WHEN NATURE BENDS, YOU CAN BREAK

The river rushes quick and cold and mineral green here, so clear you can see to the gravely bottom where salmon return each year to lay their eggs and die. The spawning salmon attract hungry bald eagles, which, in turn, lure Gore-Tex tourists eager to witness the rhythms of the wild.

Since this eagle run is only 2 1/2 hours' drive northeast of Seattle, along a reputedly gentle stretch of river, it seemed within reach of recreational paddlers like me and my husband, Tao. One rare winter morning when the sky was clear enough to name stars, we brewed a Thermos of chai, scraped ice off the windshield, strapped our wooden kayaks atop our wheezing van, and headed to the Howard Miller Steelhead Park in Rockport, Skagit County.

That day, I saw the river from three angles.

From Highway 20, it murmured sweetly past snowcapped peaks, over smooth stones and through jade pools.

From my kayak, floating on the surface, the gurgles became roars, boulders leered, silent pools revealed themselves as unpredictable eddies.

And from below? Trapped under an overturned boat?

Imagine being jammed inside an old-fashioned tinted Coke bottle. Rush of water - blood pressure? - in my ears. Toes jammed under the deck. Sky wavering, achingly distant, refracted into minty shreds. Everything - above? beyond? behind? - murky, dim, disorienting.

I had one thought: I had to get out of my rubber boots. If I didn't, I couldn't escape from the boat.

In 43-degree water you have, at most, a few working minutes before the cold freezes your limbs and numbs your mind. That is, of course, if your head doesn't first smash into a rock or you don't gasp lungfuls of river, an involuntarily reaction to the shock of cold water.

The latter phenomenon recalls Greek myths in which vengeful spirits transform the elixir of life, water, into silvery poison.

Search-and-rescue teams call this Sudden Drowning Syndrome.

THAT FIRST SUN-DAPPLED WEEK of December, 143 bald eagles were spotted on the Skagit River between Marblemount and Rockport.

They come to feast on salmon before flying to summer breeding grounds as far as Alaska and the Yukon. Each morning, they scavenge the shimmering water for fish that have navigated hundreds of miles to and from the coast of British Columbia.

Salmon start off as eggy alevin that grow into frisky smolts feeding off bottom larvae and surface flies before migrating to the ocean. The chum fatten for three or four years in the Pacific, then, iridescent, streaked with coral, 2 feet long and up to 30 pounds, they muscle back up the Skagit to spawn in speckled riffles. Afterward, energy spent, leached of color and gasping for air, they drift to backwaters to die. Their rotting carcasses feed eagles and the river.

Such a wild elegant cycle.

The nature of my species, homo recreator northwestalis, is not nearly so neat. We migrate to urban Seattle to be closer to the Great Outdoors, and over years, take on and outgrow sports and specialized roof racks the way other animals sprout and shed antlers.

Perhaps you've seen the T-shirt of fish crawling onto shore, walking upslope as bipeds, then coasting, on bicycle, down the other side of the mountain?

Our evolutionary progression went in reverse.

First came cycling (panniers and cyclometers), then hiking and camping (extra-thick Thor-Lo socks, brass candle lantern), then jog-and-dip along the shore of Lake Washington (quick-dry sports bra). Eventually, we floated out to sea.

On Mayne Island, in British Columbia, we learned basic paddling strokes, bracing, and rescue techniques from an instructor named Errol. Errol was a wise man. After he noticed my twig arms struggling to wrench the lid off a plastic travel mug, he advised: a) Never paddle alone and b) Don't attempt to Eskimo roll to recover if you capsize.

When you feel yourself hit the water, Errol said, your instinct will be to right the boat. Don't bother. Put your energy into swimming out of the cockpit and surfacing.

This feat - pretending to be a human paperclip unbending itself under water - requires unsnapping a spray skirt and initiating an aquatic somersault. I practiced the maneuver in the protected bay with great success, applauded by barking seals.

From there, I became taken with the idea of building my own wooden kayak from a stitch-and-glue kit. (Tao also built his own boat.)

