by David Boyle
Tony had remained uncommitted. Until that evening.
“For heaven’s sakes,” Lorraine had said. “It sounds like a wonderful trip. And you’ve got the time.” Tony pointed out that she must have missed the part about the rapids. “No honey, I didn’t. And if you’re that concerned about it, go with them this weekend. Didn’t you say they’re going on…”
“The Vermilion,” he said. “If the weather holds.”
“…the Vermilion, that’s right. It can’t be that bad if Mark is taking his son. Give you a chance to see if you like it.” She smiled knowingly, a twinkle in her eyes. “Do I always have to talk you into these things? Go on. You go boating, and Donita and I will go shopping. We’ll all have fun this weekend!”
Tony returned that Saturday evening, grungy, damp, and crowing about Wildcat, though admitting it had taken him and Ron twice to do it! Terrifying and exciting all at the same time, there was so much to think about that he couldn’t recall being scared at all. “The before part is what gets you,” he explained, the anticipation of being in the right place and doing the right thing at just the right time. Learning it all would take time. But then, wasn’t that what friends were for?
It was a long winter, and by spring 1987, Tony was ready to shelve the books. He’d never been to Arkansas before, or experienced the hilly back country as only a passenger in Ron’s van could. Even better, the Buffalo was everything they’d told him to expect, and more. The endlessly curving watercourse and myriad rapids. The towering stone cliffs. The impromptu lunch stops alongshore. It was, simply, the most fun he’d ever had on an outdoors trip.
Tony was quick to sign on for other trips, but his work schedules were often at odds with timetables set by the vagaries of life. Trips were missed, and his paddling skills suffered as a result. By his own admission, he would never be a backseat paddler. But then, no one seemed to mind having an all-the-time bow paddler in their midst.
His friends were excellent teachers, if not always patient in the face of big waves. But swims became less frequent, and even they were compensated for by the on- and off-river antics and camaraderie that permeated his too-infrequent outings. When in their company, Tony could be himself and do what he wanted as opposed to the expected formality of the stuffy business dinners and luncheons he so often had to endure. Sometimes gruff, often rowdy, there was no such thing as a faux pas with his canoeing companions, either on or off the river. His river-rat friends had, in fact, opened a new dimension on his life.
Their boating skills were honed and perfected over the years—on the Hudson, Schroon, and others in New York; the West in Vermont, and the Peshtigo and Wolf rivers in Wisconsin, among others. Some were difficult. Some were easy. All taught lessons the hard way—by doing—the best with mid to high Class III rapids, and an occasional heart-pounding Class IV.
Plans changed, schedules changed, and after years on the “To Do” list of rivers, vacation schedules and personal availabilities had finally aligned to bring the Powderhorn River within their grasp. A ball-buster to get to and a challenge to run in open boats, the Powderhorn River trip would be their ultimate back country adventure.
True beyond their wildest imaginations, none could know how challenging, how wild, and how savage their upcoming adventure would be.
1
Hayden couldn’t quite get over what he was seeing. “A minute ago, I thought he was crazy. But now…?” He shook his head. “Guess I never realized what it meant to have a way with animals.”
The alien turned at the sound of buzzards squabbling upriver.
“Maybe so,” Mark said. “But he’s taking a hell of a chance. You get a good look at those teeth?”
With his long hair and camouflage, Charlie resembled a 60s-era hippie dad grooming his psychedelic progeny when the dinosaur nipped at his shirt. “No!” he scolded, and tapped the animal’s snout. “I know what it smells like”—he ruffled his sleeve—“but this is me, silly.” The dinosaur nosed the splotches, Charlie glancing with a timid smile when laughter erupted along their makeshift table. Chuckling, shaking their heads, everyone was taken with the goings-on in the clearing. Everyone except the alien, still focused on the forest and as seemingly disinterested as ever.
Mark was trying hard not to fall off his seat. “You’re lucky we don’t have a tape recorder.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Charlie, gently stroking the dinosaur neck when it jerked around. A hiss grew in the animal’s throat. The laughter stuttered to a halt.
