Alone on Verde River
Kayaking Verde River this afternoon. All on my own except for the blue heron, a silent sentry granting me passage on this lazy, sunny day.
Very soon I come upon two guys sharing a canoe in the river ahead of me. I become acutely aware that I am alone. Alone with two white men ahead and no one around. A copper taste warms my mouth and I realize that it had been there in the background even before I left the shore, this fear.
Idiot! What the heck are you doing? Going out alone on a strange river in a kayak, alone. I’m rake myself over the coals. Sure, I lived near Emerson Lake as a kid and have had off and on experience in the water most of my life, but going out alone? Why did I do this to myself? I know why, of course.
I want to be brave in this life. I want to have courage and confidence. Only five minutes into my solo trip, I’m angry, regretting this foolish need.
Calm. Breath. I sit up taller, my strokes cleaner as a way—I hope—to portray a strength I don’t have.
The guy in the back of the canoe calls out to me and I tense. Let this not be that moment, I whisper. I take in his camo baseball hat, shiny new life preserver, his beard, age—early twenties? As if any of that can tell me if I’m safe.
“Do you know a good fishing hole?” he asks and I notice a red cooler in front of him with a fishing pole across it.
I shake my head, glance at his friend, and slow my craft. Taller than his friend, he sits in the front, knees pointed in the air, paddle awkward in his hands.
“Are there any rapids in this river?” the friend in front asks me, adjusting his weight. When the canoe shakes in protest to his movement, he drops the paddle and grips the sides. I move from fear to friend, motherly even.
“I really think you’re okay here, “ I tell him as if I know. He smiles weakly and takes up the paddle again, gripping it in the same way he grasped the canoe.
I pass them, feeling lighter, more of this place. Something about their anxiousness has given me confidence. I try to see me as they saw me. Older woman with grey hair kayaking alone. They must think I know what I’m doing, right? That is badass.
In a short time I gain quickly on a small group of canoes. The guide at the back paddles up to me to tell me she’s leading them to a vineyard downstream. “It’s a little uneven with this group,” she tells me with a wry smile. I slow down, trailing behind them. Some of them skim the water with ease but others paddle in circles inside the riffles like boat tops. At the second riffle, I have to ground myself on a rock to avoid crashing into a woman who spins and spins and spins, laughing as if this is the most natural way to move through a river.
I know she’s enjoying herself, but I’ve come seeking flow and am frustrated.
I steer my kayak beneath the trees and cattails that shut out the sounds of their laughter. Let them all go by. Stay present to this spot. Here I turn frustration to calm as I breath in the earthy grass of the shore, Listen to the hum of insects, the lapping of water against my kayak.
After a while, I set out alone again and this time I am free of that voice who came with me at the start of this trip. In that space something new rises. An old memory of the child I used to be. The girl who paddled Emerson Lake with—I search for the right word. Trust? Yes, I used to trust myself, didn’t I? My bravery came from that.
With that I’m off. Paddling around rocks and through a few small rapids. I am now so attuned to the river that I blow past where Dwayne and Neo are waiting for me at the putout. But I hear Dwayne’s whistle, like a dove’s call, signaling me to shore.
