Being Stuck in the Circle of Life.

"I have a life, so I live it"

I am tired. Deep, somewhere in the depths of my existence I feel it. My feet slide forward, stuck to the ground, refusing to make moving something natural, without the screeching of sore muscles. Summer came, rushed in suddenly like a violent late afternoon thunderstorm. One moment calm pale blue skies, the next, a torrent of noise, light, and damp earth. My eyes seems to have become permanently irritated with the air, scorched by the intense southern sun, heavy from the inability to rest. Only a few days left of this madness, the tourists, the discos, the busy sardine like bars. I can not help but wish for it, however I know with it will end my income. Life has become centered around work. Hoping for the call saying I have a trip, so that I can head to the river, and teach random gringos how to navigate in the life I love so much. The mountains have started to seem larger, more imposing. They no longer hide behind the distractions on the street. They watch me, they know me, they are bemused at my position in life. It is strange these days, the feeling I get, a feeling I know all to well. The feeling of being stuck. It is not that I do not like my work, my life, or my friends. It is that I know that no matter what I do, I will never leave the cycle I am in. I will never break free from the frustration of nearly achieving what I so desperately desire, only be struck violently down by a lack of paper. It is horribly frustrating. Paper keeps me from my dream. Paper keeps me from leaving the cycle of the dirtbag.

I have no desire to return to the states so far. Why would I return? So I can work another shitty job to make enough money to return to Chile? This concept baffled me when I returned last year. I went home, just to give everything I had to come back to Chile. I least here, I love where I work. It is easy to dream about what you want, it is harder to work towards achieving it. I often dream about what I would do if somehow I magically found a few thousand dollars. The car I would by, the days I would spend alone kayaking on far off, never before seen rivers. Dreams, however, are not real. They never form into anything productive, substantial.

My gear is breaking. It is unstitching, weathering, snapping, slipping slowly into scraps. I have no camera, no car, no ability to do the one thing I love, being alone deep inside a canyon, enjoying the magical dance of water and rock. I have no special skills that seem viable for making money. Music and writing are as dreamy professions as kayaking, yet I can not shake my love for them. It is a deep all consuming love, a love that can bring heartbreak more than happiness. A love that borders obsession. A love that clouds all judgment forcing the heart to action upon the illusive moment. It is a dangerous yet complete love. It is a love beyond expression.

What to do now? This question is more often consuming my mind. My hand chooses to move toward a bottle rather than to accept the fate I know will befall me. I can distract myself all I please, but reality continues toward me. I can talk about how nothing is real, everything is perception, there is no such thing as right or wrong, but how will this further me in life? March is coming, and with it planning for the next nine months. With any plan comes the limitations from money. My normally hopeful way of thinking has gone. Replacing it is frustration and a sense of self loathing. My life could be so much worse. This I know. I could have had horrible parents, a terrible childhood, and no opportunities. I could have been starving, born with AIDs, crippled, or any number of unfortunate "what ifs". I could have been a lot of things, but what I can't be is the one this I most want. All I am left with is the comforting thought that all things work themselves out in the end. Hopefully.

San Pedro and Hope.

"It is not about what you have done, it is what you are about to do"

Night was falling rapidly. The warm ball of fire finally slipped behind the last tree, the lights dimmed setting the mood, while the static sizzling of meat was the only sound other than the constant drone of the passing current. I lay, my purple bathrobe wrapped tightly around my body, watching Ben move the meat back and forth, salting as needed, a freshly chilled beer in his hand. Hunter sat to my right, slicing the meat that was done, dolling it out to us who sat nearest to the fire, the kids could be heard far off playing games assimilated with youth. Jorge swished his boxed white wine around in a plastic cup, and continued in his gloriously dignified Mexican accent about kidnappings in Mexico. My mouth became drowned in the thoughts of what I was bout to eat, my mind somewhere else, lost in it all. It was the end of the first day of our short Rio San Pedro trip, it was the end of a day that taken us from the blinding lights and deafening noise of the discos, to the tranquil, clear blue, waters of the San Pedro.

