River Rafting Quotes

As his raft skimmed over the water, taking him back to the mortal world, he understood a line from the Prophecy better-an oath to keep with a final breath. He understood how dangerous oaths could be. But Leo didn't care. "I'm coming back for you, Calypso," he said to the night wind. "I swear it on the River Styx.

To insist on a spiritual practice that served you in the past is to carry the raft on your back after you have crossed the river.

I'm coming back for you Calypso," he said to the night wind. "I swear on the river Styx.

The raft is used to cross the river. It isn't to be carried around on your shoulders. The finger which points at the moon isn't the moon itself.

People who have recently lost someone have a certain look, recognizable maybe only to those who have seen that look on their own faces. I have noticed it on my face and I notice it now on others. The look is one of extreme vulnerability, nakedness, openness. It is the look of someone who walks from the ophthalmologist's office into the bright daylight with dilated eyes, or of someone who wears glasses and is suddenly made to take them off. These people who have lost someone look naked because they think themselves invisible. I myself felt invisible for a period of time, incorporeal. I seemed to have crossed one of those legendary rivers that divide the living from the dead, entered a place in which I could be seen only by those who were themselves recently bereaved. I understood for the first time the power in the image of the rivers, the Styx, the Lethe, the cloaked ferryman with his pole. I understood for the first time the meaning in the practice of suttee. Widows did not throw themselves on the burning raft out of grief. The burning raft was instead an accurate representation of the place to which their grief (not their families, not the community, not custom, their grief) had taken them.

I've decided that if I had my life to live over again, I would not only climb more mountains, swim more rivers, and watch more sunsets; I wouldn't only jettison my hot water bottle, raincoat, umbrella, parachute, and raft; I would not only go barefoot earlier in the spring and stay out later in the fall; but I would devote not one more minute to monitoring my spiritual growth. No, not one.

Yet for all the depression no one ever quit. When someone quit, we couldn't believe it. 'I'm becoming a rafting instructor on the Colorado River,' they said. 'I'm touring college towns with my garage band.' We were dumbfounded. It was like they were from another planet. Where had they found the derring-do? What would they do about car payments? We got together for going away drinks on their final day and tried to hide our envy while reminding ourselves that we still had the freedom and luxury to shop indiscriminately.

A towel, it says, is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have. Partly it has great practical value - you can wrap it around you for warmth as you bound across the cold moons of Jaglan Beta; you can lie on it on the brilliant marble-sanded beaches of Santraginus V, inhaling the heady sea vapours; you can sleep under it beneath the stars which shine so redly on the desert world of Kakrafoon; use it to sail a mini raft down the slow heavy river Moth; wet it for use in hand-to- hand-combat; wrap it round your head to ward off noxious fumes or to avoid the gaze of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal (a mindboggingly stupid animal, it assumes that if you can't see it, it can't see you - daft as a bush, but very ravenous); you can wave your towel in emergencies as a distress signal, and of course dry yourself off with it if it still seems to be clean enough. More importantly, a towel has immense psychological value. For some reason, if a strag (strag: non-hitch hiker) discovers that a hitch hiker has his towel with him, he will automatically assume that he is also in possession of a toothbrush, face flannel, soap, tin of biscuits, flask, compass, map, ball of string, gnat spray, wet weather gear, space suit etc., etc. Furthermore, the strag will then happily lend the hitch hiker any of these or a dozen other items that the hitch hiker might accidentally have "lost". What the strag will think is that any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is is clearly a man to be reckoned with.

Listen," he said one afternoon in the library. "You have to read a book three times before you know it. The first time you read it for the story. The plot. The movement from scene to scene that gives the book its momentum, its rhythm. It's like riding a raft down a river. You're just paying attention to the currents. Do you understand that?" "Not at all," I said. "Yes, you do," he said. "Okay, I do," I said. I really didn't, but Gordy believed in me. He wouldn't let me give up. The second time you read a book, you read it for its history, its knowledge of history.

Haven’t you ever harbored the secret thought that somewhere Huck and Jim are—at this instant—poling their raft down some river just beyond our reach, so much more real are they than the shoe clerk who fitted us just a forgotten day ago?

What did the mountains care about our plan to climb them, rafting the waters that divided them? They had eternity before us, and eternity after us. We were nothing to them.

The Wolf curled his lip in distaste, eyeing the raft as if it might lunge at him. "You expect to reach the End of the World on that? Do you know the things that live in the River of Dreams? And we're not even at the nightmare stretch yet." "Aw, is the Big Bad Wolfie afraid of a few nasty fish?" The Wolf gave him a baleful stare. "You wouldn't say that if you'd seen some of the fish in the Deep Wyld, Goodfellow. But more important, how will you ever reach the End of the World if I bite your head off? (The Iron Knight)

I do not know, really, how we will survive without places like the Inner Gorge of the Grand Canyon to visit. Once in a lifetime, even, is enough. To feel the stripping down, an ebb of the press of conventional time, a radical change of proportion, an unspoken respect for others that elicits keen emotional pleasure, a quick intimate pounding of the heart. The living of life, any life, involves great and private pain, much of which we share with no one. In such places as the Inner Gorge the pain trails away from us. It is not so quiet there or so removed that you can hear yourself think, that you would even wish to; that comes later. You can hear your heart beat. That comes first.

The raft finally got here,” he said. Calypso snorted. Her eyes might have been red, but it was hard to tell in the moonlight. “You just noticed?” “But if it only shows up for guys you like—” “Don’t push your luck, Leo Valdez,” she said. “I still hate you.” “Okay.” “And you are not coming back here,” she insisted. “So don’t give me any empty promises.” “How about a full promise?” he said. “Because I’m definitely—” She grabbed his face and pulled him into a kiss, which effectively shut him up. For all his joking and flirting, Leo had never kissed a girl before. Well, sisterly pecks on the cheek from Piper, but that didn’t count. This was a real, full-contact kiss. If Leo had had gears and wires in his brain, they would’ve short-circuited. Calypso pushed him away. “That didn’t happen.” “Okay.” His voice sounded an octave higher than usual. “Get out of here.” “Okay.” She turned, wiping her eyes furiously, and stormed up the beach, the breeze tousling her hair. Leo wanted to call to her, but the sail caught the full force of the wind, and the raft cleared the beach. He struggled to align the guidance console. By the time Leo looked back, the island of Ogygia was a dark line in the distance, their campfire pulsing like a tiny orange heart. His lips still tingled from the kiss. That didn’t happen, he told himself. I can’t be in love with an immortal girl. She definitely can’t be in love with me. Not possible. As his raft skimmed over the water, taking him back to the mortal world, he understood a line from the Prophecy better—an oath to keep with a final breath. He understood how dangerous oaths could be. But Leo didn’t care. “I’m coming back for you, Calypso,” he said to the night wind. “I swear it on the River Styx.

Dislinear plotting and noncontiguous prose have their adherents, not the least of which am I, but in the end, my friends, it is character which wins or loses immortality upon the vellum. Haven’t you ever harbored the secret thought that somewhere Huck and Jim are—at this instant—poling their raft down some river just beyond our reach, so much more real are they than the shoe clerk who fitted us just a forgotten day ago?

Love doesn't save, it raises you up and makes you bigger, it lights you up from inside and carves out that light like wood in the forest. It nestles in the hollows of empty days, of thankless tasks, of useless hours, it doesn't drift along on golden rafts or sparkling rivers, it doesn't sing or shine and it never proclaims a thing. But at night, once the room's been swept and the embers covered over and the children are asleep -- at night between the sheets, with slow gazes, not moving or speaking -- at night, at last, when we're weary of our meager lives and the trivialities of our insignificant existance, each of us becomes the well where the other one can draw water ...

