by Pam Withers
“Seek out the seed of triumph in every adversity,” Dad used to say, quoting some guy named Og.
Alex has said little to me the entire drive; maybe he’s a little uncomfortable around me because of his and Dad’s relationship, or maybe he feels sorry for me about losing Dad. Anyway, he turns to me now and says, “Glad to see you back at it, young Tristan. Your dad would be proud. How’s your mom doing?”
Did I imagine it, or did Brigit just swing around to hear my reply? She’s staring at me full-on, as if waiting.
“She’s fine,” I reply automatically. If I charged twenty-five bucks for every time someone asked me that, I’d make good cash.
“Well, it’s a good sign she has let you come along,” Alex says.
Is it? I wonder. I hope so. Or is it just a sign of her being confused and under Elspeth’s spell?
“Angela, do you need help with closing up your pack?” I ask to dead-end that conversation. Coils of unwound rope are sprouting from the top of her bag like out-of-control dreadlocks.
“Thanks!” she says after I’ve tucked them in.
“Well, I’m off,” Alex informs us. “See you all in a few hours. Have fun!” And he roars off in the truck.
As I move out of the dust he churns up, Brigit calls from a few yards away, “Over here, everyone! Gather around. Safety talk time!”
I lope over and instruct myself to look sharp and interested, even if I could pretty much rattle off the safety pointers better than anyone here.
“First, I’m giving you each a whistle,” she says.
“Got my own,” I let her know.
“Me, too,” Dominik says.
Our guide bristles and ignores us. “Tie it to your helmet. It allows us to communicate. If you hear three strong blasts in a row” — she puts lips to whistle and all but shreds our eardrums — “that means there’s an emergency. So stop and wait for instructions. One long blast” — my hands clamp over my ears just in time — “that’s the all-clear signal. Got it?”
“Got it,” Harry says.
She dips her hands into a bag. “I have several sheathed knives here, one for each of you. I’ll help you attach them to your —”
“Have my own,” Dominik speaks up.
“Me, too,” I say as politely as I can.
“— belts, so in the unlikely event of an emergency, you can cut tangled ropes.”
Her own knife, I notice, is large and expensive-looking. As she talks on to an attentive Harry and Angela about safe versus unsafe anchors, rappelling technique, and our need to inform her of allergies or medical conditions, my memory surfs back to my father’s quiet, patient instruction during each trip, and his infectious joy every time we tackled the Upper Canyon.
What happened, Dad? Where are you? Do you have any idea how much we miss you, and what it has done to Mom?
I remind myself that I’ve sworn off sad.
“Canyoneering,” Brigit continues, “is a way of descending river canyons. Kind of a cross between caving, climbing, and hiking, with some swimming thrown in.”
“You mean,” Angela pipes up, “we’re going to get wet?”
Dominik stifles a laugh; Brigit, to her credit, turns a patient smile on Angela. “Yup, very wet. It’s part of the fun. You’ll see.”
“Oh,” Angela says, turning an interesting shade of scarlet.
What was she thinking when she signed up and got fitted for a wetsuit? I wonder, amused.
“You all look quite fit,” Brigit says smoothly, “and I know you’ll be hooked by the end. Canyoneering is not a well-known sport outside of Europe, but it is getting way more popular all the time. And this area is full of amazing, unexplored canyons.”
“What I like about it,” I add, “is the way the canyons twist and turn, always downward, like a giant snake. And it’s way fun climbing down waterfall faces, if there’s not too much water.”
“Like playing in a natural water park,” Brigit reassures her customers.
“Sounds nice,” Harry says, patting his wife’s arm.
And then we’re off, Brigit leading the way in some brand-new pink canyoneering boots I recognize from our shop, Harry and Angela ambling along the path holding hands, Dominik eyeing the ground for animal tracks. And me? I’ve turned my face upward to watch eagles soar the thermals, free and graceful against a brilliant blue sky. Song lyrics with the word “freedom” in them start playing in my head.
