Into the Canyon

by Michael Neale

  Gabriel stood up on the tractor seat.

  “How’s your leg feeling?” he asked her.

  “Just fine. Why?”

  He clasped his hands to make a step for her.

  “You want me to go up there?”

  “Yep.”

  Without hesitation Tabitha stood up, put her hands on his shoulders, and stepped in his hands. He hoisted her, and she grabbed a large branch of the sprawling tree and pulled herself up. Gabriel joined her, and they climbed up a good thirty feet and out on a large branch over the pond.

  The two young lovebirds dangled their legs in the breeze as they sat high above the fields of Cairo and shared childhood memories.

  “I fell from this very place about ten years ago. Everyone saw it. I was so embarrassed. I fell right on top of this kid Henry. I thought he drowned. I didn’t come back to the pond for years.” Gabriel squinted as he looked out across the vast landscape. “It feels pretty good to be up here with you . . . and to not be afraid anymore.”

  “Funny how life works sometimes,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  “The very thing you were terrified of, the weakest part of you, has been turned into the greatest strength. The water was a place of pain and embarrassment, and now it’s a place of purpose and passion. You are now helping people overcome their fear and experience The River. How beautiful is that?” Tabitha said.

  “You should write this stuff down,” Gabriel said as he looked out over the terrain.

  “Shut up.”

  “No, I’m serious. You have a way with words,” he said.

  Tabitha blushed at his compliment.

  “Hey, look over there. We better head back.” Gabriel pointed to the dark clouds rolling in from the south. “We get some pretty good storms around here.”

  They carefully descended the massive tree and hopped back on the tractor. Gabriel fired it up and they drove back toward the farm. Tabitha sat in his lap as they loped down the back road and into the Cartwright field. Thunder started to growl as the cloud cover blocked out the noonday sun. They had a good fifteen minutes to go.

  “Uh-oh,” Gabriel announced.

  Large drops started to fall. The drops sped up quickly into a full downpour. Gabriel slowed the tractor down to a stop.

  “What are you doing?” she asked as she peeled the wet hair back from her face.

  “Enjoying it!”

  Gabriel jumped off the tractor in the middle of the field and started running around holding his arms out and pointing his face to the sky. “Yahoo! Isn’t this great!” Tabitha followed suit as the deluge continued. The rain soaked Gabriel to the bone as he drank in the moment.

  The rain slowed as the wind coaxed the clouds north. They pulled the clinging shirts away from their bodies, shook the water off their hands, and laughed at how each other looked. Gabriel pulled a piece of wet hair off of her cheek. “You sure are making Kansas a lot more fun.” His wide hands cradled her wet cheeks as he leaned down and kissed her on the mouth. The sun appeared from behind the clouds again and warmed Gabriel’s skin. They boarded the tractor and headed back to the barn.

  “How long can you stay?” Maggie asked as they dug into ham-and-cheese sandwiches, Ms. Vonda’s homemade potato salad, Southern sweet tea, and sweet pickles.

  Gabriel looked at Tabitha. “I think we’ll need to head out tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”

  His mom looked disappointed. “So soon? You just got here.”

  “I know, but we have a lot to do to get the camp ready for the season. Why don’t you come visit me at The River?”

  Maggie got fidgety. “Oh, that’s a long ways, and besides, I don’t think I could take that much time off of work.”

  “Well, we need to work it out.”

  Tabitha chimed in. “We have plenty of room. I’d love for you to see Gabriel in his element.”

  Maggie got up abruptly and left her napkin on the table. “Please excuse me,” she said as she walked back through the hallway to her room.

  Mister Earl got up and walked out the door without saying a word.

  Ms. Vonda started to clean up.

  “You done with that, dear?” She took Tabitha’s plate.

  Tabitha leaned over to Gabriel. “Was it something I said?” she asked softly.

  Gabriel swallowed hard. “It’s okay. A lot happened at The River that she probably hasn’t faced yet. Corley Falls is home to some hard times for our family. I know all about that. She’ll come around.”

  The next day after lunch, Tabitha and Gabriel packed up the truck and got ready to head out. Another thunder-shower was on its way as they all gathered around the truck.

  Ms. Vonda handed them a basket.

  “It’s got enough in it to get you home. Plenty of biscuits, Gabriel.” The round old lady with her silver hair bun and permanent apron stepped in to give Gabriel a hug. “You take good care of him. I know you will,” she said as she hugged Tabitha.

  “Great to see you doing so well, son.” Mister Earl extended his weathered hand.

  Gabriel grabbed hold. “Thank you for everything, Mister Earl.”

  “I love you.” Maggie wiped her eyes as she stood on her tiptoes to give her son a hug. “Be careful, would you?”

  Gabriel gave her a warm smile. “I love you too, Mom. I’ll call you soon.”

  Maggie gave Tabitha a hug, then looked into her eyes as she held her shoulders.

  “I’m really glad Gabriel has you. You’re good for him. You two have something special.”

  Tabitha met Gabriel’s eyes, then said, “It was so good to be with you. Thank you for such an amazing welcome.”