It is often said that the Buddha’s teaching is only a raft to help you cross the river, a finger pointing to the moon. Don’t mistake the finger for the moon. The raft is not the shore. If we cling to the raft, if we cling to the finger, we miss everything.

The River Swish Deftly maneuvered through the dark green abyss ~ The wooden raft seemed in tune with this ~ Canorous rush of the river swish....

What was magic, after all, but something that happened at the snap of a finger? Where was the magic in that? It was mumbled words and weird drawings in old books, and in the wrong hands it was as dangerous as hell, but not one half as dangerous as it could be in the right hands. The universe was full of the stuff; it made the stars stay up and the feet stay down. But what was happening now . . . this was magical. Ordinary men had dreamed it up and put it together, building towers on rafts in swamps and across the frozen spines of mountains. They’d cursed and, worse, used logarithms. They’d waded through rivers and dabbled in trigonometry. They hadn’t dreamed, in the way people usually used the word, but they’d imagined a different world, and bent metal around it. And out of all the sweat and swearing and mathematics had come this . . . thing, dropping words across the world as softly as starlight.

The rich flow of creativity, innovation, and almost musical complexity we are looking for in a fulfilled work life cannot be reached through trying or working harder. The medium for the soul, it seems, must be the message. The river down which we raft is made up of the same substance as the great sea of our destination. It is an ever-moving, firsthand creative engagement with life and with others that completes itself simply by being itself. This kind of approach must be seen as the "great art" of working in order to live, of remembering what is most important in the order of priorities and what place we occupy in a much greater story than the one our job description defines. Other "great arts," such as poetry, can remind and embolden us to this end. Whatever we choose to do, the stakes are very high. With a little more care, a little more courage, and, above all, a little more soul, our lives can be so easily discovered and celebrated in work, and not, as now, squandered and lost in its shadow.

He had not slept the night before except to doze kneeling next to Derek, and he had worked hard all day on the raft getting it ready, and when the sun went down and the darkness caught him he could not believe how much he wanted to sleep.

Usually when people hear my parents are scientists, they assume they're awkward, unathletic nerds whose idea of fun is doing long division. That drives me nuts. My parents are the least nerdy people you've ever met. Mom swam competitively in college and competed in triathlons up until we left earth. Dad is a rugged outdoorsman; he's summited dozens of mountains and once free-climbed El Capitan in Yosemite in a day. They met on a Class 5 rafting trip down the Snake River. But more importantly, my parents aren't unusual. I've met hundreds of scientists, and most are almost as athletic and adventurous as my parents. I'm not sure how the whole idea that scientists are nerds ever got started.

My love, I walked for thirty years under the sky without ever doubting that I lived in glory; I never wavered; I never stumbled; I was a reveler and a loudmouth, if ever there was one, as stupid and useless as the sparrows and the peacocks; I wiped my mouth on the cuff of my sleeve, tramped into the house with mud on my feet and burped many's a time amid the laughter and the wine. But I always held my head high in the storm because I loved you and you loved me back, and our love mightn't have been all silk and poetry but we could look at each other and know we'd drown all our woes. Love doesn't save, it raises you up and makes you bigger, it lights you up from inside and carves out that light like wood in the forest. It nestles in the hollows of empty days, of thankless tasks, of useless hours, it doesn't drift along on golden rafts or sparkling rivers, it doesn't sing or shine and it never proclaims a thing. But at night, once the room's been swept and the embers covered over and the children are asleep - at night between the sheets, with slow gazes, not moving or speaking - at night, at last, when we're weary of our meager lives and the trivialities of our insignificant existence, each of us becomes the well where the other can draw water, and we love each other and learn to love ourselves.

If you build a raft, you can cross a river, but if you build a ship, you can cross an ocean.

If you have to cross a river, you shall cross the river! Through swimming, through a raft, through walking, through any way possible, you shall cross it!

These people who have lost someone look naked because they think themselves invisible. I myself felt invisible for a period of time, incorporeal. I seemed to have crossed one of those legendary rivers that divide the living from the dead, entered a place in which I could be seen only by those who were themselves recently bereaved. I understood for the first time the power in the image of the rivers, the Styx, the Lethe, the cloaked ferryman with his pole. I understood for the first time the meaning in the practice of suttee. Widows did not throw themselves on the burning raft out of grief. The burning raft was instead an accurate representation of the place to which their grief (not their families, not the community, not custom, their grief) had taken them.

The raft was seized, with a noise like needles knitting, and we were hemmed in for winter -- river and the old channel's oxbow lake having frozen solid. By now, we guessed we were not two ordinary river travelers...it must have been the river that was extraordinary: a marvel that protected us by the same mysterious action that had given a common horse wings and changed a woman into a laurel tree.

Writing is a lot of sitting down... It's a lot of trying things out and screwing up... It's either amazing or it's the worst thing in the world. Sometimes it goes well, and it's all you think about, and then, it's gone. It's like you're taking a ride down a river really fast, and then all of a sudden, there's no water. You're just sitting in a raft, trying to push it along in the mud. And then you've become me.

Streams led to rivers, rivers all led to the Mississippi, and if he kept walking, or stole a boat or built a raft, eventually he’d get to New Orleans, where it was warm, an idea which seemed both comforting and unlikely.

Sometimes we'd have that whole river all to ourselves for the longest time. Yonder was the banks and the islands, across the water; and maybe a spark-- which was a candle in a cabin window... It's lovely to live on a raft. We had the sky up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made or only just happened; Jim he allowed they was made, but I allowed they happened; I judged it would have took too long to make so many. Jim said the moon could 'a' laid them; well, that looked kind of reasonable... because I've seen a frog lay most as many, so of course it could be done. We used to watch the stars that fell, too, and see them streak down. Jim allowed they'd got spoiled and was hove out of the nest. Once or twice of a night we would see a steamboat slipping along in the dark, and now and then she would belch a whole world of sparks up out of her chimbleys, and they would rain down in the river and look awful pretty; then she would turn a corner and her lights would wink out and her powwow shut off and leave the river still again; and by and by her waves would get to us, a long time after she was gone, and joggle the raft a bit, and after that you wouldn't hear nothing for you couldn't tell how long, except maybe frogs or something.

The thing about life is we already know the ending is death. Personally I have tried to at least give the bits in the middle every chance of surprising me. We all start and end the same , but what happens in between might be up to us

Ted lunged at me, put his hands on my shoulders, and pushed me into the river. The plunge into the icy water took my breath away. I came up sputtering and grabbed the rope on the edge of the raft, too dazed for the moment to do more than hang on. I looked up at Ted and our eyes locked. His face had gone blank, as though he was not there at all. I had a sense he wasn’t seeing me. I struggled to pull myself into the raft. He didn’t move, he didn’t speak. I could find no expression on his face.

But the book of life has reached a page Dearer than all that’s sacred. What has been written must now be fulfilled. Then let it be fulfilled. Amen. ‘For the course of the ages is like a parable, And can catch fire in its course. In the name of its awful grandeur, I shall go In voluntary suffering to the grave. ‘I shall go to the grave, and on the third day rise, And, just as rafts float down a river, To me for judgement, like a caravan of barges, The centuries will come floating from the darkness.

I’m happy!” Lan threw her arms in the air. “I’m happy on my boat. My boat, see?” She pointed to your arms, splayed out like oars, she and I on each side. I looked down and saw it, the brown, yellowish floorboards swirling into muddy currents. I saw the weak ebb thick with grease and dead grass. We weren’t rowing, but adrift. We were clinging to a mother the size of a raft until the mother beneath us grew stiff with sleep. And we soon fell silent as the raft took us all down this great brown river called America, finally happy.