Ron snatched the rifle from beside the canoe. “Get the hell away from him, Bull!”
Charlie scuttled across the stubble, a hiss rippling the dinosaur’s lips as it stared intently upriver. “It’s not me he’s hissin’ at,” he said, scrambling to his feet. “It’s somethin’ out there.” The dinosaur bolted, Hayden flinching one way and Tony the other when it vaulted the canoe.
Ferns stilled in the dinosaur’s wake. “What the hell’s that all about?” The birds had stopped their incessant chatter, the rapid’s distant rumble filling every nook and cranny of the unnervingly still air.
“Ready your weapons,” the alien said with quiet urgency.
They searched the forest, listening, waiting. Something was out there.
A minute passed. And still, no one moved.
Thrashing sounded in the distance. Vultures started screeching. And a second later a roar the likes of which had never been heard by human ears swept the forest like a shockwave.
“God in heaven!” Tony gasped, raindrops splattering to the ground. “What on earth is that!?”
*****
4 Days Earlier…
The mountains were the first sign they were actually getting somewhere, though at sixty-five miles an hour, they weren't getting there very fast. Charlie snapped on the radio, hit the scan button—still only static—and snapped it back off again midway through the second time around. “You sure we took the right turn back there?”
Ron took a sip of coffee. “Yeah I’m sure. Who’s the navigator anyway?” Charlie shot him a look. “Omaha was not my fault. Trust me, Bull, we’re almost there.”
Charlie slumped back. “Sure we are,” he said without much conviction. After a thousand miles he knew ‘almost there’ could mean anything from minutes to hours. But the turn off couldn’t be too much farther. Hell, another couple of hours and they’d be back on the interstate, so it had to be before that.
They were off the flats and away from the corn fields that had stretched across the better part of Illinois, through Iowa, and what had seemed a nearly endless Nebraska. The Corn Belt had been more like a sea, and Charlie had seen enough of it to last a lifetime. Timber and hills were more his speed, and here at last there were plenty of both.
The tires droned along the highway, snipping away at the asphalt. Another rise, no different from the rest. But no… Charlie peered ahead to an off-white speck winking through the limbs of a gnarly pine along the road. “Think that’s it?”
Ron glanced off, then plucked the map from the dashboard. “Should be.” The sign crept into view, eventually proclaiming: JCT COUNTY H.
“This better be one hell of a river.” Charlie sighed. “And here I thought the drive to New York was a bitch.”
“I offered to take the wheel,” Ron reminded him, knitting his fingers behind his neck. “Worst part’s behind us. In an hour or two you’ll forget all about how long it took to get here.”
Charlie reached for the handset and pressed ‘send’. “Yeo… Road Hog.” Seconds passed, and still no answer. He looked to the rearview mirror, and beyond his bow case spied the red slash of Mark’s canoe inching along the highway a quarter mile or so back. He tried the CB again. “Prentler, Bennett…? Anybody awake back there?”
Hayden’s voice crackled over the radio. “Keep your pants on, Charlie. What’s up?”
“You can say adios to blacktop. Our turnoff’s just ahead.”
“Thanks for the update.” Hayden shifted his weight. “I don’t know
about you guys, but I’m feeling like part of this seat. Thank God for cruise control is all I can say.”
The CB crackled. “Copy that.”
Even with the Cavalier’s seat as far back as it would go, Hayden was never quite able to find enough room for his legs. He slapped at the tingle creeping out from under his butt, and seeing the Blazer’s brake-lights come on, worked his leg to hurry the blood along. The canoes wobbled when the SUV made the turn. The ropes were holding, though they could definitely use some tightening. Then again, the boats would be down soon anyway. He slowed to make the turn, and noticed the hand-painted sign tacked to the fence post at the corner.
Little Hawk — 40 miles
He couldn’t help but smile. Two years’ planning was about to pay off, the blue line on his map tantalizingly close to becoming real. The Powderhorn was out there, somewhere, waiting not so many miles ahead. His foot pressed a tad harder on the accelerator.
