The only thing I can do is get centered and steady and hold on to my stick. My stomach drops out from underneath me before the river does. Miraculously my little boat stays facing forward. Down into the froth and back out again, down three more levels of rapids, the whole thing goes as smoothly as it possibly could.
Now the river truly quiets. But I’m not quiet. I’m laughing. I just survived a mother-effing waterfall. How the hell did I do that? I have no idea; but I’m glad I did. Having ridden a waterfall all the way down takes the sting out of seeing the helicopter. Right now it’s much easier to have faith in providence, to believe that I am where I’m supposed to be.
The sun is about to dip behind the mountains. My friend the moon is going to pay me a visit sooner rather than later, and a visit from a friend is always nice. Before all sunlight is lost, I pull up to a nice, sandy bank. It’s a good place to work on my boat. It’s worse for wear after going through the rapids. It takes quite a while to get it pumped up again. By the end I’m feeling a bit weaker than I’d like to. Unfortunately, there are no mussels around.
Sitting there, I don’t think about being hungry, or what else I might find to eat. At least I don’t consciously think about it. But then something clicks in my mind, and I realize I’m looking at dandelions. The flowers are long gone, but the leaves remain. I’ve heard stories of dandelion tea, though I’ve never had it, and I know people pick the leaves and put them into salad.
These are safe to eat. With a thrill I pick a leaf and taste it. Not bad. A bit spicy, but not anything unpleasant. I want to grab up whole handfuls and eat, but it’s important to chew slowly. My stomach is fragile. Besides, the slower I eat, the more full I’ll feel.
By the time I’m done with my salad of wild greens, it’s dusk. I push off into the water, and my old anxiety, the desire to find a highway, comes alive within me.
Everything’s okay, I tell myself. I’m alive. I’ve eaten. I have a boat. It’ll be okay. I will find a highway.
Something new has taken over my world. Fog. It came on a little at a time, and at first I thought it was pretty. When it was nothing more than scenic wisps of smoke on the water, it was pretty. This is something else. This is like wading through wool. There must be heavy clouds above me, because no moonlight, no starlight, can find its way through the thickened air. There will be no visit from the moon tonight. This makes me sadder than it should. I need a friend now more than ever.
There is a new kind of quiet, too. The rustle of leaves and the sweet gurgle of the river have given over to a dead calm. It’s as though the only things that exist are me and my boat and the water that surrounds me. I can’t see either bank, and there hasn’t been any rock for some time.
The river has broadened and deepened, becoming a lazy sort of southern river. Even so, lazy southern rivers can very quickly become raging rapids. I keep my ears sharp for the sound of white water, but the more I strain to hear, the more I hear nothing.
I’m tired. Dead tired. The endless nothing makes me even more tired, while making me all the more anxious. It leaves me not really awake but nowhere near resting, a terrible place of limbo. Limbo is a bad place to be. Limbo is a fertile ground for the imagination.
What if this river just peters out? Just turns into smaller and smaller streams, never takes you to a road?
No. It’s a big river. Big rivers lead to roads. It’s the way civilization works.
What if the search-and-rescue people give up? How long have they been searching around the Logan place? They won’t search forever, and there’s no reason for them to come all the way out here.
I know that. The search-and-rescue people won’t find me. I already know that. I have to find them. That’s how this is going to work.
Still thinking it’s going to be this great victory? You come strutting out of the wilderness, a champion? You know even if you do get out of here, you will collapse and cry before the first person you meet.
Maybe, maybe not.
You will collapse and cry because you’re broken now. You’re damaged goods. You always thought so highly of yourself, didn’t you? Pride. You were prideful. Now look at you. Broken. Damaged.
But still alive.
Alive for what? How many years of therapy will it take to fix this? A million? Guess what. You’re not going to live for a million years. You’re going to be broken all of your life.
I’ll still alive and that’s all that matters.
But think of what you’ve seen. The underwear on the table. Wolfman masturbating. Do you remember making him go the bathroom in his pants? Do you remember taking cold aim and shooting a man in the back? Have you forgotten that? There’s no coming back from this.
Shut up and leave me be. I’ve got to be ready with my stick, just in case the river turns or a boulder comes up out of the fog. A boulder is a real danger. I can’t see two feet ahead of me. Last thing I need is to break my boat on a rock.