Trapped Beneath a Tree

On a 400 mile kayak trip to the Canadian border I got caught in a lightning storm. Hid for hours beneath the roots of an eroded tree. It came on the second afternoon of a trek that’d take up to three weeks.

My first day I made big miles beneath sun then slept above mud. The year before I paddled this same spot so had a goal in mind – a rock dam to camp at. On that journey I arrived at dusk. Had a perfect night as day wound to dark. As I listened to water crash across the rocks I’d portage come morning.

Now it was the next year and I axed my way north. Thousands of paddle strokes each day. Blue fins in brown water. A widening river defined by wild curves. By dead-trees that slid themselves in. By a muddy bottom that made for murky water. This a river canopied by hot sun and stars. Enclosed by banks, by woods, by fields of wheat on prairie. I looked at my mileage and thought of the favorable wind. Deemed the dam doable.

I didn’t know the day’s forecast. Started in skies of blue. By late afternoon black and degraded shades took hold but only in distance. They crawled closer tailed by mumbles of thunder. I came up in the rural Midwest so knew its storms were nothing to fuck with. But I dreamed of the dam so paddled on. 

Lightning strikes lit far-off sky but soon struck closer. Thunder cracked louder. Lasted longer. Erupted in less and less time after each bolt. Rain started slow then poured. Wind hit water then me. It all went from a little to a lot in mere minutes.

I scanned for a spot to pull off. The banks were tall walls of dirt and weeds. A tough scramble even on a dry day. Plus I had an overloaded kayak to tug above the lip.

I hugged the shore on one side. Couldn’t cross the channel as wind whipped water into whitecaps. Sprays splashed my cockpit. Soaked my underside. I paddled fast as I could. No panic but starting to feel fucked.

This was nowhere country. One in which I often failed to spot a single person all day. That’s what I liked about it. The solitude. A chance to be accompanied by nothing but nature. Still, I soon passed a farmyard with a pullout. It was deep muck but would get me off river. 

I filled with an odd anxiety at the thought of stopping in the yard of one with no neighbors. Got in my head about how it’d look if they found a muddy man in their barn. I didn’t yet know how dangerous the storm would be. Knew it was bad but felt I’d find an escape. So I cinched up my life vest and paddled on. Made it but a couple hundred yards before my options were to capsize or find a spot ashore.

Waves smashed then threw my kayak. It took all my strength to force its nose straight. To not topple. Wind and thunder roared from the pages of Revelation. A white strike hit just across the channel. Thunder screamed with no break between. 

Ahead I spotted an awning beneath exposed tree roots a few feet off the water. They anchored a couple old cottonwoods towering from the top of the riverbank. These trees’ foundations once sprouted deep into dirt. Dirt whose layers then faded over years from erosion. Left roots in the open. Formed a roof for me to take refuge.

I rammed ashore then hopped off. Jammed my kayak in orgies of mud inches over river. It swallowed me to my knees. I pulled each barefoot leg free then scrambled five feet up a slanted but steep bank. There I landed on the only feasible spot — one the size of a dinner plate. Above it the exposed base of these trees. Their circumference enough to ward off the worst of the elements. 

My dinner plate angled down so I clutched multi-foot muddy roots to hold in place. I clenched two hands to the same source, each above the other in fists. There wasn’t space to sit so crouched. Feet slipped in slick. Dozens of roots dangled in my face. I was trapped beneath a tree.

I spotted a dead trunk tipped in the water upstream. Thought if I fell I could swim to that then hang on for life. I scanned land above to see if I might escape to the top bank. It’d draw me from my kayak but keep me from slipping to a roiling river. All it held was stripped and slick vertical walls of mud. At least fifteen feet and unclimbable. Any attempt would rip me into the river. The woods and grass were so close and yet I couldn’t reach them.

The trees I was trapped beneath abutted the natural low spot of the land above. Runoff from the top torrented straight into my cockpit. I didn’t know it but I’d parked my kayak across a spot past storms carved to pieces.

As it got hammered my gear floated away. Ziplocs of food. A treasured cap from my long-dead grandpa. My tent started to bob and break free. The kayak followed suit. If it disappeared my trip would be dead. A long-sought dream snuffed in its crib.

I slid down to tip the kayak away from the worst of this blast. Dug hands through piles of mud and water filling its pit. I felt for items then jammed them deep as I could. The waterfall above hit me hard. Soaked all I wore. It rolled through my eyes, limiting vision. I yanked my boat to free it but it sat filled with hundreds of pounds of water. So I tipped it askew. The torrent pounded its hull but no longer collected inside.

I clawed my way back to the roots as the storm worsened. Forces of nature cemented together to terrify me. I’d never seen anything so fucked. Cracks of lightning cast my world in white. Deep throated rolls of thunder followed each flash. Wind and rain shelled with force. And now a new element tortured me: mud bombs.

Dirt that’d been on the roots peeled off in cold slabs the size of gorilla fists. Smashed brain and back in an onslaught. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. The roots were so wet I couldn’t keep hold. Grabbed them over and over as hands slid free. As mud smacked me.

I couldn’t adjust my feet despite the pain of cementing still in one position. I feared any move might tumble me to the river to drown. In time I wiped enough mud off the roots to hang better. Scraped the slick off my soles then planted in place.

With care I undid my life vest. Peeled free a sweater pasted to skin. Did the same with shorts. Placed them behind me then redid the vest. I now sat naked minus this. Fear abated. Misery filled its stead.

Though it was summer I shivered cold. I pissed on my muddy leg for warmth. It felt like 1/100th of a hot shower. I begged for the heats of hell. I now only needed one hand to cleave to roots. With the other I jacked myself off. Came a hot splash across my calf. This release into peace a panacea. I was tapped out on piss so in time jizzed again. The heat a relief.

This went on for most of two hours. Thunder. Lightning. Rain. Me clinging for life as my kayak became more and more unmoored. Dozens of wet and muddy roots clanged my face. Dropped slugs of mud from above. Left me low. Then the storm and its squalls faded. Drifted off to fuck with another.

First it lost its lightning. Then thunder. Then wind. Its rain turned to drizzle then drops. I’d hung on. Saw it through. I redressed and assessed. Had lost less of my gear than feared. I could carry on. Well thank fuck for that.

I consulted my map. Picked out the spot beneath a county bridge for camp. Paddled five miles in a shiver. Worked up a fire then slumped beside it. Dried clothes and dreamed of another day. It was still more than 300 miles to Canada. I was determined to make it. And I did.

Epilogue: A few years later I was on the same trip. I knew I was coming up to the roots and farmyard before it. My phone malfunctioned so decided to stop in and ask to use theirs. I walked up. Dipped beneath an electric fence kenneling sheep. Their owners were outside. A retired couple named John and Sandy.

I had on my life vest and explained the situation. They let me use their phone. Offered beer and whiskey. We sat in the grass with drinks for an hour. They told me of the time a bank robber with a canoe came into their yard for water. I told them of my ordeal just past their place. The storm that wanted to swallow me. I finished up my beer. Thanked them then bid adieu.

In minutes I paddled to the spot. It lay cluttered with logs from a flood but the trees and their roots were still there. Cleaned bare. Erosion further washed the bank away. It all looked banal but this spot was my savior. I snapped a pic and reflected. Paddled on to the rock dam. 

The grass there flooded days before so I tromped its boot-hungry mud. Up high I discovered a dry shelf just big enough for my six-foot frame. It sat askew but would do. There I cowboy camped under stars above the dam. Sipped a gifted beer. Sailed to sleep in the din of an infinite roar.

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