It’s a half-hour’s approach to the canyon itself, through forest and meadows rich with foraging deer, leaping squirrels, chattering chipmunks, and chirping birds. Since cameras and cell phones have a way of smashing on canyoneering trips, no one has one outside of their pack, so no one is taking photos.
I find the animal signs all around us as distracting as blinking neon lights, but I keep planting one boot in front of the other. Dominik, on the other hand, soon wanders off course in pursuit of something. He returns with a garter snake dangling from his fingers.
“Ayiii!” Angela cries out, backing up.
“This area is full of life,” Dominik notes casually, “each with its own special trail.” He releases the snake into a nearby bush as Harry gives him the evil eye.
“And some species,” Brigit weighs in, “lack thoughtfulness for others.” She scowls at the tall European who’s a couple of years older than her. He winks back.
As we carry on up an incline, Harry and Angela slow, Harry’s breath coming in puffs. Angela pauses frequently to unlace a boot, shake out a pebble, and rub a heel.
“I’ve got some moleskin I could lend her,” I finally suggest to Brigit. The stuff really helps prevent blisters.
“Nope. Some lessons she needs to learn for herself,” Brigit says.
Seriously? Brigit’s going to purposely let a customer get a blister? It’ll only slow Angela down even more. But it seems unwise to defy our guide first thing.
“Hey, Tristan,” Dominik calls, motioning me off the path about twenty minutes into our hike.
He points to a little pile of feathers. “A fisher, yes?”
“A fisher,” I agree, examining the tracks of the weasel-like creature. “It had a yellow-throated warbler for brunch.”
Tracking is like a treasure hunt, following clue to clue. Having a fellow tracker along on the trip today is a definite bonus.
“Look over there,” he whispers, pointing. “What is unusual about that vegetation?”
Peering at the bush he’s indicating, one surrounded by tall grass, I see nothing at first, not until a breeze stirs. Then I note how the wind strokes only the tops of the vegetation.
“Something’s sitting under the bush,” I whisper back, pleased with myself.
He nods.
We’re sneaking toward it, quiet as outlaws, when I get a strong whiff of body odour. I move my head down to sniff my armpits. Nothing gross there.
“Did you shower this morning?” I whisper to Dominik.
“Yeah, you chump.”
“Then the creature we’re about to meet is a porcupine.”
Dominik halts. “You think?”
“I think faster than you. Porcupines smell like B.O.”
“Uh-huh,” he agrees.
We back away as slowly as we’ve moved toward it, just as Brigit calls, “Hey, you two. Are you on this hike or not?”
“We are, boss lady.” Dominik flashes a disarming grin her way.
“Good, ’cause we’re almost at Swallow Canyon!”
Minutes later the five of us peer down a steep embankment at the creek. We’re maybe fifteen feet above the stone’s-throw-wide stream, which is running medium-high. It looks just deep enough here to jump down into. Downstream, the twisting canyon walls press the waterway into a series of sparkling pools and frothing drops that disappear around a blind corner.
“We’re — we’re
not going to slide down there on a rope, are we?” Angela asks.
“Nope. We’re going to put on our wetsuits and jump in.”
“It’s the best part of the trip,” I encourage her.
“Looks cold,” Harry says dubiously.
“That’s what the wetsuits are for!” Dominik informs him with enthusiasm. He’s already stripping down to his swim trunks and squeezing into his neoprene. As I do the same, Angela and Harry help each other.
“Do I look fat in my wetsuit?” Angela asks her husband with a giggle.
“Cute as an otter,” he replies.
“So, we’re going to throw our packs down where we intend to jump,” Brigit instructs, “then leap in before they float away. One at a time; me first.”
I decide to go next, to shut down memories that are rushing into my mind of Dad and me jumping at this very spot, so many times. Holding hands when I was young. Competing for making the largest splash when I was older.
“But how do we know there aren’t rocks right under the surface?” Harry asks.
