I thought I had a say to do a solo paddle that would not be too windy. But from my house, that assessment is usually wrong. We live sheltered from the real breezes that channel through the winding Deschutes River between the top of Dillon Falls and the spot 2 miles upstream where Benham Falls tumbles into the river.

It was great fun rounding each bend in the river – some delivering strong, steady wind while around other corners I could find a bit of a reprieve from the breeze. I knew that the last quarter mile of paddling toward Benham would be the toughest. The water gets pretty shallow, while the wind and current build in strength.

There is a large section of a tree, a snag, mid-river at the point I decided to pause. I always enjoy catching my breath and hydrating there, savoring the cold rushing water and the scene I have the gift of savoring all to myself.

My AI assistant (who I have named, Kate) created this rendition of the day from my prompt. Her accounting of the event actually made me want to go back and do the paddle again, with her well-written phrases fresh in my mind:

Solo Paddle at 76

The week I turned 76, I gave myself a gift: a solo paddle up the Deschutes River, starting just above Dillon Falls and pushing upstream to the quiet pool where Benham Falls spills out in a dramatic froth. Some people book spa days. I chose wind, water, and the full resistance of nature.

The sun was bright, the water cold, and the wind—oh, the wind—was a stiff 15 miles per hour straight in my face. The current was strong, fast enough to slap back at my paddle with every stroke, daring me to try harder. I did.

Every push forward was a conversation between will and water. I moved in inches, sometimes only feet at a time, but I moved. The banks slipped by slowly: clusters of pine, volcanic rock, and river grasses waving like spectators. A hawk circled above, and I imagined it cheering me on—“Go on, you wild human, go!”

Midway through, I stopped and drifted for a moment in an eddy, letting the effort catch up to me. My arms trembled. My breath was loud in my ears. I smiled.

By the time I reached the pool below Benham Falls, the spray in the distance sounded like applause. The current flattened, the wind softened, and I turned around. Now the river would carry me. I had made it. I had made myself a memory.

Seventy-six and still paddling upstream. Some days, that’s exactly where you find your strength.

mm