{"product_id":"brief-flashings-in-the-phenomenal-world-isbn-9781952692697","title":"Brief Flashings in the Phenomenal World","description":"\u003cb\u003e2024 Foreword INDIES Book of the Year Awards Finalist in Adventure, Sports \u0026amp; Recreation\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA Zen study wrapped in a memoir of destruction and healing written by an elite ultrarunner as she struggles to make it to the other side of a life-shattering injury with her sanity, and her marriage, intact\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter flipping her raft days away from help on a trip down the remote Salmon River, Katie Arnold’s shattered leg tests both her spirit and her marriage for years to come. It also reignites her meditation practice and motivates her to dive into Zen in search of healing. Before the accident, Katie was an elite ultrarunner with a simmering but adequate marriage who avoided being indoors whenever possible. But who is she afterwards?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the midst of hardship, Katie turns for support to the Zen practice she had long dabbled in. \u003ci\u003eBrief Flashings in the Phenomenal World\u003c\/i\u003e is a Zen study wrapped in a memoir that tells the story of a search for stillness by a woman born for wildness. Spanning roughly two years, from shortly before the accident through the long, uncertain healing of both leg and marriage, it is a personal narrative of that tumultuous time nested inside meditations on Zen. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHaving gone from a reluctant spiritualist to a Zen practitioner over the course of a decade, Katie Arnold offers unique company for those seeking nature’s exquisite highs as well as for creatives, spiritualists, and sensualists who want to slow down and examine the possibilities of a well-lived life. As the late Japanese master Shunryu Suzuki wrote, “Sometimes a flashing will come through the dark sky.” These brief flashings are enlightenment—moments when we suddenly feel as if we’re part of everything, and everything’s part of us. This book is about how to experience the flashings when they come, and about what they mean for how we live our lives. \u003cbr\u003eIntroduction: Flashpoints\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003ePART ONE: RIVERS\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e1.    Lessons in Falling\u003cbr\u003e2.    The Idea of Order\u003cbr\u003e3.    Flow\u003cbr\u003e4.    Boredom\u003cbr\u003e5.    The Summer I Didn’t Die\u003cbr\u003e6.    Idaho\u003cbr\u003e7.    Stories\u003cbr\u003e8.    River of No Return\u003cbr\u003e9.    Not Knowing\u003cbr\u003e10.  One Rapid at a Time\u003cbr\u003e11.  Back to Zero\u003cbr\u003e12.  Broken\u003cbr\u003e13.  No Good, No Bad\u003cbr\u003e14.  Running on the Page\u003cbr\u003e15.  Range\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003ePART TWO: MOUNTAINS\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e16.  Zen Mind, Runner’s Mind\u003cbr\u003e17.  Teachers\u003cbr\u003e18.  Anything\u003cbr\u003e19.  Forgetting\u003cbr\u003e20.  Undoing\u003cbr\u003e21.  Form\u003cbr\u003e22.  Right Effort\u003cbr\u003e23.  Beast Mode\u003cbr\u003e24.  Phenomenal Expression\u003cbr\u003e25.  Fourteen\u003cbr\u003e26.  Ordinary\u003cbr\u003e27.  Hair on Fire\u003cbr\u003e28.  Continuous Mistake\u003cbr\u003e29.  Everyday Mind\u003cbr\u003e30.  Clear Water All the Way to the Bottom\u003cbr\u003e31.  Lightning in the Sky\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eEpilogue\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for Katie Arnold's previous book, \u003ci\u003eRunning Home\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In her debut memoir, \u003ci\u003eRunning Home\u003c\/i\u003e, Katie Arnold does an admirable job of trusting the everyday material of her life. . . . She writes a story exploring how her growing preoccupation with running has been intertwined with loving and losing her father. She takes the risk of being ordinary, and therefore human. . . . We want to know how other people live, and Arnold shows us.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Poignant and ultimately uplifting . . . will resonate with . . .  just about everyone.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This book is a gift.”\u003cb\u003e—Oliver Payne, Articles Editor, \u003ci\u003eNational Geographic\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A contemplative, soul-searching account of the death of [Katie Arnold’s] beloved father and how she used long-distance running as a way to heal from the grief.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Far more than a book about running, this touching memoir takes readers on a compelling and emotional journey as Arnold finds relief from her sorrow.