by Spencer Hyde
“That’s enough, guys,” said Nash.
He fastened everything down and pushed us away from the shore, and we began our journey for that day. I watched Skye touch his prosthetic numerous times, looking at it in the morning light as if he wanted to rip it off and throw it away.
I looked into the water at stones that resembled dinosaur eggs shimmering beneath a filtered, blue light. I relished the moment. I caught glances of the gleaming scales of fish at various turns.
Immediately, I felt the heft and weight and pull and strength of the willful current, of the water flowing beneath us, and the way it pushed against what seemed like an incredibly flimsy, floating death trap.
I’d forgotten how small I felt when confronted by water, and this trip only served to increase that fear, that hopeless feeling. We moved up and down with each trough, with each wave. The heat of the morning pressed down upon us. A blanket of green rose from the surrounding stretches of land.
Nash really was skilled with the oars. His arms pivoted, dipped, swayed and stuck when they needed to, each arm rotating at a different speed and angle, depending on the bend of the river and the speed of the water. He looked like he was in his element, which made me question how he could have failed my mother the way he had.
“Any of you remember the story of Echo?” Nash said, noticing we were a quiet bunch as we started the day, particularly Wyatt and Skye.
“I remember Wyatt’s snoring echoing last night,” said Shelby.
“That’s what you remember? Not the bear?” said Wyatt.
“Echo!” Skye shouted, and we all heard a faint return. He smiled at me, but only got a half attempt in return. Maybe I was being too hard on him. He was just trying to get to know me, maybe, right?
“Exactly,” said Nash. “Echo was cursed to only repeat the last word said to her.”
“It was a girl?” asked Skye.
“It’s not always about a man,” said Shelby. “I know that’s hard for you guys to understand.”
Nash continued, “She was originally set up as a spy for Zeus, because Zeus was messing around with all the wood nymphs.”
“Dirty Zeus,” said Wyatt. “And yet, he gets all the press. What a jerk.”
“Well, Hera found out, and you guessed it: she cursed Echo. Echo fell in love with Narcissus, but she couldn’t say anything. So, of course, Narcissus fell in love with himself,” said Nash.
“Hear that, Shelby? I thought you and Skye might be the only two left of that kind,” said Wyatt.
“Seriously, Wyatt. My face. Eat it,” said Shelby.
“Soon enough I’m gonna take you up on that,” he said. “And then what will we do?”
“Did you know Hera was the one who named the Milky Way?” I said, hoping to shift the momentum of the conversation, to cut up the tension.
“Really?” said Skye.
“Yeah. My mom told me that Hera said it looked like spilled milk.”
“It totally does,” said Shelby.
“Yeah. I like that,” said Wyatt.
The mountains were splashed with color. The river was bright. I couldn’t reconcile the beauty of the landscape with the site of my greatest loss.
Skye leaned out and almost fell into the water reaching for a small fly, trying to cup the bug in his hand.
“Different bugs hatch at different times of the year,” Nash said, spying Skye.
“Obvious,” I said. “It’s not like all mammals give birth during the same month each year.”
Nash maneuvered the boat, and light pooled in the pockets of water, throwing little skittering shadows across the river.
“I wish I could get all this on my phone,” said Shelby. “This would be gold for my followers.”
“Your followers like Greek mythology?” said Wyatt.
“My followers like outdoorsy stuff sometimes. Variety. I don’t, but I’ll do it if it means getting a few more likes and a few more followers.”
“Why do you care so much about how many people follow you?” said Wyatt.
She shrugged. “It’s just nice to have a community.”
“But it’s not like they know you, right? They scroll past and maybe click a like, but then they move on without another thought.”
“Maybe. But I like it,” she said.
“Yeah. I’m wondering why,” said Wyatt.
“I don’t know. Sometimes I wear a plaid shirt and just step outside my house to get the Tetons in the shot behind me. No one needs to know that I’m wearing slippers and freezing and planning to go right back to bed.”
