Every year in early spring, Smash Rock stands between me and inner peace.
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As my rendezvous with Smash Rock approaches, I concentrate on little else. My sole mission hardens into a successful negotiation past this looming Lorelei. Smash Rock could care less, having stood like a giant troll at the gate for a good forty million years, as a swift current barrels under its jaw.
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The initial sensation is auditory. Even before you see it, you can hear the force of the water colliding with the giant boulder, easily the size of a Lincoln Navigator.
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I tilt my bow toward Smash Rock. The river gulps my canoe toward its face, until at the last moment, I dig furiously to veer left, brushing my stern against the rock as I pass. It’s a signature of sorts left upon the rock’s face, a guest book of canoe scrapes, each canoe leaving its paint: silver, green, red.
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The water level determines the degree of difficulty. High water offers a glide over the rocks. Low water lets canoes carom through them. Middle water, most dangerous, turns the rocks into fists that lurk just beneath the rolling surface, ready to snag a keel and turn the boat sideways into the torrent. A Tilt-A-Whirl is a gentler ride.
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I’ve never succumbed to Smash Rock: safe passage every time I’ve tried. Credit concentration. On the other hand, I’ve dumped canoes in easier waters. Those surprise dumps happen during lapses best described as rectal-cranial inversions.
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It’s a metaphor for life, maybe, or travel. You prepare for the big event, and the little blip surprises you. That’s what makes the journey interesting.
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Or as Mary Chapin Carpenter likes to quote Mark Knopfler, “Sometimes you’re the windshield. Sometimes you’re the bug.”
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