“Awesome!” I say. So much POWER! The thundering falls blast through a narrow canyon, rush over a ledge, and plunge down, sending up a powerful back spray that rises into the sky, creating a hazy, glowing rainbow in the sunlight.
Dad comes to my side. We just stand there, in a kind of awe. The falls are so fast and wide and powerful. And at the bottom the water churns and gallops like a herd of wild white horses.
I wipe the mist from my face and say, “Let’s climb down!”
“I don’t know, Aaron. Looks dangerous.”
“Oh my god! Dad! Come on! It’s a challenge, right?”
“That it is,” he says. “But it’s not for me. You go, if you really want to. But be careful! I’ll watch.” He bites his lip, looking worried. But then his grin splits his dark whiskers.
This time I don’t argue. I’m too psyched. I take one more look down the falls and say, “Okay. Here goes!”
I scramble down like a mountain goat, leaping from one mossy, mist-soaked rock to the next.
Suddenly, my feet fly out from under me.
“WHOA!” I scream.
I’m falling. I’m going to plunge into the boiling cauldron below. I flail my arms and legs and crash on my side about ten feet below where I last jumped. I tumble head over heels, and slide down until I finally grab hold of a root and stop my fall. The root is clinging to a narrow rock ledge, which I pull myself up onto. It looks like I’ve fallen about halfway down from the top—maybe sixty feet. Maybe more.
Nice move, Aaron.
The wind is knocked out of me, my left side hurts like hell, and I’m being hammered by the full force of the waterfall. The ledge slopes and it’s slippery, so I cling to the root.
“Aaron!” Dad calls. I can barely hear him above the roar.
“Hang on! I’m coming!” Dad’s coming. All I have to do is hang on.
But I can’t!
The water’s pounding down on me. I’m losing my grip. The blast of the waterfall is like a hurricane at my back.
Next thing I know, I’m dangling below the ledge, spinning. I’ve still got a hold of the root, thank God. But either my arm is going to tear from my body or it’s going to tear from the thin root.
Dad is coming. I can tell because little rocks are bouncing down over my head.
But I can’t hold on any longer.
I’m slipping, slipping. . . .
Suddenly Dad is there, reaching out to me. . . .
Too late! The root slides out of my hand.
Dad’s hands grip my arm like a vice, but it’s too late. We both fall.
It’s incredibly fast and in slow motion at the same time. My heart’s crying out. Mom! Dad! Help!
SMACK! We smash into the river below.
We’re torn apart. I tumble underwater, crashing, smashing rock, thrashing, flailing, holding my breath.
And holding it . . . and holding it . . . somersaulting through a cyclone of currents, like a monster’s coils trying to hold me under. Me kicking, clawing, trying to reach the surface.
My lungs want to burst. Pinpoints of light explode behind my eyes. I’m about to inhale water, breathe in all the water in the river, when. . . .
I burst out into sunlight.
Air!
I gasp and gag and splutter. I tumble and roll onto my back, twisting and sliding feetfirst down the rapids, bouncing off boulders like a ball in a pinball machine.
The water is so cold my chest seizes. I can’t breathe.
I’ve got to breathe!
I cough and shudder and cough again. Hard!
My ribs finally loosen. I snag a breath and look around.
What’s that downriver? A bundle. A bundle of dark flannel draped over a sweeper.
Dad!
I veer toward him. My soaked clothes are so heavy they almost drag me down.
I fight and kick to keep my head above the surface.
Closer . . . closer now . . . I’m almost there.
Almost there!
I crash feetfirst right beside him and almost get sucked under again. I snatch the dead limb and pull myself up, and hold on.
“Dad!” I yell. I fight my way toward him, try to grab hold . . .
. . . but suddenly he’s pulled under and away by the river.
He’s gone! My hand holds empty air. I can see him bouncing and rolling downriver like a rag doll.
“Dad! Dad!”
DAY SIX
NOW WHAT? AND OTHER
LIFE-OR-DEATH QUESTIONS
There’s nothing I can do but let go. I have to get to Dad.
