Whitewater Rendezvous

by Kim Baldwin

It was the evening assignment desk manager. “I wanted to let you know the plane turned out to be nothing, as usual. Just a guy with a new pilot’s license who was showing off to his girlfriend. She, apparently, was not amused.”

  “Okay, Nick. Thanks.”

  Almost as soon as she’d hung up the phone, it rang again. I’m never going to get out of here. This time she put the call on speakerphone.

  “Why aren’t you here?” Justine’s usual velvet-smooth, reporter-trained voice was strained—she had to shout to be heard above the cacophony of raucous laughter in the background.

  “Can’t make it tonight,” Megan said, her eyes skimming the mayhem of work on her desk, looking for a place to start.

  “You haven’t made it in weeks. We’re going to revoke your membership card.”

  A chorus of voices chimed in. It sounded like a goodly number of the gals had managed to make tonight’s impromptu gathering of Broads in Broadcasting. Megan could picture them tucked into one of the big circular booths at the Cool Breeze Tavern, a popular spot for local journalists and politicians.

  “C’mon, Meg!”

  “Party pooper!”

  “Don’t make us come kidnap you!”

  “There’s a cute brunette here that’s just your type!”

  She couldn’t help smiling. It had been a long time since she’d seen most of the “Broads.” After the marking pen incident, she could use some time with her friends. And the thought of maybe hooking up for a quickie wasn’t altogether unpleasant, either. Maybe she had been working too hard.

  “All right, already. I’ll be there in a while. Someone keep an eye on the brunette for me—and don’t let Elise anywhere near her!”

  Fairbanks, Alaska

  Chaz Herrick was having an impossibly difficult time keeping her mind on the pile of paperwork in front of her, despite the fact that it was the only thing standing between her and her liberation for the summer—her return to the wilderness that fed her soul and enriched her spirit.

  The halls outside her office were empty, the students scattered. She’d traded in her professorial khakis and button-down oxfords for the flannel shirt and jeans that comprised the bulk of her wardrobe. Already, in spirit, she was far from this place.

  Her gaze kept straying to the fully loaded backpack in the corner of her office and then to the wall above it, crowded with photographs she’d taken during previous excursions into the backcountry of her adopted state. Some were of trips she’d taken with her parents: cross-country skiing near Denali, kayaking in Glacier Bay, hiking in the Brooks Range. Many solo adventures were represented as well—along with a number of more recent photographs taken during her summers as a senior guide with Orion Outfitters. One particularly striking picture she’d taken of the caribou migration had been chosen for Orion’s brochure this year.

  Gareth Rosenberg, the head of the Biology and Wildlife Department at the University of Alaska, stuck his head in Chaz’s door. He was a big, barrel-chested bear of a man, with an untrimmed beard and long hair, held back in a braided ponytail. “I can’t believe you’re still here. I thought you’d be long gone.”

  “Well, I would’ve been, if it wasn’t for all this administrative shit you give us to fill out. I swear you come up with a dozen new forms every year solely to irritate me.”

  He laughed. Although he was technically Chaz’s boss, they were close friends, and they both knew he had been offered the job only after Chaz had turned it down.

  “Boy, do you ever get antsy these last few days.” He glanced up at her wall of photos. “So where’s it to be this year? You doing your guide thing again?”

  “Yeah, I’m leading a couple of backpack trips at Denali, and some kayak trips. One on the Odakonya River, and a couple on the Kongakut.”

  “The Odakonya? Where’s that?” he asked.

  “It’s within the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. Doesn’t get much river traffic except us, because it’s pretty inaccessible along a good portion of it.”

  “Sounds like your kind of place.”

  She smiled. “Yeah, actually it’s the trip I’m most looking forward to. I went there by myself at the end of the season last year, to scout it out. Beautiful stretch of river. Great views. Lots of wildlife. We can do a day hike from there and have a pretty good chance at seeing the caribou herd.”

  Gareth heaved a great sigh. “Every year I understand a little better why you didn’t want this job,” he said, sounding envious. “Take lots of pictures?”

