by Hunt, Jack
Bullshit. One lifejacket. He had every intention of killing her. With both of them dead, no one would question it. They were attacked by wildlife in the wilderness, officer, she heard his voice in her head. It was a tragedy. How many others had used that excuse to explain away murder in the backcountry?
“Come on, Kara,” he said, trudging through the snow, rifle in hand. She could see him among the trees, lifting his knees high and plunging them into the deep snow. Snowdrifts had formed in areas around the property, up against the cabin, up against trees. She used them to her advantage, sinking into one and hoping that he didn’t spot her. The wind was nipping at her ears, and her hands freezing in the snow.
She hadn’t gone far from the cabin as she knew the canoe was at the water’s edge, and if she was able to circle while he was trying to find her, maybe, just maybe she could drag her father out. A hundred yards. She’d dragged him further than that.
Stealthily, she moved from one tree to the next, staying low, hoping that he wouldn’t spot her. It was flawed. The bright colors of her coat stood out like a neon sign. Another round erupted and bark flew off the tree near her. She scrambled to her feet and dashed for the east side of the cabin, but had to abruptly change direction and cut through a patch of trees because he cut her off and fired again.
As she emerged on the other side, bursting forward, her throat burning from the cold, her mind distraught, she darted toward the front of the cabin only to hear a loud, steely snap.
A piercing cry split the silence of the morning so loud it made birds burst forth from the trees in a flock, wheeling overhead, squawking. A horrifying scream came from around the east side of the cabin. Cautious, figuring it could be a trap, she eased up to the corner, and snuck a peek only to find Frank squirming on the ground, the snow around him doused red like a strawberry snow cone.
His leg was caught in the jaws of a bear trap. Agony masked his face as he howled. As she took a few steps out, he shot out a hand. “No. No.” He motioned toward the snow on either side of him. Dark metal clawed at the sky from beneath a thin layer of snow. There was more than one trap.
It was like a minefield.
Overkill.
She thought back to the bear attack.
Whoever had been there before had set up multiple traps around the cabin, maybe that area on the east side had been frequented by bears. How many traps there were was unknown as there was too much snow to see, but she could make out at least three.
Frank had walked right into the bottleneck, and she would have too, had he not fired at her and sent her sideways through the trees. He rolled over, clutching the upper part of his mangled leg, muscle, and bone exposed. Tears, snot, anguish, blood, all of it mixed in excruciating fashion.
Kara stared as he bled and wailed.
Questions forming, disappointment rising, anger swirling.
She could have easily turned and walked away and not lost a wink of sleep after what he’d tried to do but that wasn’t her. Maybe he could live with it, maybe others could too. Despite his warped reasoning, she didn’t hate him, she pitied him.
“Kara,” Frank said as she turned away. “Please!” She glanced back for a second and then disappeared around the corner, only to return a moment later with an armful of firewood. She tossed the wood ahead and around her, and returned for more. The second time she did it, two of the traps exploded. Eventually, she was able to create a safe path over to him.
Crouching, not saying a word, she took hold of the steel jaws and forced them open to free his leg. As soon as it was out, he stared up at her, breathing hard, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Why?”
She didn’t say anything.
“Why are you doing this for me?”
She paused and took a second.
“I’m not. I’m doing it for Jacqueline and your kids.”
A confused expression followed. “But after what I tried to do…”
Kara lifted her eyes to him as she tossed the bear trap out of the way.
“Yeah, you get to live with that,” she said, wrapping an arm around him, and helping him to his feet. His anguished cries were deafening as she struggled to support him. When he hobbled back into the cabin, her father was sitting up, scared as if expecting her to be the one bleeding.
Kara set Frank down on the floor and grabbed up the medkit.
After patching him up the best she could, she filled the stove with firewood and made sure he had enough buckets of drinking water from the river for at least two days. Then she dragged her father out to the canoe and settled him in for the long trip.
Before leaving, she returned to the cabin and set the rifle down on the table. She brought over the remaining cans of food and handed him the can opener.
Frank looked on with surprise.
She’d placed him inside a bed so he could stay warm but said nothing to him except, “I will send a helicopter. You have my word.”
With her hand on the door handle, ready to close it, Frank said, “Wait.”
Kara cast a glance back.
Grimacing in pain, he said, “I’m sorry, Kara. I’m sorry.”
Without saying a word she shut the door.
32
Kara didn’t see the swirling, crashing rapids of the mighty Chickaloon River, she saw her greatest fear. In that very moment she was back there in her mind, fourteen, water flooding into the SUV, teetering at the edge of death’s door, staring down the grim reaper. Thirty miles of water hurdles made her tremble as she readied herself for what was to be the greatest obstacle since they’d crashed. She would enter the river farther north than most would and in turn experience it as few others had.
Her father coughed again, and she glanced at him. His face was sickly pale.
Time was ticking.
No more delays. No more hesitation. With rope secured around her waist and his to keep them together if they capsized, Kara exhaled hard, summoning the courage to face the danger. “You can do this. You must do this,” she told herself in a small, quiet voice as she dipped her paddle into the cold surface and pushed out of the shallow into the strong current. Almost immediately the bow lifted beneath the power of the imposing river and dropped, bouncing, pulling her downstream toward the turbulent whitewater.
