"The Bend"
Part 1
I lost my hat, so my face was sunburned, the tops of my legs were too. My shorts and t-shirt were stiff from being soaked, then dried, then soaked and dried again in the early summer sun. My brother and I
struggled to get out of the aged plastic canoe still sloshing with water, but when we did my dad and my dog named Dog waited for us on the shore.
​
Years earlier, when I was in elementary school, and shortly after we moved into the house I grew up in, my dad bought an acre of land right on the muddy Colorado River. “It’s the REAL Colorado River,” he’d say. “Not the one in Arizona. The one in Texas was discovered first.” Eventually, this is where my folks built a house and into moved a few years after I left for college. The lot was in a small town, if you want to call it a town. It had three churches, five cemeteries, and a store that never stayed in business for longer than a fishing season. The town was on the Colorado river at a point where the river made a sharp turn and flowed north for a certain distance before turning south again. It was here the town got its name, simply known as The Bend.
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When my dad was in the military, he would do maneuvers in the area and sometimes he and his army buddies would rent a canoe and take a few days to paddle down the winding river. This is where he fell in love with the area and swore he would buy some land once he retired. When he did retire, he started rounding out. He always was kind of burly, but the extra weight really started packing on once he got a desk job as a contractor. His only exercise was sitting on the riding lawn mower and cutting the grass for a few hours down at The Bend.
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When my dad first bought the acre of land, half of it was covered with eight foot high weeds. The other half was covered with baseball sized gourds whose vines snaked across the lot for at least a foot deep. It was hard work trying to clear the weeds and gourds, a feat which was made harder by the fact that I was only about eleven and we had no motorized tools, just a brush blade to do most of the work. Then the guy who owned the lot next to ours accidentally set it on fire. It was actually a blessing in disguise. All the weeds crusted up and the gourds turned to powder. After that it was just a matter of mowing the lot to keep the weeds from taking hold again; a chore my dad never minded doing at least once a month.
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My dad had a faded blue extended cab Chevy we referred to as ‘Ol’ Blue’. I think most country families had an Ol’ Blue or some equivalent. My dad bought the truck brand new when I was in elementary. It was like a gift to himself for retiring from the army. By the time my brother and I trudged out of the river that fateful afternoon when I was in college, the truck was starting to show its miles. The deep sky blue paint began to fade into more of a powder blue. Dents and scratches started to become more visible against the pale paint. Rust spots began to appear around the wheel wells and small black sap stains were on the roof from years of the truck sitting under the live-oak trees.
Buttons on the electric panel began to fail. You’d try to turn on the radio and the heater would click on. You’d try to adjust the a/c and the cassette tape deck would start playing. The cruise control worked sometimes and most of the lights on the dash had flickered on and off at one point or another. But the engine worked like a dream and my dad never had any problems from the standard transmission. We had more issues with our mid 90’s suburban than we ever did with ’Ol Blue. I learned how to drive a standard on that truck. I never got too good at backing a trailer with it, but my dad usually took on that responsibility.
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The morning of our almost disastrous canoe trip, I was home for a week from my second year in college. My older brother was meeting me at our childhood home and from there we would load up and go to The Bend for an all day canoe trip. In the morning I woke to the smell of coffee and my mom was just putting some bacon in a pan to fry. My dad was already busy packing the gear we would need for our journey. I shook off the sleep, got dressed and walked outside to help my dad and brother load up the truck. My dog named Dog was wagging her tail and running around in circles with excitement. She knew she was about to go for a ride and she couldn’t wait.
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My dad had already hooked up a flatbed trailer and drove his riding lawnmower up onto it. Behind the mower was the red fiberglass canoe my dad had bought used several years ago. It was showing its age too. Many scrapes and gashes ran parallel across the boat after years of dragging it across river shoals, but it would still float and there weren’t any holes in it so we continued to use it. Bungee cords and a nylon rope were slung around it. A cooler was being filled with sandwich meat, cheese, and bread. Another one was being filled with beer.
