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.