As the Chipola flows out of the Dead Lakes, it connects with the Chipola Cutoff—a stretch of the river that flows down from the Apalachicola, creating Cutoff Island. On the west side of the narrow strip of land is the Chipola and on the east side is the Apalachicola.
Is that where I am? Got to be close.
What now?
Hide the memory card or take it with you. Wait for a boat or cross the river and the island to the Apalachicola.
Flowing unimpeded for 106 miles from Jim Woodruff Dam to the Gulf of Mexico, the Apalachicola River sends sixteen billion gallons of fresh water into Apalachicola Bay every single day. Falling some forty feet as it flows through the Gulf Coast Lowlands, the Apalachicola has a width ranging from several hundred feet when confined to its banks to nearly four and a half miles during high flows. Ranking twenty-first in magnitude among rivers in the continental United States, the Apalachicola is the largest in Florida, responsible for a full 35 percent of freshwater flow on the state’s western coast.
The Big River, as the Apalachicola is known, will have more traffic than the Little, as the Chipola is known, but crossing Cutoff Island isn’t something he wants to do unless he has to.
While listening for the buzz of an approaching boat motor, he looks around for a landmark near which to hide the memory card.
That’s it.
About a quarter mile down the bank to his left, an old abandoned boat, a large hole in its hull, sits atop a group of fallen trees. Left when the water was much higher, the boat now sits several feet back from the river’s edge.
Racing down the sandy soil of the river bank, around exposed cypress root systems, over fallen trees, their long bodies extending ten to twenty feet into the greenish-gray waters, he glances over his shoulder, checking along the bank for Gauge and his men and in the river for an early morning fisherman.
Reaching the beached boat, he unscrews the head of the flashlight and tosses the batteries into the woods. Turning his sling pack around, he withdraws the camera, removes the memory card that had been in the camera trap and drops it into the base of the flashlight. He then places the original memory card back into the camera, snaps back the clasp and pulls the strap to return the sling pack to his back. Replacing the head of the flashlight onto the base, he drops to his knees and begins to dig.
The soggy sand is soft, the digging easy, and in a moment, he has dug a hole, buried the light, covered it up, and smoothed the surface. Next, he cuts a piece of the blanket from the tree stand and wraps it around a corner of the boat, then runs back up the bank so if Gauge and the others show up, they won’t see him near the boat.
Once far enough away from the evidence, he finds a place along the bank to hide and wait for a passing boat. Beneath the swollen base of an enormous cypress tree, he hides among the tangle of exposed roots, giving him a view of the river and cover from anyone in the woods behind him or along the banks beside him. And he waits.
And waits.
And waits.
He thinks about where and how he’s spent the night. He’s always admired the beauty of the area he calls home, but now he has a new appreciation of this magical land and the majestic waters that surround it.
Suddenly, he’s overcome by a profound sadness and sense of loss. Loss of life—a way of life on this land and its bodies of water. The transition from untouched treasure to turpentining, to timber logging, to tourism is destroying a place as sacred as any religion’s holy land—and driving the poor from their home places as the rich raise property taxes by devouring the one thing no one can make more of for second and third vacation dwellings.
The rhythmic rocking of the river against tress and onto the bank is hypnotic, but he’s too cold and wet to fall asleep.
To occupy his mind while he waits, he thinks about what he likes best about Heather, his beautiful little flower.
Like the flower she’s named for, she’s a true Florida girl who grows best in full sun and needs to avoid cold winter winds. She’s strong, but beautiful, just like the plant that is considered both weed and ornamental flower, and like the white and lavender species thought to bring luck and used to make honey, she brings nothing but sweetness and goodness to his life.
Goodness. She’s got it to the bone. There’s no meanness or deceit or betrayal or cruelty in her. Not a single cell—except when she’s hormonal, but that’s not her. It’s an altered state.
Intellect. She’s as smart as anyone he knows. Quick, clever, witty, curious. Ever learning. He especially loves the way she shares with him what she’s learning.
Kindness. To him, to strangers, to animals. Her goodness is expressed in her tenderness, gentleness, and compassion.
Her body. The tiny heart-shaped hole her lips make when they’re closed. The pure, delicate features of her face. Her penetrative eyes. Her full, round, rump. Her shapely legs, sexy feet, cute little toes, which are always painted to match her clothes. Her tiny areolas and her large nipples. Her smell, especially of her legs and feet after she has worn stockings all day.
Her sex. Her eroticism. She genuinely enjoyed their intimacies. He never felt like she was doing it just for him. Her openness. She’s a game girl, and he’s a lucky man.
Her style. The way her panty pattern always matches her bra.
Her personality. Her cute expressions. Her sense of self. Confidence. Uniqueness.
He hopes he gets to see her again so he can tell her all the things he likes about her.
Mother Earth.
Even from a distance, he recognizes her.
An iconic figure in the area, Marshelle Mayhann, or Mother Earth as she is known, rides the rivers in her green seventeen-foot aluminum bateau, keeping watch over the water and land she so loves.
