The Last Canoe

The Russian River flows through the heart of Sonoma County in California It is also home to one of the last surviving Sequoia Redwood forests in the country. Rio Nido is a two miles east of Guerneville where diversity and individuality are celebrated. Six miles east of Rio Nido is a canoe rental place that does a vigorous business during the summer when the tourist mob the place to explore the scenic wonders of the redwoods.

I saw her waving in my rearview mirror as I pulled out of her apartment driveway. Five years ago, I came home to marry her in front of Marquette’s Justice of the Peace, but as I drove away I knew our divorce would be official early in 1992. When I came back from Panama, she told me about her boyfriend. She moved out into his place while I packed up my stuff in base housing. I had decided not to enlist in the United States Air Force for a fourth time. My divorce and discharge would come about a week apart.

After driving out the front gate of Beale, Air Force Base for the last time, with my Dodge Ram filled with what was left of my life possessions, I felt a heavy weight in my heart bring on the terrifying reality that I was actually leaving. All the bullshit I told everyone about how I couldn’t wait to separate from the service and my second marriage, left me breathless as I drove toward Interstate 80 West leaving Yuba County in my rearview mirror. Because I had saved all my leave, I would be on Terminal Leave until December 31.

I drove on West Interstate 80 where I passed Sacramento and Davis. After about an hour, I turned off on the exit to Highway 12 to Santa Rosa, passing Glen where Wolf Manor, once the home of Jack London. The scenery was breathtaking in places and everywhere I looked there seemed to be a winery like the Kenwood Winery covered in ancient grape vines that populated the rolling hills.

I was in Santa Rosa before I knew it. I was on the lookout for Fulton Road that connected into River Road which was a snake-like two land road that wound along the Russian River. Once I passed Forestville, I was suddenly surrounded by the Sequoia Redwoods.

It happened to be a very warm autumn day with a hazy blue sky above as wispy white clouds hovering overheard like guardian angels.

“We’re almost there.” I told Jordan my faithful black Labrador who was about nine years old. Her head was hanging out the open window on the passenger’s side, watching the trees wiz by. My heart began to feel lighter as I felt the wind blow against my face with a rich aroma of pine and tree sap.

After deciding not to enlist for another hitch in the service, I came up about a month ago to visit my friend Kenn who lived in a cabin in the woods at Rio Nido. While visiting, I found a cabin for rent in Canyon Two which was on a very steep hill.

I met the owner who showed me the cabin. The cabin was tiny or as I put it, “I could reach the front door know and then reach out for the back door knob.” My description was an exaggeration, but it was the wrap-around deck that included a splendid view of the redwoods that won me over

I drove over a bridge which spanned the river. In a few minutes I would be at the door of my new home. The Korbel Winery was on the right side and just beyond it was a Bavarian Hotel that was once the landmark for Rio Nido in the 1960s as a trendy vacation destination. But time does not stop for anyone and after some business failures, the once majestic resort began to corrode and decay until the bright colors began to fade. As I turned and drove into the community, I saw the hotel had been abandoned, left to the will of time.

I was told the community was working-class poor or gay. All I knew as I drove up Canyon Two was I was surrounded by the biggest living things on earth. It was past three in the afternoon, and the canopy shaded me from the hot sun above. It was cool when I pulled my Dodge Ram up to the cabin.

Kenn told me that a lot of people had moved up from San Francisco after the AIDs epidemic hit the city hard. Living here offered anyone infected with the deadly virus a chance to pass away surrounded by Nature. Kenn was a volunteer bringing people dinner who were in the bedridden with AIDs after losing a lot of friends and associates at University of California San Francisco (UCSF).

My reasons for coming here are different. I am not dying of AIDs, but I was coming here as a refugee, nonetheless. I needed a place to recover from the wounds from my second marriage. My intention was to register for college at Santa Rosa Junior College and then transfer to Sonoma State to get my bachelor’s in secondary education. For once in my life, I had set my goal and was going to achieve it.

