Rumble in the Jungle

Whoa! This was a new twist. Was there some kind of metaphysical hidden lesson here from the master? But I put aside my second-guessing momentarily when Chris came blasting around the bend. From our perspective on shore, it appeared that he was certain to collide with a dump-truck-sized chunk of granite jutting into the current, but he expertly angled past it on the left, caught dark water, and bucked and pitched through the rest of the waves in good order-a clean, right-on run. In an eddy far below, he waved his paddle in jubilation.

Paddling whitewater is generally a social, dynamic interaction between you and your mates as you playfully weave and sway downstream, but running rapids at the edge of your skill level can be a very lonely experience. It's just you out there doing the dance while everyone else looks on. Without much conviction, I told Bob and the others that I was going to run it. But as I melted upstream toward my canoe and glanced over at the technical approach rapid, I almost changed my mind. One voice in my brain shouted, "Don't do it, you idiot. You're going to get trashed!" While another voice yelled, "What are you, a big weenie? Suck it up, boy! Here's your chance to finally show Whitewater Bob you've got the right stuff."

When I reached the remaining canoes and rafts above the island, I was surprised to see a dozen or so men and women from a nearby village talking to Junior. They had waded across the shallow gravel bar to watch the carnage. I said buenos dias to the campesinos, pointed to my little boat, gestured downstream toward Fruit of the Loom, and joked in clumsy Spanish that I must be crazy. Every one of them nodded seriously, and the eldest among them spoke for all when he uttered, "Si, muy loco."

Or not. In an ephemeral Zen-like haze that I've rarely felt, a sensation that Bob describes as a "heavenly experience when the paddler is one with the water and right where he or she wants to be," I released myself to the river. In slow motion the current carried me around the bend, closer and closer to the big center boulder, then past it, past the boat-eating holes, through the boat-swamping reflecting waves. And, oh yeah, I needed a paddle stroke or two somewhere along the way. Suddenly, I was in the eddy beside Chris, twirling my paddle and whooping in jubilation. And I didn't even have to change my underwear.

Now, on the morning of our last day on the Rio Sico, I lie here all cozy in my tent in that soothing hour before dawn. My mind rehashes today's itinerary: after breakfast, we will thread our way down 15 more river miles to our take-out at the only bridge along our route. What transpires next, however, makes it seem unlikely that we will be getting off the river anytime soon.

It's barely light when I hear a sudden commotion erupt outside my tent. There's shouting in Spanish, followed by a flurry of tent doors unzipping, the thuds of hasty footsteps, and the rattle and clanging of gear. Cocooned in my windowless nylon shelter, for a second I imagine that we are being attacked by bandits. Next I hear Bob and Chris, but I can't catch what they're saying. I unzip the tent flap and gingerly peek outside. The good news is there are no hostile intruders. The bad news is that Bob, Karen, and Chris are standing ankle-deep in water right in front of my tent, grabbing at camp gear that is about to be washed away.

"Good morning," the always cheerful Karen says glumly when she sees my head poke out the door. "The river came up last night. Must have rained a bunch upstream." Blinking in disbelief, my eyes roam the perplexing scene. Our gravel-bar camp is nearly flooded; what was the kitchen area is now a sheet of moving current. I do a quick count of the canoes; some of them are afloat, but at least they're all here. However, my relief is short-lived as Karen softly adds, "Oh, did I mention that the rafts are gone?" Oops!

I soon learn that Junior and Davy, emerging from their tent a few minutes ago, and seeing what had happened, grabbed their life jackets and jumped shoeless into the river in an effort to chase down the missing craft. No one knows when, or if, they'll be back.

News has a way of traveling fast along a Central American river, even one as remote as this. Soon we are being visited by a swelling number of villagers from a small Pech Indian settlement we passed earlier-men, women, and children, eventually numbering well over 50. One young man casually sports a .38 revolver tucked in his belt. Others carry machetes. But mostly they gather at the edge of our flooded camp in the lightly falling rain, watching our every move with a mixture of humor and awe normally accorded to aliens from outer space.

Bob quickly concocts a plan. He, Chris, and I will paddle our solo canoes downstream after the rafts, hoping to meet up with Junior and Davy somewhere below. The others will stay behind with the gear. "Well, folks, this is adventure travel, the real deal," Bob pronounces as we head out on our search-and-recovery mission.

To everyone's everlasting wonderment, about five hours later, the two beastly rafts-one of which floated miles downriver and would have eventually ended up along the Mosquito Coast if not for some boys who paddled their dugout canoe out in midstream to fetch it-miraculously make it back to our campsite, via a barely functional 4x4 pickup truck, horseback, and a lot of tireless help from the locals, who seem to enjoy the crazy gringo drama as a welcome break from their day-to-day lives.

Our two oarsmen, Junior and Davy, are chagrined at the mishap; by failing to tie up their boats during the night, they had broken a cardinal rule. But we are all in good spirits as we re-inflate the rafts, pack up our sodden gear, wave good-bye to the bemused village people, and continue down this uniquely challenging Honduran river-following Whitewater Bob down those sweet, dark tongues of the Dry Highway.