RISING WATER

By Steve Bowles 1991 ( first published in "Canoeist Magazine")

Sometimes it is good to read again thoughts once written. This little piece I have just found from an old box where spiders lurk with my old texts.


RISING WATER

The North Wales water was high and the tell-tale boulder was covered as I looked down from the main A5 road. Welsh white water in flood. The big rock covered.
Stranded sheep. Sleeping wet rotton carcases were stuck between the dancing branches that jerked and hung beside the flowing river. The bodies were limp and sodden, dirty and ugly. Unnatural death is always ugly.
Small landslides and brown swirling water made warning sounds in the gorge and safe treetop birds chirped loudly on the leafless branches. Waiting river beneath.
Browns and oranges and the faded yellow covering of Autumn made the descent seem less step than it really was. Wet and slippery.
Kayak, sliding in front, down to the river. The waiting eddy was small with helpful hold-me-still stumps by the water-levelled riverbank. Cold feelings in the gorge.
The river was new. Rocks that normally were predictable in their place were now submerged, hidden, by the rain with spate. All was new and past knowledge meant little. No funrun.
Spraydeck on ; one handed and fidgety. Paddle pushing against the bank to get into the stream. Gliding over to the opposite bank S-style gave some sense of control and for sure gave a better chance of finding a better line down and around the soon-coming bends. Rapid rocks and drops.
The now-seen rocktops were soft and green. Waves formed themselves in new fashions and places, catching the unsuspecting nature by surprise as the stream gauged its way downwards through buckled up brances and laid down grasses.

As the hard rain falls so too the new found falls rain hard upon the brain. Pumping and puffing energy wasting itself in the tense-nerved feelings. I wished for company as the sharpest bend was turned while keeping one eye open for an eddy. I hit the rock. Tried to lean. Legs straining to turn the kayak downstream.
The water played its tricks like an arm wrestler at pub table games.
I couldn't let up but I couldn't beat the force. Strength... power....leaving me. Water constant. Slipping....down....fear....asleep.
Curtains closed and clock ticking away. I bumped my way ahead. The sound of water, bubbling and whirling in my ears. My eyes half open, my body weak.

What a night...I turned as the flushing toilet thudded its finishing programme. Slipped back into bed and tried to get back into my white-water world.

The sea was short-sharp waved and the cliffs were splattered by .........
( Steve Bowles Canoeist magazine, March, 1991 page 12)

Actually this was written in the early 1980s but who cares for that.