Everywhere the good life oozes from the useless waste we make when we create—our streets teem with human young, rafts of pigeons streaming over the squirrel-burdened trees. If there is a purpose, maybe there are too many of us to see it, though we can, from a distance, hear the dull thrum of generation's industry, feel its fleshly wheel churn the fire inside us, pushing the world forward toward its ragged edge, rushing like a swollen river into multitude and rank disorder. Such abundance. We are gorged, engorging, and gorgeous.

Last Night’s Moon," “When will we next walk together under last night’s moon?” - Tu Fu March aspens, mist forest. Green rain pins down the sea, early evening cyanotype. Silver saltlines, weedy toques of low tide, pillow lava’s black spill indelible in the sand. Unbroken broken sea. — Rain sharpens marsh-hair birth-green of the spring firs. In the bog where the dead never disappear, where river birch drown, the surface strewn with reflection. This is the acid-soaked moss that eats bones, keeps flesh; the fermented ground where time stops and doesn’t; dissolves the skull, preserves the brain, wrinkled pearl in black mud. — In the autumn that made love necessary, we stood in rubber boots on the sphagnum raft and learned love is soil–stronger than peat or sea– melting what it holds. The past is not our own. Mole’s ribbon of earth, termite house, soaked sponge. It rises, keloids of rain on wood; spreads, milkweed galaxy, broken pod scattering the debris of attention. Where you are while your body is here, remembering in the cold spring afternoon. The past is a long bone. — Time is like the painter’s lie, no line around apple or along thigh, though the apple aches to its sweet edge, strains to its skin, the seam of density. Invisible line closest to touch. Lines of wet grass on my arm, your tongue’s wet line across my back. All the history in the bone-embedded hills of your body. Everything your mouth remembers. Your hands manipullate in the darkness, silver bromide of desire darkening skin with light. — Disoriented at great depths, confused by the noise of shipping routes, whales hover, small eyes squinting as they consult the magnetic map of the ocean floor. They strain, a thousand miles through cold channels; clicking thrums of distant loneliness bounce off seamounts and abyssal plains. They look up from perpetual dusk to rods of sunlight, a solar forest at the surface. Transfixed in the dark summer kitchen: feet bare on humid linoleum, cilia listening. Feral as the infrared aura of the snake’s prey, the bees’ pointillism, the infrasonic hum of the desert heard by the birds. The nighthawk spans the ceiling; swoops. Hot kitchen air vibrates. I look up to the pattern of stars under its wings.

I used to imagine a boyfriend who could see me, you know? It was more than attention. I wanted to be known. I imagined us parking a car out by the river, hidden by the tall grass, fireflies everywhere, and I could talk and he would listen and nod, his eyes wide in the dark. And the way I imagined it, he would want to listen. He would want to see me. And he’d listen until he knew everything there was to know.” Tiffany laughed at herself. “There were times I imagined it so long, I ran out of things to tell him, and we’d just look at each other. In a way, that was the best part.

O shoe, leather ship that sails our cement rivers and woven seas, steering by the star of fashion, circumnavigating hostile reefs of tar and bubble gum; one hour, a tanker ferrying champagne to a playboy’s sip; the next, a raft in the slime; bon voyage, bright barge! May you dock in calm closets, safe from the rape of shoe trees.

I hold Huckleberry Finn real tight against my chest and start across the yard. Now we can leave this place behind anytime we want. All we gotta do is join up with Huckleberry Finn. There’s room on his raft for all five of us, I’ll bet. Maybe we’ll find the Arcadia out there somewhere. Even though I have to head back to Mrs. Murphy’s house, it feels like a whole new place. Now it’s got a river in it. That

Before big bridges, deep tunnels and the advent of health and safety regulations, there were many ways to cross rivers. They would use rowing boats, rickety rafts or in the absence of a vessel, swim or wade. Everyone knew what a stepping-stone was. They all understood that it was not something that you would want to stand on for any length of time. It was a means to an end, an important point and a route from A to B.

There is a river called the Saône, which flows through the territories of the Aedui and the Sequani into the Rhône with an extremely sluggish current, so that the eye cannot tell in which direction it is going. The Helvetii were crossing this river on rafts and small boats tied together. On learning from his patrols that they had got three quarters of their forces across, but that the remaining quarter was still on the east bank, Caesar left camp with three legions some time after midnight and came into contact with the division that had not yet crossed. Attacking them unexpectedly when they were hampered by baggage, he destroyed a large number, and the rest took to flight and hid in the neighbouring woods.

channel was down the Missouri shore at that place, so we warn’t afraid of anybody running across us. We laid there all day, and watched the rafts and steamboats spin down the Missouri shore, and up-bound steamboats fight the big river in the middle. I told Jim all about the time I had jabbering with that woman; and Jim said she was a smart one, and if she was to start after us herself she wouldn’t set down and watch a camp fire—no, sir, she’d fetch a dog. Well, then, I said, why couldn’t she tell her husband to fetch a dog? Jim said he bet she did think of it by the time the men was ready to start, and he believed they must a gone up-town to get a dog and so they lost all that time, or else we wouldn’t be here on a tow-head sixteen

There is an inherent, humbling cruelty to learning how to run white water. In most other so-called "adrenaline" sports—skiing, surfing and rock climbing come to mind—one attains mastery, or the illusion of it, only after long apprenticeship, after enduring falls and tumbles, the fatigue of training previously unused muscles, the discipline of developing a new and initially awkward set of skills. Running white water is fundamentally different. With a little luck one is immediately able to travel long distances, often at great speeds, with only a rudimentary command of the sport's essential skills and about as much physical stamina as it takes to ride a bicycle downhill. At the beginning, at least, white-water adrenaline comes cheap. It's the river doing the work, of course, but like a teenager with a hot car, one forgets what the true power source is. Arrogance reigns. The river seems all smoke and mirrors, lots of bark (you hear it chortling away beneath you, crunching boulders), but not much bite. You think: Let's get on with it! Let's run this damn river! And then maybe the raft hits a drop in the river— say, a short, hidden waterfall. Or maybe a wave reaches up and flicks the boat on its side as easily as a horse swatting flies with its tail. Maybe you're thrown suddenly into the center of the raft, and the floor bounces back and punts you overboard. Maybe you just fall right off the side of the raft so fast you don't realize what's happening. It doesn't matter. The results are the same. The world goes dark. The river— the word hardly does justice to the churning mess enveloping you— the river tumbles you like so much laundry. It punches the air from your lungs. You're helpless. Swimming is a joke. You know for a fact that you are drowning. For the first time you understand the strength of the insouciant monster that has swallowed you. Maybe you travel a hundred feet before you surface (the current is moving that fast). And another hundred feet—just short of a truly fearsome plunge, one that will surely kill you— before you see the rescue lines. You're hauled to shore wearing a sheepish grin and a look in your eye that is equal parts confusion, respect, and raw fear. That is River Lesson Number One. Everyone suffers it. And every time you get the least bit cocky, every time you think you have finally figured out what the river is all about, you suffer it all over again.

it’s one of the great sunrises in all literature. Mark Twain: from The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn . . . then we set down on the sandy bottom where the water was about knee deep, and watched the daylight come. Not a sound anywheres—perfectly still—just like the whole world was asleep, only sometimes the bull-frogs a-cluttering, maybe. The first thing to see, looking away over the water, was a kind of dull line—that was the woods on t’other side—you couldn’t make nothing else out; then a pale place in the sky; then more paleness, spreading around; then the river softened up, away off, and warn’t black any more, but gray; you could see little dark spots drifting along, ever so far away—trading scows, and such things; and long black streaks—rafts; sometimes you could hear a sweep screaking; or jumbled-up voices, it was so still, and sounds come so far; and by-and-by you could see a streak on the water which you know by the look of the streak that there’s a snag there in a swift current which breaks on it and makes that streak look that way; and you see the mist curl up off of the water, and the east reddens up, and the river, and you make out a log cabin in the edge of the woods, away on the bank on t’other side of the river, being a woodyard, likely, and piled by them cheats so you can throw a dog through it anywheres; then the nice breeze springs up, and comes fanning you from over there, so cool and fresh, and sweet to smell, on account of the woods and the flowers; but sometimes not that way, because they’ve left dead fish laying around, gars, and such, and they do get pretty rank; and next you’ve got the full day, and everything smiling in the sun, and the song-birds just going it!

