“I took a walk in the woods and came out taller than the trees”- Henry David Thoreau

                        

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 I distinctly remember seeing my fingers slip through the reddish-brown mud of the riverbank, I saw the streaks left in the mud by my futile attempt to slow my descent into the watery canyon.  The shock of falling into the freezing river took my breath away, kicking and paddling like crazy, my small head just above the raging river water, I reached out with my right hand to frantically claw at the riverbank, trying to grab hold of anything as I was swiftly being carried downstream.  I have no memory of slipping, falling or hitting the water.  My first memory is seeing my fingers grasping at the muddy riverbank, a memory as fresh as if it happened ten minutes ago.

 

“When do you think we will get to John and the others”? I had asked a few minutes earlier, as I trailed behind my Dad while we walked along the winding river gorge.  I tried to keep up with his strong steady pace, and we were many feet back from the canyon’s edge; however, like a moth to a flame I kept edging closer to the drop off.  Fifteen feet below us the river had carved a new path with the spring rains and snow melt; it was a muddy, roaring torrent of water rushing through a narrow chute with high slippery banks on either side.  “We will be there pretty soon,” my Dad replied, as we continued walking to meet up with John Hawkinson and others for a weekend campout and adventure in Northern Wisconsin.  I was 8 years old.

 

As the river swept me downstream, I kept my head above the water.  Already a strong swimmer, Dad had taught me to swim at the Hyde Park YMCA before I was 5, and I could hold my breath the entire length of a 25-meter swimming pool.  I didn’t feel the cold water or the weight of my soaked clothing, but I felt vaguely aware for the first time, that I was fighting for my life.

 

As a child, my Dad and I spent many days outside in nature.  John Hawkinson, his Scoutmaster, lifelong friend and mentor was an artist, author, environmentalist and overall lover of everything in nature.  John was also an early important influence on my learning about the natural outdoors.

 

Walking along the riverbank, in a heavily-forested area, I was tired of walking and looked forward to meeting up with the rest of our group, setting up our tent and sitting around a warm campfire.  The Spring day was warm during our hike, it had rained earlier, the ground was soft under our boots, and the river below us was very loud.  “Can I build a campfire when we get there, Dad?”  “Yes, if you can find some dry wood and kindling,” he replied.  “Ok.” I reached down and touched the Swiss Army pocketknife I carried in a leather belt sheath.  This prized possession, a gift from my Grandpa Wissler, who was another strong influence on my learning and love of nature.  He gave me the knife for my 8th birthday, and it went with me on every outdoor adventure.  The bright red handle with white cross was filled with two sharp blades, a screwdriver, a folding scissors, a small saw, an awl for making holes in leather, and a toothpick and tweezers - how cool is that?!

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My head stayed above water, but I was aware that I was being pulled away from my Dad, and I worried about being separated from him more than the imminent threat of drowning.  “Dad!” I tried to yell; my words were lost in the echoing roar of the rushing water.

 

By 8 years old, I already felt fairly comfortable outdoors in remote areas.  Although a city kid through and through, my whole family liked to be outdoors and to go on adventures.  Kayaking and canoeing the mighty Wolf River on the Menominee reservation in Northern Wisconsin; hiking and winter camping under a World War II parachute tent in the Indiana Dunes at a remote pristine site Hawkinson named “Squatter’s Rights”.  The unusual homemade tent was made out of a light-colored silk and used homemade lanterns made from plastic milk cartons with candles.  We also made and used homemade snowshoes in the thick woods behind Hawkinson’s Michigan “Stoney Brook Farm”.  Or, entering the annual Des Plaines River Canoe Marathon, a misnomer since it was only 19 miles long, but was a great fundraiser for much-needed river clean up and conservation.  

 

I reached out one last time for the muddy riverbank, again I could not grab onto anything for purchase, my hand came away empty, with only a momentary handful of mud. My last grasp turned me facing downstream and my head went under the water for the first time.  I then felt a strong muscled arm grab me around the waist, and I heard my Dad’s voice as we both were propelled down the river together.  As the river narrowed, a tree had fallen down across the span of the banks.  Dad reached up and grabbed the branch, pulling us both towards the water’s edge, where we used the tree and other roots to climb up the bank to safety.

 

“You, ok?” Dad asked. “Yes,” I replied.  “I don’t know what happened, I got too close to the edge and slipped.”  “Just glad you’re ok, let’s go find the others, and get that campfire started, ok?”  Reaching down to the Swiss Army knife still in its sheath on my now soaked leather belt, “yep” I replied.

 

The memory of falling into the cold muddy river is so vivid to this day some 51 years ago.  I have no memory at all from the rest of the day or the campout that weekend.  I would have a few other close calls over the years exploring the great outdoors; but I also had a new found knowledge and respect for the raw power of nature in all her glory.