“So you fake it?” asked Wyatt.
“I guess. Sometimes. But I’ve built a persona that I need to keep up.”
“Why?”
“Leave her alone, Wyatt,” said Skye.
“What, I can’t ask questions?” said Wyatt.
“If you look to your left,” said Nash, cutting off the conversation between Wyatt and Shelby and Skye, “you’ll see pictographs in the distance. They were carved by the Native Americans of this area who used to run those high ridges. Some artifacts date back eleven thousand years. Shoshone-Bannock, Northern Paiute, and Cayuse Indians used to roam these parts. Lewis and Clark came near this place in 1806.”
We were all in board shorts with sandals fit for the water; Shelby and I had on one-piece bathing suits under our shorts. Wyatt had his hair in a bun, and mine was still under my cap. Shelby’s hair looked effortless and perfect as usual. Skye was wearing a baseball cap and leaning back onto the side of the boat. He looked up into the sun, his face squinted, his eyes slits in the light.
The way the sun hit the water in that moment was near abstract, like I was looking at a giant printout or a page in an outdoor magazine.
“So, you guys would have been happier climbing or fishing?” I said, hoping to lighten the mood. “You had a fifty percent chance of going on a trip with something you enjoy, I guess. Probability.”
“Probability not,” said Wyatt.
“I am with something I enjoy,” said Skye on the heels of my comment.
I looked away and didn’t let him see my smile.
“So cute, Skye,” said Wyatt.
“Your man-bun is what’s cute, Wyatt,” said Skye.
“Thanks. Glad somebody noticed,” said Wyatt, pushing his hand against the bun and making it bob. “You know, you go to bed after using some dry shampoo and combing through it a hundred times, wondering if anybody will ever notice how much work you put into it, and then, just like that, somebody notices. Just like that. Thanks, bud.”
“Okay, gear up,” Nash said. “River left, people. High flow this year, so get ready. This isn’t a riffle; this is the real thing. We got a hole here, and a boulder garden near the end of this feature. Hang on. Here we go!”
Just then, the raft dipped and bucked like the unbroken paint in Wyatt’s backyard; the horse was always knocking the fencing and neighing in the night. I fell forward and held onto the rope on the side, even though Nash had warned against that. On the next wave, Skye slipped and fell into the hole where our feet were, and then he jumped back up so he could ride the edge for the duration of the feature.
The boat surged from the swells, and Shelby started yelling and holding onto her head. Wyatt grinned as the rapids propelled his body a foot up from the boat, only to land right back where he started. The water sprayed us with every dip and turn, soaking our faces and bodies. I peeked over the edge of the raft to see the pines blurring past as sprays of water misted my face.
Nash flexed in the sunlight, his body seemingly made of oars, his focus set on navigating this first set of rapids. I saw him eye the line and see it through. I knew enough about rafting that I could see the same line, mark the same features.
As we hit the boulder garden, we knocked into two rocks, but nothing substantial. We were all soaked b
y the time we hit the quiet waters below. Wyatt was laughing, and Shelby started in as well. The rapids hadn’t lasted long, but each moment in the white blitz of water had seemed like an impossibly long time.
“This. Is. Awesome,” said Wyatt.
“Wow,” said Shelby, holding Wyatt’s leg as she got back up to her place on the edge of the raft.
“Lost your shoe?” I said, eyeing Skye. I may have had my eye more on his arms, but I wasn’t going to say that.
“Something like that,” he said. “Just a little slip.”
He must have noticed us staring at his prosthetic, because he adjusted in his spot and then spoke. “You all just wish you had a leg up on me.”
“Just wait until we climb,” said Wyatt. “Should we climb tomorrow morning before we get on the water, Skye? I saw you tying those knots.”
“That’s okay, man.”
“Scared of heights?” asked Wyatt.
“Something like that.”
