Scott Nicholson - The Gorge

His arms were noodles. But, Ace had to admit, the rush was decent, and riding the rapids sure beat the hell out of hoofing it.

Bowie saw immediately that his decision to group Farrengalli, Raintree, and Dove was a good one, though he didn’t like putting Dove at the Italian loudmouth’s mercy. She’d handled herself well so far, despite her moment of weakness in the predawn mist. But that had been his weakness, too. Doubly so, since he was the leader, and the best leaders knew when to deprive themselves for the good of the group.

Bullshit. He couldn’t lead himself out of a paper bag, much less guide this bunch of losers to a healthy payday. Matter of fact, a paper bag fit just right, because Farrengalli’s flask had aroused a thirst he hadn’t felt in four years, not since he’d picked up a white chip at a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous and dropped the liquid amnesia he’d relied on in the aftermath of Connie’s death.

While Raintree’s craft made good headway after launch, Bowie’s crew was flailing and flagging, already a couple of hundred feet behind. Bowie had mentally dubbed Raintree second in command, though not through any overt show of favoritism. Raintree had taken position in the rear of the craft upon launch. On big water, a pilot sat far above the waterline, just before midship. In white water, the paddler in rear had the most responsibility, using the paddle as a rudder to guide the vessel.

They had been on the water less than an hour. Lane, sitting in front of Bowie, was left handed, and would have made a good complement to his two right-handed partners if he had more stamina. ProVentures’ corporate ringer was clearly worn out from the previous day’s hike, and apparently a night’s sleep on the hard ground had done little to recharge his batteries. So much for his company’s sleeping bag with its space-age polymers and annoying name of “Hibern8.”

Lane was what was known as a “lilly-dipper” in boating vernacular. Though Bowie and McKay were strong enough to compensate for Lane’s futile flailing, there would come a time when three oars would be needed. Ahead, Raintree’s raft skidded through a rooster tail, with the craft leaping up and hanging free of the water for a full two seconds before smacking back into the foaming rapids.

“See that?” Lane shouted above the roar of the water. “Awesome.”

“Hang on,” Bowie said. “Curler coming up river right.”

While the first part of the run had been relatively calm, with rocky shorelines broken up by occasional sandbars, the channel now narrowed, with one side of the gorge marked by a thirty-foot granite wall and topped by desperate scrub pines. The right side of the river was pocked with large boulders, and Bowie wasn’t sure the raft would hold up against full-speed contact. A vicious slab of wet, sparkling stone, its edge like a hatchet, appeared off the starboard bow.

Bowie’s warning of a curler had come too late to prepare. The current had accelerated over the last fifty feet, the water deceptive because the whitecaps had disappeared. Instead, the surface of the water was ribbed, as if preparing to bottom out like bathwater rushing down a drain. Bowie could sense the pull of the water drawing them toward some hidden threat ahead, either a hole or haystacks, a standing series of high waves. First, though, he had to fend off the blunt-edged shelf of rock. He thrust out his paddle and jammed it against the rock like a jousting lance, expecting the telescoping handle to shatter. Instead, the impact jarred his forearms and caused the raft to turn sideways.

“Left, left, left,” Bowie shouted, thrusting his paddle off the port bow. Lane, who hadn’t had time to change sides, still worked the opposite side, but McKay hesitated, unsure of the proper reaction. By the time he stabbed his oar in the water, the boat had turned another ninety degrees and they faced upstream as the raft bucked and rubbed over a series of submerged stones.

“Shit,” Bowie said. “Hold off, McKay, and let me turn it.”

Bowie flipped his paddle and dug it hard off starboard, bracing his legs against the yielding, inflated walls of the watercraft. The resistance caused the raft to spin, and they were once again heading sideways down the river. An aberrant current pushed them toward the cliff on the left side, despite Bowie’s desire to stay on the swifter but smoother side of the river.

“Hang on,” Bowie shouted as the raft smacked against the head wall and stuck, caught by the raging current that sought to shove the rubberized craft and its occupants through the unforgiving granite. Water spurted over the side of the raft, pooling in the bottom, chilling Bowie’s legs despite the SealSkinz. The Muskrat was designed to stay afloat even if fully flooded, but its handling ability would be severely diminished.

“Shove off from the wall,” Bowie commanded. McKay dropped his paddle on the deck and pushed with his hands. Lane sat petrified, watching the white-tipped waves boiling over the rim of the boat. Bowie spied a crevice in the granite wall and wedged the tip of his paddle handle into the dark cleft. He used the paddle like a fulcrum, easing the boat downstream. His effort, combined with McKay’s, caused the boat to grate against the rough head wall, but it was moving. One more yank of the paddle and the Muskrat lurched free, still drifting sideways, half-submerged, but no longer being crushed between an insistent force and an unyielding mountain.

Bowie let out a whoop of exhilaration. The thrill may be gone, baby, but the juice is still pumping.

Then he remembered the trough that undoubtedly lay ahead, and knew they were in trouble after taking on so many gallons of water. Bowie drew little comfort knowing Raintree’s raft had made it past the treacherous channel. Raintree, with a keen sense of anticipation, had managed to direct his crew to keep right, skipping down a series of softer stairs to a gentle eddy a hundred yards downstream. Raintree, Dove, and Farrengalli pulled onto a sandbar and grounded out, waiting to see how the other raft fared.

“Hair ahead,” Bowie shouted, using the slang for a “hair-raising” or “hairy” stretch of water. He didn’t have time to instruct Travis Lane on negotiating the trough, but he hoped McKay had enough experience and tenacity to hold the rear. Bowie would have had little trouble negotiating the rapids in a solo kayak, complete with spray skirt and double-paddled oar, but in truth, the Muskrat didn’t handle all that well. While an improvement over other white-water rafts, in the end the shortcoming was that it required experienced crew members who knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Bowie hadn’t been given time to mold the two crews into smoothly functioning units.

The raft pulled to the left and Bowie jammed his paddle off starboard, braking by holding it still and letting the current push the end of the raft around. Too late, he noticed McKay was violently stroking on the port side, canceling out Bowie’s maneuver and sending the boat sideways again.

“Fuck,” Bowie said. Lane had dropped his paddle in the flooded bottom of the boat and held onto the grab loops on each side.

“Lean left, lean left,” Bowie said, hoping the combined weight of their upper bodies would help kill the spin. Bowie and McKay leaned until their shoulders touched the bow, but Lane sat upright, hunched and shivering. They hit the heart of the trough, rocks piling up on both sides of the boat.

“Look out,” McKay said, but Bowie wasn’t sure which hazard he meant. Several awaited them, and all were dangerous.

The raft banged sideways off a rounded gray rock, and Bowie noted a seam of crystal quartz scarring the length of the granite. The morning sun sparkled there like wet fire; then the raft was past the rock and riding a set of haystacks, water pushed over barely submerged rocks that created a deep sine wave of ripples. The raft leaped over the haystacks, briefly catching air despite the extra weight of the flooded deck. The raft set down each time with a shuddering splat before launching over the next stack.