The canoe wasn’t too far out from where she put it in when the steep snowcapped peaks on either side blurred in her peripheral vision. She focused on eddies, her line through the rapids, and navigating around hazardous obstacles like strainers, holes, and standing waves. She didn’t have the luxury of scouting the rapids like most might. She just had to use whatever she recalled from her youth and leave the rest in God’s hands.
The canoe burst over thrashing waves like riding a wet roller coaster. Initially, the braided glacial river sliced its way through the broad valley, presenting minimal challenges, but it wouldn’t last. The Chickaloon was known to have segments of river that went from a Class III to a IV. Three was full of small waves, small drops and to most lacking in considerable danger — four, on the other hand, was spicy. It’s when things began to get hairy as the size of the waves increased, the frequency of rocks intensified, and sharp, skillful maneuvers were required.
Kara’s heartbeat accelerated as water sloshed over the canoe. Most pack rafters navigating whitewater in a canoe never went out without a spray deck, a waterproof skirt stretched over the top to prevent water entering. Fortunately, hers was doing exactly what it was made for. It wasn’t a guarantee they wouldn’t sink, but it would prevent buckets of water from being dumped in her lap.
She soldiered on, launching the canoe down the pulsating river and doing her best to avoid the worst as milky gray waters churned up before her, unleashed by the glacier. Her breathing increased and her eyes zigzagged as she nervously followed the river around a loose S turn. With the power of the water carrying her on its back like a giant beast, she knew there were only two ways to control the canoe in such pushy waters — one was to move faster, the other to go slower than
the current. She chose to back-paddle down the rapids to slow her descent, deal with blind curves, and reduce the impact of a crash. Front paddling would be saved for holes, small ledges, and diagonal waves — anything that required her to power through.
She was surprised at what she recalled from the summer camps of her youth. It was like all her experiences were stowed away in the rear compartment of her mind ready to serve when life or death hung in the balance. And here it was, in all its full glory. It made her appreciate the past, and ponder how detrimental the loss of memory must be. Lifetime experiences, family moments, all the treasures would be inaccessible. She wouldn’t wish that upon anyone.
Kara bounced with each rolling wave, her mind laser-focused, present.
The goal was to paddle out of the Talkeetna Mountains and make it down to where the Chickaloon merged with the Matanuska River and Glenn Highway — hopefully with all her faculties intact, a feat that some would have said was hard even for experienced canoeists.
How many hours it would take was difficult to say, as that depended on several factors including the flow speed, technicality of the river, a person’s skill, and fitness level. All she cared about was making it back in time and in one piece. Worst case, if she thought she couldn’t handle a section, she could portage out and put in farther down, but that would mean dragging her father several miles, returning for the canoe, and doing the same again. That would be exhausting and she needed her strength. It would also take forever, and by the look of her father’s condition, if she didn’t get him medical treatment fast, there was no doubt in her mind he would die. No, the way forward was downstream. Nonstop. Like an arrow fired from a bow, she would go straight through the heart of it. Whether she would run it, paddling all the way, or be flushed out the other end was immaterial, she would face the risk and challenge head-on.
She recalled what her camp counselor had told the group as they learned about the dangers of whitewater rafting. While there were many common hazards, one of the most notable was an inexperienced canoeist entering a situation far above their capability. Right then, she knew that was her. There was no way to sugarcoat it. What she was doing right now was a last-ditch attempt to save her father. Nothing more. If it had been her alone, uninjured, she would have hiked it out. Taken the road of less risk.
Though having said that, even the most experienced weren’t immune to making mistakes. With skill came confidence, and those too cocky, too sure of themselves were known to make mistakes — one of which was tackling extremely dangerous whitewater.
These reasons alone were why so many had been injured and others had died, but they were just the tip of the iceberg; crashing, traumatic stress injuries, overuse, and submersion, it all came into play.
And play they would.
Naïve about the river’s power, she had no idea what force of nature was coming her way. The distant rumble of engorged waters surging over stone made her grip the paddle tighter. Within a matter of miles, the river had morphed dramatically, closing its mouth as the valley narrowed. The banks on either side rose, changing from stone to forest as the river prepared to drop her into twenty miles of Class III and IV rapids.
This was it.
Make or break.
Time to run this river.
Her father faced her, his face as white as a ghost, his eyes opening and closing, as water sprayed in his face. They needed wetsuits, a layer of protection from the cold water, but there were none. Kara said a silent prayer as they got closer to the first segment of rapids. The current picked up speed, shooting the canoe faster down over the wave train. Kara braced herself using back-paddling, reading the water, breaking the rapids down into small manageable components, bite-sized chunks.
Where was the next good eddy? The target, her safe place.
Kara found the line and within seconds she had made a ferry across to the eddy and continued, slaloming her way around the bend and using the V in the water between rocks to avoid obstacles while following the fastest current.
