Travel essay: Growing up in the rapids of British Columbia river

By Noma Edwards
Special to The Seattle Times

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Editor's note: The Travel Essay is written by our readers about a travel adventure or insight.

"Take the knife! Take the knife!" My mother was screaming.

I reached across the boat and grabbed the handle of the hunting knife with my wet fingers, my bulky Mae West life jacket nearly setting me off balance.

"If Uncle Roy's boat starts to turn over you've got to cut him loose, do you understand? If you don't we could all go under. I've got to hold onto your brother." With those words my mother shot me her most serious look, and I shuddered.

I looked back over my shoulder and waved to my uncle as he sat alone in his small boat, the tow-line taut between us. His outboard motor had died and, after much debate, it was decided we would tow him through the narrow inlet of rapids from British Columbia's Lake Quesnel to the Quesnel River.

The rushing water swirled and crashed against the rocks. The two outboard motors on our boat were roaring at full throttle, and my dad was at the wheel. He looked anxious, but in control. My mother, on the other hand, was not in control, and seemed near hysteria. I desperately wanted out of that boat, but there was no escape. I was only 10 years old, and held a knife in my hands that could mean life or death.

Though warned the week before by the residents of the small town of Likely, B.C., our take-off point, that our destination meant navigating up the river through a good quarter mile of rapids, my dad was confident of our safety. After all, he'd spent a small fortune on equipment and had traveled hundreds of miles to catch the record trout he'd heard so much about. We'd driven our 1955 Ford station wagon all the way from Seattle, towing our 16-foot boat on a trailer that "cost more than the car," according to my mother. Turn back? Never!

My mother, on the other hand, waged a losing war. She had overheard several spectators on the docks at Likely discussing the danger "up the river in the falls," and how three men had died there the week before. No amount of pleading would change my dad's mind. If he was willing to take the risk, we should be willing as well. So off we went.

The trip up the rapids had been pretty exciting and, though my uncle's smaller boat had struggled, everyone made it safely to the lake. The return trip a week later was not to be so easy.

Up, down and almost sideways, our boat seemed out of control, bouncing wildly between the boulders. Dad's eyes never left the rapids as he struggled to maintain momentum. My head snapped around and water splashed over us. Suddenly we lurched forward and I fell backward, feet flying in the air and the knife slipping from my hand. My mother screamed.
 
At first I thought I'd been tossed into the river, but I soon realized that I was just in the bottom of our boat, which now held several inches of water. I scrambled up, searching for the knife and, at the same time, searching for my uncle. I had lost my bearings and for several seconds I couldn't see him. My heart was pounding so loudly that my ears hurt. Then I saw him, gripping the sides of his little boat. My fear turned to overwhelming relief. He was alive. I snatched up the knife and sat ready to slash the rope if either of us tipped.

After several more minutes of tossing us around like pinballs, the rapids spewed us out onto the calm of the lower Quesnel. Dad shut down one of the motors and put the second one into idle so we could relish the quiet.

My uncle waved, and soon we were on our way home. I handed my mother the hunting knife, handle first, just as I had always been taught. Her face was wet, either from the splashing river or maybe from tears, I never knew which.

I heaved a great sigh of relief, and realized that for the first time I had been given an adult responsibility, and I had not failed. It was a level of trust that I relished, and never forgot.

(Noma Edwards lives in Fall City.)

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