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On a mowing weekend my dad would hook up the flat-bed trailer to Ol’ Blue, roll his riding lawn mower to the front of it, put a few beers in a cooler and take off to The Bend. Me and my brother would go with him most times and do trim work or collect fallen limbs from the numerous pecan trees that adorned the lot while he was mowing. On the ride there, down the barren country road toward The Bend, my dad would crack open a Lone Star tall boy, look at me and my brother and say, “You know you ain't s’posed to do this right?” We’d agree and he would finish a tall boy or two before arriving at the lot.
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We also had a popup trailer which my dad parked at The Bend once we got the land cleared. It sat for at least ten years. This is where we’d sleep when we’d spend nights at The Bend. The popup started falling apart and was almost unusable before my folks built a house on the lot. One day, when I was in middle school, we were at the lot having a family weekend. My mom spoke up and noticed a dog near the gravel road rolling around in the dirt happily scratching its back. I took up an axe handle and went to go investigate and see if I could scare it off. The dog stopped scratching its back when I approached and it stood up to face me. It was a medium sized dog with short matted hair and a multi colored back. It was far from a purebred, and didn’t look like anything specific, but it had the head of some kind of sheppard, but mostly it was all skin and bones.
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When it noticed me walking toward it, the dog ducked its head and cowered but wagged its tail and looked at me with dopey eyes. I put my hand out and it opened its mouth and started panting with a happy smile. I put my hand on its head as I heard my mom call, “Be careful.”
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As soon as I touched the dog, it turned its body and rubbed up against me. As I petted it’s skinny back and scratched behind its ears, it fell on the ground and opened its belly up to me.
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She was really friendly, but it was obvious she had been abused. She still had a careful suspicion of me, but was undeterred when everyone else approached. She soon followed us up to the popup and was milling around, head cowered every once in a while rubbing up against one of us. We fed her cheetos and pork rinds and we discovered she could sit and shake.
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“She seems like a sweet dog.” We agreed with my mom.
“Yeah,” my dad said. “Seems a shame someone’s abused her like they’d done.”
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“What should we do with her?” I asked my dad.
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“I donno. I’ll have to think about it.”
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Later that evening I got in the suburban with my mom and we left my dad loading up the truck, the dog already loyally following him around. As we pulled away I saw my dad turn and look down at her. She looked up at him, wagging her tail.
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A few hours later when we were home, my dad pulled up in ‘Ol Blue with the dog happily wagging her tail in the bed.
“You brought the dog home?” I asked my dad suspiciously.
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“Yep. You know when I dropped the tailgate she just jumped right on up. So I figured I’d bring her home.”
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It was bittersweet for me. It had only been a year of so since I lost my first dog and I knew eventually this one would die too, but a part of me was happy to have a companion again.
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“What should we name her?” I asked.
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“Well,” my dad replied. “Dog sounds good to me.” Dog wagged her tail with approval.
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So my dog named Dog came to live with us. Soon she began to fatten up, a little too much maybe, but never enough to keep her from jumping up in the bed of ‘Ol Blue. We never had to clean up after her because she always did her business far from the house. We discovered if you dropped the tailgate to the truck and said “up” she would jump in the bed. The only time she barked was when she heard a semi truck blow past and she had an unusual fear of water hoses.
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When my folks finally moved to The Bend and built a house there, my dog named Dog was deaf and beginning to suffer from a displaced hip. Eventually she was put down and we buried her near the same spot where we found her. My mom plated a verbena bush on her grave which blooms healthy every Spring.
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We finished packing the truck and the trailer. My dog named Dog was already in the bed tripping over the coolers. Dad and my brother sat up front and I was in the back. We waved good-bye to my mom and pulled down the driveway on our way to The Bend. A short half hour later we arrived.
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“We’ll unload the mower and load up the canoe. I’ll just meet ya’ll here when you get here.”
