Window In Time

by David Boyle

  With a vested interest in getting them down safely, the owners were soon off to the river to see about lining the canoes past the falls, leaving Tony and Hayden to start on setting up camp.

  “Give a yell if you run into trouble,” Hayden hollered.

  “Don’t worry about us,” Ron said, heading for the trail. “You concentrate on finding a flat spot for the tent.”

  Tony was seated on his life vest, buttoning his shirt. “We’ll do our best.”

  Hayden strolled beneath the pines, seeing where the tent would fit and snapping off branches. “I’m thinking this is about as good a spot as we’re going to find. Reasonably flat… these overhangs for a windbreak.”

  Tony stepped over. “This feels sooo much better.”

  “I know the feeling.” A last check. “How about here?”

  “I’m good if you are. All this little stuff we can use to start the fire, and by the time the tent’s up, it should be hot enough for something bigger.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Hayden looked about the clearing. “All we need now is to figure how close to build it….”

  The tent was up and the fire going strong by the time they piled the dry bags and packs beside the door. Painters were strung between the trees for clotheslines, their wetsuits, long johns, and even their whitewater boots soon hanging, with a line to spare for whatever gear might follow.

  Their first night on the river was always a celebration, and the only one with real food: nothing canned, nothing freeze dried. Tony charged the fire with charcoal, and after rearranging the rocks positioned the grill across them. He got the utensils, plates, and other whatnot from the cookbox, then situated their home-built carrier to serve as a small, if functional table. Partially microwaved and foil wrapped prior to leaving home, five enormous potatoes were first into the fire. And a cigarette later, five similarly prepared ears of corn. Lastly, and still partially frozen, five hand-selected T-bones, the chill mountain air soon swirling with a delicious mix of mouth-watering aromas.

  The sun was but a glow on the horizon when Ron, then Mark and Charlie trudged wearily into camp. “Finished?” Tony asked.

  Ron dropped his life jacket and plopped on top. “I wish,” he sighed, sounding drained. “We got mine and Mark’s down, but we’re still trying to figure what to do with Charlie’s.”

  “You were down there quite a while,” Hayden said. “Any problems?”

  Mark was working his arms free of his wetsuit. “A couple of spots gave us trouble, but nothing serious.”

  “Right,” Charlie drawled, unzipping his wetsuit. “If you don’t count almost losin’ the Tripper. Another coupla feet and—”

  “I told you to keep the rope taut.”

  Hayden had to laugh. “So about like normal.”

  “Pretty much. Was easier than if we’d tried to drag them.” Ron leaned forward, sniffing. “God that smells good. You almost ready?”

  Tony turned an ear with his fork. “Just about. Steaks should be close by the time you finish dressing. Just don’t slop up the tent, okay?”

  Mark grabbed his dry bag. “Better not be too much longer or we’ll be eating them off the grill.”

  Mark’s warning sounded like an exaggeration until Tony noticed the look on everyone’s face. Haggard and worn after a long day on the water, each of them looked… well, scary.

  Was that drool?

  The wolves were gathering not long thereafter, all in old jeans and jackets. “Gentleman—and I use the term in the most liberal sense—have at it when you’re ready. And Charlie, no fingers….”

  Served on paper plates and carved with hunting knives, steak night was but one of their many traditions. They sat cross-legged around the fire and gorged themselves, each man relishing the feast as the sky faded from shades of crimson to purple.

  With the falls their symphony and the mountains in twilight, the night’s meal was the perfect climax to their first day on the river. Isolated and alone, these nights were an embodiment of what they loved so about their canoe outings. There, in the still, majestic evening, the outside world ceased to exist. In the here and now they were the only world that mattered.

  Plates were tossed in the fire one after the other, the five at length settled around the campfire like fatted cattle.

  “Good Lord,” Ron groaned with a satisfied smile. “Am I stuffed!”

  “Really?” Hayden remarked. “I didn’t think it was possible to fill a bottomless pit.” He tossed his empty and grabbed another. “Great steaks, by the way. I knew that place of yours would eventually come in handy.”