I let go of the dead limb and let the river take me.
But not completely. I’ve got to take control—like I would if I were in a kayak or a raft.
But I start to go under. I climb hard, pedaling with my hands and feet, like trying to climb a ladder made of water.
I reach the top. My head pokes out. I breathe. I swing my legs around so I’m gliding feetfirst on my back, kicking off boulders, stumps, river-soaked snags—which reach down into the roiling water like witches trying to snatch me with their bony fingers.
Am I catching up to Dad? I lift my head and look downriver.
I think I see him! The dark flannel. Is it floating? Is Dad floating?
Suddenly I’m pulled underwater again. My lungs cry out for air. I tell myself: Don’t breathe! But it’s a reflex and more than anything in the world right now:
I WANT TO BREATHE!
But if I breathe underwater, I drown.
My brain starts to freeze. It’s shutting down. It’s getting dark.
But I push hard off the bottom with my feet and pop back up to the surface and breathe! A whole, great, sky full of air.
And there he is.
Dad!
He’s pressed against a boulder, his head just barely breaking the surface. The force of the river is pushing against him, pressing, shoving, and now for the first time I see that there’s a drop just beyond him, maybe thirty or forty feet.
A cascade! A thundering mist hangs above it.
I roll on my back again, feetfirst, and swerve toward him, swiveling my hands at my hips, like tiny fins or flippers.
BLAM!
I smash into the boulder feetfirst, right beside him.
“Dad!”
His lower lip is in the water. His eyes are shut. He’s out cold. It’s the pressure of the river, gluing him to the boulder like a postage stamp.
I cling to the boulder with my feet, then throw my arm around his chest and yank with all my might. Pulling left at the same time, toward shore, where I can haul him out.
I kick. I yank.
He moves but is sucked back. Against the boulder.
One last effort.
I yank!
Dad slips sideways and I almost lose him. I wrap my arm around his chest again, grab hold of his flannel shirt in my fist, and grip it like a claw.
I kick off. Back into the current. And angle toward shore, flailing with one arm, kicking, my whole body screaming with a fierce animal hunger—
to live!
For both of us to live.
At last my feet hit bottom. I can feel it.
Thank God!
My feet slip. Stones tumble underfoot. The current’s like a powerful conveyor belt to hell.
Alone I can make it to shore, but I can’t let Dad go. I can’t let him go.
His head lolls back. His eyes roll back. He starts to slip under. He’s being sucked under. His shirt rips from my hand.
“NO!” His face is underwater now. I dip down and try to grab him and lift him back up. Bubbles stream from his nose and mouth.
I’m losing him! I’m losing him! I lift my head out. I grab a handful of his flannel shirt again, and with my other hand grab an overhead branch and pull.
It snaps!
We’re both sucked under again. I don’t let go of Dad’s shirt. We bounce along a gravel bottom and smash feetfirst into a boulder. I swallow water and tumble sideways toward shore,
pulling Dad with me. We swirl to the surface in a back eddy, and my feet scramble for the bottom.
I wedge my feet into the bottom. I loop my arm around Dad’s chest—and haul his deadweight through the shallows and up the gravelly bank.
We collapse in a dripping heap. But there’s no time.
Is he breathing? I look at his chest. It’s not moving! His face is blue-gray.
Now my CPR training kicks in. Mom made me get certified when I thought I could make some money babysitting our neighbor’s kids. Mom’s a nurse and made sure I learned it well.
My heart’s pounding like a piston, but I put two shaky fingers to the carotid artery in Dad’s throat.
A pulse! Dad’s got a pulse!
I roll him on his side, wiggle a finger between his lips, and pry his jaws apart. Reddish-brown water spills out. I check to see that he hasn’t swallowed his tongue. He hasn’t, but I see blood.
I put my ear to his mouth and listen for a breath.
There’s no sound! I lay my hand on his chest. It’s as still as stone. He’s still alive but he must’ve stopped breathing!
“Dad!” I roll him on his back, pinch his nose, and start doing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I try not to panic. I have to try to stay calm. I have to keep breathing into him with strong, steady breaths.