“Great question, Harry,” Brigit replies. “We know this spot is generally safe, but there’s a chance that stuff can wash in between trips.” She’s pulling divers’ goggles from her pack and nodding at Dominik. “Dominik will serve as my ‘meat anchor,’ which means he’s going to support my weight on the rope. I’ll lower myself and when I get to the end of the rope, I slip into the water with my goggles on, check underwater to see whether the pool is safe to jump into, then give you all a signal.”
Dominik feeds Brigit’s rope around his back and through his hands, then wedges himself firmly against the rocks. “See? This way her body weight cannot pull me down. I look to make sure the rope ends about a foot above the water.”
“Why?” Angela asks.
“So the current can’t toss the bottom of the rope around or pull Brigit under before she gets free of it,” I explain.
“Exactly,” Brigit says.
“Oh,” Angela says with a brave smile.
Everyone’s heads bend as Brigit lowers herself down like a spider on a strand of web, twists like an acrobat to dip her face in the water, then smiles up at us and sticks her whistle in her mouth.
The long single blast entices us to line up at the edge of the cliff like swimmers waiting their turn at a high diving board as Brigit drops from the rope and makes way for us while treading water.
“This is for you, Dad,” I whisper as I leap feet-first in my special canyoneering boots — high-traction, shock-absorbing footwear with an inner neoprene bootie — revelling in the rush of air before I bomb into the mind-numbing cold of the creek. When my underwater plunge slows, I open my eyes and lift my arms toward the surface. One little kick, and I rise with patient lungs through a green underworld of bubbles and misty silt clouds.
“Whoo-hoo!” Breaking the surface, I emit a cry of pure joy that floats all the way down the deep-throated canyon.
CHAPTER 6
“B-b-balmy!” I shout as the water seeps between my wetsuit and bare skin in an effort to warm itself, flash-freezing my privates before it does so. I lunge for my floating pack and tread water near Brigit, who’s smiling approvingly at me, before I grin reassuringly up at the remaining three.
Down comes Angela’s flying form. “Uh! Uh! Uh!” she gasps, gulping air as she surfaces, eyes wild and arms thrashing. “C-c-cold!”
“Here I come,” Harry announces, leaping where we clear a space for him. He surfaces. “Balmy for Siberia, maybe,” he says between convulsive shivers before swimming over to Angela.
“My turn!” Dominik calls down exuberantly. He tucks his rope back in his pack, buckles it shut, tosses the bag down, then performs a show-off back flip.
“Nice one!” I congratulate him as he joins our bobbing party.
“Okay, we’re going to float down to the next pool before there’s a place we can get out and walk along the creek again,” Brigit informs us.
She gestures to where the water empties down a short, smooth stone chute at the lower end of our pool. Brigit lies on her back, points her feet, and floats toward it, shouting “Wheee!”
“C-c-cold,” Angela repeats through chattering teeth that fail to hide a smile.
One by one we slide down the chute like kids at a water park — called tobogganing in this sport — then we stand and wade one after the other to the stream’s bank. There, we shake water off like a pack of dogs and find a ribbon of dirt beside the shore that’s wide enough to walk along.
I spot tracks even before Dominik speaks up.
“A raccoon has been here,” he says, squatting down and pointing to imprints that look like a child’s hand with pointy nails.
“Did he do the jump and the toboggan?” Harry jokes.
“No. You can see where he waddled down the bank and —”
“Come on, folks,” Brigit urges. “We don’t have all day to examine every set of animal tracks.”
“But over here is wolf scat,” Dominik says a minute later, stopping everyone dead.
I should’ve spotted it before Dominik.
“You’re just joking, right?” Angela asks, a tremor in her voice.
I lean down to examine the dog-like stools full of hair. “No worries. Wolves aren’t going to come anywhere near us.”
“What else should we watch out for?” Harry asks, peering down the pool-drop-pool-drop twists of the canyon.
“There are deer, bears, and cougars up in the forest,” Brigit informs them, “but down here, there are fewer and fewer animals the deeper we get into the canyon system. Except maybe bloated carcasses of things that fall in and get washed down.”
