THE GIRL WITH BEES ON HER DRESS

Secrets of the River and the Ghosts of a Small-Town Childhood

Almost every other year, someone would drown in the river. Mostly those who drowned were children, and mostly, they drowned playing in or near the rapids. No amount of warnings or threats would keep them away. The rapids drew children to it like honeysuckle draws bees. The swimming hole was down near the lower end of the whitewater, and in the early part of the year, when the water was high and swift, the current was powerful and dangerous. We all had close calls there. I recall one of the French kids ripped himself open on a sharp rock when he was showing off, diving from one of the walls. He was bleeding like a stuck pig when his buddies pulled him out. There was a big, deep, bloody gash down the left side of his belly, but the water probably made it look worse than it was.

If you got caught up in an eddy or were grabbed by the current, you couldn’t fight your way out. You had to concentrate on keeping your head above water while stroking for shore as best you could. If you didn’t hit a rock and didn’t panic, you’d generally, unless you were really unlucky, come ashore several hundred feet downriver. When we got older, we’d go down various stretches of the rapids on inner tubes, rafts, rowboats, and kayaks, and not always because we wanted to.

One evening a drunk up at the Deschenes Tavern bet the other patrons ten dollars he could go down the rapids on a log and survive the trip. It was ten-cent draft…