She avoided the holes with ease, quickly falling into the groove of the river, but her first challenge came when the bow of the canoe swung too far out and they slammed against a rock — broadside. Fortunately, the current at the bow was moving so fast and the rock was low enough that the canoe dislodged with a sharp prod of the paddle and they powered on. Once she had gathered her wits, Kara tried to remain calm and not allow that one moment of uncontrol to rule her thinking.
The faster rapids came into view — an explosion of whitewater welcoming her into its gnarly path.
The sudden surge in speed made her skittish.
Frank’s words came back as she struggled against the current.
“You’re not strong enough.”
It maddened her to think of him. She gritted her teeth, refusing to accept that as her truth even as she did an S turn around some rocks and somehow, under the torrent of water chewing at the canoe, found herself going backward, bursting over steep drops and traversing around sharp bends and dodging rocks until she managed to get into another eddy and straighten out.
Within seconds she was swept back into thrashing water and plunged over another drop. Her ass slammed against the bottom of the canoe, jolting her like freestyle motocross. Again, Kara stared at the ferocious teeth of the whitewater ahead, facing off against it as adrenaline pumped through her body, and the canoe was sucked down a chute and whipped around another bend in the serpentine river.
All the while, water splashed and sprayed their clothes, drenching them.
How long had they been in? Too long. There was too much coming at her to feel the cold but she knew it was there, gnawing at her bones.
The canoe continued bouncing down the river, snaking over churns, every second a moment that could be their last. Out the corner of her eye, Kara saw a blur of black, a glance off to her left and it was gone. Vanished. She could have sworn it was a wolf. No, it couldn’t be, they were miles, hundreds of miles from where she’d originally seen it. How could it keep pace? For a brief moment, she thought of her mother’s desire to return as a wolf and she wondered, could it be? No. The thought vanished as quickly as it came, as the canoe burst over a curl-back and the bow lifted and slammed violently, sending another wave coursing over them.
They were battered at every turn and bend, a powerful display of nature and the force of its current. For miles it didn’t end, no calm waters, no time out, just angry churning water.
The noise was deafening.
Kara worked hard with the paddle to avoid smashing into the rocky banks, staying clear of strainers, or being dragged toward an undercut — a section of rock where the water had eroded it away and formed a gap.
The trouble was there wasn’t just one — on thirty miles of turbulent water there were countless opportunities to drown. It wasn’t that any canoeist would purposely direct the canoe that way, but with the water thrashing and beating her senseless, it was easy to be overwhelmed, only to wipe water from the eyes and discover the bow being sucked down.
She grunted as she plowed strenuously through the water, paddling furiously forward one moment, the next back-paddling to slow her descent if it could be slowed at all. The canoe made a sharp left, then right, and was swept over another drop. Water curled over the gunwales into her face, making her cough, distracting her for but a second. As her vision cleared, Kara’s eyes bulged in alarm when a rock rose ahead. She furiously dug her paddle in and maneuvered to avoid a collision, using all her strength to back-paddle and get off its line. The canoe cleared the rock by inches, leaving her breathless.
From one moment of panic to the next, the river tested her will to survive.
With every close call, every near-drowning, the river taunted her, its voice in the crescendo of crashing waves. Almost like it was saying, how badly do you want to live?
As the valley got narrower, and the cliffs got higher, she could hear a rumble even louder than what had come previously. As she pivoted around a sharp be
nd Kara saw the water crashing against the walls, sending monstrous waves into the center of a huge recirculating hole with a large boil line. What did she say? Kara thought, thinking about boil lines and how they determined the strength of the hole. Think, think, she thought as the hole raced at them. Then it came back to her. The further apart, the stronger they are. Avoid it or punch over it? It was a split-second decision. No one wanted to get caught in one. She could tell there wasn’t enough time to get around it as the water was too rough near the banks and with the cliffs the way they were, she feared getting pinned.
Kara drove the paddle in, delivering powerful strokes, forward-paddling as hard as she could. Exhaustion took hold again, and her arms ached but her fear of getting stuck kept her focused. She was certain that she would run into trouble and get stuck and find herself in a terrifying situation, but it was as if the river respected her gumption and moxie and lifted the canoe straight over it.
One second she was there, the next downriver and on to the next obstacle.
Minutes turned to hours, as she rode the endless surge of water sloshing against the canoe. The holes, pourovers, and strong waves never let up. The few times it felt like she was getting comfortable in the saddle, riding it out as it was meant to be, the feeling didn’t last. It was almost as if the river could sense her attitude shift and it would recalibrate to ensure she didn’t disrespect it.
Like a wild beast, it couldn’t be tamed and it was best avoided.
But there was no avoiding what was coming.
Besides what was coined the Ledge, a large drop in the river, there were no waterfalls per se, and from what she could recall about the Chickaloon, the hardest drops were to be found farther downstream of Moss Creek, between the infamous areas of Hotel Rocks and 8 Mile Canyon. A vast stretch of unforgiving boils, intense eddies, and wood jams. She was already white-knuckling it by the time she reached Moss Creek, her body exhausted, her eyes crying to close. Time after time she wanted to ferry over to flat waters and portage out but one look at her father and she knew there was no time. He was clinging to life, a survivor, as stubborn as her but even he had his limits.