Why am I doing this? Threat holds no appeal for me. I sit out high-risk stuff—skydiving, rock climbing, downhill skiing—I had enough scares growing up, thank you. I want my life to pass before my eyes just that once, when it’s supposed to, right there at the end.
“This is not that,” Jim had assured me. He could hardly be more different than my brother John. Both railed against bullies, but Jim’s never been one. He fights them in court. Puffy-eyed and hawk-nosed from poring over depositions and briefs, building cases for the underdog—medical malpractice, workman’s comp, domestic violence—his is the kind, fervent face of a saint carved into medieval stone, and his manner could coax a cat out of a creamery.
“It’s a float, not a raft trip. River’s low, end of July. Glide through the spectacular country. Water so clear you could cry. Rock gardens. I’ll teach you fly fishing. It’s so remote the fish practically come up and shake your hand.”
Sumptuous visions of “A River Runs Through It” arise, but the real allure runs deeper. Whenever he talks about the backcountry, Jim’s eyes sparkle like wet agate. I’ll never really know my dear loquacious brother unless I go “back” with him. I’m sixty-two, he’s sixty. John died at sixty-five. If not now, when?
And consider the rest of the intrepid band: our beloved little sister Ro (love being with her), Jim’s grown sons Mike and Jack, our brother Tom’s son Don, with his two kids and their cousin—all people I want to know better. All kind hearts with good senses of humor. And everybody else has loads of wilderness experience. The beauty. The challenge. The family. Why not?
Had I known all this trip would entail—the blood, the tears, the horror—would I have said yes?
•••
In the hotel parking lot, Jim instructs me to “fine-tooth-comb” my suitcase.
Good Boomer that I am, I’ve procured the right equipment: well-made sunglasses, wicking shirts, pants that zip to shorts. Teeny travel towel. Compressible pillow. All-purpose camp soap to wash hair, self, dishes and laundry. Oh, and a tiny set of watercolors for idle hours. Only thing New York couldn’t provide was the mysterious item “bear spray.”
“Eliminate anything unnecessary. Rest goes in this dry bag,” he says, holding out one of the ostensibly waterproof nylon bags in which all belongings will be secured.
“I’ll leave my lipstick, but everything else was on your packing list. Except you forgot towels. I got this.”
I produce my handy little foldable quick-dry towel.
“We have towels, you won’t need it.”
“But it folds into nothing.”
“Nah, you don’t need it. Or that—we have plenty of bug spray. Leave the pillow, just use your sweater.”
“Oh.” My crest falls a bit. Okay. Rough it, girl.
•••
All loaded up, we breakfast at The Stone of Accord, an Irish restaurant. According to legend, ancients sealed their contracts, marriages, and other agreements by shaking hands through a hole at the top of the freestanding stone. We grip and grin through their replica.
Full of pancakes, laughter, and accord, we drive to the trailhead, where we’ll meet up with Ro, camp for the night, and head out at daybreak on horses.
Holland Lake shimmers at the foot of the Swan Range, a wing of the Rockies. Situated on the shore, the campground has a Pledge-of-Allegiance view. Three states of matter—lake, mountain, and sky—adjoin so harmoniously your hand almost springs to your heart.
But when we arrive, a bony old Percy-Kilbride caretaker tells us tonight all the campsites are full.
Our vehicles slink from the campground, tailpipes between our wheels. Shoulda reserved. But we spot a parking lot below a small hill. This’ll do. We haul essentials up and make camp in the long grasses under the trees. It’s a ways to walk for water and the last restrooms we’ll enjoy for a week, but up here no neighbor’s playlist or clatter on macadam intrudes. Even the Ponderosas sigh.
I decide to walk to the lake. I emerge from the evergreens to behold, as if dropped from the clouds, my beloved sister gazing at the water. Framed by soft turquoise waves, her slender form sways ever so slightly on the pebbly shore. Sweet flash of the best of our childhood: up at the lake.
Whoops, hollers, huge hugs. Those deep, familiar, kind, kind eyes. That delicate skin, her blunt cut dashed with chestnut. People mistake her for Diane Keaton, not only because of her looks. By nature, Ro shares that delightful “La-di-da” quality and those self-effacing, syncopated cadences.
After a quick catch-up, we fall silent, staring up in admiration and fear at a big fissure in the glorious mountain.
“I think that’s our horse trail tomorrow,” I venture. How much of what Jim told me should I tell her? Eight hours in the saddle. Trail broiling in the open sun, slippery with scree. Horses might shy. We’ll be sore for two days. But she’s talked to him herself.
“He told me there’s a sheer drop-off on one side. We might get frightened and light-headed. Have to dismount and walk. The guide might not even stop to let us pee. They just keep going. He said we only get one little water bottle apiece, to keep the saddlebags light.”
“I’m not giving up my chamois cream! I googled saddle sores. It’s what professional bike racers use. But you know how bad I am when I’m dehydrated.”
“God, I hope we’re up to this.” We look at each other and scream. “Aaaahhhh!” Then laugh.
“But this time tomorrow the worst of our trip will be over, right?”
“Jim says we’ll just float and fish and read. Right?”
Returning to camp, Ro and I are touched to discover our considerate nephew Don not only packed sleeping bags and air mattresses for both of us, he brought and erected “Big Agnes,” a peachy little two-person tent. His aunties will have shelter and privacy in the wild.
What a great guy! Thoughtful, always willing to help. And that sweet open face—if you look fast and slap on a mental mustache, why, it could almost be my Dad’s.
The Oaken Field
In his early fan photos, Dad could have passed for Clark Gable’s less rakish, undimpled brother: same dark hair, generous brow, mustache. And he wasn’t even on camera yet.
Here in our ’50s dining room, he presided at our long, heavy, Spanishly-dark oak refectory table, curly swerves carved into the massive ball feet and the matching chair backs. If our family were a piece of furniture, it would be this weighty, battered, accommodating, honest table. The most stimulating, philosophical, and entertaining conversations took place here; later, some of the most traumatic.
The grand rambunctious parliament of dinner: huge table, edged with eager us, tipping in the carven chairs, yearning to tell what we learned in school, to ignite some grand discussion, to contribute to it, make some rare, insightful point: to solve the very sound of the tree falling by itself in the forest.
Get the dictionary! Look it up! Semantics! Standard English! And always, if