We’d spoken to Nash about climbing, and he’d agreed to let us climb at camp if we wanted. We were also planning on climbing again on the final day after we pulled out of the river, because then we’d have extra guides to help. It all had to be easy climbs—he didn’t want to risk anything.
“Everyone okay?” said Nash.
All smiles. He looked around the boat, and I could tell he was in his element. He smiled back, and I saw the living waters in his face, the rock gardens in his brain, the way his mind maundered just like the river.
There was an echo of the river in his soul, and he let it show. In that moment, I felt forgiveness lurching from my insides, trying to escape my tight grasp. I felt a lightness enter my chest as I imagined letting the past go. But I couldn’t. Because in that moment, I also saw the strainer, and I remembered staring at it months after she was gone, my fly-rod in hand, my head bent. I felt the ring on my chest.
“Nothing better in life than that ride,” he said. “With daily water levels changing at the dam, you can never really plan for that first one. Those were the Wild Sheep Rapids.”
“Very wild,” said Shelby.
I realized I was still clenching my teeth and the muscles in my back in anticipation of the next maw of water, the next dip and rise in the frothy white. The roar of the water was behind us as we eased into softer, calmer currents, the rapids in the background still shouting into the morning sky.
We worked through Granite Rapids and Three Creek Rapids before stopping for lunch. By then it was late afternoon, and everyone was sore from tensing our way down the river. But we were still all smiles.
We dried off on a sandbar as Nash pulled the cooler ashore into the shade of the pines. Rock features exploded in every direction, the geometry of the land a stark contrast to the rapidly changing shapes of the water. Honestly, I was just glad to rest on the sand and let everything else stop moving for a moment. I soaked up the warmth of the sun, listening to the faint roar of the water set against the insular quiet of the sandbar.
Nash let us relax as he prepped lunch. The four of us stared into the sky, arms over eyes, or squinting. I was starting to doze off, when Nash shouted for us to come grab some food.
“Do you think it can be any worse than breakfast?” said Shelby.
A few options popped up before my face, and I scrolled through them in my mind.
1.It’s probably worse. Go in expecting that, and you might be surprised.
2.Of course. Everything in life is downhill, and if we started with mediocre barbecued chicken, what do you think is next?
3.Yes. I saw him preparing horsemeat and fish skins, and I know for a fact he doesn’t wash his hands.
4.We’re having a late night and some Pepto if it’s anything like breakfast.
Turns out it was option number 1. It was just deli meat and cheese slices, but it was better than any of us expected. Or maybe we were just hungry after a long morning. Probably both. He mentioned at lunch, again, how the other members of his outfit would meet us on day three with new supplies, more food, and a fully setup campsite. That sounded wonderful in the wake of so much movement and the loss of all our dry goods.
Skye looked my way a couple times during lunch, but I didn’t give him the time to see that I knew I was overreacting to an innocent advance. But I still felt something was off about his reasoning for flirting with me instead of Shelby, and I needed to process it before letting him in. Right?
After lunch, Nash finished reloading the raft and then stepped back to the small circle we’d created around a flat rock where our drinks rested.
“Can I get my phone out for a minute?” said Shelby.
“Let’s keep it in the dry-bag for now. You can this evening.” Nash paused. “You know, I take all my clients to this spot on the first full day.”
He said it like we should congratulate him or something, like he’d done something amazing by getting us to the same spot every other tour group had been to.
“Why?” said Wyatt, breaking the awkward pause. Wyatt—playing the kind soul. Was that normal for him? I couldn’t tell. Nobody could.
“Come with me.”
We all hesitated, and Nash probably noticed, because he repeated himself.
“Come on. It won’t take too long.”
We all stood and gathered our trash in a bag and stepped around a large outcropping of chokecherry shrubs. In the distance, birds shouted at the sky or maybe each other. I couldn’t see them. Probably out for their own lunch, diving for a trout twisting in the cool waters. We stopped next to a giant cottonwood tree and saw a large pile of stones on the ground.