Nothing happens.
I pull away, take another deep breath, and try again.
Suddenly Dad vomits. Blood and water gush into my mouth. I gag and spit it out. I roll him over onto his side again and let the rest spill out.
He’s breathing! His chest is heaving and he’s alive and breathing and spluttering and coughing.
He pulls himself up to his elbows and then collapses. His eyes pop open. They stare at me.
“Dad! You’re alive! Breathe! Keep breathing!”
Dad’s eyes close. I panic. I put my ear to his lips. His breath tickles my ear. He’s just unconscious. He’ll be okay, right? He’ll come around and we’ll go back to the camp and resume our trip. Right?
But what if he doesn’t come around? What if his brain is damaged from lack of oxygen?
“Dad! Wake up! You have to get up! We have to get you out of here!”
I shake him like a rag doll. A very heavy rag doll. I look around. The Cariboo River races by, oblivious to our plight. Two big black ravens perch on a dead tree. Three more circle high overhead.
“Go away!” I shout. “We’re not dead yet!” Don’t they wait until your flesh rots? They’re not waiting.
“Dad! Wake up, Dad!”
His eyes pop open again. He blinks.
He says something. I can’t hear it. I put my ear next to his lips. “Aaron?” It comes out in a whispered croak.
I sit bolt upright. “Dad! Geez, you scared me half to death!”
He tries to talk. He can’t. He coughs and squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again.
Then he tries to sits up. He can’t. Should I help him? I don’t know if I should move him. What if he broke his neck, his back?
But I’ve got to move him. I’ve got no choice.
When he starts struggling to lift himself again, I give him a hand. I cradle him like a baby.
“I don’t . . . feel so good.” At least, I think that’s what he says. He coughs and spits. Greenish phlegm, streaked red. He tries to take a deep breath, and to clear his throat.
He’s having a hard time breathing. He gurgles and wheezes. He lifts his head and forces air into his chest. Then holds his head. “I’m dizzy,” he says. “My lungs. . . . My head. . . .” He can’t talk anymore. He’s in pain.
Now I suddenly realize I hurt all over. I feel like a sack of bruised bones. My left side feels like there’s a burning spear in it. My head pounds and my stomach’s cramping up on me.
I look down. The knees of my pants are ripped out and the skin is scraped raw. My elbows, too.
Then I feel my lips. They’re swollen. I run my tongue over my teeth, and taste blood. I spit it out and run my tongue over my teeth again. I’ve got a loose tooth, near the front. I can feel it. I wiggle it with my fingers.
I spit, and I’m afraid I spit my tooth out.
No, it’s still there. Loose, wiggly, but there.
I look down at my dad.
“Can you stand up, Dad?” Thinking of him, I don’t notice my own pain so much.
“No. Not . . . yet,” he stammers. He lets his head flop back. I gently lay him on his back. He folds his arms over his chest. He starts shivering, his teeth clack.
I suddenly realize how cold it is. I start shaking too and pull my hoodie off. It weighs a ton. I wring it out and slap it against a boulder.
WHAM! WHAM!
How am I going to get back into that? But all I’ve got on is a T-shirt. I’m freezing. The canyon’s totally in shadow now. It’s like a meat locker in here. It’s getting late. It’s getting dark. We’ve got to get out of here.
Now.
“We have to go! Come on, Dad, I’ll help you up.”
He mumbles something but doesn’t stir. He lies there like a mummy, arms still crossed over his chest.
What am I going to do?
I wrestle back into my hoodie, then try to lift Dad up.
I can’t. Not without his help. “Dad! Get up! We’ll freeze down here!”
Dad groans. I cup my hand under his neck and with the other one grab the front of his flannel shirt and manage to pull him into a sitting position.
Then I kneel and snake an arm under his knees and my other arm beneath his shoulders—and lift! I get halfway up when he slides off, but he lands on his feet and I hold him upright. He sways and leans all his weight into me.
