Window In Time

  WINDOW

  IN

  TIME

  By

  David J. Boyle

  Copyright © 2014 David J. Boyle

  Revised: 2015 & 2017

  All rights reserved.

  Window In Time is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names have been used for atmospheric purposes, including many of the rivers located throughout the United States. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses and companies, institutions, or locations is strictly coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the expressed written consent of the author.

  Cover art by Daniel Eskridge. Illustrations by Michael Boyle, maps by the author.

  ISBN-10: 150104351X

  ISBN-13: 9781501043512

  To the spirit of adventure in all of us.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I want to thank my wife, Ree, first for translating the original manuscript from my handwritten scribbles to type, and second for listening to my endless griping about how hard writing is. Then my sons for putting up with my early ramblings and asking the questions that helped me better focus my story.

  A thank you to my friends and paddling partners, Bob Sharp, Ron Krimbel, and a slew of others, who, over the years, helped me learn whitewater paddling to the extent that I was able to make it on and off so very many rivers alive and intact, and along the way gave me the insight and knowledge that one day would appear in this book.

  I want to thank my dad and my Uncle Bill for all the times they drove me to the Field Museum where my dreams of seeing dinosaurs alive came closest to fulfillment. And the paleontologists and researchers who have, especially in the last few decades, transformed what we know about dinosaurs. From active to sluggish, and back again, how dinosaurs are viewed today has undergone about as much in the way of evolution as they did.

  A tip of the hat to my editor, Dave, for his insight and suggestions, and to the clever people who ginned together Natural Reader. And a special thank-you to Kyle Pietschmann, my wife, and others for proof reading the final manuscript and pointing out the many pesky typos and outright mistakes. With their combined efforts I was able, finally, to massage the manuscript for this novel into a state where the folks reading it will hopefully get an up-close-and-personal feel for the people, places, and animals so vital to my story.

  To all of you, my heartfelt thanks.

  DJB

  Important Locations

  There’s nothing like the fear of being eaten to make you really appreciate tomorrow.

  M. A. Bennett

  Prologue

  The temperature was dropping into the 20s, and if the weather guy was right, there would be two inches of snow on the driveway by morning. It was late November, and Hayden was pouring over his topo maps when the phone rang. He listened… and when Anna Mae didn’t yell to him to pick up, went back to work. For Hayden, the trip had already started.

  A cardboard tube labeled U. S. Geological Survey stood along the wall. Maps and brochures lay piled neatly at the edge of his glass-topped desk. Spreading another map over the first, he pinned three corners with books and the last with a half-empty can of Old Style. The topo map was light green from border to border—wooded terrain—with a single, paired-set of dotted lines winding across a corner. An unconscious smile crossed his lips: the only road. Unimproved, said the legend. In Arkansas, that normally meant impassable. That was good too.

  Thin brown lines swirled like fingerprints across the map, each separation indicating a ten-foot difference in elevation, the patterns implying wonderfully hilly terrain. The lines tightened and merged where they paralleled the blue stripe of the Buffalo River—cliffs that were sure to make the hike exciting. We’ll have a great view of the river from there. Has to be what, a hundred feet, two? He scratched his beard, counting. One, two….

  Trina toddled down the stairs. “Daddy,” she whispered, her blond hair brushing the tops of her shoulders. “It’s Unca Jack.”

  “Thank you, sweetheart.” Hayden picked up the phone, glancing at a full page photo of a long sweep of the Buffalo. “Hello, brother, I was just thinking about you. Got our last maps the day before yesterday.”

  “Uh, well…,” said Jack, on the other end, “that’s what I’m calling about. I’ve got some good news, and some bad news.” The good news was that Hayden would be an uncle again. The bad news was that the baby was due in May.

  Hayden nearly dropped the phone.

  Jack heard the disappointment in the tone of his brother’s voice. Even before he had moved to Florida, their backpacking trips had been something of a tradition, a way to lose themselves once a year and enjoy each other’s company. But changes were in the air.

