Читать книгу Canoeing with Jose - Jon Lurie - Страница 16

BROKEBACK BAPTISM

Thirty minutes into our voyage, I made a shoddy command decision. As we approached the whitewater created by a low-head dam, I mockingly paraphrased the campy training video I’d seen at a program in junior high. Kocher had attended the same program, and now he joined me in imitating the narrator:

The river’s most perilous obstruction, the low-head dam, is a wall-like structure just below the surface. As water flows over it and drops, a backwash is created, trapping anything that floats. Even small low-head dams can become brutal death traps when river levels are high.

In this case the river surely was high, and the low-head was producing a class II rapid, with standing waves the size of sports cars.

I knew enough to avoid it, but Kocher encouraged us to run the dam. “This is way smaller than anything you’ll see on the Hayes,” he said. “You need the practice.”

Due in equal parts to Kocher’s ill-conceived encouragement and to laziness, I decided to run the rapid rather than portage our overloaded canoe. Kocher grabbed the food barrel and a pack, and stood on land taking photos as we paddled back from the dam.

José twisted and winced. “We really gonna do this, dawg?”

I hadn’t run a rapid of any consequence since I was 16 years old, paddling the Ogoki River in northern Ontario. All I had for José was baseless bravado. “We’ll get through it,” I said, “just paddle.”

As we passed over the dam and swooshed down the rushing slide behind it, the canoe smashed into the first frothing line of standing waves. José was thrown onto one knee, and he grabbed the left gunwale with both hands. The canoe dipped left, the standing wave crashed over the rails, and river water filled the boat. José and I were pulled into the churning backwash along with our food and gear, then jettisoned unscathed from the lethal mayhem below the dam. As I popped to the surface, I found José clutching the partially submerged bow, his eyes wild with panic.

“Stay with the canoe, and keep your feet out in front of you,” I shouted. “You’re alright! Your life jacket will float you.”

We swam the canoe to shore and began corralling our tackle box, the GPS receiver, and whatever else we could find. As we were doing so, I looked upstream and saw Kocher in trouble.

He was standing in the current below the dam, up to his chest in roiling pandemonium, weighted down by the 80-pound Duluth pack strapped to his back. Demonstrating fearlessness and the superhuman strength I had come to expect from him, Kocher trudged to land, then continued over to where we were standing waist-deep against the steep rocky bank, emptied his hands of supplies, and fished us out of the river with an outstretched hand.

I was eager to empty the boat and get back in the water, but José was furious. “Why the fuck did you do that? You tipped us. You said we’d get through it.”

I ignored him, focused on emptying and then reloading the canoe. As we returned to the river, I noticed a bearded man in a black pickup parked across the channel near the dam. I had seen the same vehicle at the boat landing in Breckenridge. The driver was watching us, smiling cruelly.

I could see the rage in José’s eyes. As if things weren’t bad enough, now a redneck was laughing at him. Standing knee-deep in the water, he demanded to use my phone. He said he was going to call Homegirl J, so she could come pick him up. I dug the soaked phone out of a dripping pack and handed it to him. José burrowed into the duffer spot, pulled his headphones over his ears, and went unresponsive.

Kocher and I paddled a docile draw over the next mostly sunny 25 miles. Around every bend, as if the river hadn’t seen humans since Sevareid, deer bolted between the cottonwoods, and bald eagles, startled from their nests, took wing on fabulous spans, often swooping down to take a closer look at us. Canadian geese honked, warning us to keep our distance, and scurried to shore to shepherd goslings among the vegetation. Throughout this first extended leg of the voyage, José spit out C-Murder lyrics, moving only to slap with his paddle at the larger geese when they swam close to the boat.

I’d taken some difficult kids out on the water, but I’d never seen anyone show such disdain for Mother Earth. Kocher didn’t have to turn around to see my frustration. Per usual, though, his analysis was sage. “He’s creating his own little urban environment inside those headphones,” he explained. “It’s going to take time. You have to be patient.”

We stopped for the night at a city park in Abercrombie, North Dakota. There wasn’t much to the place beyond grass, an outhouse, a dock, and a lighted gazebo.

The rain returned, but we stayed dry under the gazebo while Kocher prepared a deluxe dinner from ziplocked ingredients. We had pita sandwiches stuffed with thick cuts of mozzarella, sweet heirloom tomatoes, spinach, arugula, fresh-squeezed lemon juice, and mint.

José fished from shore on his own, ignoring my request that he wait to wet his line until we had a fishing license, and disregarding appeals to help set up the tent or assist in preparing the meal. I was increasingly frustrated. When it came to expeditions, I knew only one way to behave, and it was based on an unwritten code I had learned from the trip leaders who first took me into the wilderness:

• Don’t dive into a river without first checking for submerged objects.

