Stretching Tearsheets
He was tall–about 7’2,” hence the name: Stretch. And when he grabbed those rocks, I should have known something was about to go down, literally.For several years my two uncles, Rodney and Bob, and my father Steve had embarked on whitewater rafting tours, leaving me behind because I was “too young.” They always returned to society refreshed somehow in a way I couldn’t understand. This year, they had eschewed their unspoken protocol; my status was upgraded from “child” to “adult” (I was seventeen at the time), and I was invited to go along. “Jonathan, we’re going to Idaho,” Dad said.”Okay,” I said. My mental response was: Great. Potatoes and flatland, and we will be floating down a glass-still river and I’ll be bored. You finally ask me to go after two years, and it is to Idaho. What happened to going somewhere like the Grand Canyon?”Hells Canyon,” he said. Now we’re getting a little better. “The Snake River.” All right, you’ve got me. I’ll expect to meet Lucifer himself when we get to the river. It’s funny how the simple mention of an evil name drew me in instead of what God would hope. I was intrigued by the prospect of our family floating down the serpentine folds of a real-life river Styx, stumbling onto the very flame-kissed gates of Hades. In those weak moments of imagination, the sinuous flows of Satan seemed more interesting to me than God. I discovered later that Hells Canyon is the deepest river gorge in North America–some 8000 plus feet down–and I thought it would be cool to skim the underbelly of the earth. I’d pay the rowman; the toll would be a little piece of my soul in exchange for an eventful trip. I’d been stuck in the perceived pointless minutiae of high school for two years, and now I wanted to escape the city and see nature at whatever the cost–never mind that Dad was picking up the tab for this one. Bring it on.
