The Mighty Eel

The beloved Eel River has been a focal point in my life the last two decades. I vividly remember my first time meeting her all those years ago. I was taken to a spot known only to locals, and as I clumsily climbed over rocks to avoid the rushing water, I saw a salmon. And then I saw another and another. They were everywhere. I’d never seen anything like it before in my life. They were working furiously against the current (spawning), and here I was, this newcomer watching their last dance and their last breaths beside me. The Redwood trees were engrossed in mist, and their ancient selves were standing, watching, and witnessing me witnessing them, as only elders can. Not a word spoken yet you could hear a wisdom humming from them that my human mind and heart could only feel. To this day, it was one of the most magical moments of my life.

The mighty Eel River runs over 200 air miles (800 river miles) starting from Mendocino County and emptying into the Pacific Ocean near Eureka, California. She runs North; and her waters are fast and dark in the winter, slow and light in the summer. I’ve only known her for her swimming holes, our yearly canoe trip, and her constant companionship between my homestead and town, and from my Southern to Northern Humboldt commute. I see people day camping during the spring and summer, enjoying her clear cool waters, and periodically, I see drift boats and hopeful fishermen out catching a dream. I raised my daughters on her banks; both learned to swim in her currents, counting fish and tadpoles, and jumping off rocks. When they were little, I’d get to one of our three favorite spots late morning, and wade in the cold water while buckets and shovels made castles and caught little creatures to examine more closely before putting them back from where they came. It was the best time of my life; me and my little ones, but it was also quite lonely. My tiny being against the vast wilderness of the river, the raw uninterrupted and unincorporated nature, nothing but trees and cliffs so high you could see where the earth had split. Sea otters, turtles on sunken logs, mama duck and all her little ones, the crows cawing, and the vultures circling in the heat; they were my company till the wind wound up and off we’d go in time for afternoon naps and the third part of my day as a young mother. It wasn’t just a summer I’d spent on those shores, but years. I was lucky to have that time in my life. Every so often another mom would join me with her little ones, and we’d spend time in the sun having interrupted conversations and brief swim sessions. We’d catch our breaths as mother’s, and for a few hours we’d confide in each other about the joys and challenges of living and raising children in such remoteness.

Our river days start in May and last until about July; then the river is too shallow and the algae blooms. These weeks are one of the brightest highlights of our year, as we know this time in the river is short-lived and we have to embrace it while we can. We usually start off the river season with our annual canoe trip. Every year our family gets together with a group of friends and we float the river for the day. We get the canoes ready and loaded the night before, and pack the picnics the day of, heading down early to get the day started. It’s always a surprise to see who will make it, what families or friends show up for the trip. It’s perfect chaos getting all the canoes, kayaks, rafts, and blow up tubes in the water; all the cars and trucks shuttling back and forth from the pullout spots. All that shuffling eventually subsides and soon we are on the cool calm morning Eel river, blissed out with community and with a full adventurous day ahead. We all find our quiet moments of awe; silently passing nooks only fairies could live, or squinting our eyes against the sun as the resident eagle graces us overhead (the same spot on the river every year!). We discuss where we should stop for snacks or where’s the best swimming hole this year, and soon blankets and towels are tossed from canoes, different foods from each family are shared, and screams of delight pierce the air as we jump from rocks so so high. Like life, parts of the river are full and fast, and you have to keep focused on what’s in front of you. Other parts are slow and shallow, and shimmy all you want; sometimes you just have to walk it till the water deepens. You can learn a lot about yourself and others on the river and in a boat. Who steers? Who paddles? Who has fun? By the end of the day, everyone is ready to be done and home and showered. But as we say our goodbyes, the tall tales of the day start, the exaggerations, and the plans and strategies for the next year emerge. As we drive home tired and sunburned, we reminisce on the day and years of canoeing that had come before and wonder who will make the trip again.

