I had spent several hours on the river, flowing with and
countering its currents and enjoying simple surfs and spins upon
the smooth waves. I paddled downstream to where a large boulder
bulged from the depths like a petrified cetacean; it seemed to
beckon me to come rest upon its warm back. I climbed the rock
and placed my boat nearby on a small ledge. I reclined into the rock’s
cradling smoothness and sipped from my water bottle. Now past its
zenith, the warming sun soothed my weariness and I began to doze.
    
    A sudden movement upstream across the waves caught my
eye. It was the silhouette of a lone boater carving to and fro in the
sparkling light. From a distance he appeared other-worldly, but
when he paddled nearer he came into view as being not too unlike
the many paddlers that frequented the river. He continued
downstream and carved into the eddy behind the boulder where I
lay. He pulled himself out of his boat--a skewbald of orange and
white with a large sunburst on the front deck--and joined me on the
rock. I didn’t see any connection that we might have had, save the
obvious one that we were paddlers. Other smooth boulders were
nearby so I was puzzled as to why he chose to join me. I felt that a
certain avuncular gap could exist between us; my river running
years alone obviously exceeded his time spent thus far upon this
earth and I had occasionally experienced that peculiar uneasiness
present when youth and age meet. Blond dredfeaks fell from
underneath his pocked and faded helmet and a hemp choker strung
with small white shells adorned his neck. A swarthy circle of
interlocking rings tinted the skin of his upper arm. We sat quietly
for awhile, and although his restlessness was noticeable, I felt
there was space enough for the two of us on that stone island. Then
our eyes met...lingered...and it was as if he had been waiting for
that very moment to share some haunting chronicle that had been
heretofore hidden away and known only to him.

    “Would you care to hear a story?” he asked.

    “Sure,” I answered.

    What brought me to that rock on that day I can explain.
What brought that enigmatic young man to the same rock and by
my side that day I cannot.

    He began his story, and it was as strange and headlong a
tale as I had ever heard.

***

Part Two

“I don’t remember why Daniel and I considered the river,
perhaps it was the whisper of a successful first descent--an old one
had attempted it many years before but had never returned--or
maybe it was the dream-telling by an Elder that took us in search
of that place. But we were paddlers, two kindred spirits locked in a
brotherhood that had taken us to many wondrous places in the span
of a few years. We were like binary stars gyring through a universe
made up of rivers and creeks, so I hope you can understand when I
tell you that Daniel and I were hopelessly compelled to pursue this
run. It was a touchstone in a time when so few were left.

    I don’t remember how we found the river--it was hidden
away in a misty defile where dreams live a reclusive life--but
Daniel and I somehow discovered a way into the farbelowness to
where the water began. For days we struggled with our boats and
gear down through a primeval forest of magnificent old-growth
trees. We were among giants that knew not the bite of man’s steel
against their boles--boles of  such grand circumference that once
when Daniel and I joined hands in a desire to complete a circular
embrace of one, we fell far short. Their towering heights, although
still great, had been topped by the powerful winds of the century
storms. The age of the trees alone had assured them the touch of
those fierce passions of the atmosphere time and time again--the
curse of an inescapable convergence when a life span waxes nigh
immemorial.

    As we continued our descent to the river our meager rations
were soon depleted and we had to turn to the forest for sustenance.
We ate the fleshy tubers dug from the lush green plants of the
understory and sometimes chewed a colorful but bitter fruit pulled from a
thorny bush that seemed indigenous. We quenched our thirst by
catching the condensing mist that dripped from the knurled limbs
of our venerable giants or drinking the strange woodland tea that
steeped in the natural caldrons set in the rock outcrops. We often
had mysterious visions after our thirst had been satiated and our
bellies filled. As our journey continued and fatigue set in, ennui
began its persuasive whispering and we began to question our
belief that a river actually existed somewhere in the shadows
below. Yet, we continued to edge and slide ceaselessly and
mindlessly into the declivity as if even the thought of retreat were
forbidden.

