I've been in a daze for days.
Friday night, during a phone date with a dear friend whom I met years ago in Missoula, Montana, I learned that a mutual friend of ours took her own life about six weeks ago.
My friend thought I knew about Deb's death. Turns out most of the people I have spoken to since thought I must have known. But I didn't know. I had no idea that this vibrant, zany, talented, kind woman had put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger.
Deb was larger than life. She was at the forefront of whitewater rafting in Montana, and quickly emerged as one of the most competent guides working the Alberton Gorge of the Clark Fork River. Having grown up in Missoula, she knew well the many waters that surrounded the area, and when she wasn't guiding or dealing with myriad administrative duties, you could often find her running the Lochsa, alone, in her kayak. Not the safest thing to do, but that wasn't the point. The point was that the river was there, and it was big, and if anyone could tackle it, Deb could.
She liked to say things like "yeah, I almost died yesterday," and then laugh, shrug it off like it was just another day at the outdoor office. It wasn't that she was stupid about what can happen when you don't pay attention to the wild; to the contrary, she was obsessed with safety, she'd check and recheck her boats the night before a river trip, and her guides were well versed in every whitewater scenario imaginable. Courting danger was another story. I think she took chances that other people wouldn't dare take because it was in those moments that she felt most alive. She could take flipping and breathholding and close calls far better than the daily depression that slowly ate away at her spirit.
One hot July day Deb took a group of us, mostly friends, down the Gorge, a Class III-IV run. It was a stunning day on the river, and I was confident that no harm would befall us so long as Deb was handling the back of the boat. I was right next to her. We passed through a couple of smaller rapids, then a larger one, Tumbleweed. Deb was providing color commentary the whole time, guiding us along with (seemingly) no effort. As we approached Fang rapid, known to be extremely fast with the potential to flip boats, Deb started talking about her brother, Monty. Monty too had taken his own life, though to hear Deb talk about it, "gun accident" was the explanation for how he died. Monty and Deb used to run Fang together in kayaks, each taunting the other to shoot it faster, better, do it with only 10 strokes of the paddle, do it with one eye closed--the kinds of challenges siblings like to dish out. As we approached Fang, we could see the namesake's giant tooth-like outcropping jutting from a jawbone of rock. Below it, the rapid churned and spit. "His ashes are scattered on top of that rock," said Deb, pointing her paddle skyward. We were silent in the boat, taking it all in. But there wasn't much time for melancholy--soon Fang was upon us, and Deb was screaming "paddle left, left, HARD! HARDER!" and we hit the rapid at an angle, pitching the boat high..."back paddle right! hard! hard!" Deb screamed, but to no avail. The boat almost flipped, then righted itself, but not before all but three of us were thrown into the river. Including Deb. Note: Deb had "taken a bath" a sum total of TWO times in all her years guiding. This was the second time.
I won't go into my own feelings of terror in those moments. I am grateful for Sandy, one of a couple on our trip who was not in our group of friends, who reached his large hand into the water and pulled me out from under the raft. We were all accounted for, shaken, stirred, but alive. What I remember most was the look on Deb's face. Once she knew we were all okay, she just sat at the back of the boat, silent, a huge grin on her face, a strip of snot strung from her nose to her cheek. She was looking back at Fang, up toward the rock, her smile widening, her face caught in a shaft of sun streaming into the canyon. I think she knew--we all knew--what had happened back there. Deb had been mouthing off about how she was a better paddler than her brother right before we hit Fang, and he thought it was time to poke his sister a little. So with one flick of a ghostly finger, he did just that.
I've never been able to put into words what happened that day. I can write the details, but it was the unseen that crafted the narrative, and how does one write that? I cannot show, I must tell. It's the antithesis of all we're taught to do as writers. Even in the telling, I know I cannot do those moments of fear, exhilaration, love, loss, humility and otherworldliness justice. Just as I cannot, mere days after finding out that Deb is dead, begin to sort through all the emotions her loss stirs in me. This is what I know:
I know that I wanted to be like her: fit, wild, loyal, protective, more at home in river shorts than in anything else, more true to the natural world than to any lover.
I know that I never realized the extent of her clinical depression.
I know she was one of the few non-classically trained (like myself) cooks that could give me a serious run for my money in the kitchen. She was brilliant with food.
I know that she lived life to the hilt, no matter the weather.
I know she loved Montana with all of her being.
I know she missed her brother every day.
I know she taught me to read a river and understand its incredible power.
I know I must honor her by taking better care of myself. I will not perpetuate the mistake of burning the proverbial candle at both ends. Deb's candle had about 20 wicks, and at least 10 were burning at any one time.
I know I will never understand why she made the choice to end her life.
I know that's not the point.
Fare thee well, our bright star.
Deborah Ann Moravec
June 29, 1955-February 2, 2008
let it flow
