A River Runs Through Me . . .

A River Runs Through Me . . . Just outside Tucson, there is a popular hiking trail that runs through the Sabino Canyon. Throughout any given day, hundreds of people walk, run, or bike the 10-mile trail that cuts through the Catalina Mountains. The landscape is incredibly picturesque, as desert landscapes go. The rugged, dusty mountains surround you as you venture further into the wilderness of a world defined by Saguaro cacti, the twisted formations of oak and ash trees, and cruel-looking rock formations. Yesterday, the sky was overcast. Faded white clouds hung over the morning like a worn cottage blanket. The sun struggled. At times, the day seemed to begin and end in an instant. The cool air would hang, then rise in temperature, only to return to somewhere below comfortable. I should have recognized this as the first sign of doom. So many years as a student of symbols, and yet so utterly naïve. I should have known better. I have only myself to blame. We began our trek up the canyon along a ragged, dusty trail. It was exhilarating to walk together in such a primeval setting. My imagination flirted with the idea that this was where the West began. Thoughts of pioneers travelling in covered wagons, Indian camps and warlike attacks, all the great gunslingers, Davey Crockett, Daniel Boone, Geronimo, these images and more flooded my mind. I lost myself in the moment. I barely remembered that I was only a snapshot away from the 21st century and where my real life waited. The trek was no easy one. The trail climbed up and down without compassion. Even the Nike hiking boots that had served me so well through all of Europe’s toughest cobblestone streets faltered here on a loose rock or the twisted root of a tree. At one point I found myself looking one way while my feet skidded another. Misalignment of head and body. Imbalance of soul and flesh. Spiritual crisis . . . plague of humanity. We trek through time sometimes so distracted that, at any given moment, we are susceptible to fall. I knew that. I should have known better. I have only myself to blame. After hours of walking and talking, Her Maj and I reached the one-mile marker. Only nine miles to go. I suspected we might be here all day. It was the second mile that did us in. Well, it wasn’t really the second mile that was so bad. Her Maj was having some problems with her pants, you see, and wanted to stop and rest by the gurgling Sabino Creek that runs through the canyon. I offered to switch with her, my Levis for her Spandex, but, after some heartfelt negotiations, she declined my offer. I never wear a belt, and well, the rest of that thought is pretty moot. Let’s just leave it at the place where, for most of the day, we ended up in our own pants and not in each other’s pants. As things turned out, that was a good thing, I suppose. Immediately following our rest in the riverbed, we played with my rather expensive camera, balancing it on a rock formation, setting the timer, and snapping self-portraits. For some sudden reason, the sun had broken through steely clouds, and we were enjoying the glow of light that crashed off the canyon walls. The riverbed hosts a small stream at this time of year, and the setting is almost idyllic. It’s too bad I was there. As we made our way back towards the main trail, we found ourselves encircled by the river. We watched as icy water slipped over yellow quartz and speckled granite rocks. We looked for tadpoles and other signs of life. There were none. All you could make out was the clear, icy reflection of the day’s light and our rippling silhouettes. Then it happened. On our return to the main trail, I was perched as steadily as a mountain goat on the smallest of river rocks peeking above the river rapids. Her Maj was negotiating her way across a series of rocks that lead from one side of the stream to the other. Unfortunately, one of the rocks on her journey happened to be the one on which I was poised and where I was innocently taking pictures of one Saguaro after another. The crash was inevitable, I suppose. The fall for one of us was predetermined. It was only a matter or which of us would go. The instinct for survival is always strong. When I realized the predicament I was in, I immediately remembered my years of studying the martial arts. As Her Maj appeared on an obvious collision course, I readied for a quick mule kick that I knew would preserve my spot on the rock and send her flying downstream. Then one of those inner voices reminded me that she had the car keys, I was staying at her house, and she was such a likable enough person, well, more than likable actually. So I made a decision. She got the rock. I got the river. The sensation of falling into a mountain river in March is an unforgettable one. It’s not that the water is cold; it’s more that one’s dignity seems to take flight the moment one hits bottom. You do hit bottom. And all the pretty, colourful, and smooth rocks that you noticed previously become jagged weapons of mass destruction. On impact, one took out my left shin, another spliced my right shin, and a third cracked through the ulna bone in my right forearm. The best I can say I that I managed to hold my rather expensive camera aloft. I may have drowned, but heaven forbid, one never sacrifices a Nikon. Since you are reading this, you should realize that I have survived. I must admit how quite extraordinary it is to be airlifted from an Arizona canyon to the doctors and nurses at St Joseph’s Hospital. You can’t imagine the sympathy and care a Canadian receives in an American medical center. I didn’t want to leave. And I don’t want to leave Tucson. That is where a river runs through me. But I do leave . . . tomorrow.

Copyright © Kennedy James, 2007. All rights reserved. This post is the intellectual property of the author and his heirs and is not to be copied or reproduced in any form without the author's written consent. Please email for further information.