The design was based on native boats fashioned centuries ago from driftwood, whalebone and sea-lion skins. The kits came in two cardboard boxes: 36 marine-grade plywood panels precision cut by Pygmy Boats of Port Townsend. The mahogany snippets, I dreamed, would become my own private eggshell to explore marshes and islands unknown. An ancient craft meant for survival hunting had somehow evolved into a vehicle of yuppie escapism.

I spent 18 months in the basement working on this boat, six times longer than your average kayak builder.

No matter. The extended process allowed more time to marvel at the transformation. Lines became curves, two dimensions blossomed into three, flat strips sprang off the cement floor to form a hollow hull. Epoxy hardened from liquid to solid. Soft cloth crystallized as glass. Toward the end, I bolted the foot pedals on wrong, but a few calls to Pygmy's hotline helped me correct the mistake.

The finished kayak was lovely, a swirl of caramel wood in which to flirt with Northwest shore. Finally. A tree once rooted in soil had become a boat to dance on waves. I named it Feather.

It's an intimate labor, the building of a boat. It became a dangerous romance, in my case, because it fed my false notion that good instructions, common sense, energy bars and a few trips to REI could put me on equal footing with the natural world I knew and loved.

Or thought I knew.

Hubris.

I still wonder whether it was my own limits or the boundaries of the wild that I most misunderstood.

Recently, I confessed my mishap to Chris Cunningham, editor of Sea Kayaker magazine.

"One of the trends I see now is people sort of collecting sports," Cunningham said. "They'll get a mountain bike, do all the outdoor activities. For land-based activities, you have time on your side. When you take up water sports, you don't have time. You have a few minutes, if that, to effect a rescue. It's not like a hiking trail where if you trip, sprain your ankle, you can go for three days without water while you wait for the helicopter."

A few years ago, Sea Kayaker republished a collection of columns about kayak accidents, "Deep Trouble: True Stories and Their Lessons." Tao and I hadn't discovered this excellent safety handbook before we visited the eagles (I wish), though we'd collected scads of other paddling manuals, kayaking guidebooks and maps.

We'd also amassed spray skirts, paddle floats, life preservers, dry bags, fleece jackets, down vests, Gore-Tex shells, miracle-fiber long johns, deck compass, waterproof light, amphibian tights, running shoes, helmets, bike gloves and Reese's Crunchy Peanut Butter Cups left over from Halloween.

All this and more was strewn in the front hall the morning of our departure. I stuffed an extra set of clothes in a vinyl bag, mostly to clear junk from my path, then tossed the bag in the van, which was already laden with boats and bikes. (We planned to drop our kayaks at the launch site in Marblemount, drive downriver and leave the van at the take-out point in Rockport, then pedal back up to the launch, lock our bikes to a tree and float down the river.)

Awash in the sea of equipment, I felt like a Velcro caricature of myself. There was so much stuff, I tripped and stubbed my toe going out the front door. The body, out of pity, makes its own anesthesia for an hour. So it wasn't until well past Everett that I noticed my toe was bleeding.

BY MARYSVILLE, the mist had lifted off logs stacked in the hollows. We spun past Chevrolet dealerships, abandoned pumpkin shacks, John Deere tractors, stone pagoda nurseries, Meadow Mountain Custom Log Homes, herds of warehouses, gangly tree farms and weedy parcels proclaiming: OFFICE SPACE FOR LEASE.

At 70 miles per hour, the landscape flashed between commercial, industrial, kitsch. There was one last outlet mall before the right turn onto North Cascades Highway, then we merged into the world of Old Man's Beard and granite face.

The seamless transition from pavement to wilderness always surprises and delights me. It's one of the reasons I like living in the Northwest. The natural world is so close; you needn't wake up ultra-early to get to someplace good.

Yet I now realize I've misinterpreted proximity. Around here, borders overlap. Every weekend, thousands of us hike, bike, ski, climb, cycle and paddle, mistakenly assuming we're in safe territory since "It's only a day trip." Don't be fooled just because you're within reach of espresso and cell-phone reception. Even on day trips, we are leaving the realm of civilization. The turf is not ours.

