KY DELANEY

Paddling with Marigolds

Death sat on her shoulder reminding her that everyone is going to die. Even herself.

“We burn the bodies and then float the ashes with marigolds, the flower of the dead,” the owner of the kayak shop told us as we drove over a river on the shuttle to the Mahakali River where he’d drop us off for our two-day expedition. “Nepalese believe in reincarnation—the river takes us to better place in next life.”

“Do the Nepalese consider water holy?” I asked, pressing my head against the window of his Jeep, not wanting to miss my first glimpse of the Himalayas. As a former kayak instructor, I’d reluctantly settled down to a desk job, consoling myself with the promise of whitewater vacations, a promise that had brought me to Nepal to whitewater kayak with two skilled paddlers, Josh and Kimberly. Paddling, if not exactly holy, had become the closest practice I had to religion. Rivers were the sacred place that connected me to paddlers who had become my dearest friends and took me to amazing places I’d never have visited if not for the chance to paddle new rivers.

“Holy, yes. Safe, no. Most villagers think kayakers crazy. Water dangerous and Nepalese can’t swim,” he said as we drove by roadside temples. The most elaborate ones were five-roof gilded buildings topped with towers soaring so high that I craned my neck to see them. Rainbows of prayer flags waved in the air, long strings spanning the distance between the temples to nearby trees, some strands bright and others faded by the sun and rain. The steps leading up to the temples were laden with marigolds, candles, and trinkets.

He turned onto a gravel road surrounded by lush valleys. Dozens of porters carried containers on top of their heads and one man drove a pack of mules transporting supplies to nearby villages. In the distance, terraced gardens decorated the hillside, striped yellow and maroon by blooming marigolds. The hills grew steeper, giving way to jagged white peaks that pierced the cobalt sky and punctuated the horizon. I sat in awe of those mountains, their lines so sharp and size so commanding even from that distance, half listening as he explained how a simple fall near the river often meant death. As he told us how the villagers needed the river to bathe, wash their clothes, and gather the driftwood that floated down from forests, their sole means of heating their villages during the cold winter, I imagined a simpler and purer lifestyle than my own.

He parked at the put-in, and we unloaded our kayaks from the roof and gathered our gear. We planned to paddle fourteen miles down Class IV rapids to a teahouse, where we’d eat dinner and spend the night. We didn’t have to pack much food or sleeping bags, a luxury to paddle lighter boats on a multi-day trip. Kimberly and I stuffed our small boats with the little gear we did carry—a spare paddle, a first aid kit, a box of energy bars, water, and sleeping clothes, while Josh studied the map, jotting down notes about rapids and the location of the teahouse and take-out on the deck of his kayak with a waterproof marker. The map was out of print and belonged to the kayak shop owner, so we couldn’t buy one or take his on the river.

Josh spread the map on the hood, pointing to a bend in the river. “Is this where the teahouse is?”

The kayak shop owner nodded. “Written on rock in river—arrow pointing to path that will lead you to teahouse. Kayakers before you have gone there. No worries.”

Josh pointed to a spot of the map. “And this is the take-out?”

He shook his head and circled his finger around an area much farther down river. “No, here, at village. Bus there goes to Kathmandu. Seven hours, maybe more, depending.”

Josh took another long stare at the map before handing it over to the kayak shop owner who in turn wished us a safe paddle before driving away. I stood there watching the dust swirl behind the Jeep until it was a tiny speck in the distance and the road a cloud of brown. We were alone, not having passed another car, house, or person for the last hour of the drive.

Josh and Kimberly had already hoisted their kayaks on their shoulders and headed down a steep path toward the river. I double checked to make sure nothing had been left behind before following them. We put on in an eddy, the calm spot formed because a huge boulder blocked the flow of the water, giving us time to attach our spray skirts to our kayaks and get situated in our boats.