  “Had Andre pick ‘em out special,” Ron said, resting on an elbow. “Only the best for my buddies.” A quick slug and a swallow. “And I’ll have you know I only charged you cost.”

  Hayden thumped his chest. “Gets me right here, McClure.”

  Charlie let out a thoroughly sated belch.

  “My sentiments exactly,” Mark chirped. “And nice job today. Not that I’d give you a ten or anything, but you handled the Gate about as well as anyone could expect.”

  Charlie nodded. “Gotta be one’a my best runs ever. Even Horserace, now that I think about it. Hittin’ the eddy below the drop was the hard part. After that it was like runnin’ a pinball machine, pickin’ ‘em as they come. That was fun, but the haystacks were even better. That first one especially. Thing was damn near as tall as my boat.”

  “That’s stretching it… though it was pretty big.” Mark thought back, nodding. “Was definitely a fun run.”

  “I’ll tell ya this much, I ain’t goin’ anywhere without those tarps from now on. Except for them, hell, I woulda been swimmin’ for sure. You saw how little water I took.”

  “I noticed,” Hayden said. “And that little celebration of yours, too.”

  Charlie shrugged. “Never did see what got me.”

  “A nice set of rapids, no matter how you slice it,” Hayden said. “Reminded me a lot of the last drop on the Schroon. Too bad we didn’t get any pictures.”

  Tony sat up with a start and glanced about the campsite. “Maybe it’s not too dark yet.” He flicked his cigarette, and a second later sprinted toward the trail.

  “Delgado!” Ron shouted, watching him go, Tony’s reply lost in the all-encompassing rumble. “Dumb shit. This dark, he’s going to break his damn neck.”

  “He’ll be okay,” Hayden said. “He wants his picture. And for that matter, so do I.” Ron upended his beer, clearly not happy about his going. “And what happened to you guys? I thought you would have been watching.”

  “We were, believe me. You and Charlie both. What I didn’t see was how strung out Tony was. With all the rapids we’ve run together, Wildcat, Boy Scout, even Gilmore’s… I figured he could handle it. And the longer we watched, the more buttons got pushed. You mentioned Horserace earlier? Until then I thought we’d run that one too, that and all the other big time rapids on the Peshtigo. But actually we hadn’t, and this one scared him.

  “I mean, I said go,” Ron snapped his fingers, “and just like that, we were moving. You remember how fast the current was, and when it grabbed hold of the bow it damn near flipped him out of the boat right there.”

  Mark pulled out a cigar. “Not a good place for a swim.”

  “Tell me about it.” Ron took a long slug. “We talked about it on the way here. He’s still rattled. Says it was his fault. And from a strictly boat-handling perspective, it was. But if I’d been paying more attention, I maybe would have given him clearer directions.” He drained the can and gave it a toss, his expression serious. “You can be damn sure I won’t be making that mistake again.”

  “You did what you could,” said Hayden. “We’ve all gone swimming one time or another.”

  “Some more than others,” Mark noted, peeling the wrapper from his Hav-A-Tampa. “The good thing is, tomorrow we’ll all be a tad lighter.” He licked at his cigar. “You think it’d help, we could take on an additional pack or two. What about it, Prentler? Can goo
ds don’t take much room.”

  “If that would make life easier on Tony, sure, we can do that.”

  “You guys make me nervous just listenin’ to ya. I mean hell, we still got a whole river to paddle.”

  “He’s coming along, Bull. I’m not worried about it.”

  Mark sat back when the wrapper caught fire. “Just the same,” he said, puffing, lighting up. “Any major rapids on tomorrow’s agenda?”

  “I don’t think so.” Spoken with not quite the certainty they were looking for, Hayden was encouraged to check.

  They spread the map beside the fire and looked over tomorrow’s run. There were stretches of flatwater, some extending for miles, a smattering of Class I and IIs there to break the monotony for all the next day and the day following. Nothing they saw to interfere with arriving at their next campsite by noon. Thereafter they’d base camp for a day, maybe two, fishing and hiking and whatever else came to mind while McClure and Van Dyke swept the forests for bear. Alternating between a day on the river and a day or so camping, their itinerary allowed them the flexibility to do whatever they chose. And if, by some miracle, Ron or Charlie did manage to connect, the possibility existed that they could make it to the Blazer with a hard day’s paddling.

