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.