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The plan was to drop my brother and I off at a big suspension bridge about ten miles up river. From there we would paddle down until we got to the lot at The Bend and get out. This way my dad could do all the lawn work and pull the canoe out after we were done. It was going to be a full day of canoeing and we packed a cooler with sandwiches and waters.
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We unhooked the trailer with the mower and tied the canoe in the bed of the truck with bungee cords and the nylon rope. My dog named Dog wouldn’t have made the trip in the bed, so she jumped in the cab and I held her as we set off.
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On the way north, the sky started to take a sinister hue. Medievil gray clouds swirled up ahead of us and we all silently watched them as we drew closer. “Those don’t look good,” said my dad, and me and my brother gave no response. Soon large drops of rain steadily fell on the windshield, not too hard at first and my dad put the windshield wipers on a low setting.
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The white skeletal outline of the suspension bridge fell into view a few miles ahead and as soon as we made out its shape the sky opened up and torrents of water fell on the faded truck. A thunderous hiss surrounded the truck and the rush of water filled our ears with a static roar. My dad slowed the truck way down as we were surrounded by a deafening rush of water. My dog named Dog started getting excited and jumped around the back seat as I struggled to hold her. My dad turned the wipers on the highest setting as he tried to maneuver the truck through the downpour.
Then the wipers abruptly stopped in mid swipe. They were stuck halfway up the windshield as the shower of rain blinded the view out of the windshield. The truck decreased speed and a twinge of fear caused me to grab hold of Dog. My dad let out a comical, “Ha! Oh no! Haha!” and began a jolly giggle. He rolled the window down and stuck his hand out trying to grab the wipers to give them a nudge. Rain poured through the open window and cold water drenched his arm. He hesitantly kept grabbing at the wipers with one hand on the wheel and I could hear his laughter slowly growing louder than the rainfall.
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“Grab the wheel! Hahaha,” he said to my brother who dove at his command. My dad kept a steady speed awkwardly bending his burly arm around the door and out the window. He grabbed hold of the wipers and gave them a shove. When he did they suddenly came to life slapping his fingers a few times before he brought his hand back in and started rolling up the window.
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My dad grabbed hold of the wheel again still chuckling. As he steadied the truck in the sudden summer downpour, the wipers stopped again. My dad started laughing hysterically, and through the windshield I couldn’t even tell where the road was anymore. I noticed a semi pass us going the other way spraying the driver’s side window with a curtain of water. My brother reactively grabbed for the wheel, but my dad’s hands were still on it. Dad slowed down again almost stopping. We were a few hundred feet from the bridge and the slower we went the easier it was to see through the windshield.
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As we slowed, the wipers started up again and my dad turned them to a lower speed. We pulled down a dirt road leading to a boat ramp under the bridge.
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“Well, Ol’ Blue,” my dad said. “You’ve never done that one before.”
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We were stopped near the bridge. The rain still fell hard on the roof. I turned around and looked at the rain water slowly filling the canoe. Dog was still antsy and flapped her tail wildly and we all sat and stared at the river in front of us as it vibrated from the torrential downpour.
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“What do you guys think?” my dad asked us as we sat in silence for a moment.
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“Do you think it’ll let up?” I asked.
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“Well, we kin see,” he replied. “We might have to wait fer it to stop. I don’t wanna drive in this if the wipers won’t work. Hahhah,” he chuckled.
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I think my brother was a nervous wreck, still trying to recover from our near death experience. I was strangely calm holding onto my dog. The rain slowly let up and became steady. “Let’s try it out,” said my dad and we all got out and began tugging at some of the bungee cords. Dog stayed in the cab still flapping her tail against the seat. We managed to pull the canoe out and turned it on its side to empty the water. My dad laughed again as all the fresh rain water poured out onto the ground. The rain was still steady, but not too hard as we carried the boat to the shore.
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As we were about to load up the coolers and oars in the boat, the sky ripped open again. My dad was getting a big kick out of the whole ordeal and he hadn’t even had a tall boy yet.
