His dad slammed on the brakes.
CRUNCH.
The noise behind them was loud. Perry, Bert, Barry, and Trish swiveled around to see what had happened.
“Uh, Dad, we lost our canoe,” Perry said. Which was like the world’s biggest understatement. Their canoe had flown off the top of the Suburban like it was a ski jump, landed on top of Grandpa Joe and Gramma Lana’s station wagon, and slid off the back of it, where it had disappeared. Grandpa Joe was shouting and shaking his fist.
His dad wasn’t going to be happy. But probably not as unhappy as Grandpa Joe looked.
Chapter Four: Input
Yellowjacket Guard Station, the Tukudika River, Bridger-Teton National Forest, Wyoming
Thursday, June 23, 1977, 2:00 p.m.
Susanne
“You guys can put in here, or, if you’re feeling super adventurous, head upriver a ways. Prettiest place you’ll ever see. I proposed to my girlfriend on a rock ledge above the river back there.” Brock lifted the last set of paddles out of the back of the van and set them on the ground.
“What a lovely story.” Susanne buttoned up her overshirt. It was far chillier up here than in town. She was changing into her jeans before they got going, too.
She didn’t give a rat’s hind foot where they put the canoes in the water. Today had gone from bad to worse to downright crummy with the damage to Joe and Lana’s car. The hood was creased and scratched, and their windshield had a starburst of cracks in it. Joe had been apoplectic. His eyes were still bugging out, and his voice was hoarse from shouting. Patrick was pretty upset, too. She was worried that the vein in his temple would rupture from the pounding his blood pressure was giving it.
She readjusted her bandana. “Thank you, Brock. We’ll see you Sunday afternoon.”
“Be safe out there, cats and kittens.” He saluted the group and slapped some sideways fives with the younger kids on his way back to his van. Once in it, he made a U-turn and took off down the mountain.
Susanne shook her arms, then rolled her neck. Then she did a slow three-sixty, trying for a mental re-set. As hostess, of sorts, to this outing, she felt gravely responsible for everyone having a good time. Yes, she understood that Patrick intended to give them his version of the ultimate mountain experience that he thought they should want. But it was her job to make sure no one was left out. That everyone from Bunny to Joe had fun.
She snorted. To the extent Joe ever had fun. Her smile widened. Maybe that was the secret—to give him plenty to complain about. Thank goodness Patrick had learned from his father not how to be, but how not to be. She’d married an intense fellow, no doubt, and his high expectations were hard to measure up to at times, but he was kind, loving, and flexible, and his intentions were good. They were just lucky it wasn’t her family up here, because this would not be the kind of trip they were up for. At least with the Flints, this outing had a chance of success.
Around her, birds chirped. The river gurgled. Children squealed, with the exception of Danny, who was asleep underneath a tree. Across the river, an enormous red cliff rose from the river. She inhaled, all the way to her belly button, and drew in the fresh scent of pine, flowers, clean water, and good old Vitamin Dirt, as Patrick liked to call the earth. The river itself rushed by, a dark grayish green, looking swift but fairly calm through the break in the forest. Aspens, birches, firs, Ponderosa pines, and willows fought for space with the boulders on the riverbank. At the edge of the clearing at the end of the road, a weathered cabin with a plaque beside its door nestled in a field of purple and white lupine. The front end of a Jeep poked out from behind the building. On the far side of the water upriver, cliff faces with trees on top like crew cuts looked down on them. Ever-taller peaks rose behind them. One mountain in particular drew her interest, since it looked like a fat sleeping Indian in profile. Maybe one of Patrick’s Tukudika. A hint of a smile made its way over her lips. Okay, this place is magnificent.
“Mom?” Trish’s voice drew her around. “Can we talk about the babysitting thing?”
Susanne turned to her daughter. “You mean helping out with your cousins?”
“Yes. They’re, um, a lot of work.”
Susanne walked toward the Suburban where her husband was unloading their gear. Pete was doing the same thing at the station wagon. Trish kept pace with her. Patrick seemed less tense than he had in the Suburban after the canoe debacle, but his movements were still jerky, and he wasn’t smiling yet.
