he’d approached several monks, but not a flicker of recognition had passed over their faces when he hinted at what he was looking for. Grant shook his head. This kayaking trip was an indulgence he couldn’t afford, even if he’d worked the past month without a day off.
He should have finished his dissertation last year. The extension he’d received on his scholarship would run out in the spring, and he was tapped out. From the moment he’d graduated from high school, he’d been on his own financially. His father had rejected his choice of college and his academic interests. He’d worked to pay his way through undergrad at the University of Virginia and now grad school at Emory with a combination of teaching assistant jobs and late nights waiting tables.
Grant pulled his paddle through the jade water. Sweat began to drip inside his black wet suit. What if I can’t find it? The fear nagged at him, but he wouldn’t give in to doubt. He couldn’t let the skeptics in his department at Emory prove him wrong.
He increased the pace of his paddling. The water was getting more tumultuous, and his body responded naturally. His mind, however, was still immersed in his strategy for tracking down the truth. He stroked the paddle with his whole body, his blood surging through his veins as if powered by the energy of his resolve to return to the search. Tomorrow he would visit the monastery in Punakha, a few miles downriver from where he paddled. Of the monasteries he’d targeted, Punakha’s was the largest, but he willed himself not to get his hopes up.
“Whoa,” Dasho called from behind. “Who you racing?”
Grant paused to let his guide catch him. Soon the river picked up speed as the crop fields on each side transitioned into progressively steeper banks. Ten minutes later, the two kayakers were encased inside a gray granite canyon, bumping over the small rapids that occurred with increasing frequency. Only a few trees managed to grow from the sides of the craggy cliffs, their exposed roots clinging to the walls like a rock climber’s fingers searching for holds.
Just ahead, Grant saw that the river narrowed again and then dropped out of sight beyond a grouping of boulders. “Follow me, my friend,” Dasho said, paddling into an eddy near the right cliff wall. The guide raised his voice over the noise of the falling water ahead of them. “Meet Laughing Buddha.”
Grant pointed to the large boulder in the center of the river. “The Buddha’s head?” He enjoyed the creative names paddlers used to describe the rapids, falls, and various obstacles in their rivers, like kids finding animals in the shapes of the clouds.
“The water flows on sides of rock are Buddha’s upheld arms, and fourmeter fall beyond that is Buddha’s body.” Dasho added with a grin, “And if you hit wrong way, he will laugh as you flip.”
“Four meters?”
“Class five. Lots of water this week. Don’t take many tourists to Laughing Buddha.”
Grant felt a twinge of regret for letting his ego rather than his brain fill out the questionnaire about his kayaking experience. Most of his kayaking had actually been on Class III rapids with the occasional IV thrown in for terrifying effect. Now he faced descending the most difficult navigable rapid; the next highest classification, a VI, was considered too dangerous to run.
He examined the cliff walls at the river’s edges—too steep to pull the boats out and walk around. “How do we approach it?”
“See right fork? We take that. At top of fall, paddle hard as you can, and lean back. If you go vertical too soon, you capsize.” Dasho made a flipping gesture with his hands and winked. “No problem for you. Just follow me.”
Dasho spun his kayak, facing the rapid. He yelled over the roar of the falling water, “One more thing: careful when you land. A boulder under high water makes large hole; don’t get caught inside.”
Grant paddled two quick strokes next to his guide. For the first time, he could see over the rapid. The smooth sheets of water at the top of the fall churned into a foamy meringue as they spat over the edge of the rocks and then tumbled into a turbulent frenzy at the bottom. Grant wasn’t sure what made him more nervous: the twelve-foot fall ahead of him or the swirling whirlpool where the water pounded into the river below.
He’d seen a number of hydraulics over the years, but this one was by far the largest. When water cascaded over a large rapid, it would occasionally strike submerged rocks at the bottom that caused the current to recirculate on itself, creating a whirlpool or a hydraulic, as paddlers called them. Rafters and kayakers stuck in hydraulics often had to be pulled out. Both he and Dasho carried throw bags with thirty feet of rope each. He hoped they wouldn’t need them.
“I watch for you at bottom,” Dasho said. Taking long smooth strokes equally on both sides, he guided his kayak through the water straight for the right fork.
Grant caught his young guide’s mistake as soon as he made it. Dasho glanced over his shoulder just before reaching the top of the fall to yell his final words of encouragement, “Don’t forget to have fun!”
A slight error, really, but as Grant had learned, any misstep under dangerous conditions had a way of compounding itself, like an avalanche picking up power as it gathered snow on its slide down the mountain. The slight twist in Dasho’s body caused his kayak to drift off center, just a few inches to the left. The powerful current then exacerbated the problem, pushing him further off his line. Dasho was quick to recover, digging in on the left side of his kayak, paddling ferociously. The bow of his boat swung to the right just as he crested the fall.
He’d overcorrected and his maneuver to straighten his kayak cost him much of his forward momentum.
Grant held his breath, watching from the upper pool. Dasho hit the churning water below nose-first at a steep angle. Grant flinched as the kayak flipped. His guide’s body twisted unnaturally when it slapped the water. A queasy feeling spread through Grant’s stomach.
“Roll, Dasho. Damn it, roll!” he shouted, but he knew his voice couldn’t be heard over the thundering water.
The pale underside of the blue kayak spun in the whirlpool as water pummeled it from the fall above. Dasho should have either rolled or exited the kayak by now, but Grant saw no sign of him. His guide was either trapped or unconscious. In either case, he needed help.
Grant knew he had to descend the rapid quickly. A checklist of his options flashed through his mind. Landing on top of the other kayak would create a whole new set of problems. A glance to shore confirmed his earlier assessment—no way to go around. His only choice: time his fall just right.
With a firm, two-handed grip, Grant lifted his paddle in the air and let his boat drift forward slowly. Another few seconds, he guessed, watching the boat below. His heart pounded as if he’d been paddling hard, although he had yet to move. Just a second more. His breathing quickened.
Now.
The moment Dasho’s kayak spun to the left, Grant sank his paddle deep into the water. His arms and back burned with his effort. He hit the rapid dead-on. The roar of the water and his own pulse drummed in his ears. Pressing his feet into the kayak’s plastic footrests, he leaned his long torso into his last strokes. The drop came so quickly, he didn’t even register it until he felt the splash of his impact.
Grant squinted through the cold Himalayan spray.
There!
Dasho’s boat bobbed upside down only a few feet away. Four quick strokes and he bumped against it.
