One Life at a Time, Please by Edward Abbey

Author:Edward Abbey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Henry Holt and Co.
Published: 1988-08-14T16:00:00+00:00

Although ours is a brief voyage both in time and space—six days, ninety miles—the journey settles easily, quickly into a flow as unhurried and untroubled as that of the river. In the morning we rise, at various times, and join the boatmen at the fire for coffee and breakfast and more conversation. Cort Conley, who has made many trips down the Salmon, author of a book on the river and its people—River of No Return—tells more stories about its history and inhabitants. For him, every mile of water holds a quota of anecdotes, every ruined cabin on the banks reminds him of an adventure, a murder, a wedding, a heartbreak, a love affair.

Love: we have a pair of lovers in our party, an inseparable man and woman who cling to one another all day long, whispering in each other’s ears, serving each other food and drink. Two young women from San Francisco watch this couple emerging from the woods, late again for mealtime. “My God,” says one, “those two are so much in love they even go to the toilet together.”

In the sweet cool clear dawn I withdraw to a secluded spot to write my notes for the day. The crew are busy striking camp, loading the boats, policing the kitchen area, and the sight of that labor disturbs my equanimity. Despite my years of lower-middle-class life (ten of them now) I still find it uncomfortable to sit on my rear end while other people work. One solution to my discomfort would be to pitch in and grab ahold; the other is to withdraw. I withdraw.

On the river again. Today I try my hand at the inflatable kayak and run a few rapids in it, including the one called Salmon Falls. The pneumatic vessel oozes nicely over the brawling waves, slides like a salamander over submerged fangs, slips like a weasel between the rocks that rise above the surface. Of course it is only a toy, with little resemblance to a true kayak. Only half decked-over, it ships too much water in every riffle, is impossible to bail, and therefore obliges the paddler to make frequent stops ashore to turn the thing upside down and pour the water out.

We stop at a place called Barth Hot Springs, sit in an open natural pool one hundred feet above the river, and soak for a while in the steamy 134-degree waters that pour from a fissure in the volcanic precipice above. Who was Barth? someone asks Cort Conley. I quote his reply from his book:

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