Re-entry is a bitch. It’s not just the cold shock of JFK at 6 a.m. (and that’s not particularly pleasant) or even the cold itself (coming from the bottom of South America to the center of the Northern Hemisphere—or at least what New Yorkers believe to be the center of this half of the earth if not the universe itself—wakes the body up a bit, I’d say).

No. The hard part is shifting gears–getting readjusted to not greeting every friend, every companion with a gut-busting hug, a kiss, and a hearty “Buenas Dias!” The hardest part of coming back from 12-days of, among other things, rafting the Futaleufu and connecting with Chilean Patagonia is the simple disconnection from nature.

Camp life

I’m reminded of Phillip Pullman’s daemons–so central to the His Dark Materials trilogy…especially the pain one feels when separated from your daemon. Can a river be your daemon?

Such trips are never just about being in “nature” or, even–despite the bravado implicit–the machismo of running a rapid. Such trips are about connecting deeply, soulfully with the rivers, the mountains, the condors, fellow travelers, and—of course—ourselves. Our selves.

On the last night of our stay at the Bio Bio Expedition’s safari–style camp

My home for the week

on the banks of the “Fu,” most of us told jokes, sang songs, re-enacted the most dramatic “swims” (including my unfortunate swim through Khyber Pass and Himalayas).

By the light of the fire (aren’t all such moments lit by campfire?), I recited:

The Return

by Geneen Marie Haugen

Some day, if you are lucky,
you’ll return from a thunderous journey
trailing snake scales, wing fragments
and the musk of Earth and moon.

Eyes will examine you for signs
of damage, or change
and you, too, will wonder
if your skin shows traces

Thankfully Brian knew what he was doing

of fur, or leaves,
if thrushes have built a nest
of your hair, if Andromeda
burns from your eyes.

Do not be surprised by prickly questions
from those who barely inhabit
their own fleeting lives, who barely taste
their own possibility, who barely dream.

If your hands are empty, treasureless,
if your toes have not grown claws,
if your obedient voice has not
become a wild cry, a howl,

you will reassure them. We warned you,
they might declare, there is nothing else,
no point, no meaning, no mystery at all,
just this frantic waiting to die.

And yet, they tremble, mute,
afraid you’ve returned without sweet
elixir for unspeakable thirst, without
a fluent dance or holy language

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ashley, Jorge, me, and Damara

to teach them, without a compass
bearing to a forgotten border where
no one crosses without weeping
for the terrible beauty of galaxies

and granite and bone. They tremble,
hoping your lips hold a secret,
that the song your body now sings
will redeem them, yet they fear

your secret is dangerous, shattering,
and once it flies from your astonished
mouth, they–like you–must disintegrate
before unfolding tremulous wings.

Thanks to Brian McCutcheon and Ashley Scanlon from ROAM from taking me on this “thunderous journey.”  Love to my new friends: Beth, Fred, Stacey, Jordan, Tamar, Todd, Mike, Jay, Tim, Derek, Ellen, Quentin, Christian, Judith, Damara, Mark, Lorenzo, Kevin, and Alex. And special thanks to Jorge for getting his kayak to the right place at the right time to save my butt. A few of the photos are mine. The better ones were shot by Kevin Thompson.