The beauty had taken us aback. Hunter and I slid forward in our kayaks, eyes peering deep into the depths of the river, the sudden underwater canyons and cliffs the cause of our straining necks. To our sides marble colored clay walls rose up, huge ferns, bamboo, and vines encroaching on the clean walls. We couldn't help but gleefully chatter about all the things we could do if we had a week, a snorkel, and no plans. This river fed the imagination. It brought us from the perceived notions of life, and into the reality of simplicity. To be naked, free from friends, alone, free from the confines of the city, work, reality itself. Free. Truly free. How I longed to be alone on these shores, a small tent, fishing pole, no time limit, no want to go home, no longing for anything, only for the sun to continue to tan my body, and bleach my hair. The long forgotten dreams of my childhood came flooding back, intermingling with the swirling eddy lines, and sudden change of current.

The day seemed as though it would never end, nor did I want it to. With each bend in the river the beauty changed, it was as though we were staring at a lover in the dark, only the street lamp outside to illuminate the beauty, forcing our eyes to strain, to soak in the deep emotion of the moment.

Ben turned over the large steak in the center, slid it on to a long weathered board we had taken into our service, and Hunter cut it into delectable strips. I took the final slug of the red wine in my cup, and chased it with a piece of the perfectly seasoned meat. As dinner ended, my body slid onto my bright green ground mat, placed with care near the fire. The stars came out in rare form, bright, with hope, with promise. My chest rose and sank, my ears became enveloped in the sound of the river, I fell into the dreams of the sober, a first in a while.

The San Pedro stuck in my mind, it refused to leave. I cannot go back, as the days grow longer, brighter, and sunnier, the river waits, but I can not return. The lack of the monopoly like money here keeps me waiting in town, keeps me working, keeps me in the cycle of bars. How I dream of returning, to float through the canyons, a smile plastered on my face, my eyes in constant awe.

I stood, head in hands, outside the bar trying to forget the events after I returned, the pain of what I heard. Cool night air rushed past my face, my body leaning against the outside railing.  Suddenly a hand fell on my shoulder, "Hey you shouldn't go the bed, the night is young" came the bubbly Spanish voice of some girl. I lifted my head and stared back, "I am not sleeping, just thinking" was all I could say. She asked me where I was from, ran her hand through my hair, enamored with its golden color. "Come dance with me" she said, her eyes sparkling in the cool night air. We descended into the dance floor. I took her hips in my hands, she wrapped her arms around my neck. The music faded, the world went black. A spot light seemed focused on her face. Her name hung in the back of my brain. It was exactly what I needed. To Forget. Forget about the San Pedro, the bullshit of the town, the nights lost in flashing lights, the passing of time.

"It has passed, you can't live in the past, you can't live in the present, you have to wait for the future. "

The world has a strange way of dropping you into the depths, then raising you into the sky. It is the ride that shows what a person is made of, what a person is capable of dealing with. I have shown that I am learning. The constant rise and fall of life is what makes it worth living. The hope of better times allows for one foot to step in front of the other. While my problems are not nearly as bad as others, they are still mine. I often realize the way I come off, complaining about the problems I face living in a beautiful place, with many opportunities, and endless parties. Sometimes even when everything is okay, you wake up sad, and don't know why, you wake up hurting, and don't know why, but that is okay. That is what makes you human. That is what makes you able to empathize. That is what makes you able  appreciate life. To appreciated every heartbreak, crisis, and turmoil, because when the night has ended and the sun rises, it is the best sun rise you have ever seen. It is full of hope, love, and appreciation.

This? Oh yes, it was my fault.

"This is my life to live, nobody else's to read about."

We took out. Dragging our florescent colored awkward plastic kayaks from the turquoise waters, placing them tentatively on shore, within moments they would be on our shoulders, jostling back toward the put in. My legs burned, screamed from the insides, begging for water. If only I had not taken the free beer for competitors so liberally, maybe I could force them to be silent.

