pulled against the elastic neoprene, counting the tears. There were three big ugly ones and five smaller ones, all hidden beneath duct tape which had been applied to top and bottom. Nell felt her waistline and compared her wounds to the damaged skirt. The strainer must have punctured through the skirt, up at an angle beneath her PFD, and through her dry suit. Joe had obviously repaired what he could, but the duct tape restricted the elastic of the neoprene skirt. It might last for another run. Might.
But she had not lost her helmet and, miracle of miracles, she still had her paddle. Briefly, she wondered if she had dropped it when caught in the strainer. She had no memory of it in the vision of her hands. If she lost it, Joe must have recovered it for her.
Either way, she was good to go. But first, the river. She walked along the shore, checking out the flow, but the river curled away from her between the boulders lining the South Fork of the Cumberland. Balancing carefully, she climbed up one and worked her way upstream, jumping from the top of one car-, bus-, or house-size rock to another—the only way up or downstream, outside of the white water. Her river shoes gripped the slippery boulders. If she fell and busted her leg, she would be in bigger trouble than she was in now.
The water flow was still high and gave her an idea how difficult the trip was going to be. The roar of the water was like a jet engine. White water foamed and churned, hiding the undercut rocks, strainer-debris, sieves and other dangers.
The cheat was only a few yards upstream, still running with enough flow to take it in a creek-boat. She couldn’t see the tree that had caught her, the cheat curving hard around a huge boulder, the rock the size of their bedroom in the apartment. Big water. Water that had already tried to kill her. Which made her mad, a much more useful emotion than the worry that niggled at the back of her mind.
Nell turned back downstream and walked past her campsite. Ahead, she saw a pair of young tom turkeys, standing on a spit of shore, drinking. With a flap of wings, they whirled uphill, racing into the scrub and out of sight.
Boulders and water-swept trees wedged between rock blocked her way. However, between two rounded rocks she found a glimpse of the white water downstream. The Washing Machine on the Big South Fork. From this angle, it didn’t look too difficult. Dicey class IIs. It was impossible to hike farther. Nell headed back to camp, picking her way with care. Her breath felt easier, her chest pain was less. She could do this. She had to do this.
Back at the camp, Nell broke down the emergency X signaling for help. She tucked four lengths of flex into her pockets and scattered the branches.
Gathering up the last of her equipment, Nell strapped it on or tucked it in, wrapping the sleeping bags in their waterproof protection and forcing them into the stern. She stepped into the kayak-cockpit skirt and pulled it to her waist, her breath tight and painful. She couldn’t hear the soft wheeze of her lungs over the roar of the water, but she could feel it.
She added a bit more kindling to the fire and checked the temperature of the Backpacker. It was hot enough to eat, though not hot enough to be tasty. Of course, no amount of cooking could truly make a dehydrated meal tasty. She scooped up the rice and bits of chicken with a camp spork. Energy flooded her with each bite and she felt better instantly. Joe had chosen the Santa Fe chicken and rice, her favorite. Dinner suitable for a belated river honeymoon. Grimly, she smiled as she ate, sitting close to the fire and absorbing the warmth.
Nell washed the cup and spork and tucked them into place in the kayak. It was much more full than usual, with Joe’s sleeping bag, some of the equipment between her thighs instead of in the bow or stern. Using the empty water bottle, she carried enough river water up to douse the fire, first kneeling and drawing into herself a last bit of heat and warmth. When she could bear to, knowing that this meant she wouldn’t be warm or safe for hours, she upended the bottle. The water gurgled and sizzled the fire out. She stirred the ashes, pushing the half-burned kindling into the mud. She had never added any of the bigger logs, and left the pile of deadwood and the ring of stones for the next camper.
As ready as she could be, Nell slipped on her damaged PFD, zipping the vest up the side and yanking tightly on the remaining straps. Each action sent shock waves of pain through her. She pushed the agony aside. There would be time for pain later. Much later.
She settled her helmet on her head, careful of the egg-shaped bruise, though there was no way to avoid it entirely. If the helmet shifted, she’d hurt, so she pulled the chinstrap more snugly than usual. Satisfied, she dragged the kayak to the shore, which angled down to the water. Before her was the Big South Fork of the Cumberland River and the pristine pool at the base of the Double Falls, but boulders bigger than cars blocked her view. From the sound of the rapids, she better be ready.
Every river has a scent, and the iron-tang of the Cumberland and of deep, rich earth and sap-heavy trees lining the banks and up the gorge walls filled her nostrils. A blue heron stood on the far shore, watching. Bending against the pain of her chest and the thrumming in her head, Nell wriggled into the white-water kayak, placing her feet against the bulkhead, wedging her hips in tight and snuggling her knees past the thigh pads.
She drank the last drop of water from the second bottle and tucked it inside the kayak body with the others. She made sure that everything was in place and secure, properly balanced, as the slightest weight shift affected the roll and pitch of the nimble little boat. She shoved the supply bag with its precious water and food between and under her thighs, and clipped it securely to the bottom of the boat.
She rolled the curled hem of the kayak skirt around the back of the cockpit hole, easing it into place with cold, shaking fingers. When the back and sides were secure, she took a breath for strength, leaned forward with her elbows at her sides, using her body for leverage, and folded the front of the skirt over the front rim, the skirt and the boat’s emergency releases both in easy reach. It left her winded and aching and it was all she could manage—not a pretty entrance, but sufficient. And the repairs in the skirt held. She was watertight, at least for a while.
With a deep breath that banged around in her head and chest like a gong, Nell took her paddle in her right hand and shoved off with her left, sliding down the shore. Leaning back in a seal launch, she lifted her lower body and the bow as the kayak hit the water. Pain thrummed in her head and along her sides. Icy river splashed over her, the rashguard shirt providing some protection but not enough, water soaking through to her polyester sweatshirt as she braced right and left. With a directional sweep of the paddle, she guided the boat to the center of the small pool. The sound of whitewater was both behind and ahead, an enormous roar. Boulders and steep, tree-covered terrain rose all around her, forbidding and austere. It would have been beautiful if she hadn’t been sick. If Joe weren’t missing.
She swept with the paddle in the first half of a 360-degree turn, facing upstream, the Double Falls now ahead, with its rushing cheat visible. With another stroke that pulled her chest muscles into a short, tight spasm, she completed the turn. When she could breathe again, she checked the banks.
On the shoreline, what little there was of it, debris was piled against rocks. The scant foliage lay bent and low where it had been pressed down by rushing water, all evidence of the high water that caused the near disaster Joe had written about. She back-stroked gently to hold her place along the shore.
She located the current by the eddy line, a faint ripple of water. With quick, sure, forward strokes, Nell moved upstream, across the eddy at an angle, and leaned downstream. A single stroke and brace brought her into the current. It seized her boat and jerked her forward.
Ahead was the Washing Machine, a turbulent drop between two house-size boulders. The rapid was a class II, usually easy. Then came the El, a deceptive-looking, gnarly class IV. Though the rehydrated meal she had eaten sat uneasily on her stomach, she was glad of the energy it provided. She knew she would need every calorie before
