Every now and then, you have an encounter with someone who simply changes your life. A conversation or interaction so profound, it seems otherworldly. You can’t get his (or her) story out of your head and heart.
It’s hard to explain how powerful stories can resonate within us on many levels, but it’s often because of the way they speak with passion, heartache, or even joy. Maybe it’s the way they unknowingly reach into our heart of hearts with their words.
I don’t think these encounters happen by chance. I think there is a reason, although we will never understand the full weaving of life’s tapestry of events this side of the eternal. I have had such an encounter with someone. It moved me to my core, so much so that I had to share it with you. I’ll keep sharing it as long as I have breath. For the next few pages, I’d like you to grab a cup of coffee—or a root beer float—and sit down and let me tell you about a conversation I had with a man named Gabriel Clarke.
It all began when I was traveling back to Nashville from the West Coast. My first flight from LAX landed in Denver at about 6:30 p.m. on a Thursday night, when things at DIA were slowing down a bit. I was feeling exhausted after two days of countless meetings, a lack of rest (I don’t sleep well away from home), and the tiring travel.
I’m not sure what it is about planes, but the only way I can describe it is that flying makes me feel stale, grimy, and in need of a teeth cleaning. I got off of my first flight from Los Angeles and approached the monitor to see which gate was handling my connecting flight.
According to my itinerary, I had about fifty minutes until my flight to Nashville took off. The monitor said otherwise. Like a deer staring into oncoming headlights, I stood fixated at the monitor, hoping my glare would supernaturally change the DELAYED message to BOARDING.
Unfortunately, that did not happen. After a quick visit to the restroom, I made the trek to my new gate, dodging the carts carrying the old folks and doing my best to ignore the annoying beeps. When I arrived, I discovered that my flight was not delayed—it was canceled due to mechanical issues with the aircraft.
There wasn’t much I could do except queue up with a line of agitated passengers waiting to speak with the gate agent. In a very unsympathetic and “get over it” tone, she explained that my only option was to reschedule on a different flight leaving at 10:50 p.m.
I did some quick calculations. With the time change, this would put me in my own bed on our small farm forty-five minutes outside of Nashville at about three a.m. Oh joy. I love going home, just not in the middle of the night when I’m tiptoeing around like a burglar, trying to keep our chocolate labs from waking the kids.
I took a deep breath and resigned myself to my fate. I had a three-and-a-half-hour rendezvous with the C Concourse in Denver, there was no way around it. I hunted for a quiet corner where I could spend some time reading and listening to music. It was a rare opportunity for downtime, so I figured I’d make the most of it.
About eight gates down, I found an entire section where the lights were dim, the hanging flat-screen TVs were turned off, and the gates were closed. There wasn’t a soul in sight. I looked for the best spot and claimed a section of seating in the back corner, next to the windows that looked out over the tarmac. I called my wife and kids to say good night and break the news that I wouldn’t see them until the morning.
After we said our good-byes, I immediately reached for my iPod, plugged in my earphones, and shut out the world by listening to my favorite movie scores. I had a spy novel I’d started on the flight from LA, so I pulled the oversized paperback out of my backpack, propped my feet up on the chair across from me, and began reading. After ten pages, though, my solitude and bliss came to an abrupt end.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a large character moving toward me. Who in the world is heading all the way over here? Surely it’s not someone I know from home. My thoughts were running a mile a minute. Sure enough, this man plopped down two seats from me and opened a canvas bag that looked to be filled with enough camping and hiking gear to scale the Himalayas.
I couldn’t believe it. Of all the places in the airport, why would he sit down right next to me? I ignored him, burying my head in my book, but he kept going through his canvas bag, checking his equipment and carrying on a one-sided conversation with himself.
I turned my music up, sighed loudly, and returned to my book, trying to send a message that I wanted to be left alone. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that he kept looking over at me again and again. I could tell he was itching for conversation, so I looked up from my book and gave Mountain Man a halfhearted grin.
He was at least six feet tall and built like an Australian rugby player. A long, shaggy beard with disheveled dirty-blond hair poured out from under his army-green knit cap. If I had to guess his age, I would say that he was probably in his midfifties. Dressed in a worn-thin plaid flannel shirt with rolled-up sleeves and khaki shorts, he wore large hiking boots with thick thermal socks bunched around his ankles. His skin was weathered and tan, his eyes were crystal blue, and his worn face was lined with wrinkles. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a Discovery Channel documentary.
The older man looked at me and said something. I couldn’t understand him because of the cranked-up music playing in my ears, so I pulled out my earphones. “Sorry, man, I couldn’t hear you. What was that?”
“Heading home or away?”
Not a very deep question. “I’m heading home,” I said, hoping my three-word reply would send a hint that I didn’t want to be bothered.
He would not be deterred. “Me too. I’ve been gone for over three months. I’m ready for my own bed.” He slouched in his chair and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. I thought maybe our conversation was over, meaning I could get back to my book and music in peace.
Instead, he looked over again. “How long until your flight leaves?”
I knew now that I should just give in, so I closed my book and set it on my lap.
“I have until ten thirty,” I said, and I told him what happened with the canceled flight to Nashville. He told me he was early for his red-eye to the East Coast.
From there, we exchanged the typical small talk:
“Where are you from?”
“Where are you going?”
“Weather has been unpredictable, huh?”
All the usual stuff. But with guys, an introductory conversation wouldn’t be complete unless you ask, “What do you do?”
I always hate talking about what I do, but it’s part of the man language. We feel we can tell a lot about a person by what they do for a living.
So I plunged in. “What do you do for a living?” I asked curiously.
He hedged a little bit. “Well, I like the outdoors a lot, you know.” He smiled and looked at me, comfortable with the awkward pause.
“Well, what about this three-month trip you were on? Was it work related, or just R & R?”
“Oh no,” he said through a chuckle. “Not much R & R on this trip. I just finished running National Geographic’s Top Ten Most Dangerous and Beautiful Rivers in the World. Five continents, nineteen thousand miles, a couple of near-death experiences, some serious wildlife, tons of new friends, and the time of my life.” He looked over at me out of the corner of his eye. “It was outrageous,” he said with a bit of a crazed grin.
The conversation became riveting. I found out his name was Gabriel Clarke, a third-generation whitewater guide. For the next several hours, Gabriel regaled me with his life story—the legendary story of where he came from, the defining tragedy of his childhood, the triumph of where he was in life now, and what got him through. The way he energetically explained things, it was as if this was the first time he’d ever told anyone.
His passion was contagious, and by the time he was finished, I was thankful for the interruption that night in the Denver airport. What I’m about to tell you is his story as he told it to me. If you’re anything like me, or others who’ve heard Gabriel’s story, then you’ll never forget it. You’ll never be the same.
I know I’ll never be the same—ever.
The story continues in The River . . .