  Tabitha and Gabriel pulled out onto the long gravel drive and started the long journey home. They waved their hands out the window and watched the three loved ones get smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror.

  A few hours into the trip on Highway 70 West, Tabitha broke up the long period of silence.

  “So, you know how you said I should write my words down? I wrote something down. Can I read it to you?”

  “Yes, absolutely,” Gabriel said, pleasantly surprised.

  “Don’t laugh.”

  “I wouldn’t laugh. Please share.”

  Tabitha tucked her hair behind her ear as she read.

  I saw a beautiful field today, where crops once grew. The earth was broken up and plowed, now ready for seeds to be planted. When the ground is plowed, it loosens those treacherous roots that might choke out the new plants. When the dirt is turned, it allows the soil to absorb the waters from the heavens, and the nutrients from the air. The terrain must be broken for new life to begin. In the rich soil of our lives, there is a season for brokenness—a softening, a turning of the dirt. The rivers and light from the heavens pour down, bringing everything a young seedling needs to flourish and release bounty into the world. As painful as it is, we must let the plow of suffering do its work, for from the broken soil comes a new beginning.

  “That’s really . . . truly beautiful.”

  Tabitha laid down on the bench seat in the old truck and rested her head on Gabriel’s leg as he drove into the warm Kansas night.

  20

  Cutthroat & Rainbow

  October 5, 2012, 9:30 a.m.

  I dozed off just as the sun made its first appearance. The adrenaline from the night on The River had my thoughts and emotions reeling. There’s something about physically and psychologically getting out of what’s familiar and comfortable. It shakes you out of the hypnotic drone of life’s proverbial gerbil wheel. You can get numb and used to hearing the squeak of that wheel go around and around. You chase and chase and chase, and never get there. You want so badly for something to fill you up so you can rest. It’s all a mirage. There’s no end to it. When you arrive at what you think is the oasis, the pool in the desert, just as you dip your face to drink, it disappears and you get a mouthful of sand. Not this time for me, though. Thanks to Gabriel and The River, I was off that wheel, and the world was coming
alive again.

  It felt like I’d only been asleep for five minutes when he stormed through the cabin door to my room.

  “You ready?”

  It sounded like he was shouting. I jumped out of my skin.

  “What?” I said as I sat straight up.

  “Let’s go catch some dinner!”

  “I barely slept.” I flopped back down onto the firm bunk mattress.

  “You can sleep when you get home, Manhattan.” He’d started calling me that on The River the night before. “You ever caught a cutthroat or rainbow?”

  “A what? No,” I said as I lay there, eyes closed.

  “Today’s your lucky day, Manhattan! See you at the Jeep in ten.” The legendary adventure guide let the spring-loaded screen door slam as he exited.

  I looked at the clock and realized I’d actually gotten four hours or so. I put my head in the sink and let the icy mountain water chill my scalp and shock my system awake.

  The canyon warmed slowly as we approached the edge of the sixty foot drop-off down to The River.

  “That’s where we are going.” Gabriel pointed down to the water’s edge.

  “How’re we getting down there?”

  He held up some mountain climbing rope and smiled. This guy had to be over sixty. Unbelievable.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Why would I be kidding? It’s way more fun this way.”

  Once again, way out of my comfort zone.

  Gabriel rigged me up with the body harness, belays, and such.

  “Here. You’ll need these.” He handed me some gloves. He gave me strict instructions on how to lean out backward, perpendicular to the cliff, trusting the rope and him to anchor me. I was terrified, but I was determined not to show it.

  “Okay, nice and easy,” he said confidently.

  My fingers gripped the rope so hard they were cramping. I scooted to the edge of the sheer cliff, my heels over the edge. My head started to spin as my heart rate accelerated. He could probably see the terror in my face.

  “It’s okay. Just lean back. This rope would hold fifty of you.”

  I took a deep breath and tried to calm down. I didn’t realize I could be this afraid.

  “Isn’t there another way?” I asked through a nervous smile.

  “It’s not about another way; it’s about taking the best way. Enjoy it. You can’t get this view, this sensation from walking. Now let’s go. Just sit back into the harness.”

  I obeyed and found myself suspended out over the air, nothing but a canvas harness and a small blue rope keeping me from plummeting to my demise. But once I realized I wasn’t going to fall, it was exhilarating. I repelled down to the banks of The River and Gabriel followed. With a large backpack and fly-fishing rods on his back, he raced down the side of the cliff like an army ranger.

  “Ha-ha! See what I mean!”

  I gave him a high-five.

  “Okay, you’re right. That was awesome.” For a few brief moments I was thinking of something other than my failure.

  “Here, this will be yours.” He handed me one of the fly-fishing rods. It was much lighter than I expected. We shed the mountain gear, draped the waders over our shoulders, and headed about one hundred yards downstream. All I could hear was the soothing sound of The River bubbling, pouring, and swishing its way through the earth. The waters shimmered in the brilliant sunlight. The giant spruce and fir trees that lined the banks seemed so small next to the mighty granite walls, a far cry from the life I’d known.

  “Go ahead and climb in your waders, and we’ll get to it,” the guide told me.

