On a narrow trail, near the end of the herd of sheep plowing forward on a cool June Saturday morning, we hiked along the bank of the lake. The train of humans was mostly silent, for it was too early on a Saturday morning to do anything but sleep, yet thirty-some-odd 17 and 18 year olds had arisen for the weekly hike. However, near the end of the line, where I stumbled along, walked River Fuchs. A fiery Scotsman with fiery hair and a fiery tone, he was quick to tell me his last name was pronounced “fox.”
     On this cool (for June) morning, as we trundled along the bank of the giant lake, the Scotsman was not being silent like the rest of us, normal human beings. For lack of better to do, this would be the day he began, in ancient vernacular, a cult. It would be his namesake, Riverianism. “Tenet of the number one: Thou shalt not take a hoe before thou take a bro!” More of his usual pomp.
      It was a beautiful morning, and the circumstance of the day quickly drowned out the boisterous Scotsman. Walking along the meager dirt path, the lake just yards away on my right, it was a beautiful day. The low sun crept in through the branches above in intermittent bursts as the wind splayed the branches to and fro. The glassy surface of the wide lake reflected what sunlight found it, sending it dancing among the trees on the opposite side of the water, and the buzz of the morning’s wildlife encompassed the hikers. The maple and ash trees shot up at random, covering the entire vicinity of the lake, forcing the thin dirt path to zig zag back and forth parallel to the lake. At times the lake was completely out of view, while at others it was so close that a misstep could submerge me.  “Tenet 6: Negativity shalt not be met with negativity, but instead with enlightenment!”
     To my left lay the seemingly incessant forest, forever slanting up and away from the lake. The woods grew darker the further you got from the path, and the trees grew larger. Each tree had an insalubrious orange fungus straddling it, which I had to turn and walk backwards to see, for it only grew on the same single side of every tree. Walking backwards would quickly lead to my demise, I found, with the constant zigging and zagging of the trail. Closer to the ground, the vegetation grew thicker, lusher, and greener. Leaves of all races and agendas sprouted from an even more diverse array of trunks, shoots, and vines, completely sheltering the earth from the knee down. I had no doubt about the complexities of what lives must lay beneath that canopy. The marching ants, the devious spiders, the lazy field mice, all making lives beneath the cover of the poison ivy and shrubbery. I watched a squirrel scamper up the ridged trunk of an ash tree, as it had probably done hundreds of times before. “12: Riverianism is no faith, nor religion, nor cult, but a lifestyle. It includes all.” I was damn sure it was a cult.
     After a quick half hour, we reached the shore of the lake that was opposite where we had started. The forest gave way, for the moment, to 30 yards of stone-covered beach in the middle of which a small tributary flowed into the lake. A years-old dilapidated wooden bridge was built crossing the small stream, but it would be safer to brave the ankle deep water and ford it. River had halted his tirade for the moment, and we stopped to try skipping rocks and respite. I let the Swiss Gear backpack slide from around my shoulders to the stony ground and bent to find a skip-worthy rock. Another who had accompanied us on the hike, a large boy who had obviously never skipped a rock in his life, had selected a baseball shaped stone and was in the middle of hurling it at the surface of the water. It hit 15 feet from the bank with a splunk and sank straight to the bottom. He bent to find another projectile. I had found a masterpiece of a skipping stone. It filled my palm from base of pinkie to base of thumb, was smooth without ridges, and above all, flat. I turned to the lake, aiming to skip it the 450 yards back to the dam on the opposite bank, and reached back like I was throwing a heater. The release was near perfect. I flicked my wrist just as I reached the release point in my sidearm throw. It rocketed from my grasp to its first skip, 10 feet away, where it leaped back into the air as if it were alive. It dove back toward the surface when a small disturbance of the water occurred in that region. The stone skimmed to the surface, appeared to hit something just below the surface, half-skip again, and then spiral sharply and unceremoniously to the left, from whence it would not again ascend. I grimaced. “15: Nothing worth having has been had without effort, and no Riverian shall achieve anything not worth having!” His biblical dialect was starting to slip, and the hike was beginning anew.
