by David Boyle
They stroked at not quite the speed of the river, water gurgling around fractured limbs as they slowly drifted back. “No closer, okay?”
Hayden nudged the stern over, and among the older branches spotted a number of recent additions. “If I’d have kept even part of that branch we’d have a better idea what we’re looking for. You see any orange baseballs?”
Tony craned up on his seat. “No, not yet.”
The shoreline slipped past. Clicks started up across the river, someone banging with the axe.
Hayden finally got a bearing on the palms, and almost immediately spotted color. They drifted back, paddles feathered, then kicked up the pace and stopped beside a branch sporting a dozen or more of the recently christened broranges. The branch was wedged between a pair of polished limbs, a deadfall reaching over the bank. Tony was not impressed.
“I’m sorry, Hayden, but no way am I going in there. We find something easier, fine. But if the rest are like this, I’m telling you right now that we’ll be going home empty.”
“They’re niceties, Tony. Not necessities,” Hayden said, the canoe drifting the moment he stopped paddling. “And of all the things I might stick my neck out for, fruits would not be on my list.”
They drifted back….
“There’s one,” Tony said, staring over his shoulder. “Oh yeah, this one we can get.” They slowed to a stop, then slipped the canoe sideways beneath the overhangs. Tony shipped his paddle, Hayden holding the boat steady while Tony got a grip and hauled the branch and its load of broranges into the boat.
“That’s more like it.”
“Better than fishing, that’s for sure.”
They slipped sideways into the current, then floated down, searching, Hayden soon again holding the boat while Tony dragged the next branch into the boat. Two stops and fifteen minutes more and they had what Tony reckoned was upwards of thirty of Hayden’s fuzzy orange fruits.
“If we were getting rid of the branches, I’d maybe think about trying farther down. But with how stuffed the boat is and the rapids right there, I’d prefer we call it a day and head back.”
Maybe there were more, maybe not. “We got what we came for, Tony. And this close to the rapids…? I’m with you. Better we stop while we’re ahead.”
“No argument?” Tony said, and started stroking. “Oh, right… McClure’s back at camp.” He and Hayden had a chuckle at Ron’s expense. “These are nice and all. Lots of vitamins. But the louder these rapids have been getting the more the little voice in my head has been yelling: ‘Haven’t you got enough already?’” Tony steered left to avoid some branches. “To tell the truth, I was ready after the last stop.”
“Then it’s good you didn’t say anything because I’ve been getting a little nervous myself. And stay as close to shore as you can until we pass those two logs. After that, we can ferry across.
“Is kind of a shame these don’t grow at home.”
Tony took a stroke. “Not sure where they’d grow, but I can see a market for them,” he said, his comfort zone expanding as the rapids fell behind. “How about this? Save the next baggie and store some for after we get home.”
“You know, I might do that,” Hayden said, stroking at a solid two-second clip.
A vulture leaped for the sky upriver, beating its wings and screeching at whoever had taken its spot on what, by now, had to be a thoroughly picked over kill. A black-headed bird with red and yellow wings flapped across the river.
“Oh my… that’s a pretty one….”
Hayden gazed absently at the forest slipping past. “You want to slow down?” he asked, his arms back to automatic.
“Uh huh… Don’t you dare!”
18
Mark put his knife down. “How many did you end up with?”
Hayden and Tony were on their way over, each carrying a pair of broranges. “Haven’t actually counted, but somewhere between 30 and 40.”
“No kidding? Wow….”
“He’s a system’s guy, Bennett, not a bean counter. If we’re over 30 I’d be surprised.”
“And yesterday we had none, so anything over zero is good by me.
“You didn’t by chance happen—” Mark snagged the brorange Hayden sent sailing toward his forehead. “What, you find this one rolling in the bottom of the boat?” Fresh yes, and muddy too.
“You think I’m rinsing it for you, you’ve got another thing coming.” Hayden pulled Mark's loaner knife from his pocket, then plopped himself on one of the newly upgraded set of logs stacked beside the Tripper. “What are you fucking with anyway?”