County H headed up and along the nape of a wooded ridge, and once beyond sight of the highway dwindled into little more than a rutted two-track. Hayden twisted the passenger side visor to block the sun, then rolled down the window. The air swirled in, cold and invigorating. An elixir to cleanse the soul.
After a zillion miles of manicured flatlands, it was heartwarming to be driving through country that showed no signs of either bulldozers or plows. Chicago had some pretty swell skyscrapers, but none came close to the ones made by the patient hands of Mother Nature. He rolled the thought around in his head, and conjured up a sign of his own.
You are now leaving civilization
Have a nice day
There was that smile again.
Most days there were deadlines and bills, traffic jams and short-sighted managers. Not today, and not tomorrow. Not for an entire week! And though he’d never admit it out loud, it was nice to get away from the wife. His whitewater trips had seldom been cheap, and this one was no exception: a refrigerator, a TV for the den, and, oh yeah, a dinner and play at Pheasant Run. The fridge had needed replacing anyway, and while he wasn’t a TV fanatic, having a set in the den would get Trina and her friends out of the living room. And who didn’t like an occasional night out? Even Anne Mae could be reasonable at times. That, or just plain unpredictable. Like the thing about “having a bad feeling about this trip”. Uh huh, and flaky too!
A rabbit with enormous ears hopped across the road.
All that work-a-day stuff was behind him, and so long as he hadn’t forgotten anything important, there would be no need to think about home or work for a very long time. It was enough to make the calls, the planning, the drive, and even Ron’s going on about bear hunting worthwhile.
His partner was somehow still asleep, strands of his beard poking from under the brim of the sweat-stained cowboy hat he always wore canoeing. “You were right, Bennett,” Hayden said with a smile, cruising up the latest rise. “It really isn’t anything like West Virginia.”
The Cavalier bounced over the rise, Hayden busy admiring the scenery and headed down when a glint caught his eye. A puddle straddled the hollow below, wetted tracks leading in and out. Hayden slammed on the brakes: the Cavalier shuddered: the wheels locked but still sliding. The Cavalier waffled, and he tried to correct, but the steering had suddenly gone stiff.
“What the…?” He searched the instrument panel, the tachometer registering zero revolutions. Clutch it, dummy!
Hayden clomped his foot down and keyed the ignition. The bumper rammed the puddle. The canoe sagged forward. Brown sludge burped over the hood and across the windshield as the engine caught, the Cavalier slowing fast when Hayden downshifted and gunned the engine.
Gray rooster-tails sprayed past the windows, the engine whining as rocks and pebbles machine-gunned the wheel wells. He eased off on the gas, clutching the pedal until the tires gained traction. That’s it, sweetheart. Just don’t stop whatever you do! Hunched forward, fists on the wheel, Hayden knew the water had to be over the axles. He could hear Ron’s voice—“You did WHAT!?”—and knew that calling about a fucked up wagon was a call he did not want to make.
Something banged along the undercarriage, the Cavalier bucking like a horse trying to rid itself of its rider before jolting clear of the puddle. He shifted into neutral, steam pouring from under the hood when he looked back, half expecting to see something critical poking from the water. The puddle sloshed like churned taffy, the rocks it started with still its only possessions. Hayden listened to the engine—no sputters, no coughing—and let out a sigh. The wagon sounded just fine.
His carelessness had come close to costing them the trip, and Hayden vowed, then and there, to pay more attention to his driving.
The road followed the crest of an undulating ridge, climbing slowly through thick pine forest for a good half hour before finally leveling out, and shortly thereafter entered a grassy meadow where snow buntings and meadowlarks sang from their weedy perches. Across the meadow, aspen stood tall and white in the sunshine, the filigree of upper branches tinged green with the promise of spring.
