The River Wild

by Denis O'Neill

  “I can’t fish for shit,” one of the SWAT members offered.

  The ranger laughed. “Believe me, you won’t be the first floater on this river who can’t fish.”

  “Besides, you’re not fishing for fish,” Bobby Long reminded him. “And this ain’t catch and release. All you gotta do is look like a fisherman. Dick around with your gear, peer into your fly box, untangle a line snarl, catch your fly in a tree—do what most fishermen do. Anyone else?” Silence. “Radios don’t work for shit in the canyon, so once you’re down there you’re on your own. Which means I expect you to use your judgment and do what you have to do. Okay? Good luck.”

  The men walked to the three coils of rope and hurled them over the cliff. They buckled their rappeling belts in place and secured the rope in their belt rings.

  They tightened their backpack straps a final time. One by one, they pushed off from the edge of the rim and sailed out over the river. They paid out line as gravity took hold, pushing off from the canyon wall when the arc of their descent swung them back into the rock face at the end of each line release.

  ** ** **

  Across from the SWAT team, but upriver one bend and unaware of their presence, Tom and Maggie settled into a vantage point that offered a view of Indian Gorge rapids. There was no way down; the cliffs were sheer. There was a sandy beach at the tail end of the rapids, before the river slalomed once more out of sight, where the SWAT team would take up their positions. Tom wrestled with the reality that Gail had no reason to believe he was alive. He remembered their conversation when they were alone in the raft: Gail’s haunting decision to proactively flip the raft even if it meant their deaths. If it really gets down to it, I’d rather nobody got off this river alive. Tom knew his wife well enough to know she meant it. If there were no other options.

  He touched his head to Maggie’s. “She doesn’t know we’re alive; neither of us.”

  He looked around and saw a tree he could climb. He made his way to the lone pine and jumped to reach the first branch. The rest was easy, a series of almost alternating branch steps. He held on tight just below the very top. The trunk swayed with his weight. The river was even more distant. Tom looked upriver first, then down. What he saw was a river bed that made a huge U at Canyon Gorge and reversed course. There were S turns along the way, but they were the smaller elements of a larger course change. The corseting walls in the middle of the Gauntlet were the pivot point. Tom traced the river up to and after that landmark. If for any reason he needed to get to the river below the Gauntlet, there was a very short leg, not following the canyon rim, but cutting across and in effect closing the distance between the points of the larger horseshoe.

  ** ** **

  Detective Lieutenant Long’s next stop was downstream at Canyon Gorge takeout. Dozens of cars, many with trailers, were parked in the dirt parking lot that stretched back from the takeout ramp. A half dozen Montana state trooper vehicles were also visible. Troopers—wearing shorts and river sandals, as instructed—unloaded the gear. Handguns were inspected and placed out of sight in backpacks. A couple of troopers set up tents. Extra ammunition and other weapons were stored inside, out of sight.

  Trooper Page Noel reported to the lieutenant. “Get these vehicles out of sight as soon as you can,” Long told him.

  “We’re spooking some of the campers, lieutenant. They want to know what’s going down.”

  “Tell them it’s just a training exercise. Spooking the bad guys is the only thing worries me.”

  The two troopers walked to the water’s edge as a raft pulled in and a family of four raised their paddles in celebration. They were met by grandparents, who grabbed the nose of the Avon and pulled it onto the ramp. Hugs and whoops and excited children’s voices ensued.

  The troopers walked upstream, out of earshot.

  “Everybody’s in position,” Long told Noel. “You’re the belt. The suspenders are about two miles upstream.”

  “What does that make you, Lieutenant?”

  “Insurance,” Bobby Long said. “That thing you pay for every year and never use until you need it. That’s me. Let’s move those vehicles out.”

  Noel hurried off. Long walked to a horse trailer hitched to a pickup truck near the back of the lot. A horse’s tail fluttered out of the open back end. Long reached in and rubbed Marlene’s nose. He reached into a pocket for a carrot and offered it to the horse. “Keep your strength up, girl. You’re my insurance.”

