Window In Time Read online

  Gaining speed and angled across the current, Tony went elbow deep into the river when the Tripper jerked on its side and plunged stern first into a hole.

  “Shit!” Mark gasped. “Lose it there and they’re screwed.”

  A lifetime passed before the Tripper exploded from behind a line of boulders, Ron and Tony miraculously still aboard, both stroking frantically despite the water pouring in….

  The Tripper nosedived into a mass of froth.

  “Least they didn’t pin it,” Hayden said.

  Charlie wasn’t so forgiving. “They keep goin’ like they are and it sure as hell ain’t gonna stay that way.”

  Sideways to the current, Ron was working to turn the Tripper when he spotted the bulge. “Tony… dead ahead!” he yelled, and jammed on the brakes. Tony looked, searching past the bow. “Not forward, damn it… Left!”

  Tony looked again—“Oh my God!”—the bulge homing on the Tripper like a torpedo. “We’re never going—”

  “Just paddle!”

  It was all too much, the chaos, the noise, Tony at a loss about what to do as the boulder rushed forward and rammed the canoe. Tony flew off his seat and into the maelstrom, arms flailing, his paddle ricocheting on the rocks nearby as the current shoved the canoe on its side. He popped to the surface, wide-eyed and gasping, the world racing past as the Powderhorn carried him quickly downstream.

  Ron righted the canoe, the first of the standers looming just ahead as he fought to align it with the current. But the clock had already run out. The river curved skyward, Ron still struggling to gain control when a mountain of water swallowed the Tripper and rolled it over….

  Charlie was midstream when the Tripper flushed clear of the standers, Ron slapping his way across the surface and working to close the gap. The canoe jolted nearly to a stop, then swung around in the current.

  “Even managed to hold onto his paddle,” Mark said, guiding the Discovery through the rocks.

  “Good for him,” Hayden said, searching the river. “Now all we need is to find Tony.”

  Mark steered right, searching, and soon spotted a yellow helmet. “I think I see…. Yeah, that’s him.”

  Scanning the water, Hayden spotted Tony when he struggled to his feet. “How many times have we told him not to do that?” Tony wavered in place, leaning, whirling his arms, and managed barely a step before the river sent him sprawling. Hayden had seen enough when the guy starting swimming. “Hasn’t he learned anything?”

  “Don’t be such a hard ass. He’s scared, Prentler. We’ve all been there.”

  “That’s no excuse, and you know it. He steps in a hole, he can break a leg in here. Or drown. And then what would we do?”

  “Tony…!” Mark shouted, hoping they were close enough. “Get on your back, dumb shit! And keep your feet ahead of you!” Tony glanced over, then shifted around and got his arms working in the right direction.

  “Least he still knows how to listen.”

  “That he’s okay is all I care about.” Mark caught an out-of-place bit of color bobbing on the surface. “Ease on over a bit. We can’t let that get away.” A few dozen strokes and Mark plucked Tony’s wayward paddle from the river. “Fun never stops, eh Prentler?”

  Hayden hauled the stern around. “Does seem that way.”

  Ron had the canoe right side up again, water sloshing over the sides when he gave the Tripper a shove. Charlie snagged the thing with his paddle, then reached and took hold of the gunnel.

  “How ya doin’, McClure? You okay?”

  “I’m alive,” Ron sputtered, flipping the painter across the tarp. He jammed his paddle alongside the raft, then steadied himself on the gunnel before staring upstream. “That was a motherfucker. Twice, maybe more, I was sure this thing was going to get pinned.”

  “It’s a wild one alright.” Charlie sighed, at last able to relax. “I’m glad you made it, McClure, no matter how you got here.” Ron pressed a hand along his waist. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m good, Charlie. Thanks.” Mark and Hayden were heading toward shore, Tony dangling from a gunnel. “Let’s get this bastard out of here. Even with the suit, this cold is getting to me.”