Radical tree hugger to some, river swamp savior to others, Mother Earth was an environmental activist before the term was coined.
Sunbaked skin.
Dark-tinted glasses.
Strings of mouse-gray hair dangling out of a faded camouflage bandana.
Dull black military boots. Well-worn army fatigues. Layering.
Long undershirt, flannel button down, dark camouflage hoody.
Mother Earth looks like an elderly river rat, but has done more to preserve the rivers, land, and lifestyle of old north Florida than any other living person.
Originally meant as a dismissive, if lighthearted insult, the nickname stuck, and eventually Marshelle adopted it herself. Mother Earth stenciled on the side of her boat in bold black letters.
Growing in popularity over the years, Mother Earth eventually founded a not-for-profit organization named Friends of the Apalachicola. Its mission, to provide stewardship and advocacy for the protection of the Apalachicola River and Bay and all its tributaries, including the Chipola River.
Locked in a nearly lifelong battle with the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers over their dredging of the river, the creation of sand mountains, and their blockage of sloughs and tributaries, she has also fought against Georgia and Alabama’s overuse and pollution, the loss of floodplain habitat, and explosive growth and development along Florida’s once forgotten coast.
Often caught talking to the river and actually hugging the trees that line its banks, Mother Earth is as eccentric as she is effective.
He waits until the last possible moment, then stands and begins to jump up and down and wave his arms, attempting to catch her attention without alerting Gauge and his men to his whereabouts if they happen to be in the vicinity.
She doesn’t see him.
Though the small outboard motor on her boat is not very loud, he doubts she could hear him even if he yelled. Should I try anyway?
Risk revealing your position to Gauge when odds are she won’t be able to hear you? Yeah.
You stupid or just suicidal? So you’re saying not to?
Being a smartass with a voice inside your head makes you as crazy as Mother Earth.
She’s not crazy. She’s a hero. Heroine. And I rest my case.
As she passes directly in front of him, he starts to yell to her, but reconsiders.
Looking along the banks to make sure he hasn’t been seen by Gauge or his men, he quickly ducks back into the hole hewn out of the root system.
Depressed.
Disheartened.
And not just because he missed a great opportunity for rescue.
He thinks about Mother Earth riding up and down the river, watching over, patrolling, helping, loving. All she’s done. Dedicated her life to conserving one of the greatest rivers and bays in the world.
I’ve done so little. So little that matters with my life.
I’ve made some money, but I’ve never made much of a difference.
How often had he heard Mother Earth say, All those who say nothing are guilty of destroying the river and the swamps.
I’m guilty. I’ve not only done too little, I’ve said too little.
In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends. Who said that? He’s pretty sure it was Martin Luther King, Jr.
Does the river remember my silence?
How many species has Mother Earth saved? How much land and water and how many animals? How much more could have been done if I had just done my small part?
I’ve been too silent for far too long. Didn’t tell Dad how much I loved him before he died. Still don’t tell Mom and Heather often enough. I could die out here today and they’d never know that my final thoughts were of them, never know how sorry I was, that I realized how wrong I’d been, how much I want them in my life.
Like the great blue heron he’d seen a few minutes before, he’s always been solitary, self-sufficient—too much so. Far too much. All he wants now is to be in the presence of the two women who mean more to him than all the other women on the planet put together.
Hearing a boat motor approaching from the other direction, he looks up to see that Mother Earth is headed back toward him, this time much closer to his side of the river.
How appropriate, he thinks, that I should be rescued by a woman.
She’s gonna pass by without seeing me again.
Maybe he had waited too long to motion for her like he had the first time. Maybe this time he needs to yell.
He starts to, but stops.
Looking up and down along the banks, he sees no one. Go ahead. Just hurry.
He tries, but just can’t bring himself to do it.
As she’s passing by directly in front of him, he thinks, You’ve done it again. Do you want to get killed, is that it?
But in another moment, she turns her head, as if catching a glimpse of something in her peripheral vision.
Decelerating quickly, the bow dropping down instantly, the small boat bobbing forward as its own wake catches up to it.
By the time she’s turned around and approaching the bank, Remington is wading out into the water.
Placing his things in the boat, then pulling himself up the moment it’s close enough, he doesn’t wait for an invitation.
—Break down? she asks.
—Thank you so much.
—Sure, honey. It’s no problem.
—No, I mean for all you do for the river.
—Ah, sugar, you’re gonna make Mother cry. You’re welcome. Thank you for thanking me. You get lost?
—We’ve got to get out of here as fast as possible.
—Why?
—I saw a game warden named Gauge kill a woman and now he and his friends are after me.
—What? I’m not … I know Gauge. He works over in Franklin County. Are you sure he—
—Please, let’s just go.
—Okay. Don’t fret. Mother’ll get you out of this mess, but are you sure it was Gauge? I just can’t believe—
—It was. I have proof. Pictures of him doing it. Please. Let’s just go.
She shakes her head.