     We trudged toward the second beginning of the path on the other side of the beach, paying the small brook no heed in our waterproof hiking boots. The open terrain narrowed quickly back down to the single-file-accommodating path it had been before the beach. With River in the lead, I fell in fourth, in front of the poor-at-skipping giant and behind the Riverian extremists, who laughed along with every word that River spouted. “16. The induction of new followers shall be met with the taking of a new name. The forename shall indicate some body of water, whilst the sur shall reference an animal,” he dictated. “For example, River Fox.” I, of course, had shown no interest in this farce, but this tickled me. Of course, all followers would conform to his given name. Seeing my mirth, he continued, speaking directly to the hiker behind him, a tall skinny blonde boy who could not keep from smiling at every tenet. “You, good brother, shall be Isthmus Lion. And you,” indicating the tall, wide, brown-haired guy next in line, “shall be Yangtze Owl.” 5 seconds of non-argument later, they had accepted their new names and become fully fledged Riverians. River turned flamboyantly on his heel and pressed onward into the jungle.
     Now on the return journey, the sun shone from the other side of the lake on my right. Now higher, its reflection on the lake was even clearer than before, though looking in that direction was blinding. Again on my left was the foreboding forest, thick with wildlife. This side of the lake held rougher terrain, many more changes in elevation than the opposite. Some of the edifices were even so steep as to require digging in with the feet and climbing with the hands. After a particularly sharp incline, the path veered directly left, away from the lake and the sunlight that accompanied it. Seeing it to be the only means of advancement, we pressed on, into the darkening wood. If the sun were higher in the sky, this region would’ve been more negotiable, but with it so low, the cover of the trees allowed only for a minimum of natural light. It only led away from the light for a few dozen yards, but the difference in light was astonishing. After that distance, an unsteady and precarious looking log led across a minute canyon to the other side where the way veered back toward the lake. The first three in our party, River and his two minions, crossed over the log, one step at a time, without issue. I began to make my way across, placing one foot directly in front of the other so as to keep my balance. And then, nearly causing me to topple, River’s booming voice assaulted my eardrums: “23: To be a Riverian is to be without fear. You must lead by example in all things, especially in areas of manhood!” I took the last steps very quickly, half losing my balance, and stumbled to the other side.
     With the path once again weaving along next to the lake, it was plain to see that our journey was nearing its end. The dips and dives of the path were easing, and the hike was taking a turn for the peaceful. Rounding a corner, those of us lucky enough to be in the vanguard came face to face with Mother Nature. Three deer, a doe and two tiny fawns were less than ten feet away, seemingly unaware of our presence. One of the fawns, on the left off of the path, nibbled daintily at some unknown plant. The mother watched it carefully, wide eyes staring toward its feeding offspring. The third and closest, another fawn, was sipping at the water of the lake, within reaching distance of River. We stood watching, silently, as the three beasts went about their morning business. The mother, who stood on the path, directly in our way, flicked her tail up and let loose her bowels. I took note to step around it. Then, “CYNICS WILL LEARN THE WAY…” The deer froze for half a second before turning to flee. Seconds later the last haunch disappeared into the brush on the left of the path. “OF THE RIGHTEOUS THROUGH THE EXAMPLE—“With a massive splash, River’s back hit the lake. I had shoved past his two cronies and ensured his demise with a single swift push. He looked up at me from the knee-deep water, absolutely astonished for a moment. Then, with little hesitation, he broke into a huge grin. “Judas!” he laughed. He had known all along that he was affecting me. I should have known it was only for the purpose of my chagrin. He had won, and I respected him for it. I smiled too. Stepping with one foot into the mire, I offered my right hand out to him in an offer of peace and help. He reached toward it, slowly at first. Then, his hand darted toward to my wrist. I tried to snatch it away, but he had won again. With a mighty tug, he upended me into the lake with him. I resurfaced with a laugh and a hard, friendly punch aimed at his shoulder. But it was gone, for he was already fighting his way back to land. With another grin, I did the same. In soaked, uncomfortable fashion, we quickly completed the hike and raced back toward our room to be the first in the shower. It was only 8 in the morning, and the day was already a successful one.
    I later took the Riverian name Lake Rhinoceros.