• Don’t let canoes touch anything but air and water, lest they tear and make it impossible to paddle home.

• Don’t reach into the communal trail mix bag with your hand, lest you spread intestinal disease to the rest of the group.

• Don’t run in camp or on trails, lest you twist an ankle and burden the group with your evacuation.

• Always strap Duluth packs to thwarts to prevent them from sinking in the event of capsizing in deep water.

• Never wash dishes in a lake or stream; soap and food waste are environmentally invasive.

• Make sure camp is set and all chores complete before engaging in nonessential activities.

As a novice I had rebelled against these strictures, which seemed to take all the fun out of canoe trips. But over the years I had come to understand their utility.

The following morning, José stashed the fishing pole a minute before the sheriff arrived in camp on a black S-10. A middle-aged white man in Wranglers and a cowboy hat, he initially didn’t identify himself, choosing instead to poke around our campsite, his six-year-old son in tow, asking about our intentions.

This would be the first of several encounters we had with law enforcement. Whether it was the fact that we were an unusual pair of travelers heading toward an international border in an age of terrorism hysteria or simply the kind of harassment people of color endure every day in America, our trip seemed to be viewed by government officials as a criminal act. In fact, we would be interrogated by officials from five different agencies by the time we crossed into Canada.

While their approaches varied, they all asked the same questions. How do you two know each other? Where are you going? How long do you expect the trip to take? How did you get time off for such a long trip? How will you know where you’re going? What are you going to eat? Why are you doing this?

After seeing José lose his cool at the sight of these authority figures the first couple times we encountered them, each jittery utterance sketchier than the last, I invariably took the lead in handling the exhanges. My responses were cautious and truthful. I was José’s mentor. We had met five years earlier at New Voices, a Minneapolis-based journalism program for Native American youth. We expected our trip on the Red, Nelson, Echimamish and Hayes Rivers to take roughly two months. José’s employer had granted him a leave of absence for the summer. I was a teacher, so I had summers off. We were navigating with topographical maps, compasses, and a GPS receiver. For sustenance we had freeze-dried camping food.

Invariably, the officer would nod suspiciously in response, then run our names for warrants. But the trickiest part of these interrogations was inventing answers in response to that last question: Why are you doing this? The question always seemed to imply that no sane person would undertake such a journey without sinister motives. Here too, though, I went with a clipped version of the truth: the trip was about physical and spiritual renewal.

This last point almost always signaled closure to these absurd exchanges, greeted as it was by looks of utter astonishment. For as anyone who is even vaguely familiar with the Red River knows, it is one of the most unforgiving waterways in America. And yet, the torture entailed by canoeing 10 or 12 hours each day to cover 30 or 40 miles, eating and sleeping on riverbanks that were essentially mud pits, baking under the withering sun, and freezing through frequent cloudbursts was, for us both, a welcome respite from the heartache and stress that had come to dominate our lives in Saint Paul. Particularly in this first stage of the journey, our days on the river entailed a strong element of self-mutilation. The physical pain and demands of the travel relieved our suffering hearts.

Because there was no freshwater available at the city park and the river was too brown with sediment for our filtration equipment, we decided to walk into town to fill our jugs before shoving off. We climbed up the riverbank and found a narrow trail that led up a leafy incline. In the deep shade of the willows the air turned uncomfortably chilly. José and Kocher, walking before me, stopped simultaneously.

“Do you smell that?” Kocher asked.

José sniffed. “It smells like old blood.”

Kocher agreed. “It’s creepy in here.”

I wasn’t sure what I smelled—rusty iron, perhaps—but I felt claustrophobic and pushed forward to take the lead. We emerged shortly thereafter on a sunny prairie, in the middle of which stood an old Army post consisting of a few hastily constructed cabins. This was Fort Abercrombie, founded in 1857 to protect the valley’s early white settlers.

During the US-Dakota War of 1862, Dakota warriors repeatedly attacked the fort, sneaking up from their canoes on trails like the one we had just walked. Few Indians were able to penetrate the withering hail of gunfire, and according to historians, dozens had been killed in the effort to make their way through the dense willows between the river and the garrison. When I shared this with Kocher and José, we all agreed that this was hallowed ground.

We filled our jugs at the local pub, which appeared to be the only active establishment in town. It was a couple hours past sunrise, but already the stools were humming with what must have been a good portion of Abercrombie’s population. The townies were welcoming, and the bartender topped us off with a genuine smile.

José remained in the doorway while Kocher and I went inside. I noticed him scanning the all-white locals with a worried expression. I thought his fear unwarranted in this case, but after the haunting walk from the river, he was in no mood to test their tolerance. When we came out a few minutes later, José was gone, making his way back to the river.