The day I spent with my son in Durango felt about 90 hours long. He noticed it, too. Each minute expanded with a protracted, elongated dimension that was quite remarkable. We posited several theories about the pregnant time phenomena and ultimately went with my supposition that everyone is so happy in Durango - so content and present and engaged in whatever fulfilling outdoor activity they are indulging at the moment - that there is a collective desire for the day to never end. This communal satisfaction is projected into the universe, which kindly obliges by altering the time-space continuum in Durango. The resulting outpouring of gratitude by the population aptly rewards the universe, and a positive feedback cycle is established. I really want to move there. I could do a whole lot of mountain biking during 90-hour days.
On our one full day there, my son and I did Durango proud. The Animas river flows directly through town, and the locals clearly worship their swiftly flowing playground. After our three-hour hike, we went to the river to soak our feet and salve the scratches procured during the "free lance" section of our trek. The water was cold and clear, an absolute elixir to our itchy calves and forearms. We sat on rocks in the afternoon sun and waved to the various floatersby. My son said we should float the river. In theory, I was immediately on board; it looked like a blast. The logistics gave me pause. Slight pause. About two minutes worth of pause.
We climbed back in the Xterra and drove up Main Street, passing a tire repair shop with a marquee reading, "Floating tubes for sale." I turned around and we pulled into the rubber-smelling shop. A brief exchange with the desk guy resulted in the purchase of two 16-dollar inner tubes (as opposed to the $14 tubes, which he assured us were far inferior). Sixteen bucks included the cost of inflation. In under ten minutes, we were headed back to the river.
My son and I are not tourist types. We've always opted to go local. It hadn't required much floater observation to discern that the tourists were floating the river in one of two ways: on very expensive, brightly colored tubes equipped with built-in handles and a net to sit in, or on an even more expensive inflatable raft complete with a hunky guide wielding a kayak paddle, lean biceps, and a dark tan. From our perch on the rocks while we soaked our feet, it took no time at all to surmise the way the locals float. We bought our tubes at the tire shop, dumped my son upriver with them, sans his shirt and slathered in sun screen, while I parked the Xterra about three miles downriver and jogged upstream to meet him. I remembered sun screen, too, but opted to keep my shirt on. Luckily, I had selected running shorts and a tank top for our hike; inadvertently they were perfect attire for river floating as well. Driving clear back to the hotel to don a bathing suit would have totally squelched the mood.
Together, we walked a bit further upriver before sighting the perfect place to put in. Plopped down in our tubes with exclamations and expletives as our undersides sunk into the icy water. The current did the rest. We grinned and giggled (before remembering we were masquerading as locals) as the playful river carried us, bobbing and spinning, downstream. Within a hundred yards, we vaulted up the learning curve. Figured out how to lift our butts when white water signaled the presence of a shallow section with protruding rocks. An instinctive directive, as clear as if a banner from one of the bridges we floated under read, "Surrender to the River!" told us to abandon attempts at paddling or steering. We did. Zen and the Art of Floating the Animas.
Thus, we happily drifted down the river. Sometimes fast and choppy, with white water blasting our faces with freezing spray and a hefty current hurtling us briskly along; sometimes leisurely, with time to lift our faces to the warmth of the August sunshine. Things were going splendidly until just past the place where (next time) we will exit the river. I'm pretty sure the locals know it is best not to float past the Highway 160 bridge. That is where our impersonation of the locals went awry, as we naively floated right on under it. My son was downriver from me, and I watched helplessly as the river slammed him into a large rock, knocking him from his tube while it relentlessly swept him down and away. I registered that he appeared to be all right as he popped up, turned to face upriver, got his feet on the ground, and grabbed his tube.
My relief was short lived as the river smacked me into the same rock. Instead of softly bouncing off and continuing on my way (the sequence of events that had unfolded several times in a gentler current), my tube upended, toppling me into the water and crashing me against the rock. The beastly current then swept me along the bottom of the river, careening my body ruthlessly against submerged rocks. For a couple of moments, I flashed back to the crushing wave that pinned me to the bottom of the Pacific while boogie boarding in the 80's. Perhaps that is why it occurred to me quickly to put my feet down. I couldn't keep my balance because the current was so strong, but I became oriented enough to succumb to the motion of the river rather than fight it. When the current abated, I stood up against the force of the river and walk/paddled over to where my riderless tube was floating. It felt good to be reunited.
My son was close by, attempting to climb back aboard his tube. When we were safely tucked back into our respective vessels, we assessed that both of us were no worse for the dumping, nodding our consensus that perhaps we should have exited the river a bit earlier. We calmly floated to the embankment near our car and exited the river. Declared our float trip a success. Chuckled over the group of 13-year-old girls oggling his ripped abs and perfectly defined upper body (residual football muscles are not a bad thing). Contentedly drove back to our hotel.
That river trip is metaphoric of my year so far. I casually, innocently, naively entered the current of blogging and meditating every day. Sometimes things flow along benignly and effortlessly. Through zazen, an instinctive imperative to surrender emerged. I am learning to abandon myself to Reality, with its fickle direction and variable pace. Just when it feels like I have mastered the art of flowing through my life - CRASH - I am slammed into grief and loss and transition and uncertainty. Hurtled along the bottom of a cold and ruthless force in which I am powerless to stand upright.
In the Animus river, careening along the bottom didn't last very long. In no time at all, I was able to stand up, regain my equilibrium, and reach for something to keep me afloat. I'm not sure how long the Reality River will hold me under, and I don't know how many more rocks I'm going to be smashed against. I do know, however, what I will reach for to keep me afloat. It's a cushion, not a tube.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
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