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We left the canoe on the shore and all ran back up to the truck. My dog was lying on the seat and smiled as we dove into the cab to escape the rain. My brother and I let out a big sigh. My dad had stopped laughing and peered out of the spattering windshield toward the river. “I don’t think this is gonna work, you guys.”
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We replied with a defeated, “Yeah.”
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We sat in the truck for a few moments as the rain continued to pour. “What do y’all think?” my dad asked.
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“Well,” my brother began. “It doesn’t seem to be letting up.”
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“Yeah,” I interjected. “And if it does there’s no telling if it’ll start up again.”
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“Yep. That’s kinda what I figured,” said dad. “Sorry guys.”
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“That’s alright.”
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“Well, I guess we should load up the canoe again.”
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We all got out to brave the cold summer shower. We grabbed the canoe and dumped it out again. We threw it in the bed and hastily tied it down with the rope and bungee cords. We got back in the truck and my dad slowly pulled onto the highway toward The Bend. The rain was still falling and the faster we went the more the view was distorted. Dad turned the wipers up and again they streaked to a halt. Dad wasn’t laughing now as he slowed the truck and angled his hand out the window to give them a push. They started up after some encouragement and he turned them on a different setting. “I guess they don’t like to go on high,” he said over the white noise of the rain.
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Part 2
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The closer we got to The Bend the more the rain let up. Soon it had all stopped
and the sun came back out. Back at the lot, the popup was completely dry and
white cotton clouds were off in the distance.
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“Well, I guess it was just one of those things, guys.” said my dad as we pulled
up. We were all still soaking wet, except for Dog, who was now more excited
than ever she would get out of the truck.
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We got out and untied the canoe. “Do y’all still want to get in the water?”
my dad asked.
Me and my brother looked at each other. “Yeah, kind of.” I replied.
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“Well, I’ll tell you what. It’s pretty late in the day, but if y’all put in here, I kin pick you up down at the State Park in a few hours. That way at least you get some time in the water.”
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We agreed. We hadn’t come all this way for nothing. The State Park was less than half the distance we intended to cover for the day, but with the time we had spent driving and fighting the rain, we would be done around the same time if the weather had cooperated.
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“How will we get back?” I naively asked.
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“Well, ya’ll kin put in here. In few hours I’ll meet y’all down at the park and take ya back up here. No problem.”
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“That sounds good.” said my brother. “Might as well.”
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“Alright. Y’all go ahead and throw the boat in the water. I’ll get t’ mowing and when I’m done I’ll head that way.”
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My brother and I grabbed the canoe and headed to the bank. Dad carried the cooler and my dog named Dog followed us down to the river. We threw the boat in after tying the cooler in the middle with a bungee cord and carefully stepped in. Soon we pushed off and were afloat.
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I was at the front and my brother at the stern. As we drifted off down the mud colored water, I turned back and saw my dad standing on the bank watching us float away. My dog named Dog was nearer the shore wagging her tail and looking at the water trying to figure out a way to follow us. Soon they faded in the distance and I saw my dad walk up the bank with Dog at his heels.
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We were on the water. It wasn’t the trip we’d planned, but at least we were canoeing. I looked back at my brother, he was content on looking around at the tree line adorning the river, not a hint of disappointment on his face. Behind him were grayish clouds, probably the same storm we had just fought through, but they didn’t look as if they were headed our way.
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I looked ahead. The lazy muddy river lay in front of us. We had taken this trip before and it wasn’t a hard one. There weren’t many rapids on this route, and if the river wasn’t flowing properly there was a better chance we would have to get out and push the boat through some shallows, but with the recent rains that wasn’t much of a possibility.
The Colorado River ran almost the diagonal length of Texas, from Lubbock to the Gulf, cutting Austin and many other towns in half. It was the lifeblood of central Texas and more. Many dams and lakes attributed to population growth and electricity, as well as drinking water and irrigation. And here we were: two adolescents steadily rowing our way a few miles on a leisurely afternoon unknowingly crossing the paths of water moccasins and fifty pound catfish who languidly swayed on top and under this vein of life.
