Desolation Canyon

by Jonathan London

  Roger named the plants as we slid by: cottonwoods and cattails growing along the river’s edge, and up the dry, sparsely covered slopes. All kinds of desert shrubs like sagebrush, skunkbush, greasewood, and spiny yucca. Here and there sparse forests of pinyon pine and juniper were clinging tenaciously to the high slopes and cliffs.

  I spotted a couple of flying squirrels soaring between trees, and atop a low ridge we saw a group of bighorn sheep. High overhead floated a golden eagle, rising slowly up a thermal into the sun.

  I’d been rowing long and hard when Cassidy pulled up alongside our boat (he’d taken over rowing from my dad). With an evil grin on his face, he dropped the oars and started pumping me with a huge water gun. The water was freezing cold and I ducked down, laughing like a loon, searching madly for something to use to get back at him.

  Roger hollered, “Water fight! Water fight!” and madness broke loose! Roger heaved a bail bucket full of river water back at Cassidy, dousing him from head to toe. Then, from behind me—whoosh! I was soaked and saw Lisa standing over me with an empty, dripping bucket. I grabbed her around the knees and she toppled into the river. She splashed and swore and shook her fist at me.

  “I’m gonna get you, Aaron! I’m gonna kick your butt!”

  “Oh yeah? You and whose army?” I yelled, grinning from ear to ear.

  SPLAT! Cassidy nailed me with another water gun blast. But then Wild Man Willie jumped into Dad’s raft, grabbed the water gun from Cassidy, and started pumping me and Roger. Laughing like a maniac, he tossed the water gun over to Roger and taunted him, “Hey Rambo! Bet you couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with a handful of—”

  SPLAT! Roger nailed him right in the chest. Willie faked a gunshot to the heart and toppled forward into the river, almost on top of Lisa, just as Dad jumped over to row Willie’s kitchen boat before it went downriver on its own.

  Not wanting to be left out of the fun, I jumped into the river, dove under, grabbed Lisa by the legs, and gave them a yank.

  Big mistake! She glubbed and blubbed back up to the surface—then slapped her hand on top of my head like an eagle’s talons, and dunked me, holding me under until I twisted free. By the time I thrashed back to the surface, she was climbing into the raft, out of my reach. Next thing I knew, she was pumping me with the water gun. SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT!

  I’m a pretty good swimmer, so I dove under her raft. She couldn’t see me through the silty, snowmelt water, so when I silently popped up on the other side of the raft, right below where she was sitting, she had no idea where I was. She was looking for me in the water on the other side. Her leg was dangling overboard, so I grabbed it and pulled her, shrieking, back into the water.

  She was just trying to dunk me again when Roger called a truce. It was time to pull in. Just to play it safe, I climbed back into the kitchen raft with my dad.

  Roger, Dad, and Cassidy eddied out their respective rafts and tied them off to a bunch of river willows on shore. It was time to eat lunch.

  Willie and Roger pulled out the folding legs on the kitchen table and started setting up. After checking to make sure Lisa wasn’t following me, I ducked behind a boulder, stripped off my wet clothes, and put on my swimming trunks.

  As I walked back toward the table, I could hear Dad talking to Willie. “I hate to have to say this, Willie,” Dad was telling him, “but you need to talk to your son about his mouth. Before the water fight, Cassidy and I had a little spat and it wasn’t pretty. I won’t repeat the foul words he used, but basically he didn’t like the way I was rowing, said I rowed like an old lady. I told him, ‘Here, you row,’ and he grabbed the oars and started rowing like there was a war raging inside him.”

  Willie crinkled his face as if there was a bright light hurting his eyes. “Ever since his mother died he’s had a hair-trigger temper.” Willie stopped talking when he saw Lisa come running at me. She was in her bathing suit now too, and she was coming fast.

  Uh-oh! I sprinted as hard as I could down the beach. Around a bend, I found myself plopping through deep mud where a spring ran down to the river. Lisa was gaining fast. I could hear her slopping through the muck right behind me.

  “Mud fight!” she yelled, as she did a flying tackle at my legs, toppling me over. SPLAT! I hit the mud, and before I could get up, she was on my back pushing my face into the brown goo.

