by David Boyle
“Quit with the bitching. It’ll rain,” Hayden said, turning back to the map.
Tony peered over his elbow. The roads didn’t even have names.
They had their stop down to one of two locations by the time Ron and Charlie came strolling through the scrub, laughing, gesturing, Charlie with his Aussie tipped back on his head. Barely an hour off the highway, and already the two of them seemed right at home.
A trained paramedic and volunteer fireman, Ron, at thirty-one, was the kid of the group. Both widowed and divorced, he had recently begun to let his hair grow, though it would be a long time before he’d catch up with Charlie, whose blond strands reached to his shoulders. He had a round, almost pudgy face, deep blue eyes, and a neatly trimmed mustache so light that many people failed to notice it. An inch or two taller than Charlie, Ron was a good ten pounds heavier than when they’d started paddling, most of which he'd added after leaving S&M, which, without a degree, he'd discovered was a professional dead end. Off now in an entirely new direction, he’d finagled the manager’s job at Snails & Tails, an established favorite among the many upscale watering holes in Schaumburg. A gutsy departure from his earlier existence at S&M, Ron's change in direction was still considered a work in progress.
Charlie’s goal had always been to follow in his father’s footsteps. A skilled wood worker with the luxury of choosing his worksites, Charlie had, through years of lugging lumber, developed an impressive physique. He had a rugged, angular face, shoulders just slightly narrower than a Mack truck, and a thick, almost nonexistent neck. Seldom without his camouflaged Aussie, the Bull, with or without his long-weathered headgear, was a standout in any crowd.
Tony tipped the ash from his cigarette and leisurely exhaled. “And what, may I ask, have you two been up to?”
“Spotted a bunch of muleys when we made the turn,” Charlie said, pocketing his binoculars. “Just wanted to have a look-see is all. Did get pretty close to ‘em.” He turned to Ron. “What, thirty yards?” Ron nodded. “Did look a little raggedy. Figure they’re sheddin’, gettin’ rid of their winter grays. Had to be a dozen of ‘em.”
“And you just had to check them out,” Hayden commented, never looking up from the map.
Ron shrugged. “We’re on schedule, so no reason not to. Besides, it’s been a long time since I had a chance to get this close. Catch one napping and it’s like watching a big-eared pogo stick go bouncing through the woods. Way different than whitetails.”
Charlie rested his backside against the truck. “Too bad the season’s not open. Would have been fun to poke any one of ‘em.” He tipped his hat back, the right side flap sewn to clear his bowstring. “Be neat to think we could get as close to a bear as we did these guys.”
“You’re dreaming, you know that don’t you?” Mark said on his way to the truck. “Without a guide, hell, you’ll be lucky to see one, much less get within range.” Mark had tried two years before, with a guide, in Canada, and had still come home skunked. “Even if they are out of their dens, with all this to roam around? Good luck is all I can say.”
“Yeah,” said Ron, “and with that kind of attitude, you better be right. We end up popping one, we’re going to put him in your boat.”
“Uh huh,” Mark said, settling beside his partner. “Any idea where we are?”
“We’re somewhere along here.” Hayden pointed to a spot on the map. “This junction is what we’re looking for. I’m thinking it’s a logging road… or maybe fire access.”
“One minute, gentlemen,” Tony called from across the road.
Ron glanced to both sides. “You guys see any gentlemen? I sure don’t.”
Tony focused while his friends made obscene gestures, then set the timer and ran to the truck. “Keep it clean, fellas,” he said through clenched teeth. “This one’s a family shot.”
*****
The turnoff was so overgrown that Ron missed it, and he would have ended up in the next county except that Hayden called him on the CB. The Blazer came charging back and, with the truck breaking trail, often literally, they climbed for half an hour before the road turned sharply and started down. The track was little more than a scratch in the hillside, branches screeching along the passenger side of the vehicles as they tunneled toward their destination.
Shown on his topo map as a multi-elevation merger, Hayden was ready when the left hand shoulder dropped precipitously away at a turn. Certain of their location, and barely a mile from their put-in, Hayden called ahead to warn Ron not to pass it.
