A RIVER RAN THROUGH US

"You can't miss it," claimed the woman. She was assuring us that we would see the vehicle from the river. Her kids, who helped her run a river outfitter business, were putting in our canoes before they left to drop the truck at the take out spot six miles downstream.

"A big ol' bright red Chevy like this? It'll be easy to see."

It was a beautiful summer day in northern Arkansas. My family and I had joined up with some friends for a canoe trip on the Kings River: one of the best-kept secrets in the Midwest. A beautiful day and a quiet stretch of water. Ahh, sweet release. What a day.

"You'll come to a wide gravel take-out by a bridge. Just go past the bridge and you'll see it. I'll leave the keys on top of the left front tire."

Jeff told her thanks and gave her the keys to his Suburban. The nine of us stepped into our four boats and settled in for a great time away from the city.

We weren't exactly whitewater veterans, but most of us had spent a fair amount of time on the water. We had a couple of reluctant novices with us; but as is always the case, the magic and mystery of the river quickly muted all protest. Before long, we were shooting the rapids and paddle-splashing our companions like pros.

I have heard it said that a sure-fire compatibility test for a couple is a river trip in the same canoe. Canoes have a way of clarifying relationships. Disaster is ever-present, requiring constant coordination and communication. It is the perfect opportunity to negotiate conflicting views of reality. You can disagree, but physics is the final mediator, and walking away in a huff means getting very wet and uncomfortable.

On the whole, all of our relationships eventually settled into a comfortable rhythm of J-stroke and stern pry, the panic paddling of roiling foam and the lazy cruise of calm water. We stopped on gravel bars and ate. We snorkeled and lounged. We fished and frolicked, jumped from bluffs and skipped rocks. As the afternoon reached toward early evening, we came to the take-out and bridge.

At least we thought we were there.

We passed under the bridge, tired, full, and satisfied with a successful day of floating. We did not see a bright red Suburban.

We assumed, then, that by "past the bridge" she must have meant around the bend. So, we floated on down a few hundred yards, making the turn. No Suburban. In fact, no cars or parking lot. Well, maybe it was the next bend. After all, she didn't really say how far past the bridge.

The Kings is not a well-traveled river. Normally you expect a campground or river access road every mile or so. Not on the Kings. As we went around bend after bend, the afternoon began to creep toward evening, and there was no sign of civilization anywhere near the water's edge. We didn't worry, because experience had told us that we could just take out at a lower point and hitch a ride back to our car.

Except there were no lower points. Nothing. And there was no going back: the current was too strong to allow it.

By the time our situation began to get a bit usettling, we noticed that most of the houses we could see in the distance would require about a mile walk through a cornfield. Not a terrible prospect...if you had real shoes and a shirt.

Visions of Deliverance danced in my head. "You sure got a purdy mouth, boy" started to become something more than a chilling quote from a disturbing movie. Three teachers, five children, and a professional opera singer did not seem to make for a mighty force against what I was sure would soon become teeming hordes of inbred ne'er-do-wells.

Laughter and smiles were dimming with the sun. No one found it amusing when I suggested that it would soon be over when we spilled into the Gulf of Mexico. Soon we would begin to blame and turn against each other. We were exiled Israelites talking only in murmurs. And our manna supply was dwindling. How long, O Lord?

When we judged that we had probably doubled our planned distance, and evening was giving way to night, we decided we had to stop. It was getting dark, we were wet and cold. We pulled onto a gravel bar and started a small fire.

Jeff and I could make out lights from a house up the hill. So, with our families huddled together for heat and strength, we decided to go for help. We made our way up through a pasture, slowed by a skunk going up the same path ahead of us.

We soon came upon a small ranch that appeared to specialize in small horses. Shetland ponies. We shouted a few times as we approached. Sure, we were city boys, but both of us had country roots; and we knew it was a bad idea to walk up to a house in rural Arkansas unannounced, unless you wanted an assload of buckshot.

"HONK! SQUAWK!"

After nearly soiling ourselves, we realized that we had been discovered by the home's guard goose. The large winged beast strutted around the yard, neck jutted out and head cocked as if to declare, "You ain't getting inside this fence, boyfriend." We sweet-talked the bird, and it eventually allowed us to come onto the porch.

Before I went to the door, I peered in the window. It was a precaution. I was a little concerned that with the shouting and the honking no one had come out yet. As I looked in I saw two moustached men sitting on a couch in their underwear, drinking whiskey and watching a Cardinals game on television.

I took a deep breath and knocked.


(Part II soon)