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Arnold masterfully captures the vulnerability of wading through grief with each step she takes towards self-discovery. This remarkable memoir will undoubtedly resonate with runners but equally so with children of divorce, new mothers, and those who have suffered the loss of a parent. An eloquent tribute to the complexity and vibrancy of a parent-child relationship.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Katie Arnold is a gifted athlete and equally talented writer. In \u003ci\u003eRunning Home\u003c\/i\u003e she speaks candidly about her relationship with her father and a family dynamic that verged on dysfunctional, yet was also empowering. Her story drew me in from the first line and I couldn’t stop turning the pages. A must-read for anyone looking for a deeper glimpse into the mindset of a fearless individual.”\u003cb\u003e—Dean Karnazes, ultramarathoner and author of \u003ci\u003eUltramarathon Man\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[\u003ci\u003eRunning Home\u003c\/i\u003e] invites comparisons with Cheryl Strayed’s Wild. . . . Gorgeous.”\u003cb\u003e—Anna Leahy, \u003ci\u003eLitHub\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Profound on every page . . . What Elizabeth Gilbert has done for travel, Katie Arnold has done here for running. I was breathless by the end, murmuring thanks. \u003ci\u003eRunning Home \u003c\/i\u003eis an instant classic, one that will be read for years to come.”\u003cb\u003e—Michael Paterniti, author of \u003ci\u003eLove and Other Ways of Dying\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eRunning Home\u003c\/i\u003e is a lovely, big-hearted, and inspiring memoir that looks life’s challenges right in the eye. Katie Arnold writes about the curveballs and heartbreaks—as well as the joys—with a pure emotional courage that matches her physical feats on the ultramarathon trails. This is a book with soul.”\u003cb\u003e—Susan Casey, author of \u003ci\u003eVoices in the Ocean\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Wave\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eKatie Arnold is the author of \u003ci\u003eRunning Home\u003c\/i\u003e and a contributing editor at \u003ci\u003eOutside Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e. A Zen practitioner and elite ultrarunner, Katie teaches writing workshops exploring the link between movement and creativity. Her work has been featured in \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eMen’s Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eESPN Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eMarie Claire\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eRunner’s World\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eElle\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eSunset\u003c\/i\u003e, as well as on \u003ci\u003eNPR Weekend Edition Sunday\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Upaya Zen Center Podcast\u003c\/i\u003e. Katie lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico, with her husband, Steve Barrett, their two daughters, and two dogs.INTRODUCTION\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn a cold, snowy December evening just after Christmas in 2018,\u003cbr\u003eI drove half a mile from my house to a Zen Buddhist temple at the foot\u003cbr\u003eof a small mountain in Santa Fe. It was not long past sunset, but the\u003cbr\u003edirt road was dark, and the only light was my headlights, two bright\u003cbr\u003econes illuminating the flashing blizzard and the narrow, quickly-filling\u003cbr\u003etracks of a car that had traveled the road just ahead of me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was going to give a talk about running and Zen. I was so nervous\u003cbr\u003eI felt like throwing up. Also, I was strangely calm. It was the\u003cbr\u003edarkest night in the darkest month of year and the snow fell softly\u003cbr\u003eand with great determination and steadiness. The effect was transfixing,\u003cbr\u003eas though I was riding a night train to adventure in deepest,\u003cbr\u003efarthest Siberia. Something mysterious lay ahead. I was going to\u003cbr\u003ediscover what it was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt first, giving a talk had seemed like a wonderful idea. I’d\u003cbr\u003elearned about Zen through running and about running through\u003cbr\u003eZen and about life through both, and I hoped I might have something\u003cbr\u003eto offer that could be of use to someone somewhere, fumbling\u003cbr\u003ethrough the dark mysteries of their own life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs the date approached, however, I began to worry. I’m not\u003cbr\u003eexactly a walking advertisement for Zen. I wear bright colors, and\u003cbr\u003eI move fast. I can run thirty miles, but when I