by Pam Withers
The men pointed toward where I was supposed to work – the far side of the trout tanks. I walked along the narrow concrete wall like a gymnast on a balance beam, appreciating that my neoprene boots offered good traction. The men looked at my boots curiously.
I lay down on the end of the concrete wall and peered into the water. The men talked fast in their native language, which I was starting to like the sound of, as they tried to instruct me. Realizing, of course, that I couldn’t understand them, they began to pantomime what I should do, perhaps unaware that Myriam and Papá had already explained it. I smiled and eased myself halfway into the rushing water, keeping a tight grip on the wall’s edge.
The men’s leathery faces looked concerned. Me, I was appreciating how mountain rivers in the Colombian Andes are nowhere near as cold as what I am used to. Still gripping the wall, I took a deep breath, lowered my head, and opened my eyes underwater. Reaching forward to run my hand over the gunked-up screen, I realized it was a foot or so farther than it looked. Okay.
I popped to the surface, took a very deep breath, went back under, and let the water slam me against the tank. Ignoring the pressure and danger, I wrestled the screen off, wiped it clean, wrestled it back on. Then I clawed my way to the edge of the unit and unplastered myself from the concrete to let the current sweep me downstream. My knee caught on the cement before I floated free, but no big deal.
I surfaced, took a quick look at what was downstream, then flipped onto my stomach and did a strong breast stroke into the nearest eddy. I knew exactly how to flop my entire body over the eddyline and let the eddy’s countercurrents shove me to shore.
As I stood and made my way back to the structure, the men were watching me, clearly pleased I’d done the job in one go.
I lapped up their praise, even if I understood few of the words, then set my ego aside and worked hard the rest of the day, taking pantomime instruction on everything from pouring concrete to replacing some of the chicken wire.
The way they worked, I sensed a pride that surpassed any community project I’d ever seen in the United States or Canada. It brushed off on me in short order, making me labor as hard and fast as ever. Even those I’d sensed didn’t like me, didn’t want me here, seemed to give me grudging respect.
Numerous times, Papá called “good work” over to me in Spanish. And I found myself shyly practicing my Spanish on the younger men and boys, one of whom fetched me a felt hat after pointing to the bright sun, shaking his head at the crazy sunburned white man.
Cool, I decided. A gringo in neoprene shorts and felt hat. If only Myriam were here, trying to hide that sweet, sweet smile of hers.
We finished before dark, and I found myself in the middle of the pack, pretending to know the words of the songs they were singing as we headed down the trail for the promised feast.
Before lining up with a plate that a little girl shoved into my hands, I dashed back to the hut to stuff some gear into my sleeping bag and bring it to the plaza to give away: my jeans, T-shirt, fleece, first-aid kit, running shoes, baseball cap. I held nothing back but my paddling gear, some food, my waterproof headlamp, emergency space blanket, camera, passport, wallet, Gramps’ journal, and one pair of shorts. And the necklace, which I’d present privately to Myriam later. I’d left the embroidered tablecloths I’d bought from Myriam at Jock’s shop. I wanted as little weight in my kayak as possible through the canyon, and I didn’t want to have to come back up for my belongings. Plus, I figured Myriam’s people might be able to use some of the stuff.
After supper, as the women washed up and some of the men who were sitting around the fire produced flutes and guitars, I shook the belongings out of my sleeping bag and had Myriam explain that I was giving them away. The sleeping bag, I added, would be available in the morning. Tomorrow night, I planned to sleep beside the falls in my neoprene shorts and boots, wrapped in my space blanket. I’d buy sandals and a T-shirt before boarding the plane home.
Freddy, whether he knew what was going on or not, toddled forward to pick up my baseball cap, which sent a ripple of laughter through the crowd.
Some looked unimpressed; others nodded in appreciation, their smiles lifting my heart. Abuela herself claimed the first-aid kit, though she clucked her tongue as she went through it, as if disappointed at Western medical knowledge.
