The river sends out a warning

Storm approaching. Photo by David Lansing.

Late this afternoon the weather turned ominous. A stiff wind rolled upriver through the canyon, slowing our progress to a crawl. Fat drops of rain, like grapes, splat on the surface of the water. Some in the boat scrambled to dig up fluorescent plastic ponchos and damp, moldy smelling sweatshirts out of the day bags.

Nobody talked. We hunkered down, heads scrunched atop our shoulders like nesting ducks, while Arlo, all business, slipped on fingerless rowing gloves, braced his feet against the blue metal groove cans, and got his legs into it.

An hour or so later, we reached our campsite for the night, a small island about the length of a football field and only a hundred feet or so wide.

Lightning crackled above the canyon walls. Thunder rumbled through the ancient rock, vibrating in the earth beneath us. The crew ignored the storm and went about their business while most of the peeps hid in their tents. The River Buddha and I sat by the river’s edge counting the interlude between lightning and thunder, trying to figure out if the storm was moving towards us or away. Sometimes, before we could event count One, the thunder smashed into our bodies like a prizefighter’s jab to the chest.

There was so much static electricity in the air that when Arlo came over with a metal pot of citrus-infused wine and vodka, which Sarah Jane had blended up for cocktail hour, I got a shock just reaching for the metal ladle. Arlo laughed at my involuntary yelp.

“She’s warning us,” said the River Buddha.

“Who?”

“The river.”

Perhaps he is right.