We peeled out of the eddy into a fast-moving current of holes and waves. The water churned until it seemed to tumble off the horizon and disappear. My stomach gurgled with fear as I contemplated what line to take, studying the water far below to see where most of the river flowed. Josh paddled into the lead and aimed his toward a slot between two large boulders. I took a long draw of air, summoning my courage to paddle with precision into an unknown rapid. I trusted Josh and had followed him down many rivers in my home state of California, but still, it required something akin to faith to follow his line without scouting. I concentrated on my every stroke, knowing that staying upright and in control was the only way to make sure I didn’t end up in a dangerous undercut rock or sieve.

The slot was a ramp of turquoise water through other boulders and drops until finally we paddled into a clear pool at the bottom between walls of rock. Sheer granite with patterns of intricately marbled caramels and browns rose from the river, making me feel as if we had somehow gotten inside the mountain itself and were paddling through it. A single waterfall cascaded down the mountain, its icy water joining the river a few feet from where we sat in our kayaks.

Something about how the swirls and designs etched into the rocky mountainside, the melody of falling water and the rushing river, and the prospect of kayaking halfway around the world from home struck a perfect chord inside me. I swelled with the possibility of adventure, of what lay beyond the next horizon line, tingling from being alive in that perfect moment. I wished to somehow become part of the mountains and river and to stay there paddling that river forever.

Josh turned to us. “We’ve got to pick up the pace or we won’t get there before dark.” He scanned the horizon. “I sure as hell don’t want to camp out here with no gear.”

The river bent to the right. Josh paddled into the fast current, dropping out of sight. Kimberly followed. Huge water stacked up against boulders into piles of frothing white. One wrong move and I would be upside down, pinned against a rock, the rushing water overhead creating an impassable wall between me and the air. I froze at the prospect and hesitated too long. The others were gone. If anything happened to me, they’d be too far downstream to see me, much less help. I studied the water for a good line through the churning river, trying to anticipate how I’d react to each lateral wave and rock. The air was cold, but still sweat dropped from my brow.

Between surges of breaking waves, something scarlet on the other side of the river caught my eye. I was still in an eddy, but the water bobbed my boat up and down as it refracted off the rocks. I steadied myself on a rock to get a better look across the river. Sprays of whitewater and the peaked waves made it difficult to be sure.

Scarlet underwear.

I blinked in disbelief. I squinted and could barely make out a pair of dark legs and arms.

A man.

The water was so clear—I couldn’t tell whether he was above or beneath the water. Was he alive or dead? I’d never prayed before, but I did then, even though I wasn’t sure who I was praying to, God, the universe, or the river itself. Let his head be above water. Let him breathe.

The need to reach that man consumed me. Strong current separated me from him, leading into the steep drop. I pulled on my paddle to ferry across and help him, thinking of one thing. Let his head be above water. Let him breathe. But even my hardest effort was no match for the river’s strength. The powerful water grabbed the bow of my kayak and turned me downstream as soon as I paddled out of the eddy. Dropping into a huge hole, I leaned my body forward, reaching my paddle blade into a wall of water and pulling with all my body force. I needed to reach Josh and Kimberly fast. I powered through hole after hole until I saw the tallest horizon line of the day.

Without hesitating, I took decisive strokes. Let his head be above water. Let him breathe. Leaning over the drop, I timed my stroke at precisely the right moment to propel my boat into the air. I was flying over the burly water. Josh whistled in appreciation as I paddled toward them.

“A man.” I panted. “Up there, we’ve got to help him.” I’d already pulled my boat onshore.

“Are you sure?” Josh asked. “We haven’t seen anyone all day.”

“C’mon.” I scrambled up boulders and they followed me a hundred feet up the bank.

I pointed. “See that bit of red? That’s his underwear.”

Josh dashed ahead and Kimberly and I trotted after him, joining him on a massive boulder that skirted out into the river directly above the body. We crept to the edge and peered over. The man was at least a foot under the water’s surface, one foot stuck under a rock and the rest of his body floating downstream as if even then he was struggling to free himself. The force of the river made his head and arms move with the surge of the water. Looking at his body aglow in the late-afternoon light, I felt an upwelling of sadness and my eyes blurred with tears. Kimberly clasped my hand as we stood there in silence, staring at the body.

“Entrapment,” Josh said, identifying why the man had drowned. As paddlers, we learn one of the first lessons of the river is to never try to touch the bottom. If a foot gets stuck under a rock, it becomes almost impossible to free it once the powerful current wedges it into a crevice. Often rivers are so powerful that the flow knocks people underwater.