  Hayden followed the last of the conversation with subdued sadness.

  “We’ll try again in ‘85, okay?”

  “Sure,” Hayden said, closing the book on the Buffalo. “We’ll do it in ‘85.” Somehow, he knew they never would.

  *****

  “Come on, you’ll love Arkansas. I’ve got everything planned.”

  “Give it up, Prentler,” Ron said, reddened blue eyes considering his empty stein. “Do we look like mules?”

  Hayden leaned back, smiling, and was about to answer when Mark cut him off. “Don’t answer that.”

  Located little more than a mile from work, Nick and Vito’s was a good place to sit and relax and discuss the world’s problems. The waitresses wore tiny black skirts with puffy, low-cut blouses; you didn’t have to feed the jukebox; and, best of all, the beer was dirt cheap. It was Friday, the five o’clock crowd was filtering in, the three of them in a booth situated with a good view of the waitress station. Hayden spread yet another map across the table.

  “I’ll give you the place sounds pretty, but hauling sixty pounds up and down hills sounds like a ball-buster,” Mark said, a few minutes later. “I don’t think so, Prentler. I’m short enough already. Sorry, but count me out.”

  Hayden tried a new tack. “Okay, so you’re not crazy about backpacking. Then how about a canoe trip? Doesn’t even have to be in Arkansas. Wisconsin maybe.” A light went on somewhere in his head. “If you’re up to it, maybe one with a little whitewater.” Hayden plunked his elbows on the table and looked at Mark, then Ron, then back again. “What do you say?”

  His collar unbuttoned, his tie discarded moments after leaving work, Mark Bennett tapped the earpiece of his glasses on his teeth. “Whitewater…? Never done that before.” Mark finished his beer. “What about canoes? Yours ain’t worth a shit.”

  “Don’t worry about boats. I’ll find an outfitter.” Hayden turned to Ron with an infectious grin. “Well, McClure?”

  Ron raised his hand. “I’ll think about it,” he said. “Garçon, another pitcher.”

  *****

  Located in the northwest suburbs of Chicago, Smith & McAllistor was world-renowned for high tech electronics, though many of its employees wondered how it had achieved its sterling reputation. The production startup, in early February, 1984, of the SNA-32A combiner was, as usual, premature, and the resulting manufacturing nightmares were taking their toll on everyone. Engineers responsible for ensuring its smooth transition from prototype to production, Hayden Prentler, Mark Bennett, and Ron McClure were no exceptions. Days dragged into long, frustrating weeks, and though initially planned as a simple week-long diversion, their upcoming getaway grew in importance.

  Decided upon at a New Year’s Eve celebration, their chosen destination was the St. Croix River in northern Wisconsin. Cons
idered one of the nation’s finest unspoiled rivers and crowned with National Scenic Waterway status, the St. Croix was long, remote, and contained a healthy smattering of Class II rapids. Books on whitewater paddling mentioned it as a good river for beginners.

  Even so, they weren’t about to make the mistakes of the fools in Deliverance. Determined to learn what they could beforehand, they scoured every source they could find on whitewater canoeing. There were how-to books on paddling techniques, magazines and catalogs on equipment, and source books with river descriptions for almost every state in the Union. The best were written by whitewater aficionados, and all contained clear and unambiguous warnings: Stay away from whitewater beyond your capability.

  Since the days before his brother had moved to Florida, Hayden Prentler had been a member of the Illinois Paddling Association. Listed under the banner “For beginners and sufferers of cabin fever”, the IPA’s upcoming spring warm up was scheduled for late March on the Des Plaines River. The timing couldn’t have been better.