For 10 years, I'd waltzed through nature's grandeur as if strolling through an exhibit of Thomas Moran landscapes at the Seattle Art Museum. Lucky - but for only so long.

Be sure to mention we called the ranger station before leaving the house, Tao says. OK. The ranger told us cycling would be fine; the mountain pass had closed for winter so we needn't worry much about log trucks. Yes, eagles are here, he said, the water is calm, just a few ripples, have a good float.

That's exactly what we wanted to hear, so we tuned out everything else. We catapulted into back country with the radio still yakking: uncounted votes in Florida . . . Cheney heart attack . . ..

How can you hear nature's warning bells if you're absorbed in the morning news?

Frost lingered in the shadows.

I noticed it when we were pedaling along Highway 20 after dropping our boats at the Marblemount bridge and then parking in Rockport. I should have asked myself: Why are we cycling on an icy road? And what nerve do we have venturing onto the river at all, in such cold weather, without dry suits, without a camp stove, without food, without a clue?

I should have been alert. Or, at least, awake. Instead, I spied a fieldstone house, a woman burning leaves in her yard, bags of bulbs ready to plant. I daydreamed about spring daffodils.

Next question: Why was I floating down the river, backward? Shortly after launch, my boat started spinning, slowly, but I was distracted by a thrashed-out salmon hanging in the shallows, its scales flaking like worn sponge; then a blur of belted kingfishers whirring across my bow; then a coppery halo silhouetting the Cascades' serrated ridges.

Meanwhile, pushed by a powerful current, my kayak revolved like the restaurant at the top of the Space Needle. Clearly, I was not in control. My antennae should have been quivering: DANGER! GET OFF THE RIVER! Instead, I kept wandering, thrilled with afternoon adventure.

And this was before we saw eagles.

The pattern: First I'd hear water hurling itself against rocks, loud as a hurricane; then I'd spy eagles; then I'd skid through rapids; finally, I'd catch my breath in a deep jade pool.

Except why, in the peaceful pools, did Feather want to spin? Before I could solve this puzzle, the current would sweep me through the cycle again.

The last eagle I saw, before the capsize, lorded over the middle of the river atop a raft of stones. The raptor towered above me, a paddle's length away, so close I could see torn feathers. It wore its charcoal plumage like a sorcerer's cape and hunched broad shoulders as if in dark frown. The majestic creature paid no heed when I floated by.

Suddenly, another chute, more rapids, then the deceptive eddy. I started spinning. No! I tried to correct but leaned too far. Below, the current grabbed my paddle. I tugged back, but of course, the river was stronger. The horizon slid. The hull faced the sky, flipping me upside-down, underwater.

Errol had predicted correctly. My first urge was to try to right the boat with my hips and my paddle, but I remembered his advice, Don't bother, and my body took over from there.

My Navy-pilot father had long tried to drill into his children the value of good habits. Buckle your seat belt. Double-knot your shoelaces. Routine meticulous habits won't matter 99 percent of the time, he said. But that 1 percent? Could save your life.

To save my life, I needed to eject from my rubber boots, which were trapped under the boat's deck. Decades of lazily kicking off my shoes was excellent training. Using practiced toe propulsion, I jetted out of those boots, initiated an underwater somersault, slithered out of the cockpit and popped to the surface.

The freezing water wasn't a gasping shock, perhaps because of all those October dips in Lake Washington. Also, I was swathed in a carefully fitted life jacket and layers of high-tech insulation, the closest you could get to a wet suit without actually wearing one.

The river spat me out on a sandy beach. Tao shot past, relieved to see me standing, and yelled that he'd snag my boat as it zoomed downstream, lightened of load.

The sand I'd landed on was littered with bleached branches and rounded stones. Dead stuff never looked so alive! I felt good and tingly for a while, but eventually cold and fear crept in. I noticed my bloody sock and realized I had no shoes. My teeth chattered. I wondered whether it was hypothermia or just regular shivering.

