making sure it was working properly, and noted the channel the searchers were using. Cell phones didn’t work in the bottom of the gorge, and were carried only for emergencies where a paddler might have to climb out and call for help. The radios, while line-of-sight, were better than nothing, and radios could be used to pass messages up and down the gorge. Nell slid it into her vest pocket.
Mike said, “We’re ready to hit the water. Two of the hiking crews already left. We’ll have radio support all along the river, with hikers situated on the crests of the canyon walls, on the O & W road and the bridge. A couple of the most experienced guys are ready to rappel down to the canyon gorge.” When she raised her brows in surprise, he added, “They have climbing gear and experience, and I want to be able to throw a rope to shore and have it secured to a rock if we need it, or have them climb down to check out something we see up higher.”
Nell nodded, understanding and agreeing with his strategy. In swift water rescue, ropes were usually tied off to trees onshore, but parts of the gorge had few trees near the water. It was the closest thing to a western river gorge east of the Mississippi. Rock, rock and more rock close to the river, lots of white water and not much of anything else.
“We got three in the raft with me, and seven in kayaks. There’s another small team starting out from the put-in at the confluence of the Clear and the New Rivers at 10:00 a.m. We’ll meet them and work it from there.”
To Nell, Mike asked, “You met the team leader yet?”
“I thought that would be you.” Nell said, surprised. She was gratified to hear some life and volume in her voice. The hoarseness was fading.
“I’m taking up the rear in the raft.” He boomed out, “Elton. This is Nell.”
A slender man, not much taller than she was, handed a rescue rope to a woman beside him, raised his hand and walked over. He was blond, blue-eyed and all muscle, with the prematurely weathered skin and all-year tan of a river rat, ski patrol, mountain biker, hiker dude. A typical outdoor-loving mountain boy. Encased in the wet suit, he had the sinewy body of a black snake, a rolling, confident gait and not an ounce of body fat. He looked her over, seeing beyond the black eyes and bruises. “Hit a rock?” Elton asked, his voice soft, his words efficient.
“Concussion,” Nell said.
“Walk me through it.”
Once again Nell told her story and as she spoke, the crowd gathered around her. It was the first time they had heard the tale and she saw nods and shaken heads. When she reached the part about finding Joe’s boat, their eyes slid past her. Eyes that were filled with sympathy. Eyes that said her husband was dead. Stewart’s eyes filled with tears and he turned away. Harvey looked down, shaken. RiverAnn took his hand and squeezed. Turtle Tom reached out a hand and gripped Nell’s shoulder. “We’re here for you, Nell. Hang tough.”
Her throat closed up and Nell patted his hand, fighting for a breath, finishing with tears in her own eyes, tears that were becoming habitual and unwelcome. Her Tennessee dialect strong in half-whispered words, she shook off his hand, took off her sunglasses, claimed the eyes around her and said, “Joe’s out there. In trouble. With no one but youns to help him. Please. Find him and bring him home.”
Mike looked at Elton, who gave him a single nod. “Let’s do it, people,” Elton said.
As the group began to disperse, each person to his or her assigned job, Nell went to every single one, clasping a hand or giving a hug, depending how well she knew each. Saying the same thing over and over. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” The once-alien tears no longer felt so foreign, and Nell didn’t try to keep them from falling, even though they burned, even though they made some of the searchers uncomfortable.
To the guides from the Pigeon, she added an extra word or two. “Thank youns for being such good friends. Thank youns for coming all this way for Joe.”
Each of them seemed awkward, embarrassed with the extra attention, and Turtle Tom shook his head, hugging her. “I just wish it hadn’t happened. You know?” he said, his big brown eyes staring at the trees on the far shore rather than at her tears.
“I know,” Nell said, feeling the guilt well up in her. Joe was lost. And if she hadn’t gotten stuck in a strainer, he would be fine. It was her fault. All her fault.
7
A swift-water search and rescue was a risky business. Nell had seen a simple training run turn dangerous with a foot entrapment in two feet of water, or as a submerged strainer trapped an unwary swimmer. No team leader wanted to evac out a hiker with a broken leg or be forced to rescue one of the rescuers, but it happened, and a good team leader was prepared for it.
Nell watched Elton give instructions, making sure that each radio was on the same channel and assigning other channels for nonemergency chatter. He liaised with the sheriff’s deputy who drove through the lot. He chatted with the park rangers, two of whom drove up just before they hit the water, and the hyper guy who was leading one of the canyon wall hiking teams. Some of the hikers left by van and Jeep to start out from the takeout and work their way upstream. Three kayakers were on the water early, practicing rolls. It was bedlam, but it was structured bedlam.
Then Elton blew a piercing whistle and shouted, “We do a complete river run this morning, from put-in to takeout. We’ll be meeting up with Argonaut at the confluence of the Clear and the New, and taking the last rapids down together.” The teams nodded, recognizing the moniker. Argonaut was Jason Adams, river-named after the historical sailor. “Everybody keep an eye out for emergency signals, branches or rocks in an X shape, fire, equipment, even a person lying on a bank or rock.
“Remember to check clefts that might have been available to a boat in bigger water. Today it’s running at fifteen hundred. It was up to twenty-five hundred CFS earlier, so we’re looking at two feet of river we don’t have today. I want the kayakers to scout the shore as often as possible, but don’t get left behind. Stay with the group. I want to be down the river by 2:00 p.m. Hikers, take the paths. Watch for signs.
“In places where line-of-sight radio communication is impossible, three long whistle bursts means we found him. Everyone who hears the whistle, pass the word where we are, and move into place to get him out. Anyone not close enough to be of immediate assistance, get your butt back to a put-in or a takeout.
“Anyone who gets injured on the river but can paddle to a support site alone, get off the water. We’ll have support in four places. At Leatherwood takeout, of course—” Elton held up a finger “—at the confluence of the Clear and New Rivers above the Double Falls.” He held up a second finger and then a third. “At the start of the Narrows, but that one’ll mean a hike up to the old railroad road and no parking to speak of, so try not to get hurt there so we don’t have to stop and drag you up the mountain.” Everyone laughed and Elton held up a fourth finger. “And at the O & W bridge. Paddle to whichever support site is closest. Questions?” Everyone here knew the river and no one raised a hand.
Elton said, “The support teams will have food and water for anyone who needs it, and trucks to cart you out. We’ll have support people at each site by noon, but unless you get hurt, you’ll be carting your own boat and gear to the trucks. No princess rides today.” That got another laugh. Princess rides were raft trips with a pretty girl as one of the paddlers. She usually got to sit and look at scenery while the other rafters did all the work and the male guides ogled her.
“In the event that we don’t find Joe by two, we start a slower, more methodical search downstream from the confluence above the Double. The paddlers