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My brother called my name. I turned to him and he was digging around in one of his pockets.
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“What’s up?”
​
“Here, I brought us these.” He said as he pulled out a pouch of Backwood cigars.
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“Hey thanks!” I said as he handed me one of the thin turd-like rolls of tobacco. I smiled with it hanging out the side of my mouth.
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We lit the cigars and bluish smoke drifted out across the water. Little swirls of haze matched the whirlpools our paddles made in the water. A blue heron sprang up from one of the banks and silently drifted ahead of us. Its gray feathers matched those of the rain clouds we had seen earlier. A few hundred yards down river it would land on some decaying driftwood tree bleached along the muddy bank. The herons were a common sight along the river. It wasn’t unusual for them to fly in front of a boat as it drifted toward them. It was easy to imagine some unwritten legend the Comanche spoke about the albatross-like bird when roaming tribes utilized this part of the river. I always smiled at their presence as they led us on further down the water.
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A group of goats baa-ed on the left side of the river. I looked on and my brother did too as they smashed about. At one point I looked at a tree as it swayed wildly. Suddenly a goat jumped out of a tree and landed on a grassy spot next to the river greedily chewing on a green branch.
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“What the hell?” I said.
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“What?”
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“A goat just jumped out of that tree.”
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“What? Goats don’t jump out of trees.”
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“I swear it did. That goat right there. He just jumped out of a tree.”
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“No it didn’t. Goats can’t climb trees.” And he went back to chewing and smoking his cigar.
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Soon the river changed a paler color and our oars started hitting a flat rock bottom of the river. We had been through this before and knew exactly where we were. If the river was running normal we wouldn’t have much trouble, but if it were low we might have to get out and drag it for a bit.
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“We’re nearing Flat Rock.” said my brother.
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“Yeah, I think we’ll be alright though.”
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We kept paddling; every once in a while the tips of our oars would scrape the bottom of the river, but we were able to keep going without stopping. We knew once we made it another half a mile, the rock would give way back to twenty feet muddiness.
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“Do you want another cigar?” my brother asked.
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“Yeah, but this one I think I’ll just chew. That shoals is pretty close, we’ll need to pay attention.”
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“Yeah, I agree.”
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My brother gave me a fresh cigar and I held it in my mouth like Clint Eastwood. Coming up was a pretty strong rapid. This is where The Bend got its name sake. For whatever reason the river hit a shift in elevation and the water cut suddenly northward. The change in direction created a brief but intense rapid. After that it would be smooth sailing until the State Park. Soon the current picked up as the flat rock bed of the river started to deepen. Up ahead we could see the bridge that crossed the bend, but also we could see a white water froth bouncing of jagged moss covered rocks.
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We started approaching the churning water pretty fast and we both started padding with a nervous pace. I was always taught when approaching rapid you aim for the point a phantom V the water would create. I was keeping my eye on the V trying to steer the bow to the center, but I could feel the back turning and sliding back a forth.
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“We need to keep paddling. Aim for the V!” I yelled. The water was picking up speed and so were we. If we didn’t hit the rapid just right we would tip.
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“Yeah I know.” He replied, but I couldn’t feel the back of the boat aligning with the front.
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“Tell me which way I need to paddle. Can you see the V?”
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“Yeah, I see it.”
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“We’re going all over the place. Tell me where to paddle!”
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“Just keep paddling!”
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“I am! The V! We’re not gonna make it!”
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“Keep Paddling!”
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“Shit!” I screamed as I looked back at my brother paddling wildly.
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“We’re gonna tip!” he said, and I saw him throw his paddle in the middle of the boat and grab hold of the sides.
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“Keep paddling!” I yelled in vain after I saw the oar in the middle of the boat. I looked forward paddling frantically trying to make up for his lack of steering. It was then as I looked into the raging torrent of water I realized my brother had a smile on his face when he dropped the oar. He wanted us to tip, some juvenile thread had struck him and he was just holding on to see what would happen. I was on the edge of terror, even though the rapid was only a few feet deep, this was gonna hurt…
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We hit the rapid at an odd angle and as the canoe side swiped the water V, the boat leaned violently and crashed upside down. I kind of threw my oar and jumped out of the boat. I was also always taught that if the boat is gonna go, you should just jump out of it.
