Tracker's Canyon

by Pam Withers

  “Julian Gordon!” she screams suddenly, and I feel the rope along which my carabiner is moving swing slightly as she moves about on the ledge. “I knew you were down here! I knew you were following us! I don’t know how you got yourself and your backpack up there, but — but come out from behind that bush or I’ll pull Tristan off his traverse.”

  “Don’t come out till you toss the backpack, Dad,” I counter. “Then you can show yourself to Brigit.”

  “You killed my mother!” Brigit shrieks. “You took her away from us!”

  I watch Dean’s arm tremble, but to his credit, not withdraw. It continues its painstaking journey toward the backpack; I continue mine to the rock nose.

  Three more steps. Two more steps. Please don’t jerk the rope. One. My hand reaches for the buckle on my pack. The click sounds loud enough to echo through the entire canyon, but only in my imagination. Brigit continues ranting at “my father.” Dean’s hand has reached the backpack, and he’s wriggling it like he’s trying to get it off the bush. Good man, Dean. Keep distracting your sister.

  I produce a nut and wedge it in a crack above the nose of rock. Quickly, I reposition my sling and anchor in. Then I fasten a carabiner to the new safety set-up and clip it to the rope behind me. The second I do so, my father’s bag drops to the water, where the current picks it up and drags it downstream, likely never to be seen again. At the same time, Dean uncrouches from behind the bush.

  “Brigit,” he calls out in a trembling voice. “Please don’t hurt Tristan. Or yourself. You’re not anchored in right.”

  I swing around in time to see Brigit’s shocked expression, and Dominik completing a daring down-climb, then a sprint up to her ledge behind her.

  With an enraged scream, Brigit yanks the rope, and Dominik’s hands close around air as she tumbles toward the creek.

  CHAPTER 21

  We’re gathered in the grotto four days later, most of us sitting on camping chairs that Uncle Ted and I hauled out earlier. Mom and Elspeth have installed vanilla-scented candles in each of the grotto’s crevices, and Dean has had a fine time lighting them all.

  Everyone but Brigit is here: Uncle Ted sitting awkwardly in his low-slung chair; Alex and Elspeth cross-legged beside each another on cushions in the corner; Mom rosy-cheeked and alert; Dominik hunched a bit glumly in his chair; Dean running his eyes around the cavities on the wall; and me in the middle, relating the tale.

  Everyone is here except Brigit and Dad, but ever since I read his letter out loud, even Dad seems to be present.

  “And then what happened?” asks Mom, leaning forward intently.

  “Then Dominik scrambled down and rescued Brigit from where she was swinging with her boots just touching the creek. He unhooked her and calmed her down while I traversed to Dean and set another anchor so he could rappel safely to the ground.”

  “Could’ve free-climbed down by myself,” Dean insists.

  “Not safely,” I say soberly.

  “And all that time, I was freaking out as I wandered through the woods looking and calling for him,” Elspeth says, fidgeting with a large vacuum flask in her lap.

  Alex speaks up. “This was all my fault.”

  Everyone swings around to look at him.

  “How do you figure that?” I ask.

  “I found the orange backpack during the Search and Rescue expedition, jammed between logs just below Twin Falls. Should have turned it in, but I felt something really heavy in it, so I unbuckled it. I was pretty surprised to find a gold pan inside. I knew instantly then what Julian had been up to in the canyon and wondered if maybe he’d struck it lucky before he drowned. I’d spent most of my days off for years secretly looking for gold in the canyon.

  “So I buried the gold pan and rifled through the bag for notes or a map, but panicked when I heard other crew members approaching. I didn’t want to turn in the pack in case I’d missed what I was looking for. But I couldn’t fit the whole pack into my backpack either. So I tossed out the sleeping bag and some of his clothes, then jammed the bag into my pack.”

  “Brigit told me she found the boot half-buried in mud beside Twin Falls and the bandana just below that log-jam,” Dominik speaks up. “She didn’t know Alex had found the pack. She kept the bandana and boot, hid them in her house, and took them with her on the trip last week. She asked me to plant the bandana in that rock tube we went through. The one Tristan calls the airplane. Then, after Tristan found it, she dug it out of his pack and tossed it back in the stream when he wasn’t looking. Just to be mean.” He hangs his head as if representing her shame.

  “Why did you agree to plant the bandana for her?” I ask Dominik.

  He sighs. “She convinced me it would help you and your mom, and I did not see any harm in it. I was so into her I would have done almost anything for her then, to be honest.”

  We wait as he goes silent for a moment.

  “I did not know she had the boot,” he says. “I did not know she was planting boot prints for you.” He hangs his head.

  Unlike my mom, who has been released from the hospital, Brigit is in the mental health ward of the nearby hospital for treatment. She has also undergone interrogation by the police for attempted murder. Meanwhile, some aunt of theirs no one but Brigit knew about has arrived in town to look after Dean.

