Fathers and Sons

North of Taos the Alamosa Valley flattens the land west of Highway 38. In the distance across the sage brush desert one can see the beginnings of a cut sliced by the Rio Grande. The gash deepens as the River's icy knife chilled from the mountain snow carves through soft, volcanic rock forming the Grand Canyon of the Rio Grande. The narrow canyon walls tumble and twirl the river into Class IV & V rapids.

Several years ago my son, Brad, and I took a raft trip down this twisting canyon known as "The Box" by river guides. Just before we entered the most treacherous part of the river our guide steered us to the shallows where we paused to receive his safety instructions. He told us what to do if we got caught in an undertow or a hydraulic; how to sit and lean through the narrows--and "for goodness sake don't fall out of the raft here."

Not a second after we left the shallows our raft hit a bone jarring rock. I tumbled backward. My upper torso was in the river; a safety rope kept my legs inside the boat. The river undercurrent frustrated my efforts to pull my upper body into the raft. Brad braced himself, grabbed my life jacket with both hands and yanked me aboard.

Within a millisecond rapids plummeted our raft. Huge boulders flew by. Spray soaked us. The guide shouted instructions that we couldn't comprehend over the river roar. Then, suddenly, we were through. The river had sucked us into turmoil and then spit us into tranquil waters.

As we paddled the placid water my thoughts were on my son. When he was five I carried him on my back up the rocky cliffs of New Hope Creek near Chapel Hill, North Carolina. We took our first raft ride together down the French Broad in West Virginia when he was nine. He had questions and wanted help with his life jacket, his paddle, his safety gear. I was his protector. He looked to me for strength and support. And now in a blink of an eye I had become dependent on him. He had rescued me from a concussion--or worse.

Our raft trip completed we rode up the canyon road to Taos in the Mountain River Adventure bus. Wet, tired, thirsty, and hungry, I looked back at my son sleeping peacefully, a slight smile of his face. I remembered, then, carrying his grandfather dying from leukemia from bed to bathroom. He who had once carried me when I was a babe had become too frail to rise from bed without my help.

From grandfather to father to son life flows at rapid river speed. We can better enjoy the trip when we ride with those whom we trust and love.