    Days passed before we reached the inner canyon wall. Here
we saw no possibility of further descent, so severe the gulf before
us. Yes, we had rope and hardware--two throw ropes and several
biners--but we were not climbers. Would we end up simply
dangling haplessly at the end of a rope had we tried that? Then we
noticed a small stone cairn that marked the beginning of a ledge, a
small aberration in the sheerness before us. Did it mark a hidden
pathway that led down the precipitous pitch? And who had stacked
the stones? With short rappels and roped boat lowerings, we
followed a series of vertical, offset stepping stones that finally
deposited us upon a stonescape of massive boulders set in a
dubious mortar of scree. We cautiously made our way through this
world of teeter and slide until we reached a heavily wooded
incline. In the distance we could hear the unmistakable roar of a
river, but it was a bewildering reecho that kept secret the
whereabouts of its originator. At times it seemed above us, then
below, only to bounce off the inner wall directly across from us,
and once it seemed to emanate from inside my very head.

    Suddenly a quicksilver serpent struck my eyes as it
slithered through the rocks far below. Adrenaline pulsed through
my veins as our pace quickened and we commenced a
screeglissade ever downward. We released our boats, and like dogs
racing to greet an old master, they rapidly outdistanced us, finally
coming to rest at the river’s side. We raced ahead--sliding,
crabbing along, then running--soon catching up with our boats.
With legs trembling in the wake of this eccentric sprint, we stood
and looked into the mercurial pathway that would soon lead us into
a fantastic journey. While standing on the bouldered confinement
of the torrent, I watched as strange elongated bubbles--fine silver
fishes--raced upstream over the pour-overs in an ephemeral
journey. Once I had heard the strange but marvelous stories of this
mockspawn from a grizzled riverman, but had dismissed those
tales as the mental wanderings of an old one. Now I realized that I
had never made the effort nor looked closely enough to discover
this objective phenomenon since my previous endeavors upon the
river had been largely self-centered. It must have been the
overpowering nature of the place that compelled me to look more
closely and observe every detail of our surroundings. There is a
keen sense of awareness present when one is in a strange or new
environment, and it was with this heightened perception that I
discovered this wonder for the first time. They were a joy to
watch--tapering streamers of translucent elements darting about in
the current and always finding those small but quick moments of
progression hidden among the seams of the relentless forces of the
river.

    Daniel stood captivated by the river and expressed a
sentiment we shared:

    Wonderfully difficult are these hidden amnic pathways.
    Under a verdant canopy they fall pell mell then slip through
    mazes of rock. Primeval is their mystery and challenge and
    to this we are drawn. There are those who must seek them,
    so inexhaustible is their lure. To solve these labyrinths of
    stone and water we must understand the riddle put forth. To
    then descend, we must understand ourselves.

    I peered downstream. Amorphous shadows lurked among
the gray boulders, avoiding the wavering shafts of sunlight that
arrowed from above, then springing forth as if to dance with the
mist spirits and celebrate our arrival and pending descent. Were
they benevolent creatures or merely indifferent spectators to our
journey? As I dropped my boat into the water a cold pulse
shuddered up from the green depths and ran through my body,
reminding me of how the first brisk wind of autumn rattles the
leaves before sending them on a soaring journey. We left the
sanctuary of the eddy and committed ourselves to the unknown.
Downstream immense dark monoliths obstructed our view. They
seemed a mighty, impenetrable wall to our progress and therefore
we named this section The Impassables.

    Were The Impassables the sole overlords here or were
there others? Gradient doles out the unknown as well as any
obstacle and in this place Gradient was forever present, relentlessly
sucking us onward and downward. But it was the Water--the mad
Water--that defined this amazing place! We were witness to a
triumvirate locked in a cosmic imbroglio. Before us was a roiling
corporeal struggle among elements and force, the outcome of
which we would never know, so great its timeline.

Part 3

 As we considered the spectacle before us, a stiff wind raced
up the gorge and startled us with its strength and suddenness. Like
the portent breath of some cliff-dwelling soothsayer, it shocked us
back into the present and we knew we had to continue our journey.
With a good luck tap of our paddle blades, we set off. We searched
for routes through The Impassables and boldly followed narrow
ribbons of seemingly safe passage. Through this pitch we
alternated lead and sweep and I always felt the welling of that
ineffable elixir of excitement and anxiety--that atavistic emotion
that links me with a primeval forebear--whenever I approached a
blind or complex drop.

