Canoe pride

Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall. Prov. 16:18, KJV

Dad loved to quote scripture. He had vast chunks of the Bible memorized, all King James Version, of course, and Prov. 16:18 was one he quoted often. In most things, Dad was a humble man... most things.

From 1982 to 1991, every year, Mom, Dad, and I went on a canoe trip down the Buffalo River. Not the whole river, of course, and always the same stretch: from Ponca to Grey Rock.

For those unfamiliar with that stretch, there is a small window each year in which one can be fairly well assured of neither having to carry one's canoe for stretches nor of being bashed to bits in wild, swollen rapids. We discovered that after the first two trips.

In '82, we went too late. By June, the river has finished her frantic spring dance and has settled down for her summer nap. For the first half of the day-long trip, our canoe floated lazily between soaring canyon walls, past fat, indolent rattlesnakes sunning on flat rocks, and through cool, deep pools of sun-dappled water sheltered by trees that drooped off cliffs as if hanging on by their roots was an exhausting effort. It was beautiful and peaceful and serene and seven-year-old me could not have been more bored. Except for the snakes. Never one to keep things to myself, I voiced my boredom often and dramatically, which I thought was doing my parents a favor by providing them some entertainment, or at least distraction, in the midst of all that boring scenery. They failed to appreciate my efforts.

Then the water disappeared. One minute we were floating along, the next, our canoe ran aground. For a good mile and a half (ok, probably 50 yards, but it looked like a mile and a half to me) ahead, the riverbed lay bare to the sun, scantily clad with a mere two or three inches of water. We were going to have to carry the canoe and all our gear to where the water deepened again.

My parents were delighted that I had been provided with this opportunity to alleviate my boredom. They expressed what I found to be an inappropriate level of enthusiasm for the idea of me carrying the canoe and them carrying the gear. Of course, if you know me, you know I'm less likely to admit not being up to a task than I am to keep my mouth shut when I should. I got under the canoe, stood up with it, and started marching through the shallow water.

I struggled a good half mile downstream before I felt the back end of the canoe lift behind me. Mom and Dad had watched my valiant efforts, making sounds I assumed were the results of their efforts to shoulder all the gear. Suddenly Dad cleared the distance to me in a few giant, splashing strides - being a superhero, he was able to clear vast distances in a single bound - and picked up the back end of the canoe. Not that I'd been dragging it, of course. He walked the rest of the distance behind me, manfully bearing the load of both half the gear and half the canoe. Mom kept making those snorting noises behind us. I guess she was really having a hard time carrying her portion.

The rest of the trip was fairly uneventful, but I was offended at how relieved Mom and Dad seemed that I was too tired to keep up my witty monologue.

The next year, Dad took pity on me and decided we would go earlier in the year, when spring floods would be certain to have the water deep enough to float the whole stretch. We went the last weekend of March.

I won't embarrass the dead by speaking ill of my father's then-undeveloped canoeing skills. Suffice it to say, the Buffalo in mid-spring is a mighty beast, and it takes more than a trip or two through the rapids at Grey Rock any time of year to develop the level of agility to make it through dry. We did not.

The next year, we found the right window: the last part of April. By then, all three of us had learned the basics of angling through rapids and judiciously using our paddles to keep the canoe upright as we shot through narrow channels of white water.

In 1985, Dad suggested we make it a church trip, and thus, another tradition was born: the annual Ambassador Baptist Church canoe trip. By the time I started junior high, it had become primarily a youth group thing, but Mom and Dad still went every year.

Every year, only one canoe made it through the Grey Rock rapids upright: my parents'. Dad seemed to have a special knack for hitting *just* the right channel at *just* the right angle, then he and Mom would pull their paddles into the canoe and hunker down. They'd shoot through like a bullet, and emerge on the other side dry (mostly) and upright. Everyone else came out on the other side either clinging to their upside down canoe or sputtering and looking for their canoe.

1992 was the last time Dad and I went on the trip. Mom wasn't feeling well, so she stayed home. The last "stop" on the trip before Grey Rock is a small cove shaded on one side by an easily climbed rock face with a convenient ledge about 25 feet above the water's surface. On the other side is a sandy, shady beach big enough for a dozen or so canoes to rest. We stopped there that afternoon, and as Dad, most of the girls, and the saner adults and I watched, the rest of the bunch demonstrated their stupi... I mean, bravery, pardon... by throwing themselves off the rock ledge into the 30-foot-deep water below. When we got ready to get back in the canoes, Dad and his teammate (who shall remain nameless here to protect the identity of the living but who is on FB and, I hope, will read this) heckled the rest of us: "Y'all ready to go in the water now?" and so on.

I had been watching, though. All those years, I had carefully watched how and where he hit the rapids. My canoe-mate, Betsy Fletcher Kelly, and I, watched while most of the rest of the boats went into the channel at Grey Rock. One by one, every one went over. Finally, there were only two canoes left - ours, and Dad's. We paddled out to the middle of the river, aimed the canoe just so, and yanked our paddles out of the water. I threw my arms up and screamed like a madwoman while Betsy frantically mumbled what I think was a prayer.

There it was. The sweet spot. We bobbled back and forth in the channel for a moment, then the rapids grabbed us and it was like being flung from a slingshot. I opened my eyes a few seconds later to see the rest of the group standing dripping on the shore. But we were through! Upright! I whooped and hollered and clambered up on top of the rock to watch Dad. They caught the channel... But not at the right angle. Into the drink they went.

After he emerged on the other side, dripping and sputtering and coughing, Dad took a moment to regain his composure. He looked down at the sodden, squished remains of the box of Little Debbie cakes he'd had in the boat with him, and said, "Well, pride goeth before destruction..."

I haven't been back since. I'm too proud of coming through Grey Rock upright once. I know I'd never be able to do it again.