“You know what’s bullshit talk?” Rachel said as she took another step toward him. Fury steamed off her. Rory fell back a step in surprise. “You, saying you’re going to take care of every detail of this trip. What about leaving us three alone last night, garbage all over the camp, while you and Pia did your thing? You said we have to watch for bears—”
“—and some raccoons came to visit,” Rory said with a shrug.
“So we were lucky!” Rachel said, furious. “That time we were lucky!”
“And you did what I said to do. You showed me you could think on your own. Follow directions. Good for you. Now listen.” He took off his vest. “Tell me. Are you cold? Hungry? Thirsty?”
Except for Pia, we all nodded, swore under our breath, articulated our own versions of rage and discomfort.
“Then help me flip the raft back over. We’ll get you warm, have lunch, and get back out there. It’s three miles to the Flush, then we’re home free. For the night, anyway.”
It took all of us and all our strength to right the raft by pulling on a nylon rope threaded through the D rings on the sides of the boat, each braced and hauling from our places on the bank while Rory pushed the thing up from the water. We were scratched and bruised by the end of it, but everything in the dry bags had stayed dry, and a lunch of tuna sandwiches, oranges, and reconstituted tomato soup wasn’t half-bad. Faces toward the sun, we drank frosty cans of Miller Lite in almost one swallow. Rachel, Sandra, and I roasted ourselves dry on flat outcroppings of sandstone and shale we found, too tired or frustrated or freaked out to say a word to each other, while Rory and Pia unpacked and repacked the gear on the raft, all the while bantering and laughing like old friends.
18
Just as Rory said, the river widened again. It took turn after graceful turn, white water replaced by a dark, fast-moving current that pulled us forward in a businesslike manner, its playful sparkle gone. The light was changing as the afternoon came on; colors deepened, became richer. Still, Rory called out commands that we followed to the letter, the sound of his voice translating seamlessly into actions as if this were something we had always done, would always do.
Once in a while my friends splashed me with the exuberance of their rowing, but at this point we were all getting good at not caring about being wet; in fact, I couldn’t recall the last time I’d been completely dry. At calmer points when the air was still and the sun settled on us—more at our backs now than in front—I could smell myself, and it hit me that my last shower had been a couple of days ago. We all had helmet hair now, even Rory. My inner arms stung where they had chafed from rowing, the soft skin rubbing constantly against the rough canvas of my life vest, my hands stiff as claws from clutching the oar. A fresh layer of sweat covered me as we paddled harder, searching for deeper areas since the river continued to flatten and broaden.
In places my oar made contact with the riverbed and vibrated there, thrumming up my arm with an odd communion. Finally we scraped on stones, so we all got out and walked the raft, Rory towing it, until the water ran deep enough to lift us up again.
We settled into a good rhythm together at the next stretch, a couple of miles where the riverbed became sandy and the water turned impish again, each part of the river busy with some task. On our right, sprightly bubblings danced over a set of shallow, step-down rapids; to our left, water fluted and turned, scouring out a series of glacial potholes. But once again, and quickly, the banks closed in on us, and the water, now muddy with churned silt, took on a deep-throated rumbling, as if all this time we had been listening to contralto and suddenly we heard the water in baritone. For the first time, I had the sensation of going downhill.
“Heads up, ladies,” Rory yelled. “Get ready for the Flush!”
We whipsawed around a bend, and everything changed again. The front of the raft dipped and my stomach with it as the regular river disappeared and some maniacal thing took over. Sandra glanced back at me and yelled something I couldn’t hear. I looked ahead and saw what she was trying to show me. A meringue of white water for what seemed like miles. Water quickened, leapt, broke, and foamed again. And always we kept falling, the river dropping out from under us again and again. Blinded by white waves that broke over our heads, we banged down and down, my knees and spine stunned and throbbing with pain.
Again Sandra turned and screamed something back at me—at Rory too—I wasn’t sure. This time she pointed behind us with her oar. I looked up and behind the raft, and for a glimmer of a second, I saw it. A section of log as long as the raft and nearly a foot thick bobbed and churned behind us. Black and oily looking, it rolled and tossed in the waves but followed the raft as if intent on us.