meditate, the longest\u003cbr\u003eI seem to manage is fifteen minutes, twenty-five if I’m feeling very\u003cbr\u003estrong. What did I know about sitting! Running was my practice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI realized that I would have to say something that made sense\u003cbr\u003eand contributed to the greater good, in front of a room full of\u003cbr\u003epeople who had probably been studying Zen for far longer than\u003cbr\u003eI, and much more dutifully, and I fell into a mild panic. I’d been\u003cbr\u003eabsorbing the ideas of Zen and Buddhism by osmosis for a decade,\u003cbr\u003ebut suddenly everything I thought I understood was slipping like\u003cbr\u003eseaweed through my grasp. I needed to get a handle on the basics. I\u003cbr\u003eneeded an explanation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI went to see my friend Natalie. She’d been practicing Zen for\u003cbr\u003emore than thirty years. She would know. “What is Zen?” I asked\u003cbr\u003eher desperately.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen Natalie and I met almost a decade earlier, we hiked\u003cbr\u003eup the mountain above the Zen center every week. It was winter,\u003cbr\u003eand some mornings the thermometer barely edged above twenty\u003cbr\u003edegrees. The trail was snowy and slick with ice in the shady\u003cbr\u003epatches. My father had just died, and my grief tricked me into\u003cbr\u003ebelieving I was dying, too. I carried my five-month-old daughter,\u003cbr\u003eMaisy, in a pack on my chest. Walking up the mountain with\u003cbr\u003eNatalie was an act of survival: it meant I was still alive, that\u003cbr\u003emaybe I wouldn’t die that day, or the next. On the most frigid of\u003cbr\u003emornings, the landline in our kitchen would ring during breakfast\u003cbr\u003eand I knew even before answering that it was Natalie, calling\u003cbr\u003eto ask, “Should we go?” And I always said yes. Whatever the\u003cbr\u003eweather, we went.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNatalie was in her late sixties with clipped, gray-black hair and\u003cbr\u003ea blunt manner that belied her soft heart. A prolific and beloved\u003cbr\u003eauthor, she was most famous for \u003ci\u003eWriting Down the Bones\u003c\/i\u003e, which\u003cbr\u003eshe’d penned in a three-month frenzy in Santa Fe in 1986, after\u003cbr\u003emore than a decade practicing meditation and writing. Wisdom\u003cbr\u003eseemed to ooze out of her like a direct transmission from the sages,\u003cbr\u003ebut she wasn’t the usual blissed-out Buddha-type. She practically\u003cbr\u003erattled with energy and laughter and often joked that I was her only\u003cbr\u003efriend who could match her zeal for life. Natalie became my unofficial\u003cbr\u003ementor in writing and Zen, and in exchange, I taught her how\u003cbr\u003eto go up mountains in the dead of winter when neither of us felt like\u003cbr\u003eit. This, we joked, was my version of Zen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStill, I should have known better than to ask Natalie for a definition.\u003cbr\u003eThere’s rarely a straight answer in Zen, and also every answer,\u003cbr\u003ein its own weird way, is a straight answer. Natalie tilted her head\u003cbr\u003eand was silent for a long moment, considering her response. “Wear\u003cbr\u003eblack clothes to the Zendo,” she said finally. “And loose. Baggy.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe night of the Dharma talk, I dressed carefully in wide-legged,\u003cbr\u003edark-blue pants and a navy turtleneck sweater. I put on my warmest\u003cbr\u003ewool socks and winter boots. The snow had been falling all afternoon,\u003cbr\u003epiling up on the streets. Natalie phoned me, worried about\u003cbr\u003edriving. “We’ll make it,” I said confidently, secretly hoping no one\u003cbr\u003eelse would.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Zen center was nearly as dark as the road had been, lit by\u003cbr\u003elow lights along the perimeter, beautiful and peaceful. Winter boots\u003cbr\u003ewere lined up neatly under a bench outside the door. Rosy-cheeked\u003cbr\u003epeople in dark clothes sat on cushions on the floor, heads bowed\u003cbr\u003ein somber preparation for the meditation that would precede my\u003cbr\u003etalk. I sat on my cushion and tried to regulate my breathing and\u003cbr\u003ethought about the words I’d written and printed out like a speech,\u003cbr\u003enow crumpled into a useless ball in my pocket.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’ll make it,” I whispered to myself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor the first time in my life, I found myself wishing that the\u003cbr\u003emeditation period would never end, that I would not have to get\u003cbr\u003eup and walk to the front of the room and try to remember what I’d\u003cbr\u003ecome to say, what it was that I’d learned, and attempt to express it\u003cbr\u003ein words.