Beginnings and Endings

It is hard to know where to begin. It has been hard to place my thoughts lately. Spring is a time of change, growth, and new beginnings. The idea of spring is of course a literal physical manifestation in our environment, at least for those of us accustomed to the variation of four distinct seasons. It seems that in my own life I possess a sort of spiritual spring that embodies the essence and evolves concordantly with spring in the natural world. As I crawl out of the blanket of winter, and the daylight begins to creep evermore into the tight grip of lingering cold nights, my inner clock starts to shift. I begin to change. Life feels fresh, and it is exciting to see where roads cast in new, warm, pale golden light will lead.

The twang of the country guitar and steely rustic vocals filled the cabin of Curt's fading red 1994 Nissan pick-up truck. We paddled with Don just six days before. The conversation in the cabin shifted to all manners of things. It was hard to follow. I snapped some pictures of a few dandelions littered in a sea of green grass with the specter of half burned white farm house flying a tattered American flag in the background. We walked down the muddy road alongside Sovern Run to the put in for the Big Sandy. His memorial service was Sunday afternoon. 1:00 pm. Sovern Run was lit like a candle amidst a clatter of trees swaying in the breeze about to burst with a new set of leaves. They were just waiting for a bit more sun. Just a few more days.

The Sandy was great. Just like it always is. Curt took one over the handlebars over 'Big Splat' Times moves slowly. The next run he nails it. Time moves at a normal pace. I do not choose to go on this one. I slide off the rock. I take the safe route. I ramble on down the river.

I think about the kids that Curt and I are teaching. Curt and I talk about how they are progressing as we float downstream. We glide through 'Island' rapid. The 'River Mobsters'. What a crew. What a special opportunity to share our love for something so spectacular with a group of guys just starting out. Just barely getting their feet wet in the grand scheme of things. Spring seems to always exist when we are young. That is just how we remember it though when we look back. Only as real as the ideal we hold in our minds. Sharing our passion. What a great opportunity.

There were about one hundred people gathered at the put-in of the North Fork of the Blackwater. The river Don had died upon just a week ago. Time seems but an impression sometimes, and reality no more real than my dreams. I could feel the tiny waves of anxiety creeping in my fingertips, thoughts of maybe I would just wake up and realize it was a dream as we all stood in a circle, held hands, bowed our heads and prayed.

His ashes drifted over the forty footer. The one drop he left alone and never ran. The petals on the flowers swirled in the eddy as we all stood and gazed upon the rusted brown rocks and water. They swirled. We stared. They swirled and tore apart, tiny piece by tiny piece.

They fluttered softy carried away on the wings of the calm amidst the chaotic. How much of our lives do we spend feeling different than everyone else? How much of our lives do we spend trying to be understood and to understand ourselves? All of it?

I knew little of Don. I spent a weekend at his house in Canaan Valley four days before he died. He showed me down the Upper Blackwater for my first time. Don had shown dozens down the Upper B. He was 'Blackwater Don'. He was a character written into his own story. He kept a fox for fifteen years. He was a lawyer in Pittsburgh. The fox led him to be a lawyer and kept him in a relationship with a woman until the fox passed away. He knew the Blackwater as well as anyone. I am almost certain that I was the last person that 'Blackwater Don' showed down the 'Blackwater'. My first was Don's last.

The pale golden light of spring was painting the road. The light was paler than usual. Life can be like that sometimes. You know what I mean? The bittersweet feeling you have when you leave people you love, but the horizon is promising, bright, and you can smell the freedom in the air. Pale golden light, a little paler than usual. It feels just like this.

I felt a few tears when I stared at the petals being torn from the flower drifting aimlessly in the eddy. That is what we are. People. Left to our own devices we may drift aimlessly in eddies being torn. Piece by piece. Searching for the calm amidst the chaotic. All we have is each other. Most of us reach out and try to hold on as we try to embrace the idea that we all walk our own path.

The red Nissan pick up truck rambled on down the highway. The truck smelled of wet kayaking gear. It smelled a little like one idea of home.

I was glad when she opened the door and I could feel her warm embrace. It felt like life.

A week later I was in the back of the green bus sleeping on a love seat. The river flows on. Life moves forward. My first. His last. A beginning. An end.

Curt edged me about by forty-five seconds in the race. I had to own up to the kids on Monday and accept my defeat. All in thankful spirits. The shine melted the soreness away as we crammed over a hundred steamy bodies in a yellow school bus and made our way out of the canyon. The chatter and laughter shook the steel and the smiles and spirits could have cracked stones. Gifts from the river.

The Green Dragon rode. We filled her up with the will of possibilities. The open road and the music from a 'rented' Wal-Mart stereo wired to a cigarette lighter. We should grow up, right? Irrelevance is irrelevant.

We are all writing our stories. We play the parts. We act the hero, the villain, the savior, the warrior. It's all there clambering around in one big soupy stew. The moments are short, the lines are tight and wide open with blue skies all at the same time. The choice is ours.

Eric Ornstein came home yesterday. He, Geoff, and I wandered out to the 'Bridge Channel' on the Falls. He dislocated his shoulder under the bridge. I was holding the rope. I down climbed in time to grab his boat out of the water. He clung to a tree. I struggled to pull his boat on to the rock as he clung to the tiny sapling sitting in the eddy. It was hard not to think of the flower swirling in the eddy on the edge of the North Fork of the Blackwater.

Geoff and I laid him down on a rock and set his shoulder back into place. We hiked out and I drove him home.

Like I said from the beginning it is hard to know where to begin. It's been hard to place my thoughts lately.

'Brett, why aren't you coming?'

'I'm writing.'

There is no movie for this one. There are no pictures. Just a song and images floating in my head from the past few months. Most of the time darkness gives way to light if you let it, but our moments here are brief. This screen is black, but not for long. I don't know what comes next.

Maybe that's the way I like it.



The Sad Sun - Deer Tick


The sad sun
shining down on the day I drove to the cape
And a thing that was slowly dying
The sad sun was taken away

Never had your chance to live
And it's hard to forgive
Never had your chance to love
And it does not happen like this
In heaven, if heaven exists
And we'll never know until the moment we're finished
And the few that care
What have they accomplished right here?

The sad sun
Shining down on the day I drove to the cape
And a still thing was slowly dying
The sad sun was taken away
The sad sun was telling me that
You'll never see his light again
All rolling around with no skin
And your wrists cut from start to end
And they're laughing
Clouding your head with bad thoughts
But I'm your friend
And the close encounter
Never happens like this

Never had your chance to live
And it's hard to forgive
Never had your chance to love
And it does not happen like this
In heaven, if heaven exists
And we'll never know until the moment we're finished
And the few that care
What have they accomplished right here?
What have they accomplished right here?