a chance to meet,” Jack said, extending a hand.
The woman looked up through locks of curly red hair, her green eyes piercing. Equally lean, shoulders muscled, she wore a sleeveless sun dress, threadbare and sun bleached. She set down the knife, shook the hand, and finished chewing. “You are?”
“Jack Chastain, Park Service. This is Paul Yazzi, Bureau of Land Management.” He gave her dress another look. Typical river guide. Squeaking by. Doing whatever it takes for a life on the river.
She glanced at Yazzi and took another bite. “We still in the park?”
“You left the park a few miles back. You’re in the national monument, one of the reaches managed by BLM.”
“I figured as much.” She backed away. “No time to chat. If we wanna good camp, we gotta keep moving.” She lugged a stack of plastic containers to the downstream raft, reached over the tube, opened an ice chest, and tossed them in. She turned back. “Unless you’re doing inspections, we’ll see you down river.” She waved her clients over. “Load up,” she shouted.
“Inspections? No.” Jack glanced at Stew, then back. “This is a science trip.”
“I see,” she said, unfazed. She held a garbage bag open to the clients as they climbed into the raft. Following them over the tube, she stashed the bag, and pointed to life vests. “Get yours on first, then someone hand me mine.” She plopped down and took hold of the oars. Stew untied her line, setting her adrift.
As Stew’s clients boarded, he turned to Jack. “She’s good,” he whispered. “Sometimes a little distant. She’s from back east. New York.”
“No worries. Catch you over beer at Elena’s.”
“Deal, we’ll . . . ” Stew paused. He cupped an ear.
Jack heard it. Low. Rumbling. Growing by the moment. Rising over the sound of the river.
Paul turned to listen. “That cannot be.”
The sound. Rock against rock, water pounding walls.
Willow and cottonwood leaves rustled. Breeze turned to gust.
“Smell that?” Jack said, turning to Yazzie.
He nodded.
“What?” Stew asked.
“Dirt.” He glanced at the sky. Blue, scattered clouds. But, . . . “Get your people upslope. Now.” He pointed upstream. “There. Do it fast.”
Stew rushed his boat. “Get out. Quick!” Clients jumped from the tube and ran, feet fighting sand.
Jack waved the other boat to shore, an eye on the side canyon. The sound grew loud, a freight train barreling toward them, hidden by serpentine cuts through the rock.
Lizzy pushed the oars. The raft lurched forward, bumping the shore. Two men jumped, already running. Lizzy started after, but stopped. A third man tugged at a river bag lashed to the boat frame. She clutched the man’s arm and pulled, jerking him back. His glasses flew off. He fought as she pulled.
Ready to move, Jack glanced from boat to side canyon. The rumble changed. Air shook. He watched as water exploded from the canyon. Dark, filthy water, laden with debris, tens of feet high. “Run.”
“Leave ’em!” Lizzy shouted.
The man ripped his arm away and reached for his glasses. He put them on. His eyes grew wide.
Paul dashed toward talus, dragging his kayak. Jack waited seconds, then followed, grabbing his in a tenuous hold as he moved away from the surge.
It hit. Water, debris, the surge scooping up the rafts, flipping them over, pushing them into the current, belly up. The rafts floated downstream, through a bend of the river.
Jack lost sight of them. Two people. Gone. Possibly dead. He exchanged glances with Paul, then Stew, then the others.
Questioning looks. None with answers.
He tugged on his splash skirt, and caught a look of concern from Paul. “I know. Bad idea,” Jack said. “What else can we do?”
“Do not do this,” Paul said.
“Surely, there’s not another wall of water coming.”
“You do not know that.”
“Right.” Jack studied the dark tongue. Dirty water slithered downriver, carrying limbs, whole trees, and debris. He moved upstream and pulled the kayak to water’s edge. Paddle in one hand, he slipped in and pulled the splash skirt over the rib of the cockpit. “The next mile’s flat water, right?”
“Normally,” Paul shouted, over the roar. “In a flood? I do not know. Do not get yourself killed!”
Jack gave a nod. “See if you can get someone on the radio.” He plunged one end of the paddle.
Crossing the river, he skirted past the inflow, avoiding debris, pushing limbs away with the paddle, working toward open water.
At the bend, one raft sat eddied out, river-right, going nowhere. No people. None he could see. He floated past, into a straight stretch, water fast and turbulent. Ahead floated the second raft, upside down, one person—a head and an orange vest—bobbing in and out of sight in the midst of debris. No way to tell if they’re okay. The second person? Nowhere to be seen.
Plowing forward, he closed the gap. The second person? Where?
There. Alongside the raft.
Arms flailed, slipping, attempting to climb on. No hand holds.
Who first? Which?
A log floated at the raft. He cut left, toward it.
Red hair. The Lizzy woman. He overtook the log and pushed off with the paddle, propelling the kayak alongside the raft. “Take hold of the grab loop. I’ll pull you to shore.”
“No. Gotta save Maynard,” she screamed. “Gotta save the boat.”
She took the grab loop and hefted herself onto the bow, pitching Jack forward. He lay back, countering the weight. “You’ll never . . .”
She wriggled her way onto the tube, giving a kick, pitching the kayak back.
He rolled. Warm, dirty water. Debris. He thrust the paddle, rolling himself upright.
“Where’s Maynard?” Lizzy hollered. She paced, corner to corner on the belly of the raft, water dripping from her, feet slipping. “Where? Under the boat?”
“Downstream,” Jack shouted.
A swell hit the raft, throwing Lizzy on her face, washing over her and sending her willowy body sliding along the rubber. She managed to stay on.
Jack steadied the kayak, and glanced up river. Another swell.
He