    As the water and stone struggled for sway, our descent
became abominable. We spent much time out of our boats staring
at and pondering outrageous rapids before descending. As we ran
these dynamic creatures, the wet tracks of our success vanished as
another then another more ominous drop lay ahead. It was as if the
river, in its infinite protean form, laughed at our static grossness
and mocked our proud progress by imposing even more intricate
paths to follow. One dreadful pitch we called The Ledges of
Extremes. At its brink misty specter fingers reached upward from
the unknown as if wanting to take us by the hand and lead us
down. But was this beckoning furtherance coming from the hand
of a long departed kindred spirit or was it the direful manifestation
of an indifferent river as if it regarded us as so much flotsam?
Were we simply an errant log needed to fill some crack in the
bedrock, or perhaps a stone to whirl until reduced to sand in a
pothole? We spent days trying to decipher the riddle of The Ledges
of Extremes, yet there was another reason for the place to remain
so vivid in my memory.

    It was there in a narrow approach notch that we found The
First One reposing in his sarcophagus of collapsed boat. He was a
crumpled, lifeless mass and the color of his gear had faded into a
linen that matched the hue of his cold flesh. He was a still thing
but a slight rumor of movement remained in his outstretched
limbs. Perhaps it was but a conjured visage of his futile clutchings
that I saw in my mind's eye--futile clutchings because in
the swift water there had been no purchase for his clawing fingers,
his trap was complete and his immersion absolute. For days Daniel
and I sat on the cold gray boulders staring into those empty
sockets--sockets frozen wide in a final realization and the telling of
that moment when his life reached its premature end. Why was he
here? Certainly this was a terrible place for him when he came
alone many years before. His skills and craft were archaic when
compared to ours, that he had made it this far was remarkable. Did
he not know that this was a run deferred to a future generation of
paddlers, a generation whose technical skills and superior craft
design made this run at least marginally feasible? What had led
him to this dreadful place? What compulsion? What allure? We
had so many questions for The First One as the three of us became
unlikely companions there on the rocks. Through bleached, clenched
teeth he tried to speak to us across time:  He tried to tell
us of the grandeur of the gorge, the exhilaration of the whitewater,
and the utter terror that had engulfed him so suddenly and with
such finality when it came. Did he have time to scream a few final
words to those he loved--words and thoughts he felt profoundly but
had never found time to express? And if he did scream, did those
words simply burst silently upon the surface of the river? Who
were those he left behind? Did he still dance and laugh in their
memories, or did he begin to fade there also? But his was now a
silence, only the river gurgled its simple cant of the present, telling
us that the answers to our questions had been swept away long ago.

    The First One had tried and failed to solve the puzzle of
stone and water put forth by The Ledges of Extremes, and even
we, with our watercraft and technique so evolved from his, were
perplexed by the impossibility of finding a line through this
steepsnarl. We had reached a point where we could no longer
continue and sat solemnly upon the cold boulders, our cloaks of
lassitude pulled close. We had no answers to the fathomless riddle
posed by this remarkable river.

Part 4

We noticed her glistening form as she made her way
downstream and into the sunlit pool above the notch. It was as if
she had materialized from the water, but perhaps she had been
there all along, floating on the redolent breeze that sometimes
caressed our faces. Her streaming hair was long and beautiful,
brilliantly wet in the sun, and traced her every movement like the
beryl afterglow of a shooting star. Her skin had the cast of an ice
sculpture backlit by a winter’s low sun and its smoothness quickly
spilled the river’s water. I was transfixed by her beauty and
spellbound by her gracefulness. Her style was so lissome that I was
certain she was the muliebral personification of some dancing
wave. There were moments when she seemed to descend without
touching the surface at all and it was apparent that she possessed
some intuitive river wisdom and connection with the water that we
did not. Hers was a perfect harmony: just as the flowing water
interpreted the rock, she in turn interpreted the flowing water. Her
craft was unusual in that its volume seemed to ebb and flow with
the pulse of the river and it wonderfully reflected that luminosity
from the realm of the rainbow. At times it blended with the clear
water only to suddenly and brilliantly jump apart whenever the
hues of the sun and water danced in unison and refracted into a
myriad of colors. A glint of sunlight flashed from her eyes to mine,
and at that moment I knew that I wanted this selcouth vision as a
friend and companion. Her very presence sent an enchanting shiver
through me, resonating along some twisted chord that dwelled
deeply within.

    She paddled to the edge of the notch and, although she
spoke no words or beckoned, we knew we should follow. She
seemed to float over The First One as she dropped into the small
pool before us at the head of  The Ledges of Extremes. Perhaps it
was but a ripple running through the smooth current that roused his
alabaster fingers, but it appeared as though he tried to embrace her
as she passed. We reentered our boats, choosing not to paddle over
our silent friend, and as I slid off the rock and into the small eddy
below, a sorcerous whisper floated into my mind . . .

