When we arrived at the campsite on the Kern River I balked. We usually go further north, to greener forests where the sequoias grow. But on this particular trip we were not in control. My brother was in charge, because we were riding in his car, pulling his trailer.
“It’s too dry and brown here,” I cried. “Let’s keep driving.”
“We can’t keep driving,” my brother said. “That road’s not safe with a long trailer!”
When we go, we always travel light, with a tent, not some behemoth monstrosity! Why had I agreed to the trip? To make matters worse, all the campsites adjacent to the river were taken. We would be clear across the way, camping under a tree that seemed to be crying out for a drink, with brown, curled leaves that fell as if it were October instead of August.
My husband said, “Let’s make the best of it.”
I grimaced. We set up camp and I melted under the mid-day sun. Grumbling as I cleaned up the mess previous campers had left behind, wads of used toilet paper, broken beer bottles, half-burnt marshmallows and twisted coat hangers. I gave all the kids a job. Mark was sixteen; he helped the men with the trailer and the tent. Sarah was the oldest, at fourteen, so I put her to work emptying the supplies from the SUV, finding our plastic tablecloth and clips. The little ones, Harry, Jenny and Brook helped unroll the sleeping bags into the tent and trailer.
My grown daughter and her husband Clay pulled in, they were thrilled with the camp. I shut my mouth, keeping my negative thoughts to myself
Finally, we finished setting up. So, we all headed down to the river. I was still in a foul mood, picturing the lovelier campsites up the road, greener campsites, cleaner campsites. And I was hot. For a menopausal woman, excessive temperatures over one hundred degrees are not conducive to gaiety. I carried a pony cooler full of water bottles, a beach chair, and my paperback as we made our way to the water with sunscreen slathered all over my scowling face.
The kids scampered on ahead, their excitement propelling them forward. Their cries echoed through the thicket of trees between where I stood and the river. On the other side of the thicket, down a steep incline, a whole new world existed; the sound of rushing water met my ears. Through the clearing I caught a glimpse of the boulders and the sunlight dancing on the lazy summer rapids. I made my way down to where they’d dumped their towels, bottles of sunscreen, and sunglasses.
I organized everyone’s things. The older kids were up river, including my husband, brother, daughter and her husband. They were going to set down and ride the rapids down to where we were. In the spring riding the rapids might be dangerous, but in late summer it was a safer ride. The little ones were jumping and playing at the water’s edge. I opened my chair and set it down. I sat down and the cold water shocked my body in a visceral way, bringing back memories of childhood and other bodies of very cold water, other camping trips, rivers, lakes, oceans.
“Look Auntie,” my great niece said, “I found a pretty rock.”
My son’s used to bring me rocks when they were little. It was a thing between us. Rocks pleased me, so they’d look for special specimens, oval shaped, perfectly round, or maybe a pea green, or golden stone. “That’s a beauty,” I told her.
“I want you to keep it forever,” she said, handing it to me with he pudgy hands.
Suddenly, I just didn’t feel like sticking my head in a book. I tucked it under the cooler and folded up my chair. Leaving them on shore I ventured out in the river, my over-heated body urging me to go in, deeper and deeper. My niece called out to me, “Be careful Auntie!”
Then I heard the whoops and hollers of the others. My daughter Carrie was in the lead, her inner tube was spinning and spinning her around. “Yee haw,” she cried as she flew past me. My husband and brother followed. I waved as the all streamed by. Clay cried, “You’ve got to do this!”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
But they talked me into riding the rapids. My brother gave me his inner tube and we switched places. He’d watch the kids while I took my own trip.
The walk up river just about did me in. Luckily I’d brought a bottle of cold water, which I practically drained as I made my way over rocks and boulders.
Once immersed, I shuddered from the temperature difference.
“Watch out for rocks Mom,” Carrie said. “It hurts if you hit them.”
My husband told me to climb aboard, said he’d give me a stick, so that I might push off and navigate better. I stood on a rock and let myself fall back into the inner tube that he held still for me.
Whoosh! I realized how uncoordinated I’d become lately. I almost slipped off the slippery giant donut, but miraculously got my butt in the target. He handed me my stick and asked if I was ready.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said. He let go.
Off I went. I was moving faster that I’d anticipated, right out of the shoot. I could see the obstacles, and did my best to avoid them.
My heart raced as I bobbled along. I saw a big fish swim by. Later on my brother and husband would try to catch him. The river grew deeper through a gorge and I picked up speed. I passed a man towing a small child with a rope. I wouldn’t have brought such a little guy, but he did have on a lifejacket, which made me feel better.
Up ahead I heard a scream. Seemed a girl had seen a snake in the water. I am deathly afraid of snakes. I held on to my stick tightly.
I narrowly avoided banging into a protruding outcrop of jagged stones, and then began to spin around, my senses reeling. Nearing a giant pool, I made my way inside, into the serene sanctuary the circle of boulders provided. And my husband shot past, saying something about seeing me later.
A still pool, under the shelter of a huge gnarled sycamore with the most mesmerizing mottled trunk provided a perfect place to unwind. The sunlight dappled through the sycamores yellow and green leaves, each larger than my hand. A squirrel, or some such creature rustled through dry brush. And then something happened. Or should I say something didn’t happen. No longer thinking about what to cook for dinner, or wondering if the kids remembered to zip the screens back up on the tent, there was no pressing need to attend to some chore or obligation. I simply floated, closed my eyes and was. The moment became paramount. I listened to the water slap the side of the inner tube, the birds in the tree above warbled merrily, and in my reverie I became one with the natural surroundings.
A few minutes later, I used my trusty stick to push myself back into the current, entering the most active rapids yet. As I raced between two fallen trees a mounting fluttery feeling took over, and I remembered that this was what I used to feel as a child. Alive! So very alive! Jetting towards my destination, dodging obstacles in my path, all I could think of was the next trip. I wanted to ride the rapids all over