Some people say their whole life flashes before them whenever they're in a serious accident. For me, the disasters mentally replay themselves again and again my whole life. This one wasn't even over yet, but already my mind was looping through sequels. I'd survived the first calamity, but so much more could go wrong. Remember all those stories about rescuers who drown while trying to save other flailing swimmers? The only thing worse than doing something to get yourself killed is doing something stupid that gets somebody else.

Twenty-five minutes had passed.

Where was Tao?

I decided to hike, shoeless, to the road to seek help. I also decided to leave a note in case Tao found the beach. I fished a Peanut Butter Cup out of my pocket, ate half, and used the wrapper to make a flag signaling the spot in damp sand where I'd scratch a message.

I was about to plant that candy-bar flag when I heard, in the woods, a crash and bellow so loud it had to be either an elk or Tao. Tao! I've never been so happy to not see elk. Downstream Tao had snagged my paddle (which was leashed to the boat), beached both kayaks and hiked back to find me.

We scrambled a half-mile over sharp rocks and frozen gullies, me in only socks. Fallen leaves from big leaf maples felt softest underfoot, even though they were icy. It took a half-hour to reach our boats and another 20 minutes to change into the dry clothes and sneakers stored in the vinyl bag I'd almost not brought.

I was reluctant to resume paddling, but we hoped Howard Miller Steelhead Park, where we'd left the van, was only a few hundred yards downstream.

It was not. We paddled through small riffles, big riffles and another bend in the river. By this time, the sun had sunk behind the mountains and, for the first time, I felt really scared. A flashing beacon was clipped to my life vest so Tao could see me, but it was too dark for me to see him or any obstructions on river. I didn't know where I was or where I was going.

What if we paddled into downed trees jutting over the water? Or missed the take-out point and tumbled onto a more furious stretch of river? (The eagle-run part of the Skagit is rated Class I for kayaking; I didn't want to meet Class II.)

Ahead, I heard rapids raging. Panicked, I let the current ground my kayak on a wide pebble beach. Tao was forced to follow. Air temperature was 33 degrees and falling. He worried about hypothermia should we become lost in the forest. Please, I told him, I'd rather freeze slow than drown quick. Besides, my paddle was paralyzed with fear. I had to get off the water.

We abandoned our boats. What's 100 hours in the basement compared to the rest of your life?

A waxing half moon lit the terrain. Had I looked up, I might have spotted Pisces, the constellation of fish. Or Almaak, in the Andromeda constellation, one of the brightest of billions of stars that evening. Andromeda, the daughter of Queen Cassiopeia, is often drawn as a chained woman condemned to be sacrificed to a water monster. (Was she wearing rubber boots?)

On the ground, each step seemed immense. My body's hour of anesthesia had run out. Spasms contorted my back because the capsize had twisted my spine. I leaned on Tao's shoulder and practiced yoga breathing, imagining each inhalation was stoking a belly fire that would relax and energize my muscles.

Like wounded dragons, we bushwhacked for nearly three hours through weedy willow, alder, tangled blackberry vines and nasty salmonberry thorns. We crushed stands of bulrush and cracked through ice on slender creeks. We flattened tall grasses, pushed aside saplings, tore tender buds.

Our destructive footprints make me cringe now, but I confess to elation when, after trudging alongside an impassably wide slough for half an hour, we found a beaver dam to use as a bridge. We slogged across. From there, we clawed up a cliff to the road.

Scratched, shivering, muddy and still wearing our yellow sprayskirts, we tried to hail passing cars. No one would stop. We hobbled down the road and rang the doorbell of the first home we came upon - the fieldstone house. The kind daffodil lady thawed us by her cheery pellet fire, gave us mugs of hot black coffee and drove us back to our van. She said she'd seen me cycling that morning and thought to herself, It's too cold to be riding a bike!

We spent the night in the Eagle's Nest motel. It took several hours to feel truly warm, half a day to recover our boats, a week for my back to unspiral, two weeks for my toe to heal.

Months later, my mind still whirls in that eddy.

What if? What if we'd skipped Errol's rescue course? What if no dry clothes? What if my spine rotated 10 degrees more? What if a rock? A snag? A gasp?

So many stars in the universe. Every moment could fall any way.

my rubber boot, sinking
me, rising to breathe air.