“Everybody grab a stone and place it on this pile,” said Nash.
“Why?” I said.
“In memory of Joyce Lutz.”
I stopped and stared at Nash. He didn’t flinch. He looked sincere. The others briefly looked at me before picking up a stone.
“There’s an old Scottish blessing,” said Nash, “‘I’ll put a stone on your stone.’”
“Doesn’t sound like it means much,” I said.
“Think about it. If we want a true memorial, that needs to happen.”
“I’m going to find a rock,” I said, turning to step beyond the cottonwood tree and the chokecherry shrubs.
I didn’t mean to cry. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t have it in my mind to ever be found crying again by anybody, anywhere, at any time. But tears poured from my eyes. A torrent. I stifled the sobs as best I could, but then I saw Wyatt with his stone. He didn’t say a word. He just walked over to my spot on the sand, sat next to me, and pulled me into him. The blast radius of my mother’s life seemed to be much larger than I ever imagined.
Wyatt stood moments later and walked to the pile without a word. I shook my head, my hair falling into my eyes. My hands clenched into fists.
Eventually, I summoned the courage to walk back to that pile, that monument, and picked out a stone. Not without my doubts, of course. Had Nash known he was picking the weakest line in the river? Had he asked Joyce for her help because he wanted to reunite, or because he felt incompetent on the water without her? Did he really take every group here, or was this just a cairn marking a walking path and Nash was putting on a show for me?
Still holding my stone, I saw Nash and Shelby standing next to the shrubs, looking for rocks. His skin looked weathered in the harsh light, his eyes deeper in his face, his chest a little more concave, his arms heavier, his shoulders bent.
“It’s not the size of the pile, Indie,” he said to me. “It’s what it represents.”
I saw Shelby messing with her hair again and felt heat rise to my face.
“Seriously, Shelby? Can you just think about somebody else for two seconds? Can you not just put a stone on there and think about my mother instead of your freaking hair?”
Her face went white, and she slinked behind
the shrubs. Nobody said anything.
“You take every group here, or was the pile already there?” I said to Nash. “You putting this on just for me?”
“You don’t think that moment haunts me every day, Indie?”
He took a few steps closer. The others were probably waiting around the corner, near the cottonwood and the rock pile.
“Then why didn’t you quit the river? Why are you still guiding at, what—fifty?”
“It’s all I know. It’s all I’ve ever known. I don’t have an education like your mother. I couldn’t afford it.”
“There are other jobs,” I said.
“But I can’t afford not to be here. Oddly enough, the only thing that takes my mind off it is when I know I have to look out for others. That’s it.”
“That’s it.”
“I guess I figured if I got enough lives through this canyon here, I could somehow trick karma into letting me have another shot at it all,” he said.
“At what?”
“At life! At not feeling this boulder of guilt in my stomach every morning and every night and every moment in between. I know she was your mother, but you should remember she was also my friend. I don’t expect you to forgive me, Indie, but I do expect you to put a stone on that pile and know that it means a lot more to me than a pile of rocks.”
“Then tell me how it really happened. Some people said she fell out. Others said she was trying to save someone. That doesn’t make sense. No guide would do that. You said as much, at the funeral. Grandpa is inclined to believe you, but I’m not so sure,” I said.
“I told your grandpa the truth.”
“Then say it to me again,” I said.
He wiped sweat from his forehead and adjusted his bandana, a yellow one with bright birds all over it. A flotilla of clouds sailed by at a quick clip in the blue-white distance.
“It was a strainer, like I said. Her boat was right behind mine. Oar-rigged. We each had our own crew. I went through the boulder garden first, and it was my job to stick with the kid who fell out. We both saw the strainer, but your mother was quicker and got her throw bag in the water. But in the process, another client slipped and knocked her into the water. And I hesitated. And that’s all it took to be too late.”
