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Relieved, I pushed off the shore and headed around the bend out of town. Condors circled and landed on the rocks in the river before me. Plain brown birds opened their wings and exposed huge red and orange eyes. River otters played in front of my boat. The air was thick, sweet, and loud with life.

The short, ‘easy’ run turned out to be steep, rocky rapids. Caught totally off guard, I wrapped my boat on exposed rocks repeatedly. First, I sat in sheer panic on the high side of my raft. The river kicked up and grabbed at my legs. I looked to my left and then to my right. Sheer jungle wall. No road. No people. No ropes. The river drowned my voice when I screamed out. It spit in my face and mixed with my tears and snot. I got mad. Stepping off the boat, I planted myself on the slick rock my boat was wrapped around and started heaving. I pushed and pulled and screamed and cried, slipping off the rock into the tumbling whitewater and pulling myself back up. I didn’t even feel the water. I had a death grip on the boat, heaving it back and forth, trying to free it from the rock. Suddenly the raft let loose, I jumped in and grabbed for the oars, but they were too short so I was rowing over my head to get my blades in the water, which robbed me of my strength. I just spun around and wrapped on another rock. I wept and slapped the rubber tube of the raft, then climbed back out and pushed against the river.

Four hours later, drenched I pushed to shore where Marco was supposed to meet me. It was dark. I pulled the boat out of the water and tied it with two ropes to a tree whose trunk was a good fifteen feet in diameter and whose top I could not see. I thought Marco would come to the water and meet me. My heart pounded in the sudden thought that I was still alone. I clamored up the shore, scanning for shapes in the field. I called out, but didn’t want to bring attention to myself, then stood there, terrified.

I gathered myself and wandered back to my raft. Hoisting my bag out, I slipped in the mud, and fell into a mass of leaves and roots. I swatted the leaves away from my face, my skin crawling from that touch in the dark. I rinsed myself in the river and found a flat place in the field. Ravenous, I shook my stove when I couldn’t get it to work. I peeled a Snickers bar and put up my tent. I climbed in and listened to the jungle scream at me. My muddy, sweaty body stuck to itself. I didn’t move in an effort to ignore the discomfort. I heard a motorcycle buzz up to the edge of the field and Marco’s voice with the “ranger”. His feet drug as he moved toward the tent.

“Why didn’t you fix dinner? Where’s my tent?” he said.

“The stove doesn’t work. Eat a Snickers. Your tent is on the raft,” I responded flatly, and rolled over.

* * * * *

The next morning I woke up to the stink of decomposition and lay there for a moment, listening to the rain. I pulled on a t-shirt and some underwear. I grabbed the napkin map, climbed out of my tent and unzipped Marco’s. He sat up and I crouched inside next to him. “I don’t want to run this river. We can still get back to Cusco from here,” I said and handed Marco the napkin.

“No way, Shuggi. We’re going to run this river.”

I rested my chest on my knees and looked at Marco. I wondered what was wrong with realizing the mission was ludicrous. I had fought my ego all night to be able to tell Marco I didn’t want to run the river. I crumbled and said, “Well, we need a new stove. The kerosene clogs mine.”

“I’ll go to town and get a new one.” He unfolded himself and stepped out in to the warm rain.

“And a tarp too. We can’t be cooking in the tents.”

PART 3 »

SARAHLEE LAWRENCE is a river rafting guide and experiential educator who lives an adventurous life running rivers, researching riparian environments, training horses, farming and writing... {more»}