  Though cloudy and raw, typical for March in the Midwest, the weather wasn’t able to dissuade a score of winter-weary novice and intermediate paddlers from making the run. Half water and half mud, with a not-so-healthy dose of God-knows-what else, the selected section of river contained spots of surprisingly fast water. “I’ll be darned,” Bennett commented later, “I didn’t realize the Des Plaines even had rapids!” Eddy turns and ferries were practiced under the watchful eye of the trip leaders, and the last rapid, Fishnet, introduced the newbie paddlers to standing waves… and bailing.

  While they ended the day both wet and smelly, the Des Plaines River outing left them eager for more. Here again, the IPA came to the rescue. Located near Starved Rock State Park in central Illinois, the Vermilion River was next on their agenda. With multiple Class II rapids and a scary sounding Class III, the Vermilion River was exactly what they were looking for. They realized too that Ron needed a better boat than his neighbor’s Montgomery Ward special.

  “No way,” said the man behind the counter. “We don’t rent boats for whitewater.” With stories of canoes returned looking like horseshoes, rental operators emphatically refused to rent boats at even the mention of whitewater.

  A minor setback. Busted using the honest approach, they resorted to the old standby. They lied.

  With changes of clothes sealed in garbage bags and two canoes strapped to the roof, they drove to the Vermilion River on a cold Sunday morning in April. They knew they were in trouble when they saw that every paddler at the put-in wore a wet suit and helmet. The put-in itself was located beside an old railroad abutment overlooking the river, with rubber-clad paddlers busily portaging canoes and kayaks to the river.

  They hurried to the railing.

  The Vermilion most definitely wasn’t the Des Plaines. Rocks tore holes in the river from upstream of the Route 70 bridge to past the put-in, sets of standing waves stretched shoreline to shoreline. A damp and unfriendly hiss filled the air.

  “We ready for this?” Hayden asked, watching kayakers surf the waves below.

  “Okay, so we’re gonna get wet. But yeah, we can do this.”

  A man wearing a farmer john wetsuit stepped to the railing. “Three and a half,” he said, pointing upstream to the bridge. The river lapped the center abutment a little below the number 4 painted on the concrete, the gage marks continuing in one-foot intervals up to 8. “A good level for Wildcat.” Mark nodded. The books listed Wildcat as the best rapid in all of Illinois, and listed it as a solid Class III.

  “Been paddlin’ long?”

  “Pretty much since I was a kid,” Mark said. “On and off. Lakes mostly. This is our first time on real whitewater.”

  “That so?” The man glanced from Mark to Hayden, the two of them in jackets and blue jeans. “How many times you boys gone swimmin’?”

  “You mean flipped a boat?” Mark grew a cocky smile. “Never have.”

  The man nodded. “That’s ‘cause you ain’t been canoein’ enough.” And with that, the man turned and walked away.

  One of only a few rivers in all of Illinois with enough of a gradient to create textbook class rapids, the Vermilion overturned six of the fifteen boats on the river that day, and by the time the group reached Wildcat, all but the trip leaders had had enough swimming and elected to portage around it. Scored Wildcat 1 / Novices 0, the trip was yet considered an unqualified success.

  Quick to demand payment for even minor infractions, the Vermilion taught them invaluable lessons. Outclassed from the get-go, they’d paddled barely ten miles in empty canoes and still managed to turn one over and take on water at virtually every rapid. Pushy perhaps, the Vermilion’s rapids were relatively simple when compared with the longer, more technical rapids on the St. Croix.

  With limited time and fewer opportunities, it became increasingly apparent that their skills might not be up to speed when it came to paddling such a long river solo with a boatload of gear.

  Find another river? Possibly. Either that or another warm body….

  Ron’s neighbor happened to be having a dormer added, the work crew cleaning up when Hayden pulled onto the driveway with a canoe on the roof. Hayden got out and was waiting for Ron to make an appearance when one of the workmen walked over for a look. Said he canoed, too.

  “Nowhere near as much as I’d like,” he said wistfully. “You know… work, kids.” It was the only explanation needed. “Kinda all fell apart when my buddy moved to Detroit. Down the line, when the kids get bigger, maybe I’ll get out again. Fishin’, duck huntin’… that kinda stuff.”

