Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [81]
The Ralph E. Simmons Memorial State Forest starts a half mile south of Scotts Landing and runs seven miles along the river. It’s seven thousand–plus acres of sassafras, water hickory, yellow poplar and endangered plants such as hartwrightia, toothache grass and purple baldwina. Sprouting up amidst the long leaf pine and live oaks are blueberries, blackberries, sweet pepperbrush, cinnamon fern, orchids and, along the riverbank, pitcher plant colonies. Wildlife is rather plentiful. Everything from otters to gopher tortoises, deer, bobcat, turkey and ribbon snakes—not to mention cottonmouth moccasins and eastern diamondback rattlers. Locals claim to have seen black bear and the endangered Florida panther. Inland, the ground is sandy, with patches of dark musky earth that gives rise to gardenias, wild roses and the smell of turpentine.
For us, the Ralph E. Simmons brought rest because few people are found along its banks. We floated as much as the tide would let us.
CAMP PINCKNEY is a Georgia-side boat ramp a long way from nowhere. Regular visitors include kids on four-wheelers looking for a place to skim rocks or smoke dope. The tide is stronger here. And river tide is a lot like the flushing of a toilet—fast going out but slow to fill. Paddling downstream, we could easily manage four miles an hour. Five for shorter distances and only if I was focused. Against the incoming, we’d be lucky to average one and a half. Two would be a miracle. Add a headwind to the equation and we’d be backing up.
Abbie slept while I kept the paddle in the water and slung the canoe on the outside of the river where the current was faster. The less time I spent trying to steer, the more time I spent pulling. We passed Cooneys Landing, Elbow Landing and Horseshoe Island before rounding the last bend just north of Prospect Landing.
I pushed back my hat, scratched my head and watched the river slip beneath us.
If you’ve spent enough time in the river, you can tell the difference between when the flow pushes you along and when the tide pulls you out. Usually, if you’re coming around a corner and your stern swings around—or fishtails—you’re being pushed. If you come around that same corner and your keel cuts the water like it was on a rail, you’re being pulled. The difference is key: you can fight the push, but you’ve got to ride the pull.
The river can be a magical place. As much as I’ve been here, I still don’t quite get her. No matter how you hurry or how hard and fast you pull on the paddle, the river controls the tempo. She stretches every minute and steals back every lost second. Rivers do this naturally. They don’t give two cents about the destination, only the journey. It’s why they’re crooked. Name one straight river and I’ll show you a man-made canal. People make a big deal about how their watch automatically sets itself to atomic time from a tower somewhere in Colorado, but if we were smart, we’d set our watches to river time. We’d wrinkle less and wouldn’t grow old as quickly.
Abbie knew this. It might have been the one thing I’d taught her. She had looked at her list and then chosen the river not because it was her favorite place in the world or because she was a closet river rat but because it was the singular place on earth where time slowed down. Where each second counted. Where, if you paid attention, the sun would stop long enough to let you catch your breath.
Near lunchtime, I lifted the paddle out of the water, lay down next to Abbie and counted the clouds that slipped overhead.
Then I tried to stop the sun.
27
Two days later, we drove to the oncology center—the last