  “Lieutenant!” Trooper Heston rushed up and held out a piece of paper. “That woman you wanted me to find out about … Gail Anderson. That was her maiden name. Married Tom MacDonald, a Boston architect. I talked to a couple of fishing shops, then to a handful of clients who used her. Turns out she was a pistol in her day. A little headstrong, maybe, but nothing but rave reviews. Daughter of a rancher. Best female fisherman by far. Hell of a rower. Had a number of first descents out west and in the Andes. Kicked field goals for the Cascade boys’ high school football team! Basically, the girl kicked ass.”

  Bobby Long studied the assessment for a moment. “Good,” he said, visibly pleased with her country pedigree. “Let’s hope she left something in the tank for two more.”

  26

  Gail back-rowed at the tail end of the run upriver of the Indian Gorge rapids. She wanted to buy time to plot her course through the white water. She had run it dozens of times, years ago, but each time, she knew, was always different—depending on water flow and any shifting of rocks and channels that inevitably happened every year during runoff. What she saw was a hundred yards of chop and froth pinched between towering canyon walls. She back-oared once, twice, slowing the raft in the tail out. She stood up to peer downstream. Like a high jumper charting her approach to the bar, she mentally broke down her route into manageable pieces. Satisfied at last, she sat once more and adjusted her line. “Hold on, Roarke” she said. He was seated behind her, beside Terry. Deke was in the bow. He slid off the seat and onto the bottom of the raft. He gripped the canvas handles in either hand.

  The raft hurried out of the fast-moving, shallow tailout and into the first churn of the rapids. The nose immediately shot up and smacked down with a splash. Water surged over the bow, soaking Deke. Gail back-oared to line up the first chute, then swung the bow straight downriver and accelerated their speed with a two-oar push. The raft split two rocks and sank into a chute bounded by white water on either side. Gail abruptly swung the blades of her oars out of the water and thrust her hands forward to swing the blades over either side of the raft to avoid banging her oars on the rocks.

  When she passed through the rocks, she swung the oars back into action, back-paddling to river right to avoid a reeflike island in the middle of the river where a log had lodged itself. She rose out of her seat with the exertion. The raft hurtled toward the log on a three-quarters slant. When Gail was satisfied she had bought enough space to clear the obstacle, she jammed her left oar into the current and pulled hard on the right to center the raft once more. The Avon sailed past and under one end of the log that angled out from the rocks. Deke had to flatten himself to the raft floor to avoid being hit. It all happened in the blink of an eye. He turned to glower at Gail once they shot by. The close call gave Gail an idea.

  The river bent slightly to the right ahead, forcing a good tongue of water against the outer cliff wall. She scrambled with the oars to aim her butt river left, and pulled for all she was worth to make the far chute. She turned to Roarke and screamed, ”Hold on!” then she rose up for even more leverage. The raft edged closer to the canyon wall. At the bottom of the chute Gail saw a rock punch through the surface maybe eight feet off the cliff face.

  ** ** **

  Tom watched her from a quarter mile away. He was lying on his stomach on a flat shelf over a sheer drop that afforded him a fishbowl vantage of Indian Gorge rapids. It was like watching a hockey game from peanut heaven: the specifics were unclear, but the shape of play, the spacing of the elements, and the view of the w
hole venue offered a unique perspective on what was unfolding. He could see the route choices Gail turned down, and the degree of difficulty in the path she had chosen. It was a tight fit between the cliff wall and the rock that geysered a spigot of water off its top. He watched Gail center herself in the main current. At the last moment, as the raft rushed toward the wall and the rock, Tom watched Gail angle the nose of the raft slightly river right.

