Riding the Rushing River

I turned twenty-one the summer I lived in Detroit. We lived right outside Dearborn in an old house. The city was quiet, ghost-like. A…

I turned twenty-one the summer I lived in Detroit. We lived right outside Dearborn in an old house. The city was quiet, ghost-like. A humble city with people who needed to be loved. The poor mingled in the streets and suburbs. Squatters filled abandoned houses finding solace in the burned-down infrastructure. Addiction had its grip on the people, depressed by lack of opportunity, joblessness, and ending in poverty. The city was erected, being slowly gentrified by the onslaught of the wealthy. Nice suits and dresses clamored the newly paved sidewalks as the walking dead emerged from the shadows.

There were about twenty volunteers for that summer who worked with the youth of the city. There were two programs: a children’s summer camp and a work internship for teens.

One summer day the guys of our group went into the wilderness about an hour out of the city in beautiful Michigan to camp. We arrived and hiked deep into the green forest taking in the summer sights.

Crickets chirped uncontrollably. The sun reflected off the rocks and glistened through the pine trees. The aromas of water-soaked wood filled us. The vibrant colors of summer gleamed and radiated.

Photo by Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash

It was perfect. We set up camp and went for our first hike. The teens weren’t excited. Being in our early twenties, we confiscated their phones and tried our best to occupy their time to give them duties and responsibilities. Picking it up quickly and learning, we pitched our tents and set up our fire putting together our extravagant meals.

Hiking was a calming experience after having been in Detroit for half of the summer already. We trekked for miles along the rushing river going against the maddening current. It roared and flowed like a pool of living creatures, bounding about and splashing to and fro. Mosquitoes swirled about in the air. Sun rays beat down on us.

The miles we hiked killed some of our teens who didn’t move a lot or weren’t used to all this activity. Their knees shook and were gelatin, but with determination, we had gotten all of the young guys there. We didn’t know that our leader Jake was planning on riding down the river back to our campsite.

“Come on, guys. It’ll be awesome!” he claimed to all the youth. The few moaned and grumbled and did not want to do anymore. But some of the boys went wild and hollered in anticipation of this great adventure. I was unsure- and scared, but I acknowledged my fear and pushed forward.
Jake said to find some big logs and then we’ll ride them down the vast river. The water looked calm at first, but little did I know what was going to happen.

All of us men gathered together and prepared for battle it seemed. We gathered big and small logs alike. Looking to each other for courage, we headed for the water.

It wasn’t calm, it was ferocious. It roared and came to life swaying back and forth. We climbed our logs. Some rode them like horses riding into war. Others gripped on for dear life, while others plunged in head first on their boogie boards. I went in, my legs out gripping the tree trunk’s tiny boughs, putting my fingers on the grooves of the bark.

I rode the violent river as it took me down and across, over and under the tiny rapids. My heart raced and sped like wild horses. I was let go, out in a minute, and thought it was finished.

But then I saw the scene.

Great rapids that stretched for miles roared and shot toward us. I could see them slowly inching forward. The water brings us closer to it. Death had us in its grip. It was so far, yet so close. How could I escape? I couldn’t.

I accepted my fate.

Photo by Andy Holmes on Unsplash

Being swept and twirled in a frenzy disoriented me greatly. I was shoved around, crashed, and let go of the log, but emerged from the blackened water. I shot up and tried to find my log, but it was a bit away from me, so I swam. I swam like never before, my heart pounding, my life fading.
No, I found it. I climbed on it like a mighty steed and I raced like lightning faster and faster into the heated air. Flying, I soared up into the clouds and flew past three guys on one giant tree branch. I sped down and got comfortable in the position as before.

The three kids on the gigantic branch got twirled and twisted in the rapids but were released quickly.

But then the rocks came. The jagged and sharp rocks jutted out of the bottom slicing and cutting the boy’s feet. They all cried, “Ow, ow, ow!”
I could sense it. The rapids were coming up and I went over them fast. My big toe hit one and it throbbed.

I cried, “Ow, ow, ow!” It was a rug of rock that impaled my feet and butt. 
I didn’t know how long it would last until finally the rapids ceased, and the waters, now calm, drifted us slowly down the river to our campsite where we had started prior.

No one was lost, all was well. And my toes were bruised like blueberries. 
We had become brothers because of our shared experience. Brotherhood ignited in our hearts and we all laughed and shared our crazy high jinks. 
The men all slowly drifted down the river and emerged from the dark water. Everyone made it safely back and all of us volunteers were relieved. Exhausted and ready for a nap, we prepared dinner for the guys.
Preparing a fire, we all gathered around and did our duties. Some fetching the twigs and branches for kindling. Others looking for big logs and then two went to take a shit. We all helped and celebrated with a feast fit enough for kings.

The fire raged and flew upwards to the night as we hollered and shared stories. Eating our fill and being lifted in our spirits, the embers flew high into the sky away from this insane world. We were princes of the night, knights of the wood. Kings of Summer. If only for a night.