“Your efforts will be remembered when it comes time for you to make a down payment on a car. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
Trish whooped. “Thank you. How much, do you think? We’re going to be out here three whole days.”
Susanne couldn’t help it. She laughed. Her daughter might look like a woman these days—willowy, blonde, and rosy-cheeked, with disturbing curves—but she still acted like the girl she didn’t want to be but still was. “The more you help, the more we help. The better your attitude is, the better mine will be. Now, let’s see what your father has in mind.”
But before Susanne could check in with Patrick, a gray-haired couple approached from the cabin. They were dressed identically in button-front shirts with U.S. Forest Service patches. Their shirts were tucked into Bermuda style shorts, belted, and they wore hiking boots and round-brimmed hats. Besides their gender, the main differences were their height, and the petite woman’s very knobby knees.
The woman spoke first, her voice sounding slightly Bostonian, and her eyes sharp behind horn-rimmed glasses and a long fringe of white bangs. She was looking out over the river. “Good afternoon, folks. Looks like you’re planning for a big time.”
The man’s gaze followed hers. “Welcome to Bridger-Teton National Forest and the Gros Ventre Wilderness.” He pronounced it Grow Vaunt, just like Patrick did, but with a Boston accent thicker than the woman’s. He leaned on his walking stick, looked back at Susanne and Trish, and winked. “Seen any Yeti out and about today?”
Susanne laughed. “No Yeti or Abominable Snowmen. I’m Susanne Flint. This is my daughter Trish, and all of those many, many people are our family.”
Trish’s voice was shy. She tended to warm slowly around adults. “Hi.”
The man thumped his chest. “I’m Klaus, and this is my better half, Sylvie. We ranger in these parts in the summer. If we’re not out making our rounds, you can find us here at the Yellowjacket Guard Station, right along Yellowjacket creek.” He pointed upriver. “It feeds into the Tukudika just beyond the cabin.”
Patrick walked up to the group. “Patrick Flint.”
The men shook hands.
“Where are you guys heading with all those little ones?” Sylvie asked.
Patrick launched into his plan. “We thought we’d put in for the night upriver from here, maybe spend some time this afternoon letting the kids fish and play. Do a little gold panning, cook some dinner, camp out. Hit the river tomorrow until we find another great spot to do more of the same.” Patrick pulled the map Brock had marked-up from his pocket. “Any particular spots you’d recommend? These are the suggestions we got from Wyoming Whitewater. We’re looking for adventure and solitude.”
Susanne bit the inside of her lip. By the time they got seven small children to hike upriver while the men portaged canoes and ferried supplies, it would be dark, and play time would be a pipedream. She caught Sylvie’s gaze. The older woman raised her eyebrows. Susanne wasn’t one to talk out of school, so she merely smiled in reply.
Klaus peered at the map. “Don’t know how far you’ll make it with those troops of yours. No, sir. And keeping a group like that happy and together. Good luck. Good luck to you.”
“We got a late start, unfortunately. A dead man washed up down river.” Patrick lowered his voice, although Susanne wasn’t sure why, since all of their family knew about the body.
Sylvie shook her head. “We just heard about that on the radio. It’s such a shame. There’s a death or two every season. That’s why safet
y is job one out here.”
Klaus tapped his walking stick on the ground. “Couldn’t have said it better myself, Sweetheart. Speaking of safety, this is bear country. Be warned and be ready.”
“We are,” Patrick said. “I’ll be hoisting our food into trees away from camp. We plan to make lots of noise.”
While Patrick didn’t mention it, she knew he was also armed with his favorite pistol, his .357 Magnum revolver. She was glad of it, and glad he practiced regularly.
“Good. Now, if you cross the foot bridge here,” Klaus pointed at the map, “my favorite camping spot is just an easy mile hike upriver.”
“Oh, Klaus, don’t send them there. It’s so remote. We haven’t even been up that way to check on things yet this year. And there’s no good trail.”
“The man said they’re looking for adventure.”
Susanne was about to shake her head and say, “Not that much,” when Patrick said, “That we are!”
