River and We 16 With Coffee (Rogue River Part IV)

What is crucial to life as you float down a river? My mind eddied off to the left and contemplated it all, considered the meanderings and left them, floated back and left them again. The arc of the sun from the eastern arising to the western setting encompassed the entirety of the universe as we then knew it. All of what is important in life fit within that arc and exactly that - nothing more mattered.

We had left our watches back at the put-in camp out of necessity. Few of us owned a waterproof timepiece that would stand up to a minute or two of light splashing, never mind a true soaking, but that was just as well for it nudged us toward the goal we had hoped for: Getting our senses back. We needed to reacquaint ourselves with the arc of a summer day.

I awakened each day at predawn never sure quite what had opened my eyes. Most likely it was birds. Osprey chirping, eagles' dry shreep-shreep-shreep and the unholy prehistoric graaaaaak of a blue heron. I went for slow walks along the river or up around camp to see what might reveal itself, and I simply sat by the graceful curling rapids and listened to the river in all its range of sounds. Underneath all was a steady heartbeat indistinguishable from my own.

We were pleased to no end to discover that one of the oarsmen, Tom, was a devout and highly obsessed coffee brewer, a barista in disguise. He arose almost as early as I every morning and set about preparing his special brew with what turned out to be characteristic precision and care. Attention to detail matters, Tom and I agreed. He had purchased Peets coffee in advance in a very delicately blended mix, estimating almost exactly how much each of us would care to drink each morning. Starting with the large red speckled tin coffee pot that was set to boiling, he brought out filters, cream, organic sugar and a tea assortment for those unable or unwilling to savor a cuppa joe. Carefully pouring the hot water through the exactly measured grounds in the filter suspended over the coffee urn, Tom could not and would not be rushed or distracted from his crucial chore. This was not coffee to be gulped and ignored just to get a caffeine hit. Banish the thought! This was a special nectar whose full rounded rich flavor exemplified the joys of eating outdoors in a wonderful place.

We learned to be patient, and patience was rewarded. After we had been on the river only one day, for the most part we looked like a pretty motley crew and we were not ambitious nor full of urgency in the slightest. Morningtime found us gradually assembling near the brewing coffee with a distant, unfocused and vaguely unconcerned demeanor. We shuffled and murmured and smiled and remembered we had no idea what time it was and did not even care. We were entropied motes floating, loosely assembled in time and space with one bond between us: A warm, aromatic cup of perfect coffee. We took sips between long gentle inhalations of morning air and then gradually formed a novel idea that breakfast might be nice to have.

So, two of the group were handed likely cooking implements and foodstuffs for the meal. Breakfast was made. We sat again by the river in our camp chairs and stared again at the flowing water, taking long drafts of coffee, savoring what was put on our plates. It seemed that breakfast was reinvented, rediscovered and marveled at as if we were emerging from a coma in a new century.

The several cups of caffeine began to take effect in many ways: Suddenly awakened kidneys went into full gear, heart rates rose noticeably and minds were now alert. Murmuring changed to shouts and songs. It was time to go downriver again. Pack and prepare, assemble and load. Of one mind, we were 16 river floaters with all gear dry bagged, bodies sunblocked and wrapped up again in our stiff, awkward vests and oarsmen taking up position on their respective cooler boxes amidships. We were rogues on the Rogue and having none of this softened pace. Take us down 'er, men! We are ready for what she may have for us!

And ever the river flowed. It always seemed to be something more than a river and yet was only a river. It was simply water flowing down grade to the ocean, of course. But it was free and set us free again, held a mystery deep within itself - green, liquid, reforming constantly and endlessly. Beside it and now riding it again, we were of a mind: the day was in full blaze and the rapids awaited once more. (To be continued)