Post by rbaileydav on Apr 14, 2008 17:55:07 GMT -5
Crossing the river
Spring Break 2008, while most Georgia high school seniors head to the beaches of Florida to chase booze and babes… I somehow managed to talk three soon to be college bound boys into heading on a long hike into the high country of the western North Carolina wilderness to chase BROOKIES … instead of babes. My oldest Ricky and two of his friends agreed to go with me when I met some of my friends from the “Fly Fish South” board for a camping fishing expedition on one of my favorite bookie streams. The idea caught on quick and soon the boys were making lists and getting their stuff checked, rechecked and packed well ahead of our departure date … Oh who am I kidding … the morning we were leaving found us all at my house trying to distribute stuff and to get those last few items shoved into our backpacks with no real idea of who had what or what had been left behind and to be honest at that point we really didn’t even care … It was time to go fishing.
The weather forecast had been a constant picture of impending heavy rain and thunder , as we got on the road the clouds were heavy but no rain was falling … in my infinite wisdom I bragged to the boys about the “Davis camping weather luck” where I seemed to head off on extended fishing trips in even the worst predicted weather only to have the weather miraculously turn and my trip stay fair and dry… bet most of you can figure out where that comment will lead me pretty quickly … anyway the 3 hour drive couldn’t have passed any slower for me. First I was riding in my son’s car (which is actually still paid for by me but that point is somehow indistinguishable to an 18 year old) and I had always told him when he was in my car I got to pick the music… So now it was payback time and I was a captured audience for 3 hours of head banging heavy metal which I don’t think they really even like that much but they knew it would drive me nuts the fastest. We finally reached the trail head right before permanent audio nerve damage was done to my brain. As we climbed out of the car I glanced at the heavy clouds and the as of yet still dry air and I once again commented aloud about the “Davis camping weather luck”. Leave it to me… I have to tempt fate not once but twice … We had the backpacks on and were making the last few strap adjustments when I heard the distinctive heavy wet plops of large raindrops hitting the waxy rhododendron leaves all around us. It almost instantly turned to a heavy volley of splatting sound moving across the clearing toward us in visible sheets. I quickly hustled us off up the trail thinking that speed would save us… Okay I have never been too bright … and to make matters worse I had two of the boys scoop up the two small bags of charcoal I had intended to split between 4, one gallon zip lock bags and put into our backpacks… And just carry them loose in their arms … Now that decision won’t be a problem later on in a raging downpour now will it. Will the sheets of rain ever let up? … Nope … Not for a minute … not for a second … 4.5 miles of slogging up a muddy trail that is running with more water than some of the streams I have fished in the last few drought stricken years. Packs are drenched, shirts and pants drenched, sandals wet, muddy and chaffing… and you guessed it charcoal bags drenched and busting at the seams … I would have told the boys to leave em but the charcoal was our primary cooking tool for the next few days so I collected both bags back and carried them lovingly like a newborn baby in the cradle of my arms … with my rod tubes and my wading sandals and the waders I wouldn’t even get to wear as I later donated them to one of the boys in burst of mis-guided sentimentality. Needless to say it was a long painful unpleasant hike in… but we did leave an easy trail for the others to follow as there were charcoal briquettes scattered at regular intervals along the trail… Obviously it has been a while since I cradled a new born…
Somehow we managed to make it to the area where we had decided to camp… I am not sure how we got there but we did … and thank God for that. The boys made a camp site on the near side of the river and “politely asked” me to cross the bridge and camp on the other side of the river. Guess they were chasing a little more than brookies … maybe some liquid spring break entertainment got smuggled inside their backpacks as well who knows. Anyway they really didn’t seem to want any parental support in their campsite and by then I was so ready to get this soaking pack off that I would have agreed to camp in the next county just to stop any further discussion. I trudged to the bridge lost in a haze of tired muscles and wet chaffed skin. The bridge consists of wide wooden slats nailed onto a single large center beam about 10 feet over the water, a slight incline, no railings but I have crossed it dozen of times and didn’t even think about it as I stepped onto the raised end … Much to my surprise I started to slide like a car on black