I should know to stay away from rivers by now. Or away from kayaks on rivers. Something about an eddy turn runs counterintuitive to my feeble brain. Lean this way if you’re going to and that way if you’re going to….No matter. Before I know it, I’m over, flopping like a bear stuck in a honey pot, forgetting everything I said I knew. Once I’m under the river, I ignore all of the rolling instructions that seemed so logical in the pool session days before: “Calmly align your paddle over your boat and press against the water as if….” 

Forget all of that. I stick my head above water and gasp for air. I’m desperate. I’ve been under for all of three seconds. I wriggle my way free and begin the icy swim to shore. 

Despite these lack of skills, I somehow ended up as a leader on a trip down the San Juan River for a group of 5^th and 6^th graders. Rest assured, there were other, more qualified people running this part of the Telluride Mountain School’s orientation. Still, I had to paddle and look like I was having fun doing it. There were rapids to negotiate and at some point, I had to stop. I had to eddy in and eddy out without making a complete ass of myself. 

The trip started off slowly on Class One water. I was placed in a new kayak that everyone promised was “the best beginner kayak”. “You’ll be fine,” they said. And though I knew they were trying to be nice, for that first day, I believed them. I was fine. I even managed to successfully stop and pull onto the banks that first night at camp. Despite this minor victory, I knew there was still harder water ahead. Some rapid everyone kept talking about called 8-foot which in my mind, I kept mishearing as 8-ball. 

Regardless, I was starting to enjoy this trip. There had been something mesmerizing about staring up at those canyon walls all day. My eyes felt drunk on their red color. Those walls, I decided, were the wine of the desert. 

Once on shore, I headed up with a group of kids to explore some ruins. Soon, we found ourselves surrounded by the remnants of a world that was hundreds of years old—shattered cups and bowls, worn bedding grounds, ancient fires. We forgot about everything—hunger, time, fatigue and settled against those rocks, imagining what it had been like to drink from the river below and to drink from the stars above. 

We returned to camp by headlamps to sounds and smells of dinner cooking. Burgers were crackling on the grill, a meal that would be unimaginable on a backpacking trip. River life, I was beginning to see, had some serious pluses. 

But then again, I hadn’t hit the rapids. Those were coming tomorrow, they told us in the evening circle. Even so, I found myself excited to get into my kayak in the morning. Living outside with kids had me seeing them in a whole different light. The kid who was a monster in English class was an angel on the water, coaching everyone through their eddy turns, sharing snacks. The outdoor classroom was a dream. 

The rapids came. I didn’t flip on the first one and felt like a hero. Eight ball arrived, and I did flip, doing what I always do, rising above the water to catch a breath before I do anything else, flailing my arms like an abandoned sailor. Except that something was different. Recovering on shore, I found that the swim didn’t embarrass me as much as it usually does. 

A student approached: “Emily, you flipped.” 

“Yeah,” I said, coughing up a little river water. Fifth graders can be so blunt. 

“But you’re a teacher.”

“Exactly.” 

This was exactly the point. These trips shake loose the weaknesses from everyone, teachers included. Because of this exposure, we return to the classroom and are better people. 

Previously, showing weaknesses felt like colliding with a cactus. But as we left the river the same day, I couldn’t help but feel happy. There was something from my childhood on that river. I had gotten muddy just because. I had lost myself in the canyon’s ruins. I had gotten drunk on its colors. Drifting down the river under a wide open sky reminded me of all that I once was and all that I can still be. 

And so I keep trying to learn how to kayak. Last spring, I even took a class down in Aspen and had a great time. Renewed, I stopped by my friend Molly’s in Carbondale to see if she wanted to kayak. As much as I am East Coast—obsessed with running and being on time (even though I never am), Molly is the Rockies. The girl grew up kayaking, skiing, biking and does it all so humbly and so beautifully that she convinces me every time that I am able to keep up with her. I never am. This wasn’t the first time I was about to be embarrassed in front of Molly. And of course, I flipped and flailed and drank some icy June river water. 

So I should stop, I know. This much is clear. The talent boat moved right on past me with regards to kayaking. Yet, each May, the San Miguel River bumps like a great heart against its banks. From our home in Telluride a few blocks up, I hear this siren call at night and can’t resist it. I want to be a part of it. I jump in it as often as I can, finishing long runs down by its banks, but that’s not enough. It’s too cold to stay in long. During the days, I watch kayakers float by and once again, the explorer rises up in me. I want to get muddy just because and lose myself in the river’s colors. I want to find ancient ruins and stare up at canyon walls. I just can’t stay away from rivers.