  I tightened the suspenders that held up the rubbery waders.

  “I feel like a clown in these things.”

  “You don’t have to wear them. But I’m not sure anyone is looking at your style out here, Manhattan. If you stood in that water for five minutes, you’d be begging me for them.”

  “Can’t we just cast from the shore?”

  He walked by me, shaking his head. He turned and started walking backward. “If you fish with me, you have to be in The River. You have to feel the water. Besides, where these fish are, you can’t get to them unless you’re willing to wade. But, hey, I’ll do it my way and you do it yours, and we’ll see who comes up with more fish!” The adventurer erupted into a sinister laugh that bounced off the canyon walls.

  “I was just asking,” I said as I followed him. He kept chuckling.

  He showed me the motion of the fly-fishing cast and how it was all about timing and rhythm. He spoke of the art of deceiving the trout with an artificial fly. After about an hour of casting and not catching a single fish, I started to get impatient.

  “What am I doing wrong?”

  “Just be patient. Your cast looks good,” he told me. “See that little eddy on the other side? In front of that rock?” He pointed. “Try and drop her like a feather right in there.”

  “You already have three fish. I’ve got to catch up. I don’t like being last.”

  He didn’t respond at first. Then after a few casts, he said some things that haven’t left me. He sat down on the bank behind me and started attaching a new fly to his line.

  “ ‘Many go fishing all their lives without knowing that it is not the fish they are after.’ That’s Thoreau. Man, he had a way with words. In life, we sometimes fixate on the things that are peripheral to really living. Even out here, you can be so worried about the fish that you miss the sparkling water, the canyon, the peace, and tranquility, the slow-moving clouds and the transcendent beauty all around. By the way, competition is rooted in comparison. In games that’s fine. In relationships . . . in life . . . it can be dangerous. You know what I always say? Comparison is the thief of joy. We all have a race to run. That’s why I love what old President Hoover said. ‘To go fishing is the chance to wash one’s soul with pure air, with the rush of the brook, or with the shimmer of sun on blue water. It brings meekness and inspiration from the decency of nature, charity toward tackle-makers, patience toward fish, a mockery of profits and egos, a quieting of hate, a rejoicing that you do not have to decide a darned thing until next week. And it is discipline in the equality of men—for all men are equal before fish.’ ”

  I reeled in my line and pondered what he said.

  “Let me see that. I just want to make sure it works.” He waded out and took my rod.

  Back and forth he slung the tiny fly. The line whipped through the air in a perfect figure eight. He released it and it landed directly in the spot he showed me earlier. Within two seconds his rod bent over. He heaved the rod up, setting the hook.

  “There she is!”

  He reeled in the most beautiful creature, a rainbow trout.

  “That’s amazing! How did you do that?”

  He grinned slyly. “River secret.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d share it.”

  “You really want to know?”

  He sloshed toward me and handed the rod back to me.

  “Luck.” We both started laughing. “Try again. Be patient. You’ll get one,” he said.

  I waded back out to the precise spot he was standing. The current pushed gently on my legs. I looked up into the canyon walls and took in the spectacular views. My soul was finally starting to feel the freshness and freedom of the place I was in.

  “Here goes,” I said as I began to move my forearm. Ten o’clock—Two o’clock, Ten o’clock—Two o’clock. I remembered the positions he told me. Then I cast the fly. It lit on the water just downstream of a boulder that created the small eddy.

  Then it happened. I felt the jolt as the tip of my rod went down. I yanked it up and started reeling.

  “Hey, there you go!” he shouted. “Look at that rod . . . That must be a whale!”

  He waded back out to me as I reeled in my very first fish on a fly rod. He brought the net up under it gently.

  “Look at that beautiful little cutthroat!”

  The fish was only twelve inches long,
but I was elated.

  He reached in and cradled the fish at the surface of the water so I could get a good look. I had no idea something so small . . . so simple . . . could bring me such joy. He spoke reverently as he used some pliers to remove the hook.

  “You always want your hands to be wet when you handle the fish; you don’t want the oils to rub off on their scales or gills. It could be deadly to them. Just handle them as little as possible and let them go back to spawn another day,” he said as he cradled the trout facing the current until it gradually gained the strength and swam away.

  “Wow. What an experience. I get it. I get it,” I told him.

  He put his hand on my shoulder.

  “The River holds many treasures, Blake. Listen to what the waters are saying.”

  We sat down and enjoyed the delicious ham sandwiches he had prepared for us, and then we packed up our things and started to head out.

  “How are we getting out of here?” I asked, thinking about the sheer cliff we repelled down.

  “That trail.” He pointed downstream.

  “Ah. So we didn’t have to take the terrifying way down.”

  “You loved it.”

  “You’re right. Are you always right?”

  “Just when it matters.”

  I snickered. “Okay, that was good.”

  We made a little more small talk as we started to ascend the trail that would lead us back up to the road where we could double back to the Jeep.

  “Be careful here. The shale likes to give way,” he instructed.

  We made several large steps as the trail rose sharply. He stopped in front of me at a small plateau behind a large boulder. I was breathing heavily. He wasn’t.