seemingly held there, possibly by thermals rising up to meet it. Other clouds slowed to wait, only teasing the earth with virga—their rain drops evaporating before reaching the ground—but this cloud, as if defying an established plan, let go and poured. The San Juan Mountains, visible only moments before in the distance, now lay hidden behind a veil of rain draping from the cloud.
The ground, splattered by raindrops, sucked up what it could. With few plants to help with the task, soil was soon overcome. Trickles formed and streamed downslope. Those trickles joined others, then sheets, then water marching toward drainages, coming together to form creeks, and those came together in a rush to the river.
With parched ground for miles in all directions—except here, under one cloud—no one downstream expected what was coming. A wall of water.
—·—
“Here we go,” Jack Chastain said to himself.
He let the kayak drift, pulled by the current toward the tongue feeding into the rapid. With long arms, he dipped one end of his paddle, held it, and turned the kayak across channel. He studied the boiling water below.
Seems different than a minute ago.
What do you expect? Scout a rapid from the hillside, it always seems different. Have some faith.
He pointed the bow forward and let the kayak slip into the tongue. Slow, calm waters turned quick. Waves crashed over the kayak’s deck. Only one option now . . . to see it through.
Current pushed the kayak toward boulders, nearly submerged, a swirling hole in between. He paddled left, through foam and splash. The river fought back, not letting go, pulling him right. He paddled harder. The hole grew large. Water slipping over boulders, calm, then turbulent.
Keep away from that hole.
He glided onto the rim—water plunging. He paddled hard, fast. Again. Again. Again.
The kayak pulled away, into the current flowing past.
Now, only the small stuff.
He sucked in a breath, and let the paddle skim the surface, holding the kayak on line. He cut through the last of the waves and settled onto flat water, soaking wet, water shedding off his life vest and Park Service uniform. Paddling into the eddy at river left, he slipped around, then raised the paddle with both arms.
Paul Yazzi, waiting above the rapid, returned the signal. Slipping into the current, he let his kayak float forward. He entered the tongue, picking up speed. Waves crashed over him, obscuring all but his helmet. The ends of his paddle appeared in alternating flashes, in and out of the water. He pressed for river left. Gliding toward the boulders, he worked one end of the paddle, stalled on the lip, and slowly pulled away. Free but balance lost, he slipped over, waves crashing over him. The bottom of the orange kayak bobbed in and out of whitewater, then up-righted. Yazzie dashed through the last of the rapid. Hitting flat water, he steered into the eddy.
Jack let out a holler. “And we call this work.”
Yazzi smiled and pulled off his helmet. He ran fingers through wet, black hair, then over his face, shedding the water streaming between wide-set cheeks.
“C’mon Paul, even men of few words gotta cut loose on a day like today.”
“I am avoiding paying for a helicopter,” he said, his words heavy with Navajo accent. “We finish reading veg plots. You go back to your project.”
“Can you believe it? Middle of a drought, all this from the headwaters.”
“Confuses things. Range beat to hell, much water in the river.” Yazzi let his paddle balance on the deck of his kayak. “I appreciate your help. I am sorry to pull you away from the report to agencies and Congress.”
Jack turned away.
“You want me to keep you from your work?”
Jack let the thought settle over him. “It’s done. Mostly.”
“Good. What’s next?”
“The Congress part.”
“Good.”
“Not sure it is. I’m starting to think we should limit our actions. Do what we can without dealing with politicians.”
“Why?”
“Because . . . of their games.”
“We need new authorities. To do the things to keep ranchers and environmentalists working together. And why would Congress care? Unless they’re from New Mexico?”
Jack furrowed his brow, and let out a long, seething breath.
“You’re angry. This is not like you.”
“Sorry, Paul.” He pulled off his helmet, loosened the strap on his sunglasses, and slipped them off. He gave his head a shake. Wet, brown strands settled over blue eyes. He swept them away from his face. “It’s just . . . .” He scowled. “Never mind.”
“Famous white man saying—all politics are local. Let our members of Congress earn their keep.” Paul skimmed the water with his paddle. “You’ve done much good here, Jack. Three years ago, the president created the national monument. Afterwards, hell. Everyone fought. Now, they work together. They remember they’re part of the same community. You made that happen. Don’t stop now.”
“It was your work, too, Paul.” Jack sighed. “As much as I want us to do what we can to help preserve this little part of the world, keep people together, help them save what they value . . . the next phase scares me.”
Yazzi laughed. “You white guys. You think too hard. Do this. You’re good at it.”
Jack shrugged, and slipped on his helmet. “Where to now?”
“Next drainage, on the right. We’ll climb out to monitoring sites. Important ones.”
Jack paddled into the current, then waited for Paul to come alongside.
The gorge grew wide, its walls pulling back from the river. Around a bend, on river right, two rafts came into view, beached on the sand. Paddling close to shore, they approached the rafts. Half a dozen men sat under a cottonwood, alongside a creek feeding into the river. River guides—one male, one female—hunkered over a table, picking at food and packing it away.
Chastain and Yazzi came ashore, upstream of the rafts.
The male guide, in river shorts and white Grateful Dead T-shirt, looked up. “Rangers!” he hollered, “hide the contraband.”
“Contraband?” a client hollered back, sounding confused.
The guide laughed, and tossed back his long, sun bleached hair.
“Hey, Stew.” Jack crawled out of the kayak, stood, and stretched his tall, lanky frame. He took hold of the webbing on the bow of the kayak, and dragged it onto the sand. “Who’s your partner? New guide?”
Stew, lean and
