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Two in a Canoe

A long dry day on the river brought this couple closer

by Clark E. Tanner

It sounded like a good plan—a mini-vacation for my wife, Lynnea and me—before facing a summer with six children under age thirteen. Destination? The Brazos River in Texas.

Lynnea had canoed the rivers of New York state as a child and wished to share that rich experience with me now in Texas. We called the canoe rental place to ensure that one would be available mid-week, and then we carefully composed a list of every conceivable comfort needed while on the river. Finally, we farmed out the kids, put extra food down for the dog/cat/ guinea pig … and we were off.

From the moment we left our drive-way the vacation spirit prevailed. Even fighting rush-hour traffic could not disturb my sense of freedom or my anticipation of uninterrupted time with my wife. We laughed, sang songs, and joked about the sign we should have made for our car window, saying, "I'm on vacation; where are you going?"

When we reached Castle Canoe Rentals, the temperature had climbed to 89 degrees. The humidity made it feel like 99, and by noon the actual temperature would be close to that. But absolutely nothing could destroy our festive mood. We paid our money, watched the young man hook up a canoe-laden trailer to his Blazer, and listened as he told us to watch for a pink board hanging from a tree, which marked our pickup spot. Then we climbed into his truck with our cooler, towels, and an overnight case containing suntan lotion, a snake bite kit, allergy medicine, and a pocket knife. He took us down to the launch on the Brazos, and as he drove away, I thought, For the next six hours, nothing but the tranquility of the river, the coveted company of Lynnea, and our picnic lunch of sandwiches and Dr. Pepper. After helping each other apply #15 sunblock, we shoved off and floated to adventure.

This is it?
The first three-and-a-half hours of our trip passed uneventfully. We discussed whatever came to mind, teased each other when our out-of-sync paddling turned our canoe around backwards, and tested how well we could keep our balance—and the canoe's—while passing Dr. Pepper cans back and forth.

Cruising along, we suddenly looked up and saw a pink board hanging from a tree. Since we had deliberately left our watches behind, we estimated it to be about 1:30 in the afternoon (we had started at 10 a.m.). Time couldn't have gone by that quickly! We assumed this was the pickup spot for the four-hour trip rather than the six-hour trip, and were a little perturbed at the rental guy for not telling us to look for the second pink board hanging from a tree. The possibility that we might have reached the six-hour spot early was considered, but if that were true, we had been ripped off. After ten minutes of deliberation, we agreed that we must be at the four-hour spot and continued downstream.

Two more enjoyable hours of paddling later, there was still no pink board. We paddled on.

By this time, the sandwiches were gone, the grapes were few, empty Dr. Pepper cans littered the bottom of the canoe, and I was working on the ice. The sun, beating down on my forehead, had given me a banger of a headache, I was thirsty, and my arms and shoulders were screaming with pain. Lynnea clearly shared my discomfort. We stopped having fun and stopped looking for that stupid pink sign.

It had been about an hour since we had seen any sign of civilization—a house so far up on top of a cliff that the goats in the yard looked like tabby cats. I had grown so weary that either walking and towing the canoe, or sitting and paddling seemed equally impossible. As we drifted around another bend—brains baked, cottonmouthed, and out of ice, strength, and patience—Lynnea pointed to a small house at the top of some cliffs to our right, and declared, "I'm going there!"

We dragged the canoe to a ledge eight feet from shore, picked up our little bag of emergency items and started up a deer trail that snaked its way up the steep incline.

As the terrain leveled out, we saw a jeep trail that seemed to lead to the cottage we saw from the river. Three hundred yards later that trail ended at a dirt road which led us to the drive-way of the cottage. It was a really long driveway. After ten minutes of trudging along, we spotted the house—and the empty carport—through the trees. I knocked on the front door to no response, and then fought the urge to kick it down. We helped ourselves to a much-needed drink from the garden hose and then collapsed on their patio furniture.

Finding the right path
At one point, I looked up and saw Lynnea crying. The "fearless male" in me took over, and I started listing the reasons why she should "buck-up."

I was cut off in mid-sentence. Through tears, Lynnea informed me that, for her, crying was a way to relieve stress. I retreated to my chair, realizing how well she had handled the whole ordeal.

After twenty minutes, I peered through the windows, finally spying a clock. It was 8:10 p.m. We had two choices: kick down the door, or start walking.

We opted for the legal choice.

Finally, we reached a gravel road. I knew the direction we took could affect how soon we found help. With no sign anywhere to give me guidance, I prayed silently, "Lord, choose for me. I don't know which way to turn." Without hesitating, I turned left and Lynnea, holding my hand, followed.

Kindness of strangers
By moonlight I saw the white archway—the entrance to a ranch. Over a knoll I spotted the top of a trailer and a window … with light coming from it. Lynnea let out an unforgettable cry of relief when she realized it wasn't a mirage.

A young lady cheerfully welcomed us into the trailer, served us ice water, and let us call long-distance to the canoe place. The much-relieved canoe rental guy got directions to the trailer, which was forty-five minutes away.

That gave us time to relax and get acquainted with our hosts—a couple with an unusual occupation. We had stumbled on a deer ranch that supplied wildlife to areas with dwindling deer populations. Several fawns were being hand-raised inside the trailer until they were strong enough to live outside.

Headlights finally alerted us that our ride had arrived. We thanked our good samaritans as we climbed wearily into the backseat of the Blazer.

I couldn't help but notice the same intersection where I had prayed for directions. We were now headed the other way. There were no signs of civilization—houses, lights, anything at all—until we were within a mile or two of Castle Canoe Rentals. The Lord had guided us all right. Had we not turned left on that gravel road, we would have slept with the armadillos, and by morning the search parties would have been out. I offered silent, heart-felt thanks for that answer to prayer. As it says in Proverbs 16:9, "In his heart a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps."

By midnight, we were resting in a west Texas motel. Although we were too exhausted to care at that point, we would later admit that our adventure on the Brazos actually strengthened our relationship.

That same morning I awoke early and went to the car to see what time it was and perhaps go for a cup of coffee. I sat down, turned the key, saw that it was 7:20 a.m., got out, leaving the keys safely locked in the car.

But that's a whole 'nother story …

A Christian Reader original article.

Copyright © 1998 by the author or Christianity Today International/Today's Christian magazine (formerly Christian Reader).
Click here for reprint information.

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