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I felt my ass hit a rock and my feet dug into the gravelly ground. As I tried to stand, the current swept me forward and I did a faceplant into the water. I was able to turn onto my back and throw my hands up to the air. I turned this way and that getting my bearings. The water wasn’t deep, but the current was fast and if I could just go with the flow I wouldn’t be hurt that bad.
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My ankles scraped some rocks and my knees bounced off some others. I did another turn and was floating on my chest. By the time I realized we had tipped and I was swimming with the current and we were already past the rapids. My feet took hold of the ground again and I stood up and a sort of soggy daze.
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“Grab the oars!” I heard my brother shout. And by the time I realize what was going on I saw a wooden oar slip past my legs. I dove for the oar, they were more apt to get lost than the boat and I swam after it in three feet of water. Once I grabbed it I saw my brother standing in water with his oar struggling to hang on to the side of the half filled canoe.
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I staggered toward the boat and grabbed hold on the bow. Now that we had our feet back we were able to control and guide it out of the dying current. The canoe was half full of water but still afloat. We guided it until the water calmed down and deepened to a manageable four feet. We dragged it to a waiting shore and we able to beach it. The cooler was still strapped fast to a middle beam and we both were holding our oars. I looked at my brother and noticed his cigar was still in his mouth, mine was too although now it was soggy and dripping from being dunked in the river.
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We both looked at each other and realized this, and kind of laughed. “At least we still have our cigars.” my brother said.
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“Yeah, coulda been worse.” Nothing seemed to be lost but then I realized my hat was gone.
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“My hat.” I said, disappointedly.
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“There it goes,” my brother said as he pointed. Down the river I saw a dark blue smudge float past the current until it slowly bobbed up and down. Soon it was swallowed up under the murky water and sank out of sight.
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“Damn it.” I said.
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“Sorry about that.”
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I gave a great sigh. “That’s alright, it was just a hat.” I said staring into the water. I had had that hat for a long time. It was one of my favorite blue baseball hats with a lone Dallas Cowboy’s star on it and nothing else. Now it was lost the river, not the first hat the river had claimed I’m sure, but it was mine.
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We turned the canoe over to empty the water out. The lid to the cooler was still intact. None of the sandwich meat or water bottles had spilled out. Once we had most of the water out of the boat we hopped back in and began to paddle back down the river. A little ways down we saw the blue heron again. He let us get closer as if he were checking to see if we were alright. Then he flew off and continued to lead us farther and farther down.
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Without my hat the sun started to become a nuisance. I could feel the heat kissing my cheeks and forehead. My arms and legs were already beginning to tingle a bit from the sun. I had been drenched, but the water quickly evaporated and my skin began to dry and sting. My shirt and shorts also didn’t take long to dry but my tennis shoes were still soggy as an inch deep, brown puddle sloshed around the bottom of the canoe.
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We stopped at a sandbar for a quick lunch of sandwiches and bottled water. My brother tried to smoke another cigar but the whole pack was wet and all the cigars were ruined. I walked into the middle of the river for a quick drip too cool off not caring if my clothes got wet again.
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After lunch we lost the heron. He must have gotten tired of waiting on us or circled back and went back up river, but we didn’t see him anymore. I mentioned this to my brother but he was unmoved. My brother was never one for conversation. You could sit in a room with him for hours and he wouldn’t say anything. Even if you tried to pry a conversation out of him it wouldn’t last longer than a sentence or two. He was a lot like my dad in that way. My dad was notorious for never turning on the radio during long road trips. He wouldn’t even talk, he’d just sit and not let anyone else drive or make up some excuse as to why he did turn on any music. I learned it was no use to try and talk, so we paddled in silence which wasn’t so bad. It was a nice peaceful day, a conversation might have distracted us from the moment. Sometimes I was glad my dad and brother weren’t much for talking.
