Swept Away
The river seemed so placid and calm. We thought a little white water would be fun. A woman learns to let go and trust in her faith
By Jan WeeksGrand Junction, Colorado
It was the last day of duck-hunting season out here in Colorado. I’m not really a hunter, but I love the rivers where they nest. To flush a mallard over fast-running water, the crisp January air tingling in your nostrils, is an indescribable feeling. Which is why my husband, Larry, our friend Randy and I were so psyched that morning to set out in our canoe on the Colorado River, just west of Grand Junction.
We put into the water just past dawn—Larry in the stern, Randy on the center thwart and me in the bow. The power seat, it’s called, the best place to see what’s coming. I liked being in charge. Being in control. If my fate was going to be in somebody’s hands, why not my own? Randy’s Chesapeake Bay retriever, Amber, sat near him, ears as alert as antennae. Bring it on, I thought. Bring on the rapids. I was ready for anything. The day was overcast and cold—barely above freezing. Near the shallows, ice struggled to form. It didn’t bother me. We wore wetsuits to keep us dry and winter coats to keep us toasty.
I dug in with my paddle, finding my rhythm, matching Larry stroke for stroke. Soon we left the world behind. No highway sounds, no houses, not another soul on the river. Just the sound of water lapping against our canoe. I closed my eyes. I might as well have been swinging in a hammock. With the heavy work of paddling I started to sweat. The sun was working its way through the clouds and the life vest felt awkward and bulky. I reached for the buckle.
“Keep that on,” Randy said.
“Why?” I wasn’t used to others telling me what to do.
“If we capsize, you wouldn’t stand a chance in this water,” Larry said. Two against one. I looked at the river; I hated to give in. I just kept paddling.
The river swung south toward the old Fruita Bridge, a rusted, forgotten iron trestle. Upstream from it a slim islet split the river into two channels. The right side flowed gently and smoothly. The left channel churned with three-foot waves as the gray-green water surged and careened off the 20-foot-high sheer cliff that anchored the south end of the bridge. We backpaddled, studying the water. “What do you think?” Larry asked. “White water or calm water?”
