Passion for the Pigeon

"No, but there's a T-shirt's got the names of the rapids on it," she said. She sorted through the rack. "Here it is."

I held the shirt up to the light. Powerhouse, Lost Guide, Roostertail . . .

"What happened to BFH?" I asked. "Isn't there a rapid called BFH?"

The girl blanched at my sudden display of emotion. "Not that I know of."

I stomped outside and stared in the direction of the general store. Had Jerry never printed up the map? Was his word not taken as gospel? I returned to the girl at the counter.

"Did you know Jerry Taylor?" I asked.

"No, but I heard of him. They put a memorial plaque for him on Big Rock."

"The one below Powerhouse?"

She nodded. "You'll go right by it."

The school bus carrying the one o'clock trip arrived. Our group of twenty was ushered out back to the "briefing area," where Mike, our strapping young guide, lectured us on rafting safety.

"Don't put your foot under the center seat or someone could fall against your knee and break your leg," he instructed. "Don't let go of your paddle handle or you're likely to knock someone's teeth out. And if you fall out of the raft, don't ever try to stand up in the river. You could get your foot trapped under a rock and drown."

Allison wrapped her pale, thin arms around mine. "Dad, I'm not sure I want to do this."

"Don't worry, honey," I assured her. "You'll have a blast."

From a dripping pile left by the previous group, we picked out helmets, paddles, and life jackets. We boarded the bus and crowded into the seats. I stared at the pasty-faced clients with their chubby legs and soft hands. What the hell was I doing here?

At the put-in, we took our place in line behind half-a-dozen other rafts. Mike announced our seating assignments. "Mom, you take the middle right," he said to Cathy. "Dad, you're back next to me."

We carried the boat to the river and climbed aboard. Mike gave out last-minute paddling instructions: "When I say forward left, everybody on the left-hand side paddles forward," he said. "When I say back right, everybody on the right-hand side paddles backward. Got that?"

"Yes."

"I can't hear you."

"Yes!"

We pushed off the bank and drifted into Powerhouse. The air vibrated with a familiar roar. I braced myself for the cross-currents that had buffeted my canoe, but I felt nothing. The big raft plowed over the waves as smooth as a hearse.

Allison glanced back with a relieved grin. "That wasn't so bad, Daddy," she said.

"Good, honey. I'm glad."

The current slowed. I turned to Mike. "What does the Dead Pigeon River Council say about the river these days?" I asked.

"Who?"

"The Dead Pigeon River Council."

Mike had not heard of them.

"So what do you think about the water quality?" I asked.

Mike looked perplexed. "I don't know. Seems okay to me."

Big Rock loomed ahead. Near the top, a bronze rectangle flashed in the sun. "There's Jerry's plaque!" I said. "Can we stop and take a look?"

I stabbed my paddle into the river, trying to slow the lumbering raft. But Mike had no time for dreams or reminiscence. He stared straight ahead, eager to keep on schedule. Cathy flashed me a pained look as I slumped in defeat.

"Full speed ahead!" shouted the pudgy kid in the bow, and after a moment we'd gone past.

John Manuel is an avid outdoorsman, canoeist, and environmentalist. He is a freelance writer and author of The Natural Traveler Along North Carolina's Coast, published in 2003.