by Spencer Hyde
I felt like I’d turned forty-five by the time I harnessed up, but I couldn’t bring myself to immediately step off the ledge either. I regretted judging Shelby for taking her time. Maybe she was dealing with things like I was? Sawyer and Thatcher watched as I adjusted my harness as an excuse, as a way to stall, while I considered exactly what I was doing by dropping into that canyon.
They say rivers churn with an immeasurable power. They say Mom’s body was irrecoverable because of that force. They say after a year stuck deep in those waters that her body was now part of the river, part of the silt billowing beneath each darting fish. They say a lot, I guess. But it was time for me to say something. And I’d start by saying it with my body. With that in mind, I stepped off the edge and into my grief. I felt the canyon salivate, open its mouth, and swallow me whole.
I was shocked by the sharp decline in temperature as I rappelled through what seemed like an invisible ceiling trapping the cool air near the river. I imagined grief lurching after me, grabbing at my ankles, licking its lips and watching me cringe as I focused on the rope in front of my face and how it would disappear over the ledge and leave me alone in the void.
The rock was gritty, and I stopped at one point to rest my fingers on a crimp, testing the feel. When my feet hit soft soil, I leaned against the cool rock wall of the canyon and undid the harness. The afternoon light was washing through the river as I stepped out of the shadow cast by the wall. Everyone else had loaded up and was waiting as I shuffled to the water’s edge.
The overhanging walls, the towering pines, the snaking river—it was like I was on some other planet. The panoramic wonder felt enormous, beyond scale, without equal.
The guide was setting my duffel into place and latching it down, and I saw his gray ponytail and the way his massive, white beard haphazardly shot in every direction. Perhaps the beard is what caused me to do a double take, then a triple take, wondering exactly what I was seeing. And if what I was seeing was, in fact, real. But my hesitation only allowed this man, this monster, to speak first.
“I can’t believe it,” he said. “Indiana Lutz. The gods have been good to us.”
I had no words for the man standing in front of me.
“This will be a time of healing. Let’s get on the water.”
I felt something rise in my throat. I didn’t respond. I walked back to the canyon wall, but the rope was now absent, the harness was now gone, and the van and Thatcher and Sawyer up top had certainly disappeared around some bend, headed off into Nowheresville. I leaned my forehead against the stone.
Nash.
The name pinged around in my head, growing less recognizable with each repetition of it from my open mouth, my gaping mouth, my cavernous maw. Just the sound of his name evoked some clawing animal, some rip in the fabric of life.
Reality snagged like a fishing line in the brush on the bank. Everything felt surreal. Heat rose to my face, and a distinct pain in my chest—a pinched pain—pulsed and spread like a stroke of lightning into each limb, the nerves pricking the skin as the circuit stretched beneath my withering shell.
My hands shook; my legs quivered as if I stood on quicksand. I felt something stirring inside of me: two years of questions.
“I can’t do this,” I said.
I repeated those words. I swallowed half those words so they didn’t come out as a shout, as a bark. It was as if my anger had taken on life, coursing through my body, and was attempting to stomp me into the earth. My shaking knees finally buckled, and I sat on the ground and wiped away the hot tears on my face. I couldn’t let anybody see what I was feeling.
The sand was cool beneath my legs, and the pines swayed in a small breeze coming off the water. I looked at the green needles stabbing the distant sky.
I can’t do this.
I stared at the rocks at my feet for two minutes, and then it all came to me like the rapid recoil of a gun. The hammer came down, the powder ignited, and I knew that what I was seeing and hearing and feeling was real. My vocal folds began to vibrate, stretched thinly over my larynx, and the moment the vibration reached the back of my teeth and the opening of my mouth, the force and rupture of sound was sucked up into a cough, a hack, instead of a scream.
Nash Wilmer walked around the corner where the shrubbery hid me from the raft and the others waiting. He stood over me with his hands on his hips. His eyes were sharp and his body lean and his skin sunbaked, wrinkled beyond what I remembered. He must have been fifty, same age as Mom—well, what she would have been. What she should be. Chums wrapped around his neck held his sunglasses against his threadbare tank top.
“Everything okay?”
“It hasn’t been okay for about two years now.”
He sighed heavily and turned back. “We’ll be ready when you are. I’ve been waiting for this moment, just like you,” he said. He glanced back at me. “I didn’t run away from Driggs, like they say, you know. I came here to start my own outfit. It had nothing to do with her.”
“Her name is Joyce,” I said. “Was Joyce.”
“No, still is,” he said. “And I think she’d want us to be here together. I’m off to the raft. We’ll wait for as long as you need. It really is nice to see you, Indiana.”
“Indie.”
“Right. Okay, Indie.”
