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Silent Nights Grunting Along The Colorado With the Guys. By Susan Zakin
Mark's mother, Grace, was a hardworking nurse who lived in the perfectly preserved 19th-century fishing town of Stonington. Each year, she'd make a traditional Christmas goose. We'd eat, and then she'd leave to take care of the bossy old woman we called "The Nazi." The minute she was out the door, Mark's sisters would cry out, "Mark, where's the pot?!!!" Mark would bring out the first of many joints, and we'd settle down in front of the woodstove for a hyper-competitive game of Scrabble. Sometimes we'd go out to the Knickerbocker in Westerly, Rhode Island to dance to Roomful of Blues. Those were the days. There is a Western version. This winter, I spent four days kayaking and rafting the Colorado River between Grand Junction and Moab with three guys. That might sound great to some of you women out there, especially the single ones. It wasn't bad, as long as you don't mind most communication taking place via silence and grunting. That's entirely appropriate for a river trip, so it was OK with me. At least it was OK except when I was stuck between two rocks with cold water seeping between my legs and not getting very good direction about how to extricate myself. That's when I missed my friend Cynta deNarvaez, river goddess extraordinaire, professional boatman. Cynta is six feet of female muscle, buffed frontal lobes, and WASP-Cuban aristocrat bone structure. Plus, she explains things. What could I do? Cynta was in some foreign country yet again, therefore unable to offer instruction. So, after the second snarl of rocks, my friend Roger and I had a little chat. "Roger," I said. "You know I haven't kayaked big rivers before." "Uh." Standard grunt. "This is what I need you to do." Silence. "When you see a rapid coming up, you need to stay near me and give me direction about how to run it. OK? Stay near me. Tell me what to do. Got that?" "Uh, yeah." Of course, by then we were less than a mile from the campsite. The next day the other guys joined us. One was named Jim. He's a cancer researcher. I don't know much more about him. He was nice, he seemed smart, and he was clearly a good oarsman. Didn't talk much. That was OK. We shared a coffee jones, but even my special Davis-Monthan jet fuel blend didn't make him exactly effusive. Then there was Jerome. Thank god for Jerome. Thank god for Frenchmen. Jerome is French, you see, and on the rare occasion that we both felt like talking, we talked about interesting things. Like why Europeans aren't as materialistic as Americans, the transvestite bar in the South of France whose denizens he had photographed, the overrated mystique of pickup trucks and why everyone has to own one at least once in their life. These conversations took place because I was sitting behind Jerome handing him things. After two days of paddling, we were approaching the rapids. My approach was to ditch the kayak and hop on the back of Jerome's inflatable catamaran, sitting on a tied-down duffel bag with a little canoe pad on top of it. Jerome did all the hard stuff. I watched his muscles and smelled him. (He smelled great, but I didn't tell him.) As previously mentioned, I handed him things. That's what us pre-soccer women do. Soccer hadn't yet become the religion of teenage girls when I was at that tender age. In high school, I avoided gym, and when possible, school itself. Other than that, I chased boys. That was sport enough. Pre-soccer grrl that I am, I felt no desire to learn to row well enough to navigate these Class Three rapids. For the uninitiated, Class Three isn't that big. Class Five are the biggest. But Class Three would have dumped me in that cold Colorado water. I know, because that's where Roger ended up. Twice. Sure, I rowed the cat a few times, but only in flat water. I tried to do it long enough not to embarrass myself with Jerome. I had trouble keeping the boat going straight, but it felt good, natural. Most of the time, I let the boy row. Really, it was fine. So was the trip. As good as Christmas in Connecticut. I imagined the world's big rivers as pulsing veins. I saw the arc of time moving across canyon walls. I felt the sky against my face. I came home acclimated to 20-degree nights. I heard the sound of rushing water in my dreams. Funny thing about those dreams. It wasn't long afterwards that I dreamed that I was kayaking again. The river was sunny this time, brutal high-elevation winter not even a memory. I was happy, I was strong. I was rowing my own boat. The more I think about it, that's what I want for Christmas.
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