“If we’re going to be here for a while, I figured why the hell not at least be comfortable?” Mark slumped on his heels. “Okay, so…? What do you think?”
Neither Hayden nor Tony said a word.
Mark’s in-process latest was a framework of carefully whittled branches held together with vines to form a crude approximation of a chair. He’d split the central rib of a number of ferns and threaded them over and around the uprights and seat in a uniquely Bennettesque type of thatch-work. His focus at the moment being to even up the legs. Wobbly when he tried it, he laid the thing on its side and reached for another frond. “I gather you don’t like it.”
“You have to admit it’s… well….”
“The word is primitive,” said Hayden.
“Of course it’s primitive! With an axe and a scuba knife to work with, what do you expect. Fuck, you try making one!”
“We didn’t mean anything by—”
“And don’t even think about using it if it’s so fucking primitive.”
Hayden was trying, but couldn’t quite keep the smile off his face. “Sounds like you need a beer.”
“Yeah, and you can kiss my ass.” Tony was ready to burst out laughing. Mark tightened the latest bit of lacing, then tipped his chair onto its feet and sat down. “You can keep the damn logs.” He wiggled his butt. “Yep. I’m almost there.”
Hayden cut a piece from the brorange. “Almost where?”
“To the point where I can start on the table I’m going to build so’s I can laugh my ass off when whatever the hell you guys are eating slides off the Tripper and into your frickin’ laps!”
Hayden went to lay down while Tony loaded a portion of the broranges into a garbage bag and hoisted them into the tree by the landing. Mark was still tinkering with his chair when Tony strolled over and asked where everyone was.
“It’s a big island Tony, so hell… they could be anywhere. Wheajo’s in my tent,” he said, eyeballing which leg needed tweaking. “He’s been in there on his computer since before you left.” Mark picked through the cuttings for something to measure with, at the same time mentioning his conversation about recharging the brizva. “I’m hoping he’s working on that.”
Wheajo was still busy with the yaltok when Tony stepped over for a peek. Too fast to be doing any kind of calculating, it seemed more likely the alien was making either a log or data entry. The guy was definitely into whatever he was working on, and Tony was trying to decide if it would be alright to interrupt him when he heard the crunch of approaching footfalls.
Ron was first to exit the forest, then Charlie a few seconds later.
“Any sign of him?”
Charlie shook his head on his way by, hesitated as if about to say something, and instead walked over and hung up his bow, then proceeded to his tent and zipped the door closed.
Mark tried Ron. “Nothing, huh?”
“Nope,” he said, peeling the sling from his shoulder. “Not a trace.” Ron opened the bolt and reseated the cartridge, then closed on an empty chamber before hanging the rifle beside Charlie’s bow. His stomach was early, at least according to his watch. “Anybody hungry besides me?”
It was barely past noon and too warm for anything of consequence, which made Thursday’s lunch all the more appropriate: candy bars, Pringles, and pudding cups. Erased by some, and penciled back in by others, P&PCs was a fast, no fire, no pans-or-plates-re
quired lunch that had long ago become a tradition where nutrition played second fiddle to memories. Even better, today they had broranges to wash everything down.
The heat had quieted every bird save the buzzards, a single flight of pterosaurs the only critters of note that had flown past in the last hour, the leather-winged flyers no doubt glad to be free of their usual escorts. Tony had earlier recruited Mark to help get the smoker up and running, and with the latest batch of corythosaur an hour or more away from full cure, both were taking advantage of the view from atop the landing to relax and talk and literally watch the world float by.
Tony sent a clump of mud sailing toward a leaf, the splash a foot wide.
“How many times do I have to tell you? You’re not leading enough.”
“Uh huh,” Tony mumbled, stepping to look when a zipper buzzed along one of the tents. Charlie was out a second later, staring off and looking as if he’d lost his best friend. “I so wish there was something I could do for him.”
