Scott Nicholson: The Gorge

“The best way,” Bowie parroted without looking back. Point never looked back, unless there was an emergency.

“The ProVentures way,” the company man said, almost as if a cheer were expected.

“Pro-fuckin’- Vent ures,” Farrengalli shouted from the rear. “You guys fucking rock.”

Fuckin’ A, Bowie thought. The dude’s going to say “Fuckin’ A” any second now, because he watched Apocalypse Now ten times.

“It’s only natural,” the company man said, spouting the slogan the company had adopted after the stock split four ways.

“O-o-o-o-o-nly FUCKIN’ NATURALLLLL!!!!! ” Farrengalli bellowed in a voice that drowned out the first few whistling birds and scuffling ground animals Bowie had heard since the start of the hike. He wanted to tell the greaseball to eat a dirty root. Because the quiet had been nice. Almost too nice.

Every point walks alone.

In the quiet, they look for things to confess.

They look for things right in front of their faces.

The Unegawa Wilderness Area compared neither in size nor reputation to some of the Midwestern regions that had been preserved by early and optimistic Congresses. But this forest appealed to Bowie. It was old, diverse, and strange. The hardwoods rose up to the sun, the evergreens crowded the waterways, and a thousand low-growth species sprouted from the black loam of the ancient hills. This was an ancient world, a secret world, no matter how many feet had marked these trails.

He’d memorized the maps, because such mental exercise took his mind from the dark hole. He’d been raised in the region, and had cut his teeth as a white-water guide on the lower stretch of the river. The mid-level kayakers hit the Unegama on the lower three miles, where the few challenging rapids were broken by gentle and scenic runs and the river emptied out on a lake. Bowie had even led a few advanced runs on the middle stretch, but he’d known of few paddlers crazy or suicidal enough to try the upper waters.

“Natural,” muttered the man behind Bowie. Travis Lane, the ProVentures rep.

Natural. It’s only natural. The company’s successful slogan had contributed to the inevitable gutting of the word. Nothing was natural these days. Nature itself was a commodity, bought and sold by power companies. Air reduced to profit.

Breathe.

Bowie hated his lungs. They were two hot bricks. He could have hiked this trail without a second thought eight years ago. Now, second thoughts were all he had.

And thoughts of the woman in the group, who should never have taken the assignment. For personal reasons. Very personal reasons.

Breathe, step, breathe.

“Only natural,” Bowie said under his breath, which was the only way he could say it at the moment.

Farrengalli opened his loud mouth from the curve of the trail. “Hey, Okay, how’s the view?”

“Looks like the fucking natural woods to me,” McKay said. That drew a laugh from the whole group, with the exception of Bowie. He sucked a snicker back up into his nose.

“It’s only fuckin’ NAAAAAAAtural,” Farrengalli rumbled, startling a raven that had been watching the group from the high perch of a sycamore. It took wing, and Bowie saw the bird framed briefly against the sinking sun before it disappeared over the treetops.

The low clouds were bruised and troubled. The forecast had called for clear skies, but the escarpment and the altitude led to unpredictable weather in the wilderness area. If conditions turned wet, they’d be doing a lot more hiking than rafting. The Unegama was treacherous in the best of times. At its worst, it could drink a man like a tornado swallowed a gnat.

“Hey, Bowie, how’s the view from up there?” Farrengalli bellowed.

Bowie wished the clouds would collide long enough to piss on the jerk’s parade.

As Clara cleared away branches and stones to make a flat space to camp, Ace ran a fine strand of trip wire around nearby trees. The booby trap circled the perimeter of the camp. He placed detonators in three sections, with the pull triggers set for a three-second delay. The detonators were each attached to two pounds of C-4 plastic explosive, the same kind he’d used on those abortion clinics. Ace kept one bomb, because the Free Militia taught him to keep something in reserve at all times.

Ace returned to the campsite, pulled the sleeping bag from his backpack, and tucked the plastic explosive among the dirty clothes. The sleeping bag stank of old sweat, though he could barely smell it over the odor of his own body. They shared the sleeping bag, which cut down on the weight they carried, but sometimes Clara’s birdlike bones poked into his side or thigh and it got a little too cramped. She’d complained about his snoring once, but only once, by God. He rolled out the nylon-filled bag and sat on it.

“Should we risk a fire?” Clara pulled some tin cans from her pack, along with a plastic water bottle. They’d been drinking from springs, but the water seemed safe enough. The way Ace figured, the government probably hadn’t gotten around to dumping its shitty chemicals in the mountains yet.

“It ought to be safe this close to the river,” Ace said. “The way the breeze kicks up over the gorge, the smoke will spread out fast. We can keep the flames low and snuff it before full dark.”

Ace gathered some twigs and dry needles from the surrounding balsams. He scooped out a hollow in the dark soil. After spreading the tinder around, he ignited it with his Bic. Clara used a little field can opener to open some pork and beans, which she slopped into a black-bottomed aluminum pan. Ace angled a few rocks around the fire, adding some larger sticks until they caught and crackled, then sat back while Clara cooked. Ace longed for a burger and fries, something gut-clogging that would slow the runs he’d endured for the last few days. He was sick of beef jerky, canned beans, and that sweetened horseshit Clara called “energy bars.”

They’d been wandering the Unegama Gorge Wilderness Area for a couple of weeks, ever since the last close call back at that motel in Cullowhee. He’d looked out the window and seen a County Mountie idling in the parking lot and talking into a handset, no doubt running the plates on the stolen car. Ace put an Atlanta Braves baseball cap low over his forehead, sent Clara out, and told her to meet him at the Dumpster in five minutes. She wore a sweatshirt and a baggy-assed hippie skirt, so no cop in his right mind would take her for a killer at first glance. A doper, maybe, but she was too fresh-faced to be linked to a half-dozen homicides. Give or take a few. Ace had lost count, and he’d never learned to read well enough to follow the newspaper accounts, though he sometimes clipped the stories.

From the Dumpster, they’d slipped into the woods, walked a half mile, and thumbed a ride in a pickup. Clara sat up front, Ace in the bed, and Ace figured she did the driver a slobbery favor, because he went ten miles out of his way to drop them near the Appalachian Trail. Ace had a map of the wilderness area, figuring sooner or later he’d have to take to the woods. He hadn’t counted on company, but here Clara was, and here he was, and beans sat steaming in the pan, a soft, soapy lump of fat floating in the sugary sauce.

“Do you really believe it was the FBI?” Clara asked. The idea seemed to excite her, because her eyes brightened. Or maybe it was the firelight dancing off her pupils.

“Probably not. Haircuts or no haircuts, they got no reason to look for us out here.”

“If they traced that stolen car-”

“They don’t know it was me that stole it. Could have been anybody. Cars get swiped every day in this country. They don’t call it ‘the land of opportunity’ for nothing. Course, they also call it ‘The Land of the Free,’ and that’s a goddamned laugh.”