THE RIVER OF TIME

RIO GRANDE RESCUE

            North of Taos, the Alamosa Valley flattens the land west of Highway 38.  In the distance, across the sagebrush 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 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 sakes don’t fall out of the raft here.”

            Not a second after our guide had shouted this last warning; 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.  My son braced himself, grabbed my life jacket with both hands, and yanked me aboard.

            Within a millisecond, we were plummeted by rapids.  Huge boulders flew by. Spray soaked us.  The guide shouted instructions that we couldn’t understand over the river roar.  Then, suddenly, we were through.  The river had sucked us into turmoil and then spit us into tranquil waters.  All the shouting and paddling had little to do with our safe arrival.  The river had mercy on us.

            As we paddled the placid waters, 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 his strength and support.

            And now in a blink of an eye, I had become dependent on him.  He had rescued me from a bump on the head—or worse. No doubt, my son will help me in other ways as he matures.           

            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 on his face. I remembered, then carrying my 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.  When fathers guide their sons with care and tenderness the bond of trust and love can be passed from generation to generation.

Concepts to Consider:

1. What character traits are demonstrated in this vignette?
2. How does a father influence a son to be “strong and courageous?”
3. How can trust and love be cultivated between father and son?
4. How does example trump lecture in teaching how to live life well?
5. What character traits enable us to grow old gracefully?