This past weekend our family did our annual canoe trip, and it was a trip for sure. It was the first time no friends or family showed up; everyone was out of town or busy with other activities. So here we were, just the four of us. The minute it started I knew it was going to be an interesting day. Craig and I thought we weren’t going to make it further than “Melanie’s swimming hole” (which is where the trip always begins) because the water was too clean and clear, and the bank too beautiful and magical with her overhanging trees, waterfall moss and the most perfect rocks to jump from. We carried on, and Craig and I were so content seeing our daughters in a canoe together actually having fun and getting along. We’ve waited a long time for that moment. We carried on and stopped at “Beaver Fever” swimming hole where we had the best picnic and a refreshing dip. That’s also where Craig lost his knife of 35 years (we just need to walk down the river bar and get it). The day just couldn’t get any better, and no worries there, it didn’t.

As we meander down the river, the girls pass us and up ahead is the one real spot on the river that needs caution. A rapid yes (we hit a few before and after), but this rapid occurs at the bend in the river that makes a 90 degree turn to the left; and with two huge boulders at its corner. The girls were making it through and I told Craig (who was steering) to “slow down please and give them space.” He later said that seeing his girls headed for the most dangerous part instinctively sent him paddling faster and though the girls cleared it perfectly, our canoe caught the current and Craig paddled us head on into the boulders. The speed was so intense the front end of the canoe was catapulted on top of the rocks ( i.e. me), submerging the back underwater. It then tipped on its right side. All I see is rushing water between the crevices of both boulders and as I push to get the canoe off me (I’m on the rock), I turn to see the back end submerged in water. I believe Craig is stuck and as I’m trying to flip over a canoe filled with water caught against rocks in the rapid, I look for the girls (they are safe but in the water) and scream “where’s your father, where’s your father” and all of our 25 years together pass through me. I’ve heard those tragic stories of a perfect river day ending with a loved one drowning. It happens. In those endless seconds I think to myself this is the day my husband dies in front of his wife and kids, and on the annual canoe trip.

The girl’s canoe didn’t tip when we hit the rocks; it tipped when Jospehine saw her dad underwater rushing towards their canoe and not wanting him to hit his head, she pushed him under hers. Mahala’s looking at me saying, “mom, we’re all ok, everyone’s ok,” and I see Craig pop up smiling and he starts swimming for the oars, while the girls start pushing their canoe to shore. I’m holding the coffee thermos (which is now the all time memory; mom of course unconsciously grabs the coffee on her way out), and I start gathering what’s left on the rocks; picking myself up and over the boulders dazed and confused. How quickly things turned. The canoes were emptied of the water, and everything lost was found; minus the two beach towels that were swallowed by the crevice and the unbelievably fast moving water between it. The day continued on, but there was a deep heaviness in my heart, despite the girls’ laughter of the surrealness of their parents heading straight into the rocks. It makes for a great story, and one day I will laugh too. And though the energy changed, and the four of us experienced a shocking moment, we carried on. Not like nothing happened, but we were still going to do the day the best we could. And we did. And though I will cherish those memories in the early part of the trip, it was our positive attitude and perseverance that made me the most proud. True, we couldn’t call it a day; we had miles of river to move through and our truck was hours away. But we could have chosen a different attitude and ruined the rest of the day. But we didn’t. Mahala’s attempt to keep water from pouring into her canoe through the bullet hole with her toes (we didn’t notice before we set out) kept the laughter in the air and by the time we reached our pullout, though quiet, we were smiling. We headed home for dinner, slight disbelief at our day, and an early bedtime for mom.

I started this June blog with my first encounter with the mighty Eel River and I’m ending it with my most recent. Though there were moments in the hours after the incident that I thought this will most definitely be my last encounter with her (or my last canoe trip), I know I will lovingly slip inside her cooling waters next spring, and step gingerly into a canoe again and embark on many more memorable experiences with her and my loved ones. This river is the epitome of our journey here on Earth. Some parts are so sacred and some parts so scary, but in the end, it’s all a gift. This river creates life, nurtures life, and yes, takes life; thus revealing the greatest gift we are ever given is time. I’m grateful that I’ve been given this much so far, and to have been given two exquisite daughters and a loving husband who are still here to share it with me. It is a blessing beyond belief. This time here is so beautiful it makes me breathless. I’ve had the honor of watching both my children and myself grow up along her banks and beaches, and though I am no mystery to this sweet river, she will always be a bit of a mystery to me. As is life.