ice… … 55 pounds of pack shifting, wet rubber soled hiking sandals gliding smoothly as skates across the wet moss covered boards. No chance to stop the slide I just tensed up (well one part of me was clenched pretty tight I can tell you that) and held on … waiting on the inevitable fall that I knew must be coming. The unprotected edge kept creeping closer and closer. Time slowed to a crawl as the slide continued, I remember clearly thinking “this sucks dragging this pack all of the way up here just to kill myself in an uncontrolled fall into the river”. Dying wasn’t the problem at that moment; it was working so d**n hard to get here to kill myself that pissed me off. Just as suddenly as the slide had started … it stopped… I looked down and I had about 4 inches to the side edge of the bridge… I did a quick inventory to see if the liquid running down inside my shorts was cold rain or “the warmer stuff “ and was relieved to find that it was just cold rain. The remaining 55 feet of bridge was crossed by inching my feet forward as slowly and carefully as possible and eventually I did make it across. At this point I instinctively turned back up river to my favorite camping spot for this stretch of river, it sits just across from where a small peaceful feeder stream gurgles and bounces its way down from the mountains above … Did I mention we had gotten about 3 inches of rain in about 2 hours … do you see a pattern of poor decisions…Trust me it will continue for a while. Anyway after I crossed the creek and got to see my campsite I found out that somebody had tried to act like they were filming an episode of “survivor man” and built a beautiful stick and leaves lean too… right in the camp spot… but at that point I was too tired to do more than briefly marvel at the amount of time that had been required.
I quickly set my tent up hoping to not get it any wetter than two hours exposure to a downpour had already made it and pumped some water. Finally going back to check on the others… by the time I returned … You guessed it … my gurgling bouncy little creek was a solid wall of white foaming torrent that taxed my legs just to cross … but cross it I did … leg cramps or not. Only to find that the first 2 arriving “sensible” adults in the group had set up their campsite a few hundred yards downstream …Where no creek crossing was needed … oh well.
I had not met Jason and had only met Brad briefly a few years ago so we re-made introductions and began the ritual small talk about fishing and streams and places we have been too and places we want to go too. I am constantly amazed how these little internet fishing oasis’ can attract so many people who are kindred spirits … But then again… I guess if you are dumb enough to hike 4.5 miles in a rain storm to go fishing you pretty much are a kindred spirit by definition … or an idiot … and some questions I prefer not to answer. We stood around and chatted as everything was way to wet to sit down and wondered when the rest of the group would arrive. We were expecting 4 more to be coming and despite the little devil figure that popped up on my shoulder, I headed to the bridge to warn them of the slippery crossing before they got the same power slide sphincter rush that I had gotten………or was that rushed up there to watch them slide off the bridge … warn them… that is my story and I am sticking too it. As they appeared I quickly explained to them about the “bridge of death” and they made it across uneventfully although there were a couple tense moments for each I am sure. They were also wet and worn down but present none the less. We hunkered down in a soaking wet puddle and shot the poop for a while waiting on a break in the rain, which showed no signs of giving in.
Most of the group had decided that they were going to have a cold food night when my three boys rolled across the creek. Evidently food for them was a priority and they wanted it quick, one is going to play college lacrosse and one is going to play college football and one is a champion eater so it was a good bet that they were not kidding when they demanded that they had to have real food or we were going to have a mutiny. I dragged out some of the soggy lumps of charcoal, that hadn’t been lost on the trail, and piled them on a flat rock and built a little rack over them with rocks and a little flat wire grill plate and despite the cynical outburst of my companions and even some help from them as well… we ended up with glowing coals which were perfect for three of the largest hunks of rib-eye you have ever seen. The weather finally gave us a break and let up long enough to cook em. We were so hungry we just used one plate grabbed a rib eye off the fire, cut it into pieces and passed them around to the group to eat with our fingers … tasted pretty dang good to me. Bryan added some marinated venison to the fire soon thereafter and we all had a full stomach as we turned in for a long wet night of raindrops dancing on the tent… while dreams of warm sunshine and brookies danced in our dreams.