I Have Seen Bengal’s Face - Poem by Jibanananda Das Autoplay next video I have seen Bengal’s face, that is why I do not seek Beauty of the earth any more: I wake up in the dark And see the dawn’s magpie-robin perched under the parasol-like huge leaf Of the fig tree – on all sides I see mounds of leaves of Black plum – banyan – jackfruit – oak – pipal lying still; Their shadows fall on the spurge bushes on zedoary clumps; Who knows when Chand near Champa from his madhukar boat Saw such oaks – banyans – gamboge’s blue shades Bengal’s beauty incomparable. Behula too someday floating on raft on Gangur’s water – When the fullmoon of the tenebrous twelfth night died on the river’s shoal – Saw countless pipals and banyans beside the golden corn, Alas, heard the tender songs of shama – and one day going to Amara. When she danced like a torn wagtail in Indra’s court Bengal’s river field, wild violets wept at her feet like anklet bells.

PART II THE RETURN OF ODYSSEUS TO HIS OWN COUNTRY CHAPTER V. Odysseus on the Island of Calypso VI. Odysseus Constructs a Raft and Leaves the Island VII. Odysseus is Saved on the Island of Scheria VIII. Nausicaä is Sent to the River by Athena IX. Odysseus Arrives at the Palace of Alkinoös X. Odysseus in the Halls of Alkinoös XI. The Banquet in Honor of Odysseus XII. Odysseus Relates His Adventures XIII. The Lotus-Eaters and the Cyclops XIV. The Cave of the Cyclops XV. The Blinding of the Cyclops XVI. Odysseus and His Companions Leave the Land of the Cyclops XVII. The Adventures of Odysseus on the Island of Æolus XVIII. Odysseus at the Home of Circè XIX. Circè Instructs Odysseus Concerning His Descent to Hades XX. The Adventures of Odysseus in Hades XXI. Odysseus Converses with His Mother and Agamemnon XXII. Conversation with Achilles and Other Heroes XXIII. The Return of Odysseus to the Island of Circè XXIV. Odysseus Meets the Sirens, Skylla, and Charybdis XXV. Odysseus on the Island of Hēlios XXVI. The Departure of Odysseus from the Island of Scheria XXVII. Odysseus Arrives at Ithaca XXVIII. Odysseus Seeks the Swineherd

A native is a man or creature or plant indigenous to a limited geographical area - a space boundaried and defined by mountains, rivers, or coastline (not by latitudes, longitudes, or state and county lines), with its own peculiar mixture of weeds, trees, bugs, birds, flowers, streams, hills, rocks, and critters (including people), its own nuances of rain, wind, and seasonal change. Native intelligence develops through an unspoken or soft spoken relationship with these interwoven things: it evolves as the native involves himself in his region. A non-native awakes in the morning in a body in a bed in a room in a building on a street in a county in a state in a nation. A native awakes in the in the center of a little cosmos - or a big one, if his intelligence is vast - and he wears this cosmos like a robe, senses the barely perceptible shiftings, migrations, moods, and machinations of its creatures, its growing green things, its earth and sky. Native intelligence is what Huck Finn had rafting the Mississippi, what Thoreau had by his pond, what Kerouac had in Desolation Lookout and lost entirely the instant he caught a whiff of any city. But some have it in cities - like the Artful Dodger, picking his way through a crowd of London pockets; like Mother Teresa in the Calcutta slums. Sissy Hankshaw had it on freeways, Woody Guthrie in crowds of fruit pickers, Ghandi in jails. Almost everybody has a dab of it wherever he or she feels most at home..

I soon found my feet, and was much less homesick than I was at prep school. Thank God. I learned that with plenty of free time on our hands, and being encouraged to fill the time with “interests,” I could come up with some great adventures. A couple of my best friends and I started climbing the huge old oak trees around the grounds, finding monkey routes through the branches that allowed us to travel between the trees, high up above the ground. It was brilliant. We soon had built a real-life Robin Hood den, with full-on branch swings, pulleys, and balancing bars high up in the treetops. We crossed the Thames on the high girders above a railway bridge, we built rafts out of old Styrofoam and even made a boat out of an old bathtub to go down the river in. (Sadly this sank, as the water came in through the overflow hole, which was a fundamental flaw. Note to self: Test rafts before committing to big rivers in them.) We spied on the beautiful French girls who worked in the kitchens, and even made camps on the rooftops overlooking the walkway they used on their way back from work. We would vainly attempt to try and chat them up as they passed. In between many of these antics we had to work hard academically, as well as dress in ridiculous clothes, consisting of long tailcoats and waistcoats. This developed in me the art of making smart clothes look ragged, and ever since, I have maintained a lifelong love of wearing good-quality clothes in a messy way. It even earned me the nickname of “Scug,” from the deputy-headmaster. In Eton slang this roughly translates as: “A person of no account, and of dirty appearance.

My plan is this,” I says. “We can easy find out if it’s Jim in there. Then get up my canoe to-morrow night, and fetch my raft over from the island. Then the first dark night that comes, steal the key out of the old man’s britches, after he goes to bed, and shove off down the river on the raft, with Jim, hiding daytimes and running nights, the way me and Jim used to do before. Wouldn’t that plan work?” “Work? Why cert‘nly, it would work, like rats a fighting. But it’s too blame’ simple; there ain’t nothing to it. What’s the good of a plan that ain’t no more trouble than that? It’s as mild as goose-milk. Why, Huck, it wouldn’t make no more talk than breaking into a soap factory.” I never said nothing, because I warn’t expecting nothing different; but I knowed mighty well that whenever he got his plan ready it wouldn’t have none of them objections to it. And it didn’t. He told me what it was, and I see in a minute it was worth fifteen of mine, for style, and would make Jim just as free a man as mine would, and maybe get us all killed besides. So I was satisfied, and said we would waltz in on it. I needn’t tell what it was, here, because I knowed it wouldn’t stay the way it was. I knowed he would be changing it around, every which way, as we went along, and heaving in new bullinesses wherever he got a chance. And that is what he done. Well, one thing was dead sure; and that was, that Tom Sawyer was in earnest and was actuly going to help steal that nigger out of slavery. That was the thing that was too many for me. Here was a boy that was respectable, and well brung up; and had a character to lose; and folks at home that had characters; and he was bright and not leather-headed; and knowing and not ignorant; and not mean, but kind; and yet here he was, without any more pride, or rightness, or feeling, than to stoop to this business, and make himself a shame, and his family a shame, before everybody. I couldn’t understand it, no way at all. It was outrageous, and I knowed I ought to just up and tell him so; and so be his true friend, and let him quit the thing right where he was, and save himself. And I did start to tell him; but he shut me up, and says: “Don’t you reckon I know what I’m about? Don’t I generly know what I’m about?” “Yes.” “Didn’t I say I was going to help steal the nigger?” “Yes.” “Well then.” That’s all he said, and that’s all I said. It warn’t no use to say any more; because when he said he’d do a thing, he always done it.