  Oh no! I thought, in a panic. I’m getting beat up by a girl!

  I managed to roll over so she slid off me, but she sprang back up and pounced on my chest. This girl was fast!

  “Eat this!” she said, grabbing a handful of mud. She was laughing and it was like her dark eyes laughed, too. And her hair hung down all scraggly in her face, with little blobs of mud sticking in it.

  “Get off!” I hollered. I tried grabbing her wrists but my hands were too slippery. She was leaning over pushing the handful of mud toward my face when we heard something behind us. My dad said, “Freeze!” and Lisa stopped wrestling and whipped around toward his voice.

  I took the opportunity to push her knees up and knock her over backwards into the mud. I jumped up and pulled her arm like I was going to help her up, then let her fall face first into the mud.

  Dad laughed and took a picture of us half-wrestling and half-hugging, giggling and slap-happy, like two mud sculptures come to life.

  “Thanks, kids!” Dad said, then ran back down the beach.

  Then, all of a sudden I was on my back again. Lisa had me pinned and was chanting, “Eat this! Eat this!” while holding a big glob of mud over my face.

  Again, someone said, “Freeze!”—but this time the voice came from above us.

  And it wasn’t my dad.

  It was Cassidy. He was standing on the cliff above us, looking down at us. Leering. And he was lifting a huge rock over his head.

  It was just like the nightmare rock—that rock in the nightmare I’d had our first night on the river.

  And I knew in my bones he was about to drop that rock right on us.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ROCK ART AND RATTLERS

  Cassidy stood against the sky, and with a crazy yell—“Aaiiiiiiii-yaaaah!”—he heaved the rock (it was twice the size of a boom box!) right down at the two of us. I closed my eyes and we both screamed. We didn’t have time to move.

  Then—ker-SPLASH!—the rock crashed into the river a few feet behind us. My eyes were still closed, but it was so close that the splash soaked us both with icy water.

  I opened my eyes to see Lisa kneeling beside me, breathing hard. She looked like a mud statue of a girl praying. My heart was galloping like that band of wild horses.

  Lisa was glaring up at Cassidy and he was glaring right back down at us. Was he trying to hit us? I wondered. Or did he just want to scare us? If that was his goal, he’d succeeded.

  A third yell broke the spell.

  It was my dad again. He was swearing at Cassidy, yelling at the top of his lungs. And my dad wasn’t much of a swearer. Cassidy gave him a thumbs-up sign, then disappeared behind the rocks above.

  Lisa sighed, stood up, and slowly walked back toward camp, her eyes downcast.

  I could see Willie talking to my dad. My dad was shaking his head. I jumped into the river to wash the mud off and to try and cleanse my mind of that menace that had seeped into my little mud pool of happiness.

  Shivering with goose bumps, I climbed out and joined Dad and the others at the kitchen table. My stomach felt queasy but I was still starving. I slapped together a big fat sandwich and chomped down. Lisa sat alone at the river’s edge, her feet dangling in the water. Willie came over and plopped a big arm over my shoulders.

  “Hey, pard. How ya doin’?”

  I just shrugged and chewed my sandwich.

  “Cassidy’s just a prankster—a big practical joker,” he said. “Last time we were in a mountain canyon like this he helped me pry a pole beneath a half-ton boulder and roll it off a cliff. It made a splash like a bomb exploding!”

  “Nice,” I said like I
didn’t mean it. “Well, that was a little close for comfort. That rock barely made it over our heads. How do we know he wasn’t trying to hurt us like he did to that guy with the baseball bat?”

  Willie’s arm slid off my shoulder. He tugged on the brim of his hat, putting his face into shadow.

  “Listen, Cassidy did a bad thing, no two ways about it. But that guy was a big drunk, brought it on himself. It was at a summer league game and his son’s team was losing. Cassidy hit a homer and then the next time he got up to bat this drunk dad stands up in the bleachers and yells at my boy, then throws a full beer can at him. Guy had a good arm—bounced right off Cassidy’s helmet. He was only fourteen. He went after the guy, up into the bleachers with his bat. And for that, he did some time in juvie. Now he’s just a motherless kid with an attitude problem.”