Hayden spotted the Blazer, the canoes on its roof giving the burdened truck a positively pregnant look as it jostled and bounced along the hard packed two-track. He’d tried earlier to raise them, but hadn’t had any luck getting through. In sight and hoping not to lose them again, he was hurrying to catch up when he saw brake lights and the Blazer come to an abrupt stop.
The doors flew open, Ron out one side and Charlie the other, the two then sprinting toward a patch of woods below the rise.
Hayden pulled up a few minutes later, killed the engine, and got out and slapped his legs, finally able to undo the kinks. They couldn’t have much farther to go, but with the road likely to get even trickier, it was time for Mark to take the wheel. He banged on the roof until Mark started cursing, then headed for the Blazer.
Tony was still wedged between a pair of dump bags when he reached in and grabbed the map from the seat. “Break time,” Hayden said cheerily. Tony rubbed his eyes and sat up. “Get any rest since we left the highway?”
“I think so,” Tony said, yawning. At five nine, Tony was a bit taller than Mark and more rounded at the waist. Clean shaven less than twenty four hours ago, he already had a serious start on a five o’clock shadow. He shuddered when a gust stole through the Blazer’s interior. “Okay, so what happened to Oliver and Hardy?”
Hayden spread the map across the hood. “Last I saw, they were headed toward those trees. Pretty sure they didn’t have the rifle, so it can’t be a bear.”
Tony slipped on a checkered red and black shirt, then rummaged through the mess in the back for his camera. He opened the door, pausing to drink in the view. “Think it’ll all be like this?”
“Is pretty here,” Hayden said. “But give it a couple more hours, and it’s going to get a whole lot prettier.”
Tony slipped out, framed Hayden studying the map, and clicked the shutter.
“At it already, huh? Guess it is a nice place to start.”
“Actually, I’ve taken almost half a roll already. The mountains; you guys through the rear window. I really should have found a reason to come west before this.” Tony drew an invigorating breath. “I love the smell of this air. And I didn’t realize there would be so much snow left. Beautiful here, isn’t it?”
Hayden leaned against the fender, folded his arms. “Almost like the pictures, only better.” A shrill note pierced the air. A hawk soared effortlessly on outstretched wings, ghosting on the thermals rising along the ridgeline a hundred yards away. “You have to wonder if he realizes what a great place he has to call home.” Hayden closed his eyes at the sleepy warmth penetrating his sweatshirt, one arm warm, the other cool in a deliciously pleasant way.
“I can’t put a finger on it, but I feel like I’ve been waiting all my life for this trip.” Hayden turned to Tony. “Aren’t you glad you changed your schedule?”
Tony nodded absently. They’d talked for years about taking a trip west like this, but always s
omeone’s schedule hadn’t quite meshed with everyone else’s. Family obligations, birthdays, work, it was always something. This year, however, their dreams were coming true. Hard to believe, but he was on the outskirts of the Rocky Mountains, literally miles from anywhere.
Without his paddling companions, Tony was certain he would never have experienced anything like it on his own. Wesley was too young, and so far had shown no particular enthusiasm for camping, or as Mark’s sons had, for canoeing. It was sad to think how many people would go through life without ever developing an appreciation for places like this. Anthony Delgado felt fortunate to have found friends both willing and able to teach him the skills he’d never otherwise have learned on his own. In time, hopefully, Wesley would find such friends as well.
“I certainly am,” Tony said after a prolonged pause. “Have to admit I’m still nervous about this river of yours. But being here, and seeing all this… I am grateful you pestered me into coming.”
Hayden smiled. “You just needed a little encouragement is all.”
The door of the station wagon slammed. Mark stood shaking his head, still half asleep, and casually unzipped his pants.
“Now there’s a shot for your album,” Hayden said.
Tony hesitated, then framed his subject and clicked the shutter.
“That should get some laughs,” Hayden said just loud enough to ensure his voice carried.
Mark glanced, and quickly turned away. “Damn it, Delgado…! Prentler, you put him up to that, didn’t you?” Mark seemed finally to notice the mud. “And what the hell did you do to my car? The thing’s a damn mess!”
