A Friends Mission

There were times when he preferred to glide down the river, allowing the easy flow to carry him along. It was during those times that he watched the banks of the river.

A careful eye could pick out the deer from the dark shade of the oaks that lined the riverbank. This was a mountain river, a lot different from other rivers. A mountain river has high sloping banks that boast huge round, sturdy trees. Old forest is what his friend, Leon called it. Old forest, like the first settlers knew when the Indians still roamed free.

The summer folk had their campsites on the slopes above the river. He would watch them as he glided by. He didn’t like summer folk. They had no business coming to his river during the summer vacation to dump their trash, burn fires in their camp stoves, and commune with nature.

The river was his life, not his vacation.

But, this morning he did not glide along. He continued to dip the oars into the dark waters stirring up the bottom silt and disturbing the fish. This morning he was on a mission.

His cabin was upriver three miles from this point and in river terms that would not be far. Not so far that his shoulders ached, and not so far that his back would catch with that horrid pain, taking three days to right, he’d have to oar a lot further than three miles to feel that kind of pain and James had every intention of going all the way.

It was still early morning, barely sunrise. A few of the summer campers were stirring. He could smell their coffee and bacon as he passed campsites. From the corner of his eye he could see them coming to the slope to watch him go by. Many times as he glided down the river he was the object of inspection, sometimes they would wave at him and sometimes he would wave back pretending to be kind.

This morning the summer folk came to the top of their campsites and looked down on the river as James rowed past. This time they did not see a gliding boat, a smiling James, or a friendly wave. This morning as they glared down on the river trying to clear the sleep from their eyes, moving to the right, or left to keep the camp smoke from their view they saw James rowing his boat in a steady, strong motion, and a man lying in his boat, bleeding.

“How we doing?” Leon asked.

“Almost there,” James replied.

Dip in the oar, push the water back, lift the oar and place it in the water again. Over and over James repeated the process.

Once he had considered a motor for the boat, but decided against it. James just couldn’t think of any reason he’d need to be in that much of a hurry. He never imagined that his friend, Leon, would miss and stick the axe into his upper thigh.
James glanced down at his friend. Leon was lying with his shoulders toward James, so that James was looking over his friend’s head and not into his face. He was grateful for that. He didn’t want Leon to see how worried he was about that leg. It looked bad.
Hell, it should. The damn fool nearly chopped it off with one swing. Swoosh!

James was in the outhouse when he heard it. Heard the axe blade hit the bone, and Leon screaming. He grabbed his belt and wrapped it around the leg tight, and then he ran to the old truck, but the battery wouldn’t start, again. It was twelve miles driving, and only five miles down river to a doctor. He took the outhouse door off the hinges and rolled Leon onto the plank, then he drug the wooden stretcher down the path to the boat.

They were making good time. James glanced down at Leon again. His friend was slumping further into the boat. James dipped his oar deeper into the water pushing harder against the water and quickening his pace. He had to get further along before Leon bled to death.

“Need some help?”

James didn’t even turn his head to answer. It was a summer camper yelling down at him.

What did they think they were going to do?

Dip the oar, push back the water, and thrust it into the water again.

“Are we there?”

“Just around the bend, Leon, just around this bend,” he encouraged his friend.

“The old forest is looking good this morning,” Leon said. “There are a lot of sky spirits out.”

James feared the worst with that remark. Leon studied Indian folklore from these mountains; it was their belief that sky spirits came to those dying.

“There’s no need for sky spirits today, old friend.”

James’ shoulders and back were aching now. He was rowing with an intensity that pushed his aged body beyond the limits. His muscles roared against the strain, but he continued. He had to keep going there simply was no other choice. Perhaps, it was the fear that burned through his body, the fear that he couldn't make it fast enough, the fear of losing a friend he trusted above all others. He'd have to row harder. 

He was past the campsites now. There was nothing but trees along the bank; a heavy forest of trees sometimes dipping right down to the water line. The sun was barely passing through this part of the river, not this early in the morning, and not with a slight fog rising off the water.
James peered ahead into the mist. In front of him was a large black bear fishing for his breakfast. James instantly reached for his knife but it was not on his belt loop. His belt was wrapped around Leon’s leg. He did not have his gun with him. There was no way he could go around the bear, there was no way he could pull over to the bank and hide, and there was no way to put the boat into reverse. James pulled hard against the oarlock until he broke the oar free.

As he neared the bear he prayed that breakfast was more important to old blackie then the men were. The bear dipped its paw into the river searching for fish. James readied himself as they were very close to the bear. Startled by the humans, the bear turned reaching out to swipe his big paw at them.

He could not stand in the boat for fear of tipping. He braced himself against both sides and raised the heavy oar to swing. He hoped to hit the bear on the head. He knew he couldn’t kill the bear, but he hoped the blow would send it running up the slope and into the forest.

He swung; nearly fell out of the boat. The oar passed through the mist hitting nothing. James looked behind him. The bear had disappeared.

“What the?”  He placed the heavy oar back into the broken holder and rowed again. The fog crept around them covering his view of the next river bend.

“We are almost there, Leon,” James encouraged. He received no response. “Leon?” Still there was no response from his friend.

Around the bend the fog suddenly lifted and James could see the boat dock. There were several men at the dock readying their boats for the day. James called to them and together they carried Leon into the doctor’s office.

Leon died somewhere along the river. It was a blow that James bore hard. A friend was special in the mountain, along a lonely river. It was several days before James would take his boat out again. As he drifted along the slow moving river, glancing up at the tree line, he thought sure he saw a black bear following him, ducking in and out between the trees, almost playing with him.

James pulled the boat over to the bank and tied it to a tree. He climbed the slope and stood among the trees. As he looked down on the river he could see a black bear crossing the water to the other side.

“LEON?” James called. The bear stopped, turned and looked up at him.