Sam Archer was on the slide into sleep when he heard someone outside his tent.
"Dad?"
Sam turned in his sleeping bag and unzipped the fly to his tent. "Robby? What's up, son?"
Sam's 18 year old son lowered himself to a sitting position in front of the tent, and said, "I don't know, Dad . . . Maybe I'm imagining things, but I'm getting the wierdest vibes about Walt."
"Well, I don't know what kind of vibes you're getting, but as far as I'm concerned, we've been out here for three days with him and I think he's a damned fine guide."
"It's not what he does . . . It's how he comes across . . . Like he's nervous, or something," Robby replied.
"Could it be that you're a little nervous?" Sam responded.
"Well, sure. I'm a little nervous, but that's not what I mean. Have you noticed how Walt doesn't really answer any questions about the rapids? He just shrugs 'em off. Like tonight after supper, when Chris asked him if many rafts flip in the big rapids, and he gave that funny little grin and said, 'Hey, anything can happen in a big rapid'."
"And that's whats got you edgy?" Sam replied. "I'd just call that a very honest answer. What did Chris make of it?"
"You know Chris, Dad. As smart as he is he's not much on reading people. He thinks I'm over-reacting."
"Well, I tend to agree. Take my word for it. There's nothing to worry about. Now my advise is to let it go, and go get a good night's sleep. We've got a big day ahead of us."
Sam gave his youngest son an affectionate punch on the arm and watched him stand and head off to the tent he shared with his brother, tossing a "'Night, Dad" over his shoulder.
Now it was Sam who couldn't sleep. He had kept his own uneasy feelings about their guide to himself, not wanting to alarm the boys and half believing that his imagination was getting the better of him; but now there was confirmation. Robby did have a good nose for people and he had picked up on the same nervousness Sam had noticed. Now he lay staring at the ceiling of his tent, wondering what in the hell was going on.
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Walt Brandon had set up his personal campsite on the other side of the "kitchen". He thought his passengers preferred it that way, and he liked his privacy at the end of the day - especially at the end of this day. Walt sat on top of his sleeping bag peering into the darkness toward the river. His river. That's how he had always thought of it, as a boy. That the river belonged to him, and others who came to use it were intruders.
Even as a teen-ager he felt a certain possessiveness toward the Colorado, as if those who had not grown up with it had no right to claim it as their own. He had the right. He had been running its rapids and sleeping on its beaches since he was fourteen, and had been a guide since he turned seventeen - the youngest guide on the river. And then, when he was twenty, he had gone away - off to Denver to do something with his life. It was during those eight years of college, and the corporate job, and the good woman, and even the baby he had adored, that Walt found the truth. The truth was that the river owned him. Its waters pulsed through his veins and the sound of the rapids was like background music for the life he lived there.
Through the climb up the corporate ladder in his tailored suit, with the blow-dry hair style, there was always the lure of the river. In the beginning he had tried to ignore it - to pretend it wasn't there, but especially at night, as he tried to sleep, the roar of the rapids filled his head like a siren's song. The call of the Colorado grew in him, as the years passed, like the rushing momentum the river gathered as it plunged toward the canyon.
And then the day came when it had swept him away - carried him over the edge. He had been in a marketing meeting, when he pushed back his chair, stood up and walked out. Walked out on the promising career, the good woman, and even the baby daughter. The river had claimed him as its own - had reached out its tentacles like some primordial fish-thing and pulled him home to Moab. Walt had spent the winter there, allowing himself to settle back into the life of the river people.
His hair and his beard grew long, and the heavy weight in his chest that he had associated with Denver, had slowly dissipated. He repaired equipment, stocked supplies, and made ready for the spring runs. Then he was back on the river - back where his heart told him he belonged. And then the river sent him a new message. Just as it had lured him back to its banks, now the river slipped behind the curtain of its mysteries. Walt had come to believe that running the river was like riding a bike - once you knew how, you could always pick it up again.
Last week that belief had been shattered. Now everything he thought he had known about the Colorado was in doubt, ask well as his very right to be on it. Had it not been for good friends he would have taken off, but like a good father teaching a child to ride a bike, they had urged him - almost forced him - to stay with it. And so he had pushed himself to take out this next trip. Now, the night before he would do the rapids, all the doubts and fears were back. It would have been so much easier if he had only himself to worry about, but there were three others involved. Walt stared into the darkness and once again, ran the Big Drops in his mind.
"Okay, guys. Gather round," Walt called out, as he hopped onto the side of the raft. His crew dropped what they were doing and circled their guide.
