Into the Canyon

by Michael Neale

  “Daddy’s home! Daddy’s home!” He grabbed onto my leg like a little capuchin monkey. “I caught eleventeen fire-flies, Dad!”

  Lily came skipping around from the back of the garage carrying her glow-in-the-dark hulahoop around her waist. Her smile was electric.

  Jake was sitting under a large maple tree in an old Adirondack chair with his headphones on. He took one off.

  “Where you been?”

  I looked to the front porch of the house, and there was Sarah standing in the twilight. Her arms were folded. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she wore my favorite faded jeans and sweater. Her face looked as beautiful as ever, but tired from crying. My heart melted at the sight of her. There was more love in her eyes than anger, which surprised me.

  I spent a few moments with the kids, asking them about the fun they’d had at Grandma’s and such.

  “Guys, I need to talk to Mom for a few minutes. Then maybe we’ll all go get some dinner, okay?”

  “I’m making dinner. It’ll be ready in about thirty minutes.” She leaned up against the support beam on the porch. Her voice sounded kind but distant.

  “Would you walk with me for a minute?”

  She threw the dish towel over her shoulder and strolled by my side over to the large tire swing on the edge of the property.

  The first words out of my mouth brought both of us heavy tears.

  “I’m so sorry. I’ll do whatever it takes. Please tell me we aren’t over. Please tell me you’ll give me a chance. You are the love of my life. You’re my best friend. I’ve been chasing everything that’s wrong. I want you. I want the kids. I don’t know how I let myself wander. I just . . .”

  My words came out like a machine gun until she stopped me.

  “It hurts so deep, Blake. I can’t even explain it. I’m so angry. But I know it’s not just you. I’ve shut you out. We need help, Blake . . . we need help. We need a new beginning.”

  “Whatever it takes, Sarah. Whatever it takes, I’ll do it.”

  I dropped to my knees.

  “I love you, Sarah. With all my heart . . . I love you.”

  She knelt down slowly, and we embraced in the tear-soaked dirt under the maple tree with the tire swing. In a moment of the greatest love and grace I’d ever known on this earth, my bride sat next to me for dinner that night.

  Sarah and I have been on the richest and most glorious journey. It’s been a painful road, but pain toward healing, like surgery.

  We’ve dug up the bones, but we’re giving them a proper burial. It’s a burial in The River, so to speak.

  It’s been a journey toward each other. Grace and forgiveness are winning the battle over judgment and condemnation. We have been given another chance, and we are not wasting a second of it. I’m giving my life to something greater now. No more empty pursuits. Relationships . . . in the end . . . they are the only things that matter.

  When your life collides with someone like Gabriel Clarke, you’re never the same. I want to live a life like that . . . a life of unexplainable purpose and love in the face of fear and tragedy.

  Sarah and I are taking the kids out to Big Water Adventures this year. I want them to meet Gabriel and John Ezra. There is so much more of his story I want to hear. I can’t wait to show them what I saw, teach them what I learned, and hope beyond hope that the ways of The River get in them too. I hope we’ll see you there. If not, you can be sure I’ll write about it. It’s important to share our stories. It helps us know we aren’t alone.

  Don’t forget the words of my friend Gabriel Clarke, “We are all made for The River.”

  Reading Group Guide

  1. How did Gabriel grow and change from the young man at the beginning of his adventures on The River to the older man we see in the story with Blake?

  2. What did the Ama-Woya’s scar symbolize?

  3. How did Gabriel’s relationship with Jacob help the healing process of grieving his dad’s death?

  4. How did hearing the words his friends used to describe him on the Stones of Remembrance affect Gabriel? Is there someone in your life who needs to hear similar words of encouragement? What word would you add about yourself?

  5. Billy deals with a tremendous amount of grief and shame. Did you relate to his struggle?

  6. Gabriel tells Blake, “When I come to The River, I’m actually the truest version of myself. I think that’s because I realize it’s not about me.” What do you think he wanted Blake to understand about this statement?

  7. Why do think it took so long for Gabriel to truly share his heart and struggles with Tabitha?

  8. How did the unpredictability, danger, and beauty of The River impact each of the characters?

  9. What do you think Gabriel learned about himself when he went home to Kansas?

  10. What part of Ezra’s story was the most meaningful to you?

  11. What do you think was the most significant moment for Blake during his time on The River with Gabriel?

  12. Ezra often said, “It’s good to remember what’s good to remember.” What does that phrase mean to you?

  Acknowledgments

  It is an insurmountable task to cover the list of all those who have shaped us along the journey. The writing of each book is certainly a journey for me. I’m forever indebted to so many who have lifted me with encouragement, guided me with wisdom, covered me with prayer, and changed me with love.

  To Leah—my high school sweetheart, my best friend and one true love. You make me a better human. When this book releases we will have celebrated twenty-one years of marriage. I can’t wait to see where life takes us in the next twenty-one!

  To the most amazing kids a guy could dream of being a dad to:

  To Micah—my firstborn son. You are a leader and a rock. I’m so proud of you. You have such character and you use your strength for good.

  To Maisie—my beautiful princess. You are so kind and patient. Your poise and great sense of humor are such gifts!