It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. It always does. As the bitter water like Crystal brand fermented liquid hit my throat a switch flipped. I suddenly forgot about the movies playing outside, free, insightful, and entertaining, but instead found a comfortable position leaning against the bar and drank. Refill after refill, my best buddy also choosing the warmth of the bar, over the adventure films in the cold. Soon my brain felt the familiar hug of the warm blanket of alcohol. The night shifted into amber tinted shades, and I stumbled into the dark, and into the many adventures of the inebriated.

 I adjust the kayak on my shoulder now, lungs struggling starved of nutrients. I made it back toward the put in, my race jersey now soaked, my feet cover in mud. The soft cool lawn, shaded in short yet bushy trees, called to me. I let the kayak slip free from my aching shoulder and followed it down toward the lawn. I left my eyes cracked open. They watched the sun slip through the shivering dark green leaves as a slight breath of wind came swirling from the south. My stomach churned, the expulsion of food the only thought on its mind. I was about to sleep, about to fall into a deep nap before the race, but the questions of some gringos kept me awake. Kept me talking. Kept me making friends.

The water is always there, it will always be there. I love kayaking. I do it all the time. Why do I need to talk about it? So I can explain something no one understands? Or so that I can show other kayakers how my balls are the size of a mature bulls'? No there is no need to talk about what has been done on water, the ones I love were there, the others that I love would really rather not hear about it. The constant banter of who ran what, and who cleaned a line no one else had, just shows the lack of love for the sport. Kayaking is my life, it is for me to live, it is not for me to brag about, worry about, or explain.

My first race lap was horrid, the second was better, faster. When it was all over, and the last racer had made it through the final gate, I lay on some rocks my kayak propping my head up, talking with my best friend. We just sat there cracking jokes and monologuing on the absurd, both our brains not back to 100% from the night.  As the sun let its gaze shift to the trees behind us, and our wet clothing no longer kept us cool, but instead caused shivers, we once again forced ourselves back into the straightjacket like confines of kayaks, and headed downstream.

That night, the disco lights blinded my eyes, the music battered my worn ear drums, the other drunk dancers stepped on my feet, and slammed into my side. My grin was the silly drunk grin of someone who no longer cared where he was but was just happy that he was still standing. Somehow I ended up crammed with eight other people in a car, trying to avoid the spinning which now seemed imminent. Finally fresh air hit my lungs, and I slowly walked toward my friend's house, my sanctuary for the night.

"One day I will have a car here, a house here, and I will never be sad again, one day."

I awoke. The world would not let me stand. My body begged for water. My muscles were spent from racing, and the abuse of drink and dance. The hung over brain, I believe, is the most pure. When the world seems as though it has dealt you death, yet forces you to live, is when the most pure thought can be found. I found I was happy, guilty, and hopeful. I found I was more in love than I first believed, I found I was more confused than I had believed, I found I was the same as those I despised, another middle class rebel, hung over.

That is my life. I try to live it as best I can. I try to constantly learn and grow. I also make sure that I have as much fun as I can juice from the day. My problems, worries, and such are not significant in the slightest, they are nothing more than what I bring upon myself. Work is the theme now. Making money to support the fun I wish to have. I often wish that huge chunks of money would fall from the sky, and I could finally replace the kayaking equipment long overdue of replacement, pay for an apartment in the center of town, a car, and a house. Dreams no more. But dreaming never pans into reality. It will be the work I put in, and the skills I perfect that will make my dreams slide into reality, not wishing. So, here I am, at the end of the world, in love with what I do.

It's Just Life.

I find it strange. Life. I had never been fond of it in my angsty teenage years. Feeling as though something wrong had been done to me. Some how I had been dealt the worst hand in the world and was now forced to finish the round. It took leaving what I thought to be safe, what I had always loathed, the middle class lifestyle, to break my angst. Feeling like a rebel with no reigns holding me down, I set forth a year ago to become some big name in kayaking, to be the most amazing thing the world had ever seen. Ignorance was most definitely my friend, modesty, something I had not yet known. Fresh off the sudden and violent rupture of what I thought was a life long relationship with my then girlfriend of a year, I took a train south to San Francisco. A couple days later, and after a few plane flights I found myself beyond tired lost in the Santiago Airport. Life was slowly forcing me to become who I should be not who I thought I was. The next few days melted into a sea of sadness, excitement, crushing set backs, and finally being able to sleep away the jet lag.

