Canoe race a top finish

Last Sunday morning I found myself sitting in the woods between two huge boulders and thinking about the journey that had brought me there. A wide walking path ran between the rocks at the base. Yet above, they leaned together and formed the resemblance of a roof peak. On this day on White Rock Mountain, the spot served as a little chapel in the woods.

The only detectable breeze was the slight stir of air I felt brush across my face as I leaned toward my keyboard. Not even one of the brown, dry leaves that covered the forest floor about me stirred. I had to concentrate hard to hear anything at all except the tapping of my fingers on my laptop. I stopped and listened longer and recognized the hum of a far off jet engine, and then a nearby bird's "chip, chip, chip," followed by a faint call of a woodpecker floating from the depths of the forest.

Although it meant rising early on the first morning that time sprang forward, it was worth the cost of a little extra sleep to get to spend part of a spring-like morning sitting there. We had hurried to get off by day break, only to find we arrived hours early. Oh well, better to be early for a race, rather than late. And, better for me to get to sit and ponder in this quiet, still spot between two boulders for a while. It's not the first time on this journey that started 32 years ago with the arrival of son Zack that I have found myself between a rock and a hard place, I mused.

For a while, time stood still, or so it felt. Then, the silence was broken with a reminder that time has indeed continued its march forward. This quiet encounter with the maker of rocks and trees and birds and dry leaves had come to an end with Earl's call from the truck. It was time to get going.

So off we went down White Rock Mountain and on to Byrd's Landing, a campground on the Mulberry River. This is where the 33rd annual canoe race would start, not with a signal or a shout, but with the loud clang of a gong. It is the first time I had seen a gong on a river bank. This journey with an adventurous son has included plenty of "firsts."

Near the shore where the gong awaited on its stand, eager race participants unloaded canoes, kayaks and even a few paddle boards in preparation. The river bank became a stirring mosaic of color.

Zack had called a few days earlier and asked his dad to be his paddling partner in the race. It was a fitting honor for a dad who had taken his boy on many summer canoe trips that started even before he was big enough to help carry the camping gear.

As race time neared, the boats shoved off into the water and the teams warmed up by paddling upstream and back. I joined the other watchers and cheered from the bank, "Go, Rowe boat!"

Then the gong sounded and the fury of paddling began.

I jumped in the truck and joined a parade of others who headed down the highway to a nearby low-water bridge where, after a short wait, we caught sight of the boaters. I snapped a few pictures and cheered some more for the hunter-green canoe that held the Rowe guys. In the cross hairs of my zoom lens, the faces told me they were working hard. They didn't look up as they swooped under the bridge on which I was standing. I snapped a couple more shots and continued downstream, then hurried back to the truck and took off for Turner Bend. That is where the finish line awaited, looking quite serious and official with a bunting of triangular shaped flags strung high across the river.

I waited there, again with camera in hand, until finally the familiar green canoe rounded the bend and continued quickly down the home stretch and past the finish line. One hour and 27 minutes had passed since the gong had sent them off upriver.

So, did they win? Not in terms of coming in first in the race, but from the perspective of the one who got to watch, listen, ponder, take pictures and spend time with two tired but happy paddlers, the day was a top finish.

Annette Rowe is a freelance writer from rural Gentry and a speech-language pathologist at Siloam Springs High School. She may be reached by email at [email protected] expressed are those of the author.