It started to rain. Papá loaned me a poncho and felt hat. They felt warm and comfortable. Speaking through Myriam, I said good-byes and thank-you’s to everyone, and even felt my eyes mist a little as Papá gave me a bear hug. Looking into his kind green eyes, I found words tumbling out: “You’re the papá I always wanted.”
He squeezed my shoulder as Abuela looked on, a mist in her own eyes.
Suddenly the rain turned into a downpour, tat-tat-tattering on the corrugated tin roofs. I ran to my hut, my hand holding the borrowed felt hat on my head.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Today will be the best day of the trip,” I announced to Myriam with a wink as she approached my hut the next morning, wheeling her bicycle. The rain had beaten down all night and showed no sign of letting up now. I was leaning casually against the wall of my accommodation, wearing nothing but my neoprene shorts. Freddy grinned up at me. Flora peered at me from where she was secured to Myriam’s back, a floppy hat on her head to divert the rain’s dribble.
“Why is that?” Myriam asked as she leaned the bike against the far end of my hut.
“Because according to Gramps’ diary and your descriptions, I’m tackling Class IV today.”
We’re into heavy rapids now, engaging in life-or-death battles with rock-strewn watery routes. One of my men overturned this morning and would have lost his boat or drowned had I not rescued him promptly, at great risk and effort. Happily, his gear and supplies were well lashed in. With no appreciable breaks between torrential sections, we run the constant danger of boat damage and capsizing. But we are a strong, determined team and, so far, we’ve suffered no disasters. Just as well, since we have a long way still to go. – Malcolm Scruggs
“Class IV. That means dangerous, right?” Her eyebrows knit together.
“Yes,” I said as I gave her a reassuring smile. I liked that she worried about me. It meant she liked me. She’ll like me even more when I surprise her with the gift of the necklace, I told myself. I hadn’t given it to her yet because I couldn’t get her alone. Sometime today, hopefully.
“Especially dangerous after a hard rain like this,” I explained, “which can raise the river level. So today is the day I’ll need you most, on rescue rope duty.”
“And tomorrow?”
“I’m expecting we’ll reach the waterfall by the end of today. That’s where I’ll say good-bye.”
“You’re still insisting on camping by the falls tonight? And in the rain? We’ve told you it’s not safe to camp around here.”
“I’ll jump or use my rope to get myself and my kayak down into the canyon. I’ll camp there beside the falls.”
“With no sleeping bag or blanket? And where?”
“With my space blanket. On a rock or in a wall crevice … somewhere,” I assured her with more confidence than I felt. It would be a miserable night if the rain didn’t stop, but that just comes with expedition kayaking. “That way I’ll be safe and get an early start tomorrow on the finale.”
“What does ‘finale’ mean?”
“The end of my performance, the final section of the Furioso. That means the canyon. Beyond the canyon is just fast-moving water on the Magdalena before I reach Jock’s place. I think it’ll be less than a full day’s paddling from the waterfall to Jock’s.”
“But you don’t know what the water is like in the canyon! Nobody in our community has ever been down there and come back alive. That’s why we call it Dead Man’s Canyon.”
“What a wonderful name! You didn’t tell me that before. Gives it special appeal to kayakers like me. It probably means solid Class IV and V, which I love.” I reached down and yanked Freddy’s red
hat over his eyes, which made him giggle and hide behind Myriam’s legs.
Myriam placed her hands on her hips and stamped her bare feet in the rain-soaked grass. “You hired me as guide, and I’ve ordered you to walk the trail between the waterfall and where El Furioso joins La Magdalena.”
“Ordered!” I laughed, daring to move closer and place my hand on her shoulder. “Advised, yes. And I’ve taken that advice into consideration.”
Her face flushed and she flung my hand off. I mustn’t touch her when people are around! But I was burning to do so later today – our last day together. No Henrique or Tiago around. If only she could ditch the twins.
“Is it not a ‘first descent’ if you portage the canyon?” she demanded.
“Yes and no,” I replied. “Yes, technically, but no by my grandfather’s and my standards.”