  Alex resumes his story. “When I got home from the search for Julian, I went through that orange pack again, found nothing, and felt really guilty. I hid it in the back of my workshop, meaning to return it to the canyon someday. But I was as afraid of getting caught returning it as I was of having disobeyed Search and Rescue rules in the first place.”

  “I found it while cleaning his workshop last week,” Elspeth says, picking up the tale. “It was marked with Julian’s name, and I guessed how it had gotten there. It was after you three had left on your trip already, so I couldn’t give it to Tristan. And I didn’t want to give it to Mary; I wanted Tristan to give it to Mary.

  “I didn’t dare ask Alex about it, because I remembered he was on the Search and Rescue mission for Julian, and I knew he shouldn’t have it. I didn’t want him mad at me for questioning him, and I didn’t want to get him in trouble by telling anyone else. Plus, I kept thinking about Tristan trying so hard to find something of his dad’s in the canyon at that very moment. I asked Dean what he thought of us getting ahead of your party and planting it. That way, Tristan could give it to his mother, and it might help her get better. He said it was a stupid idea. But then he disappeared on me with the pack. It’s my fault for giving him the idea and not locking him in his room, I guess.” She does her best to glare at her babysitting charge, but Dean just returns a weak smirk.

  “But I was already better by then,” Mom inserts, patting Elspeth’s knee. “When Tristan left to do the Lower Canyon, I was terrified he wouldn’t come back. I had a panic attack. Uncle Ted took me to the hospital, and they got me turned around. I still feel terrible about all the trouble I caused by not facing up to Julian’s death, and suspecting — well, the letter put us all straight, didn’t it?”

  “It was me who got Tristan onto the Upper Canyon day trip for free,” Alex says, “with some help from Brigit and Elspeth.”

  “And me,” Dean says.

  “But only because I suggested it,” Elspeth prompts Alex. “I could tell that poor Tristan needed some outdoors time away from home, and I believed he’d find something of his father’s. Blame it on my extrasensory perception if you want, but we wouldn’t have Julian’s letter otherwise.”

  “Where would we be without your ESP, honey?” Alex teases Elspeth, nudging her. “Anyway, so I did a hike along the rim that day to observe Tristan and make sure his skills were up to the Lower Canyon, since my guide Brigit was so insistent on taking him there. And having known Brigit for years — I canyoneered with her when I travelled up to the Lillooet area long before she moved here — I never in a
million years suspected she had mental health issues.”

  “She did not have problems then,” Dominik speaks up. “It was only recently she went off her medications. And she asked me to tell all of you that she is very, very sorry. That she should not have believed her mom and Tristan’s dad were messing around. And she should not have set up this trip.”

  “No, she shouldn’t have,” I say firmly, then scan the gathering. “Who here kicked over a pile of rocks the day Dominik and I were out tracking?”

  “I did not know it at the time, but Brigit was following us,” Dominik says. He sighs and lowers his voice. “She hated you, but she was not herself.”

  “And Dean,” I continue, “when you told me my mom hadn’t told me everything, you meant that you believed my dad and your mom had run off together?”

  “Uh-huh,” he says, frowning and wriggling in his chair.

  “I want everyone to know I will be talking to Search and Rescue tomorrow,” Alex says. “I will come clean about not having turned in Julian’s pack. I deserve whatever they do to me about that.”

  I nod at him approvingly. My respect for him just went up.

  Uncle Ted finally speaks. “So, what about the gold? You had a meeting about it yesterday, Mary. What gives?”

  “We’ve formally registered a claim,” Mary replies, smiling. “So the site is ready for panning. We’ll be hiring a professional to help with that. If we make money, a percentage will go into a trust fund for Dean, and to Brigit. In the meantime, I’ll be returning to work at the bakery.”

  “Lucky sods,” Alex says, smiling. “All those days I spent looking for a gold vein. Never found anything.”

  “My bakery earnings, plus the possibility of a share of gold profits, hopefully mean our family won’t have to close down or sell the store,” Mom continues.

  “Thank goodness!” says Uncle Ted, squeezing my shoulder.

  “Sorry about that, Alex,” Mom says, “but we appreciate your willingness to serve as general manager until Tristan is out of school.”

  “After graduation, maybe we can do a deal.” I wink at Alex. “You do the canyon trips, and I do the retail stuff. We can swap off whenever we get bored.”

  “Bored? Nothing to do with Swallow Canyon or canyoneering is ever boring!” says Alex.

  “Certainly sounds like this last trip wasn’t,” Mom says soberly. “But just to remind you, we’re gathered here today to honour —” She chokes up.

  “— Julian,” Uncle Ted finishes.

  “And acknowledge his death,” Mom says, bravely. “And the death of Evelyn Dowling, who, like Julian, was only trying to improve her family’s financial situation.”

