The rubber raft bounces through the rapids.
My knees
squeeze
the side of the boat
that I ride like a saddle
as we slip down in a trough
and then rocket up
and over, like a roller coaster.
I’m on the New River in West Virginia.
I heard a claim that these were the only
class V rapids
east of the Mississippi,
though I think there are others.
It’s like most claims,
felt to be more valid if an
only or best or highest or fastest.
Yes, I’m sure there are others,
but not in this moment as I
squeeze
and paddle
and adjust my weight
in split seconds,
Feet behind me then
pushed forward,
like bull-riding a river.
When the river calms, I think about the rapids and the claim and the Mississippi.
I’ve been on her, too, though it was a much gentler ride.
What she lacks in excitement, she makes up for in size.
You can’t move consumer goods through the New River Gorge, so there’s that.
Sure, the Mississippi floods, sometimes in tragic ways, but the flood
is still the producer of some of the best farmland in the world, bar none.
At a w i d e s p o t,
our guide tells us we can get out and
float.
We can even climb
out of the river
and up that
big rock,
15 feet high
at least,
and jump from there.
It’s safe.
I roll
off the edge and onto my back,
my life jacket keeping me afloat.
I lazily push
and kick my
way to the bank.
As I step on solid ground,
I feel
woozy
For a moment,
unaccustomed to firmness.
I stand still as I get my bearings,
and I think about how the Mississippi
and the New
are more different
when you’re in them
than when you’re out.
The bank feels the same
in West Virginia
and Missouri.
And then I think about
the observer self,
the untouched
unmoved
watcher of experience
who sees both the rapids
and the flood
but stands still
on the shore,
unchanged,
unaffected.
Then I
climb
the
rock
and jump back in.
© 2020 Deb Moore, All Rights Reserved
Deb Moore 