  To Wyatt—you light up the room everywhere you go! Keep singing, dancing, and kickboxing!

  I Love you guys beyond words!

  To my sister Joy, brother-in-law Mike, Moriah, Mikaela, and Brooke—I love you all. Your perseverance is inspiring. Joy, I’m so proud of you.

  To my brother-in-law Lt. Colonel Scott Harris, Leighann, Jessica, Scott, and Justin—we love that you are so close now. Let’s get some tacos! Scott, we are all deeply grateful for your service to our country.

  To my cousin Dan Lamb—I treasure your friendship, man. You are one of the most talented dudes I know. Thank you for all the rides to the airport and for being such a champion.

  To my cousin Steve Lamb—you are an inspiration to us all. As I type this you are still recovering from that car accident, but I know when the book releases, you’ll be going full steam again. Your strength and perseverance is building courage in all of us.

  To Aunt Barbara, Aunt Kathy, Aunt Suzi, Aunt Carol and family—thank you for all your encouraging words and support.

  To Aunt Becki—we love you and are thankful for you. Thanks for always cheering us on.

  To the best in-laws, Janis and Mike Evans—we are so grateful for your love and the way you love your grandchildren. You are always in our thoughts and prayers.

  To my friend and agent, Kurt “Swami” Beasley. I’m so thankful for your counsel and friendship. The talks on the porch have brought comfort and clarity on the journey. Lady Beasley, thank you for your generous hospitality and, of course, the smoothies.

  To Whitney Smith—your assistance in the office has been invaluable. Thank you for everything you have done to take care of the unseen details.

  To Jody Guthrie, Director of The River Education Initiative—You are so inspiring! You are a brilliant light as you give selflessly to all the beautiful kids you teach. Thank you for seeing what could be and for working so tirelessly to build this dream. You are a living example of “The River Life.”

  To my pastors and mentors, Todd Mull
ins, Tom Mullins, and John Maxwell—what a gift to call you friends and mentors. I’m forever indebted to you for your investment in my life. What a gift to be able to flourish in the overflow of your faithfulness and ministry.

  To my CF brothers, James Duvall, Adam Baldwin, Jay Boykin, Brian Taylor, Steven Robertson, Brad Parsley, Shaun Blakeney, Tim Moore, Matt Pilot, and the entire team—it is an honor to serve with you guys, and an even greater privilege to call you friends.

  To Daisy Hutton and the Thomas Nelson/Harper-Collins team—thank you for believing in my stories and helping me take them far wider than I ever could. I count it a great privilege to work alongside the best!

  To my fantastic editors, Ami McConnell and Nicci Jordan Hubert—you ladies are rock stars. I can’t thank you enough for your patience with this sophomore author. Thank you for making me a better writer and for helping this story to be as compelling as possible. I am in your debt.

  To all the friends near and far who champion my work—I am humbled and grateful.

  An excerpt from The River

  Prologue

  Every now and then, you have an encounter with someone who simply changes your life. A conversation or interaction so profound, it seems otherworldly. You can’t get his (or her) story out of your head and heart.

  It’s hard to explain how powerful stories can resonate within us on many levels, but it’s often because of the way they speak with passion, heartache, or even joy. Maybe it’s the way they unknowingly reach into our heart of hearts with their words.

  I don’t think these encounters happen by chance. I think there is a reason, although we will never understand the full weaving of life’s tapestry of events this side of the eternal. I have had such an encounter with someone. It moved me to my core, so much so that I had to share it with you. I’ll keep sharing it as long as I have breath. For the next few pages, I’d like you to grab a cup of coffee—or a root beer float—and sit down and let me tell you about a conversation I had with a man named Gabriel Clarke.

  It all began when I was traveling back to Nashville from the West Coast. My first flight from LAX landed in Denver at about 6:30 p.m. on a Thursday night, when things at DIA were slowing down a bit. I was feeling exhausted after two days of countless meetings, a lack of rest (I don’t sleep well away from home), and the tiring travel.

  I’m not sure what it is about planes, but the only way I can describe it is that flying makes me feel stale, grimy, and in need of a teeth cleaning. I got off of my first flight from Los Angeles and approached the monitor to see which gate was handling my connecting flight.

  According to my itinerary, I had about fifty minutes until my flight to Nashville took off. The monitor said otherwise. Like a deer staring into oncoming headlights, I stood fixated at the monitor, hoping my glare would supernaturally change the DELAYED message to BOARDING.

  Unfortunately, that did not happen. After a quick visit to the restroom, I made the trek to my new gate, dodging the carts carrying the old folks and doing my best to ignore the annoying beeps. When I arrived, I discovered that my flight was not delayed—it was canceled due to mechanical issues with the aircraft.

  There wasn’t much I could do except queue up with a line of agitated passengers waiting to speak with the gate agent. In a very unsympathetic and “get over it” tone, she explained that my only option was to reschedule on a different flight leaving at 10:50 p.m.

  I did some quick calculations. With the time change, this would put me in my own bed on our small farm forty-five minutes outside of Nashville at about three a.m. Oh joy. I love going home, just not in the middle of the night when I’m tiptoeing around like a burglar, trying to keep our chocolate labs from waking the kids.