I awoke to the slower scattered sound of water dripping from the trees not falling from the sky so I virtually bounded from the tent only to realize that the sky was lead gray and heavy with the promise of rain… oh well at least we were already here and didn’t have to hike … and we got to fish … and even fishing in the rain cheers me up. The water was up but not too badly stained and we quickly decided who was going to fish what section of water so that we wouldn’t end up inadvertently fishing behind someone all day long without knowing it. Somehow in the packing for this trip I had ended up being the one left out in the wader and wading boot department even though the boys were all wearing my stuff so I ended up bracing for that first icy creek crossing (48 degree water temp) wet wading in felt soled sandals. No worries however as my first cast of the day produced a lovely little brookie. I quickly scoured the pockets of my fishing vest for my camera only to realize that it was still in my tent where I had put it to dry out. So I stole one of Bills pictures from same the day.
The rest of the day produced consistent fish on a yellow stimulator but they weren’t really dialed in and pouncing on it, they were just kinda slapping at it due I think to the higher and slightly stained water. It had threatened to gush rain any second all day but managed to hold off for most of the day. A couple times I witnessed that hauntingly beautiful southern Appalachian phenomenon of looking up to see a wall of mist hanging in the trees up the hill come floating downstream toward me as a visibly advancing wave and feeling the next five minutes as a wave of gentle drizzle tapping lightly on my hat and rain jacket, then passing just as suddenly with no mist in sight up or down the stream.
The rain began to fall in earnest and I decided to head back to camp and get a nap. As I wandered back into camp I was greeted by two North Carolina Fish and Game guys. We exchanged pleasantries and I told them that I had been coming up here for many years and this was the first time I had ever seen any Fish and Game guys and how glad I was to see them in the area as this was a creek that could quickly get “loved to death” if it wasn’t carefully protected. Anyway they did the usual check and all was well and we stood talking casually about the health of the fishery and the usual questions, I mentioned I had to go check on the boys and I saw a strange look pass across their face. Well suffice to say, that I have been taking these boys fishing with me since they were about 10 years old and I don’t really think of them as adults…hell I know them… they aren’t adults yet … so I hadn’t bothered to check to see if they had fishing licenses… after all the little kids I remember don’t need fishing licenses… Ah but in the eyes of the law an 18 year old boy is definitely an adult… chalk up one more to my snake bit misfortunes of this trip … no better make that chalk THREE more citations up to my misfortunes of this trip. Oh well my mistake I will have to pay em… ($195 a pop for those of you keeping score at home).
I woke from my nap to hear the steady drumming of hard rain on the tent. I rolled over and dozed for a while only to wake to more hard drumming rain. I sat patiently and contemplated my belly button lent while listening to the hard drumming rain. I got impatient and flipped and flopped in my little one person coffin … I mean tent … while listening to yet even more hard drumming rain. Oh hell, I have been wet for two days now what is another wet evening gonna hurt. By the time I got to the big camp site it was a sorry muddy wet group huddled around a campfire pit “lake”. Everyone was still in their waders and wading boots as we were so wet we might as well have been in the river … oh yeah that was everyone but me … who had loaned his out. We stood around and tried to concentrate the weather into giving us a break like it had last night but I guess the brain power of this group wasn’t strong enough and it just kept raining. Wes the MAN of the group had brought a huge cast iron skillet in his backpack … and I do mean huge. He was planning on frying us dinner in it but we were having trouble getting enough fire going to get it food even warm let alone hot enough to fry…
When I pulled out a little more of my ill fated charcoal…which finally did get hot enough to cook and Wes and the group were able to make a wonderful potato and sausage dish that was gobbled down so greedily that you could practically hear the vacuum rush as it slid down our throats. Bryan pulled out some moose sausage and once again we had full tummies of warm food despite the rain, which paused long enough for a little sip or two of my Woodford and a few good cigars to be burned.
