to the bus station, she speaks English, but her eyes betray no comprehension at some of my speech. She talks to the bus ladies about my bag, it will not get her until Monday, or Tuesday. I thank her for her help and we wander back toward the hostel. Once again my head hits my pillow. Sleep rushes into my eyes and I seemingly pass out from exhaustion. My dreams are close to reality. My eyes roll open. The window shows the darkening skies, the hours lost to sleep. I do not want to stir, but the pang of hunger forces me down the stairs once again. Melanie and the other inhabitant of this place, a French girl, offer me a dinner of rice, bread, cheese, meat, and wine. This has been the biggest meal I have eaten since the roof top party I attended only three days ago. It seems longer than that. I feel a tingle In my heart. The wish to call her. Its only been five days since it ended in the tearful phone call. The betrayal, coldness, and bewilderment still raw, just suppressed. How did someone I love change so quickly? I still missed her, but I knew that to message, email, or call her would only bring more hurt, not relief. I focused on my meal, happiness once again steeling into my heart, stemming from the kindness felt. A year, the though keeps striking me. For a year I had wanted to be here. I am here. I will kayak soon as my bag shows up and a kayak is either rented or bought. I am in no hurry. What is the point? I have three months to kayak, I will take my time, settle in, and breath the cold wet Chilean air. I have no idea what to think, except now that my stomach feels the warmth of wine, that maybe it is time for another nap.

Prelude to Absence

Eyes cast the gray carpet above me in a familiar light. The charcoal seeming water swirled color faded by the absence of sun. Riparian smells filled nostrils, shocking brain cells into recognition. Faint whispers of voices carried across the still river air. Rubber soles pressed against the gravel path winding toward the river, feeling more like a front door to home than a path. The absent piece of trash lay forgotten among the sand colored grass. Orange, gray, brown overtaking green in a sea of changing seasons clinging to the sand and rock shivered in the slight breeze cast up from the turbulence of water.  Lungs relaxed in a sigh, muscles lengthened, skin hung from restful bones. A smile parted bitter lips, furrowed brow, stiff cheeks, as knees slid into the plastic straightjacket. Callused hands gripped cold fiberglass, waiting for resistance...
I had been in this scene before, this place never changing, just the man who sees it. I had swam here, become bored here, laughed here, raced here, been alone here, grown up here. A year ago I had mentioned plans to leave this place, travel 180 degrees to the South and explore the rivers of Chile. Their eyes had cast doubt, their words encouraged. Some thought it was wishful thinking, some thought it was a boy's dream, but I knew it was where I would be. The Summer had been spent among the sand and heat of Idaho. Lifting, talking, placating, waiting. It was the first time I had been away from my girlfriend of almost a year. It was the first time I had left home for more than a week. It was the first time I understood who I could be, and who I should be. Upon my return back form Idaho, I counted my money, stared at my plane ticket, and waited. Kayaking kept me busy a few days of the week, the rest of my time spent thinking. Philosophy dominated my thoughts. The countdown to Chile started. Now here once again, lapping a rapid I had done since I was 16, I felt at home. Never before have I felt at home anywhere. No place has ever felt welcoming, except the river. I knew every eddy line, boil, swirl, hole, wave, branch, speed, and temperature of this rapid, yet still managed to learn something new. My friends disappearing over the same horizons, making the same moves, trying the same new lines, invited a sense of practice that was hard to shake. Practice used among the drops and waves of consequential rapids.  I would either be here for a couple laps, or ten, I did not know. The mood of the river constantly affecting mine, my problems affecting its. Abs released, plastic grinded against rock, muscles moved in a pleasing way, mouth closed to the splash, life ceased, living began.