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo years earlier, I’d been in a terrible accident on a river in Idaho.\u003cbr\u003eI fell from a raft and was so badly injured I was told I should never\u003cbr\u003erun again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI didn’t listen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI knew a little about brokenness. After my father died, I’d used\u003cbr\u003emy body to heal my mind, running long distances through the wilderness.\u003cbr\u003eNow I would have to use my mind to heal my body.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDuring my long recovery, Natalie gave me copy of the book\u003ci\u003e Zen\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eMind, Beginner’s Mind\u003c\/i\u003e, by the late Japanese Zen master Shunryu\u003cbr\u003eSuzuki. I’d had surgery and was unable to walk for months. I felt\u003cbr\u003eas though I’d been dismantled, unmoored from my usual ways of\u003cbr\u003emoving through the world, like a stranger in my own skin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s a classic, but you might not understand it,” Natalie warned\u003cbr\u003eme. I didn’t take it personally. Zen, by definition, is beyond definition,\u003cbr\u003esometimes even description. As soon as I started reading,\u003cbr\u003ethough, I understood everything. Not with my brain but in my\u003cbr\u003ebody. I understood \u003ci\u003eZen Mind\u003c\/i\u003e because I understood running.\u003cbr\u003eI’d always been a runner. I ran through the woods when I was\u003cbr\u003ea girl, making up stories in my head. In my twenties, I ran through\u003cbr\u003ethe sadness of breakups; in my thirties, I ran to write, and to find my\u003cbr\u003efeet beneath me in the deranged Tilt-a-whirl of new motherhood. I\u003cbr\u003eran through the grief-fog of my father’s death and the anxiety that\u003cbr\u003enearly paralyzed me. I won ultramarathons (any race longer than\u003cbr\u003e26.2 miles), and once I ran so hard I broke my own bone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRunning threaded through my whole life, but it was still only\u003cbr\u003epart of my life. In between the exhilarating highs were all the\u003cbr\u003eregular moments—gorgeous, ordinary moments, gorgeous often\u003cbr\u003ebecause they were so ordinary: wooden pins dangling on a clothesline,\u003cbr\u003ethe morning sun slanting across a chipped picket fence, my\u003cbr\u003eeight-year-old meticulously buttering her toast, ravens circling\u003cbr\u003eabove a bald summit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSuzuki Roshi described these bursts of understanding, these\u003cbr\u003emomentary awakenings, as “flashings in the vast phenomenal\u003cbr\u003eworld.” They’re happening all around us, all the time—while we’re\u003cbr\u003eeating an ice cream cone or riding our bike or sitting broken beside\u003cbr\u003ea river—but we’re usually too distracted to notice. We don’t have\u003cbr\u003eto be religious or spiritual or know how to meditate to experience\u003cbr\u003ethese moments. We just have to pay attention and live wholeheartedly\u003cbr\u003ewith what Suzuki Roshi called the “full quality of our being.”\u003cbr\u003eWhen we do, we see the world and ourselves with sudden, brilliant\u003cbr\u003eclarity: we are part of everything, and everything is part of us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eZen Mind, Beginner’s Mind\u003c\/i\u003e became my companion through my\u003cbr\u003elong recovery. It was disguised as a manual on meditation, but I felt\u003cbr\u003eas though I’d stumbled upon a set of secret instructions on how to\u003cbr\u003elive. “Each one of us must make his own true way, and when we do\u003cbr\u003ethat, that way will express the universal way,” Suzuki Roshi wrote.\u003cbr\u003eIt didn’t matter if it was skydiving or capoeira, writing, running, or\u003cbr\u003eZen. “When you understand one thing through and through, you\u003cbr\u003eunderstand everything.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe accident had upended everything and made me a beginner\u003cbr\u003eall over again. It was unclear if my body or my marriage would\u003cbr\u003ecome through intact, or if I would ever run again. If I did, I would\u003cbr\u003enever run the same as I once had, just as I would never be the same.\u003cbr\u003eEven then, part of me understood that this was a good thing,\u003cbr\u003emaybe the very best thing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the temple bell chimed, I got up and walked slowly to a metal\u003cbr\u003echair in the front of the room. My talk was called “the Zen of Running,”\u003cbr\u003ebut to talk about running, I would have to talk about the\u003cbr\u003eriver that broke me and the mountains that healed me.