It was soaked, the air, it seemed to retain every droplet of humid summer precipitation which had just gushed forth onto this beach. This lonely beach. I had been here before, with guests, with responsibilities, with worries, with friends, with work, but now, I was here with a stranger, a trainee, a quiet unassuming kid. I groggily opened one eye as the sun made a rare intense appearance in the burned marshmallow sky. Across the river sat the destruction. Thousands of acres of seared grass, the remnants of angry ill appeased sky gods. My face was suctioned to the sticky rubber of an inflatable kayak, our company's name duct taped off, allowing us to be free, to act upon our own accord, yet here we were, at the an expansive white sand beach. A beach for scores of dazed city folk who like startled deer had found themselves placed out of their element, in the middle of the road, headlights flooding their vision. A beach where I had wrestled, drank, cooked, contemplated, and ultimately become lost in the desert. Here I was. Drawn home. Drawn away from my life. Drawn away from my dreams.
It stood like a testament to my life. It stood like a childlike monument to forgotten dreams. It stood still, resting from its violent scuffle with thunder, its resolute beating with the wind. Two poles, fabric, a waterproof fly, a sanctuary against nature. We had held up inside it, as dark, ash colored explosions from the sky sent fist sized rain drops barreling towards the flimsy walls of the tent. With each drop came the familiar sound of withstanding elements I had become so used to.
"Get underneath the tarp!" we crawled underneath a tattered blue tarp as freezing rain stung our wetsuited skin, making us shiver uncontrollably, my brother and I. I was eight, and we were on the Yampa river. The sting of romantic rejection could not even come close to the cold we were now enveloped in. It seemed like hours we were curled up together underneath the tarp, listening to the others in our group set up shelter while we just hoped to feel warmth again. Around the time I had forgotten what the sun felt like, and furthermore started to doubt it existed, my dad came and got us. My brother and I clambered into an old gray tent, striping off our wet clothes with shaky hands. Soon we emerged adorned in long woolen pants, big puffy colorful sweaters, and there sat my dad, in the same blue and black sweater he had had since the 70's, just waiting for the cold to subside, knowing it would. The next morning as I dreaded having to slither back into frozen wetsuits, and once again be subjugated to a day on placid river waters in the snow, my dad would already have woken and been rigging the rafts, knee deep in frigid water. He would emerge and trudge through the sand towards us, sand sticking in between his toes, hugging his calves. I vowed to be like him- the last of the true river guides.
I rolled off of the inflatable kayak and stood in the slight breeze which had now began to stir the still air. As the sun retreated behind the scorched hills, the clouds faded into the vast sky, and stars leapt from their hiding places to fall towards us in brilliant displays of color, I could not help but feel a longing to stay. To return to civilization would bring the troubles it had created to consume my brain, to steal my happiness. I seemed to be locked in combat with everyone. I seemed to be lost in a torment of misfiring chemicals, fried brain connections, and self destructive tendencies. If my eight year old self could study me now, if he could write my future, what would he say? How would he end my life? He certainly would not let these worries muddle an otherwise spectacular evening. As I lay down in the sand allowing the weight of my eye lids to blacken my vision, I pushed headphones on to my years and allowed Cat Stevens to flood my ears. The notes pulled me back to the Grand Canyon, and the Walkman my dad let me borrow every night. It came with two cassettes, one Harry Chapin's Varities and Bladerdash, the other, Cat Steven's Greatest hits. "I am being followed by a moon shadow, moon shadow, moon shadow" he sang.
I slept.
I dreamt.
I woke.
I walked into the murky chocolate colored water, and began rigging my raft, shaking off the cool morning air, and trying to capture something which is most certainly lost.
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