  “Ducks?” Ron said, quick to join the conversation. “Know any good spots?”

  “You bet. ‘Bout a hundred and fifty miles of ‘em. Mississippi flyway. Best green-head shootin’ there is. Lotsa pin tails. Doves in September. You hunt?”

  His mouth bunched in a sly little smile. “A little.” Ron learned while talking to the guy that he was a bow hunter, like Mark. Even so, the guy was showing real promise. Hayden grabbed some beers from the cooler, offering one to Ron, and another to….

  “Charlie. Charlie Van Dyke,” the carpenter answered. “My friends call me Bull,” he said, extending a huge callused hand.

  No doubt, Hayden thought, flexing his fingers. Shorter than he was by a couple of inches, and a good thirty pounds heavier, Van Dyke had the look and presence of a Chicago Bears linebacker. Hayden guessed he was in his late twenties, with long, sweaty blond strands curling around his shoulders.

  They never did get out canoeing that day, but did manage to talk their new acquaintance into floating a boat the following weekend. And the weekend after that.

  *****

  Run in late spring of ‘84, the St. Croix trip was a resounding success. They survived not only each other’s company, but also the torrential rains that resulted in what was regarded locally as the Hundred Years Flood. The river had risen daily, and with it the difficulty of every rapid on the river. Class I’s went to II’s and the rocky Class II’s to II plusses, the last and longest swelling to a heart-pounding Class III. Severe and widespread, the rains washed out many of the side roads.

  Whether by skill or dumb luck, they ran the St Croix’s entire sixty miles without turning a boat over, though they’d encountered others who hadn’t been so fortunate. A turning point in each of their lives, the St. Croix River trip was an adventure they yearned to repeat before it was even over.

  While whitewater had gotten them all acquainted, the getting out together was what they came to really enjoy. Which was fortunate on account the Vermilion was the only river within a day’s drive that had rapids mean enough to tax their growing skills, and then only during the spring thaw or after heavy rains. Day trips were common, many to farm-country streams where the only real obstacles were cows in the water. Yet even on streams with barely enough water to float a boat, they practiced their whitewater skills—catching eddies, timing strokes with different partners, paddling backwards in a straight line—all in
preparation for rivers where precise timing and execution were crucial to staying healthy and dry.

  Friends and associates were conned and cajoled. Few joined in for ‘some fun in the sun’, and fewer still were willing to canoe rivers containing anything bigger than riffles. Of them, Anthony Delgado alone succumbed to the thrill of whitewater paddling, and then only after a solid year’s worth of encouragement.

  An Indiana transplant and a systems analyst at International Consolidated Systems, Inc., Tony’s contact with the group came by way of Charlie Van Dyke, who, in turn, had met him through the close friendship their wives had maintained since high school. His initial reluctance, Tony admitted later, stemmed from an incident when he was ten, when he and his sister, who was eight at the time, had sneaked off to canoe by themselves in the pond behind their grandparent’s house. That short-lived outing had ended in near disaster, and until his conversation with Bull, Tony hadn’t been near a canoe.

  His reawakening came in the fall of 1986 after a year of stories and fistfuls of photographs. The Kishwaukee is a farm country stream that's runnable half blitzed, even at high water, and often the canoes would float side by side while conversations ran the gamut. Inevitably, however, talk would turn to whitewater.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing,” Hayden had said while he and Mark paddled alongside, running backward at the time. “The Buffalo River trip isn’t for, well, months, so you’ve got plenty of time to come up to speed.”

  Mark raked his hair up under his hat. “That’s the part I hate about living so far north. But Hayden’s right. You’ll love it. And if you don’t believe us, read the flier. Got these mile-high bluffs along the river. And except for Gray Rock, there’s mostly only class ones to deal with.”