Mark gawked out the window, the river below flecked with long sections of glimmering white fuzz. “Would you get a load of that river!” he said, almost drooling. “Those kayakers you talked to? Got this one right! Damn, is this gonna be great or what?”
Hayden snagged the wheel. “Only if we get there in one piece! Watch the road, not the river!”
The Tripper was down by the time they reached the Blazer, Ron and Charlie busy untying the Grumman. The hills paralleling the river straddled the line between difficult and intimidating, the primary benefit of the access they’d chosen being that it allowed them to avoid nearly a mile of exceptionally difficult rapids.
Mark hopped out with a challenge. “Prepare yourself river! We have arrived!”
Hayden stepped to the front of the car, the sound filtering up the hillside like the hiss of a thousand snakes. He banged his knuckles against the canoe. “Come on, Bennett. Let’s get this tub of yours unloaded.”
While loaded carefully simply to make it all fit, unloading was a snap. Especially in the boonies. Dumped wherever it fell, by the time they finished, canoes and paddles, camping gear, dry bags, weapons and ammunition, five cases of beer and whatever else were scattered from one side of the road to the other.
Whether new or old, it looked to Tony like a colorful explosion of junk. And there was so much of it!
He paced nervously between the Cavalier and the Blazer, adding up the items strewn across the road. He eyed the canoes, packing and repacking them in his head, and kept coming up short. It seemed an impossible load to carry in just three canoes.
Mark recognized the uncertainty. “Don’t worry,” he said, patting his friend’s shoulder. “And I know how it looks. But when it comes to packing”—he tipped his head to Ron and Charlie—“they’re experts. You’d be amazed how much shit they can fit in a boat.”
“If you say so,” Tony said, unconvinced.
Mark caught Hayden squeezing air from one of his dry bags. “We’re going to hit the road. I got a feeling the shuttle is going to take a while.”
Hayden rolled the bag closed and snapped the buckle. “Everything out of the big cooler?”
Mark checked. “Yep, it’s empty.”
“Then that should do it. Go ahead and take off.”
“Tony… I’ll wait for you down the road a bit.” Tony was finishing up with Ron, and said he’d be there shortly. “Okay,” said Mark to his partner, “then I’ll leave you guys to the fun part. Just make sure you don’t leave any of my stuff behind.”
*****
The sun was creeping steadily higher, Ron busy pussyfooting through the woods when he picked up the sound of tires on gravel. He glanced at his watch, then hurried through the trees, the top half of his wet suit dangling as he skidded down the embankment.
“Where the hell have you been?” he said when the Cavalier pulled onto the shoulder. “It’s after eleven already!”
Mark killed the engine and got out. “You know, McClure, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you still worked at S&M. Try relaxing for a change.”
Tony squeezed out on the passenger side. “We did the best we could. Really, you would not believe where we had to go to get gas.”
“Forget it,” Ron said. “The boats have been packed for nearly an hour, and I’m just getting antsy. Hell, Prentler’s already playing.”
Mark checked the hillside, the ground cover greening quickly ahead of the aspen, which looked but a week or two shy of
leafing out. “See anything while you were up there?”
“Tracks is all, and nothing clear enough to make out. Smelled like cow shit, so I’m figuring cattle. Could be there’s a ranch nearby.” Mark opined that elk were more likely.
“I knew there was something,” Tony nearly gasped. “You said the boats are already packed. You didn’t bury our suits, did you?”
“No, but almost. Bull remembered. And we left a dry bag out for the clothes you’re wearing. Don’t know if it’s yours or Mark’s, but it’s sitting out by the boats. Even managed to leave room for it in our boat.” Ron started across the road. “Shake a leg, Bennett. The river’s a-waitin’.”
“Before you go.” Mark grabbed a bag from the back seat. “Take this while I ditch my key.”
Ron looked past the pretzels and candy bars. “A man after my own heart!”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t want to listen about how we never bring enough beer. Depending on the water, we can maybe have one on the river.”
Ron checked the label. “Boulder Beer…? Never heard of it.”