Mark looked over, shrugged, and went back to glassing. “He needs time is all.”
Tony slipped a cigarette from his pocket. “I’d love to think you’re right,” he said, tapping it on a knuckle. “Thing is, I caught his eyes earlier,” he paused, lighting up. “And it’s like… like there’s nothing there.” He pulled a long thoughtful drag, then watched absently as the smoke drained away. “I don’t know what, but we have to do something.”
Mark lay scanning the far shoreline, hot, green, and limp in the afternoon sun, listening to Tony, and saw something that gave him an idea. He ran it by Tony.
“I like it. Really, it’s just what Charlie needs. Gets him out. Gives him something to feel good about.” Tony nodded when he thought it all through. “Just be patient when you talk to him. You’ll know why when you get there.
“And thanks, Mark. And if Donita were here, I know she’d thank you too.”
Mark strolled to the tents. “Was I wrong, or did I see a string tracker in your tackle box the other day?” Charlie nodded. “Good, that simplifies things. And you brought a fishing head, yes?”
Charlie cocked an eyebrow. “Yeah, why?” Mark told him about the branch across the river and asked if he could shoot it if they got close enough.
“Depends on what kinda shit’s in the way. Where is it?”
They walked to the landing where Tony guided him where to look. “Start at the palms, then look upstream to past that bunch of overhanging trees. There’s like three or four bunched together. The branch is—”
“Okay, got it.” Through the binoculars it looked like they could paddle right in and grab it, though Tony assured him that he’d think differently once he got there. “If you say so,” Charlie said, scanning the bank for others. “When did you wanna leave?”
“Was that a trick question?” Mark said with a wink to Tony. “How about whenever you’re ready?”
“Sure. Gimme ten… maybe fifteen minutes to get set up.”
Charlie dug the box with his archery gear out from the corner of his tent. The string tracker was easy enough to spot, the fishing head found among a handful of arrowheads and vanes, scents, and a select assortment of critical parts for his compound.
The tracker was little more than a specially configured bobbin that screwed into the riser where the stabilizer usually went. Wrapped with a hundred yards of very tough, fluorescent green line, and used primarily for hunting bear—which left notoriously poor blood trails—the tracker could also serve as a mini bow-fishing reel. Not exactly legal for anything other than carp, the setup had come in handy on more than a few occasions.
Coming up with the arrowhead had been a tad more problematic. Off-the-shelf fishing heads were big and clunky, and typically bonded permanently to heavy solid fiberglass shafts, a combination that was essentially useless for pack-it-in overnight canoe trips. Unless an item was small and lightweight, it simply didn’t pay to carry seldom used equipment. The solution came by way of multiple trials and more than a few hours working with Henry back at the shop. A quick study and a magician with a blowtorch, Henry had brazed custom studs to the back of three different store-bought fishing heads. The one with the twin folding barbs had passed all the tests, and was small and rugged enough to have made it into the tackle box.
Charlie removed the broadhead from an arrow, screwed in the fishing head, and after mounting the tracker to his bow tied the line to the head. A practice shot confirmed that at ten yards and under the string peeling from the bobbin had no appreciable effect on the arrow’s flight. He cut away the used stuff, and, after retying the line, snapped the arrow alongside its bear-ready sisters on the hooded, bow-mounted quiver.
“Ready when you are, Bennett.”
Busy talking with Ron, Mark zipped his fanny pack closed and got to his feet. “Good. And your boat’s already down. There’s two paddles and two vests, though I’m not sure the one is yours.”
Charlie strolled past, his camouflaged two-wheeler in his fist. “So long as I got one.”
“And grab a handful of bungee cords before you head down.” Charlie nodded, then headed for the tarps. “Where were we?”
“Scouting,” Ron said, sounding impatient.
“Right,” Mark said, clipping on his fanny pack. “This shouldn’t take but half an hour, so we’ll be back before you are. And I’m not asking that you make a big deal out of it. Just that you show a little appreciation.” Mark scooched a sticky strand up under his hat. “A little enthusiasm wouldn’t hurt either.”
