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.

Life Is Like the Pecos River

The Pecos River crosses the western desert of Texas from north to south without a tributary. Entering into a broad plain as swirls from eastern New Mexico into Texas this wild river plummets into an inaccessible canyon as it approaches the Rio Grande. As the Pecos cuts its way through immense limestone cliffs, the last 60 miles of whitewater provide one of the few remaining wilderness paddling adventures that can be relished in North America.  

We contacted our old friend, Brian Wright, an IBM executive who surrendered his yuppie life-style to manage the 10,000 acre Texas Hill Country Ranch, to guide us down the Pecos River. With over two decades of Pecos experience Brian prepared us well. He began us on a six-week conditioning program  designed to build our back and core muscles. He made arrangements for a Del Rio outfitter to deposit us at the low-water bridge at Pandale, 60 miles upriver from our final destination.

At Del Rio we selected our canoes, strapped them on top of a rusting SUV and drove west on Highway 90, turning north on Ranch Road 1024. The stark and desolate land flattened as we penetrated the heart of Val Verde County, dotted with yucca, sage, and cedar. We turned west toward Pandale onto an unpaved single-lane road. The brilliant sun reflecting off the caliche plain seemed to pale the blue sky as a fine dust billowed behind our rattling SUV.

We knew we had reached Pandale when we saw the sign. There were no houses, no stores, no people--just a tattered sign reading, "Pandale: Population Varies." A few yards past the sign we came to a low-water bridge spanning the sparkling water of the Pecos cutting an asymmetric path toward low-lying limestone bluffs. 

After we placed our gear-loaded canoes in the water, the outfitter drove away. Our ears filled with silence. No traffic noises. No cellular phone. No radio. No twitter capability. We were twenty miles from the nearest ranch house. If struck by misadventure our rescue would depend on our ability to walk out of the deep gorge we were about to penetrate in our flimsy canoes.

The next five days were filled with incomparable adventure--thrills and spills in treacherous white-water alternating with languid paddling in deep, placid pools. Occasionally we faced fierce winds that despite hard paddling drove us backward. Portages over slippery cliffs threatened to plunge us into the rapids below. Twice Brian roped our canoes and we pulled them through tempestuous waters when towering overhangs offered no portage opportunities. At other times we pulled our canoes through muck and mire. As we approached our destination, the waterway widened into a reservoir created by Amistad Dam at the confluence of the Pecos, Rio Grande, and Devil Rivers. Throughout the trip our shadows had been our only companions.

I remember cowboy coffee in the morning and gourmet meals enjoyed with the setting sun; a new day's sweet stillness and star filled skies at night; the silence of a drifting canoe and a warming sun after a mid-day swim; showering under waterfalls and camping in meadows of knee-high grass.  Most of all I remember Wende--the excitement in her eyes when we approached our first rapid; her laughter when the canoe fliped me for the fifty-fifth time; her morning exuberance and her peaceful glow at night; her joy of adventure and risk; her courage when the rapids ran swifty toward massive bolders; her bright mind and her invigorating cheer. When we spend time with those we love each day becomes a treasure to recall.

Life is like the Pecos River. A deeply flowing current allows us to enjoy the scenery, but smooth water can turn rough with little warning. The winds of change seem to blow against us. Occasionally we just scrape by; at other times we seem mired by muck and mud. We can be tossed about when we little expect difficulties. A setting sun promises a brighter day. All the while beauty surrounds us. At the end of our journey a peaceful lake awaits.

Vacation Time Ignored By Many

Research clearly demonstrates that an annual vacation cuts risks of diseases by 20-30%.  

Unfortunately, more than one-third of Americans fail to use their full vacation times. They continue to work instead of vacationing. Of those who do take full time away from their regular jobs, much of their vacation time is spent on activities other than rest and relaxation:

• 19% spend their vacation time on family or personal responsibilities including illness, funerals, caring for sick children, or disabled parents
• 13% spend vacation time going to graduate school, working at another job, or participting in reserve military service
• 20% are contacted about work matters during vacation time
• 23% check work email while vacationing

THE MISSION OF COMPLETE MENTAL HEALTH

To bring encouragement, optimism, and hope. Specifically we want you to laugh a little, think some, learn enough, appreciate more and perhaps, on rare occasions, shed a tear or two.