 

Within a few days I started kayaking. Within a few days I found the best way to compensate for extreme nervousness was to think I was God’s gift to kayaking. Whether I knew it or not I felt I had to prove something. I been working for the last two years for this moment in my life. I did not want to return home a disappointment to those who had doubted my decisions. I wanted to prove my parents wrong and “make it big” being a dirtbag kayaker. I had now Idea how to obtain sponsors, to make connections, to market myself, but what I did know was that I needed to run the biggest drops, and hardest rivers that Chile had to offer.

            Ignorance is bliss, but it also a shit ton of stupidity, and stupidity is the shadow of youth. By my second week of kayaking I found myself charging into the final and hardest drop on the main section of the Rio Nevados. Dulce Amor it was called, before the earth shifted and it changed irrevocably this year. Due to my youthful shadow I found myself deep in the belly of a siphon, my feet pinned against my boat, my friends thinking I was dead, my life seemed to be over. I remember the moment clearly, frozen in time by the icy terror of death. “Okay, I guess this is the end” was all I thought. It was a helpless acceptance of what I could not control. I did not think about how terrifying the idea of eternity seemed. I did not think about what my family and friends were about to feel. I only helplessly waited, to defeated to cry, just wishing I had more time to kayak, more time to love, more time. Thankfully I was able to get a foot free and crawl, scratch, and fight my way out of the siphon. As my friends saw I was alive, as I floated away from the siphon, I felt the most guilt of my entire life. Because of my own sense of false confidence, because of my own want to prove something, I had almost horribly changed the lives of everyone who still loved me.

 

            That night I watched the helmet camera footage in the cabin where my friends and I were staying. Dan, one of the kayakers with me that day, came and sat next to me. Night had fallen, and the wood stove was leaving a smoky odor clinging to his clothes. “Jon” he said the the most sincere and honest voice I have ever heard, “You have nothing to prove. You are 18, in another country, kayaking things that I could not have run when I was your age. You have so much going for you. You don’t need to prove anything to me or anyone else, you already proved everything you needed to just by following your dream. You just need to get experience so you can make good decisions on the water.”

 

It was one of the greatest gestures of concern, well placed, that changed my mentality entirely. After that conversation, I started just kayaking. Nothing more. I developed a level headed and calculated approach to the thing I love most in life.

Summer came. Kayaking slid to only a few days a week, as I worked more than 45 hours a week as a waiter and bartender at night, and in the day working as a kayaking instructor. For two months I only had two days off, for two months I immersed myself as best I could in the unique lifestyle that Chile offered. As the colors changed, and clouds frequented the sky more than the strong southern sun, I no longer felt welcomed in my home of the last five months, Pucon, Chile. I chose to have one last adventure before leaving South America. I would go to Peru.

 

In my dreams I saw myself taking the long 30 hour bus ride north, crossing the boarder, then finding some small Peruvian town near the beach where I would make friends with a local family and get to experience the “real” Peru. Not the tourist’s view of a country. Peru, as the locals lived. It was a very naïve way to think about where I was about to go.  I was leaving the very first world comfort of Chile, and heading to the very third world reality of Peru.