Klaus beamed. “Outstanding. So, here’s how to find my spot. Mind you, there’ll be two wet-foot crossings. The Yellowjacket, which I was just telling you about, and on the other side of the river, Trout Creek. Might have to do some piggy-backing.” He winked again. “After you cross Trout Creek, hike, oh, a quarter-mile or so to where you’ll find a nice rock cliff looking over the river. Then walk north, on the near side of the cliff. Give it another half-mile more or less—”
“More,” Sylvie said.
“—and you’ll find it. A nice flat area with good-enough access to water from Trout Creek, a big fire ring I put together myself, and views worth the hike. Plus, if you’re panning, the Trout is one of the best creeks for it.”
“A foot bridge over the river.” Patrick rubbed his thumb and fore finger over his upper lip. Susanne realized he hadn’t shaved. She’d just gotten him to hack off his winter growth a few months ago. He was challenged in the facial hair department, but determined—he couldn’t grow anything more substantial than the fur on a mangy dog. She wasn’t ready for it again so soon. “That’s great. It will get us a little further from the road and civilization.”
Sylvie rocked up on her tiptoes. “Be careful out there. The wilderness can be wicked unforgiving. Just ask that fellow who floated down the river this morning.”
Klaus put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “They don’t seem like a bunch of chowderheads to me, Syl. Just remember, we’re usually here if you need us, and there’s a radio in the guard station for the times we’re not. It will reach you all the way back to Jackson.”
“Thank you,” Susanne said. “We’re going to do our best not to need any help while we’re up here.” As soon as she said it, she looked around for wood to knock on. No use in conjuring up trouble.
Chapter Five: Setup
East of Trout Creek, Bridger-Teton National Forest, Wyoming
Thursday, June 23, 1977, 6:00 p.m.
Patrick
Patrick eyed the fire, which had burned down to the nice hot coals they needed for roasting hot dogs and marshmallows for s’mores. In his mind’s eye, though, the picture was different. It was filled with the vista along the river. The cliffs hundreds of feet high. The rocks at their apex jutting out over the granite below—ramparts at the top of a crumbling fortress. The paths of thousands of years of drainage from snow melt, like the tracks of Tukudika tears. Downriver, the smaller red cliffs, where the tears turned to blood. For a moment, he felt melodramatic and foolish. But then he remembered the dense stone sculpted by an unseen hand in rows at the bases of the cliffs. Statues, busts, shoulders, faces. Uncovered by erosion, exposing the heart of the mountain, those who long ago were vanquished and heart-broken here, but could never be forgotten. Not as long as the mountains stood. The Sheep Eaters, he thought. The Tukudika. They’re here. He’d been to Mount Rushmore once as a child. It had been unsettling. Unnatural, even if imposing and impressive. This. This is the real thing.
The river was aptly named, in his opinion.
He cleared his throat and his mind. “The fire’s ready.”
His mother and father were huddled on a log beside him, swathed in layers of sweaters and jackets. His father was sharpening sticks for skewers. Patrick would be disinfecting and bandaging a cut before the evening was through, he was sure.
Joe’s face was pinched. “It’s not giving off any heat.”
“This is as good as it’s going to get, Dad. We can’t build a bonfire up here. It may not be the dry season yet, but forest fire is always a risk. If you’re cold, put on more clothes.”
He knew his father wouldn’t do it. And that his mother would do whatever his father did. They say that boys marry women like their mothers. If so, he would have picked a soft-spoken lady. But, somehow, he’d married a feisty woman who wasn’t afraid to throw coffee cups when she was mad, something his mother would never have done.
He wouldn’t trade Susanne and her feisty spirit for anyone or anything.
From all the way down by the creek, his brother’s laugh carried over the sound of kids laughing and hollering. Patrick stacked a few more pieces of wood by the fire. Pete had always been the more exuberant of the Flint brothers, and Patrick envied Pete’s creativity and risk-taking “life without a net” nature. Patrick lived within the structure he built around his own world. But as much as he admired Pete’s free spirit and sense of fun, he could do without the noise in the wilderness. No self-respecting animal would stick around within five miles of it, so their chances of seeing elk or moose were out the window. On the other hand, it would keep the grizzly bears away. Which reminded him, he needed to have the bear talk with everyone, and soon.
