Dear Carter,
I had not expected the drive to be so hard. I had driven this route once before a few months back and had a life affirming experience of wonderment and achievement. It was the eighteenth of July, and I thought I had a handle on this southern Tennessee summer. Well, I was wrong. The heat was intense, even early in the day, as I began to pack my meager camping supplies into my truck. I needed to paddle. I had not been able to bring myself to get on a river since that day. The day you left.
The campground we all know and love is along my route to the Tellico River. I could not simply pass by, I had to go see that relic. The joke left on display. Hung on the wall and so proudly displayed as a symbol of your carefree spirit. Live and let live, move on from the disappointments and embrace the joy instead. Not a small investment, this paddle, and so shortly lived it was. I do not believe many others would have handled its failure with such grace and humor. I certainly would not have been capable of such restraint. It makes perfect sense, that on a wall in a campground store, seven hours from where your home was, hung a perfect shining example of why so many of us love you. I remember seeing it there after that magical day I spent alone on the river. The day when nature and my heart and those encouraging words from all of my friends, and Carter you were a loud clear voice in my head and heart, all sang a unifying song of confirmation. I stopped in at CMT Campground to scavenge a shower, for at the time I was something of a vagabond still. The owners accommodated me for a very reasonable fee and as I walked out the door I glanced over and smiled so big at the sight of that broken paddle there on the wall. Signature across the shaft in black marker, ornate, with that certain flair we knew.
This trip, as I drove, I began to ponder a grand speech I would make in your honor, some touching remarks to be made to an audience of none. I knew there must be some pageantry to be had, a magicians flourish to honor you. I had visions of grandeur and an elegant explanation to innocent bystander that attached to this mere wall made by human hands was the paddle of a god. Here, anchored to the earth in such a way no mere mortal could remove it was Mjolnir. I was overwhelmed several times on my drive. Tears welling up and frustration with my lack of control over my emotions. Anger that I would not get to see you again. Confusion as to how I hurt so much. I wept and I drove.
I turned into the gravel parking lot and much to my chagrin the place was vacant save one other car. Not a damned soul in sight at CMT. Nobody was stirring about, no one was mowing or sweeping or hauling fire wood. I hopped out of my truck and headed toward the door and without realizing how it had gotten there my own paddle was in my hand. Darkness inside the mausoleum. The store was locked, closed, and sealed. I stood dumbfounded and hurt. Lost and ready to just return home instantly. I needed to see, to be inside and say those amazing words. Recite my speech and make my peace. It was not to happen this day, and I eventually unglued my feet from the concrete and began to slowly make my way back to the truck.
(Hello? They're closed. Family reunion, they've all gone fishing.) A faint voice over my shoulder caused me to turn slowly. A woman about my mother's age standing by a table with an umbrella open over it on the patio adjacent to the store.
I turned and paused, wordless and staring for a pregnant moment. (Hi, I just wanted to come visit my friend's paddle. He, um, well he's not with us anymore and I was just hoping for a moment to say hello.)
I went on to explain how we had camped there before, and had developed a friendship with the owner, Wayne. I am not certain as to whether my eyes were red and puffy but I am certain she could see pain in them.
(Come on, I have a key, I'll let you in for a bit so you can have some time. Let's go in through the kitchen.)
I followed her and was let into the lobby of the store. On the wall hung the paddle. Alone. Quiet. Still. So alone. I froze, words left me. Speech erased and magical flourish dropped by the wayside. I slowly stepped forward and sat the blade of my paddle on the concrete floor and leaned the T-grip over towards the signature emblazoned on shaft hanging on the wall.