I drive up to the cabin. My Dodge Ram pick up with a camper shell will not fit in my skinny driveway. I park my pickup in the road, but the road that twists and turns up Canyon Two takes up over half of the width of the road. I open the shell and begin to unload.

“You know you can’t park here.” A man walking down the road in Canyon One informs me.

“I won’t be here that long.” I say to him, “I just need to unload.”

“Alright, but don’t say I didn’t warn ya.” He continues on up the Canyon One Road.

“Preciate that.” I wave as he passes. My cabin is located in Canyon Two, but it overlooks Canyon One Road that twists its way through the rugged terrain full of redwoods. As I run a load into my tiny cabin, I hear a horn blaring. When I walk onto my wrap-around deck, that’s when I spotted a beat-up old Chevy headed downhill, and my Ram is blocking him. He has a beard and long hair past his shoulders.

“You mind moving your truck?” He is not polite when he asks.

“Sure.” I nod and got into my Ram.

“You can’t park here.” He shakes his head.

“I know. I was just unloading my truck.” I explained.

“Well, it’s not okay.” He squawks.

“Won’t happen again.” I promise as I back my Ram down the hill.

He reacts by stepping on the gas and pulling his car by me.

“Nice and neighborly.” I muttered to myself. I parked my truck in front of my friend’s cabin. I would have to hoist my possessions up the hill. My cats, Whiskers and Bandit were inside the cat carrier. I carried them both up the hill with Jordan on her leash. The rest of the stuff in the back would be a pain in the ass, but at least I’d have nice scenery to look at while I huffed and puffed my way up the hill.

I contacted Kenn to make sure he was alright if I parked my pickup truck in his yard. He wasn’t thrilled, but he said it would be alright for the time being. By sundown, I had finished brining my stuff into the cabin including two very large guitar amplifiers. Jordan had found herself a place on the deck. The deck was as big as the cabin and would become my favorite spot beneath the redwood trees overlooking Canyon One and Canyon Two Road.

Jordan also slept in my double bed with me. The mattress filled up the entire bedroom and Jordan filled up more than her share of the bed. But with my window open, I could hear the soothing sounds of the evening, and I fell asleep immediately.

When I woke up it was still dark outside, but my clock read 9:25 am. Wandering onto the deck, I saw the sun trying to rise above tree level. Since the trees were over a hundred feet high, I sat in the cool shade of the branches of the Sequoia trees sipping my instant coffee.

I was told at the top of the canyon was a marijuana farm with booby traps for anyone who came trespassing. I had no intention of seeing what a pot farm looked like.

It was the first week in October and I could feel a chill in the air, but by the time afternoon arrived it felt like summer again. I took Jordan for a walk-up Canyon Three Road where there were less cabins and more trees. Most of the cabins were remnants of the Glory Days of the sixties when the hippies would come up from the city to cool off. Kenn told me that Jerry Garcia went to high school in Cazadero which was a few miles up the road. There were kiosks with tie-dye shirts and beaded necklaces. It was a regular hippie paradise along River Road.

River Road followed the Russian River through the heart of the redwoods and ended at Goat’s Rock on the coast near a small town called Jenner-by-the-Sea. There were more seals than people who lived in the town. I would find out that even in the summer, the ocean water would not get above fifty degrees. I was warned not to wade in past my knees due to the frequent rip tides. About fifty yards off the shore there is a big drop off where you can become a shark meal if you’re not careful. Surfers wearing wet suits were the only ones brave enough to challenge the breakers off shore.

Goat Rock was a huge rock that towered to about sixty feet. Only the sea gulls on wings would reach the summit since the rock had no access as it sides were straight up and down. There was a small outlet into the ocean where you could gaze into the murky water.

The Russian River would trickle into the ocean, but before it did, there was a colony of seals that took refuge there. Park rangers would patrol the colony since this is where the seals birth their young. The rangers provided protection to the colony from the visitor’s dogs. There was a sign posted which dogs were forbidden beyond a certain point on the beach.