 

            I sat in the no longer moving bus, staring outside the window. Hundreds of other busses stopped behind ours. I looked forward, a large pile of rubble was positioned across the road, on top, tires engulfed in flames sent dark coal black smoke into the empty blue sky of the desert. Behind the road block were hundreds of sharpen stick wielding hard hat wearing disgruntled Peruvian miners. They were protesting against a new government law forcing them to pay taxes. They had blocked the only road between Arequipa and Lima, the only roadway for all freight and bus traffic. There were hundreds of stuck busses and thousands of people, all slowly dying in the blistering desert heat. Some left the busses, walking to the nearby towns. I could not leave. My long blond hair made me a target every time I set foot outside of the bus. Urine and fecal matter soaked the dust around the buses, babies screamed in want of food. Local vendors from the nearby towns had arrived with small carts of provisions. I could not buy anything from them, acknowledging of the fact I had money would have greatly increased my chances of getting robbed, or worse. For the next three days I went without food, and I drank no water, I had given the last of my water to the family in the seat behind mine. I saw things that I wish to never see again. I saw humanity at its most pure. I saw what real poverty was. I saw what real survival was. I saw what tear gas could do. I saw what real fear was. I cried, but no tears came, my body too dehydrated to allow me to release the sadness. It was the most alone I had ever been in my life. It was the most fear I have had to live with. The nights were long, sleepless and cold. The days suffocating, dangerous, and filled with fighting the urge to give up. I just wanted to escape. I just wanted to have the adventure I had dreamed of. The heat and the lack of food causing hours of unwanted blackness. I would sit just outside of the bus during the day, hoping for shade, reading John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charlie. I would stare out at the emptiness of the desert, looking away from the deteriorating situation behind me, and would just think. Alone away from everyone, trying to stay awake, trying to stay alive, I found myself repeating the same thought in my head,

 

“If I live, I will be a pro kayaker, I will go back to Chile, I will tell everyone I love how much I love them, I will never take where I came from, or how I was raised for granted. I will try to live a better life, I will only pursue what I love in life, and I never go back to Peru again.”

 

Obviously I lived. By the time I eventually made it to Ica, Peru, I could barely stand with out the sickening feeling of unconsciousness creeping into my eyes. I had passed my limit to feel fear, I only felt exhaustion. I returned home, happy to see my family. I started kayaking almost everyday on awesome hard runs with my best friend, and finally ran the Little White Salmon River, a dream of mine. I found myself back in Idaho again, working as a raft guide. The summer turned into a toxic situation, myself not ready to deal with the bullshit that comes with too many managers, and my co workers unable to understand my need to be alone and have control. Finally the summer ended. I left idaho, was once again able to kayak everyday, and eventually found myself in Chile. After being in the country for two days, I canceled my return ticket home.

 

Now I am back, Pucon, Chile. Rain is falling, summer delayed slightly by the less than perfect weather.  I have almost no money left, very few job prospects that would allow for kayaking everyday, and gear which is rapidly wearing out. It seems like I will never achieve my dream, it seems like I will never reach the place I so badly want to be. Somehow I am hopeful. I am grateful that my worries are about not having money to kayak, rather than the worries of survival. I am so grateful for all my opportunities I have, and the mentality I have gained. This is not normally how I write. I normally use wonderful words to craft a dreamy poetic style of prose, but this is the most honest I can write. The last year was the hardest of my life, it was the most stressful of my life, but it was by far the best, and most rewarding year so far. I have changed so much, yet I still am young, therefore by default will make mistakes and very dumb decisions. I have so much more to learn, and so many more experiences to enjoy. Life is still strange to me, but so far all I can say is that I will continue to work hard, kayak as much as possible, and move forward.

Wine, Thanks, Music.

Its cool glow was blurry in my ever drooping tired turquoise eyes. From it came the wavy sounds of a music long forgot, the sounds of an angst filled teenage summer. I sat up, wandered through the dark abyss of the lightless living room, and pushed the heavy wooden kitchen door open. There in the corner of the counter rested a an obese  shaped cheap friend, five liters of wine. Somehow I hoisted the barrel of a bottle upward, spilling the sweet smelling liquid into a glass. The familiar sound of a full glass the signal to put my friend back on his resting spot. With care I once again made my way back through the living room to finally slump deep into the open arms of a plush leather couch. My hand moved. Soon the deep purple of the wine mixed with  the dull white of teeth, an exercise not approved by the dentist, or my liver. The music continued to echo throughout the wooden interior of the house. How far I had come from those days when as used to put it, "These songs saved my life." Melodramatic of course, on par for my teenage years, of course. How far I had come from the days when being alone used to conjure deep feelings of emptiness in the never ending recesses of my heart. Oh how far I had come, such a self approving statement. Better, how much I have learned. I sucked more sweet wine from the glass, the world suddenly spun in an off putting yet comforting direction. "How thankful I am, how thankful I should stay" came the loose lipped thoughts of my brain.

