There was a shell to the man, long before I met him. It was etched on his face, plain for the world to see. There were cracks, occasionally, when he laughed. Or when he was concentrating hard. Otherwise, Zach’s face had grown around and become one with the shell. New, sun kissed wrinkles appeared each year, but the shell remained, a constant.
We went out one day, on the river, in a red canoe. We planned to shuttle, paddle and camp for the night. Our first ever paddling trip together. Also, a chance for Zach to stretch his paddling arms and jog his muscle memory before the annual 5-day McQuesten river trip, with the boys. He got the gear together, while I packed our food. One glance at the 6 pack I put in the cooler, and he said “that’s not enough”. It came out punctuated by a half snort. And he wordlessly added a 2 more 6 packs, without saying more than that. He was a man of few words and, that, coupled with his shell, often gave people the impression he was judging them. You had to come to know the man, beneath the shell, to understand.
Zach thought the world of his boy’s mother, as one should. The only inkling of a bad thing he told me about her was:
“She’s crazy when she’s drunk”.
Who isn’t? He told me the story of losing her in Mayo, where they had a cabin together, in years past. They had been drinking, and, after having searched high and low, he was so concerned for her wellbeing that he wound up calling the RCMP. For his part, liquor seemed to soften the hard edges of the shell, ever so slightly. He laughed a little easier.
After a car ride, listening to good tunes and navigating down a steep hill to the river’s edge, we were finally off. The air was crisp, and sweet with the smell of Fall leaves, some still desperately clinging to trees. The water was exquisitely clear.
The first part of the river was meandering. I could see straight through to her rocky bottom. We practiced some strokes, as we set out, which were only a distant memory for me, having not paddled in many moons. Confident that I could execute some sort of maneuvers from the bow that would help us, we continued on down the river. As I looked over my shoulder, at the end of my stroke, I glanced a river otter. I could see him clear as day, through the water’s surface, effortlessly gliding his silky smooth body through the ripples left by our canoe. If only we could move as deftly as him. For a moment, it felt like we were. Paddling in tandem, advancing with the pull of the river and barely a sound.
The sun came out and warmed the crisp air considerably. The pines that dotted the shore saluted us, as we floated by. Interrupting the cascading water and bird calls, Zach cracked a beer. He offered me one too. I accepted. Perhaps that would take the edge off the butterflies in my stomach.
The river was glorious and beautiful, but I have always held a fear of water from a young age. It doesn’t help that my swimming skills mainly consist of the dog paddle. A few gulps eased things, somewhat, but mostly it was the sun’s warmth that softened my anxiety and fear. He cracked a second. And then a third, in short order. I capped things off after the first, wanting some assurance of using the right paddling stroke when the time came.
We heard the water before we saw it. Then we felt its’ insistent pull, leading the underbelly of our canoe, Alicante. With some effort, we managed to guide her to the river’s edge. Hopping out, we secured her to some brush. The roar of the water became louder. We followed an old footpath and scouted the rapids. As we talked things over, my heart dipped into my stomach, tapping a constant drumbeat. Zach was more confident, or at least he appeared to be. He was certainly the more experienced paddler between us, although he usually took the bow on the boys’ trip. Maybe it was his experience or maybe it was the liquid courage? Perhaps, some combination of both. We walked back and forth, back and forth examining lines and options. He proposed, what I thought to be impossible. But the alternative was a sure swim. We didn’t have dry suits and that was sure to be a chilly affair. Reluctantly, I nodded my head; the drumbeat louder and stronger. At once, he said “it’s now or never”. I wanted more time, more mulling over, but with each passing minute dread and uncertainty seeped deeper into my bones. He must have seen it on my face. He made an executive decision. I, for my part, rehearsed the paddling strokes we had practiced earlier, sweeping the air with my paddle as we walked back to Alicante. The birds watched us. And then, we pushed off. No more time for indecision.
I could tell you that day on the river changed us, each of us, and our relationship. It did, but that sounds too cliché. Let me explain. In reality, Zach’s shell remained. I never did feel completely at ease sharing what was on my heart. There were other issues too. The boy and his mother. But on that day, on the river we partook in a series of moments, in turn glorious, gut-wrenching, awkward, beautiful and peaceful. Learning to love a river is the work of a lifetime.
