THE
PORTRAITS
They say one's true self is revealed on the stream. The discovering of who I am on the water is an ongoing journey. But one method is to examine those I have been influenced, inspired, informed and formed by — those I've shared and, in fact, inherited the stream from.
10: THE SPARK
Eh, maybe we took it a tad too far. He shrugged and held out his glass of bourbon for an affirmation. We clinked. My ass really fucking hurts. He shook a little and a shiver ran up his spine with that admission, or a shooting pain from his tailbone. Either way, it warranted a smirk. Yeah, I would check my thumb but it's swollen to where I can't get the glove off. He always had a way of laughing at you that made you feel like your mistake was lousier than his, even if there was legitimately no contest...as in this case. We can't tell them, though. He held up his glass again, this time for a pact. I'm with you, I said, but I'm pretty sure Tania may make a few assumptions when I sleep with my gloves on. He still held his glass through the smoke billowing from the fire. Then we'll sleep out here. We clinked. Standing. He winced as he drank and refilled his glass. Then topped mine off. It was worth it though, he said. He had his phone out, scrolling through pics from our moments of grace earlier that day. We had had breakfast at the cabin and then gone out to a hill nearby that was clearly a local favorite for sledding — seeking "Snowfun!," we called it. This was not a hill like you'd go to in a city park. This was rural Wisconsin, and they don't drag their toboggan to just any old flimsy mound. This was the amateur sledding version of a downhill. We had watched as the ladies took their turns and had a big time of it. And we'd each had a go as well. But that last time, after they'd each gone and hoofed the sleds all the way back uphill, towing them behind them. We took them up and took our turns. He, halfway down hitting a slalom-bank of a bump that sent him airborne. He managed to reconnect with the sled, but that may have hurt more than it helped. Whereas I headed into a tailspin and with all my instinctive synapses shouting the opposite, put out a hand to right it. In that instant, I think my gloves may have been the only thing that prevented my thumb from doubling fully back on my hand. But they also proved to be pretty pliable leather under high-test conditions. What's worse, it didn't even work. My manual rudder attempt only sent me tumbling on top of the twirling, headlong down the last quarter stretch. Once we'd both slid to a stop at the base of the slope, we caught a fleeting glance at each other as we bent to pick up our oversized plastic soap-holders, and we knew neither of us had made it unscathed. But, we forced a smile and trudged our way back to our wives, each with hands on hips. Sweet, I said. Jen had a look anyone could spot as trouble. He held his own deadpan gaze. What? He offered her the sled for another turn. She rolled her eyes. Snowfun! was done. We shuffled back to the car and went scoping places to have lunch and hang for a while. We knew our mishaps had been witnessed, but we committed to display no dismay. We gave off energy that flew in the face of any presumed effect our Snowfun! performances might have had. He was tilted and crooked in his seat but still managing to lip sync and execute his semi-choreographed moves to Bruno Mars's "Perm." My role was to slide my head and sync the woo's. This time I did so with particular gusto, and also kept stretching my glove and hitting my fist into the palm of my injured paw like a catcher ready for a pitch. No idea why. Not weird at all. And it definitely escalated the pain. All this, and yet our wives were having none of it. However, they also weren't saying anything. They were waiting for us to break and admit defeat, or give off some sign of weakness. They knew it would only be a matter of time. They were both inside now. We could see them in the warm glow of the cabin, through the big windows. They were sipping glasses of white wine and chatting comfortably. We were now three quarters of the way through a bottle of bourbon and still neither of us could claim to be feeling no pain. But we had a blaze going and it was throwing warmth at us through the fresh freezing nip that we felt when the breeze kicked up and dusted us with snowy mist in the dark. The moon was slight, so the night was pitch and full of stars. We were still in pain but starting to ease it. We were most likely both in trouble, but we had managed to have a day we would always remember. In all the years I had the privilege to spend with him, more than a decade, he'd never once come fishing with me. But his spirit encapsulates driftlessness. Even now. In spirit. As the regular at the local bar, the summer bum, the festival fanatic, the music-head and discoverer of new bands, the idealizer of the notion of holiday in all its forms, the craft beer connoisseur, the believer in the sanctity of birthdays, the lover of laughter, and the guy that was a kid for making fires — he had that boundless seeker's enthusiasm that going to the unglaciated country is all about. And so, it is in the driftlessness I find him now. Behind the door of every dive, the blaze of every sunkissed day, the tone of every sweet guitar lick, the crisp quench of a cold one, and the flicker...the spark of the perfect nightfire. Jason.