I could tell the boys were pretty cold, wet and miserable so I agreed that if it was still raining in the morning we would head out with the rest of the group instead of staying a few more days like we had planned. That seemed to brighten em up and off they went back to their camp to turn in. But I was worried about the kids crossing the “bridge of death” in the pitch black and with even more rain to make it more slippery than the previous nights adventures so I made them wade across the river and I got so nervous about that, I even followed them back to my campsite to supervise their trip across the river. I stood on the near bank of the river and shone a flashlight as they made their shadowy way across the river … then it struck me like a bolt of lightning how clear a metaphor this was for how our lives would be lived from now on. Ricky was crossing the river out of my world into adulthood… I could throw some light … offer some suggestions … worry myself sick … but in the end it was his life now to make his own journey, make his own crossing, his own camp, and I would simply be observing from a distance… like I was observing the crossing of the river. I switched off the flashlight as they struggled out of the water safe and sound. I stood in the darkness and the rain as they got their camp ready for sleep, listening to the sound of their voices drift back to me, observing the flashing of their lights as they finally turned in … my heart was heavy with the thought of my first born passing from a world where I could protect him to one where he would have to make his own way. I spent a while thinking of how this journey had started, new born babes in arms, the toddler years, the “wonder years” when dad could do no wrong, the heartaches, the long talks, the endless guidance and finally the current years when dad knew nothing. Here I was watching from a distance… an interested observer …but simply an observer none the less … the realization stuck home… my oldest son was becoming an adult … as I turned to climb into my tent my cheeks were wet from bittersweet raindrops … what else could they have been…
I also noticed that there were scattered stars breaking out in the sky above at last.
“The Clearing” Part Two coming soon
Spring Break 2008, while most Georgia high school seniors head to the beaches of Florida to chase booze and babes… I somehow managed to talk three soon to be college bound boys into heading on a long hike into the high country of the western North Carolina wilderness to chase BROOKIES … instead of babes. My oldest Ricky and two of his friends agreed to go with me when I met some of my friends from the “Fly Fish South” board for a camping fishing expedition on one of my favorite bookie streams. The idea caught on quick and soon the boys were making lists and getting their stuff checked, rechecked and packed well ahead of our departure date … Oh who am I kidding … the morning we were leaving found us all at my house trying to distribute stuff and to get those last few items shoved into our backpacks with no real idea of who had what or what had been left behind and to be honest at that point we really didn’t even care … It was time to go fishing.