\u003cbr\u003eI would have to talk about endings and beginnings, and how\u003cbr\u003ewhen you’re in the middle, it’s almost impossible to tell the two\u003cbr\u003eapart. Falling from the boat felt like a hard stop, a boulder rolled\u003cbr\u003einto the middle of a long tunnel, impassable. It was only after I\u003cbr\u003ehealed that I saw my injury for what it was—a beginning wrapped\u003cbr\u003earound countless other beginnings. It was the start of something\u003cbr\u003edeeper, a spiritual practice, my own kind of wild Zen, an experiment\u003cbr\u003ein how to live and how to wake up to the brief flashings. They\u003cbr\u003ewere so beautiful they took your breath away, and they were so easy\u003cbr\u003eto miss! I didn’t want to miss them anymore.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLifting my gaze, I looked at the faces before me. Their expressions\u003cbr\u003ewere expectant but open, their bodies still but alert. They\u003cbr\u003ehad come to receive something. All I had to do was offer it. Yet I\u003cbr\u003ecouldn’t tell them how to live, I could only tell them how I lived. I\u003cbr\u003eremembered something a person had once said to me. “You could\u003cbr\u003eshare all your secrets and still not give everything away.” I did not\u003cbr\u003eknow him well, and would not know him for long, but I understood\u003cbr\u003ewhat he meant. We each have our own true way. We can imitate or\u003cbr\u003ebe inspired, but we can only really ever be ourselves.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis is not a story about skydiving. Or capoeira. Of course you\u003cbr\u003eknow that by now. It’s not even really about running or Zen—nor\u003cbr\u003emarriage nor motherhood. And it’s a book about all those things. I\u003cbr\u003ecan’t give you the six simple steps to enlightenment or the top ten\u003cbr\u003etips to running faster. But I gladly offer you my secrets—and these\u003cbr\u003ebrief flashings in the phenomenal world that crack open the sky and\u003cbr\u003emake us blink with wonder. The answers, if there are any, are yours\u003cbr\u003eto discover.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e1. LESSONS IN FALLING\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe first rule of rivers is the first rule of Zen. Don’t fight the current.\u003cbr\u003eGo with it, not against it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI know this. In the decades I’ve spent on rivers, I’ve learned this,\u003cbr\u003esometimes the hard way. Often the hard way. And yet here I am, at\u003cbr\u003ethe edge of a wild river in the remotest part of Idaho, at war with\u003cbr\u003ethe water.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s June 23, 2016, and my husband, Steve, and I are at the start\u003cbr\u003eof a six-day whitewater rafting trip down the Middle Fork of the\u003cbr\u003eSalmon, through a canyon so rugged it’s called the River of No\u003cbr\u003eReturn. The Middle Fork is one of the most premier wilderness\u003cbr\u003etrips in the country, famed for its clear, free-flowing river, troutrich\u003cbr\u003ewaters, natural hot springs, thrilling whitewater—one hundred\u003cbr\u003emajor rapids in one hundred miles—and a remoteness that’s\u003cbr\u003eunrivaled in the Lower Forty-Eight. The only way in or out is by\u003cbr\u003eboat, foot, horseback, or—in case of emergency—bush plane. Rafting\u003cbr\u003eaccess is strictly regulated to protect the wilderness. Getting a\u003cbr\u003epermit to float the Middle Fork without a guide, as our friends did,\u003cbr\u003eisn’t like winning the lottery. It is winning the lottery.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe river is so loud we can hear it before we see it, a thunderous\u003cbr\u003erush raging out of the high country. It’s almost more frightening\u003cbr\u003ethis way, like a cartoon waterfall lurking just around the next bend\u003cbr\u003ewhile you sail forth in a flimsy canoe, screaming “back paddle!”\u003cbr\u003epointlessly over the din, only you can’t because you’ve driven across\u003cbr\u003efour states in a day and crashed in a sleeping bag in your friend’s\u003cbr\u003ebackyard, and now you are here at the River of No Return, pretending\u003cbr\u003eto be brave.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI dip my toes in the frigid water and try to take a deep breath.\u003cbr\u003eSteve and I have given this trip to each other as an early tenth wedding\u003cbr\u003eanniversary present. We’ve been running rivers together even\u003cbr\u003elonger than we’ve been married, but this is by far the most technical\u003cbr\u003ewhitewater we’ve ever rafted without a guide. I watch the rapids\u003cbr\u003eroiling over themselves, worry rising like a lump in my throat.