                 Will you follow?
                 I will take you to where the river forever flows,
                 If you will follow.

                Will you follow
                And leave your world behind?
                Together we will learn the secrets of the Universe,
                If you will follow.

Part V

River Jack continues the story told to him by the young man:

   Her shimmering ceased as we re-entered the shadows of the gorge
and began our descent of The Ledges of Extremes. She had
discovered--or perhaps knew all along--a path that we had not seen
and we followed her intricate line as she slipped between the
boulders and leapt over the daunting ledges. A lustrous trail issued
from the stern of her boat and to this small ribbon Daniel and I
kept, as truly as shadows follow their master.

    With the Ledges behind us, I peered ahead and saw shrouds
of mist enveloping the gorge downstream where two magnificent
waterfalls plunged into the river. It was
as if the earth beneath some inland sea had split asunder and the
waters poured into the resulting cleft. As we drew nearer this
torrent of the sheer, strong winds began to buffet us about. Our
bodies, boats, and even the exposed blades of our paddles behaved
as sails and keeping our line in this ever increasing gale proved
vexing. It was then that I noticed the short tacks she effected by
simply ruddering her paddle and holding her boat on a line that
was angled slightly off the direction of the oncoming wind. Daniel
and I mirrored this clever manner of progression and together
followed her nearer to where the two enormous tributaries spilled
into the river. Here brumous curtains swirled between thick
columns and long reaches of vertical thunder. Our visibility was
pared to near zero and I knew the slightest blunder into any one of
those immense hylozoic slabs would render me invertebrate--some
dim Limacidae drifting aimlessly in the depths. Again we followed
her lead, keeping her beclouded figure in view as she weaved her
way through the tumult. A day passed before we emerged from the
veil of the falls and into the welcoming sunlight. Even with this
challenge behind us, I knew that Daniel and I were still vulnerable
travelers down a perilous yet marvelous byway that had now
become the capstone to our many years of river running--years of
searching out and experiencing those runs that sluiced us deeply
into the realm of the absurd.

    In front of us loomed a rock wall of such colorful and
symmetrical folds of stratification--a rupestrian T’hangka crafted
by the hand of some lithogod--that the wonderment of it briefly
diverted my attention from the path of the river ahead. My God!
Suddenly I realized this was not a wall-shot, there was no reflex
pillow fuming off the rock face and I was shocked to see her buck
up and over a huge mound of water and vanish into an opening that
seemed the cavernous mouth of some bellowing necromancer. But
what could Daniel and I do except follow? We were walled-out
and the water shoved ahead in such swift laminar flow that there
was no escape. We were but riders upon the back of some
extraordinary serpent seeking its hovel. In a wild, giddy lift I
crested the hump where she had disappeared and briefly looked
down into a blackhole gullet where even light despaired as all was
drawn in. I barreled through the murky arch and in the faintlight of
the grotto’s entrance glimpsed the flowstone ribs of the earth itself.
Inside the roar of the river was deafening, reverberating off walls
of darkness. Graveolent staleair huffed up from some distant bowel
to hit me full-face as I plummeted like a blindfish through the
gloom. Then appeared a faint luminescence, some subterranean
foxfire that bestowed a scant sense of sight. In the shadows
overhead I could scarce out the fangs of ineffable beasts, venenous
things dripping a jade balm into the river, and then came the
staring eyes sprent against the petrified nightsky as this sojourner
passed through their stygian province. I was now deeply within a
realm that was both frightening and unimaginable, yet there was
this sense of wonderment that seeped into the whole tableau, and it
was to this filament I clung as I forged on.

    In the squatlight ahead I could make out the faint outline of
our vanguard. She weaved through the stony stalagyard in an
adroitness that rivaled the glisse of the water itself. I knew Daniel
was safe and nearby, although I never turned to see where he was.
It was a sense we had developed and shared over the years, one of
always knowing the other’s whereabouts and condition on the
river. Although we never spoke openly of this bond, we recognized
it as one rooted in that unconditional loyalty that defines a deep
friendship, and its manifestation was a clairvoyance driven by
magnanimity. It is a gift rare and one to be treasured, and those
who realize it even once in their lifetime are fortunate.