I hold Huckleberry Finn real tight against my chest and start across the yard. Now we can leave this place behind anytime we want. All we gotta do is join up with Huckleberry Finn. There’s room on his raft for all five of us, I’ll bet. Maybe we’ll find the Arcadia out there somewhere. Even though I have to head back to Mrs. Murphy’s house, it feels like a whole new place. Now it’s got a river in it.

After reading Brodie, I’ve decided that if I had my life to live over again, I would not only climb more mountains, swim more rivers, and watch more sunsets; I wouldn’t only jettison my hot water bottle, raincoat, umbrella, parachute, and raft; I would not only go barefoot earlier in the spring and stay out later in the fall; but I would devote not one more minute to monitoring my spiritual growth. No, not one.

The next morning, I was finally able to have a proper look at the “NOC.” The place looked like some bizarre mountainous Disney Land at first glance. It wasn’t a town and there weren’t any houses to be seen anywhere. It was simply an area that was completely dedicated to having fun in the mountains and on the river. Everything was built on and centered along the large, Nantahala River that flowed swiftly past. There was a restaurant, an amazing outfitting store, gazebos, picnic areas, and places to rent kayaks and rafts to partake in river adventures. It was one of the most unique and fun looking locations I encountered on the journey. DSOH,

Clarence Pontoon, th' military expert iv th' London Mornin' Dhram, reviewin' Gin'ral Buller's position on th' Tugela, says: 'It is manifest fr'm th' dispatches tellin' that Gin'ral Buller has crost th' Tugela River that Gin'ral Buller has crost th' Tugela River. This we r-read in spite iv th' cinsor. Th' question is which side he has crost to. On Friday he was on th' north side in th' mornin' an' on th' south side at night, an' in th' river at noon. We heerd nawthin' Sathurdah mornin'. Th' presumption is that they was nawthin' to hear. Therefore it is aisy to imagine Gin'ral Buller, findin' his position on th' north side ontenable an' his position on th' south side onbearable, is thransportin' his troops up th' river on rafts an' is now engagin' th' inimy between Spitzozone an' Rottenfontein, two imminsely sthrong points. All this dimonsthrates th' footility an' foolishness iv attimptin' to carry a frontal position agains' large, well-fed Dutchmen with mud in th' fr-ront iv thim.

The raft is used to cross the river. It isn’t to be carried around on your shoulders. The finger which points at the moon isn’t the moon itself.

If one clings merely to a system of concepts, one only becomes stuck. The meditation on interdependence is to help one penetrate reality in order to be one with it, not to become caught up in philosophical opinion or meditation methods. The raft is used to cross the river. It isn't to be carried around on your shoulders. The finger which points at the moon isn't the moon itself.

Mark Twain wrote that “a Southerner talks music.” This is Huck Finn describing life on the river: It’s lovely to live on a raft. We had the sky up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss whether they was made or only just happened — Jim he allowed they was made, but I allowed they happened: I judged it would have took too long to make so many. Jim said the moon could a laid them; well that looked kind of reasonable, so I didn’t say nothing against it because I’ve seen a frog lay most as many, so of course it could be done. We used to watch the stars that fell, too, and see them streak down. Jim allowed they’d got spoiled and was hove out of the nest.

After that, the three who managed to get out of their cells climbed through a ventilation shaft to the roof of the building, hopped over a fence, and created a makeshift raft. Morris and the Anglin brothers were never seen or heard from again, but some of the items they took with them were found washed up on Angel Island, leading authorities to eventually conclude that they had drowned in the attempt.

Choosing the right tour package is truly a significant choice to make. If you are planning to spend adventure holidays in the state of Uttarakhand, you ought to not worry about where to go and what to do so that you have the maximum fun. Uttarakhand Adventure is at your service to offer you with just the things you are looking for. Our travel advisors have been exploring the adventure destination in the state for several years. They know all little detail and can advise you tips that you can use to have the time of your life while on an adventure tour to Uttarakhand. Trekking, Camping, Skiing and Water sports are the well-known adventure sports activities besides pilgrimage visit by the devotees. Bestow with glaciers and rivers like Ganga and her divisions, Yamuna, Kaliganga graceful from border of Nepal, Dev Bhoomi Uttarakhand is one of the major water adventure destination in India. Canoeing, Kayaking, White Water Rafting, Water Skiing, Boating and Fishing are the main water adventure sports experienced in Uttarakhand. If you are planning an adventure anniversary, you can get in touch our travel outfitters right away. Depending on your person travel requirements and preference, they can offer you modified adventure tours. In case you want to add more in your tour, our travel counselors are always there to help you. Whether you are a newbie in the field of venture sports or have some knowledge under your belt, Uttarakhand can satisfy the thirst of all abilities. From one corner of this northern Indian condition to the other, adventure lovers will find a diversity of option to indulge in exciting and adrenaline pumping performance. Choose to raft along the outstanding rapids of river Ganges. Go trekking from side to side green valleys and meadows and pass by hilly villages in the foothills of the Himalayas. You can enjoy a choice of other adventure actions like mountain biking, skiing, paragliding and rock climbing in the Himalayas. Angling or fishing in the rivers and streams of the upper Himalayas are as well a lot of fun. Every year tourists crowd this beautiful hill state in enormous numbers for the simple reason that it is in Uttarakhand, they find their vision of an ideal holiday being satisfied.

The meditation on interdependence is to help one penetrate reality in order to be one with it, not to become caught up in philosophical opinion or meditation methods. The raft is used to cross the river. It isn't to be carried around on your shoulders. The finger which points at the moon isn't the moon itself.

This wonderful hill station in Karnataka, often called the Scotland of India is one of the most alluring places to begin your love. Walk over the rolling hills or just sit and relax at the Alps of nature at Coorg. What should you do at Coorg? • Walk over the bamboo bridge to the island of Cauvery Nisargadhama, located at the heart of the river or enjoy an elephant safari through the 64 acres’ bamboo groves of Cauvery Nisargadhama. • Wash away all stress and be joyful at the Abbey Waterfalls; inhaling the aroma of spice plantations and pepper vines. • Play with baby elephants at the Dubare Elephant Camp, trek through the jungles, boost your adrenaline with river rafting or enjoy fishing. • Witness the beauty of Islamic architecture at the Omkareshwara Temple; the temple is dedicated to Lord Shiva.

Rishikesh is one of the most wanted places for adventure lovers. Rishikesh is also well-known among Hindus for its pilgrimage. The free of charge graceful river and also Substring Mountains make this place beautiful for travelers. It is really one of the best locations for people wanting onward to get tons of adventure, and fun. It's also a precious knowledge for nature lovers. The major fair activity in Rishikesh is White Water Rafting. It has grown to a well-liked and daring spot for white water rafting enthusiast as the place offers an impressive experience of average to very tough and rough rapids in the region of River Ganges. Uttarakhand adventure is well known rafting company in Rishikesh. Many adventurous tourists both from India and overseas stay this place to experience the real challenge of white water rafting. All services for white water rafting Rishikesh is available here, and there are preparation guides for rafting from whom a tourist can take help in this sport. River rafting in Rishikesh is one of the majority popular sport activities because of free flowing rivers from Himalayas. Rafting, camping, trekking, and Rock Climbing, Bungee jumping is some of the sports education that a traveler can consider. We are best rafting company in Rishikesh. Important and Helpful Information and Rafting Safety Tips for All Rafting Users • Important Equipments Shell Be take for River Rafting and Camping • Sunglasses and water glasses with retaining cord, Battery Torch • Swimming costume and quick drying shorts for river • Odomos, Antiseptic Cream and Sunscreen Lotion, First Aid Box • Only Use River Sandals & old Sneakers , no flip flops • River Rafting Guide & Splash life jackets. • Other required safety accessories • Waterproof disposable camera with Extra Battery (Full Battery Charge). • Mobile Phone with Extra Mobile Batteries (Electricity may be off) • We provide River Rafting Gears & Assistance • Helmets & river rafting gears • Trekking Shoes