He straightened to survey the dinner-making activity. Susanne and Vera were arranging wieners, buns, ketchup, Frito’s, graham crackers, marshmallows, and Hershey’s bars on a “table” they’d made with a tarp on the ground. Susanne emptied three cans of Wolf Brand chili—no beans—into a large saucepan, the only cooking vessel they’d brought with them, since they planned to rely heavily on sandwiches, fruit, and a few snackable veggies for most of the short trip. She stood and settled the pan carefully on the edge of the coals.
Patrick said, “Careful or it’s going to stick on the side of the pan closest to the coals. We’ll end up with burned chili.”
She dipped her chin and looked up at him. “I’ve got it. Can you go tell Pete and the kids it’s time to eat?”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
She swatted him on the backside as he struck out for the creek.
He’d been on the scouting hike to the creek earlier, and it wasn’t a long walk. Downhill most of the way, too. He exhaled and attuned himself to his environment. The sun was still peeking over the Tetons to the west, but that wouldn’t last long in the shadow of the mountains, even in the week of the longest days of the year.
Soon he’d relaxed enough that his mind wandered over the day, stopping and processing when it encountered troublesome bits, of which there were plenty. Honestly, it had been a challenge. A big one. If today was any indication, this trip was going to test his leadership capabilities. Forget the drama of the dead guy at Wyoming Whitewater. The surprise of the seven dwarves’ arrival. The canoe to the station wagon. No, even without all that, just starting at the guard station and hiking upriver with the kids had been like pushing overcooked spaghetti.
Each of the men had been carrying a canoe overhead and a pack on their backs, with Trish and Perry carrying the fifth canoe, and arguing about it the entire way. Susanne and Vera were carrying heavy packs as well. That had left only his mother for serious child wrangling. She’d been raised a country girl, and she was no shrinking violet, but seven small children running wild on slippery rocks and in and out of the forest had been too much for her, especially with Danny still recovering from the two Benadryl Patrick had discovered he’d taken instead of the one Patrick had recommended. When they’d stashed the canoes riverside at a giant rock that the kids thought looked like a Teddy Bear, right at the head of the tra
il to the camping site, he’d thought they’d go out of their minds. They were cute, but they were a handful.
A few times, his father had tripped and nearly gone down. Patrick had pretended not to notice it, or the foul language accompanying it each time. Joe Flint learned to cuss like a sailor in the Navy, and he resisted all of Lana’s efforts to convince him it wasn’t appropriate for genteel conversation. Patrick was surprised his father was having trouble. He’d been an intelligence agent behind enemy lines in World War II. Endured harsh conditions. Won a Silver Star he wouldn’t talk about. Terrorized two strapping teenage boys with ease. Still looked tough enough to take on Robert Blake in a fist fight. But his dad was showing his age, and it worried Patrick.
Notwithstanding his father’s issues, Patrick figured the adults alone could have made it from the guard station to the camp site in an hour, uphill and carrying canoes. But it had taken them three with the kids. Three. How could two miles, more or less, take three hours? So much for an afternoon of fishing and panning. It had been all they could do to put together dinner, and when that was over, they would barely have enough daylight left to set up tents.
Patrick rounded a curve in the narrow path—little more than a wildlife trail, really—and came upon a sight that banished his negative thoughts and brought a smile to his face. Seven kids, naked to their skivvies and t-shirts, were splashing in the stream, despite the cool air and cooler snow melt water. Danny was still a little sluggish, but he was whooping it up, too. Perry and Trish, with their shoes off and jeans rolled up, had joined in, although they were keeping their distance and staying a little drier than their younger cousins. Pete was shirtless and the center of it all, his hair plastered against his forehead and his pants sopping wet. He was leading the kids in a singalong. One of Perry’s favorites. “Rockin’ Robin,” by The Jackson Five. They were all so into it that they didn’t even notice Patrick watching them.
Scapegoat: A Patrick Flint Novel Page 4