    I shot over a shelf and landed in a sullylit pool near our
pathfinder. Daniel followed, spattering dim emerald beads over us
as he landed in the lagoon. Although I welcomed this cessation to
our wild descent, I knew there was only one way out of the cave
and that was ahead--downstream. Once we gathered, she lost little
time in moving away and toward the large shaft that lead out of the
pool. Not wanting to lose sight of her, I followed--as if there were
any other route--and entered a bore that fell away into the dark gut
of the lithobeast. Overhead shadowy corrugations dimly strobed by
and a mockwind shrieked past my face as I sped down the tube.
Through squinched eyes I caught the twinkle of what appeared to
be a small diamond in the distance. As I rocketed along, the
diamond grew...and GRew...and GREW...until it became a rush of
blinding light that exploded in my face! I was hurled out into the
brightlight and sternskittered like some chucked stone across the
surface of the river, finally coming to rest near our smiling
enchantress. I looked back to see two fans of water spurting from
each side of Daniel’s reared boat as he made the landing. He
skated a turn around me then flattened out, coming to rest nearby.

     Again she paused only briefly before hitching a ride upon
an unfurling tendril of current that flowed away. It was as if she
were relentlessly drawn downstream like the river itself. As Daniel
and I fell in behind her, I looked ahead and saw the broad expanse
of another river joining ours. We soon reached the confluence and,
as we continued past, were aware that we now rode a much larger
beast than before. The water was fast but smooth with low glassy
swells that rolled along unbroken like a herd of colossal creatures
migrating to the sea. Here they seemed peaceful enough, but I
knew their demeanor could transmute quickly.

    Farther downstream I could see the archway of yet another
stony gulf where I knew our docile steeds would be goaded into a
furibund mass. We passed through the jagged gatewalls and
immediately our speed took a manifest step up. The smooth waves
we had enjoyed now took on a more rough-and-tumble character,
but were still manageable. Often they reared as if in protest to
some concealed reining-in and we dug our paddles deeply into
their sides and hung on, riding the lurch. But soon they became
wild things, steeds of snarlfoaming fury in their quest to find once
again that distant place of tranquillity. I often lost sight of her in
this maelstrom and quickly shook clear the water from my eyes
whenever I broke through the wavecrests in an effort to catch
glimpses of her and the lines she took. I knew that scattered
through this section would be holes and sucks of such size and
strength that to fall into one would render me chum for those
unimaginable denizens that eked out an existence in the bedrock
crevices below. I would occasionally catch a quick backglance of
Daniel, and I knew he held to my line as surely as I held to hers.
We somehow survived that long, fearsome gulf with its crashing
waves, reflex folds, and mazes of malevolent holes, and days later
spilled out its vent into a huge channel of racing water.

Part VI

As we rounded a bend and the constricted waters poured
into a long channel, my eyes were met by an incredible sight: a
gigantic green-backed creature spanned the river. What I beheld
had to be some holdover from the Jurassic and I was certain I
could hear a primal checkle within the resounding roar of the river
as we were drawn nearer and nearer the towering rogue. Daniel
and I pivoted our boats and commenced an upstream sprint but the
river’s powerful flow made this futile. As we slowly lost position,
its size became even more intimidating--we were engulfed by its
very shadow! Then fortuitously we found a small current differential
midstream and hovered there momentarily. I turned and gaped at
the wave. Its height surpassed any river feature I had ever seen and
it heaved and pulsed with a primeval force that assuredly held us
as nothing more than some terraflotsam aride. Near the
boulder-strewn shoreline its nebulous head hissed and snapped,
creating a chaotic spumescence. This was a place we chose not to
go for we would have surely been devoured in that horrific
mastication! On the opposite shore was another display that
expounded upon its already undeniable lethalness: its tail writhed
and lashed as might a stormsea upon a reef. Our only hope for
survival was to keep away from either end of this massive
riverkraken!

     I looked upward and saw a strange effervescent mane
running lengthwise along the top of its dynamic back. This mane
colorshifted from a contrasting green to white as it built then
crashed its own mass upon itself. A stiff wind arrowed in and
sheared plumes of spindrift that flew over the backside and into
the shadows.

    I named the wave Leviathan.