Thoughtless: A creeking experience

Thoughtless. My hips shifted slightly left, breaths came matching the double left stoke. I detached from the water. Cool droplets of turquoise release left the edge of my red fiberglass paddle blade. They fell alongside me as my boat detached itself from the water and into the cool sierra mountain air. A noise like the salt and pepper screen of disconnected T.V. filled my ears. Time slowed. The bright yellow of my boat shone against brown rock of the canyon walls. I was in a crack. The smashing of continental plates years ago had forced the ground burst open unleashing a maze of vertical boulder gardens, and a shallow thirty foot waterfall.
Earlier in the day I had sat on top the large earthen dam, man's triumph over nature, separating the tranquil and placid waters of the lake from the torrent of thrashing whitewater of the South Fork Feather Gorge. Golden and bright, full of energy the sun warmed our backs as we first glimpsed the crack before us. The river came spilling from a pipe near the bottom of the dam, its energy finally realized, racing toward its next prison like lake. With a sudden biting sensation, a cold rush of wind swirled across the lake and invaded our bodies. I twitched with the familiarity of a shiver. I could see the first rapid of the Gorge. The pearl white crash of a fifteen foot waterfall, the swirling water creating large bubbles of imbalance, the graham cracker colored rock, the scene was absorbed into my being. I geared up.  The multi colored wetsuit half hidden beneath my blue drytop cast a very 80's look across my body. Shakily, I slowly placed my feet on the eroding trail to the river. It wound its way down a few hundred yards, each step bringing into focus the river. As I squeezed into my kayak, my mind was clear. Thoughtless. It was brought back the primal state of humanity, survival. A smile flashed across my face disappearing downstream.
 As I fell I realization of impact flooded my senses. I was half a second from the nose of my kayak making a jarring impact with the shallow right side of  the thirty foot waterfall. An image of ankle bones succumbing to the force of gravity in a sickening gunshot noise stole into to my eyes. Instinctively nerve impulses rushed from my brain forcing my right arm to pull a large stroke, moving my entire body to the left. My face made contact loudly with still green water, then my boat. Instantly my head ached. I waited a moment for my boat to be carried away from the boils below the falls. I rolled. "Oh shit that kinda hurt" came tumbling words from my mouth as I reached the point of earshot. The rest of the day blurred into a series of stacked rapids, all of which laced with sticky holes and sweeping corners. As the sun fell toward the seemingly growing horizon, the river lost its vigor. The power and intensity of the gorge dissipated into a dark green languid lake. My strokes quickened to power through the lake. Ahead in the distance I could see the outline of our '96 Subaru adorned in dust, shrouded in the approaching dark. Exhaustion hit me as I detached myself from my boat. Sadness was mixed with the joy of accomplishment. This would be the last creek I would run in California for the fall. The next steep creek I would bang my way down would be 180 degrees to the south. Waiting has never been my strong suit. All I could look forward to now, was a couple weeks alone with my thoughts.

White water and death

The moon was nearing climax, casting a blue glow over the faces in the circle of chairs. The sloping walls of the canyon appeared pale and ghostly. My feet were warm buried deep in the still searing sand. In front of me sat the people I had just met only a day ago, who were now allowing me to guide them down the Lower Salmon river. As with the previous trips I had run, one of the other guides had brought up my Class V kayaking experience at some point during the trip. Now the inevitable had happened. I was asked to tell a few stories about some close calls or near misses. With a very relaxed tone, I would recount the time I got a concussion on Clear Creek, or when my paddling buddy and I collided in the large hole in Cascade. Succumbing to the pain of a few dislocated ribs, I passed out doing limp body cartwheels in the the violent froth. The white of their ever widening eyes would contrast the black back lighting of the beach. Feet would shift nervously sifting sand between toes in anticipation. Gasps would slip out of unsuspecting mouths. The same questions would always resonate in my ears after the story would end, "Are you afraid to die?" "How can you be so calm about it?" "You must have some balls." My answers "No" "No" and "nah they are about average" needed more explanation each time those words tumbled from my chapped lips. I am not afraid to die. This is not hubris. This has come from a few close calls. Most I walk away from unscathed, a few with just minor dings, but all with a greater understanding of "the end."