The weather forecast had been a constant picture of impending heavy rain and thunder , as we got on the road the clouds were heavy but no rain was falling … in my infinite wisdom I bragged to the boys about the “Davis camping weather luck” where I seemed to head off on extended fishing trips in even the worst predicted weather only to have the weather miraculously turn and my trip stay fair and dry… bet most of you can figure out where that comment will lead me pretty quickly … anyway the 3 hour drive couldn’t have passed any slower for me. First I was riding in my son’s car (which is actually still paid for by me but that point is somehow indistinguishable to an 18 year old) and I had always told him when he was in my car I got to pick the music… So now it was payback time and I was a captured audience for 3 hours of head banging heavy metal which I don’t think they really even like that much but they knew it would drive me nuts the fastest. We finally reached the trail head right before permanent audio nerve damage was done to my brain. As we climbed out of the car I glanced at the heavy clouds and the as of yet still dry air and I once again commented aloud about the “Davis camping weather luck”. Leave it to me… I have to tempt fate not once but twice … We had the backpacks on and were making the last few strap adjustments when I heard the distinctive heavy wet plops of large raindrops hitting the waxy rhododendron leaves all around us. It almost instantly turned to a heavy volley of splatting sound moving across the clearing toward us in visible sheets. I quickly hustled us off up the trail thinking that speed would save us… Okay I have never been too bright … and to make matters worse I had two of the boys scoop up the two small bags of charcoal I had intended to split between 4, one gallon zip lock bags and put into our backpacks… And just carry them loose in their arms … Now that decision won’t be a problem later on in a raging downpour now will it. Will the sheets of rain ever let up? … Nope … Not for a minute … not for a second … 4.5 miles of slogging up a muddy trail that is running with more water than some of the streams I have fished in the last few drought stricken years. Packs are drenched, shirts and pants drenched, sandals wet, muddy and chaffing… and you guessed it charcoal bags drenched and busting at the seams … I would have told the boys to leave em but the charcoal was our primary cooking tool for the next few days so I collected both bags back and carried them lovingly like a newborn baby in the cradle of my arms … with my rod tubes and my wading sandals and the waders I wouldn’t even get to wear as I later donated them to one of the boys in burst of mis-guided sentimentality. Needless to say it was a long painful unpleasant hike in… but we did leave an easy trail for the others to follow as there were charcoal briquettes scattered at regular intervals along the trail… Obviously it has been a while since I cradled a new born…
Somehow we managed to make it to the area where we had decided to camp… I am not sure how we got there but we did … and thank God for that. The boys made a camp site on the near side of the river and “politely asked” me to cross the bridge and camp on the other side of the river. Guess they were chasing a little more than brookies … maybe some liquid spring break entertainment got smuggled inside their backpacks as well who knows. Anyway they really didn’t seem to want any parental support in their campsite and by then I was so ready to get this soaking pack off that I would have agreed to camp in the next county just to stop any further discussion. I trudged to the bridge lost in a haze of tired muscles and wet chaffed skin. The bridge consists of wide wooden slats nailed onto a single large center beam about 10 feet over the water, a slight incline, no railings but I have crossed it dozen of times and didn’t even think about it as I stepped onto the raised end … Much to my surprise I started to slide like a car on black ice… … 55 pounds of pack shifting, wet rubber soled hiking sandals gliding smoothly as skates across the wet moss covered boards. No chance to stop the slide I just tensed up (well one part of me was clenched pretty tight I can tell you that) and held on … waiting on the inevitable fall that I knew must be coming. The unprotected edge kept creeping closer and closer. Time slowed to a crawl as the slide continued, I remember clearly thinking “this sucks dragging this pack all of the way up here just to kill myself in an uncontrolled fall into the river”. Dying wasn’t the problem at that moment; it was working so d**n hard to get here to kill myself that pissed me off. Just as suddenly as the slide had started … it stopped… I looked down and I had about 4 inches to the side edge of the bridge… I did a quick inventory to see if the liquid running down inside my shorts was cold rain or “the warmer stuff “ and was relieved to find that it was just cold rain. The remaining 55 feet of bridge was crossed by inching my feet forward as slowly and carefully as possible and eventually I did make it across. At this point I instinctively turned back up river to my favorite camping spot for this stretch of river, it sits just across from where a small peaceful feeder stream gurgles and bounces its way down from the mountains above … Did I mention we had gotten about 3 inches of rain in about 2 hours … do you see a pattern of poor decisions…Trust me it will continue for a while. Anyway after I crossed the creek and got to see my campsite I found out that somebody had tried to act like they were filming an episode of “survivor man” and built a beautiful stick and leaves lean too… right in the camp spot… but at that point I was too tired to do more than briefly marvel at the amount of time that had been required.
I quickly set my tent up hoping to not get it any wetter than two hours exposure to a downpour had already made it and pumped some water. Finally going back to check on the others… by the time I returned … You guessed it … my gurgling bouncy little creek was a solid wall of white foaming torrent that taxed my legs just to cross … but cross it I did … leg cramps or not. Only to find that the first 2 arriving “sensible” adults in the group had set up their campsite a few hundred yards downstream …Where no creek crossing was needed … oh well.