“Come on, Dad. Here, we’ll walk together. You can do it!” With one arm gripping him tight I take a step. He staggers forward. I take another step. He lurches and almost falls, but stays up, and takes another shaky step.
“Awesome!” I say. And together we stumble like drunks across the stones and downfall trees along the river, our wet shoes squelching with each step.
In this fashion—sometimes falling but always getting back up—we finally get to the bottom of the waterfall. It’s almost dark now. We stop and Dad slumps down toward the ground, but I keep hauling him back up. I look up at the steep winding path along the falls. The slippery, moss-covered stones.
Suddenly his knees give out completely and he slumps to the ground in a heap. He lies there at my feet, like a load of laundry. A wet, heavy load.
I look up: switchbacks, the long steep path to the top in the dark.
Now what?
DAY SIX
THE LAST MATCH
The more I look up at the path beside the waterfall the more I realize Dad can’t walk up it, even leaning against me. It’s too dangerous. If one of us slips, we’d both topple back into the raging cauldron below.
I have to think. But there’s no time for thinking. But I have to think anyway. The path is dark, but I see a glow through the trees above, up on the edge of the canyon.
It must be the moon. It should be almost full by now. Dad says something. I can’t make out what he’s saying over the roar of the waterfall.
“Louder, Dad!” I bend my head down near his mouth.
“You go. I can’t . . . walk. Go get . . . help.”
“No way! I’m not leaving you down here. You’re coughing up blood. You’ll freeze.” He’d attract some hungry grizzlies for sure, but I don’t say that out loud. “Just let me think a minute.”
We haven’t seen anybody else the whole trip, not a soul. Just one canoe broken in half. Other paddlers should be coming behind us in a day or two, but we don’t have a day or two. Dad won’t make it that long. Rangers are supposed to patrol periodically, but we haven’t seen even one. It’s probably not worth their while if it’s just a few of us paddling the circuit now. We’re registered at the ranger station, but Dad estimated we’d be back in eight or nine days. It’s only been six. They won’t start missing us for a few days.
We ca
n’t wait that long. We have to get out now. I have to find a way.
Just then the moon breaks free of the trees and shines down on us, and I don’t know why, but suddenly I know what to do. What I have to do.
I take some deep breaths and say, “Dad, we’re going now. It’s time to go.”
I hunch down and slide my arm and shoulder beneath him, plant my legs and feet into the ground like a weight-lifter . . .
. . . and I lift!! I mean, I lift him clear off the ground! And into a fireman’s carry—slung sideways across my shoulders.
Dad’s taller than me and outweighs me by at least twenty pounds, but thinking of Cassidy carrying my dad up out of Desolation Canyon two years ago gives me a shot of pure energy. Superhuman strength.
Still, I creak under his weight and I feel like I’m going to snap in two. But feeling that energy coursing through me, I keep waddling in a half crouch, and start slowly, very slowly, up the path.
One step at a time.
I climb through a cloud of mist, the roar of the waterfall, with Dad on my back, across my shoulders—dangling, deadweight, huffing, groaning, but not saying anything. Wheezing.
First one switchback, then another. Up and up. Endlessly up and up and up.
After a few minutes, exhaustion starts taking its toll, but it’s also taking the chill out of my bones. I’m sweating. I’m soaked. Sweat, river water, spray from the waterfall.
I don’t know if I can keep going. I need to stop and rest. But I’m afraid that if I put Dad down, I won’t be able to lift him back up.
So I keep taking one step, and then another, and another.
I’m gasping. My heart is thumping, pounding, in my chest, in my ears. My thigh muscles are burning, my calves. My knees and hips are straining, tearing, aching.
I keep trudging with my load up the hill. And then I remember that dream I had. The grizzly bear carrying the moon up the mountain. The Moon Bear. Almost making it to the top.
Then falling, tumbling back down the mountain with the moon.
And starting up all over again.
But I can’t fall. I can’t tumble down the mountain. I can’t start all over again. I have to keep going. Keep climbing. Up and up. Up toward the sky.
Grizzly Peak Page 8