The Big Green Tongue

It took a day or so until I heard it: No engines, no weed whackers, no leaf blowers. I was sitting on the front of the raft and heard gurgling, lapping, splashing and the occasional creak of an oar in the oar lock. Nothing else. Blissfully, wonderfully peaceful and silent.

The more I heard silence, the more I loved it. It took less time than it takes to read this sentence to realize that it was the sound of heaven to me. I breathed it in and looked around, hoping the giggling smile spread across my face didn't look like it felt: Caught farting.

Before the silence, however, there had been a lot of screaming.

Just before that had been an quick interchange: "When do we get to our first big rapids?" I asked Chris.

We had been floating downriver in lazy circles, like a leaf in a little pond blown by a breeze. Chris, the expedition leader and oarsman, had been telling jokes and looking around, smiling absentmindedly at the distant tree tops. He seemed sleepy, finally relaxed after loading up all the "shit" - boaters' talk for gear - that had taken several hours. His sleepiness was infectious; I contemplated tipping over in my life vest and taking a little nap in the sun. The best I could do with the vest though was flap my arms and shuffle my feet around a little bit. I accepted the ungainly puffy orange corset as fair exchange for the bliss I was feeling.

I asked the question casually, dreamily, believing we had a long while of floating and sunning ahead of us. Chris had let the raft float sideways, frontwards, and then backwards, unconcerned with guiding us in a one-way fashion.

"Now!" He took the oars in hand and looked over his shoulder and to the rear.

"Now?" We were going backwards, and now I heard it. The voice of the river had deepened, intensified. Oh. I am sitting on a cooler imitating a beachball and we are heading toward whitewater. Going backwards. Chris rowed and we remained backwards. I sort of laughed, but it came out like a squawk. Shouldn't we be going forwards? Shouldn't we be able to see where we're going?

I remembered my lesson from earlier: Stay out of the way. Also: Blow the whistle long to alert for something or another. Hmm...confined to a 14-foot raft with several hundred pounds of gear, my husband and an oarsman with an odd sense of direction, I wondered where I could go. Over the side? Too close to the rapid now for that. When was I supposed to blow the whistle?

Now we were slowly turning to our left and swinging around. I could see the rapid finally, a long jumbled series of splashes, stacks of water piling up like little hills frothing at the top, rocks sticking out of the hills and smoother glassier water here and there. It looked like there was no good way through it. The safety talk about not pointing at rocks and whistling recurred to me. There were rocks everywhere and a cliff on one side of the river. I really needed to point at something, and it became an urge so strong I could hardly overcome it. I became so conflicted between the need and the admonition that I just waved my arms around and squawked again. Now I was a large orange chicken, I thought. Squawking.

"Hang on!" Chris called out. To what? I looked around and reminded myself this was what I had come here for, prepared for, dreamed of. Whitewater fun! More squawks. I grabbed my vest but, no, that didn't really make sense. I grabbed my husband, but that made less sense somehow. If I was going to be jettisoned from the raft by a wild bucking river and I grabbed my husband on the way out, he would land on top of me and squish me. Not to death exactly, but two big orange beachball imitators like us would not make a pretty picture thrashing around in the river. We'd be left for dead. The rest of our party, frightened to approach, would look aghast and mutter a few prayers for our souls as they floated past. Maybe one would play a bagpipe. Or a banjo. Both. Dueling bagpipes and banjos.

Chris was now talking about "the big green tongue" of the river and I looked with a sudden stillness of heart at what he was aiming for. The water that had been swirling coyly and gently had gathered itself with an intention of purpose that rivaled any soccer mom driving a minivan in a crowded parking lot. The surface had become green, smooth and now moved much more rapidly into a long v-shaped stretch. It looked like green honey; it was liquid but dense and full of power. The tongue of the rapid.

The current grabbed the raft and hauled it down the tongue, which licked over and around a lot of submerged boulders, each one forming its own tongue of smooth water, pouring over the tops of them. On the far side of the rocks, each one in turn, was a hollow of backflowing whitewater that roared and splashed. We dipped up and down, up and down and each white wave dashed me with a bucket of cold water. I grabbed something to hang onto, probably my camera strap, nothing useful, and graduated from squawk to scream.

Suddenly, we were through and back into calmer water again. "What class was that rapid?" I asked with adrenaline raising my voice. I was ready to tell all my friends back home about my harrowing escape from death. "Class II or so, maybe III. That was a nice little one." Somehow disappointed not to be dead or mangled (odd huh?), I imagined bigger rapids. The classification goes up to Class V, which is where rapids take rafts and throw them up into the treetops at the river's edge. Class VI is Niagara Falls.