  “Ahem,” says Elspeth, a pleased smile on her face. “I’ve got a flask of organic lavender herbal tea and some mugs here.” She leans down to pick up a tray of cups and begins pouring and passing them around.

  “And I’ve baked a cake,” Mom announces.

  She lifts the cover of a glass cake stand I haven’t seen her use in months. My mouth waters to glimpse rich-looking chocolate and vanilla icing forming some kind of design on the top. We all move in for a closer look. It’s a swallow with wings spread from one tip of the cake to another, representing Swallow Canyon.

  “Made with love in memory of Julian and Evelyn,” Mom says.

  I give her a peck on the cheek.

  CHAPTER 22

  Early the next morning, I sneak out of my bedroom before dawn. As I glide noiselessly past my mother’s room, I peer in. She looks up from where she’s reading, smiles, and holds out her hand.

  “Going tracking? Good for you,” she says, her face a healthy pink in the glow of her bedside lamp as I step in, and we squeeze hands over her freshly washed quilt. “Take your time. Enjoy yourself.”

  “I will,” I say.

  I skip down the worn stair treads and detect a lemon scent in the kitchen as my bare feet pad over the shiny-clean floor. It’s all Mom’s doing, along with a tin of strawberry muffins fresh-baked last evening. I grab one to take along.

  A gentle push and the back door flies open without a squeak. I’m soon jogging along the forest floor, my heart singing with the birds, my spirits rising with the sun.

  I feel Dad with me. We always tracked together, so this is our time of day. We spot some deer tracks and veer off the trail after them, slowing, consumed by the joy of being outdoors, the thrill and anticipation of following a wild creature.

  I slow down, clear my mind, and make myself invisible. A breeze stirs the trees, and an eagle swoops high above.

  Soon I’m within sight of a mother deer and her only fawn. Is the fawn the same one that lost its smaller sibling? If so, it’s already larger, more alert and capable-looking than the last time I saw it. Perhaps the trauma has woven itself seamlessly into its life experience. It is losing its spots; soon it will be independent of its vigilant mother.

  I watch a while, then carry on to the canyon rim. I pause there and breathe deeply, letting all my senses draw in the calming smells and sounds of the forest around me before pulling the dented blue aluminum water bottle from my pack.

  Lifting it high, I toast Dad’s legacy to me. The ability to track and canyoneer, without which I would not have survived the Lower Canyon trip, nor found what he left for me. The sixteen years of love that enables me to forgive Brigit, as he would have wanted. The determination to join forces with Mom, so we can carry on. And a love of nature.

  I scan left, right, and down. Below, the creek tumbles effortlessly over obstacles, oblivious of time. Of course, I don’t forget to look up. There, as the swallows soar in exhilarating circles, I feel Dad put his hands gently on my shoulders and squeeze them like he’s proud of me — of who I am and whomever I may choose to become.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Above all, I’d like to acknowledge Dominik Nadolski, a long-time California canyoneer who helped with both early-stage plotting and technical details of the sport, and who patiently read several drafts in between our Skype conversations. He even sent me occasional YouTube links to help me understand this relatively new and technical sport I was writing about. His passion for canyoneering (also called canyoning) was definitely infectious.

  My other canyoneering guide was Francois-Xavier de Ruydts, whose photography of the sport in Mountain Life magazine’s Summer 2013 edition (www.mountainlifemedia.ca) was the novel’s original spark. Check out his award-winning short film of exploring canyons near Squamish, British Columbia, Canada (where this novel is set): “Down the Line” (https://vimeo.com/64671839). Francois-Xavier was kind enough to meet up, show me gear, and later read over the manuscript. The novel is dedicated to his infant daughter who arrived during the process.

  The talented Allyson Latta was invaluable and a delight to work with, and a shout-out to Colin Thomas, as well. As always, a hug to my friend Silvana Bevilacqua, who puts up with long discussions of my characters as they evolve. And to my ever-encouraging husband, Steve, who never gets to see my writing until it’s about to be submitted, and always offers astute remarks at that point. I also appreciated geological input offered by the late Rolf Kellerhals.

  My new teen editor, Vansh Bali, gave very perceptive feedback and knew which cover option he liked best. And although I always thank my agent, Lynn Bennett, this time she really went above and beyond. Thanks for your patience, persistence, feedback, and loyalty, Lynn.

  For background research, I’d like to credit Canyoneering by Christopher Van Tilburg and books by tracker Tom Brown Jr. (www.trackerschool.com).

  Finally, thanks to Dundurn Press for taking on the story, in particular Kirk Howard, Margaret Bryant, Carrie Gleason, Cheryl Hawley, Jaclyn Hodsdon, Kathryn Lane, Jennifer Mannering, and Jenny McWha — but all the team, for sure!

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