I had not met Jason and had only met Brad briefly a few years ago so we re-made introductions and began the ritual small talk about fishing and streams and places we have been too and places we want to go too. I am constantly amazed how these little internet fishing oasis’ can attract so many people who are kindred spirits … But then again… I guess if you are dumb enough to hike 4.5 miles in a rain storm to go fishing you pretty much are a kindred spirit by definition … or an idiot … and some questions I prefer not to answer. We stood around and chatted as everything was way to wet to sit down and wondered when the rest of the group would arrive. We were expecting 4 more to be coming and despite the little devil figure that popped up on my shoulder, I headed to the bridge to warn them of the slippery crossing before they got the same power slide sphincter rush that I had gotten………or was that rushed up there to watch them slide off the bridge … warn them… that is my story and I am sticking too it. As they appeared I quickly explained to them about the “bridge of death” and they made it across uneventfully although there were a couple tense moments for each I am sure. They were also wet and worn down but present none the less. We hunkered down in a soaking wet puddle and shot the poop for a while waiting on a break in the rain, which showed no signs of giving in.
Most of the group had decided that they were going to have a cold food night when my three boys rolled across the creek. Evidently food for them was a priority and they wanted it quick, one is going to play college lacrosse and one is going to play college football and one is a champion eater so it was a good bet that they were not kidding when they demanded that they had to have real food or we were going to have a mutiny. I dragged out some of the soggy lumps of charcoal, that hadn’t been lost on the trail, and piled them on a flat rock and built a little rack over them with rocks and a little flat wire grill plate and despite the cynical outburst of my companions and even some help from them as well… we ended up with glowing coals which were perfect for three of the largest hunks of rib-eye you have ever seen. The weather finally gave us a break and let up long enough to cook em. We were so hungry we just used one plate grabbed a rib eye off the fire, cut it into pieces and passed them around to the group to eat with our fingers … tasted pretty dang good to me. Bryan added some marinated venison to the fire soon thereafter and we all had a full stomach as we turned in for a long wet night of raindrops dancing on the tent… while dreams of warm sunshine and brookies danced in our dreams.
I awoke to the slower scattered sound of water dripping from the trees not falling from the sky so I virtually bounded from the tent only to realize that the sky was lead gray and heavy with the promise of rain… oh well at least we were already here and didn’t have to hike … and we got to fish … and even fishing in the rain cheers me up. The water was up but not too badly stained and we quickly decided who was going to fish what section of water so that we wouldn’t end up inadvertently fishing behind someone all day long without knowing it. Somehow in the packing for this trip I had ended up being the one left out in the wader and wading boot department even though the boys were all wearing my stuff so I ended up bracing for that first icy creek crossing (48 degree water temp) wet wading in felt soled sandals. No worries however as my first cast of the day produced a lovely little brookie. I quickly scoured the pockets of my fishing vest for my camera only to realize that it was still in my tent where I had put it to dry out. So I stole one of Bills pictures from same the day.
The rest of the day produced consistent fish on a yellow stimulator but they weren’t really dialed in and pouncing on it, they were just kinda slapping at it due I think to the higher and slightly stained water. It had threatened to gush rain any second all day but managed to hold off for most of the day. A couple times I witnessed that hauntingly beautiful southern Appalachian phenomenon of looking up to see a wall of mist hanging in the trees up the hill come floating downstream toward me as a visibly advancing wave and feeling the next five minutes as a wave of gentle drizzle tapping lightly on my hat and rain jacket, then passing just as suddenly with no mist in sight up or down the stream.
