I have been a traveler on the Rio Grande of the Big Bend of Texas for many years, off and on. I go on foot, by raft, by kayak. I have camped on her banks; I have waded her muddy waters; I have maneuvered (sometimes, unfortunately, without the raft!) her rapids. She is an old friend, the Rio Grande, and when my everyday life is altogether too much for me, I run to the river for solace, respite, comfort, and a good hearty dose of what’s real and important in life. From my place in the current, life back in the city fades away and my mind flows deep, wide, and still. With the river, not against.
The Rio Grande is not the same as it was years ago. Neither am I. We have both grown old, and filled with the debris of countless floods and storms. Sometimes the waters of the river and the waters of my mind are muddy, murky, and clogged with useless trash. Sometimes the rapids boil and bubble and leap into the air, like the wild, unruly emotions that overflow the banks of my mind to be set free downstream. But either way, the river and I are part of each other, and both of us flow on to the ultimate wide open sea into which, at last, we merge.
Years ago, two friends from work decided to teach me to kayak. We packed up two inflatable kayaks, our tents, and we headed for Big Bend in the cold of winter, where we would not find so many touristas on the river. I borrowed a wet suit, being a cold-weather wimp, but my two friends were experienced river rats and they wore cut-off jeans and didn’t seem to mind the goose bumps from the cold water. They took the two-man kayak, I had one alone. “Here’s your paddle, they said,” and they left me in the middle of the river as they took off downstream. “Don’t work too hard – it doesn’t take much to just point in the direction of the current and go. We’ll meet you at The Rockslide.”
On my own, I learned what to do when the kayak comes to rest on a rock mid-stream; when the kayak heads for “cover” under a low-hanging branch under which I would not fit; how to steer through shallow rapids when I wanted to go one way but the kayak – and the river – had another intention. I learned that all in all, it is far better to go with the current of things than to fight them. The river is just … the river, and it is better if I go along. Life was easy and slow on the river that day, and the sun grew warm.
Santa Elena Canyon must be seen from down in the river to fully appreciate its stark beauty, the breathtaking rock cliffs above you as you float through. The incredible blue of the far west Texas sky, the hawk overhead, the bats in shallow caves along the banks… all of it new each time I saw it, and even more new that day in my own kayak, alone on the river. In fact, my best moments in life have been in the stillness and introspection of solitude.
And then came The Rock Slide. My friends were there first to scout out a path over this sometimes Class IV rapid, filled with rocks both visible and invisible, over which I had gone a few times in a raft paddled by professional river guides. They were standing on a rock above, shouting and pointing out the route they had chosen for me. My kayak was a friend now, I thought I would be okay. But I had forgotten that The Rock Slide is a friend to no man (or woman); it is a challenge for the best of us at certain times of the year, and today was my day. The kayak and I parted company midway through, and my friends ran frantically down the bank so they could catch – yes, the kayak! Later they explained, “The kayak is expensive. Bruises and scuffed skin will heal.”
So I had a few bruises and scuffs, nothing serious except a few minutes underwater where all I could see was boiling muddy water and the rock that barely missed my head. I popped up downstream a ways, to the merry sound of my friends’ laughter from the bank. I took a deep breath, coughed up river water, and swam for shore.
Like the other lessons from the river, I learned that ultimately, the rapids of life are mine to face alone. It helps if I can laugh a bit at the end (and in the middle, too, if truth be told). And the skills I learn in the calm waters will carry me through the torrent.
I don’t know what will ultimately happen to the Rio Grande of the Big Bend. So many people, so many needing water, so much drought and pollution. I don’t know what will ultimately happen to me, either, a solitary aging woman with one foot in the comforts of city life and one foot in the river. But no matter. What I learned on the river is mine, has become as much a part of me as the sky and the rock cliffs and the mountains, and when I can no longer go with my body, I can go with the beauty of my memories and my mind.
Like the river, I, too, am deep, wide and still. And ageless, really.
Carol Chidlaw Bauer
July 30, 2009
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