A Silence on the River
I was in a group of about fifty people preparing to take our rafts
into the water. There was a guide, a park ranger, who was Native
American. His name was Vincent. We mostly didn’t know each other.
There was a lot of nervous energy in the group. People were chatting,
checking their gear, eating. Some were expecting Vincent to speak
and get the trip going. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry. He sat
quietly as the group bustled about. Finally, as the group energy
settled, he began to talk. I don’t remember him going through a
long list of dos and don’ts about rafting, though I’m sure he shared
with us the essentials
of what we needed to know. What I remember instead was that he shared
a bit about himself and why he worked as a ranger. He talked about
the land we were on, and how his ancestors once lived here. He mentioned
that there were times when he sat by himself that he could feel the
presence of his ancestors still, and hear their voices in the wind
and on the river.
When he finished, there was a noticeable calm that
came over the group, and we began moving into the water, almost silently.
It was really quite beautiful, as if we too might hear something
in the sounds of the water and the wind.
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