  I didn’t know what to say. My mind winced at the images—the beer can bouncing off Cassidy’s helmet, the bat swinging at the man’s head. Willie took a deep breath, and let it out. “He was just trying to catch your attention, pard,” he said. “Like I told your dad, just give him a chance. He doesn’t mean any harm. He’s just troubled, is all.”

  “Okay, if he leaves me alone, I’ll give him a chance,” I said. I stood up and walked over to Lisa with what was left of my sandwich.

  “Hey,” I said, as I sat down. Lisa didn’t answer me, she just stared into the river, wiggling her brown feet around. I let my feet trail in the water beside hers.

  “Willie was telling me about Cassidy—”

  “I don’t care. Cassidy’s a creep.”

  “I thought you liked him.”

  “Can we like talk about something else?” She looked at me, her dark eyes full of sharp lights.

  I didn’t know what to say. I swallowed the last of my sandwich. Then I said, “So why’s your dad called Roger the Rogue?”

  She shrugged. “’Cause after the army he moved up to southern Oregon and became a river rat, guiding raft trips down the Rogue River. Your dad came up from California to raft with him a couple of times when I was little. Stayed with us. They’ve been through a lot together.”

  “So your dad’s a river rat, huh?”

  “Oh yeah. His idea of a good time is living in the woods, in a tent, shooting rapids all the time. My idea of a good time is playing soccer, hanging out with my friends, listening to music and stuff.”

  “Me too, I guess.” I said it but I wasn’t sure I meant it. “And playing football,” I added. “And I’m getting pretty good at skateboarding. But this is fun, too. I mean, like, sometimes. It’s fun when it’s fun.”

  “I know, right?” Lisa said. “If it weren’t for that jerk whose name I won’t mention.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Seems like he’s got it in for us, big time. Well, me anyway. And my dad. Roger seems cool with him, though.” I skimmed a stone across the river.

  “My dad’s cool with everybody. He used to be pretty wild himself. Another reason they call him ‘Roger the Rogue.’ So he doesn’t get upset with anybody unless somebody actually gets hurt.”

  “Well, that could happen yet,” I said. My upper teeth bit into my lower lip.

  We fell silent for a moment, watching the river flow and spiral, like a snake shedding its skin. Then Lisa looked me up and down, and said, “Aren’t you, like, too skinny for football?” She grinned, cocking one eyebrow.

  “I’m not skinny—I’m wiry! And I’m stronger than you think.”

  “Well you went down pretty easy … for a football player!” She gave me a shove, which almost toppled me into the river.

  “Geez! Watch it!” I sat back upright and said, “Yeah, well, you jumped me from behind … and the mud was slippery … and well … I slipped.”

  “I guess you ‘slipped’ again when I got you in a headlock and pinned you. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers and grinned at me.

  “Howdy. You two wanna come with me for a walk?” It was my dad. He was wearing cargo shorts, and it was embarrassing to look at his hairy, bony legs.

  “Nah,” I said. “We’re good. We just wanna chill.” I was actually starting to feel comfortable with Lisa, and now my dad had to come and ruin it.

  “Come on, kiddo. Both of you. I want to show you some rock art. Old petroglyphs. It’s not far.”

  I looked at Lisa. I could see she didn’t want to go either, but we both shrugged, and I said, “I guess.”

  We hiked up this hot little side canyon, stepping between cactuses in our bare feet. We were in the badlands—dry gulches, dusty clumps of coyote brush, a ruin of boulders. More than once I thought I heard a tumble of stones behind us, but I didn’t see anything.

  “Watch out for snakes,” Dad said. “Lots of rattlers around here.” I glanced around, wishing I was wearing shoes. A minute later I saw something move next to the trail and I jumped about a foot, but it was just a harmless little whip-snake slithering under a rock.

  Lisa bumped into me, like accidentally on purpose. I bumped her back. She gave me a wicked grin.

  “Here we are, folks,” Dad said, after a long hot walk. “Petroglyphs. Ancient rock art. They’re carved into the rock, not painted.”

  “Cool,” I said. There was a huge wall of pale, chiseled shapes against blackened rock. Pictures of bison, bighorn sheep, elk or deer, coyotes … and way over to the right, some weird, triangular people-shapes with horns. And all around them there were these spirals and zigzags and what Dad called sunbursts.

