"Haunted by Waters:" Riverboarding, Depression, and Loss

Originally published in April of 2017

Note: Thanks to Georgia Franklin for patiently waiting for me to write down this story about her amazing husband, Mike.

At the conclusion of A River Runs Through It, Norman Maclean writes:

Like many fly fishermen in western Montana where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.?Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of those rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.?

I am haunted by waters.?

If there is a more beautiful combination of words in the English language, no one from western Montana will admit it. I fell in love with the poetry of those words when I was a young man, but I could not grasp the wisdom in them until my own years began to pile on like a late winter snow.

My friend Mike Franklin could be described by his resume. He had an Ivy League mind, the drive of West Point, the courage of a paratrooper, the faith of a military chaplain, and the heart of a college counselor. ?Mike was a big man with wild gray curls, an easy smile, with a deep voice marked by the South.

Our friendship was forged through common life experiences in West Point, rugby, the Army, our faith, a career in mental health, and personal battles with depression. Mike was always interested in knowing what tricks I used to manage my own depression to see if he could put them to use either to help his students or himself.

One afternoon, I mentioned to him how I use riverboarding to clear my mind and how Xsports4Vets has used the same model help veterans reintegrate to their communities. It seemed that the words had barely slipped from my mouth before Mike was calling me telling me he'd bought a riverboard, wetsuit, flotation gear, fins and catcher's leg shields.?

I took Mike for his first session on the Gallatin River soon after, then gave him directions towards a closer stretch of water at the Boulder River. I warned him to start after the town of Basin, because the stretch of water above that was a dicey Class IV. I'd had some brutal rides on its combination of serious hydraulic and obstacles.

A year later, Mike and I drove to the Boulder River for another run. I suggested that we put in after Basin. It was early in the season and I wasn't sure I was ready for a Class IV rapid. Mike teased me into going after the bigger water. It didn't take much teasing. Within minutes, we geared up and splashed into the wild, dancing currents.

The river turned around the bend. I was floating about forty yards ahead of Mike. When the view opened up, I saw a downed pine tree stretching two thirds of the way across the river. Whitewater lingo describes a downed tree as a "strainer," an obstacle that lets the water through but will trap a person under the pressure of the raging river behind them.

I was just beyond the river's right bank and had to kick and paddle across the river in order to avoid the grasping branches. I made it almost all of the way, then spun my board off the edge of the tree top before it could catch.

I looked back up the river and yelled to warn Mike. ?He came into view, saw the downed tree and begin scrambling to get across the river. Mike had a strong kick, but was too much of a novice to incorporate hand paddling to boost his speed. Mike made it to the center of the tree as the bow of his riverboard struck the wood.?

Mike's body whipped around until he was pinned flat against the straining tree. Mike struggled against the river's massive flow. He was losing strength fast. It was clear from his face that the current was beginning to pull him under.

I threw my board onto the bank and ran up toward Mike. ?"Don't push against the water!"

Mike nodded that he'd heard me. ?

I yelled again, "Let go of the board and roll slowly under the log!"

Mike's shoulder began to roll. I could see the rolling motion freeing his body from the powerful force of the strainer as he edged up the tree. ?His shoulder slipped under the obstacle, followed by his hips and feet.?Mike disappeared for a moment under the churning water, then reemerged among the rapids. ?I stepped out into the water and reached out my hand. ?Mike grasped it.?

I looked into his wide blue eyes. They radiated a clear will to live. ?Mike had just faced the reality of death and every ounce of his being was happy to be alive.

Six months later, I received a call that Mike's wife, Georgia, had returned home to find a suicide note. His depression had reemerged that summer and overwhelmed Mike with deep psychological pain. Mike's brain's neural circuits of grief, loss and suffering continued to fire regardless of his experiences and interactions with the outside world and the life that he loved. Our last conversation had been about trying to get him into cutting-edge treatments or research studies out of state or even out of country. Unfortunately, Mike was drowning and couldn't continue suffering while hoping for a miracle.

Sheriff Dutton's team found Mike's body amidst the pines on Stemple Pass above the headwaters of Norman Maclean's beloved Blackfoot River.?In the years that followed, I've worked with some of the world's leading experts on depression. I know now that Mike had a version of depression that would not respond in the long-term to any kind of treatment, at least the kinds of treatment that were available in Montana in the fall of 2014. That depression lowered a dark curtain of internal pain over my friend's life that he could not roll over like that downed tree on the Boulder River.

I grasp that reality and I've used it to help me understand Mike's passing and honor his memory, but my heart will always hold the image of Mike's wide blue eyes radiating a will to live. His neural circuits afire with adrenaline and fear. Pushing that crippling depression aside and setting him free among the seething waters of the Boulder River to fight to remain with his wife, friends, colleagues and the students of Carroll College that he so loved.

I am haunted by waters.?

Post Script Note: Dedicated researchers, clinicians and funders are making serious progress in the effort to find an answer to this deadly conditions. I've seen amazing strides over the past few years and I'm deeply thankful for the people who are pushing the boundaries to make it happen.