It took me about a week until I had the cabin arranged the way I wanted. I took a trip to Costo in Santa Rosa to get materials to build a doghouse for Jordan. After I completed my project, Jordan had no interest in it. What she did have an interest in was climbing up the canyon wall where the pot farm was.I did not want her doing that, so I put a fence up, but it did not stop her. Next I put a rope between two tree and tied a leash so she could run in the yard restrained by her leash preventing her from climbing the canyon.

Armstrong State Park was where I would take Jordan for a three-mile jog o a path through a redwood preserve. I would remove her from the leash, because she was trained to run at my side. The trail went through some of the denser parts of the preserve. There were places with placards explaining some remarkable facts about the sequoias. One of the larger trees had been cut down about twenty years before. Using the rings of the downed tree, someone had put labels of the dates on some of the rings. The tree had labels went back over a millennium. One of the trees had been struck by lightning. The inside of the massive tree had been charred black, but in the blackness a new tree was beginning to grow from inside it. This reminded me that from destruction, new life arises from the ashes of the old.

One of the things I bought at Costco was an inner tube. I planned to use it once the water was warm enough to swim in. The river was only chest-deep at its deepest depth. The current was strong, but I couldn’t wait to try out my new toy. At the time, the water was too cold to try it and as much as I did not want to, I would have to wait.

To access the river, Jordan and I would pass the abandoned Bavarian Hotel around a path that would continue through a tunnel underneath River Road to the shores. After spending the morning wiring my speakers to my stereo I decided to take a break on our second day to walk to the river. I waded in. The water was numbing, but I wanted to feel for myself how cold the water was.

I was pretty sure it would not snow, but the rain would feel like ice. I was told sometimes it would get cold enough to turn the rain into sleet. On this particular day, it was sunny, but it seemed the sun was too tired to rise above the giants on either side of the river. The cold water did not stop Jordan from wading in and having a swim.

The sunset was golden with a blaze of orange that burst through the trees. This is what I wanted. I wanted to feel peace in my soul. All of life to this point had been a struggle up a hill and never being able to quite reach the summit. I needed some time to piece my life back together again. I did not pray for it to be easy, no, I prayed for resolution. Standing on the shore of the Russian River, I could feel the current against my bare legs, and I knew I had come to a place of healing, Already I could feel the energy of these mighty trees whispering to me, “Keep going, do not be afraid of what tomorrow will bring.”

And that’s when I saw it, the last canoe navigating down river with a single occupant manning the paddle, one stroke after another, never wavering, always forging ahead. Blinking, I saw myself as the single occupant of the last canoe. There would be no others to follow as the wind spoke of colder days to come. The canoe rental had closed for the season. The last canoe belonged to the man with the paddle. I continued to watch as the last canoe became nothing more than a shadow turning around the bend near Guerneville.

“C’mon Jordan, time to head home.” I urged her from the river. She shook off once she reached the shore. One more glance as the last canoe disappeared in the glare of the sunset. I put my shoes back on, attached the leash to Jordan’s collar and began to walk slowly back to my cabin with the image of that last canoe still fresh in my mind.

In time I would discover that those of us living near the river would be known as River Rats. There was a solidarity in that thought, a community forged from necessity and the warmth and safety of home. As we got the cabin, the sun had surrendered to the dusk and then to the darkness of the night.

When I got to the cabin, I sat out on the deck as the darkness of the night engulfed me. I could hear the sounds of woods, sounds only heard in the solitude of the branches high overhead. I heard voices from neighbors, conversations I would never be privy to. The streetlights flickered on offering dim salvation from the impending night.

I was home. Jordan sat contently at my feet as I soaked in the cool night air. For the first time since I could recall, I was alone. I could feel the paddle in my hand as I pushed against the current. I was free, by God, I was finally free.