I saw with unforgiving clarity how it might have happened. The man was planning to bathe when something slipped from his hand. He walked farther into the river to retrieve it, unwittingly stepping into current stronger and water deeper than he expected. He would have tried to free his foot from the rock’s grasp, but the rushing water pushed the rest of his body downstream so that he couldn’t use his hands to wiggle the rock and free his foot. He fought the water’s power until it was too much and he lost his balance, getting swept off his other foot. He would have gasped for air, even as the water flowed over his head, his lungs taking in water.

“He’s gone,” Kimberly said over and over.

It seemed so unfair. The man hadn’t taken risks the way we had. He wasn’t flirting with wild water, seeking the thrill of paddling new rivers, and pushing his skill level. He was simply living, using the river to survive, the way his village had done for centuries before him.

Josh turned to us. “We need to keep paddling. We’re not going to be of any use here.”

Kimberly pointed to a stream of men walking down the green slope, men wearing long-sleeved robes falling slightly below the knee and tied at the waist with a cloth sash carrying a bamboo gurney. Women wore floor-length dresses, balancing woven baskets brimming with yellow and crimson marigolds. “Not yet. They may be from his village, but they don’t know whitewater like we do. We need to stay and help.”

Kimberly ran up the slope to meet the villagers.

Josh crossed his arms. “We’ve got to keep moving. The longer we stay here, the less likely we are to find the teahouse before it gets dark, and paddling this water in the dark is a death wish.”

Minutes later, a slender Nepalese man followed two paces behind Kimberly. His face was tear-stained and he repeated one word. “Brother.”

Perhaps Josh had a brother, because that one word caused him to grab all of our throw ropes and sprint upstream toward the dead man. Kimberly and I trotted behind him, and by the time we caught up, he was thigh deep moving through the water toward the particular rock under which the dead man’s foot was stuck. He turned and threw us the other end of his throw rope so we could rescue him if anything happened. Tentatively he negotiated slippery rocks, making sure his footing was secure before committing his foot to the riverbed. When he reached the rock, he stood directly in front of it in an effort to lessen the powerful current. Holding onto the rock with one hand, he reached down with the other in search of the man’s foot.

After minutes of searching, he shook his head, indicating he hadn’t found the man’s foot and beckoned to me to join him in the water. I scooted out into the rushing current, using the rope tied to Josh and secured by Kimberly for balance. When I reached him, I grabbed onto Josh.

He steadied me. “I think his foot is over there. Stand right in front of it and hold onto my lifejacket. I’m going underwater.”

He disappeared and I struggled to maintain a grasp on his lifejacket as he worked to free the dead man’s foot. I saw the dead man’s body jerk and then Josh reappeared holding the foot. The dead man’s body was so limp by then that whenever Josh moved, the body followed, having no movement of its own.

I held onto Josh’s lifejacket as he tied another rope around the dead body and threw the other end to the Nepalese man who had repeatedly said “brother.” The Nepalese man reeled him in, just as any other day he might have done with a fish.

Josh and I held onto each other as we made our way back to the shore, Kimberly keeping the rope taut to help us. After we climbed out of the water, the Nepalese man walked up to us, first bowed deeply, pressing his hands into prayer position and then looked into our eyes, saying “Namaste” to each of us.

I wanted to express my condolence, to recognize his loss. But I knew only one word, so I bowed and returned his greeting, watching Kimberly and Josh do the same. We stood for a few minutes, looking at one another with the wide eyes of grief before Josh nudged me.

“C’mon, we’ve got to make up for lost time.”

We bowed one last time and scrambled over the boulders to our kayaks. Josh and I sat in our boats and started paddling around in the eddy to warm up.

“Get a move on it,” Josh called up to Kimberly.

“I need a minute.” She kicked a rock.

Josh scowled. “We’ve got to make up for lost time if we have any chance of finding the teahouse before dark.”

