Scott Nicholson - The Gorge

“Breakdown will be easy,” Lane continued. The lack of confidence h e’d displayed when confronted by the wilderness had fallen away now th at he was in his element. He could just as easily have been wearing a three-piece suit and power tie, making a presentation to a group of in vestors. “Maximum weight capacity of one thousand pounds, yet deflates to a carrying weight of five pounds. Telescoping paddles weigh anothe r four pounds, and when you throw in the hand pump at five pounds, you get a package that can carry four of us downstream but fits into the space of a loaf of bread.”

Robert Raintree, who had been sitting on a fallen maple at the edg e of the clearing, finally spoke. “We have two rafts,” he said. “How d o we split up?”

“Like we planned,” Bowie said. “The rafts have a maximum capacity of four people, but we’ll be running three per.”

“ Menage a trois,” McKay said, leaning toward Krueger. “How does that sound, ma cherie? ”

“You might be a stud when pedaling in France, but that lousy accen t wouldn’t get you in anybody’s pants,” Krueger said. “Much less two p airs at a time.”

Bowie grinned. Maybe he wouldn’t have to worry about her after all. She was capable of handling herself, and her outdoors credentials we re as solid as his. After all, while he’d been out of the game in self — imposed exile, she’d been mountain climbing, wind sailing, hang glidi ng, and ice-floe snowshoeing, much of the time with a laptop and camer a. Besides, he knew a little more about her, and her stamina, than any of them.

“McKay, you and Lane will ride with me in the lead raft,” Bowie sa id. He’d originally wanted McKay and Farrengalli together, but based o n their behavior, he thought their egos might lead to dangerous differ ences of opinion. On Class V waters, there was room for only one battl e of wills: human versus nature, not man against man.

“Righteous,” Farrengalli said. “I get to ride with the two quiet o nes.”

“I don’t think there will be much time for talking,” Bowie said. “ Maybe at midday we’ll switch off, but if things are going smoothly, we ’ll probably stick with what works.”

It usually took an hour or two for rafters to coordinate their pad dling and work as a team. Bowie again regretted the company’s tactic, making a cold run with no rehearsal. ProVentures scripted everything e lse, so why not manipulate the Muskrat field test so it looked great f or the cameras? Why risk so much for a product in which the company ha d obviously invested thousands of development hours?

Because it was a pure publicity stunt. In fact, Farrengalli had be en selected in the equivalent of a reality TV show, a competition in t he Arizona desert that had been featured on the outdoors cable series Wild Life with Natalie, featuring a buxom aerobics queen who alternat ely taunted and coaxed the competitors. According to rumor, Farrengall i had bagged Natalie in the star’s trailer one night, just before a fi nal elimination round. Farrengalli subsequently won an obstacle course race that featured a hundred-foot-pole climb to a rocky plateau, a th ousand-foot wade through waist-deep quicksand that was actually colore d oatmeal, a reckless rappel down the side of a butte, and two barefoo t miles across the scorching sand with nothing but a wineskin full of cactus juice for sustenance. Whether Farrengalli’s bedding of the show ’s host contributed to the victory, no one was willing to say, but Bow ie would bet all the sponsors were smiling.

The series had been augmented with a feature story in Back2Nature, with Dove Krueger providing the photographs and copy. Krueger alread y knew Farrengalli, Lane, and Raintree through her work with ProVentur es. Bowie hadn’t known any of them until the ProVentures vultures had tracked him to Montana, made an unannounced helicopter landing on his ranch, and laid their obscene offer on his chipped plywood table. As m uch as Bowie could fool himself into believing he was the right man fo r such a job, in his heart he was as much of a prostitute as any of th em. This tour would keep him in dried beans, bait, and ammunition for the rest of his days, which meant he’d never have to leave Big Sky Cou ntry again.

But his remote cabin was nearly three thousand miles away, and the solitude he craved would have to wait for his sleeping bag. For now, he needed to take charge and plant the idea that if there was any trou ble, the group would turn to him for a decision.

“The river’s low,” McKay said. “Maybe we should check for portage trails in the morning.”

“No,” Bowie said, knowing Lane was listening. “We do this by the b ook as much as possible.”

“Looks to be running around two feet,” McKay said. The group had g athered at the water’s edge before making camp, and though much of the seventy-foot waterfall was hidden in shadow, the weak moon caught eno ugh of the silver spray to suggest its glory. Even a distance away fro m the falls, the ground vibrated with its thunder.

“It’ll look different in daylight,” Bowie said, standing. “We shou ld all get some rest. Let’s make an early start tomorrow. Breakfast at six, launch at dawn.”

They had lined their pup tents around the clearing, and Bowie didn ’t wait for the others to follow his command as he headed for his. He imagined Farrengalli would finish his flask first, and McKay would pro bably wait a few minutes in order to appear independent. Lane was alre ady yawning, probably the sorest among them. Krueger would be eager to escape the unwanted male companionship. Robert Raintree The two had scarcely spoken since the trip began. Bowie sensed the man harbored no unnecessary rebellion, nor did he seem overly interes ted in the adventure ahead. Though his eyes were open, his head was st ill as if he were meditating, or listening to the forest beyond the ro ar of the water. Bowie gave a brief nod and wriggled into his tent. He undressed in the cramped space and slid into his sleeping bag, his ca lves and thighs aching more than he had expected. Tomorrow, his should ers would get a workout from using the paddle, and when he next lay do wn, his entire body would be throbbing like the root of a rotted tooth.

Closing his eyes, he was assaulted by the same familiar sight, one that hadn’t lessened in intensity over the past five years.

They had been cross-country skiing, in a fairly treacherous but po pular valley in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. The sunlight sparkled off the s now, the air temperature was forty degrees, and the wind was mild. A p erfect day, even when viewed through shaded goggles. Bowie was a hundr ed feet ahead, figuring to blaze a trail so his wife’s passage would b e easier.

Bowie thought the first rumble came from his stomach, it had been so gentle. The second was accompanied by a small spray of loose snow, and then the massive wall of white clinging to the mountain above had let loose, thundering down like the cavalry of the Apocalypse.

By the time Bowie had flailed the long skis around, the bulk of th e avalanche had swept past, tossing a few chunks against his shins and coating him with powder, but otherwise leaving him unscathed.

Connie was gone.

The silence that followed in the wake of the avalanche was a mocke ry of the noise with which it had broken loose from its winter-long mo orings. Bowie stripped his gloves, knelt, and removed his fastenings, cursing his clumsy fingers. By the time he propelled himself into the settled trough of snow, precious seconds had passed. Avalanche victims didn’t die of broken bones, shock, or exposure. They died of suffocat ion.

After a fifteen-minute search, he finally spotted a patch of blue against the glistening white. Her stiff and gloveless hand, the finger s lifted as if waving good-bye.