If you looking for Rafting Company in Rishikesh? Then we are the people to call because we have it all. If you are looking for camping in Rishikesh, adventure, fun, anticipation and family bonding then your one weekend with us is awaiting. As in this weekend we give you all kind of rafting in Rishikesh like river rafting, bungee jumping and trekking, if you are the daring kind. And you can dare to paint the town red then paintball is your thing. Diffidence prevents us from audacity, but we do have the best camps for hosting your family weekends. So what are you coming up for Pack your bags as Uttarakhand Adventure is calling. If adventure runs from side to side your veins and you dare to ride high on the wild waters of the Ganga then head to Rishikesh for a rejuvenate and exciting holiday journey. Revitalize your drained body and mind in the good-looking surroundings of this holy town and let the thrill of white water rafting take you absent from the rest of the world. Offering a synthesis of chilly conditions and gorgeous sand beaches with Garhwal Himalaya Mountains in the background, Rishikesh is one of the most important rafting destinations in India. It is a place that continues to strike the thoughts of city dwellers who want to escape from their work routine and droning lifestyle. The best element of river rafting company in Rishikesh is that it can be enjoyed by anyone; you don’t need to be a swimmer or a specialized rafter to enjoy this sport. The strong present of the Ganga flowing down from a very high height through the Himalayan Mountain Range makes it one of the best rivers in India to enjoy rafting adventure. Wash away your fears and go in front and sail crossways the river awash with demanding whirlpools and rapids. If you manage to successfully man oeuvre through the stretch with little help from the guide, you positively deserve a pat on your back for your skirmishing spirit. Most of river rafting packages in Rishikesh are incomplete without experiencing the rustic charm of beach camping under the open sky. The best instance for white water rafting in Rishikesh is from February to May and as of September to November. River Rafting is best enjoyed in the consecrated valley of Rishikesh which boasts of the Great Ganges River downward with an ultimate force and existing precisely as the originator intended her to be- Wild and Free. The attendance of numerous rapids and troughs along the make bigger of the river fortifies the stand of Rishikesh as the River Rafting capital of India. Once here; you will be given a crash course on the sport, its navigational technique, and how to make it safer. Following the briefing, the organizers will hand you gear like rafts, paddles, helmets and life jackets.

River Rafting in Rishikesh is one of the most thrilling water based adventure sports that gives you an up close splatter of untamed nature in a world where the royal river is what you are up adjacent to. Aboard a raft, when the water wave hits your face for the first time; you be familiar with that it will take a little more than a few ounces of bravery to tame the river beast and indeed this duel next to mother nature will enrich your life forever, even if tried only once in a life time…The modern raft is a boat that is inflated comprising of a very durable and thick coated rubberized or vinyl fabric and also has a number of air chambers. The chief apparatus required for rafting are a life jacket ,Safety helmet, Safety Helmet, Paddles, River guide and a Self-Bailing Raft, etc. It is a very daring activity and it may appear a very perilous sport, but once you knowledge it, you will certainly realize the actual thrill of rafting. The best time for water river rafting is spiral summer to February to May and in winter September to November. You probably think that there is completely no way to extreme sports such as rafting can be fun at all. This is false, because all you need for a great sport like this is fun to be an expert to take manages of all rafting. It is a fun place to take part in all the summer sports, when it's nice and warm and all you need is a movement related to the water to take temperatures down. It is also a thrilling sport that many people can participate at the same time. Friends and family can get together and everybody can have a brilliant day of fun. As you begin your boat journey, you will encounter a number of rapids, which you will be necessary to sail over. Uttarakhand adventure is well known rafting company in Rishikesh. This excursion will roughly be two hours long, and will make you use all your power and skill to keep the boat under control. Water will stay splash all over you, and will keep you invigorated and bouncing if you start feeling tired due to the corporeal work that you will do. As an extreme sport, rafting certainly has its drawbacks, but not all make games? The best way to take safety measures so that you can avoid fatal accidents is to acquire a knowledgeable scout who is qualified for the chore and the best gear for rafting. For example, you should always have a life jacket on the obverse rafting, in the unfortunate event that the boat capsize; you'll be able to stay afloat and hope to swim to defense. Also, if you are unsure of your rafting skills, rapids and waterfalls stay away from very high.

Jack rode back into the river, steering his horse toward their raft. Samantha couldn’t see his dark brown hair under his wide-brimmed hat, but she could see the focus in his face, the strength of his arms as he guided his horse. When he glanced over at her, she blushed. Micah elbowed her. “Someone’s sweet on you.” “Hush,” she whispered. “Papa says you’re going to marry him.” She elbowed him back. “I told you to hush.” Micah tipped his hat low over his shaggy hair, but she could still see the grin on his face.

time. A new interdisciplinary community of scientists, environmentalists, health researchers, therapists, and artists is coalescing around an idea: neuroconservation. Embracing the notion that we treasure what we love, those concerned with water and the future of the planet now suggest that, as we understand our emotional well-being and its relationship to water, we are more motivated to repair, restore, and renew waterways and watersheds. Indeed, even as water is threatened, or perhaps because of the threat, public interest in water is very high. We treasure it—or, perhaps more accurately, we spend our treasure to access water for pleasure, recreation, and healing. Wealthy people pay a premium for houses on water, and the not so wealthy pay extra for rentals and hotel rooms sited at the oceanfront, on rivers, or at lakes. Those into outdoor sports, especially fishers and hunters, are fiercely protective of it and have founded numerous environmental organizations designed to protect water habitats for fish, birds, and animals. Over the last two decades, spas have become a sort of modern equivalent to ancient healing wells. As an industry, spas are a global business worth about $60 billion, and they generate another $200 billion in tourism. In 2013, there were 20,000 (up from 4,000 in 1999) spas in the United States producing an annual revenue of over $14 billion (a figure that has grown every year for fifteen years, including those of the recession), and tallying 164 million spa visits by clients.12 Ecotourism provides water adventures and guided trips, often in kayaks, rafts, or canoes. Ocean and river cruises are big business. Cities are creating urban architectures focused on waterscapes, happiness, and sustainability. Museums and public memorials of all sorts often feature water to foster reflection and meditation. And many communities are working to transform industrialized and polluted waterfronts into spaces that are pleasant, environmentally sound, and livable.

since it is the experience that gives traveling its value and not the traveling unto itself, you may want to focus on having adventures instead of just merely travel.  For example, I have individually “traveled” to: The Wind River mountain range in Lander, Wyoming. Dinosaur National Monument in Vernal, Utah. Canyonlands National Park in Moab, Utah. The Grand Canyon outside Williams, Arizona. And The Hoover Dam outside Las Vegas, Nevada. And each individual visit was fun and enjoyable in its own regard. But what I really want to do is raft the Green and Colorado Rivers, which connect all those locations above.  This will not only send me through the Flaming Gorge of Utah, but the confluence of the Green and Yampa Rivers in the canyons of Dinosaur Park, the heart of Canyonlands National Park, Lake Powell, the Grand Canyon, and inevitably a long paddle across Lake Meade to the Hoover Dam.  It will be a genuine, epic, Indiana Jones adventure that very few, if any people, have ever done.  And instead of a mere picture of the Hoover Dam or the Grand Canyon comfortably taken from a paved road, when my little nieces ask me, “What did you do, Uncle Aaron” I won't say, “I went to Paris and sat at a cafe.” I will say, “Uncle Aaron kayaked the whole damn Green and Colorado rivers from Wyoming to the Hoover Dam!”  This doesn't mean we all have to become Larry Ellison, sailing around the world or racing in regattas.  But having adventures as opposed to mere site seeing will add an inordinate amount of purpose and meaning to your life, not to mention a lot of fun.