It was cloudy. The intensely close sun of the southern hemisphere was now hidden, a shadow of itself the day before. I slid into a comfortable puffy black jacket as I headed out of our house and into the slight breeze which move across the lawn like a slight breath on the back of one's neck. My best friend followed as we walked along the dusty gravel road, razor barbed fences and sheep to both sides. After a half hour we came to the road, thumbs outstretched.  A pleasant ride later, by two former residents of the United States, now returned to the land of their birth for their final years of life. Twenty minutes, and a cheesecake later, we found ourselves in a car, next to a babbling three year old, driven by two of our friends, headed toward a day of giving thanks.

Turkeys roasted, new friends made, bellies bulging like the throats of bullfrogs, I laid soaking the fashionably late afternoon sun. I could hear the spattering random conversations of the groups around me, the annoyingly trendy guitar circle of hipsters, the east coast kayakers, the wild babbling of children. I could hear it all, but I could not listen. I could not listen, I was lost in the sky, I was lost in the thoughts that comes with holiday landmarks such as these.

The song changed. My eyes teetered on the precipice of sleep. I set the now empty glass down gently on the table. Time slowed, dreams meshed with reality, my limbs grew heavy on the couch. The song changed. I tried to walk toward the comfort of my bed but found my brain had become dormant. The song changed. The dull glow began to fade. The song changed.

Contentment, happiness, kayaking, and beer.

The cool biting nectar of barley slid past the gates of my lips and rushed into my gulping throat. I slammed the frosty mug on the worn wood table as the foreign words of my friends were cast loudly into the empty surf shack style bar. Reggae blared in the background, I took another swing, feeling the soft warm glow of the beer enter my mind. I smiled and listened. They chattered wildly and rapidly, hands moving in exaggerated gestures, the whites of their teeth highlighting tan faces. Behind the bar stood Franz, Daniela, and Che, all long time disciples of a minority hippie culture, all devoted to the consumption of liberation, all warm faces in the frigid spring Chilean air.  

I had come to this bar often in the past. I had spent hours slowly loosing the shackles of worry. It had been a year ago sense the last time I had hidden inside these walls, it had been in the heart of the most difficult year of my life. It had become a marker now proving a change of self. 

"Jon can play guitar" my Chilean friend Matias said while pulling his long dark matt of hair tightly into a pony tail. I was jolted from a deep journey of exploring the nothingness of my mind, and shoved into the sudden reality of a impromptu performance. "  I don't how to play..." I said, hoping the lie would allow me to return to my happy daydreaming, my aloof engagement. They insisted. The music was turned off. A guitar formed in my hands. My fingers took to the malleable nylon strings while I took my position on top the nearest table. My Spanish put to the test, I belted out an improvised tune about the joys of being a blond gringo in Chile. Their laughter fueled my performance, especially the dimpled bright face of a very spicy waitress from my old job. I strummed the final note and set the guitar down on the table across from me. The laughter died as I resumed my seat, finished the last of my third frosty mug. The spicy waitress, Daniella, shook a near empty bottle of white wine, and simply said, "Que Bacan." (Slang for "how awesome") That was all  it took, another day beyond happy south of the equator. We left, making our way stumbling into the street.  

The night was freezing.

After consuming comically large hot dogs, we jumped into a taxi, and headed toward the consequence of morning.

 

After waking in a house not my own, curled up warmly in blankets on the floor, I left and caught the first bus back to the countryside. I got off and my stop and started the few minute walk down the tree lined gravel road toward my temporary home, and my best of friends. "Hey lover boy is back!" said the wrinkled smiling face of Dan, the most hospitable man in the world, as I walked into his house. "So how did it go?" I related the details, then gulped down glass after glass of heavy spring water. After my friends woke up, we packed up and sped toward the river, we headed toward life.  