  They found a strip of shoreline on which to beach the canoes, Tony quick with a cigarette while the others dumped the boats and took inventory. Save part of a carton, nothing seemed to be missing, though the Tripper had acquired a slew of new creases. Ron vividly recalled the shock of hitting the boulder, and was soon at work loosening the tarp. He flipped the corner back, then ran his hand along the hull. “Damn.”

  “Bad?” Mark asked.

  Ron stood grinding his teeth. “See for yourself.”

  Mark felt along the split, and by wedging the raft out of the way saw that the impact had fractured the innermost of the Tripper’s three-ply laminate hull. “Yeah, that’s gonna knock the price down.”

  “Knock the price down? What, are you nuts? Look around, Bennett! We’ve still got a whole river to run.”

  Mark frowned. “Okay, now I got it. You’re in a whole other direction….” He shook his head, changing tracks. “You were there, so I figured you remembered. That time on the Vermilion when there wasn’t any water, but we ran it anyway and I pretty much folded my boat in Wildcat?” It took a second, but Ron’s expression started to change. “The crack I put in the bottom was way bigger than this, and it didn’t affect me one way or the other. And yeah, I patched it, but the Discovery today isn’t any worse off than before I tried to break it.

  “She’s not gonna leak, McClure. Believe me. Whatever the hell Old Towne uses to make their boats”—Mark banged the Tripper with his toe—“this shit is tough as nails.”

  “Crack is on the side of the hull.”

  Tony stubbed his cigarette. “I’m sorry, Ron. I mean really. This is my fault. If I hadn’t—”

  “Forget it,” said Ron, reaching under the tarp. “With all the rivers we’ve done, it’s a miracle I haven’t fucked it up long before this.” He dragged out a long plastic case.

  “Shit…,” Charlie gasped. “I forgot about the rifle.”

  Ron released the latches. “Not a drop. And no dings on the lid,” he sighed. “Now I feel better.”

  “So that was it.” Hayden knew, and so did Ron, that swamped boats and rapids were a notorious combination: get trapped between a rock and boatload of water and the results were often fatal. “Here I’m thinking you were worried about your boat when all the while it was this.”

  “You bet your ass, Prentler. This one especially. My dad killed his first deer with this rifle, and no way in hell am I ever letting it get away from me.” Ron resealed the lid. “And I kept my distance,” he said, sliding the case back under the tarp, “so you can hold off on the lecture.

  “And sunshine or no, it’s cold just standing here. Tony, give me a hand with the tarp so we can get moving. I don’t know about you, but I need the circulation.”

  “You and me both.” Tony shivered. “We get to camp, the first thing I’m doing is getting out of this suit.”

  They were back on the water within minutes, Ron and Tony glad for the opportunity to warm up. Drops came and went, the Powderhorn maintaining a respectable gradient as it tumbled through the ever more infrequent rock gardens, the boats at times trading places to allow everyone the chance to take the lead and play probe.

  “Is it my imagination,” Tony asked on exiting a densely packed field of boulders, “or are the rapids here easier than the ones upriver?”

  Ron watched for a second while Charlie made his run. “I guess that’s possible, though it’s likely more you getting used to paddling a loaded boat. Add two hundred pounds to a boat and everything is harder… turning, slowing down, and little by little you’re learning to compensate.”

  “The looking ahead part—and not just in front, but far enough see the entire river—has really made a difference. I suppose I knew that, but you’ve helped me realize how big that difference really is, and I want you to know I
appreciate it.”

  “Not a problem. Like I said, you’re learning.”

  Always on the lookout, they retrieved a few runaway sodas and Ron’s baseball cap, though the spare paddle lost entering Hell’s Gate would forever remain MIA.

  By late afternoon they arrived at the location chosen for their first night’s stay, a point on the river identifiable by a near vertical bluff on the west side. Scouted while they snacked, the site contained essentially nothing in the way of niceties, including protection from the wind. At that, Ron was eager to get out of his wetsuit. “Sun isn’t going to be up forever. Why chance going further?”

  “Humor us, okay?” Mark said, draped with the others across a boulder and studying the map.

  “Here’s the next one,” Hayden said. “Trouble is, it may not be any better than this one.”