"So, this is the big day. Up till now, you guys have been, more or less, spectators, but that changes today. We'll be doing 23 rapids today. The first 18 range anywhere from easy to difficult, and the difficults are hard enough to excite any white water fan, but numbers 19, 20 and 21 are what gives Cataract Canyon its reputation as the best white water in North America. Big Drop 1, 2, and 3. Right there is the steepest drop in the whole Colorado River. They're actually like mini waterfalls. If they were any steeper, they'd be unnavigable, and the only way for a raft to get through them is with lots of teamwork and a splash of good luck. So, we're gonna use the first 18 rapids as training for the big ones. I'm gonna teach you guys how to help me and we'll practice that going down. I'm also gonna teach you what to do if you go out of the raft, or if the raft flips, or if I lose an oar or break one. You'll know all that stuff by the time we get to the Big Drops. But I'm not planning on any of that happening. If you guys do what I tell you, we'll sail right through."
"Right on," Robby called out, like a church member at a gospel meeting.
"What you also need to know", Walt went on, "is that the river is very fast right now. We usually don't get much rain in the desert, this time of year, but we've had a shit-load of it in the last seven weeks. There's a helluva lot of water moving down this river right now. When that happens some rapids get washed out so you don't even know they're there, but some others become very treacherous - like the Big Drops. So, for some extra security, we're gonna have a rescue boat waiting for us at the bottom of those rapids. Just before we do the big ones, we'll be pulling over to look the situation over, and you'll be able to see a yellow raft with a motor about a half mile down river. For right now, let's get packed up and under way. The first rapid down here is pretty easy, but we'll probably get wet. Number two will be our wake up call for the day, so let's get rollin'".
The next two hours were a learning experience for Sam and his boys. They learned about rescue techniques, and how to get out from under a flipped raft, and how to quick-release the spare oars. They also learned how important bailing out was - how difficult it was to manuver a raft full of water, and the only hope of getting through a difficult rapid was to be at the right spot, at the right time. Walt taught them about the different parts of the rapid, and what their jobs were at each stage. It sounded so logical and orderly, as he described it. When they did the Mile Long rapid, it was pure chaos, as they hit one set of waves after another, with no real time to get ready for the next one. The three passengers bailed furiously, punched the bow through the wave crest, and held on through the down side - mostly held on, as Walt rowed and manuvered and called out orders through what looked like a cauldron of boiling water.
"My God, did you see the size of some of those waves?" Chris exclaimed, during a short lull in the action.
"At the Big Drops we're gonna see some 10 and 12 footers," Walt said, almost matter of factly, "and we're just about there. I'm gonna pull over pretty soon and scout things out. While I'm doing that, how about if you guys bail everything out and then check to see that everything on board is tied down. We don't want anything moving around on us. Okay?"
By the time Walt pulled the raft over to shore, they were close enough to the big rapids to hear their deafening roar. Leaving them with their assignments, he scrambled up a hillside and climbed onto a large rock that gave him a perfect view of the river beyond that point. Squatting on the rock he surveyed the familiar landmarks - the first Big Drop, the left-side eddy, Big Drop Two, and then Niagra.
That's where it had happened. Had it it really been just eight days ago? It seemed to Walt as if it had been on his mind forever - burned into his consciousness like an image left too long on the computer screen. That whole trip had been bizarre. Even the way he had met his passenger- in a bar in Moab. The guy said he was some kind of Hollywood producer and they got to talking and Walt told him he was a river guide, and right away, the guy wanted to trip with him. That was fine with Walt. The company always liked more customers, but then he found out no one else had signed up for last week. It would just be him and the producer. That meant a tough trip. The guy was overweight and out of shape.
He was even a chain smoker, and Walt knew he wouldn't be of much use in navigating the rapids. The guy would be a spectator - period. Then there was the condition of the river. The unusual seven weeks of spring rains had it running faster than he could remember, in recent times, and then, on their second day out it turned really cold and rainy. By the time they got to the big rapids, Mr. Producer-Man was one unhappy camper. He had settled in at the stern of the raft and wouldn't even do any bailing. Having run this scenario in his head hundreds of times, Walt was certain that his first mistake was not stopping to scout the rapids. Actually, he thought, his first mistake was taking that trip out, but that was beside the point.
He was wet and cold and had a disgruntled rider, and just wanted to get the rapids over with and get warm and dry; and, besides, he had run this part of the river over a hundred times. He thought he knew it like the back of his hand. That was mistake number two. That was the new lesson the river was to teach him. The river is not knowable. Like all things in nature, it is constantly changing, and let the mortal beware who thinks he knows. What Walt "knew" that day were the rules of those rapids - take Big Drop One down its tongue, but to the right at the bottom, or you get caught up in the big eddy at the left of the river - but don't get too far right before you hit the tongue of Big Drop Two or you go over Niagra - and if you go over Niagra, you flip - for certain. On that day, like a chess player who knows he's just made a bad move and will pay for it three moves later, Walt knew he was in trouble before he went over Big Drop One.