It was so quiet in that room. I could hear my heart, not beating, I'm certain it stopped beating as it broke. Clink, plastic and carbon met wood-
A thunderous echo as the blade smacks flat against the water just behind me, I flinch in my outfitting. That son of a bitch silently paddled up behind me and smacked his paddle flat against the surface of the river like a beaver tail sending out a warning. Cold, very damn cold water flies against the back of my neck. The Nantahala is always so gloriously cold. Carter's laugh echoing closely behind the thunder clap of his paddle. I slice at the water and send a splash of cool aqua his way. The third lap on this river in two days has made us comfortable and restless. GDI style boating is about to happen. Demolition derby in plastic canoes. We fall back from one another only to fly up behind and try to knock each other off line. Trying for rock spins and failing, mostly. Yelling at one another words of encouragement, insult, and suggesting moves to try. This day is beautiful. We are not alone and in fact are in the company of quite a few other open boaters and really enjoying the day. Kayaking group after group passing through the chaos that is our canoe group. We zig zag the riffles and wave trains, flying into eddies as hard as possible, purposefully trying to blast the other out of the way.
Carter and I take turns surfing a spot while a handful of kayakers wait patiently and undoubtedly wonder how the two of us can be having so such fun while being so unsuccessful at the feat we attempt. He's on the wave, holding his own, which means I simply must join in and ruin the streak. I dig hard, get above the wave and turn broadside, leaning hard downstream and when the bow of his boat meets mine I nearly get knocked over the other way. I grab on and hold myself upright as we are swept out of the wave together, cold water being shoveled into my face by his paddle. Huge smiles and bellowing laughter from both of us. We separate and began to paddle to catch the group. Idle chatter of the weather and water and future paddling plans. The next drop presents some more fun and we zig and zag some more, hitting eddies and trying tricks.
Our group came across a gaggle of kayakers, Something happened that I began to get used to occurring, Carter knew them. Hellos and pleasantries exchanged. I charged hard towards the side of Carter's boat, intending to push him off line and into shallow manky water. He countered hard and we ended up bouncing off one another and glancing into a kayaker wearing a helmet with a wire face mask. This kayaker was quite obviously displeased and began to back paddle to avoid the fracas.
TOO CROWDED FOR ME! TOO CROWDED FOR ME!
I heard the words from behind the wire mask shouted and like a troop of soldiers the kayaking group began to assemble in a single eddy far from the group of open boaters who never stopped smashing into one another and hurling expletives the whole time laughing and smiling. I had never seen this behavior before, I was never ashamed, just confused. Could they not see the fun they were missing? Hadn't they heard the laughter and felt the joy?
Slack water now and as I paddle up next to Carter and glance over, barely able to breath from laughing so hard. I open my mouth to throw down the next insult and before I can his paddle comes flying down flat and swift to the surface of the water, spray hits my face, my cheeks. The water feels....
warm. Tears, hot tears roll down my cheeks and I sit down on the bench behind me. I stare at the wall, next to the door that over looks the gazebo that we shared a beer under just back in March. I sit for a moment more then rise to my feet. Shaky and angry and hurt and chest heaving with holding back sobs.
(Take your time hun, I know it can be hard) she's there behind me, a respectful distance.
(No ma'am, I need to go. He'd be angry at me for not being on the river already.)
I reach over to grab my paddle and I pause, try to smile, then give up. This hurts, it still hurts.
(Thank you for allowing me this, I really appreciate it.)
Those are my only words to the wonderful woman who let me in to visit. I say nothing else and I climb back in my truck, alone, I allow myself to break. If felt that an eternity passed as I sat there, waves of hurt and pain passing over me and I cried. It was only three minutes though and I was headed toward the river. I would set camp in the same spot we stayed at back in February. Then drove back down to the river and put in just above Baby Falls, hit a few eddies and played a bit above the falls, then paddled hard and landed dry. Took a few seconds below the falls, looking up at the horizon and remembering that day in March that you made such a finish at the OUT race. I smiled, finally, but it didn't last long. I felt tears coming again, so I paddled on.
I suppose, eventually, the tears will stop. Eventually I'll be able to see that waterfall through dry eyes, maybe.
I miss you, you fucking hipster. A lot of us do. Just wanted you to know that.
With Love,
Purebeater
P.S. Thanks for the mashed potatoes and meatballs.