Recanting events sipping beer in Dan's Houe.

Another successful day of kayaking completed. As the stink of wet gear was washed from my body, the delectable cooking of Dan was deep inside my gut, and sleep found me headed for the plush leather couch, I once again was consumed in a life most content. My eye lids squashed my vision, thoughts turned to the adventure of the new day, and my mind was lost in dreams of the Chilean life, kayaking, women, and happiness.

The South Fork Feather Part 1: Arival.

Fog poured from my mouth, it spun into the air, evaporating into the empty crisp night. In the distance a vague nickel colored streak shivered in the cool lake waters, showing the half crescent of the low hanging moon. The silence filled my ears, consuming every part of my being. My cold quaking hand shut the green Subaru door behind me, the clang of metal sending shockwaves of noise thundering into the still night. I glanced across the parking lot, shrouded in pines, smelling of pitch. A tent sat in front of a camper on the far side of the darkness, a light illuminating the thin nylon walls. Someone coughed in the distance, sickness threatening the pure air. I turned to see my best friend, Hunter, click on a headlamp. "I need a jacket!" he gasped as he hurriedly searched his bag for something to energized his slowing electrons. I too started to feel the grip of frost inside my bones. After finding more clothes, bundled tightly in hand me downs from my brother, we walked down a small path to a large oak picnic table. This would be our camp. A picnic table, a few yards from the scars of a dying reservoir, surrounded in the majesty of ponderosas. With a few minutes and multiple trips up and down the path, we had assembled two tents, a pop-up, and boxes of food, in a semi circle around the table.

I drifted into dreams. All was silent. The cold persisted.

The cold was cut by the sudden illumination of the earth. My eyes opened to Hunter heating tea on a small stove. I cast my gaze out to the reservoir. Fog ascended in Jesus like glory toward the ever intensifying ball of fire which so timely revealed itself. The rumbled of a generator cut the silence which I had begun to gulp into my soul. I stumbled from my tent, one hand rubbing my eye, the other pushing my bright blond hair from my face. Hunter finished heating the tea. "Tea?" he asked.
"Yeah" I replied.
"What kind?"
"Green"
"Green with apple?"
"Sure"
He poured the tea into two glass mason jars, and we sat back into our camp chairs. My fingers rejoiced from the steaming brew, as I became lost in the waterfront view before me. Within an hour the sun had begun to warm our camp, casting the early shadows of morning. Boredom soon set in. A wonderful feeling at that. Boredom. A feeling I had been longing for. A feeling of peace. Boredom is often confused with the lack of exertion, while in reality boredom itself is a labor in a peaceful state of mind. Hunter, restless as always, soon started to hint at a want of effort. We walked down to the lake, our vividly colored boats resting heavily on our shoulders.  We paddled out into the dark blue water, the only noise the regular slicing of fiberglass blades against shackled waters. We knifed toward the great monstrosity of earth and cement which drowned a valley, imprisoned the river. Just on the other side of the earthen dam lay the South Fork Feather Gorge. After the paddle, I found left over pizza. As the afternoon set in my eyes became heavy. I strolled to my tent, pulled a sleeping bag onto my head, and fell into a deep nap.

I sat up suddenly.

Daydreams always the strangest it seemed. The afternoon sun bringing my tent to an uncomfortable temperature. We left the camp for a few hours, to hike into the gorge and watch the water attempt to cover the boulders, as the release began. We headed back to camp. The sun fell. More pizza consumed for dinner. As the cold came upon us, we began a fire. Suddenly we were informed by a very grungy looking ex camp host that fires were illegal without a permit. As darkness overwhelmed the day
, shrouding the woods in an ominous light, we set up chairs in Hunter's oddly oversized tent. I cracked open a piece of my German heritage as we stayed awake talking. Tomorrow we would kayak. Tomorrow our week would really begin. Tomorrow our lives would change in a torrent of water and gradient.