  “You got it. Now get out of here and let me get back to it. You know I’ll go crazy if I have to spend another night in the city.”

  “The city, she says, like it’s New York or L.A.” He studied her quizzically. “You can drive five minutes out of Fairbanks and be in the wilderness.”

  “Not wild enough for me,” she said.

  Chicago, Illinois

  They had lied to her. There was no cute brunette. It wasn’t even a bona fide gathering of the Broads in Broadcasting, though all those present were members of the group.

  No, this was just her and the five of them. They’d lured her to the Cool Breeze for the sole purpose of getting her drunk and ganging up on her so she’d go on this wilderness thing with them. After a few too many tequila shots, they had produced another one of those damn brochures with all the pretty pictures and a sign-up form already half filled out for her, with her name and address and the other stuff that Justine knew off the top of her head.

  “You’ve been promising for years that you’d go with us,” Linda Ferris, a photojournalist with WNC, said from Megan Maxwell’s left. “Fearless” Ferris, they called her, for her award-winning footage under fire from a variety of war zones.

  “Last year, as I recall, you swore you’d absolutely go this year, no matter what the destination,” Justine reminded her from across the booth. Although she appeared in millions of homes every evening on the news, the WNC reporter was rarely recognized in public. Without makeup and with her flyaway auburn hair untamed by network stylists, she looked like a distant cousin of her on-air persona.

  “At the time you were all talking a lot about seeing Paris next, as I recall,” Megan mumbled.

  “You’re always bragging about how good your staff is,” Pat Palmer reminded her. Pat was Linda’s lover and a photographer as well, with TV station WGN. “Don’t you trust them enough to leave everything in their capable hands?”

  “Well, of course they’re very capable, but—” Megan began.

  “When’s the last time you took a vacation, anyway?” Yancey Gilmore interrupted. “You’re like…living in workaholicville, girlfriend. You need to chill.” Though her vocabulary and blond, pinup girl appearance seemed to belie the possibility, Yancey was a highly regarded researcher with the Oprah empire.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Some say the Royal Ice Bitch is pretty frosty already,” Justine said, which touched off a gasp of shock and then a chorus of snickering among the group clustered around the plush booth. Only Justine dared to bring up the nickname that the malcontents in the newsroom had assigned to Megan.

  Megan glared at her. “You’re lucky you’re not in my department,” she warned with a gruffness that was not at all convincing.

  “You have only yourself to blame that I’m not,” Justine responded warmly, leaning across the booth to place a hand on Megan’s forearm. “I’d still be in the writing ranks if you hadn’t given me a shot in front of the camera.”

  “Oh, shut up. You belong there. I had nothing to do with it.” Megan’s vision began to swim from the tequila. She closed her eyes and slumped against the thickly cushioned booth.

  “Back to the trip,” Elise Webber reminded them, pointing to the sign-up sheet that lay on the table in front of Megan. “We have to get this in by tomorrow to get the group discount.” The youngest of the group, Elise was a graphic artist with the Discovery Channel. She was also Megan’s biggest competition if there were any prospective bed partners about—both of them liked to prow
l for new faces when they went out with the group.

  “Right you are,” Justine agreed. “So you’re gonna come, right, Meg?”

  “I have never even seen a kayak, much less been in one. Besides, camping and I don’t mix.” Megan cracked open an eye, but the room began to tilt, so she quickly shut it again.

  “You’re athletic,” Pat said. “You’ll pick it up in no time. And I guarantee you, it’s a blast! You’ll be so glad you did!”

  “It’d be all bugs and snakes, and bad food, and sleeping on the ground, and no way to take a shower…” Megan grumbled on, as if she hadn’t heard.

  “Look at these pictures.” Yancey thrust the brochure at her. “The last great frontier. Unspoiled beauty. How can you miss this?”

  Megan ignored her.

  “You’ll come back a new woman,” Linda promised. “Relaxed, refreshed, rejuvenated.”

  “I think she’s afraid,” Elise volunteered.