I want to tell how we crosses the Red River on de Red River Raft. Back in them days the Red River was near closed up by dis timber raft and de big boats couldn't git up de river at all. We gits a li'l boat, and a Caddo Indian to guide us. Dis Red River raft dey say was centuries old. De driftwood floatin' down de river stops in de still waters and makes a bunch of trees and de dirt 'cumulates, and broomstraws and willows and brush grows out dis rich dirt what cover de driftwood. Dis raft growed 'bout a mile a year and de oldes' timber rots and breaks away, but dis not fast[Pg 306] 'nough to keep de river clear. We found bee trees on de raft and had honey.

there, on its banks, build a raft to cross it. The river lay many miles to the north, and the task

The first time the power of art pulled the rug out from under me, I was nineteen years old. It was the early 1970s. I was in Europe for the first time, on my way through Paris to Warsaw with my Polish girlfriend, on a bizarre quest to sell blue jeans behind the Iron Curtain. On that day, during my first pilgrimage to the Louvre, I laid eyes on a painting that seemed the sum of all things. It was a cosmographic perpetual motion machine, a purgatorial charnel house—as far from the warmth of any human sun as anything I’d ever beheld. The moment I saw it, something like Krakatoa went off within me. That painting was Théodore Géricault’s The Raft of the Medusa. Standing before it, I felt the gravitational field of my life shift forever. The Raft of the Medusa is massive in scale, yet its subject matter is as simple as cows in a field, bathers by a river, or a birth in a manger. We see a large raft bearing a crowd of male figures, at the mercy of heaving seas. Their poses suggest a classical frieze, like Elgin marbles from hell—a collective ash heap of individually vivisected souls stripped bare of humanity. Each of the men is marked by a distinct, unforgettable gesture. Some are reckoning with their wounds; others seem to be coming to terms with death; some seem closer to damnation than to life. Every one of them appears hopeless. Our eyes are compelled by shafts of flickering phosphorescent light that rake at angles across the figures in the painting’s foreground, tracing its dark pyramidal structure. It’s a vision of jagged complexity and somehow also of profound grandeur.

This mental simulation also gives me a shopping list: I’d need to invest in a flotation vest, helmet, and other safety gear. Now, instead of (1) raft river (2) have fun (3) don’t die, I have a concrete list of subskills to practice and actions to take to ensure I actually have fun, keep my gear, and survive the trip. Inversion works.

In the middle of the river, with the shoreline out of view, the raft begins to disintegrate. We find ourselves with absolutely nothing to hold on to. From our conventional standpoint, this is scary and dangerous. However, one small shift of perspective will tell us that having nothing to hold on to is liberating. We could have faith that we won’t drown. Holding on to nothing means we can relax with this fluid, dynamic world.

For us, and for the fur children. What if the raft on which we travel with Charon is made of our own sins, and of our own generosity? What if we pay all our silver coins for that? If it is, for us the River Styx will be thick with muddy despair and our raft a rotten carcass……but for our fur children it shall be a gentle drift across a summer borne stream. A friend's rowboat….warmest sunshine…laughter…for we have many sins to build a boat with, but our fur children have none.

It’s white-water rafting. It’s got risks. You can’t have a piece of the wild and not go out in the wild. You can watch it on TV from your cozy chair, you can hear about it from your friends, but there’s nothing like actually being on a river and showing it who’s boss.

Buddhist metaphor of the doctrine which is like a raft for crossing a river. When you have reached the opposite shore, you do not carry the raft on your back, but leave it behind.

Clover and Jotter’s names are still remembered in the botany and river running communities. A hedgehog cactus with pink flowers and dense spines that grows in New Mexico is named Clover’s cactus (Sclerocactus cloverae); it’s now under consideration for endangered species protection. River rafters in Cataract Canyon, rediscovering places once buried beneath Lake Powell and now revealed by drought, informally call two side canyons Clover Canyon and Jotter Canyon, in a stretch of river known as Botany Aisle. Scientists raft the Grand Canyon every year, carrying a plant guide shaped in part by Clover and Jotter’s findings. Their story matters. It adds to the unfolding record of how life, human and nonhuman, finds ways to flourish even in the most unlikely of circumstances. Like others before them, Elzada Clover and Lois Jotter valued their curiosity about the world more than their presumed place within it. They go ahead and, like stars reflected on the river, show the way.

From above—though it would be decades, yet, before satellites and space travel would show the world this way—the Colorado River’s watershed looks like a ragged, many-veined leaf, its stem planted firmly in the Gulf of California. In a wetter climate it might be invisible, hidden by the canopies of trees and overhanging banks of flowers and ferns. But here, in the American Southwest, the river carves and folds the landscape around it as if water holds a weight not measured in ounces. Its headwaters begin in the Wind River Range of Wyoming, a jumbled stretch of the Rocky Mountains, where cold rivulets of snowmelt wake beneath ice each spring to surge into a thunderous rush and pour into the Green River. Jotter and her companions had floated a placid stretch of the Green, 120 miles through the red rock of Utah, where the river loops and doubles back like a dawdling tourist in no hurry to reach the next vista. Earlier that day, they had reached the confluence where the Green joined another tributary known, until not long before, as the Grand. It, too, draws its headwaters from Rocky Mountains west of the Continental Divide. The Grand was shorter than the Green, but it had won the affections of a Colorado congressman named Edward Taylor. In 1921 he successfully lobbied to rename the smaller tributary after its main channel: the Colorado River. “The Grand is the father and the Green the mother, and Colorado wants the name to follow the father,” Taylor said in his persuasive speech to the U.S. House of Representatives, adding as further evidence that the Grand was a much more treacherous river than the Green, killing anyone who tried to raft it.

The San Juan River is one of four sacred rivers that encircle the Navajo homeland, along with the Colorado, the Little Colorado, and the Río Grande. Navajos call it Old Man River and tell stories of a man named the Dreamer who climbed into a hollow log and rode the San Juan to its confluence with the Colorado and then rafted the Grand Canyon, encountering monsters and gods along the way. Hopis tell a similar story, of a youth named Tiyo who traveled through the Grand Canyon in a sealed drum and voyaged all the way to the sea. Mojave, Cocopah, and other Indigenous peoples of the lower Colorado weave boats out of tule reeds. People of European descent had no such deep history of running the unruly rivers of the West. They thought it a sport for adventurers or fools.

Life, I would later learn, is a raging river tumbling over jagged rocks, most of which are never seen. There are no signs warning of broken bones or broken promises or broken hearts. Some of us get knocked off our flimsy rafts. Others cling to the straps with utter desperation. Either way, the journey’s end is the same. The river surges toward a roaring falls, unforgiving and unsurvivable.

You catch my drift?” I wiggled my eyebrows. “Is my coconut bobbing your way? Is my raft sailing up your river? Is my cockerel crowing at your window? Is my spider crawling up your drainpi-

In white water rafting, riders battle waves, heavy rapids, and unpredictable drops. They have to hustle hard to avoid obstacles, respond quickly to changing river conditions, and paddle with all of their strength to safely reach their destination. These heart-pounding bursts of strenuous activity are punctuated by periods of rest, when the water becomes calm enough that riders can float and enjoy the scenery. As any experienced river guide will tell you, the ideal trip is comprised of both hustle and floating—a balance between focused exertion and intentional recovery. Too much hustle leads to exhaustion that can jeopardize the split-second decision-making that’s needed to avoid injury. Too much float will result in a boring and aimless ride, devoid of challenge or purpose.

