The River

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Contents

A Note from the Author

From an Entry in a Journal

Prologue

1. The Big Hike

2. Life in Kansas

3. The Pond

4. Corn Dogs and Marbles

5. Mister Earl and the Pig Trip

6. The New Teacher

7. A Visitor Comes to the Farm

8. A Birthday Gift

9. The Phone Call

10. The Trip to The River

11. The Girl

12. The River Speaks

13. Samuel and Big Water Adventures

14. Class V

15. The Last Night

16. Good-bye and The Journal

17. No More Kansas

18. Hanging Out with Ezra

19. An Unexpected Introduction

20. A Dinner to Remember

21. The Night Run

22. The War Room

23. A Trip Home

Epilogue

Reading Group Guide

Acknowledgments

Author Interview

About the Author

An excerpt from Into the Canyon

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A Note from the Author

If stories come to you, care for them. And learn to give them away where they are needed. Sometimes a person needs a story more than food to stay alive.

—Barry Lopez, in Crow and Weasel

I’VE ALWAYS LOVED TO TELL STORIES, ESPECIALLY with friends or family. I love sharing the fun of an unlikely event, a self-deprecating faux pas, or a whimsical conversation with one of my kids. There’s nothing like a great story.

My grandfather was a wonderful storyteller. I used to sit next to his wood-burning stove with a Chek Root Beer float in hand, listening to him tell me about his childhood. He described the hardships of growing up during the Great Depression, how he used to build Goodyear blimps, and how his personally customized RV always broke down at the top of some mountain pass in the harshest of winters.

I never really cared whether his stories were based on fact or fiction. I just loved getting lost in the magic of his words. It was as if I could experience those adventures and relationships too, even though I was only eight years old.

The story I’m about to tell you is inspired by a collage of events, conversations, and happenings in my life and the life of my family. I believe you’ll find some of your story here as well. I’m not sure how that happens, but it always does.

Michael Neale

2012

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From an Entry in a Journal

I love coming to The River.

The River is magical. It’s full of wonder and mystery. For thousands of years, The River has been carving its way through the Earth. As the water pours over the landscape, crashes against the banks, and cascades over the rocks, everything changes in its path. The terrain, the trees, even the wildlife-everything is shaped by The River. Everything in the canyon is at the mercy of The River.

The River is wild, free, and untamable. It’s foaming, twisting, and thundering. There are places where the water shoots down into crevices and canyons and creates this amazing thunder, and then there are places where the water settles into pools of complete calm. There are peaceful eddies where the riverbed is flat and the gradient is level, where the water mirrors the beautiful mountains surrounding the landscape. I love being with The River.

The River is alive. The River is timeless, and it’s moving all over the world.

I find myself drawn to The River. With its beauty and power, The River calls to me. The River can be known but not fully. Therein lies the mystery. The River has a voice, and I love the way it sounds. When I’m with The River, I just know it’s where I’m meant to be. It touches something deep inside my soul. It connects me to a bigger story in some indescribable way. I could spend countless hours just watching and listening.

Since I was a small child, I’ve been fascinated and captivated by The River. It’s mesmerizing, really. The waters speak to me. Whether I’m skipping stones in a smooth eddy or feeling the thunder of a waterfall, when I’m with The River, I feel alive.

I’ve experienced The River in many ways in my life. I haven’t always understood those experiences. What I will say is that The River has allowed me to feel the deepest grief and given me the greatest joy.

I must confess, though, that there have been times when I’ve been angry with The River. It doesn’t seem to mind. I’ve been afraid of The River too, but somehow it keeps drawing me in. I am a small speck compared to its mighty waters, yet The River seems completely aware of me in a cosmic sort of way. Whether I was indifferent, aloof, or passionately bitter, The River never stopped calling me.

I’ve watched The River from places high in the mountains where you couldn’t hear the water’s movement. The sight reminded me of a rich Monet hanging on the wall.

I’ve sat on the banks and listened to the water flowing by gently, whispering to me like a mother soothing her child to sleep. I’ve waded into the calm eddies, where the cool water cascaded over my toes, massaging my feet and invigorating my skin.

To float down the gentle rapids without a raft is like being carried in the strong arms of a father. Love pushes out any fear as you’re lifted through the canyon. You feel adventure and safety at the same time.

I’ve skipped rocks on the mirrored water. I’ve fly-fished in the deepest gorges, and better yet, I’ve rafted monstrous whitewater in breathtaking canyons all over the world. I’m still learning to trust The River, though, because I don’t know all that the waters have in store for me.

But I do know this: I can’t live without The River. I’m still fearful yet drawn in. I’m in awe yet completely at home. Somehow, in the deepest places, I feel The River knows I’m here. I can’t explain it. I just know. It has never left me, and I will never leave it. I am captured and set free in this beautiful dance of hearts.