Instantly addicted to the sound and motion of a wildly kicking river, I straightened up and looked downriver for more. I felt my confidence return and made plans to become a river guide, outdoors woman, whitewater legend. Yeah, this was where I belonged, on a raft in the western wilderness, ready for any challenge, riding free. I spat dramatically, feeling like Annie Oakley and considered a cold beer.

Then, I looked down and saw the spittle on my knee. Yuck.

After a couple of hours of bucking bronco water interspersed with mellow pools of peace and serenity, we hauled ashore for the day and set up camp. (To be continued)

Remembering the Rogue, Part I

I learned a lot of things on the Oregon river called the Rogue. Most of all, I learned that humans can hardly go anywhere without a literal ton of things. River guides call it shit, so I will too. "We got to load all this shit on the raft or we aren't going anywhere." "Man that's a lot of shit!" "Where do they get all this shit anyway?" Like that.

I took all my REI prizes (see previous post) and headed north, gathering with my tribe on the banks of the Rogue. It was hot in a way that volcanologists who scoop red-hot lava understand, and metal was dripping off my car by the time I got to the gathering spot. My body, which is usually shivering and clammy in our local fog at this time of year, puffed up immediately to twice its normal size and I looked like Mrs. Tomato Head. But, I was thrilled to be joining the ranks of adventurers who seize the day and sally forth into the wild blue yonder. I was overdue for sallying.

The river was beautiful and seductive from the moment I saw it shimmering in the blasting heat. It made cool delightful noises and I wanted to jump into its arms immediately. Instead, I gaped at the massive tonnage assembled next to our four rafts. "Man that's a lot of shit!" Chris the Expedition Leader strode around making sense of it and cursing it in turn. He's been down a million rivers and had a very clear idea of what was supposed to happen in the next few hours. I had only the one idea: Get it all onto four rafts and go float on the river. That idea simplified quite a bit to the point where my idea was: Stay out of the way.

Chris gathered us around and gave us a safety talk. "One whistle means something. Three whistles mean something else!" At least that's what I remembered three days later. "Don't point at obstacles in the river, point to where there's a clear spot. If you see a rock in the way, don't point to it, point somewhere else!" Hmmm...this was going to be a lot tougher than I'd imagined. Mostly, because when you're a passenger in a car and the driver is heading straight for a truck, you tend to want to scream and point to the grill as it bears down on you, not point at a tree nearby or a distant cloud.

Next thing I know, we are shoving off and piling into the rafts. I'm wearing a straight jacket. Well, they are quaintly called life vests, but you are forced by the confining thickness of the jacket to walk like Frankenstein and cannot bend at the waist at all. You feel impervious to almost everything, bumping off of other people and trees like a large ball. You jump into the river and get pulled out again by the shoulders of the jacket as if you were a large flounder flopping helplessly, kicking your legs ineffectually and hoping the person hauling you in doesn't strangle you with the jacket because you forgot to retighten the upper buckles of the jacket the last time you decided to breathe. The technique is supposed to be simple: You jump in, swim, pee in the river while pretending to watch an eagle fly overhead, swim over to the raft and ask to be helped back in. On three, your helper grabs the shoulder pad area of the vest, leans back to counter your weight and hauls you up and over the side. You slither up into the raft and resume your post in the bow feeling refreshed and content.

I was confident and happy to be riding in Chris's raft on the first day. Until he abandoned ship. Between rapids on the Rogue are long stretches of deep slow-moving water that nonetheless need some guiding hands on the oars to negotiate effectively. Just as I was beginning to develop a deep calm, Chris let the oars go slack and simply dove off the raft into the water. Just like that. Hey, come back here! Certain that we would soon be swept off an enormous waterfall or bashed up against an unseen rock, I began to calculate the time it would take me to row to shore, secure the raft and call for a new guide.

Cell phones - if you are silly enough to think yours will survive all the water and dirt - don't work in the river canyon. I realized I was exactly and simply another piece of luggage on the raft. I don't know how to row, can't get myself through a rapid, didn't really have a clear idea of where I was exactly and was wrapped up in a rented life vest feeling like - and looking a very close approximation to - a beach ball.

Just before I got to the squeak stage of anxiety (which preceeds the whimper stage), Chris hoisted himself back into the raft and took up the oars. "Man, that's the best thing on the river. Just jump in and cool off. That pizza oven wind is blowing. Can you feel it?" He grinned and laughed, rowing heartily toward the distant roar of rapids. (To be continued)

Hummingbird musings

A calendar page has turned and we are in September. At last, summer is here in the Groove. As summer arrives, the leaves float lightly from the sycamores and sail across the streets, landing with a scratchy shushing sound. They whirl up again dryly as tires rush past.