“Me neither,” Mark said, working the ignition key off the ring. “But they never heard of Old Style, so I guess we’re even.”
Mark slipped the key inside the bumper, then followed Tony downhill along the path of freshly disturbed soil and twisted branches, using trees, rocks, and anything else available for handholds. They skipped and skidded through the pine needles, the temperature dropping while the hiss grew ever louder.
Searching past the pines along the river, Mark spotted his partner, the gear packed in the Discovery’s midsection covered with a tarp. The Tripper and Charlie’s old Grumman were also covered in plastic, the two canoes grounded on the rocks downstream. Charlie was perched on an outcrop, studying the rapids; Hayden fifty yards upriver and occupied with more than just looking.
The Discovery nosed from behind a rock, spray shearing along the bow as Hayden surfed across a chute of fast water, his traverse ending in the slick water eddy trailing behind a rock.
Mark cupped his hands. “Yeo, Prentler!”
Hayden glanced over his shoulder, then backed away and nosed into the current. The Discovery did a smart one-eighty, Hayden riding the current before he swung the heavily loaded canoe behind a boulder a short distance from Mark.
“So, how’s it feel?”
“Like the Hudson at flood stage. Only faster,” Hayden yelled. “Suit up, Bennett. You’re gonna love this one!”
His face and arms beaded with spray, Hayden steered clear of the eddy and into the current, stroking like a long-armed salmon as he powered upstream.
The scent of pine was in the air, the deep green of the forest ending abruptly where it and the river struggled timelessly for control, the shorelines littered with lengths of pulverized timber. Ron was slouched beside an old deadfall, a cap shading his eyes and waiting to hit the river as soon as Mark and Tony finished suiting up.
The air was cold and the rocks even colder, Charlie just back from scouting when Tony finished with his shirt. “A little on the chilly side, ain’t it?”
Tony reached shivering for the top portion of his wetsuit. “You can say that again,” he said, working his arms in, shifting the polypro to straighten any kinks, then zippering the front closed. The foam rubber suit was good at absorbing sunshine, the warmth beginning to take hold when he glanced nervously downstream. “This is a lot bumpier than I expected.”
“No shit bumpy. Like the Wolf almost…. Sure hope the fuck I can do this without wrappin’ my boat.” Charlie had run the Wolf both solo and tandem, yet always on day trips in empty canoes. Now he’d be running with gear crammed end to end, with a hole just big enough to kneel in behind what was normally the front seat. “With all the jockeyin’ around we’re gonna be doin’, I’m thinkin’ I should be sweep. Just make sure you guys don’t go gettin’ too far ahead of me. And watch that you find me some good slots.”
Mark was struggling with the leg of his wetsuit. “Not to worry, Bull. We’ll keep an eye open. From what Ron tells me, you’ve got most of the beer.”
“Thanks a lot, ya dork. And what about after we run out?”
Mark and Ron had long ago carved, fitted, and cemented Styrofoam blocks into the bow and stern of their canoes, Ron’s Tripper, in addition, fitted with a salvaged two-man raft amidships. Patched and absent a floor, the raft helped float the Tripper high enough to make it the least likely of the three canoes to snag on a rock if overturned.
Charlie’s Grumman had end caps fitted with blocks of Styrofoam as well, and like many others, including Ron’s Tripper, was patterned on the classic birch bark canoes first encountered by European trappers. At fifteen feet long, Charlie’s was two feet shorter than the other boats. Cheap, light, and maintenance free, the Grumman came fitted with a keel that made the boat easy to paddle a straight course. At that, the Grumman was at serious disadvantage on rivers, and even more so on rivers like the Powderhorn. Where the plastic canoes shed rocks like bullets off a flak jacket, the Rockfinder had a serious tendency to snag, often at the most inopportune moment.
The Powderhorn itself, like most whitewater rivers, fluctuated in response to the available runoff. Run primarily by rafts and kayaks in high water, when the water was low, the Powderhorn could be one long and very demanding stream.
