(From “Diaries...) Brokeback Rapids Feb 24: As I step into my little boat and slide away from the bank, a warm sun is cresting the tree tops. The sky is cloudless and there’s not a breath of wind. It takes pressure off, knowing that today’s float won’t be complicated by any bad weather. Nevertheless, a larger threat is looming. And I know I shouldn’t be out here on the river on this particular day. It’s a threat I’ve learned to live with for the six years I’ve been coming out here for solo surveys–and one that threatens a day of reckoning when I may be left huddled and incapacitated along the river bank, waiting for rescue. The problem is a bad back. It’s a gift from childhood, dating to at least the seventh grade. That’s when I failed my first physical exam–for the school’s football team–and we were told that scoliosis, or curvature of the spine, would make playing football a really bad idea. This little “twist of fate” has brought an adult life filled with recurrent back-related troubles. Many of the “events” have been catastrophic “throw-outs,” when the lower back muscles and discs are pushed beyond limits, bringing days or even weeks of immobilizing spasms and pain. So as I settle into a rhythm on the oars, some of the prior debilitating episodes play with my mind. I block them out with my mantra for the day: “Go slow. Take your time, Rich. Think about each move before you make it. Don’t do anything stupid.” And so too I am careful not to “slump” on the boat seat, I stand and stretch frequently, and I step away from the boat occasionally and stretch some more. Such respectfulness is essential, because two days earlier, while splitting a piece of firewood for my mom, I felt the dreaded muscle “shock” at the familiar low-back stress point. I know that this kind of pre-injury inevitably leads to the dreaded spasms and immobilization, unless utmost care is taken. But despite my best avoidance efforts, five miles down the river the unthinkable happens. As I roll out of the boat to portage Widow-maker Rapids, I hook a heal of one boot on the boat’s gunnel. I fall face-forward into the river, wrenching my back along the way. The unsightly splashdown marks the end of this day’s survey. The only remaining question is whether I will be spending the night down here, immobilized with muscle spasms, or limping downstream another four miles to the bridge, where I can take the boat out. A long minute face-down in the cold water brings an answer. It’s bad, but at least I can still move. Maybe I’ve dodged another bullet! Slowly and carefully, I climb back in, take the oars, and start moving. I am no longer looking for fish or their spawning nests, just the easiest and quickest way to the bridge. Four grueling hours later and the bridge’s rusting hulk appears golden brown in the fading sunshine. I know I cannot drag the boat and gear the two hundred feet up to the roadway. I leave everything behind, grab my little red duping device (empty gasoline can), and hobble slowly up to the roadway. More good luck instantly appears: The first vehicle down the road is the FedEx man. He stops. “Never picked up anybody before, and I’m not supposed to,” I am informed, “but you look like you need some help.” Packages are hastily rearranged to provide me a seat. I gingerly settle into it, and we cruise up the road towards my vehicle and the help I am going to need. An hour later, as darkness finally closes around the now cold-black-steel of the bridge, I’m back. Two friends are with me. And the good luck keeps coming, as the boat and gear are still sitting undisturbed, just where I left them. My friends jump to the task: Everything is quickly loaded and secured, and I am sent down the road towards home. As I crest the first high ridge, I break out the cell phone. Better report in per my floatplan. “I’ll be home early,” I assure them, “and I’ve survived to fight another day. But get the ice-packs ready!”