I feel like she has just knifed me in the gut. I want to scream. How could she say that within my hearing, knowing —
The invisible knife twists as she stares back evenly, either trying to interpret my look or defiant. But why? Is she just stirring the shit?
“Death, my fellow hikers, is part of nature, part of the circle of life,” Dominik says, waving his neoprene-gloved hand about the canyon like a symphony director.
I don’t know what Brigit is playing at, but I’m pretty sure Dominik doesn’t know that my dad disappeared lower in this canyon. Nor anyone else on this trip. I count to five and breathe deeply to ease the tension in my chest. It works. Soon we’re padding in a column along a packed-dirt incline to the sound of tinkling water, scolding blue jays, and the hum of wind through the trees. Within the hour, our path ends abruptly almost two stories above the stream.
“This is the first ledge requiring rope work, everyone,” Brigit announces. “So pull out your harnesses, and I’ll help you put them on.”
I recognize the short, super-easy wall we’re about to descend as the place my dad gave me my very first rappelling lessons. Even now I can recall the thrill of donning my first harness, which connects a person’s waist and thighs to a rope system. Then, bursting with pride, I lowered myself down this vertical rock face, thinking I was Superman.
“That’s my boy! I’m proud of you,” Dad said. Words I’ll never hear again. My throat closes up. I command it to unchoke, which it does.
Everyone searches their backpacks for their harness, a friction device, and carabiners, and Brigit launches into a new talk and demonstration.
“We have two ropes on this hike. One is twice the length of the longest rappel we’ll be doing, and the other is our emergency backup. I’ll be carrying one. Dominik, I’m assigning you to carry the other.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” he says cheerfully.
She treats him as her assistant, rather than me, but whatever.
“That way,” she explains, “neither he nor I have to carry too heavy a pack. Also, if one pack escapes down the creek, we still have a rappel rope.”
“Good thinking,” I say.
“Each of us is also
carrying shorter rescue ropes enclosed in throw bags, also good in an emergency,” she adds.
“What if other canyoneers have left a rope all set up?” Harry asks.
“Excellent question. Be very careful about trusting old anchors, because floods that have washed down since they were set up can make them unreliable.”
I shiver. Deep in the Lower Canyon, my father’s last anchors sit rusting and shredding through sleet, rain, and floods.
“I’m sorry. I just can’t figure this out.” Angela’s words jerk me back to alertness. She has gotten the leg loops rotated the wrong way on her harness.
“I’ve got it,” says her husband, and he gets her even more tangled.
Dominik raises an eyebrow at me. I try to keep a straight face.
“No worries. I’ll help,” says Brigit as she strolls over and coaches Angela in a patient, friendly tone.
She’s not a bad guide, I decide. Just a slightly strange person, whose reason for inviting me remains a mystery.
Dominik and I are fully rigged by the time Brigit has Angela sorted out. When I start to help Harry, his face turns so crimson that I allow Dominik to step in. Ha! The guy can’t handle a teenager making him look stupid.
“You’ve done this before?” Angela asks me.
“Started when I was seven,” I say. The words are out before I can stop them. “My dad and I used to do this part of the canyon all the time.”
“And he couldn’t come today?” asks Harry.
I see Dominik studying me, and Brigit turns my way again. I can’t read her expression. Suddenly, I’m pissed off that Brigit does nothing to stop these questions. She must know the story, given she works for Alex and told me I look like my dad.
“Nope” is all I say. It comes out a bit croaky.
No point being pissed off. Just deal with it. It will get easier. It has to.
“I’ll lower myself first,” Brigit informs us. “Then I’ll signal up. Dominik, you go last, please.”
I figured she’d say that. First and last down are always at slightly higher risk than the rest, so the most experienced — she and Dominik, in her opinion — take those positions. The first down doesn’t know what to expect, so has to rely on others lowering them down. The last one, on the other hand, has no one to back up their anchor, so they need the experience to make sure the rope doesn’t get twisted or caught. Only when everyone’s down does the leader pull the rope free.