Kristine Joy, Writer

Dedicated to the American River rafting crew of the Summer of ’99 – my Dad, brother Dan, Uncle Don, cousin DJ, cousin Diana and our tenacious guide! I am forever grateful that my Uncle Don survived getting sprung from the raft like a Jack-in-the-Box, his ensuing (what seemed like) 8 seconds of levitation 8 feet in the air before plunging into the raging Class 5 rapids.

👆Don’t Try This At Home

Jacob steered the raft around a bend and spotted a sandbar that could be used to moor the boats for the evening. He and the others would have rafts unpacked, tents upright and dinner tabled for 24 before nightfall – hot dogs and hamburgers with grill marks, baked beans with stirred-in bacon bits, a variety of chips, a fruit salad of strawberries, cantaloupe and grapes to start, and the makings for s’mores at the end of the table for the fire that would be blazing for hours. Coolers were stocked with beer, juice, soda and bottled water, and placed close to a group of fallen logs that would serve as bench seating.

The camp was set behind a thick row of trees that lined the sandbar. The branch cover was dense, thus making the circular open area quite the opposite, concealed, and had been barely penetrable. The dirt beneath their cold and fatigued bodies was also hidden by a thick layer of pine straw that was moisture-laden and tamped down by wildlife. Jacob had thrown his tent down on the one patch that seemed to get a flash frame of sunlight such that the groundcover was soft and dry, a blessing (for him at least) when it came to sleep and equipment. The others meandered about in search of areas that were flat enough and with the least number of protruding immovable rocks. Had there been ominous music playing in the background, the scene would be set for a bear attack, a lurking shadow or an eerie campfire story sprung true.

Why Jacob stopped at this secluded sure-to-be their graveyard was a mystery that everyone was thinking but scared to ask. How had he even known that the opening existed? They couldn’t see the rafts; would they still be there in the morning? The patrons haphazardly set up tents, some with use of instructions. All of them, in their brand new Patagonia gear from head to toe, making them appear as Fall leaves (in red, orange and yellow) or in this case, more like targets against a camouflaged backdrop. And all of them hypothesizing: perhaps it was just a matter of timing since the sun was setting, or maybe Jacob had stayed here before? Perhaps the other guides had used this site for an overnight when they were the designated lead guide? But Megan Norris and Todd Billings shook their heads indicating that that was a negative.

At six foot two and with sandy blond hair that was short with curls, Jacob stood near his tent and removed his wet highlighter yellow shirt that was required of all the guides, and replaced it with a dark gray hooded sweatshirt. He zipped the bottom halves of his khaki climbing pants back on, and glanced outward to survey the progress. The women had taken note of his defined musculature and tanned body; the men had also but their internal thoughts were of envy rather than enrapture. He was definitely an outdoorsman with the emphasis on man – fearless, rugged and assertive. 

My cousin took a hamburger and squirted ketchup on top before placing a spoonful of baked beans on the other side of his paper plate. Chips were strategically placed in one quadrant and his fruit salad, he situated adjacent. Food touching on his plate was a pet peeve of his; I laughed at the thought of a runaway grape ending up in the sauce of the baked beans – a tragic death – and then shivers ran down my spine as I wondered if this had been a foresight of my own demise on this trip, the pool being blood and the grape, a full moon overhead. 

We – my brother, Dad and I, plus my Uncle and two cousins – sat like ants on a log (on an actual log). My Dad opened the cooler and passed a beer to my brother and I despite my underage status. I chalked this up as a rite of passage moment and so, cracked the top and took a sip – bitter! Through the flames, I could see Megan across from me; I yearned to be more like her when I was of drinking age – a self-reliant outdoorswoman, who was somehow both bold and carefree. I secretly wondered if she welcomed the attention that Jacob often gave to her, or if she’d rather be sitting next to shy guy Todd.

My Mom had planned this four day, three night, white water rafting trip on the American River for the six of us – she and my Aunt had dropped us off at the lodge per the itinerary and seemed a bit too excited about their extended break from children and their respective spouse for any of us to believe that they’d miss us to the degree they insisted would be the case. I sat shivering from still slightly damp clothing, and pictured my Mom and her sister sitting in a Lake Tahoe resort hot tub overlooking a mountain and talking shop(ping). Despite my momentary discomfort and fear that I may or may not survive the rapids, hypothermia, sleeping in a tent or the company around me, I’d choose being surrounded by creatures over creature comforts any day of the week.

To be continued….?

“At risk of carrying this Vesalian analogy a bit too far, there is another way to think about a story vis-à-vis expansion: not as a framework, but as a discrete element—a chapter—already fully formed. An organ. Something that cannot survive long without a body around it. The lone chapter dies without its surrounding novel.” – Bill Cotter (How Do You Know If Your Short Story Should Be a Novel?)