     Daniel and I watched in awe as she paddled ahead then
powered up the magnificent face of Leviathan. Upon reaching its
top she deftly spun in the catching whiteness and carved a diagonal
line down its side. Again she seemed not to touch the water, save a
bounce or two revealed by slices of glistening spurt from the wave.
Fearlessly arcing to within a hairsbreadth of the seething head, she
cut away into an opposite tack, slowing her speed so as to again
ascend the crest of  Leviathan. Here she flipspun a half turn on its
dynamic dorsal then skittered down astern without the slightest
hint that she required the gift of sight at all. In the trough she spun
forward and hovered momentarily while her bow ramped up the
onrushing current.


    Daniel was the first to yield. Was it because of the
unrelenting pull of the river or did he simply chose to follow our
mesmeric companion instead? He began the steep ascent of
Leviathan’s face behind her as she left the trough and as they
neared the top he cut slightly to her side. In unison they spun in the
creature’s mane and sped back down its face. Daniel threw back
his head and yelled in ecstasy. Perhaps he felt what it was like to
fly--or something akin--as his earthly tracechains fell away.
Together they arced to oneside then cut away and again sailed the swell
to the crest of the giant’s back. I joined them and we three
hitched an exalting ride upon the basic elements and forces of the
universe.

    I did one day find a way onto the shore. It was a difficult
and dangerous move and required my starting from the uppermost
reaches of the wave. Here I would fall fast away down its face and
use the resulting speed to ride up the back of the smaller wave
feeding the giant. I would then cut away, surfing a small diagonal
that gave me a kick up and into the slower current along the shore.
It was a ferry fraught with sketchiness and I dared not look over
my shoulder at the nearness of that seething head.

    Did a week pass while we remained at that fantastic place?
I can’t remember. I do remember it was there that Daniel became
one with Leviathan. His continuous ride upon the beast seemed to
be of such delight that he chose not to leave and he must have
drawn a meager sustenance from the trace elements that flowed
through the creature’s mass. In time he became an artist who spent
his days etching ephemeral lines upon this dynamic canvas that
renewed itself in the span of a heartbeat. As time went on he began
to create more and more complex designs and would often look to
her as if waiting for some sign of approval or recognition of his art.
Later I noticed a profound change in his work: As deeper carves
were required for his new inspirations, he weighted the bow of his
craft with forward leans. He sat lower in the water and once
mysteriously disappeared when his bow dipped into the seam that
periodically shuddered up Leviathan’s face. During this first
submersion, Daniel emerged at the crest just before spilling off the
backside and into the unknown. He blasted skyward and shouted as
the sensation of this grand maneuver seemed to touch parts of his
soul that had heretofore remained dormant. At that instant he
looked to her as if to say thanks, and I knew from that moment on
he would be forever her captive.

    As time passed, Daniel became adept at remaining
submerged in the wave for longer periods of time and I knew he
had learned the secret of passage between the seams of current that
fed Leviathan’s bulk. I would often paddle out then slide down its
sheer face to view him within. In the clearness I could see his
wavering form--and hers. They seemed locked hand in hand and
much deeper in the wave than before. Then came the day when I
could not see them at all, and I sensed that together they had
merged in absolute with the river. For days I searched for them,
looking deeply into the lucent reaches of the wave as I surfed its
face, but to no avail. Was Daniel gone? The most telling intimation
I had that he was gone was the emptiness I felt: I could no longer
sense that transcendental bond that existed between us. At first
there was this incredible feeling of loss where grieving wells up
then spills out. Then it came to me that there could be no more
fitting a shrine for Daniel than the grand Leviathan, and I gave him
up. As promised, she had shown him where the river forever
flowed.
    
    Now alone, I knew I had to move on, somehow make my
way downstream and off this river. I did not know what lay below
Leviathan since the canyon walls were closed out, making scouting
impossible. Certainly more of the abominable lay ahead, and that,
plus the realization that I was now on my own, frightened me. Yet,
sometimes one simply cannot reconnoiter, you have to forge ahead
and take what your tossed stars grant. Some call it luck but, like a
coin, it has two sides.    

    I entered my boat from the small harborage and
commenced the difficult upstream ferry out into the middle of the
river. I turned and began to accelerate up the smooth face of the
giant and toward its mane. Before reaching the top I ducked
slightly and took a powerful forward stroke. I could feel the
breaking wave pass over me as I knifed through, riding the hidden
green carpet that took me through to the other side. For an instant I
felt that marvelous sensation one gets when sailing airborne off the
backside of a huge wave, that pleasing levitation granted by some
cosmic diviner of inertia, and then I fell quickly back to the
surface. I blew the lamina of water from my face as I rode up
another giant swell and peered downstream as I crested its top.
Ahead I saw a train of waves that stretched along like the humps
on the back of some fanciful beast, but they looked clean and they
eventually fed into a huge pool that consumed their energy. I rode
along, delighting in the gut-wrenching heave up their faces, then
hanging on as I rode down their backsides where the bottom
dropped out.