Hayden had contacted the Colorado Department of Natural Resources before they left, and the people there had assured him the Powderhorn would be near normal levels. Averaging only sixty yards wide, the section they were about to run contained mostly Class II and a few Class III rapids; the ratings here driven more by the maneuvering required as opposed to the volume of water. Turn a boat over in big water and whoever was paddling could be in for a long swim; turn over in a river with rocks and things could get broken. Boats, equipment… necks. A tough river for open boat paddlers, the Powderhorn contained only one known portage in the sixty odd miles they’d be paddling.
Charlie considered his heavily burdened canoe. Even grounded the thing looked hungry, the waves lapping the bow looking suspiciously like saliva.
Drifting stern first when he spotted them gathering beside Ron’s canoe, Hayden popped the Discovery’s bow behind a nearby rock while Mark and Tony took turns inflating the raft. Gear secured, they pulled the tarp over and tucked it along the gunnels, then stretched a set of bungee cords across the top to secure it to the canoe. Tony got the spare paddle.
“Not too tight,” Mark warned. “You ever need it, you don’t want to waste time untangling the thing.” Tony’s hands were shaking, and not simply because of the cold.
“Thanks for the reminder,” Tony said. “Guess I wasn’t thinking.”
Mark motioned Hayden over. “Not a problem,” he said, waiting as Hayden bumped the Discovery alongside the rock he was standing on. He snagged the bow with his toe and hopped in, water flooding forward to dampen his feet. “Nice going,” he grumbled, plucking a soggy life vest from under the seat.
“You’re not going to stay dry for long anyway,” his partner laughed, sculling to keep the Discovery in place. “Remember your croakie this time?”
“Damn. I did it again.” Mark fumbled through the fanny pack buckled around his seat, got the strap and threaded it onto the earpieces of his glasses. Oversight corrected, he glanced at the river and, deciding against a helmet, snugged his hat back on and picked up his paddle. “Okay, now I’m good.”
Ron watched his bowman try for the second time to get the chin strap on his helmet buckled. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he said, zippering his life vest. “Trust me, Tony. We’re going to do just fine.” With a glance back at Charlie and a check alongshore to verify nothing had been left behind, Ron turned to Mark and Hayden. “Have at it fellas.”
“We’ll work it slow to begin with,” Hayden said. “Good luck, guys. See you downriver.” His newly glassed paddle already frayed at the tip, Hayden nudged the Discovery off the rocks, Mark waiting for his partner before reaching sideways and buryin
g his paddle in the current. The boat peeled away, twin paddles working the water as the Discovery pivoted and headed downriver.
Ron pushed the stern out, and, once clear of the rocks, rotated the Tripper’s bow into the current. “Paddle in the water,” he ordered, stroking hard forward. Tony reached out when the current slammed the bow around. “That’s got it. Okay, good…. Now steer left of those rocks….”
Charlie got the Grumman floating, then climbed aboard and locked himself in with his knees. Ropes in, paddle out, he checked the route Ron was taking while the river swung the boat. A heavenward glance—“Hope you're watchin’”—and Charlie Van Dyke, aka Bull, headed downriver and into the unknown.
The Powderhorn was everything they’d hoped for. There were long rock gardens, drops and pools; its waters churned white by the always unique assemblages of rocks and stair-like ledges. At times they ran side by side, especially when the rapids were scattered and the chutes were easy to follow. More often, they played follow-the-leader, the lead eddying below major hazards to track the boats following and provide possible assistance. Who assumed the lead thereafter was governed by the river, the Class II and higher sections left almost exclusively to Mark and Hayden.
The forest had been in steady retreat, and by early afternoon the outcrops seen only rarely near their put-in had become dominant, the few stalwart pines, like soldiers unwilling to abandon their posts, twisting from their ever more precarious footholds. The shorelines shrank, then vanished. The current quickened. And now the Powderhorn was tumbling toward a field of enormous boulders, thunder rumbling from the canyon ahead.
Mark went to his knees and stabbed overboard. “Rockagators, dead ahead!” The bow came up, riding the wave… then dropped with a jolt, water burping in over the gunnels even as he changed course.