Ron notched the rifle against his shoulder. “You think it’ll help, I get back… I’ll make him feel like fucking Santa Claus.”
Charlie was in the stern and toying with how best to stop his bow from getting scratched when Mark skidded down the bank.
He coiled the painter and threw a loop around to keep it from unwinding, then dropped the bundle on the bow plate where it wouldn’t tangle his feet. In the sun for what, fifteen minutes? and already the metal end cap was damn near too hot to touch. Weight and stability wise, the Rockfinder was a cinch to paddle. Sunny day wise, the thing could literally be a pain in the ass. Mark remedied the problem by securing his life vest zipper-side down around his seat. “And Charlie? Would you mind strapping that down? If those broadheads are anywhere near as sharp as mine, I rather not chance an arrow getting loose and ending up on my end of the boat.”
Charlie got some bungee cords from under his seat. “Been awhile since we paddled together,” he said, hooking an end and stretching the first taut across his compound. “You always so careful?” The next of the elastic cords went diagonally across the first.
“When it comes to hunting out of a boat? Always.” Mark looked across the river. “By the palms, right?”
Charlie stepped out. “We’ll know when we get there,” he said, and kicked the side of the boat. “Your end first, Bennett.” Mark started shoving, then hesitated and unbuckled the fanny pack from around his waist. Charlie looked to Tony, who was watching from atop the landing. “And McClure’s always bitchin’ about how I fuck around.”
Mark clipped the buckle so his fanny pack hung below his seat. “What did that take? Thirty seconds? Relax already. This isn’t a race, you know.”
Charlie shoved the boat out to where it floated, the thing pinning the second he stepped in. He threw out a paddle, shoving. “Mind givin’ me a hand?” They rocked and shoved, the canoe swinging in the current as soon as the keel cleared the mud.
“Give a holler when you’re back and I’ll help with the boat,” Tony called as they left. “And be careful around those overhangs.”
Charlie dug in, angling the boat. “Yes mother….”
They set off almost perpendicular to the current, and, with an empty boat and two paddlers, the Rockfinder virtually flew across the river, Charlie finally turning into the current fifty yards above the trio of landmark palms. Mark studied the shoreline, Charlie glancing now and again at Tony.
“Frickin’ river’s fast today, ain’t i
t?” Charlie said, sculling as the shoreline slipped past.
“Yeah, it’s up a notch or two, but nothing major,” Mark said, watching and adjusting course as the canoe slipped toward an overhang. “Right, you missed it cause you were in camp, but Pussy Cat was almost washed out earlier.”
“You mean the little one upriver?”
“Yep. That fuzz you’re seeing is new.”
A line was showing in the mud where the river met the bank. “Be interestin’ to see how long it takes this puppy to get back to normal.” Charlie finally caught sight of the palms. “We gotta be gettin’ close.”
They shifted the canoe wide of the latest overhang, searching.
“There they are,” Charlie said, slowing their drift, Mark powering up to eventually stop the boat in relation to shore. “Oh yeah, that’s a nice bunch.” Charlie searched for something to hold the boat. “There’s a branch or somethin’ pokin’ outta the water,” he said, adjusting his strokes to angle the boat across the current. “See if you can grab it.” The hull screeched along the log, Charlie stroking to maintain contact until Mark grabbed on. “It solid?”
“Yeah, it’s that alright. And we need to tie off ‘cause no way can I hold this position while you shoot.”
“Is kinda squirrelly in here.” Charlie said, the boat wobbling in the current while Mark swung a leg over and hooked the thing with an ankle.
“You got enough headroom to shoot?”
“Just go ahead and tie off. I’ll figure it out.” Muddy water swirled about the wreckage of a mostly submerged tree, overhangs here and there kissing the water for fun. “Not a good place to go swimmin’, that’s fer sure.”