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A couple hours later, the bluffs of the state park began to grow along the river. Big towering sheer cliffs covered in shrubs and cliff grass. They weren’t as dramatic as pictures of the grand canyon or anything. They were more shadowy and thick with vegetation and only on the east side if the river. Occasionally gray patches appeared out of the vegetation streaked with ancient black stains from a millennium of rain and dirt. The tops of fallen boulders poked out of the water like icebergs, but worn smooth from a millennium of slow moving water. Turtles sat sunning themselves on the rocks and when we approached too close they would flop into the slow moving water with a resounding splash that would echo off the bluff walls.
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The river began a gradual turn following the bluffs and soon more and more people could be seen adorning the shore side. There were toddlers in bright life jackets with little fishing poles. Elementary kids running around a pebbly sand bar and swimming and splashing each other. Teenagers were drifting in tubes trying to stay far enough away from their parents on the shore. And there were sun baked river rats with scraggly graying hair the same color as the bluff walls passed out in folding chairs with empty beer cans at their feet.
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We paddled past waving at people who noticed us. A forest green truck with State of Texas Seal on the side drove past about a hundred feet from the water. Dusty pickups with empty boat trailers dotted the west side of the river. The water became shallower and we ran aground. We had to get out and drag the canoe through some shallow rapids. Once we were through I asked my brother. “Where do you think dad is?”
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“I donno. I think he should here by now. We’ll keep going. If we pass the park we’ll get out and walk back.”
Almost as soon as he said that I looked ahead and saw ‘Ol Blue near the shore. Standing near it was my dad stoically looking toward us with his hands on his hips. I waved at him and he raised a hand in response. My dog named Dog stood near him wagging her tail and entered the water as she noticed us.
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My dad didn’t say anything as we ran the boat onto the muddy shore. He just grabbed the bow to steady it as we got out. Dog walked out into the river until it was up to her chest. She lapped up the water as she walked and turned around once the water got too deep. “Did you guys have a good trip?” my dad finally asked as we walked the canoe up to the truck.
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“Yeah, it was pretty good.” I said.
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“Did you forget yer hat?” he asked.
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I looked to my brother. “No,” I replied. “We tipped at flat rock. I lost my hat.”
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My dad just laughed. “I thought you had one earlier. Well, not the first hat lost in the river. I’ve probably lost a few too, and fishing poles and tackle and e’rything else.”
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We tied the boat onto the truck again with the rope and bungee cords. The sun was lowering in the sky and lit the towering bluff on fire. The otherwise drab vegetation was glowing gold and orange. Even the black streaked patches of bare limestone were taking on some sparkling life. The river, glittering in the sun, still flowed past us nonchalant ignoring the passed out drunks and splashing children.
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My dog named Dog shook off the water from the river before jumping into the back seat. I got in the back with her and soon we were driving out of the State Park and back to The Bend. As we pulled out I could see the blazing bluffs fading in the distance as the shadows around us lengthened away from the setting sun.
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Circling high about the cliff walls was a lone wide winged bird. It was probably a buzzard, but I like to think it was a heron bidding us farewell.
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Post Script
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Most of what was written in this story is true with little artistic license. The Bend is a real place, and there are many stories I could tell involving several people. I felt like this story was quintessential and included most of the aspects of not only the place but some background to my life. This story is part of a larger work full of vignettes that are more surreal than this one. Some things we find in nature, or experience in life, are worth repeating despite how unbelievable they may seem. This is the root of story telling: Anything we do can be turned into a story. With a little creativity we can turn the mundane into the magical. The Bend is just a muddy stretch of river, but my story is just one of millions for the people who have been there. Story telling also keeps alive the people in them, solidifying them into myth like a sculpture or a painting. This story is dedicated to my dad who passed away in December 2018. But in this story he will always be riding his lawnmower after having a few cold tallboys at his favorite place.
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