  Most importantly, the topo map indicated no rapids approaching Hell’s Gate for the remainder of the trip.

  The slightest hint of twilight remained when Tony climbed his way back into camp. “Okay everybody, how about a smile? We’re having fun, remember?” he said, and snapped the picture.

  Charlie smiled as he and his friends gathered beside the fire. “Like the man said, it really doesn’t get any better than this!”

  They sat for hours, toying with ideas for next year’s trip and trading lies between beers. Women and rivers, old times and new, everything and anything was on the block for discussion. Everything, that is, except work. They had a standing rule that the guy who mentioned it was penalized a beer, though it was rarely required and seldom enforced.

  Mark found a spot away from the fire, and, using his fanny pack for a pillow, laid down. He cocked his hat, half-listening to the conversation, and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. The sky was clear, the constellations papering the sky almost overwhelmed by the sheer number of stars. Vega blazed like a beacon, the eastern horizon awash with the milky glow of the galaxy. There were nebulas and star clusters scattered across the sky, as well, the vast majority too faint to be seen unaided. He’d given thought to bringing his telescope, yet knew that even if he could somehow figure a way to fit the thing in his boat, the optics were simply too fragile to risk taking it on the river. Staring at the sky, Mark was longing for the sights his telescope would reveal when he noticed a movement in Hercules.

  The light grew in intensity and moved quickly across the sky, its brilliance soon rivaling that of the red giant Arcturus. That made it what, first magnitude? Fast too, which meant it was orbiting pretty low. Military most likely.

  He puffed his cigar, watching as the satellite transited Boötes, the realization growing that something wasn’t right. He found the Big Dipper… then traced a line through Dubhe and Merak and located Polaris. But if that’s north….

  He’d had a few beers, but not that many.

  Mark sat up sharply. “How’d they do that?”

  Tony took a leisurely drag from his cigarette, the smoke then draining through his nose. “Something the matter?”

  “That satellite. I don’t know how, but it’s goin’ in the wrong direction.”

  Tony twisted up at the sky. “Whatdya mean, the wrong direction?” he said, his hand wavering as he searched for his mouth.

  “Satellites go west to east. That one’s going east to west.”

  Ron burped. “Prob’ly another one’a them commie spaceships. Or maybe somebody screwed up. You know, like at S&M, and crossed a coupla wires.”

  Mark ignored the zinger. “You don’t understand orbital mechanics. Nobody launches satellites that way. Not us. Not the Soviets. Nobody.” Mark focused on the light, and stumbled back when it stopped. “I’m serious. There’s something really screwy about that thing.”

  He looked to Charlie, then Hayden. “What do you guys think?”

  Hayden chuckled with a snort. “You kiddin’? I gave up thinkin’ an hour ago.”

  “Great.” Mark checked the sky again. “What the…? Where’d it go?”

  “Give it up, Bennett.” Ron fished a beer from the near empty case. “Here,” he said, and gave it a toss. “You’re fallin’ behind.”

  Mark popped the lid, then took a swig before wandering to the ledge overlooking the river. He stood for long minutes, searching, puffing his cigar; the falls rumbling in the darkness.

  Ron twisted around. “You gonna stand there all fuckin’ night?”

  “I… I guess not.”

  “That’s good, ‘cause the fire’s gettin’ low. Be useful for a change and grab a coupla branches on your way back.”

  Mark turned away and, as requested, made a stop at the woodpile. Ron was rambling on about something or other, the others listening, though probably not; Hayden, as usual ready to nod off having been assured someone would stamp him out if he fell in the fire. Still puzzled, and not quite able to take his eyes off the sky, Mark off-loaded the branches into the fire. A flurry of sparks curled up and away like glowing snowflakes on the swirling column of air.

  And one by one the embers flickered out, just like his curious light.