    I spilled into an expanse of water where I had to dodge
great whirlpools along the eddyline. They were tightly wound
dervishes, screwing along and making terrible sucking sounds until
their spirals began to expand and slow, their ferocity morphing
into elegant yet brief fossils upon the surface. I paddled into the
moving pool and caught my breath. As I drifted slowly along I
thought about the epic journey I had been through. The
recollections and emotions that swirled in my mind were as
discordant a mix as anything the river had given. I had seen the
grandeur of the gorge, experienced the exhilaration and terror of
the whitewater, and felt the utter sadness that engulfs one at the
loss of a friend. I also felt a little closer to The First One.

Part VII

I noticed a slight quickening to the outflow of the pool, an almost
imperceptible change in the pace of the flow. I looked out to see a
horizon line in the distance, but what I viewed was much more than
any horizon line I had seen in the past. I beheld what one would
imagine to be the edge of the earth itself, a falling off place of
gigantic scale! There was nothing beyond the ken to be seen, no far
blue horizon, no rolling billows of distant mountains. It simply fell
away into a nothingness, although I expected there was some type
of ghastly dead-end at its base. The current began to race ahead as
if it were seeking a time advantage over some unwitting sacrificial
lamb, but I let it have its way, there was no escape anyway. I hoped
that a smash onto the rocks below or a deep dive into a fathomless
plungepool would be quick and painless. As I neared the final slide
down the listing rock shelf, I screamed out in desperation to
Ganga...Sequana...the Nunne’hi...but heard only the heightening
thunder of the indifferent river as I neared the edge.  

    Suddenly she came into view, carving out of the trough of a
nearby wave. Her appearance surprised me. I had long since given
up any hope of seeing her again, much less at the brink of the
hopelessness that lay ahead. Intuitive thoughts raced through my
mind. Why was she here, or more puzzling, how was she here? As
the bow of my boat pitched down and all seemed lost, a whisper
floated into my mind:

    Will you take my hand?
    I will lead you to where the river forever flows,
    If you will take my hand.

    Will you take my hand
    And leave your world behind?
    Together we will learn the secrets of the Universe,
    If you will take my hand.

    At the last second I tossed my paddle and took her hand.
We plunged off the lip of the falls, leaning back into the face of
that massive curtain and falling...falling...falling...until we became
lost in the turbid mist of the updrafts, and we began to slow...to
float...merging with the crystalline beads spawned by the mistrals,
becoming one with the plumbflow down the escarpment face,
wafting hand in hand downward...

           ever downward...

                      until we splashed into the plungepool.

    A fulgor of hissing spheres raced by as we pitched back
into the face of the falls and were jerked into the depths. My hand
was ripped from hers as we tumbled ever deeper and I was spun
from my boat by some hale whorl, rogue and sudden. I began to
drift as the power of the falls began to wane, its essence expending
in the ponderous volumes of the netherstreams. A fiery pleurisy
consumed my lungs as I slowly rolled in the vortices, then came
the ebbing...and I a cooling hookah bubble meandering aimlessly
in the nittiness...gossamer orbs amassed and delirium writhen,
shining emanations filigreed and dreamy, levining extant and
zigzaged, sic itur ad astra voiced etheric and shadowed...

    I saw her emerge from the shadows below, reaching for
me. I looked into those hypnotic eyes and saw a glint, a flash of
specular wonder, then viewed within a swirling, sentientless
ambience of light, force, and elements. It was a world that emitted
an eerie, yet undeniable magnetism that pulled at my very soul.
Yet, I knew not where it led so I hesitated before grasping her hand
and turned to take a last look at the fading remnant of the only
world I had ever known. Above a small silhouette jittered in the
muted light and it was this image, this revenant of humankind, that
pulled me back and away from the arms of that alluring banshee. I
slowly swam toward the light, and--My God!--was the wavering
visage Daniel? I could see his outstretched hand reaching for me,
wanting...waiting...to snatch me from that watery tomb! With all
my might I thrust my arm skyward and felt it break through into
the air above. I groped about, then felt Daniel’s powerful arm. I
latched on and swung up and out of the river. But where was my
deliverer? My lost friend? I looked up to see that I was hanging
from the low, knotted limb of a tree jutting out over the river. The
tree was a gnarled, debarked hominiform that had been relentlessly
punished by the never-ending storm that surrounded it. Its roots
clutched the stones as might the talons of some gross raptor, and I
felt that I was viewing some chimerical beast that lived a savage
existence at the base of the falls. Such was my Daniel. I pulled
myself hand over hand along the limb until I could drop down onto
the small island of jumbled spalls from which the tree grew. I
looked up then down the expanse of the falls and nowhere else saw
such an island or even a break in the thundering spill. My stars had
been in alignment and the coin smiled.    

