Dangerous crossing
High water in June was exciting. The river rose overnight, then raged along for a few days before receding. As the flood abated, the sandbars re-emerged in new configurations. We waited eagerly until they were dry enough to explore.
After school we had a snack, and then went straight to the “creek,” a side arm of the river where it skirted a small island. My twin brother Jim and I stood on the bridge, mesmerized by the swirling muddy water. “Wow,” he said, “it’s really high this year.”
Filled with whirlpools and eddies, it was carrying sticks, twigs, and even trees. Another two feet and it would have touched the bottom of the old wooden bridge we stood on.
The next day after school we were eager to see if it had risen any higher. Barely stopping to bolt our peanut butter sandwiches, we raced to the creek, followed by our half-reluctant sister. The water level had dropped, exposing a new sandbar on the far side of the bridge. “You should have seen it yesterday,” we told Dora, “It was way higher!”
We began to explore the near bank to see the changes. Our usual trail, so recently covered by roiling water, was a morass of slimy mud. We climbed over fallen trees that had been standing the day before. Several alders and a big cottonwood had dropped across our path, felled by the raging waters.
Dora was getting behind. Determined to stand on the dignity of being the eldest, she was wearing her brand new canvas runners from the Five and Ten. I turned when I heard her shriek. “My shoe!”
Gingerly resting a bare toe on the ground, she pulled out her mud-blackened shoe, and announced crossly, “I’m going home!” Jim shrugged and slogged on. I followed, hurrying to keep up.
“Wow, look at this!” Jim had stopped beside the freshly displaced root of an enormous birch the flood had brought down. Exposed, the mud-encrusted root system stood almost as high as his head. He scrambled up and stood like a pirate with a spyglass, looking across the swollen waters to the sandbar on the far side of the racing channel.
“Look, it’s a bridge!” He reached up and pulled down a second smaller trunk of the tree, calling down, “And there’s even a rope to hold onto!” Gamely, I climbed up after my brave brother. As we edged toward the water, the tree swayed a little. “We should go one at a time, he said. “I’ll go first and wait for you on the other side. That way I can help you down.”
With that, he moved gingerly toward the torrent. From behind him, I could that see the smaller trunk of the fallen tree he was using as a handhold stopped short of the sandbar. I couldn’t gauge the width of the gap, but it was obvious he would have to let go and jump. As he moved slowly forward, I watched the tree bend beneath his weight.
“I’m scared,” I told him.
But he was confident, “We can easily make it!”
He retreated and we climbed down to take off our shoes. In no time we were both barefoot, runners tied at our belts by the laces. My heart was thumping, but if Jim was going, I was going too.
“Stay off the tree until I get across,” he said, “That will mean less weight on it.” I nodded and he clambered back up. Cowering in the muddy brush, I watched, hardly breathing, as my brother slowly walked along the swaying trunk, holding onto the fragile ever-retreating handhold above him. I closed my eyes, opening them only when I heard the thump as he landed on the sandbar. Relieved of his weight, the ‘handle’ tree trunk sprang up, leaving a gap of alarming height.
He turned to face me, jubilant. “I made it! Your turn. Come on!”
As if in a dream, I climbed slowly up the tree and stood on the main trunk. I had to go on tiptoe to reach the handhold, but I grabbed it gamely and started across. One glance at the raging waters warned me not to look down again. Holding on for dear life, I raised my eyes to the sky where fluffy white clouds were screened by branches. A breeze blew up and the tree swayed wildly. Beneath my bare feet, the trunk felt narrow and flimsy. I didn’t dare look ahead, for fear of seeing the water below. Teetering above the deep channel, I clung to the sound of Jim’s voice. “Come on, you’re almost there. Ten more steps.”
My knees were jelly. “Tell me when to jump,” I said. “I can’t look down.”
“Keep going,” said Jim.
I prayed then. “Just this once, God, please let me make it across. I promise I’ll never do anything so stupid again.”
“Okay, jump!”
At the last moment, I glanced down to assure myself there really was sand below me. As I let go, the overhead branch swung wildly out of reach. I fell from the tree bridge, landing awkwardly on my knees in the sand.
Jim helped me up and I brushed the sand off. We sat on a log by the bank and put on our shoes. Neither of us said a word as we walked back across the bridge and home.
Mom glanced up when we came in. “What have you two been up to?”
We looked at each other. “Oh, nothing much,” we said in unison.
“Wash up now,” she reminded us. “It’s nearly dinner time.”
A few days later, school let out for the summer. The teacher gave us some brochures about the swimming lessons that would be held at the hotsprings pool near the lake, a few miles out of town. Mom didn’t drive, but a bus would pick up the kids from the community centre. Without asking Jim, I took the consent form home and asked Mom to sign us both up for swimming: Beginners Level I.