\u003cbr\u003eThen I remind myself that I’m with Steve, and that we do these\u003cbr\u003ethings because we love them and because being afraid is rarely a\u003cbr\u003egood enough reason not to go. Fear belongs to a category of emotions\u003cbr\u003ewe try not to talk about. If our marriage has an unofficial mission\u003cbr\u003estatement, this is it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRafts rigged, our group gathers on the beach to launch; then it’s\u003cbr\u003eone-two-three, and we’re pushing off, up to our ankles in the fifty-degree\u003cbr\u003ewater, shoving ourselves out of the eddy. The current catches\u003cbr\u003eour inflatable raft with swift assurance, tugging us into the river’s flow.\u003cbr\u003eThe Middle Fork of the Salmon is a pool-and-drop river, characterized\u003cbr\u003eby deep, calm water above each foaming rapid and another\u003cbr\u003epool below it, the sequence repeating itself all the way downstream.\u003cbr\u003eSteve told me this at least a hundred times over the past few months,\u003cbr\u003eattempting to comfort me with the fact that if things go sideways in\u003cbr\u003ea hairball cataract, at least we’ll have mellow water in which to collect\u003cbr\u003eourselves and our gear. But this was not reassuring to me, not in\u003cbr\u003ethe least. I knew what it really meant—that the rapids are huge and\u003cbr\u003ehorrifying and can wreck you for real.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere’s no time to think about any of this now, though, because\u003cbr\u003ethere’s not a single pool in sight, not this far up on the river’s reach,\u003cbr\u003eso close to its headwaters in the Sawtooth Mountains. The current\u003cbr\u003eis unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, a choppy cascade of\u003cbr\u003ebony whitewater pouring swiftly through rocks. The water itself\u003cbr\u003eis a strange mix of green-black-clear, darkened by the forest shadows,\u003cbr\u003espilling over itself like frothy soda foaming out of a shaken-up\u003cbr\u003ebottle. From where I sit in the bow, with Steve behind me on the\u003cbr\u003eoars, the rapids don’t appear especially big, just constant—an unrelenting\u003cbr\u003ecrash of whitewater disappearing around the first bend,\u003cbr\u003enarrow and fast.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI scan the river ahead for obstacles. There are too many to count,\u003cbr\u003etoo many to call out, too much we don’t know. We don’t know that\u003cbr\u003earound the next bend is a pyramidal rock jabbing its pointed crown\u003cbr\u003eup from the middle of the river. We don’t know that the rest of our\u003cbr\u003egroup, now out of sight, has taken the left channel. We don’t know\u003cbr\u003ethat the current will suck us in to the rock like iron shavings onto\u003cbr\u003ea magnet or that Steve will think he has one more second than he\u003cbr\u003edoes to take one more oar stroke to pull us off.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt all happens so fast. Maybe I say, “Do you see that rock?” with a\u003cbr\u003esharpness to my voice that Steve might take to imply distrust. Maybe\u003cbr\u003eSteve answers, “Yes,” in a hard, tight way that indicates we are coming\u003cbr\u003eupon it faster than he thought, or it upon us. Maybe I don’t have time\u003cbr\u003eto say anything. I sense the tension in the way Steve is rowing, the\u003cbr\u003eway we seem to be resisting the river, pulling hard against it.\u003cbr\u003eThen we’re on it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInstead of bouncing off the rock, as inflatable rafts often do,\u003cbr\u003eours crumples against its face, blue rubber folding in on itself. We\u003cbr\u003eare not spinning free, we are not loosed back into the rapid. We are\u003cbr\u003esideways against the rock. I’m on the high side, looking down at\u003cbr\u003eSteve, who yells, “High Side!” and clambers up beside me, hoping\u003cbr\u003ethe shift in weight will release our boat from the swirl of current\u003cbr\u003epinning us to the rock. For an instant, we hang there, perpendicular\u003cbr\u003eto the river at an angle so wrong I will do whatever I can to fight\u003cbr\u003eit. I climb higher on the rubber thwart. The angle is changing, but\u003cbr\u003enot in our favor. Now it’s acute, tightening, the high side of the raft\u003cbr\u003enarrowing its gap with the water. Slowly, in what feels like quarter time,\u003cbr\u003ewe are falling over, falling in.","brand":"Parallax Press","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304436256997,"sku":"NP9781952692697","price":18.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781952692697.jpg?v=1767723078","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/brief-flashings-in-the-phenomenal-world-isbn-9781952692697","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}