  Ron threw up his hands. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

  Tony followed the blue stripe winding across the map. Hayden had marked potential campsites with an X, and true, none of them looked any better. But not far beyond the last mark…. “How about here?”

  The spot was alongside Meyer’s Falls, a Class V drop labeled a mandatory portage. Even with the dumping, they were well ahead of schedule, and making camp at the falls would save time on account they wouldn’t have to pack and unpack twice tomorrow.

  “Be tight,” Hayden said, estimating the miles. “But if you guys are up to it, I say we try for the gorge.”

  “You can count me in,” said Charlie. “And quit with the look, McClure. From Meyer’s to our next campsite can’t be more than a coupla hours. We break camp early, we can pick up an extra half day hunting.”

  Ron stepped over and studied the map: where they were, and how far it was to where they were proposing. While he dearly wanted out of his wetsuit, the chance to expand their hunting range was irresistible, in addition to which the map indicated that the site could possibly be wooded. “Would make finding firewood easier.”

  Making changes was a common occurrence, and this one would gain them almost a half day on the river. They’d have two and possibly three days without having to make or break camp; Hayden could explore farther afield and possibly do some rock climbing; Ron and Charlie’s chances of filling their tag went up; and Mark and Tony would have more time to fish and relax. Plan B was so quickly adopted that Hayden was hard pressed to explain why he hadn’t planned it that way in the first place!

  They were running on empty, hours later, the river in full shadow and the current down to a crawl when a faint rumble began echoing from the walls of the craggy bluffs. With the lure of solid ground, dry clothes, and a hot meal awaiting, Ron and Tony sprinted into the lead. They stroked around the next curve, watching expectantly, yet saw nothing but river into the distance, the source of the rumble still a disappointingly long ways off. Miles possibly, given how sound carried in the canyon. The river flat-lined in the distance, and, as it had so many turns before, vanished beyond the next bend.

  Slashes of sun lit the pines crowning the canyon, the temperature noticeably cooler than just minutes before.

  Tony gazed alongshore, sharp edged boulders poking from the water. “Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea after all.” He looked ahead. “Oh, that’s just perfect. Now we’ve got fog to deal with.”

  Ron nudged the stern sideways, staring past Tony. There was mist over the river alright, but it seemed too patchy for fog. And the more he looked, the more it resembled smoke. He straightened up, blinking.

  “Fog bullshit! That’s Meyer’s Falls!”

  They powered ahead, invigorated, the roar growing in intensity as they closed on the misty precipice.

  “It’s a falls alright,” Tony said, his paddle feathered, staring. “Gads, I still can’t see the bottom.” While it wasn’t Niagara, the Tripper wasn’t Queen of the Mist either. A sheer rock wall bounded the falls on river right, the left a rocky slope that rose toward the tree line, with what looked like a trail alongside the falls.

  “Any time now, McClure, okay?”

  “Spin her around if you’re worried. Just stay clear of shore. We tip here—”

  “I see the rocks, Ron.”

  They got the Tripper pointed upstream, then let it drift towards the falls. Ron angled the bow. Rocks started thumping. The roar grew louder. The shoreline kept slipping past….

  “Ron, please.”

  “You can slow us down if you want.” A rock slipped past—Ron lifted his paddle—and as soon as the bow cleared it, powered forward. Tony snagged a rock with his paddle. The Tripper ground to a stop. “We’re home.”

  Tony stepped out, “Thank God,” and hauled the canoe onto the rocks, the river thundering over the drop a scant twenty yards away. “Why did we have to get so close? Really, Ron, this is way too scary. Especially after today.”

  “We’re not that close, Tony. And we need to leave room for the other boats.”

  The river was a cauldron below the falls, the rumble filling the air. “Then next time how about we let them go first?”

  “That mean you’re coming next year?”

  Tony fought back a grin. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

  “That’s more like it.” Ron motioned the boats following to shore, then jabbed his paddle overboard and reached out a hand. Tony grabbed on, and Ron stepped ashore.