  Afraid? That cut through the haze of the alcohol. “Am not,” Megan said, rousing herself.

  They were all staring at her, totally united in their task of getting her to sign that piece of paper she was having trouble bringing into focus.

  “Prove it,” Elise said. “I dare you to go.”

  “Double dare you,” Yancey chimed in.

  “Triple-dog dare you,” Pat added.

  “What are we, back in grade school?” Megan said. Her defenses were beginning to crumble.

  “Rather make it a bet?” Justine asked.

  Megan perked up a little. There might be a way out of this after all. “I’m game for that.” She blinked several times, trying to clear her head. “How about…movie trivia. Or…current events. You ask me a question, and if I miss it, I sign on the dotted line.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Linda said.

  “No way are we going to take a sucker bet,” Yancey agreed. “No trivia. It’s got to be left totally up to chance. A flip of the coin?”

  “That’s fair,” Pat said.

  “A fifty-fifty chance? That’s not fair.” Megan never played those odds. She only bet on a reasonably sure thing.

  Justine leaned forward again to claim her undivided attention. Her gray eyes grew serious, and she used her most convincing tone of voice…the one that audience focus groups characterized as “highly trustworthy.” “You need this, Megan. Leave it up to fate this one time?”

  Leave it up to fate. It was an alien concept to her. Despite the fact that her workday was ever changing and unpredictable—often dependent on breaking news—she had established an orderliness and routine to her life that she was reluctant to relinquish. She never left any important decisions to fate.

  You once dreamed about exploring some place like Alaska, she reminded herself. She had to admit she did find the whole idea intriguing. Exciting, even. And not much excited her any more.

  “I’m not afraid,” she repeated to no one in particular, swaying as she tried to sit up straight in the booth. “Flip the damn coin.”

  Chapter Two

  Winterwolf, Alaska

  One corner of the conference room was cluttered with the remnants of the trip they’d just led. Flaccid packs and sleeping pads and unused food packages had been dumped in a heap by the clients, eager to catch the noon charter home. Elsewhere was a hint of the organization that was a hallmark of every Orion Outfitters expedition.

  On two long tables lay neat groupings of supplies destined for their upcoming whitewater kayak trip. There were eight piles of food and gear in all: six for the clients and two for the guides, who were, at that moment, neglecting their preparations in favor of two steaming bowls of moose chili and two bottles of Kodiak Brown Ale. The cook at the Stony Creek Lodge had become good friends with Chaz Herrick and Sally Travis during their frequent stops in Winterwolf, and sent over a busboy with some chow whenever they had a short layover between trips.

  It was obvious both women spent a lot of time in active outdoor pursuits. Their bodies were tanned and fit, and their clothes were designed for their lifestyles, made of quick-drying fabrics and with ample pockets. But the similarities between the two guides ended there. Chaz was dark and lean, while Sally was all blond curvaceousness.

  Sally glanced at her watch as she took a long pull of the ale. “Jeez, where has the time gone? I’ve got less than an hour before I have to get ready to go.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Chaz said from across the table. “I can finish this up. Why don’t you brief me on the clients?”

  “Sure.” Sally reached for a file folder that contained the registration forms. “You know, I am sorry I can’t be here for the welcome and briefing. I know you hate that part.”

  “I suppose I can manage this once,” Chaz replied, rolling her hazel eyes. “You do have a relatively good excuse. It’s not every day your daughter graduates from college.”

  “Chelsea will be glad you approve.” Sally pulled the top form off her pile and perused it, refreshing her memory. “Looks like a good group. All women, and all friends from Chicago.”

  “All women?” Chaz repeated, leaning forward and trying to read the form upside down across the table.

  “Yeah, I thought you’d like that.”

  “Well, it’ll be a nice change after this last nightmare.” Chaz glanced over to the pile of discarded backpacks. “I got tired of fending off Mister Can’t-keep-his-hands-to-himself.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell him you’re gay?” Sally asked.

