October 2, 2012, 5:00 p.m.
“Hello? Anybody here?”
I let myself in the rickety screen door. A bell over the door jingled as it slammed behind me.
“H-e-l-l-o?” Still nothing.
Behind the counter were three rugged desks with papers strewn all over them, mugs with pens in them, and a vintage rotary desk phone on the back desk. Click. Click. Click. Like a tired metronome, high overhead in the vaulted wood-plank ceiling, a fan made of rafting paddle blades spun slowly, moving the musty air gently in the old lodge.
It was just like I imagined it, just like he described it. The faded newspaper clippings, sepia-tone and Polaroid pictures, and tattered life vests tacked around the damp lodge entryway.
“Hello? Anyone home?”
The phone rang like a firehouse bell. No one came to answer. No answering machine. It was a Saturday evening, early October, crisp and cool. As the sun eased down behind the mountains, I walked back outside. An old army-green Jeep was parked in the gravel drive out front. A peeling bumper sticker on the back of the Jeep read “In The River.” This had to be the place. The commercial rafting season must be over now. I didn’t give much thought to the best time to come. I just had to find him. Things had to change for me. Maybe he would have some answers.
Across the gravel drive was a large shed with a red tin roof. The large barn door was padlocked shut. I strolled around back and the sound of the water rose. A few old kayaks were stacked on some makeshift wood scaffolding. An overturned dirty canoe lay a few feet away. I’d lived much of my life in the city. Engines, horns, sirens were the accompanying soundtracks of my days. Hundreds of thousands of people all racing after something. Even when we moved to the suburbs of Nashville, where the pace was much slower and the hay bale-covered farms went on as far as the eye could see, I couldn’t seem to get the city out of me. The grind, the pace, the striving, it had a lock on my soul.
Towering trees lined the banks, forming a magical canopy. Boulders and rock formations framed the gorge, standing guard over the water. It was like something you might see in a J. R. R. Tolkien story. I sat down on a rock, took off my shoes and socks, cuffed my jeans, and lowered my feet into the frigid water. Here I was, in the middle of nowhere, Colorado. I was searching for who knows what, from a guy with whom I had only one long conversation. The water was some sort of comfort to me in that moment.
With only about thirty minutes of light left, I heard it—something banging against wood. It happened again . . . and again in a slow, steady rhythm. My city-dwelling wits told me not to venture any farther. If you go into unknown territory in the city, you are asking for trouble. But I’d traveled a long way and wasn’t going to stop now.
I hiked next to The River on a moist, worn path. The sound got closer and closer. For a brief moment my mind went crazy. My respirations shot up like a sprinter.
Am I walking into a scene of a horror film?
What if there’s some deranged lunatic out here?
No one even knows I’m here!
I calmed down and kept walking. Weaving through a cluster of trees, I saw someone. His back was to me. He was swinging an ax into a fallen tree. As a dead twig snapped beneath my feet, he stopped the ax at the top of his swing. He snapped his head around and looked toward me. He must have been about fifty feet away. It was nearly dark. We really couldn’t see each other clearly yet. I walked a few feet closer and held up my hand in a friendly wave.
“Hey there. So sorry to bother you. I’m looking for a white-water guide named Gabriel . . . Gabriel Clarke.”
No response. He turned back around and started chopping again.
I moved closer . . . slowly.
“Excuse me. Uh . . . I’m not sure if I’m at the right place. Do you know where I might find Gabriel Clarke?”
He took a couple more swings. Wood shavings flew into the air.
“Who wants to know?” the low, gruff voice responded.
“Blake. Blake Caruthers. We met in the Denver airport several months ago. He told me his story.”
“A good story?” he asked as he took another powerful swing.
“I couldn’t forget it, if that’s what you mean,” I said.
The bearded man wedged the ax blade into the wood and took off his leather work gloves one at a time. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his flannel shirt as he made his way toward me.
Once he got close enough, I could see his broad, contagious smile and felt relieved.
“Blake!”
He extended his calloused right hand and pulled me in. He slapped me hard on the shoulder with his left.
“What in the world are you doing out here?”
“Not sure, to be honest.” I chuckled nervously.
“Alright, then. Help me grab some of this wood and let’s go grab some coffee at my cabin and we’ll catch up!”
The freshly split wood smelled like a Christmas fir. Gabriel stacked a few logs on my arms and then piled several in a canvas tote that he picked up with ease.
“Follow me,” he said.
“Right behind you, Gabriel.”