  “Solid ground. Damn, what a concept.” He watched the river over the falls. “Guess we are a little closer than I thought. You ready for a look-see?”

  “Once we tie up I will be.”

  The Powderhorn was necked at Meyer’s Falls through a slot barely forty yards wide, the river cascading over the ledge as if from an enormous hydrant, exploding on the rocks below and tumbling in a rush thereafter, clumps of froth twirling along the surface for hundreds of yards before dissipating. There were two pools below the drop, deep water pockets that with guts and determination could possibly cushion the fall of a skilled kayaker. Likely a fatal drop for open boaters, their only real option past the falls was an ankle-twisting portage down the scree on river left.

  “Footing sucks,” Charlie said, climbing the trail back to within earshot. “Even empty, gettin’ the boats down is gonna be a bitch. Your two we can slide so long as you don’t mind the scratches. Mine I’m not so sure about.”

  Mark was studying the water tumbling alongshore. “Maybe there’s another way. We play our cards right, we might be able to line them.”

  Ron was eyeing the water as well. “Pretty damn bony if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t say they’d be floating. We can line mine first, then you guys can decide whether you want to try it. We tie painters to the bow, the stern, and one on the center thwart, we shouldn’t have any problem wrestling the thing between these rocks.”

  Ron and Charlie traced the route, in places more rock than water. “Could work, I guess. How about it, Bull?”

  “This one here, and the rocks past it have me worried. Fill a boat and we’ll wish we hadn’t tried it.” Charlie shrugged. “But hey, you guys wanna try, I’ll do what I can to help.”

  “We can do this,” Mark said. “We take out what we need for tonight, that should lighten the boats enough—”

  “Found our campsite.”

  They twisted around, searching.

  “Up here,” Hayden called above the roar.

  Ron leaned back. “How’d you get up there, Prentler?”

  “Go back to just past the Discovery. There’s a trail that takes you right up.”

  The trail consisted of little more than flat spots worn in the rocks, its ancestry dating back possibly hundreds of years. The tarps were untied and the canoes partially unloaded, the heavy packs then hauled uphill for the night. Their soon-to-be campsite was a small if not quite level plateau where pines and evergreens grew along a trail that continued up and into the forest covering the hillside.

  “Wow,” Tony said, slewing to take it all in. The view west overlooked the falls, the peaks in the dist
ance streaked ruddy gold by the light of the fast setting sun; bare walls of rocks stretching off to the north and south.

  Mark tossed his dry bag. “Now this is cool…. Tiny, but cool.”

  Hayden hurried back to give Ron a hand. “You didn’t unpack the tents, did you?”

  Ron wrestled an overstuffed dry bag out from under the thwart. “Not yet, why?”

  “It’s a little tight is all. You’ll see.”

  The campsite wasn’t quite what Ron had expected. “No kidding tight,” he said, slipping the dry bag’s strap off his shoulder. “Where the hell do the tents go?”

  “Tent,” Hayden corrected. “As in singular. We scrape the pine needles out from under those pines, we should be able to make a flat spot big enough to fit a tent.”

  “Uh huh. And use a jackhammer to drive the stakes in.”

  “If they go in, fine,” Mark said. “If they don’t, we find rocks to hold the thing down. You did bring your four-man, yes?”

  “Yeah,” Ron said, rolling his eyes at the implication. “All of us in one tent. That ought to be fun.”

  “It’s only one night,” Tony said, rifling through his dry bag. “Tomorrow we’ll have all the room we need, and you can set up as far away from the rest of us as you want.” He dragged out his clothes bag. “I’ve been waiting for this all day.”

  Charlie tore the top off a soggy carton. “Yeah, well, you’re gonna have to wait a little longer.”

  “Huh?”

  “First things first.” Charlie slapped a beer in Tony’s hand, then handed out three more. Pop tops popped. “To us!”

  “And the Powderhorn!” Hayden added, suds flying when they knocked the cans together. Wet but alive, on solid ground at last, their toast was but the first to another special day on the river.