  ** ** **

  Deke, facing forward, peered over the bow as the raft gathered speed and was sent hurtling downstream by the tongue of current. The bow drifted river right as they attempted to split the distance between the rock and the cliff wall. Gail gave one last back tug on her right oar—unseen by Deke. The right side of the raft’s bow crashed into the rock, then rose up and over it …. the force of the collision throwing Deke violently to his left, prying his handhold off the right canvas strap. The collision also ricocheted the bow river left. Moments later, the raft, almost broadside in the current, slammed into the cliff wall. Gail reinforced the crash with a two-handed thrust of the oars. Deke was catapulted out of his hunkered-down position. His body hit the wall as water poured into the raft, then it slipped into the water as the collision—and subsequent “springing effect” of the raft’s tube structure—opened a gap between the raft and the cliff. Deke held fast with his left hand and managed to get a two-handed grip on the canvas strap. Gail stood and jammed her left oar into the current, throwing the nose once more against the cliff. She reinforced the effect by forward-paddling furiously with the right oar, forcing the raft to scrape up against the granite wall, hoping to shake Deke’s grip. The raft dipped into a trough at the bottom of the tongue, then its bow shot up, propelling Deke back into the craft. He gripped the left canvas strap with his right hand and flung his left hand toward the right strap. He found it and held fast; he was now on his back in the bow, arms outstretched like Christ on the cross, eyes fixed on Gail. Water sloshed around his body.

  ** ** **

  Tom exhaled as if he were on the river with them. “Fuck,” he muttered at Gail’s failed attempt to separate Deke from the raft. He bristled with pride, however—knowing that she was going to go down fighting, with or without her husband. It strengthened his own resolve to keep going.

  ** ** **

  “I’m watching you!” Deke screamed at Gail as she swung the stern of the raft river right and pulled mightily to work them farther away from the cliff. Gail glanced over her shoulder to make sure Roarke was safe. Terry looked like he was going to throw up. That made her feel good. She straightened their course to sail down another chute. Ahead, she could see where the white water gave way to the deep green of the pool below, and to safe haven. She had one more piece of broken water to navigate. There was a chute of calmer water she could have chosen, but she pulled hard to position the raft further river right. Then she pushed hard, two handed, to accelerate their speed. The raft roller-coastered through the chop, bumb, bump, bump like a moguls skier, the bow snaking up and down, the flexible core of the raft lifting and falling as it slid over each small rock that made up this final section of the rapids. Deke glared at her all the while, his hands white with the exertion of holding fast. Gail realized she’d have to cut them off to loosen his contact with the raft and bounce him out. The raft took one last violent plunge at the foot of the rapids and squirted into deep, unbroken water.

  She shipped her oars and looked at Roarke. “You okay, honey?” The boy offered a brave smile. Terry, who cradled him under one arm, was worse for wear; he was drenched and spooked. Deke relinquished his handholds and pushed himself into a seated position with his back nestled against the inside of the bow where the tubes came together. The sun burned overhead. Gail contemplated her next move even as the adrenaline receded in her body. Her arms and back ached.

  “You cannot get me off this river soon enough,” Terry said. “Takeout shouldn’t be far now, right?”

  Gail said nothing. Deke unfolded his map and peered at it. “Yeah, except we’re not getting out at the takeout.”

  “What do you mean?” Terry asked his partner, bewildered. “I thought that was the whole idea. Grab a car and go.”

  “It was until I realized that maybe we ought to get off the river where people won’t be expecting us to get off the river.”

  “Above the takeout?” Terry asked, confused.

  Deke held up the map for Terry to see and pointed to their location a few miles above the takeout at Canyon Gorge. “It’s like a goddamn conveyor belt. If anyone thought we were on the river, where do you think they’d wait for us?”

  “What about the car?” Terry asked.

  “Getting a car’s less important than getting out unseen. Pull in up ahead,” he told Gail.

  The sudden change of plans alarmed Gail. “Takeout’s only two miles ahead, Deke. Nothing you can’t handle.”

  Deke pulled out his .22 and aimed it at Gail. “Pull over.”

  Gail aimed the stern of the raft river right and pulled for shore. They were one bend above Lieutenant Long’s first line of defense. The raft beached itself in shallow water. Deke vaulted over the side and dragged the nose on shore. “Everybody out.”

  “Just leave us here, Deke,” Gail said. “Take the raft when it’s dark. Float down to the takeout or above it and walk out. Anybody can float this last section. It’s nothing you can’t handle.”