I love kayaking. It allows me to focus, the world to slow, and peace to flood within. The moment before a boof, the lip of a waterfall, and cartwheeling in a hole, are all the quietest the world can be. No sound can pierce those moments. No fear can steal them away. Nothing matters but the next second. This allows me to live in that moment. To realize it for its beauty. To notice every bubble in the water, every heave of my lungs, every crease in the rock, and really see its purity. It is as though I see the secret to life, the key to the universe. If I need to put myself in a situation where I might have a few scrapes with death, then the risk is definitely worth the reward. The pure nature of kayaking forces me to be calm. On the other hand the dangers of Class V kayaking are greatly exaggerated. You are more likely to have a serious car accident then drown kayaking. All kayakers weigh risk with reward. Sometimes the calcuation doesn't work out. Sometimes freak accidents happen, but from experience, there are more close calls than direct hits. 

The Avenue of the Giant Beatdowns

The air seemed warm, not usual for the elevation we were at. Around me the thundering of water finding its way around rocks and crashing into sieves complemented by siphons echoed in my helmeted ears. My kayak bobbed unhurried in a small eddy. I had been in this same situation before only a day earlier. The water was half the flow, but still made for an intense class V run. "The Avenue of the Giant Boulders" the old fading wooden sign had read on the short hike in "Class V, experts only." I always laughed at the sense of urgency behind the word "expert." I was by no stretch an expert. For the past three months I had been guiding in Idaho, which didn't allow time for Class V kayaking. Now only a week after being back, and only kayaking a handful of times in the summer, I was about to re-attempt my run of the triple drop, which I had styled at half today's flow. I took a couple strokes and turned out of the eddy. The surging turbulent clear water reached out and grabbed my kayak. Its pull drug me through the first two moves. I made both moves just like yesterday, but I could feel the slightly increased timing of the water. I came to the move just above the second drop in the triple drop. I realized I was two far left. I used the hole above the s-shaped drop to surf myself back right, and avoid a sieve that hungered for my bright yellow kayak. As I was swept into the top move I took my boof stroke and tried to rotate onto my right edge so I could land and make the right turning drop below. As my muscles contracted pulling the beaten blue blade of my paddle purposefully backward, I had a horrible moment of realization. It was a though the world had stopped turning and I was suspended in mid air, small droplets of water languidly flowing past my ever widening eyes. In that moment I knew I was about to piton the large sieve-like rock wall in front of me. Plastic and rock collided with a violent crack which indented the nose of my boat, and sent my head whiplashing into my spraydeck. With no forward momentum, my face was forced into the thirty degree water, and the waterboarding started. I missed my first to rolls, then felt a rock hit my hand. I grabbed the edge of the boulder and rolled up. Jared and Hunter, my two paddling buddies, sat in the eddy opposite me with smiles on the their faces. We launched into the next few drops which all seemed to flow together much like a symphonies's different movements. I came sweeping off a drop straight towards the next one, which I knew was a must make drop. I rotated onto my edge to boof then it happened. Rather than feel the familiar balance point and boof, my boat continued to rotate off the rock ledge. This put my body between me and a few very hard rocks, and a two sticky holes. I hit the rocks and tucked as I was swept through the next two holes. I knew I needed to roll, and roll quickly. If I did not eddy out immediately after this drop, then I would be swept off a rock ledge onto a rock, then subsequently into a very convenient sieve. I rolled just above the ledge somehow managing to catch the eddy. "Ok" I told myself "This is the last of the carnage today." It wasn't. As we came bouncing, turning, and sweeping through the last boulder garden, I took a right boof stroke off a fun looking boulder. Rather and think "heh, that was fun" I gained enough speed from the boof to slide out of control over some rocks straight into a nasty siphon. "Shit, shit, shit" came some breathless words as my forward velocity continued. At the last moment I grabbed two rocks next to me stopping my forward progress. There I held myself, bobbing above a sieve, beat up, and out of  breath. My buddy Mikey who was shooting a picture of my line down the Avenue, snapped a picture of my boof then looked away. As his eyes moved back up the boulder infested creek, he noticed I was nowhere to be seen. "JON WENT RIGHT! GET OUT OF YOUR BOAT!" he yelled at Hunter. Jared ferried to a different eddy to see if he could get a visual on me. Between the house sized boulders our eyes met and I gave him a wave. I climbed out of my boat, walked around the siphon, and finished the run with no more issues. It is not often in Kayaking a kayaker can really fuck up as much as I did and come out unscathed. Its all a mental game, and while I had some close calls, I never noticed until later, didn't realized the consequences that I almost incurred. The Avenue of the Giant Boulders has only been run by a handful of people. While I have successfully banged my way down it twice, I do not feel I conquered it, but instead just had enough mental game to be dumb enough to even sit in the eddy above the triple drop, visualizing success.