The rain began to fall in earnest and I decided to head back to camp and get a nap. As I wandered back into camp I was greeted by two North Carolina Fish and Game guys. We exchanged pleasantries and I told them that I had been coming up here for many years and this was the first time I had ever seen any Fish and Game guys and how glad I was to see them in the area as this was a creek that could quickly get “loved to death” if it wasn’t carefully protected. Anyway they did the usual check and all was well and we stood talking casually about the health of the fishery and the usual questions, I mentioned I had to go check on the boys and I saw a strange look pass across their face. Well suffice to say, that I have been taking these boys fishing with me since they were about 10 years old and I don’t really think of them as adults…hell I know them… they aren’t adults yet … so I hadn’t bothered to check to see if they had fishing licenses… after all the little kids I remember don’t need fishing licenses… Ah but in the eyes of the law an 18 year old boy is definitely an adult… chalk up one more to my snake bit misfortunes of this trip … no better make that chalk THREE more citations up to my misfortunes of this trip. Oh well my mistake I will have to pay em… ($195 a pop for those of you keeping score at home).
I woke from my nap to hear the steady drumming of hard rain on the tent. I rolled over and dozed for a while only to wake to more hard drumming rain. I sat patiently and contemplated my belly button lent while listening to the hard drumming rain. I got impatient and flipped and flopped in my little one person coffin … I mean tent … while listening to yet even more hard drumming rain. Oh hell, I have been wet for two days now what is another wet evening gonna hurt. By the time I got to the big camp site it was a sorry muddy wet group huddled around a campfire pit “lake”. Everyone was still in their waders and wading boots as we were so wet we might as well have been in the river … oh yeah that was everyone but me … who had loaned his out. We stood around and tried to concentrate the weather into giving us a break like it had last night but I guess the brain power of this group wasn’t strong enough and it just kept raining. Wes the MAN of the group had brought a huge cast iron skillet in his backpack … and I do mean huge. He was planning on frying us dinner in it but we were having trouble getting enough fire going to get it food even warm let alone hot enough to fry…
When I pulled out a little more of my ill fated charcoal…which finally did get hot enough to cook and Wes and the group were able to make a wonderful potato and sausage dish that was gobbled down so greedily that you could practically hear the vacuum rush as it slid down our throats. Bryan pulled out some moose sausage and once again we had full tummies of warm food despite the rain, which paused long enough for a little sip or two of my Woodford and a few good cigars to be burned.
I could tell the boys were pretty cold, wet and miserable so I agreed that if it was still raining in the morning we would head out with the rest of the group instead of staying a few more days like we had planned. That seemed to brighten em up and off they went back to their camp to turn in. But I was worried about the kids crossing the “bridge of death” in the pitch black and with even more rain to make it more slippery than the previous nights adventures so I made them wade across the river and I got so nervous about that, I even followed them back to my campsite to supervise their trip across the river. I stood on the near bank of the river and shone a flashlight as they made their shadowy way across the river … then it struck me like a bolt of lightning how clear a metaphor this was for how our lives would be lived from now on. Ricky was crossing the river out of my world into adulthood… I could throw some light … offer some suggestions … worry myself sick … but in the end it was his life now to make his own journey, make his own crossing, his own camp, and I would simply be observing from a distance… like I was observing the crossing of the river. I switched off the flashlight as they struggled out of the water safe and sound. I stood in the darkness and the rain as they got their camp ready for sleep, listening to the sound of their voices drift back to me, observing the flashing of their lights as they finally turned in … my heart was heavy with the thought of my first born passing from a world where I could protect him to one where he would have to make his own way. I spent a while thinking of how this journey had started, new born babes in arms, the toddler years, the “wonder years” when dad could do no wrong, the heartaches, the long talks, the endless guidance and finally the current years when dad knew nothing. Here I was watching from a distance… an interested observer …but simply an observer none the less … the realization stuck home… my oldest son was becoming an adult … as I turned to climb into my tent my cheeks were wet from bittersweet raindrops … what else could they have been…
I also noticed that there were scattered stars breaking out in the sky above at last.
“The Clearing” Part Two coming soon
