“Ain’t nothin’ final about the frontier.”

-Talib Kweli

            It happened on the wrong day. We awoke to rain, an unusual and unwelcome sight that had been fortunately avoided for almost three weeks. I sat up sore and damp, groaning with the discovery that both socks and shoes were sufficiently drenched. Everyone emerged from equally disrupted sleeps with eyebrows indignantly angled downward, mimicking our frowning lips. It was going to be one of those days, and despite defiant facial features we all knew this in our hearts.  

            The first reasonable solution was to wait it out, so the four of us piled into the wagon and headed for a café. A couple coffees and some heated discussions about various bands thrust the clock hand forward in grand circular swoops. Two hours had passed, and with them the rain. It was time to shred.

            Everything seemed to be working relatively well; the road was straight, flat and generally smooth, and the first ten kilometres had gone without hitch. The only real threat came from word we had received earlier that morning regarding a bridge that spanned 3 Ks, arching confidently over rushing blue glacial water fresh from the mountains. But nothing was in sight on the horizon, and it seemed that perhaps the warning had been exaggerated.

            Heading off for the next ten, the logic was that if there was indeed a bridge, the boys would wait in the car at its start and we would evaluate as a team. Crossing an obstacle like that in a vehicle is no issue, but when the shoulder disappears beside the constant rush of State Highway 1 things can get ugly.

            So off we went with iPods bumping out Kamaal the Abstract and heavy semi-trailers thrusting us forward with momentous blasts of wind. In the distance the road drifted upward and over, the classic sign of a bridge. It appeared as though the tale held weight, and we were about to deal with it. But as Rob and I rolled closer, worry receded at the sight of a small overpass designed simply to make way for standard freight trains.

“Hassle avoided,” we figured, “Sweet.”

            However as we cruised down the far end of the small bridge the issues we had left just behind immediately resurfaced but with a new and intensified urgency. Just as promised, a massive bridge spanned the predicted distance, ending in a small point just within eyesight. There was no room for pedestrians whatsoever and crossing on a deck amidst the rushing and intermingling line of raging vehicles was out of the question. We would have to be innovative or risk losing the entire day as we waited for a lull in traffic.

            If we couldn’t go over the bridge, the second most viable solution was clearly to go under it. But despite the disappearance of rain the clouds still hung low and thick, blocking any warmth the sun was offering. And taking a dip in frigid ice water appealed about as much as warm pulpy orange juice after a fresh minty brush of the teeth. In other words, we weren’t stoked.

            Nevertheless, total paralysis loomed around our indecisiveness so we committed and headed down beneath the massive grey structure to investigate. What we discovered was both disconcerting and encouraging; a rushing blue current that bottle-necked into a narrow yet crossable side river. The surging water pulsed through restrictive land on either side, stubbornly rushing onward to its eventual goal of the Pacific. This first obstacle appeared traversable but hinted at less cooperative natural factors that potentially lay over the next three mysterious kilometres.    

            Luckily some locals had tied a nylon rope across the most suffocating portion of the river, and after some debate both Rob and I stripped down to boxers and began the process. Bobby D went first, suffering a large rope burn across his left ribcage while I followed and streaked my left bicep with the same.

            Standing in nothing but underwear, bare feet and goose bumps we looked over the next thousand metres. All looked rocky and my feet tingled with hesitant anticipation of steady and constant torture. We laughed at our own stupidity as we danced over the jagged ground, offering passing vehicles a poor and highly masculine interpretation of what ancient ancestors might have looked like.

            After some time I looked at Rob.

“I kind of hope that’s not it dude,” I offered after noticing that he seemed curious about my thoughts.

“What do you mean?” A fair response.

“I dunno, it just seemed too easy, you know? I mean that was scary and stuff, but not really though.”

“Haha, true. But be careful what you’re asking for,” came his prophetic reply.

            And barely two minutes later, the Earth displayed her sense of humour and authority all at once. I had gotten my wish in the form of a series of deep, freezing, white-water torrents that smashed through a labyrinth of rocky shallow points. No nylon ropes ran along this portion. Oh no, this was not an exhilarating risk; this was courage country.

            Yet despite the apparent fact that attempting to move forward would not only be ill advised but simply arrogant, a pressing momentum weighed down on us. We had to try, we’d come this far and we had to at least try. So after apologizing mentally to my Mom I carefully waded in further, deeper and with more resignation than I’d felt in some time.

            The current picked up, stronger at my ankles than my chest. A feeling of total fragility and sudden anonymity swept through my body, stronger than the waves crashing around my flailing limbs. Within twenty feet lay the shore, but in between flowed an ode to power. The main body of the river could not be navigated in the manner we intended, and an alternate route no longer felt as cowardly.

            As I realized this I looked up to see that this conclusion had not eluded Rob and he had begun trekking over to a different possible crossing. And that's basically how it went over the next three hours. We tip-toed across a variety of jutting rock build-ups in search of shallow points through which to wade. Not all resulted in success. More than once each one of us lost his footing and struggled against the charging mountain runoff.

            Several hours after beginning the seemingly plausible trek, desperate bodily reactions matched the colour of our extremities to our adversities. Fingers and toes turned pale blue as they succumbed to physical restriction. But just as sincere worry began to resonate deep within, our determination was rewarded. The final of the myriad rivers trickled over shivering calves as we climbed onto solid ground. It was over, we had made it.

            Later that night as we shivered in our sweaters and blankets we looked back over the day’s events. Though the decisions lacked substantial thought, the laughter and new memories more than covered for the mistakes. In the coming days we would face a couple more bridges of similar design and approach them with more thought and less hypothermia, but for one cold and panicked day, we were pioneers.

Daniel + The S4C Team