The river posed at challenge for my skills in the light. Once it got dark, there was no way we could keep paddling. And the steep gorged-in river meant suitable campsites were few and far between. Besides, I’d already started looking forward to a warm dinner before snuggling into a sleeping bag on a real bed. We didn’t have proper gear to spend the night in this weather. I stared at the water, silently willing Kimberly to paddle.

Kimberly looked up, a tear streaming down her face. “My father drowned last summer.”

Josh sighed. “Fuck. I’m such an ass.” He swallowed hard. “We’ll take it slow, but we’ve got to keep going. Besides, they’re going to burn the body soon. We don’t want to intrude more than we already have.”

The wind blew the smoke downstream. I was grateful it smelled only of burning wood and not burning flesh. Even though I couldn’t see that far upriver, I could hear the men chanting and I imagined them lifting the dead man onto the gurney. The women would be lacing his body with marigolds and straw before the men carried it to the top of a slab of flat granite. In my mind I saw the Nepalese man who had repeated “brother” lighting the straw, and minutes later flame would engulf the marigolds and the body.

I steadied Kimberly’s boat for her and looked into her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

Our pace slowed by half. Death seemed so capricious in who and when it claims what’s rightfully his. As I paddled, I felt death sitting on my shoulder, reminding me that everyone is going to die. Even me. Everywhere I looked, I saw death beckoning. Rocks looked undercut. I envisioned myself stuck upside down underneath a granite overhang, unable to roll up or move forward, and eventually drowning. The fear played out in my strokes, which became short and tentative. I no longer anticipated the water underneath my boat so instead of moving with it, I reacted to the waves as they threw me backward, bracing at the last minute to stay upright. In turn, the more my paddling deteriorated, the more likely I was to let the river have its way with me, pushing me into dark, dangerous pockets.

The rush of paddling, at the edge of my paddling abilities, had been replaced by the realization of the danger all around me. I no longer cared about adrenaline or testing my paddling on faraway rivers. All I wanted was to be off the water, safe at home. I wanted the security of the familiar, my own bed and a hot shower. I didn’t want to die, not yet, not ever. Fear consumed me, dulling my senses until it was as if I was watching my body from far away, seeing the evening unfold, but not actually part of it.

The sun lowered in the sky, the glare from the rays making it difficult to read the water. We peered into the distance, hoping the teahouse would be right around the next bend. When the gray of twilight made it impossible to distinguish waves from rocks, we decided that it was too dangerous to continue and stopped on an island in the middle of the river, a beach of pebbles and driftwood.

We ate energy bars around a fire in the comfortable quiet shared by good friends. By then, Kimberly and Josh seemed like family members after witnessing death with one another. I stared into the fire and saw images from the day—the kayak shop owner driving away, the jagged mountain peaks, waterfalls cascading into the river, the dead man wearing scarlet underwear, his arms waving helplessly under the water’s surface, the baskets brimming with marigolds, and the rapids stretching one after another. I saw the river’s gradations of blue leaping in the fire’s flames. That day had been so long, and yet, after seeing death up close, a lifetime seemed too short.

I tried to sleep, but couldn’t keep my eyes closed. Painted on the back of my eyelids were bright orange and yellow petals with crimson hearts—marigolds, the flower of the dead. Their vivid colors burnt alive in my head. They seemed impossibly bright, perhaps, because eventually they would fade before disappearing altogether.

The embers turned to ash as I thought about how the dead man’s body would have been ashes by then and his family would have scattered them into the river along with marigolds. I wondered if any of the marigolds had floated down to our campsite during the night. And I thought how the lessons of the dead man I’d never met would stay with me. I would still be afraid at the top of a rapid and feel the sadness that surrounds death. But instead of retreating into a comfortable numbness, distancing myself from my own life, I vowed to experience every minute of paddling with marigolds. A sense of joy and profound relief filled me. I was alive in Nepal.

Ky Delaney regularly contributes feature articles to the print edition of Blue Ridge Outdoors Magazine and a weekly online advice column titled “Mountain Mama” for their website. She’s a certified whitewater kayak, sea kayak, and ski instructor. Currently, she practices law at a non-profit legal aid office in Asheville, North Carolina, where she solo parents her young son, Tobin Creek.