  “See, you guys,” he said. “You can tell where ancient fires scorched it and smoke stained it. The Fremont Indians made these a long time ago. Way before the Utes moved into the area. Life here in the desert was precarious, dangerous. They tried growing corn, but the people here had to hunt in this desert to survive. Some say these petroglyphs were like prayers to draw the game to these canyons so the People could survive.”

  “Did they?” I asked.

  “Did they what?”

  “Survive.”

  “No. Not here, anyway. Life was a balancing act. The People had to balance the beauty and the terror. To stay in balance with nature. But maybe nature here was too harsh and they had to leave, or—”

  “Look!” I said, jumping up onto a boulder. “I can balance!” I stood on one foot and balanced with my arms spread out like wings, my fingertips just brushing the petroglyph wall.

  Lisa rolled her eyes at my lame attempt at humor.

  “Get down, Aaron!” Dad barked. “And don’t touch the wall! Wind and sand and time are doing enough damage without kids coming along with their grimy mitts and pawing the works.”

  “Geez, Dad, lighten up.” I sat back down. “I was just … Whatever.”

  Dad, still in lecture mode, went on. “As I was saying, Aaron, the Fremont Indians left here over seven hundred years ago.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead. “No one knows where they went. They may be the ancestors of the Utes, though. Utah was named after the Ute Indians. In fact, this whole stretch of Desolation Canyon is on the Ute reservation.”

  I’m actually interested in stuff like this, but sometimes my dad just drones on and on. Like now. But before he could continue his long-winded history lesson, I interrupted, “What are these squiggly lines? Snakes?”

  “Looks like it.”

  I looked around. Lisa had wandered off, not exactly riveted by my dad’s lecture.

  “Watch where you step!” Dad called to her.

  But it was too late.

  Lisa shrieked. And then I heard it—the rapid, spooky rattle. Again. Then again.

  Rattlesnake!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  LITTLE ROCK HOUSE RAPIDS

  Freeze, Lisa!” Dad yelled.

  Lisa froze.

  Then a rock ricocheted at Lisa’s feet. She jumped back and Cassidy, out of nowhere, leaped down onto the trail and snatched something off the ground. It dangled from his hands.

  The rattler! It was about six feet long and its head was smashed flat. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

&
nbsp; “You coulda got her killed, Cassidy!” Dad snapped, climbing over to Lisa and slipping an arm around her shoulders.

  “What are you talking about, old man?” Cassidy growled. “I’m the one who saved her!”

  “What if you’d missed? Did you think about that?” Dad shook his head. “Rattlers only attack if they’re threatened. Leave ’em be and they’ll leave you be. If you’d missed, it woulda struck her like lightning.”

  “But I didn’t miss, did I?”

  “Sometimes you got to think before you act,” Dad said.

  “Sometimes you got to act before someone gets bit!” Cassidy yelled back.

  “Stop it!” Lisa said. My dad’s shoulders drooped. She turned to Cassidy and said, “Thanks, Cass.” It was the first time she ever called him “Cass.” She even touched his arm as she said it.

  I hated to admit it, but I was on Cassidy’s side this time. He had killed the rattler, after all. But I couldn’t help feeling useless and a little jealous. What had I done? Nothing. I froze at the sound of the deadly rattle. If Lisa was drowning in some rapids, would I jump in and try to save her? I wanted to think so, because I’m a strong swimmer. But rattlesnakes? I didn’t know what to do. I just froze up.

  “Well, thank goodness for your aim,” Dad said. “If you’d been off by one inch … just one inch.…” He was shaking his head again, still angry.

  Cassidy just scowled and held Dad’s eyes, until Dad turned and started back down the trail. “Time to boogaloo down Broadway,” he called over his shoulder. He said that to lighten the mood. He always said that and it always embarrassed me.

  “Let’s go,” I said. We followed after Dad. Lisa glanced back over her shoulder at Cassidy.

  I glanced back, too. But Cassidy stayed behind. He was firing rocks at the petroglyphs, sending sparks flying—and chips of cultural history. Good thing Dad didn’t see him; he would have had a cow.