  3

  It never ceased to amaze him how gray skies affected his psyche. And how was it that the same exact rumble that last night had the feel of a lullaby now seemed to have teeth? He clutched the firewood across his chest, staring off, the mountains he’d so long envisioned a bland and texture-less sweep of gray.

  He sighed. At least his headache was gone.

  Mark skidded under the last of the piney overhangs and popped up staring at a wetsuit. Everything hanging was drippy, their wetsuits and polypro and everything else as cold, damp and clingy as when they’d arrived. Drops rained down when he jiggled the line. Some days, suiting up was pure torture.

  But that would come later. What he wanted now was his coffee.

  He walked over and dumped the branches, and after brushing the chips from his jacket knelt beside the fire pit and pulled off a glove. He waved a hand over.

  Still warmth in the coals.

  There were needles in one pile and twigs in another, Mark busy whittling fuzz sticks when a hooded figure came hustling over the rise. Hunched with his arms pinned to his chest, Tony reminded him of a monk late for vespers. “Well?” Mark asked, puffing warmth into his fingers.

  “I really thought you guys were exaggerating,” Tony said, a chilled quiver in his voice. “I’m a clean freak too. But out here…?” He glanced about the mist. “Ridiculous.” Tony patted the lump in his pocket, then hurried on his way. “This is a shot that I might actually get enlarged.”

  Mark smiled wickedly at the possibilities. Show it at work? Nah, those dopes would take it out of context. The next poker game maybe…? Yeah, that could be fun.

  He went back to raising curls along the stick, laughter soon peeling from the tent. Yeah Prentler, this one you’re not gonna talk your way out of.

  Hayden came strolling a few minutes later, a towel tucked discretely under an arm. Mark was crouched over a tiny volcano, smoke swirling from a teepee of twigs. Hayden kicked aside one of the slew of empties scattered about the campsite. “Think we’ll have enough to last the trip?”

  “With all of what we brought this time? I sure as hell hope so,” Mark said, fanning the blackened rock circlet with his hat. “You know how withdrawal upsets my timing.

  “You checking the water level?”

  “Something like that,” Hayden lied, glancing at his watch. “Been up long?”

  “Not really. Fifteen minutes maybe.” Mark huddled over the rocks, blocking the wind, and pressed a sprig of pine needles to an ember.

  “Why
don’t you just use a match?”

  “Because,” Mark replied between breaths, “that’d be cheating.” He blew a long persistent breath, and the needles burst into flame. “See? Instant campfire!”

  The tent occupied nearly the whole of the only real flat spot on the terrace. Intended to sleep four and pressed to a level of service not dreamt of by its designers, the blue and white enclosure now bubbled with confused activity. Packed literally wall to wall and scarcely big enough to fit them when sleeping, Ron’s tent had proved wholly inadequate when the five of them were awake. Down two, and cramped regardless, the tent had all the earmarks of a slapstick comedy: the walls fluttering; heads now and then dimpling the sloped walls and ceilings; the shelter beneath the pines ringing with the squalls and laughter of its three remaining occupants.

  Hayden was sitting with his coffee, Mark tinkering with the fire and going on about the weather when his stomach reminded him how hungry he was. Cold too. Unwilling to wait while the others repacked, Hayden took it upon himself to start breakfast. Tonight, when the canoes were empty, they’d set one up for a table, but for now they’d have to make do using their life jackets and maybe rocks to sit on. A chill wind blew across the terrace, the gusts reaching through the trees at times making the fire look and sound like a blowtorch.

  “Maybe we should wait,” said Mark, remembering last time.

  “For them? Heck no.” Hayden pulled a printout from his pocket. “And we’re getting a little low here. How about finding us a couple more logs while I get started?”

  “I… I guess.” Still hesitant, Mark hustled past the tent and into the pines.

  Hayden, meanwhile, checked the menu and rummaged through the dry bag marked FOOD, gathering the items listed for the morning of Day 2. The cans of fruit, bombproof as always, hadn’t a scratch; the bacon was still partially frozen; and considering the pounding they’d taken, even the eggs had fared well, with only three broken. A sacrifice to the river gods was S.O.P., and this time they’d gotten off easy.