“Well, it won’t be a first descent if you die.”
“That’s true. But I’ve paddled many outrageous canyons in my career, Myriam. I know how to scout what’s coming up while I sit in safe eddies. I know how to free-climb along a vertical wall with my kayak on a rope, if I have to get past something that’s impossible.”
“You are impossible,” she declared, pointing a finger at me the same way I’d seen Abuela scold children in the community.
“And you are beautiful this morning, as always,” I said, running my eyes appreciatively down her wet blouse and jeans. “Especially when your eyes are flashing.”
The finger withdrew. The lips went into a deeper frown. My eyes lingered on those lips. Later, I dared hope.
I glanced at her bike. “Each day has been a longer and longer bike ride for you,” I pointed out. “Maybe it’s too far to bike with the twins today, especially in this downpour.” It also went without saying that since we’d be parting at the end of the day, I couldn’t borrow a bike; I’d have no way of getting it back to her. That meant a very long jog beside her.
“I know. But Rosita is home from school today with a cold, so she’s taking the twins. I’ll drop them off to her and be with you in a minute. You can pedal. I’ll ride on the handlebars.” She smiled shyly.
“Perfect!” I said, elated.
For the next hour, we giggled and sang as I pumped the bike through the rain down the trail. I dared to rest my chin on her damp, clean-smelling hair every time a bump in the trail threw her near me. Eventually, she relaxed and allowed her shoulders to rest against my bare chest. Her buttocks perched on my handlebars, her toes extended far ahead, and her braid swayed and occasionally caressed my face as we sped along.
I pedaled carefully, not only to keep her aboard, but because a part of me didn’t want the ride to end. I finally slowed, and she jumped off when we reached the bush where I’d stashed my kayak. I donned my paddling jacket slowly, to make sure her eyes would watch my body. The warm rain felt kind of good up here in the mountains and made everything smell fresh.
“You might need the rescue rope today,” I reminded her, lifting it from my kayak and placing it in her palms. I folded my hands over hers as if to make sure she didn’t drop it. She pulled away, but not as fast as usual. She put the rescue bag in her sash to secure it to her body.
“A kiss for good luck?” I asked playfully.
Smiling, she backed away and blew me a kiss. A wet strand of hair, which had worked its way out of her braid, hung from her forehead, over her breast to her trim waist.
“You’re a tease,” I said, running a hand over my paddling jacket pocket to ensure that the necklace was still there.
“You do that every time you’re about to paddle,” she observed. “Is that a good luck thing?”
I stiffened for a moment, then forced a smile. “Yes.”
I couldn’t give her the necklace before I paddled the canyon, I suddenly realized. I just couldn’t. I’d have to leave it with Jock to give her. She’d said it was worth a fortune, so maybe she’d use it to help her community. It was going to be hard to say good-bye to her today, to know I’d never see her again. Did Gramps feel that way when he left Colombia? Did the beauty of this place grow on him, captivate him despite the dangers? Did the kindness of the people affect him? Not likely. He was too single-minded. Maybe that’s why he’s a legend.
Tightening my life jacket, I climbed in my boat and prepared for takeoff. I noticed that the river was running higher and faster today after last night’s volume of rain. It would be much safer to paddle it with other experts. For a split second, I wished Henrique and Tiago hadn’t left me in the lurch. My teammates’ defection was a problem, I admitted, but surely a challenge I could overcome.
“Adiós,” Myriam said, worry lines reappearing on her forehead. “See you in the calm pools between rapids.”
“Perfecto and adiós,” I replied, tearing away in a muscled sprint that Gramps would have approved of.
Right away, I felt like I was in a different league. The Furioso took its name seriously here. Waves rose, tossed, and battered against boulders. With my senses on full alert, I let my kayak rise and fall with the giant whitecaps. I’d dig in for a pivot here, sprint down the wave full-force there. Every time I crested, my eyes did a fast scan of everything downstream, as far as the veil of rain allowed, so that I could veer away from writhing patches of foam and the gray topsides of rocks. The dark green tongues of water guided me to safety like lights on an airport runway.