I can tell you this from my journey: the more you experience The River, the more you want to stay close by. When you experience The River, you live.

Gabriel Clarke     

November 7, 1979

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Prologue

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.

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____________________ ONE

The Big Hike

1956

ON A COOL SEPTEMBER SUNDAY, JOHN CLARKE WOKE up at daybreak wanting to get out of the house and enjoy the outdoors. Being a single father, and not having arranged care for his son, Gabriel, that day, he’d decided to take the little guy on a hike into the Firewater gorge at The River.

Dad! Slow down! shouted the five-year-old boy in a husky yet high-pitched voice.

Not too much farther, buddy, and then we’ll take a break, replied his father. You’re gonna love the view when we get there! Papaw took me here when I was your age, and I never forgot it.

Running out of breath in this flatter section of the trail, but still determined, John kept moving. Their final destination was a rarely visited scenic overlook of Splash Canyon from high above Whitefire River. His backpack—filled with trail mix, homemade beef jerky, water, first-aid gear, and raincoats—must have weighed twenty pounds.

Dad! Put me up high! John stopped to wait for Gabriel to catch up, and then with one strong motion he hoisted the boy onto his shoulders for the rest of the hike. They continued on to the top, father and son united in their love for the raw outdoors.

That’s where he felt at home. John knew his way around nature better than he knew his own house. If I could, I’d live outdoors constantly, he’d tell friends from time to time. At five feet, eleven inches and 189 pounds, John was a rugged thirty-two-year-old, built solid and muscular. He was strong as an ox from his years of rock climbing and running The River. Crow’s-feet were starting to appear outside his blue-gray eyes. With sandy blond hair in a shag cut and a swagger to boot, he was a man of few words with wisdom beyond his years.

The Clarke family was a cornerstone of Corley Falls, Colorado. John’s grandfather and father had all but built the entire town on the back of their inn and whitewater adventure camp. John, carrying on the tradition, had assumed the day-to-day operations, which included training the whitewater guides. For nearly thirty-six springs and summers, Big Water Adventure Camp had given rafters and expeditionists an experience they would never forget on the Whitefire River. John Clarke repeated his father’s words often: We Clarkes, we were made for The River.

The summer rafting season was over. Only a few seasoned kayakers would run The River during this time, so John had a few days off between guided hiking tours and teaching at the Whitewater Guide School his father had started. They’d had an unusual amount of rain that week, so The River was running particularly high.

The canyon and surrounding forest were breathtaking, especially in the early morning hours. The misty fog lifted slowly, leading to a sensation like they were walking in the clouds. Birds chirped in a polyrhythmic symphony, and one could smell the spruce, fir, and pine trees with arresting potency. Chipmunks scampered about as if playing hide-and-seek while making their final sweep of the forest floor for nuts before winter. All manner of wildlife could make an appearance at any given time, including bears, wolves, and deer, creating a truly wild and magical place.

How far are we going, Dad?

About a couple more football fields, his father replied. John tried to talk about distances in terms his son could picture.

Like a miniature version of his father, Gabriel was a stocky kid with a round face. His straight blond hair swung back and forth when he walked, but he usually ran everywhere he went. He had eyelashes for days, and his sky-blue eyes arrested the ladies wherever his father took him. Of course, his dad liked that.

Gabriel was smart, full of questions, and not averse to mischief. His questions would come out of nowhere and often send his father to the floor laughing or make him scratch his head in wonder.

On this morning hike, however, Gabriel’s questions were more poignant.

"When am I gonna see Mommy again? Sammy Overton said maybe she’s mad.

Jackson Wilbur said mommies are important because you need to have a mommy to be borned. Can we go see Mommy today?

John was taken aback by the randomness of the questions, which broke his heart. He knew it would be at least Thanksgiving before Gabriel got to see his mother.

Without slowing down, John continued up the rugged path. Well, buddy, you’re gonna get to see your momma real soon. She’s not mad at you, Gabe. Don’t ever think that. She just lives quite a ways away, so it’s hard for her to get here. Hey, look at those chipmunks!

John knew he was trying to change the subject, and his heart was heavy. The sadness would come over him in waves sometimes. How he wished they were still together! The feelings of despondency would get overwhelming. Usually he’d just distract himself with more work.

John unloaded Gabriel from his shoulders carefully. Shhhh. Don’t scare ’em off. Before John could get the backpack off, the boy was ransacking it for some peanuts. He took a few out of a bag and made his way slowly toward the pair of chipmunks. Without fear, Gabriel held out his hand with a few shelled peanuts resting on his fingertips. The chipmunks cautiously approached with quick twitches, looking from side to side. They seemed to be trying to get away with something.

Hold your hand steady, John counseled.

Taking their time, the two chipmunks each grabbed a couple of peanuts and scampered back to