A soloist improvises… accompanied by the
ultimate rhythm section.
It’s Matt’s birthday, and he’s arranged a
gathering at the Seaside Hostel, and I’m under the impression that he doesn’t
want to draw a lot of attention to the fact that it’s his birthday, but when I
arrive (with a bachelor’s token chips, store-bought layered bean-dip and case-O-beer
for the pot-luck) a flaming birthday cake is being presented and his musical
friends are breaking into birthday song. Later almost everyone participates in (what
I believe they call) a ‘Jam’. I look on enviously,
as if watching a favorite T.V. series… but on Spanish T.V. and I’m therefore regulated
to reading facial expressions - of concentration, pleasure, and happiness – which
all goes to point out how foreign and out of place I am, unable to speak the
language.
Savoring the hope and necessities of social
interaction, I miss the sunset. Later, self exiled to a vast tsunami-plain, I turn
to other sources of illumination. Later, a stale blue- moon will wash the sky
of its stars.
Even though it is relatively early (by the standards of
those who wake up with hangovers), the parks and their parking lots are already
full of labor-day tourists by the time I enter EcolaState Park.
Rather than wait for a parking space to open up at IndianBeach,
I opt to take the trail…
…and see an arch I hadn’t really seen before.
Some people really like crabs.
What I like to do here is, approach from a
distance by horseback (usually with a beautiful mute named Nova) until I’m
close enough to recognize the wreckage. Then I dismount from the horse and fall
on my knees in the sand and scream something like, “You Maniacs! You blew it up! Ah, damn you! Damn you all to hell!”
My parents brought me and my brother and sister here once
when I was a child. My parents were either entertaining friends, or being
entertained, I don’t remember – we were sightseeing. Now my dad is long gone…
and so are those friends …
…and this shipwreck, already weathering over a hundred years
of winter storms, seems poised to outlast me.
Standing with ghosts besides the rusting red
ribs of a shipwreck, riding the surface of the spinning earth into the dark
night, imagining matter coalescing into generations of stars in the course of a
14 billion year long explosion…entropy suddenly becomes tangible – things run
down - and though it makes me afraid, I know I have no place to run.
I find the improvisers gathered around a fire,
and like some parasite, I partake of the Gemütlichkeit they've created.
A beautiful ninja girl expertly prepares a colossal
double smore for me, and as they pick up their instruments, and as I shove my
hands in my pockets to assume my usual wallflower pose, Jake hears my keys
jingle and suggests, “Play your keys.”
Scott setting out from the Service Creek Launch Point
Photo copyright 2012 by Fred Lee
Rivers…
…are often perceived as a metaphor for Life.
Except in the case of this particular river, we’ve had to
acquire a permit to float on it and we’ve exhaustively studied its map ahead of
time. Between Kip and Uncle Rico and me, we have GPS locations for where we’d
like to end up each day, and we’re pretty sure we know when the trip is going
to end.
So it’s going to be a very loose metaphor – a three day
vacation over a predetermined path.
Also unlike ‘Life’, it turns out you’re not supposed
to leave any poop at the campsites on the John DayRiver
so you have to bring along a special poop bucket (15 bucks and therefore a
communal poop bucket) to take it all out with you. The yoke for my canoe, the
specially shaped crossbeam with a neck shaped notch in it (that allows me to
carry the canoe as well as serve as my seat when I pilot the canoe solo)
finally yields to the ever increasing mass of my ass and snaps – an accusatory
‘crack’ echoes back and forth across the valley walls. Fortunately, the poop
bucket makes a handy alternative captain’s chair. There’s gotta be a sermon in
there somewhere – piloting my canoe down the river of life from the vantage
point of my poop bucket – but I don’t see it yet.
Kip in his trusty Marauder, taking a veritable
bounty from ‘Life’
Uncle Rico in his beer ladened Aqua-pod,
displaying his fishing form. Since beer is not naturally found on this section
of the river and comes from ‘beyond’, then metaphorically speaking, the
freezing cold cans symbolize blessings or answers to prayer.
We coated small-mouth bass filets in Louisiana fish-fry powder/breading and pan
fried them. It was maybe the third time in my life that I was able to make a
meaningful contribution to a community meal by using my fishing ‘skills’.
Capturing, killing, cooking, sharing and eating fish…is
probably the original idea Jesus had when he came up with communion.
After eating fish in this fashion, I’d like to punch
Ronald MacDonald once in the face for each filet-O-fish sandwich I ever bought
and shout, “liar!”
It was hot out, and even after the sun dipped down below the
hills and the frogs began broadcasting their incessant demands for sex up and
down the river, there was no appreciable change in the temperature. So I
decided to follow Uncle Rico’s example and sleep out under the stars sans tent.
Even then, the sleeping bag proved to be too warm and so I unzipped it
completely and used it like a blanket…and there under moonbeams so harsh they
cast shadows, I learned that I was by no means at the top of the food chain.
The whine of tiny insect wings, the gentle tickling of
a spider’s legs, and the unidentified scuttling noise that made scorpions live
in my imagination left me feeling like a defenseless piece of meat, a few
pounds lighter in the morning due to blood loss.
Set amidst barren, sometimes painted hills, it soon becomes
evident that rivers aren’t metaphors for life….they are life. We are like red blood
corpuscles that must continually interface with the Earth’s circulatory system.
Kip casting in the cool of dawn before the sun
finds us in the shade of the valley.
Kip and Uncle Rico standing on the shore of camp
number one, monitoring the cat fish lines.
The catfish eyes the pliers and tries to puzzle out their
purpose. While not as sharp as a hook, the pliers do have a jaw-like aspect to
them and the catfish feels a growing sense of unease. He tries to whistle a
happy tune, but his lips are too dry. Instead, the catfish whispers
agonizingly:
It is what it is.
Sometimes, I just don’t have words.
Towards afternoon of the second day, towering
anvil shaped clouds stood here and there on the horizon, bobbing and weaving,
looking for a way into the valley.
The shade provided by a passing cumulonimbus cloud was
welcome.
We paused to enjoy the warm rain…
…listened to the thunder tumble down the hills…
...watched impossibly large raindrops splash into the river.
Photo copyright 2012 by Fred Lee
Kip finally qualifies for his submarine
commander license.
Horses greet us at campsite number two.
Uncle Rico and a Catfish – the catfish is on the
right.
The sun kisses the mountains goodnight - leaving a brief warm, red-lipstick imprint.
