“Looks like we’re walking.”
I’m staring at the set, water surging down the black rocks. The trees don’t grow above twenty feet here—it’s too cold, even in summer. The burn rolls through the valleys as a soft breeze passes through the virgin land. Still, it's a punishing world. There’s water around my chest and it's like ice in my bones.
Keeping your feet dry is a sucker’s game here. You sleep in your socks to dry them, just to get them soaked again in the next rapid. For the first few days, I’d pray, “Please God, let me be dry. Just one day.” After the first week, you’re too tired to pray. Through everything though, the soft breeze passes over the land, and we keep our bodies moving through water and time.
“Beach the boat, Isaac.”
There was a burn here. Maybe twenty-five to thirty years ago. The trees still standing are chalk-white pillars of ash and soot, memories of a fire that danced with the trees. You can find your way to water by looking at the ground. The new green will point the way, born out of nothing, the beginning of a new generation. God shows its face to me in this sea of jade resiliency.
In the morning my socks and underwear are still wet. I am born out of the tent, weak and covered in a thin film of sweat. We are making bread. This blessed bread is what keeps me alive. I know that in precisely fifty minutes, I will eat. This bread is my everything today. I take care of her. I rub her shoulders and give her cinnamon and sugar on top. I tenderly ask her, “Are you alright in such a hot fire?” I have an idea. I put my clothes on top of the reflector oven. My lady can cook while I dry the lakes from my underwear and socks.
Finally at peace, I walk away. The soft breezes passes over me. I get it. I will eat bread soon, with sweet jelly and rich butter. I think of my father. He used to read me the Serenity Prayer: “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.” I understand it now. The water will ruin me, but I can dry my clothes tonight. The wind will tear across the open water, but I can cinch my coat. The rain can beat down on our bodies, but I can wait for clear skies tomorrow. I sit on a rock and look out at the water and think about that. I say it to myself while I go back to check on my love. I whisper: “Courage to change the things I can, and wisd—”
I stop in my tracks. There, in the middle of my world, is my underwear, hanging in the fire with the waistband melting into the bread. Everything in my vision blurs. I’m frozen. It’s really something to see because I start to laugh and cry at the same time. Life would be tragic if it weren't so funny, right? And that's when it hits me. I really get it now...
The world just hates me. I get beaten up and soaked and frozen all day so I can have my clothes melt into the only thing I love? The perfect irony of the molten underwear is overwhelming. I’m drenched and sandy, bawling my eyes out and all of the juices pouring out of my face are exploding across the ruined bread because I’m laughing so hard. I feel a hand on my back.
“It’s okay, man.”
More hands rest upon my shoulders as my brothers come around me. I think about the new beginnings after some long forgotten burn. These things we cannot change. But each sapling relies on another to move forward. Through every burning waistband and every misguided prayer, community perseveres, people persevere. And as we stand together in memoriam for a certain blue polyester comrade, for the first time in a long time, I am warm.