  “And then what?” he asked Gail. “Wait until you get picked up by the next boat? Or swim out? How much head start would that give us? You and Roarke get out and stand next to that cliff where I can see you. Terry, let’s get the water out.”

  Gail and Roarke walked over to the base of the cliff. The two fugitives tilted the raft onto one gunwale until all the collected river water had drained out. “Grab the back end,” Deke said. Deke grabbed the nose of the bow, Terry took the stern. Deke walked the raft into a stand of high grass and saplings where it couldn’t be seen from the river.

  “What do we do now, Deke?” Terry asked, impatiently. “What’s the plan?”

  “We wait,” Deke told him.

  27

  Tom had moved slightly downriver for a better view of Gail’s beached raft. It was hidden from sight, but he had watched Deke and Terry pull it away from the water’s edge and into the stand of cottonwoods. Behind that, an overhang at the bottom of the cliff wall provided even more shelter from river travelers. As the afternoon wore on and full sunlight retreated from the river, Tom watched another half dozen rafts navigate Indian Gorge rapids and continue downstream.

  By moving a few hundred yards downriver he could watch activity at the takeout. There were dozens of cars and trailers parked back from the ramp. A steady procession of trailers were backed into the water to engage and winch up the rafts that stayed inflated. Other rafts were pulled up on either side of the ramp to be deflated and packed out. Tom stopped to watch two fishermen work the bend just above the takeout, while two other guys set up camp. He saw no beached rafts, canoes, kayaks, or water masters, so it was unclear how they had gotten there.

  ** ** **

  At dusk, the four members of the SWAT team gathered at the river’s edge. They had diligently monitored the passing traffic; now, with fading light, visual contact was going to be more difficult. Radio communication in the canyon was nonexistent, but their orders were clear: maintain their position day and night until further apprised. Cumulous clouds bunched ever tighter in the portion of the sky they could see. Complete cloud cover would make visual monitoring next to impossible at night.

  ** ** **

  Downstream, at the takeout, the last of the late-arriving traffic had come and gone. New cars and cars with trailers had shuttled into the parking lot all day long, transportation-to-be for rafters just putting in upriver. Thompson Littlebuck joined the lieutenant at the water’s edge. Long was uncharacteristically edgy. “There’s no other place they could climb out, right?”

  “Not unless they’re Spiderman,” the ranger told him. “Maybe
he’s gonna try to slip out under the cover of darkness.”

  Bobby Long looked upriver. The air looked chalkier as the last reflected sunlight left the canyon floor. He stared overhead at the layer of clouds. He peered downriver, where the current narrowed and fell off toward the Gauntlet. He tried to get inside Deke’s head. “What the fuck’s he doing?”

  ** ** **

  Deke slashed away at a cottonwood sapling with the camp hatchet and dropped the branches on the ground beside the raft. Terry sat under the overhang, sipping a beer, guarding Gail and Roarke. Deke returned with a final cut sapling and began lashing the cuttings on and around the raft. “I don’t think you killed my friends,” Gail said to Terry. “I think Deke did. It’ll make a difference when they catch you … and they will. If you let Roarke and me go, I’ll tell the court you helped me.”

  Terry looked at Gail. “You and Deke should be partners,” he told her. “You think alike. I saw you and Deke together casting. There was something between you. I could tell. I can tell those things.”

  “You don’t need us anymore is all I’m saying,” Gail said. “Float to the takeout. There’s no more rough water. Take our rental. It’s a gray Toyota minivan. The key’s in the gas cap. Take the car. I won’t try to get out of here until daylight. I promise. That’ll give you almost a day’s head start. Get off the river, Terry, while you can. Things happen out here you can’t control. I know. I spent ten years as a guide. I told Deke this and it’s true, there are laws out here. Things happen you can never predict or control. The longer you stay on the river the surer it is that will happen.”

  Terry looked at Gail for the longest time, said nothing. Then he finished his beer. If nothing else, she was sure she had stirred some embers of second thoughts.

  ** ** **

  Tom saw them launch the raft around midnight only because a gust of wind tore a hole in the cloud cover, and a beam of moonlight angled down onto the beach.