Hold your breath....and wait: The beginning

The sunset cast a warm glow across the park benches and fencing, giving the day use area a spectrum of color not realized in the washed out afternoon sun. A slight wind hissed passed my face, and stirred the wild dirt covered blond locks that puffed out from my head. The denim of the my jeans could not hold out the slight cold of the Subaru's bumper on which I was sitting. In the distance the static like rumble of crashing water and silt could not be ignored by the few tourists who ambled across the grass by the fencing tattooed with warning signs. "So I wonder if we can sleep here..." I muttered to my best friend who sat slumped next to me in the open hatchback of his Subaru.
"Probably, I doubt any park rangers will stop by tonight, its not technically open yet" he replied with little re-asuring confidence to be found in his monotone.  I glanced around the small slab of civilization drastically contrasted against the barren Oregon high desert.
"Hey do you know where we can camp?" I asked one of the tourists who stepped out of a large dirty SUV."
"Yeah, just go down this road and take a left, there should be some camp spots on the indian reservation" He replied with a accusing look as he noticed our kayaks attached to the roof of our car.
We left and drove in the dark to a small deserted campground nested among the high mesas which were now silhouetted in the increasingly endangered light. We fell asleep quickly with apprehension in our hearts. A few hours later we stood in the cold morning sun, as we endured an onslaught of mist and wind given off my a large sixty foot falls a few yards from us. Downstream lay the much more runnable horizon line of the forty-five foot Celestial falls. In a matter of minutes my hair was dripping beneath the confines of my full faced helmet. My best friend, Hunter, and I drug our kayaks to the slime cover rock shelf that was the launch point for the falls. I went first. As I squeezed into the cockpit of my yellow Jackson villain, my heart surged and fell violently in my chest. As Hunter held the back of my boat to keep my from an early entry, I visualized the next sequence of events. Seal launch, in...okay what could go wrong? Skirt could blow, paddle could break. What's the plan B then? Swim the falls? Hell no. Okay you are not going to have a fun day if that happens. "You good?" disrupted my visualization as I realized that it was time to fuck it and huck it. I ran my hands along the edge of my sprayskirt to make sure it was tight, clasped my paddle, and gave the nod for him to release me. His hand loosed and I slid forward into the twenty foot gap between me and the brown swirling water below. With a unappreciated slap, my face made contact with the water and I quickly paddle into the last eddy above the enteral edge of cascading water. Hunter scrambled quickly down a trail to the bottom of the falls to set safety, but more  importantly film the sure to ensue carnage. Above in the eddy a smile creased my dirt covered lips. I heard a faint whoop, our signal to go. I paddled with complete focus into the current, each stroke taking me closer to the edge. There was a moment of awe as the banana yellow nose of my kayak crossed the horizon and I noticed the miniaturization of the landscape. I Pulled a practiced left stoked and tucked my face as tight as possible to my skirt. As I fell, I was met with complete silence among the thousands of gallons of water crashing and thundering around me. I submarined into the chaotic torrent created by the collaboration between gravity, Hydrogen, and oxygen. As oxygen was siphoned from my world, I held my breath....and waited. Within a second I burst from the surface, boat filling with water. My skirt had blown, but I managed to roll up anyways. I paddled to the edge of the amphitheater like canyon walls which the water had so diligently cut through, and leaped out onto the rock. I clung to then like the first fish to crawl out of the sea, and made my way towards where my Hunter had taken off after my boat. The sense of wonder and accomplishment soon diminished as I got my shit together and walked back toward the top to help Hunter as he decided to attempt the falls. I breathed deep, allowing the fresh water saturated air to envelop my lungs. In that moment I was completely at peace with the world, and all my fears and worries dissipated if only for a brief but appreciated moment.