Robin Cody, Sasquatch Books

From the Banff Mountain Book Festival:

Robin Cody's voyage down the Columbia River from the headwaters of Columbia Lake in southern British Columbia to the open sea at Portland, Oregon, appears to be more than it was originally intended. Cody comes across as a kind of blank page or sponge, soaking up what he sees, hears and experiences along the way, with few preconceptions in terms of a mission or an objective.

He opens himself to the river, to its residents, both human and wild, to the place that the river plays in this huge expanse of country in both physical and economic terms. In the course of the journey, he experiences and understands the juxtaposition of intimacy and grandness on the river. He senses its strength and power as well as its fragility. And perhaps most importantly, he is able to communicate the spiritual presence that only a large and significant landform such as a river of this magnitude has.

Excerpt:

I had to cross the river because the border checkpoint was on the left side. Like a good American, I would obey the law and show my passport. I also wanted the inside of a left bend, just downstream, where Waneta Rapids laced the right shore. I could have set up le camp here and pitched la tents. But some, people in Northport knew I was coming, and I could imagine their launching an embarrassing river search.

Finally my wind indicator hung at near-rest. I pointed the bow upstream and powered into current at an angle that pushed me rapidly toward the far shore. Then I swung the bow and eyed the Pend Oreille River rushing in on my left. I tried to slice the seam where the two rivers met, but the seam had a powerful grip. I lost control. The river took the canoe, and I went swerving downstream in riled water. A whorl I snagged the bow and jerked it to the right, while momentum took me to the left.

There's a moment beyond truth when time defies physics and you hover above calamity with sudden but slow surprise. Aha! I am no longer seated in my canoe. In this expanded time zone, a mere split-second, a good canoeist will swing his paddle and whap the flat surface where he's falling, in an effort to check his fall and rebalance the whole business. I'd done it before, and it works. But you have to do it. I was already in the water.

The canoe, ahead of me, rolled and plooped upright. Bouyed by its inner tubes and the waterproof bags, all tied in, thr canoe floated low and half-swamped in the swirling current. With a couple of quick kicks I caught up with it, grabbed a gunnel and wedged the paddle inside. The border checkpoint raced upstream on the left, and I passed an ashen-faced fisherman on shore. I crossed the border clinging to the canoe, now a heavy, river-obeying object. I could only hang on, like a flag to a log, as the river took us to the outside of the bend and into its roller of Waneta Rapids. Which was really interesting. You spend so much time anticipating danger, avoiding it, and when it comes you just kind of relax and take it. It was sexual, is what it was, this change from on it to in it. The river had her own ideas. The waves came rounded and voluptuous, powerful and soft, and if there were rocks to miss I couldn't see them past the leading canoe.

It was over too soon. As the rapids played themselves out, I maneuvered the canoe into a back-ferrying angle. Grabbing the bow rope with one hand, I kicked and one-arm swam, which brought me to rounded-rock footing against the left shore, a quarter mile below the border. I hauled the canoe ashore after me.

The pale fisherman who had watched my spill now appeared on the cutbank above. I hoped he would just take a look and leave me to my private excitement and shame. But no. He advanced with a step-slide down the bank.

"Hoe's the water?" he said.

Warm, I told him. In fact I wouldn't have needed a wetsuit, although I was wearing one.

"Tippy sonsabitches, them canoes," he said.

He helped me roll the canoe, and we emptied it of water. The bags, water jug, and spare paddle were still in place, tied in. I'd lost only a red plastic drinking cup, a flannel shirt with a scratch pad and pen, and my blue Crooked River Round-Up cap. I was about to hike back to the border, but he said not to bother. "They shut 'er doan at five," he said. "Road's closed, eh? Nobody there."

So I unpacked a dry scratch pad and wrote a note for him to deposit at the checkpoint: "CROSSED BORDER BEHIND CANOE 7 PM MONDAY, JULY 16. NO FIREARMS OR DRUGS." Thanking the fisherman without thinking to jot down his name, I pushed off again.

Ever helpful, he called after me: "Keep the wet side down."