One way of coming up with a designing principle is to use a journey or similar traveling metaphor. Huck Finn’s raft trip down the Mississippi River with Jim, Marlow’s boat trip up the river into the “heart of darkness,” Leopold Bloom’s travels through Dublin in Ulysses, Alice’s fall down the rabbit hole into the upside-down world of Wonderland—each of these uses a traveling metaphor to organize the deeper process of the story.

Our intuition tells us that technology, social norms, movements and ideas just move forward through time, as if forward progress is a river and those things are on a raft gliding though. We so associate the passage of time with progress that we use the term "the future" to refer to a better, more advanced version of our present world. In reality, if a more advanced future does happen, it's because that future was willed into our lives by a few brave people.

It’s about more than the fact that he forced me to lie. It’s about how tightly he held me in the river that night—every muscle wet and straining with the refusal to let go. Nobody has ever expended that kind of intensity on me. Perverse as it seems, it was something real after all the fakeness of the party. After the fakeness of my entire life. The feeling of hating him and clinging on to him was like nothing I’d ever experienced. Like clinging to a leaky life raft even though it’s going to drown you.

And to you.” She put her hand on his arm, where his sleeve covered the scar from the gunshot wound, and she looked into his eyes. He cradled the side of her face with his palm. “Pretend it’s just a rafting trip. The shooter is dead, and Alex doesn’t even know about the trip, so if we do find something worth shooting people to get, he’s out of the loop.” Alex was harmless, and Jonah had considered telling him about the trip but figured it would be easier to bring him in if they found something. Alex was too sulky for Jonah’s taste, and he didn’t want to volunteer to drag Eeyore around Virginia if they didn’t find anything. “Have you even been rafting?” she asked, apparently still trying to talk him out of going. “Chris knows what he’s doing on the river. We’ll be fine.” He kissed her. “I promise.” She moved her hand from his arm to the back of his neck and pulled him close. Her warm lips moving over his sent chills through his body, and he wrapped her in his arms while he still held his phone. She reached inside his shirt and gently ran her nails up his back, and he dropped his phone onto the couch. Texting Damien back was going to have to wait. **** Damien glanced away from the sizzling pork chop in the frying pan and to his phone, which rested on the counter near

And so I came along in time to know the end of the age of steamboating. I would learn later that there had been other ages of the river that I had arrived too late to know but that I could read about and learn to imagine. There was at first the age when no people were here, and I have sometimes felt at night that absence grow present to my mind, that long silence in which no human name was spoken or given, and the nameless river made no sound of any human tongue. And then there was the Indian age when names were called here that have never been spoken in the present language of Port William. Then came the short ages of us white people, the ages of the dugout, the flatboat, the keelboat, the log raft, the steamboat. And I have lived on now into the age of the diesel towboat and recreational boating and water-skiing. And yet it is hard to look at the river in its calm, just after daylight or just before dark, and believe that history has happened to it. The river, the river itself, leaves marks but bears none. It is only water flowing in a path that other water has worn.

When these weary travelers arrived at an icy river, they expected to find it frozen solid. Instead, a large section of icy water swirled in the middle of the river. With “one poor hatchet,” Washington remembered, he and Gist devoted an entire day to hacking out a rude raft to float them across. Midway across the river, it became wedged in an ice floe, stuck so fast that Washington “expected every moment our raft would sink and we perish.” He tried to free the craft by pushing a pole against the river bottom: “I put out my setting pole to try to stop the raft that the ice might pass by, when the rapidity of the stream threw it with so much violence against the pole that it jerked me into ten feet [of ] water.” Bobbing breathlessly in the current, Washington latched onto one log of the raft and heaved himself onto its surface. Unable to get ashore, he and Gist lay stranded on an island in the river. Although Washington had been submerged in the icy water, it was Gist who suffered frostbite in his toes and fingers. The pair withstood the elements on the island all night. By the next morning, the river having congealed into a sheet of ice, they were able to scramble across to safety. Clearly, to have survived these mishaps, Washington must have been a physical prodigy, made of seemingly indestructible stuff.

In the dangerous kingdom of silence is our raft floating hundreds of corpses are visible on the shoreline burned in sunlight for long they are deformed those whose life had vibrated till now in happiness and grief electric current whose life once while vibrating from desire to desire those lives had flown In this dangerous kingdom of silence is our raft floating burning sun overhead on right is golden colour in the river green carpet on sandy strip peeps a naked man is seated on that strip all alone seeing the raft he jumps in water waves his hand while being washed away by tide as is wants to say something know one knows where he drowns in the heavy current with half ton biscuit and a few saris this small raft floats downstream Dark hall-room lavender fragrance touches nose many men are running this way trampling corpses of relatives jumps over for a fistful of food fights for it with each other dies hundreds of incorporeal species in electric light though goods for charity are not sufficient terrible dearth of vehicles and in order to reach the distressed area the administration never finds a way out in the absence of diggers between one to one & half thousand were buried in one pit Sir payment was Rupees two per day news further says that four persons in Bhootnath's house died when the house fell over them when they were sleeping though his state of affairs was more or less same happiness was not meagre in that tiny house today beneath open sky small time truck driver Bhoothnath stoops with his head between his knees the Sub Divisional Officer said. Twenty rupees more could not be given today from poverty alleviating fund because the person who has the keys to the cupboard has not come.

The Buddha recognized this paradox, and helped his followers understand the difference between the Eightfold Path and the truth that it leads to. He described his teaching as being like a raft. If we need to get to the other side of a dangerous river, we may need to make a raft. It is essential to have in order to cross safely, and with it we can achieve our purpose – to get to the other side. However, the raft is simply a “vehicle” – it gets us to where we want to go, but it is not the destination itself. In the same way, The Eightfold Path is a “vehicle”, but it is not the truth or enlightenment. Once we are safely across the river, we do not need the raft any more.

and held out his hand. Brendan asked about the car and, in particular, the new radiator. Olivier’s face was bright with optimism, as he explained that the radiator had arrived the previous afternoon, but when he’d tried to fit it, it was the wrong one and he had sent it back again. ‘Maybe tomorrow or the day after, then you will be on your journey. You are comfortable at Aunt Clémence?’ Brendan replied that Clémence was the perfect hostess, and yes, he would be happy to stay another day or two. He took out his phone to ring Maura. He thought for a moment, and put the phone in his pocket. It would keep. Brendan walked down to the river and leaned against the brickwork of a bridge. The water was green-tinged and still. He wondered if Maura would enjoy hiring a canoe and spending a few hours on the river. Perhaps there was somewhere locally where they could rent a raft or just have a swim.

At the Coast Guard’s request, the Anderson returned to the place where she had last seen the Fitzgerald and began a search for survivors, and by 10:30, the Coast Guard radioed all ships in the area and requested that they join in the search. The William Clay Ford and the Hilda Marjanne tried to help but were hampered in their movements by the storm that still raged, and it was nearly 11:00 by the time the first Coast Guard search and rescue aircraft arrived.  Almost two more hours would pass before a Coast Guard helicopter finally arrived to assist with the search.  Along with a plane from the Canadian Coast Guard, the aircraft searched the area for three days and patrolled the beach along the lake’s eastern shore looking for survivors and wreckage.  They found paddles, lifeboats and rafts, but no survivors or bodies.

It crawled off the raft while you were making out with the river.

there’s a proverb that says ‘A raft is a good thing to have when you’re crossing a river. But when you get to the other side, put it down.

If life was a rolling river, friendship was the life raft.