  “Because that rarely discourages them. Remember that pilot who went kayaking with us last summer? I told him, finally, and he only got more determined to hit on me. Said he viewed me as a challenge. What a creep.”

  “Oh, yeah, that big guy with the bad comb-over. Followed you around like a dog in heat.”

  “Don’t remind me. Okay, who have we got?” Chaz gestured toward the registration forms.

  “The good news is they all can swim. The first two have good whitewater experience. Linda Ferris, forty-four, who’s been kayaking for fifteen years…” Sally gave her form to Chaz. “And Pat Palmer, forty-seven, who’s got about the same.” She handed over a second sheet. “They have their own boats and have done a lot of class III and IV.”

  Chaz glanced over the two registration forms. No physical limitations for either woman. No special dietary restrictions or allergies. Both said they had extensive previous camping experience, and both listed themselves as expert kayakers. In other words, on paper, they looked like very low-maintenance clients. Her favorite kind. “Okay, next?”

  “Two more with some previous paddling experience,” Sally continued. “Yancey Gilmore, thirty-eight, who goes canoe camping with her family a couple of times a year, and Justine Bernard, twenty-nine, who went on a ten-day sea kayak trip to Glacier Bay last summer with another outfitter.” She tossed two more forms to Chaz. “I’ve talked to Justine at length a couple of times—she’s the point person for the group and made all the arrangements. I like her a lot. Good sense of humor, lots of enthusiasm.”

  Chaz scanned the papers. Like the other two, there were no red flags on these forms, warning of potential problems. “Can we be lucky enough not to get any Muffys on this trip?” It was the word they used to describe the occasional woman client who griped from the get-go about the lack of modern amenities. “Muffys” were usually talked into coming along by a boyfriend and had no idea what primitive conditions they were in for.

  “Don’t celebrate too soon,” Sally cautioned, perusing the forms of the final two clients. “Elise Webber—she’s twenty-eight—has done some canoeing, but it was a long time ago, and the only camping she’s done has been in an RV.” She tossed the woman’s form to Chaz. “And then there’s Megan Maxwell. She’s thirty-two.”

  Chaz didn’t like the tone of Sally’s voice. She reached over and plucked Megan’s form from the other guide’s hand. “How bad is it?” she asked, even as she began reading.

  “No previous experience on the water,” Sally said. �
�And no outdoorsy experience at all either, except for two-and-a-half disastrous days at summer camp when she was seven.”

  “She actually wrote that down?”

  Sally shrugged. “Seemed kind of odd to me, too. But at least she claims to be a fast learner, and physically active—golf, tennis, racquetball. Might not be too bad.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Chaz scanned the form, trying to picture the woman who’d filled it out. The handwriting at the top of the sheet—name, address, phone, and so forth—was clearly legible, the backward slant indicating that Megan was probably a lefty. But the questions beneath had been answered in an almost childish scrawl that canted in the opposite direction, and each answer was given in painstaking detail, almost to the point of absurdity.

  What intrigued her most were the words Megan had written after the disclaimer at the bottom of the registration form. All adventure trips required them; it was standard practice among the industry, and Chaz had never had a client comment on it before.

  I acknowledge that the trip I am undertaking involves hazardous activities in a remote area, with a risk of illness, injury or death. I also acknowledge that medical services and facilities may not be immediately available during the majority of the trip. In order to participate, I am willing to accept the risks and responsibility for any and all risks of illness, injury, or death due to the negligence (but not the reckless, willful, or fraudulent conduct) of Orion Outfitters and its employees.

  I verify this statement by placing my initials here.

  Megan had initialed it all right, with a barely legible MGM that made Chaz briefly wonder whether the woman’s parents had been fans of the movie studio. And just beneath she had scribbled, Covering your butts, I see. Sure does inspire faith in your guides.

  “Did you see what she wrote after the disclaimer?” Chaz asked. What a bitch!

  “Yeah,” Sally responded, a smile appearing at the corner of her mouth. “I asked Justine about it, actually, once we’d kind of gotten to know each other through a couple of phone calls.”