Except that the runway down this first Class IV dodged from left to right like a skittish animal. But that’s what I love about whitewater kayaks. They’re made to spin on a dime and give chase to any line the pilot chooses.
I darted, spun, sprinted, and rested. Anywhere I could find a calm eddy, I’d whirl into it and wait, chest heaving, until I was ready to enter the fray again. I’d done hundreds of challenging rapids in my career, but never alone. Solo whitewater kayaking at any level is neither safe nor sensible. Soloing heavy whitewater kayaking is insane – unless you find yourself without mates on a river that’s begging to be written up as a first descent, and you’re willing to risk your life to claim it.
Whoa! A massive boulder in the middle of the next rapid rose like a thin granite tower leaning at a slight angle. It divided the river as neatly as a comb, forming a part in free-flowing hair. Should I opt for the left or right chute? Rain ran down my face and off my chin as I considered. Wise kayakers go where the most flow heads, but something about the way the fuller chute on the left acted farther downstream gave me pause. On instinct, I opted for the right channel.
Bang! I cursed as my boat smacked against a rock just under the surface. It turned me sideways as I hurtled towards an ominous wave gully followed by a rearing wave crest. I threw in a hard left sweep stroke to give myself the punch I needed to shoot through the watery half-pipe, then reached, reached, reached my right paddle blade to find and cling to a patch of water moving downstream. The “keeper” tube wanted me, strained to keep me captive, but as my heart beat double-time, my blade’s stubborn hold on the far side gradually lifted and pulled me over.
I shook water from my head to clear my eyes, spotted an eddy, and stuffed my kayak’s bow into it. Whew! Now I could look upstream and see what I’d missed. Holy! The innocent-looking chute I’d rejected poured straight onto a downed tree, hiding treacherously just below the surface and sending the current into a wicked reversal at the bottom. I might have been able to fight my way out of that back-current, but then again, it might have taken me all day and the strength of ten men. Thank you, Furioso, for sending me a vibe.
The river calmed itself for a minute, as if needing time to contemplate what to throw at me next. I floated through an all-too-brief, rain-dimpled pool, staring down at its green depths. It was the clear green of Papá’s eyes, so wise and calm and patient that I felt my pulse slow a little.
One big rapid down, several to go. I thrilled to the pounding aggression of the current. Today’s rapids would be a perfect warm-up for the canyon, which I was guessing might be more difficult. In Class V, even a m
inor mistake can mean death. These are the kinds of stakes I like.
The next rapid was bouncy and mean, but so rich in eddies that I was able to work my way down it in a neat zigzag pattern. Seeing Myriam at the bottom, standing with the rescue bag at the ready, reassured me. I doubted I’d need her today, but if I did, the skill of her toss might get fully tested.
“I’ll play here for a while,” I called out to her, meaning I’d give her enough time to position herself at the bottom of the next rapid before I committed myself to its foam-laced entrance tongue.
I found myself an excellent play wave and carved back and forth, as content as I’d ever been. The rain cooled my sweat. The Furioso was my friend. The trip was going smoothly. Late tomorrow, I’d be phoning in my victory to Gramps. Finally he’d see me for who I was: a man. And, finally, I’d usher myself into what I regarded as a secret society of first-descent champs.
Myriam was winded from biking the trail. Rex seemed in too big a hurry, overdetermined to reach the falls today. He was like – she smiled – a mule plodding home who’d just caught sight of its shed.
Since the trail only rarely afforded a glimpse of the river on this section, she was getting sore legs from dropping her bike at intervals and running down the bank, especially where the rain had turned things muddy. But she had to keep track of what the river did, where it calmed down. In those places, she had to locate a piece of level ground from which she could toss the rope if he needed it, which she fervently hoped he never would. From these spots, she would turn upstream and search the upper horizon of tumbling water, so she wouldn’t miss his performance coming down the whitewater.