  I took a deep breath and resigned myself to my fate. I had a three-and-a-half-hour rendezvous with the C Concourse in Denver, there was no way around it. I hunted for a quiet corner where I could spend some time reading and listening to music. It was a rare opportunity for downtime, so I figured I’d make the most of it.

  About eight gates down, I found an entire section where the lights were dim, the hanging flat-screen TVs were turned off, and the gates were closed. There wasn’t a soul in sight. I looked for the best spot and claimed a section of seating in the back corner, next to the windows that looked out over the tarmac. I called my wife and kids to say good night and break the news that I wouldn’t see them until the morning.

  After we said our good-byes, I immediately reached for my iPod, plugged in my earphones, and shut out the world by listening to my favorite movie scores. I had a spy novel I’d started on the flight from LA, so I pulled the oversized paperback out of my backpack, propped my feet up on the chair across from me, and began reading. After ten pages, though, my solitude and bliss came to an abrupt end.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a large character moving toward me. Who in the world is heading all the way over here? Surely it’s not someone I know from home. My thoughts were running a mile a minute. Sure enough, this man plopped down two seats from me and opened a canvas bag that looked to be filled with enough camping and hiking gear to scale the Himalayas.

  I couldn’t believe it. Of all the places in the airport, why would he sit down right next to me? I ignored him, burying my head in my book, but he kept going through his canvas bag, checking his equipment and carrying on a one-sided conversation with himself.

  I turned my music up, sighed loudly, and returned to my book, trying to send a message that I wanted to be left alone. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that he kept looking over at me again and again. I could tell he was itching for conversation, so I looked up from my book and gave Mountain Man a halfhearted grin.

  He was at least six feet tall and built like an Australian rugby player. A long, shaggy beard with disheveled dirty-blond hair poured out from under his army-green knit cap. If I had to guess his age, I would say that he was probably in his midfifties. Dressed in a worn-thin plaid flannel shirt with rolled-up sleeves and khaki shorts, he wore large hiking boots with thick thermal socks bunched around his ankles. His skin was weathered and tan, his eyes were crystal blue, and his worn face was lined with wrinkles. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a Discovery Channel documentary.

  The older man looked at me and said something. I couldn’t understand him because of the cranked-up music playing in my ears, so I pulled out my earphones. “Sorry, man, I couldn’t hear you. What was that?”

  “Heading home or away?”

  Not a very deep question. “I’m heading home,” I said, hoping my three-word reply would send a hint that I didn’t want to be bothered.

  He would not be deterred. “Me too. I’ve been gone for over three months. I’m ready for my own bed.” He slouched in his chair and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. I thought maybe our conversation was over, meaning I could get back to my book and music in peace.

  Instead, he looked over again. “How long until your flight leaves?”

  I knew now that I should just give in, so I closed my book and set it on my lap.

  “I have until ten thirty,” I said, and I told him what happened with the canceled flight to Nashville. He told me he was early for his red-eye to the East Coast.

  From there, we exchanged the typical small talk:

  “Where are you from?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Weather has been unpredictable, huh?”

  All the usual stuff. But with guys, an introductory conversation wouldn’t be complete unless you ask, “What do you do?”

  I always hate talking about what I do, but it’s part of the man language. We feel we can tell a lot about a person by what they do for a living.

  So I plunged in. “What do you do for a living?” I asked curiously.

  He hedged a little bit. “Well, I like the outdoors a lot, you know.” He smiled and looked at me, comfortable with the awkward pause.

  “Well, what about this three-month trip you were on? Was it work related, or just R &
R?”

  “Oh no,” he said through a chuckle. “Not much R & R on this trip. I just finished running National Geographic’s Top Ten Most Dangerous and Beautiful Rivers in the World. Five continents, nineteen thousand miles, a couple of near-death experiences, some serious wildlife, tons of new friends, and the time of my life.” He looked over at me out of the corner of his eye. “It was outrageous,” he said with a bit of a crazed grin.

  The conversation became riveting. I found out his name was Gabriel Clarke, a third-generation whitewater guide. For the next several hours, Gabriel regaled me with his life story—the legendary story of where he came from, the defining tragedy of his childhood, the triumph of where he was in life now, and what got him through. The way he energetically explained things, it was as if this was the first time he’d ever told anyone.

  His passion was contagious, and by the time he was finished, I was thankful for the interruption that night in the Denver airport. What I’m about to tell you is his story as he told it to me. If you’re anything like me, or others who’ve heard Gabriel’s story, then you’ll never forget it. You’ll never be the same.

  I know I’ll never be the same—ever.

  The story continues in The River . . .

  About the Author

  Author photo by Nashville Photography Group

  Gifted writer, veteran performer, and masterful storyteller are all phrases used to describe Michael Neale. He’s currently leading a live, multimedia concert event known as The River Experience, which immerses the audience in breathtaking film imagery and a world-class musical score. Michael resides in Palm Beach Gardens, Florida, with his wife, Leah, and their children, Micah, Maisie, and Wyatt.