It's beautiful here when it's summer/fall. Warmth so long anticipated is a lulling tonic. Riots of bougainvillea blossoms splash color against the adobes of Monterey and clapboard sides of the Victorians here in the Groove, almost too violent a color to take in. I squint sometimes when I see them, but the intensity of the colors please me.

I coddle three rose bushes in my little garden, hoping for an occasional spectacular blossom. They are very fussy and hold out for more pay; I have to hand pick insects off of them, fertilize them just so, groom them in particular ways. In contrast alyssum and Santa Barbara daisies are like Catholics; they breed prolifically and scatter themselves everywhere, requiring an occasional squirt of a hose now and then. They bloom in any soil. Unlike Catholics, who usually smell like garlic - at least the ones I know do - alyssum is as fragrant as honey.

There's a keen little hummingbird that has set up shop in a nearby Monterey pine. It aims its little needle-like beak at a distant flower bush and flies pell mell toward it like a fighter jet. Licking nectar from any flowers that have it on offer, I can't imagine the energy that's needed just to hover as its tongue gathers its fuel. Wings hum at 200 beats per minute I've heard - a blur. Hummingbirds are ferociously territorial. I wonder if they have ever thwanged themselves like darts into fences by accident. Probably not.

I was rummaging around in a potted plant a few days ago when our hummingbird decided to check me out. He flew to within three feet of my head, wings beating like mad. He moved to his left a few feet for a better view and then to his right. Maybe my skin lotion was interesting; maybe not. Rather I think it was the fact that my garden hose was on and he smelled fresh water. I felt intimidated by his rapier beak and my skin seemed very vulnerable to a stab attack if he so chose. Bored, he returned to his high perch in the pine and carried on with his territorial rapid-fire squeaks and chirps, sounding like a tiny rusty hinge up there.

Now that the sun's rays are slanting at a lower and lower angle every day and we feel her heat all day long, we are smiling more, walking less briskly, looking for hammocks in which to swing idly in the afternoon. Summer crowds are finally gone and we in our specific summer/fall groove can drink the sweet wine of patience rewarded.

Venturing Before the Adventure

I went to REI today because we're going on a river trip next week. Uh oh is right. REI is a huge danger zone. It has everything to feed my every fantasy of adventure, travel, and sporting challenge. I can be anything I want to be, go anywhere on the planet I want to go and feel totally competent, fit, prepared, mighty. Of course, my credit card turns into a little melted blob when I pay at the checkout counter. It even smokes a little bit as the plastic melts.

The sales staff at REI always grin and crack their knuckles with anticipation as I approach. They see me coming and start dancing around in celebration, knowing they will all get huge fat bonuses for selling me everything in the store. Today the staff was doing a conga line around the display of tents and freeze-dried foods. They stopped when they knew I'd seen them, and they tried to look innocent, punching the button on the boom box for a cool jazz station instead of the salsa they'd been boogieing to before.

I had a long list of items I'd been told to buy in order to be prepared for the river. Sleeping pad, carabiners, dry bag, tent pegs, water bottle. Quick-drying clothes. I didn't need to buy a raft. The river rafting company would supply that, but everything else under the sun seemed to be fair game. The REI staff began drawing numbers so that each of them would have a chance to steer me to further purchases.

I started with sleeping pads. There were inflatable ones you have to blow up yourself before using. There were self-inflating ones as well. I imagine they somehow create a vacuum when a valve is opened and air as well as any living thing in a nearby area is sucked into them as they self-inflate. I decided on a plump non-self-inflating model that is about, oh, 12 inches thick. My mattress on my bed is comfortable and about that thick, so I want to replicate that while bedding down after tough days braving whitewater rapids, right? 12 inches, minimum, would do it. The first salesman who'd shown me the pads tangoed away and another waltzed over to take his place. Sunglasses? Right this way.

Next I found myself looking at a huge display of zillions of sunglasses and selected a sporty pair with a dashing shade of blue for the frames, very French adventurer. "I peese on your stupeede and very seelee Americaine sheds. Theese French sheds are zee best in the uneevairz. C'est vrai!," they seemed to sniff at me. Of course, the sheds, er...shades, needed a keeper so that if or when I get dumped from the raft in some hair-raising rapid, they would not end up at the bottom of the river. I added a light but useful-looking set to my cart. My credit card was beginning to get warm in my wallet.

That done, I bid farewell to salesman Number 2 and was approached by a third. He eagerly showed me beverage cups and all their accessories. I fondled and touched each and every cup and container sold in the store. I admired a $40 titanium double-walled model with a tight-fitting lid. I imagined sipping from a sleek missile-shaped container coated in tough aluminum that cost $30. Pragmatically, I settled on a $4 ordinary cup figuring if I lost it, I would not be very sad at all. Number 3 looked crestfallen and wandered away.