He hit the tongue too far to the right, and with nobody in the bow to help punch through the back wave, they almost capsized. Straining against the oars with all the strength he could muster, Walt just managed to keep them from going over, but they took a big hit of water that flooded the raft and robbed him of his chance to straighten them out. Shaking the water out of his eyes, he saw they were way too far to the right. He had time for maybe two oar strokes. If that didn't get them more to the left, they'd go over Niagra. The first stroke had everything behind it that Walt had to give and, in that split instant, he felt a spark of hope; but as he dipped for the second stroke - the one that could possibly save them, the raft had been hit by a huge wave that drove it farther to the right. Walt knew that was it. They were going over. He turned to the stern, where his passenger was holding onto the life ropes, with a look of pure terror on his face.
"I'm sorry, man. We're gonna flip," he had screamed over the din of the crashing water. As the raft cascaded over Niagra, Walt's rider was catapaulted forward - up and over the length of the boat. Walt remembered it like slow motion - that big guy going up in the air - up over his own head, and then he felt the tug as the man's hand clutched at Walt and grabbed onto the shoulder strap of his life vest, yanking him out of the raft and into the falling waters. Walt had been in rapids like this before, but not like this - not with a panic stricken man holding him in a bear hug around the neck, and everything moving so fast - water gushing and bodies tumbling. He knew, instinctively, he had to get rid of him, or he would drown.
Using everything he had learned and his last reserves of energy, Walt ducked under the man's grasp and pushed against his chest with all his force - and he was free. Free to look for the glimpses of sky, between waves, when he could snatch a life-saving breath of air. At the bottom of the Big Drops he made his way to shore - near exhaustion. Once recovered, he hiked along the shore line and found the raft hung up on a log, about a mile downstream. The metal frame was badly twisted and, aside from the water container and two dry bags, everything was missing, including his two-way radio. Using the one undamaged reserve oar, he poled his way down river and, finding a second oar, rowed along the coastline looking for his passenger. He found him about three miles below the rapids in a quiet eddy. At first sight he thought the man was okay. Shocked, perhaps, but okay. Drawing closer he saw the vacant stare and knew he was dead.
It was no easy task pulling his dead weight out of the water and wrestling him into the raft. With that task behind him, Walt realized he was trembling from the cold and fatigue, and probably emotion, too. He rested for a time on the beach. He was soaked through and through. The sun was going down, and with it the temperature. His teeth began to chatter and he knew he had to do something to build up his body heat. Rowing. It was the only thing he could think of, and the sooner he got out of Cataract Canyon, the better. He rowed all that night and most of the next day, the body lying crumpled in the stern, and he reached Lake Powell late in the afternoon.
He called the office from the marina to report the first fatality on the river in 21 years. They had done an autopsy back in Moab and said the guy had had a heart attack, but that hadn't made anything easier for him. It had happened on his watch. He was responsible. He had been too confident. Too cocky. And a man was dead.
"Look at him up there," Robby exclaimed. "Don't tell me that's not wierd. He's been up there for fifteen minutes, staring at the river like he's never seen it before. I'm telling you, something funny's going on here."
"I don't see what's so wierd about somebody being very conscientious in their job," his brother, Chris, commented.
"Conscientious?" Robby groaned. "The guy acts like he's paranoid. Forget about conscientious."
"Robby, Robby", Sam muttered. "Give it up. You're making yourself crazy."
"Knock it off", Chris admonished. "Here he comes."
Walt scrambled down the hillside and hopped onto a boulder facing his three-man crew. "Okay. This is it. We've got some really fast water out there, and we're gonna get one helluva ride. All I need from you guys is some good cooperation. So I'll be calling out what I need you to do. Don't get offended if it sounds like I'm yellin' attcha. I get kinda excited out there, sometimes, so don't take it personal. Is everthing tied down?"
"Tied down and ready to go," Chris replied.
"Well then, let's get this show on the road."
Pushing off from shore, Walt rowed hard to get out into mid-stream, then, turning down river he aimed his bow at the center of the tongue for Big Drop One. They hit the first rapid dead on, slipping over the edge and punching through the back wave. While Walt manuvered to the right and got set up for Big Drop Two, the crew bailed out the water from the first rapid. With Niagra on their right, they went over the second big rapid and through its back wave, swinging sharply to the right to avoid a huge whirlpool. Walt nodded toward it as he pulled hard on his right oar. "Satan's Gut," he called out. "I've never seen it so deep." Then they were over Big Drop Three and crashing through its back wash into calm water.
Walt let go of his oars, climbed onto his seat and punching his fist in the air let out a blood-curdling "Yeeee - Haw".
"Gentlemen. That was one fine run. I tell you, if that was a figure skating contest, we just did a Ten. I don't believe I ever ran those rapids any better. Why, we hit every one of them dead on. Let's break out the Budweiser."
The cans of beer were tossed from the cooler. Congratulations exchanged all around, and thirsty river men took their first swigs. Sam Archer threw his arm around Robby's neck and, pulling him close, whispered in his ear, You see, son, your old man was right. There was nothing to worry about."