—Gauge. I just … it’s just so …
As she whips the boat around and begins to head back down the river, he’s flooded with such relief and emotion, he begins to cry.
—Let it out, baby. Let it all out. You’re okay now. Everything’s gonna be all right.
Saved by Mother Earth. He can’t get over it.
Glancing back at her, he finds her weathered brown face beautiful, her camo do-rag, hoody, and fatigues stylish.
—What is it, honey? she yells over the whine of the engine and whish of the wind.
—I thought I was going to die.
She nods and gives him a sympathetic smile.
The boat bounces, its front end bucking up and down, slapping the hard surface of the river. The spray from the water feels like tiny shards of ice pelting his face, the cold wind causing his eyes to water, then blowing the tears out on his temples.
—I thought we were closer to the foot of the island, he says.
—It’s about another mile, mile and a half.
He nods.
—I want to join Friends of the Apalachicola.
—We’d love to have you. There’s so much to be done. Right now the state refuses to give the Corps the permits they need to continue dredging, but they’re fighting it—and we’ve got so much to undo from all the damage they’ve already done. Between them and what Alabama and Georgia’re doing with pollution and damming, they’re destroying an entire ecosystem.
He nods.
—It’s the way of the world, she continues. The folks downstream are always at the mercy of the people upstream. All this begins in north Georgia with the Chattahoochee. It has five major dams on it and supplies the water for metro Atlanta. Atlanta’s polluting like a bastard, but they’ve decided to pay fines rather than fix their problems. That shouldn’t be an option.
—How can I help?
—Well, first—
Her throat explodes, then the side of her head, and she slumps over dead in the bottom of the old bateau.
At first, he’s so shocked he can’t move, but as rounds continue to whiz by him and ricochet off the boat and the motor, he drops down into the hull, his frightened face inches from Mother Earth’s lifeless one.
What have I done?
Terror.
Panic.
Futility.
Rounds continue to ricochet around him, but he doesn’t move. He can’t.
Numb.
Despondent.
Lost.
He can’t think, can’t move, can’t—what?
Death.
Despair.
Distance.
He feels himself coming untethered again.
Adrift.
Are you going to die right here?
It looks like it.
Just give up? Give in? All you’ve survived and now you’re just going to quit?
I can’t …
You can. Come on. You’ve got to make Gauge pay for this. You can’t let him get away with killing Mother Earth—he can’t believe she’s really dead—and who knows how many other people.
She’s dead because of me. I got her killed.
And set back the environmental movement in ways you can’t even comprehend.
Circles.
Without Mother’s hand to guide it, the spinning propeller of the outboard motor has turned, and the boat is making large clockwise circles in the middle of the river.
How long before it spins around too fast and capsizes?
Bullets continue to pock the aluminum sides of the bateau, some of them piercing the hull, and the small craft begins to take on water.
You’ve got to make your move now. Wait much longer and it’ll be too late.
Searching the boat as best he can in his prostrate position, he finds a small blued snub-nosed.38. Clicking open the cylinder, he sees it has all five rounds.
Shoving the handgun in his jacket pocket, he crawls toward the back of the boat, staying low to avoid getting shot, his body bumping up against Mother’s.
Reaching the back of the bateau, his hands, face, and clothes wet, muddy, and smeared wi
th blood, he lifts his hand just enough to grab the throttle and pivots the motor away from the gunfire and toward Cutoff Island.
Heading away from the shooters, less rounds come near the boat, and only the motor housing suffers any hits.
Crashing the boat into the bank, Remington crawls to the front, over the bow, dropping onto the mud and roots, and begins to run into the woods for cover.
More rounds.
Thwacking trees.
Splintering roots.
Splattering mud.
And just as he’s about to make it into the thick swampy woods of the Cutoff, a round hits his right calf. Searing. Falling.
Rolling.
Dragging his injured leg, he claws his way up the incline and into the cover of ancient trees and thick understory.
Glancing back past the boat and across the river, he sees only two men with rifles standing there.
Is that all that’s left?
Did the others leave?
Is one of them Gauge?
When he turns back around, he’s staring at mud-covered snake boots not unlike his own.
—Hey, killer, Gauge says, a pleasant smile on his face.
—Took you long enough to get here. You came out a lot lower than we thought you would.
—Not low enough.
Pressure.
Unzipping his boot, Remington presses the gunshot wound in his leg with his hand, attempting to stop the bleeding.
—Just think, if she’d’ve taken you up river instead of down, you’d’ve gotten away—for a little longer anyway.
Remington remains on the ground, Gauge hovering above him, looking down the barrel of the shotgun at him.
Throbbing.
His calf muscle feels like it’s being stabbed with a serrated blade, then twisted, pulled out, and thrust back in again.
—You down to two men?
—Three. Sent one on an errand.
—What happened to—
—They retired.
—Bet a lot of people who work for you get early retirement. He smiles.
—Before you retire me, you should know I have evidence against you and I’ve hidden it where it will be found.
Double Exposure Page 13