Next, it was over to the clothing area. Now we're getting into a very uncertain territory for most women, certainly for me. Salesman number four waved his arms around pointing out the features and benefits of the high-tech garments in the ladies department. He beamed at me. I looked vaguely confused and asked for time to browse, so he obliged me and walked off to high-five his cohorts nearby. The shirts, shorts and pants as well as skirts were arranged in attractive and even flirty ways to attract maximum desire in the hearts of customers like me. Feeling unusually optimistic, I selected about six items from various carousels and racks and strode confidently into the fitting room to try them on.

Oh my.

Fitting room lighting and mirrors are, at best, confidence crushers. This one today was just devastating. Five out of six garments were so hideously wrong on my body that I nearly burst into tears, swearing to never eat food again in my life. Why did I eat that berry cheese danish at Pavels last week, I wailed. Finally, summoning up my last bit of hope, I tried on a pair of lightweight pants and felt redeemed somewhat. They fit! I slunk out of the fitting room, feeling something akin to post-traumatic stress disorder. I knew I was going to have flashbacks for days if not weeks afterwards. All confidence was totally gone. I knew I was in trouble when, after thinking I'd redressed myself properly, I looked in the mirror for a final check and noticed I'd forgotten to don my pants and had only my shoes and shirt on. I must have entered a fugue state briefly, probably from the horrible shock of seeing myself in the dressing room mirror in that horrible lighting that adds 20 lb to your figure and shows every dimple and sag. I have heard very intelligent and confident women swear never to return to certain dressing rooms again in their lives. It can be just awful.

With a deep sigh of resignation, I went to what I hoped was a much safer area of the store and looked at insect repellent. Then I began to rethink my happy dream of the trip ahead. Hmmm... It will be the height of summer. Five days on a river in the middle of nowhere. Mosquitoes breed and lie in wait knowing that soft and tender-fleshed greenhorns will venture into their midst, defended only by a thin smear of chemical. They laugh heartily, scornfully, smoking their unfiltered French cigarettes. Then the deadly blood-sucking vampires pounce with gnashing teeth and slurping tongues and leave you, a blotchy itching miserable and whimpering lump of jello cowering in your tent, begging to get back to the coast, to the fog, to seagulls for god's sake. Anything but there on the Amazon where your blood is slowly but steadily drained from you, and you cry one last desperate but weakened cry of despair and then gradually lose consciousness and all fades to black....

The staff persons of REI had resumed their conga line after they saw my cart filled to the brim with supplies for the trip, and one man joked about hiring a Sherpa to carry it all, snorting with hilarity.

I walked out into the sunlight, holding my smoking credit card with an insulated glove and imagined myself riding splendidly down the river next week, paddle flashing in the sun, skin smeared with DEET, new pants riding jauntily on my slim hips. I can lose 10 lb in four days, right? Even if I don't, I'll at least have 12 inches of new sleeping pad to cushion my head at night. Ah, the sleep of the damned.

Hiding in the Fog

I've noticed recently that it's August, and we are well beyond the time of solstice at the height of summer. Just about a week ago I went to The City, which we in California call San Francisco. It's up there to the north of us, on the coastline - like we are in Pacific Grove.

Famously, an explorer a few hundred years ago came all the way from Spain and accidentally stumbled on the huge and impressive bay to our north and he was amazed, as he had every right to be. It's complex and far reaching, essentially gathering water from all of Northern California. The ferocious currents swept his ship into the myriad inlets and curving shores, so he, arrogant and proud Spaniard that he was, claimed it for Spain and left. Back in his home country, the explorer recounted his exploits including a glowing and fantastic description of a vast inland waterway and beautiful hillsides abounding with game and plenty.

For two hundred years, no one could find the inlet again. Had it disappeared? Did it ever exist or was the original explorer full of salsa? Truly mystified, king after queen sent shiploads of Spaniards to search and explore. All came home again with sad frowns of defeat and frustration and gazed forlornly into their sangria, unable to account for the missing bay.

Finally, again by accident, another expedition leader woke up from his siesta on the poop deck, rubbed his eyes and there it was! Something like the neck of a bota bag, the narrow strait that is now spanned by our famous bridge was visible and beckoned him to come ashore, which he did, infecting all the native americans with overwhelming pestilence and plague. But, that is another story.

Our lovely summer blanket of fog had precluded further exploration after the first claim of ownership for Spain was made. It had acted as it usually does, blanketing the coastline so effectively that the entire inlet of San Francisco was obscured.

I'm not sure what the Spanish word for fog is - do you? - but I believe the left coast of the continent should have been named after it. No telling how many more years the bay would have gone unsullied by European exploration if the second Spaniard had slept just a little longer.