Note: The following is based on my 04-15-2015 journal entry from our Wabash River to the Gulf of Mexico (source-to-sea) kayak trip.
Today’s search for a convenient place to get off the river for a lunch break was unsuccessful, so we ate in our kayaks. To keep Pray from floating downstream, I pushed a paddle blade into the muddy river bottom to function as an anchor and wrapped my arm around the shaft. As I munched on my peanut butter wrap, I studied seven cement support pillars standing in the water downstream, remnants of an old bridge—the only sign there once was a connection between the opposite banks of the river. What communities did the bridge once connect? Who had traveled on the lone direct path linking the populations? Without a bridge connecting the opposite banks, a woman on her porch can only wave at another woman gardening across the river, making coffee meetups—inconvenient. Why would homes no longer need a bridge to join them? Who decided easy access was no longer necessary? Did heated discussions about the bridge’s removal occur during several meetings? How does a bridge become, as John often quotes the Japanese, “kankeinai” (irrelevant)? So many questions, and no answers, resulting from seven cement pillars existing in the river.
Soon after passing under the non-existent bridge, I heard a gurgling sound. I’ve learned to equate noise with danger.
With a little panic in my voice, I asked John, “What’s that noise?”
Casually, he answered, “Bubbling water?”
“Seriously! Don’t tell me there are rapids ahead. The river has been rising. The water must be too deep here for rapids.” Some people, John included, consider rapids fun. Maybe if I wasn’t so worried about dumping and either losing or drenching everything I own, I might be able to enjoy the challenge.
Speaking of dumping. So far, this is my biggest fear. When asked about trip fears, some inquire if I fear shady people. No. Everyone we have met so far has been either someone we know or someone who has gone out of his or her way to help us. I can’t imagine this view of people changing. Perhaps I am naïve. Also, John makes sure we are cautious—we have bear spray.
Speaking of bear spray. Others have asked if we are afraid of bears. Not yet. But ask me when we are on the Mississippi River.
By being smart and alert, we can avoid most of the dangers people ask about. But preventing dumping isn’t as easy. While I can try to dodge hazards above the water as we travel down the river, unseen risks exist barely below the surface—weird currents, downed trees, large boulders. Any of these threats might cause me to overturn before I realize the enemy exists. The repercussions of dumping are huge—possibly the end of our trip! John continues to emphasize, “If you tip, whatever you do, DON’T LET GO OF YOUR KAYAK.” Although I know he is worried about me, I think he is more concerned about my boat and our food floating down the river.
As we rounded the bend, the water was indeed low enough to bubble over the rocks (hence the gurgle), creating small rapids. We learned later that even when the river levels are up, the water is often low around the Logansport area. Following the protocol we established the first day of the trip, John paddled ahead to investigate while I held back, which is not always easy because the water seems to flow faster near rapids. In our possible-danger-ahead routine John decides his plan of action and shouts, “Follow me.” At that point, I watch his every move so I can determine if I want to take his path or explore my own. Taking my own route would mean he ran into problems I didn’t want to repeat. In this case, I liked his course, so I followed.
Approaching Logansport via the river, we spotted a view those entering Logansport from the road cannot see: the steeple of a white church peeking over the railroad bridge. To me, the steeple represents a place of peace and rest. I let out a contented sigh as I snapped a picture with my iPhone, probably one of our favorite pictures so far. I know I have said this before, but one of my favorite aspects of traveling by kayak is my river view versus my land view from a car. Neither view is better; each is unique and beautiful. Only a handful have seen the view I live with every day. I never tire of my river view.
Here’s The Thing: Living on the river not only provided a different visual view, but it also gave me a unique meditative view. I’ve never driven to a river and found the bridge gone. The missing bridge I noticed during our lunch break didn’t impact my life on the river, but I can’t imagine the inconvenience on land. In addition, fears on the river differ from those on land. I never hear a noise and equate it to rapids and dumping. When I cross over the river on a bridge, I don’t wonder what dangers loom below the water’s surface. The land view of the river is fleeting as we pass over it on a bridge with a brief thought, “the river is low or high today.” Daily land views become unnoticed. How often are we even aware of the steeple of the church? The river’s unhurried pace allowed me to pause and reflect. How can I continue to slow down and ruminate on the world around me in my land life?
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Editor’s Note: This is one of a series of articles written by a group of retired and current teachers — LaNae Abnet, Ken Ballinger, Billy Kreigh, Kathy Schwartz, and Anna Spalding. Their intent is to spur discussions at the dinner table and elsewhere. You may also voice your thoughts and reactions via The News-Banner’s letters to editor.