    I found my boat washed up and wedged in the rocks
nearby. The nose was bent slightly upright but the hull was sound.
I walked to the edge of the island and looked downstream. I saw
that the river calmed as it began to spread over a plain and I
concluded that the falls marked the terminus of a great bedrock
shelf, some vast terra incognita through which the river carved.
From this downstream point of the stony island I slid back into my
boat and began to handpaddle out, gliding away upon the roving
arabesques of the now placid river. I looked up into an open,
cobalt blue sky and gave a sigh of relief. Later that day I made it
off the river, climbing out at a place far distant from where it all
began. I had made it back.



    There are those who would have given up running the knarl
after surviving such an epic, or at least backed off pushing
themselves into those impossible realms as Daniel and I did, but I
did not. And what can be said about the loss of a friend to the
river? For me there was this all-consuming sadness followed by the
solemn oath to never paddle again, but in time the sadness eased
and my oath yielded to that enduring allure the river holds. Yes, I
am still out there but I paddle solo now. I have yet to find another
kindred spirit like Daniel.

     Thanks for listening to my story, friend.”

    With that, he walked down the rock and re-entered his
boat. As I watched him disappear around a bend in the river, I
thought: My God! What a tale! and tried to make some sense of it
all. Was what I had heard true, or did I just surrender my rock and
time to an imaginative storyteller, some silver-tongued rivergypsy
with an allegory to push? Yet, my own boat has taken me into
some unbelievable worlds over the years, so why should I doubt
his story? Too, there was this abiding sincerity that laced his
recounting of that adventure and through it all I sensed an
undertone of something painful. Perhaps that something was the
impetus behind it all.

    I returned to my boat and began the paddle to the take-out.
I stopped once to surf a glassy wave but in the funk of a fading
day, washed off its backside and did not attempt to regain the
wave. Downstream I could see the reflection of the setting sun in
the windshield of my parked car. Overhead I heard the
unmistakable frahnk...frahnk...of a heron en route to its roost and I
smiled as I watched it fly over and disappear into the woods.

            *         *         *    

                River Jack’s Epilogue.

    I awoke to the sound of thunder rolling up the valley and a
torrential rain beating against the bedroom window. It had rained
hard for most of the night and now reached a fervor that made me
leave the warmth of the bed and walk to the window. I rubbed
away the moist patina and peered into the darkness. Sudden flashes
of lightning seared the sky giving me glimpses into the stormscape
outside and I knew this one was going to dump a lot of rain. I
returned to bed, soon drifting back to sleep. I awoke to the sound
of gravel cracking underneath automobile tires, a sound I was
accustomed to hearing whenever someone drove into our yard. I
got out of bed and walked to the window where I looked out into
the faint light of the breaking dawn. In the driveway below sat a
vehicle that I had never seen before and tied to its top was a kayak.
Seeking a clearer view, I rubbed away at the fogged window and
looked again at the boat. Suddenly a shiver ran up my brow and
down the back of my neck. The boat’s color was a swirling mix of
orange and white, and a large sunburst graced its deck. I looked
closer and saw that its bow was slightly bent.

    “ Will you go paddling today?” asked my wife nearby.

    “Yes,” I answered. “Should be an incredible day.”

     For I, too, was captive to the siren so vividly described in
the young man’s story and have often entwined myself in the
disheveled spirals of her very being. She’s an entity that serenades
with a mesmeric voice and has a powerful pull on those she has
touched.

    “Please be careful,” said my wife.

    And it was those simple words that began to swirl through
the air, spinning a delicate web that fell softly as a binding around
me; heart-ties of magia that would hold me safe, if heeded.

    “I will,” I promised.


River Jack