He lumbered down a path next to The River. I kept my eyes fixed on his wool plaid shirt and knit cap as we walked deeper into the forest. It was nearly dark. The chill of the air came down on us with the moonlight. I could see my breath. The sound of the water bubbling by and the crunch of our steps was an adventurous accompaniment.
We came around a giant moss-covered boulder, much taller than both of us, and Gabriel stopped at the water’s edge. He stuck his nose in the air and breathed deeply.
“Ahhh. Smell that?”
“Yes, sir. Smells like a fire burning.”
“Smells like home.” He pointed downstream a little ways. About one hundred yards ahead, I could see a couple of lights glowing through the window frames and a steady stream of billowing smoke illuminated by the soft light of the moon. “Pay close attention to where I put my feet. It’s pretty slick. I don’t want to have to pull you out of that water.”
I followed closely. The path wound down around The River’s edge. In a few places, we traversed over the water on fallen trees and rocks . . . not easy carrying wood. My arms were getting tired, but I would never let him know that. He had to be at least twenty years older than I was, but he was carrying twice the load. He’d made the fifteen-minute hike look easy.
He climbed the distressed wooden stairs up to the covered porch and dropped the wood out of the way.
“You can just drop it on top there. You like coffee?” Gabriel disappeared into the cabin, letting the screen door slap closed behind him.
“Sure, if you’re making some for yourself.” I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to follow him in, so I stayed on the porch.
There were three wooden rocking chairs out there, an old barrel in the corner that served as an end table with a rack of smoking pipes perched on top, and a half-carved walking stick lying in wood shavings on the floor.
I helped myself to the middle rocking chair next to the barrel. It creaked as I settled into it, leaning my head against the tall back. The plank flooring of the porch groaned and knocked as the rocker rolled over the boards slowly. I could hear the crackle of the fire inside. The scent of smoke and cedar was deep and strong.
After a couple of quiet minutes, Gabriel appeared with two large mugs. “Cream and sugar?”
“Yeah, that’s perfect. How’d you know?”
“Lucky guess.”
He sat down in the rocker on the other side of the barrel. I had a flashback of him plopping down next to me in the airport, the night of our only other conversation.
“So, Blake Caruthers. What brings you all this way, man? It takes some effort to find me out here.” He slurped the brew.
“Oh, I just needed to get away and thought it might be fun to track you down and hear about your latest exploits.” I took a sip and shivered at its tobacco-like robust flavor.
Gabriel stared ahead at The River. Several silent seconds passed.
“I think there’s more to the story than that.”
I felt myself get a little nervous.
“What are you looking for?”
“Out here?”
“Yes, out here. What are you searching for?” He took another drink of his coffee and stared straight ahead.
Does he know? How could he know?
He just let me fumble over my words before it got awkwardly quiet. I hadn’t talked to anyone about what I’d been through, what I’d done. I still had walls of pride and shame built up.
“Just needed a break, maybe. I don’t know if that’s really important. Tell me about your last run of The River?”
Gabriel didn’t let me off the hook. “How’s your wife? Your kids?”
I had to catch my breath. It took me a few minutes . . . then . . . I broke. “Gone, Gabriel. She took the kids and went to stay with her mom and dad.”
No response.
“She heard a voice mail on the home phone . . . from this woman . . . a woman I met on business. I moved the family south, out of the city to the suburbs. I promised her things would change, that I wouldn’t work those insane hours or pick up and leave in a moment’s notice.”
I could barely contain my emotions.
“I wrecked my family, Gabriel. I just let it get to me, ya know? The money, the chase . . . We were young and fearless . . . We were going to conquer the world. We had everything.”
I’d already said more than I wanted to. “Man, Gabriel, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to unload all that on you.”
“We’ve all walked through the dark valleys. God knows I have.”
We stared out at the water, marinating in dewy fog settling on the camp. Gabriel turned my way and broke the lull in the conversation.
“Why don’t you hang out with me for a few days? I’ve got an extra room here. Being out here might clear your head. A little time on The River will do you good. Of course, I might put you to work. Nothing too strenuous for a city boy.”
I shook my head. I’d only come out here for some time to think and a pep talk. “I appreciate that. I’ve got a lot going at the office. Really busy right now.”
“I see. So busy you tracked me down all the way out here, a couple thousand miles from home?”
“Touché.” I shrugged.
“Come on. Trust me. The office can wait.”
He smiled and held up his coffee. As we clanked our cups together to toast the moment, I felt a rising sense of hope.
The next seven days at The River changed everything.