I watched him walk back to a raft where three people I hardly knew—and didn’t care to know—were waiting for me to make a decision, to tuck this reluctance away and move forward. Had Nash not been there, perhaps I would have continued to think the canyon was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen.
Leaves quivered in the breeze. I stared at my feet and curled my hands into the soft ground, digging, hoping I could open up the world and fall into the hot, roiling, melting center like a coin tumbling into a well, left there for good.
It was only day one of five, and I had no service in the canyon. No way out but through. Because rivers run through things. So does grief. Everyone will give you a different number for how many stages of grief there are, but there is only one way to conquer it, and that’s to run through it, not around it.
And I had no choice but to ride the river with Nash—the man who just as well could have been wearing an executioner’s hood. The man responsible for my mother’s death.
THREE
Sirens—daughters of the river god. They were said to lure sailors to their deaths. In Greek mythology, the sirens’ enchanting voices and mesmerizing songs were, like, outrageously attractive. Odysseus was smart enough to tie himself to the mast so he could resist their song. His men put beeswax in their ears so they wouldn’t hear them. How was I to know I should have told my parents to cover their ears when I was born? How was I to know that my song would be their end—that the blue would take them, just in different ways? I may not be beautiful like a siren, but like them, everything I love must leave me or die.
I felt calmer in the boat as I watched the blue water curl in on itself and listened to the waves topple over after dipping and swaying around the boulders.
Our first campground was less than an hour away on the water, and nobody said much, other than Nash detailing the parts of the raft and how to handle the oars and mentioning something about it being bear country and to keep our eyes peeled for signs of them. He said he’d give us the full safety talk the next morning when things really got kicking, but for now we were just floating to a campsite nearby with lots of sand and shade. I took note of the gear tied down, the oars in their locks, the guide rope clinging to the outside of the rig.
I’d already asked Nash if he could radio out, and he tried, but his radio wasn’t working. My phone wasn’t working. Shelby’s phone wasn’t working. Nash said something about poor reception, the radios being shoddy, and the satellite phone being locked away only for emergencies. Wasn’t this an emergency? Couldn’t I make a case for this as, ultimately, the very definition of an emergen
cy?
Asking about the radio had been my last recourse anyway, my last try, and I wasn’t about to talk to him again. At least not that first day. I didn’t feel I could justify the satellite phone request, so I decided to stick it out, trying not to think of Grandpa and Bury humming their way home.
I focused on trying to breathe deeply and imagining the knots in my intestines untangling. I was officially stuck on the river trip from hell. Excuse me, through hell—and the canyon where it kept its bluest river. Wyatt commented on the soft afternoon light to Nash, which surprised me, but I guess he didn’t care to talk to anybody else. Shelby was filming it all, as usual. It was odd that I already had an “as usual” for someone, but Shelby was never off her stupid phone.
“It’s going to get dark fast, as you can already see,” said Nash, “so I’ll make sure to set up your tents first. Then, I’ll have you get the briquettes going and assign everybody else their jobs and we can get the food all set. Drink water. Lots of it. Your pee should be clear and copious.”
“Gross,” said Shelby.
“He’s right,” said Wyatt. “We need to be prepared for anything. Stay hydrated and walk around the camp so you know your surroundings. It’s stupid to just set up a tent and sleep without knowing where the exits are or what weapons are available.”
“Right. All these exits,” said Skye, sidling off the raft and pointing up at the canyon walls.
“Can you guys let me get a video going before Nash sets up the tents? I don’t want them in my shot. Wait,” said Shelby, pulling her hair over her left shoulder, a tic or ritual or habit I was beginning to pick up on. “Maybe it’s best with the tents in the shot. More authentic.”
“What exactly are you trying to do?” I asked.
“Creating a social media following isn’t easy,” she said. “Like I said earlier.”
Nash finished pulling the raft in. We were all on shore. He unlatched the gear and dropped it into the sand, which had been dimpled by the wind and droplets of water. We’d had an extremely dry summer, but the river was dam-controlled, so the rapids were still expected to be up to class IV. Hint: massive as hell. The foreboding clouds lurching overhead made the small campsite look ominous, but there was no rain.
Wyatt dropped his bag onto the sandy bank and eyed his surroundings.
Skye smiled cursorily at me as Nash helped him with his bag.
“I’ll set up my own tent,” I said. “Thanks.”
Nash waved me on, probably already tired of my rightful anger.
Wyatt and I walked a hundred yards from the raft, looking for good tent sites. I figured if I was going to be stuck outdoors, I should stick close to the guy who knew how to prep for doomsday or the zombie apocalypse or whatever was going to bring the whole world to ash and chaos. Probably robots with super-advanced AI, if I had to guess. But I also knew the most about Wyatt, which was still almost nothing. And I was curious.
He sloughed his bag off his shoulder, and I saw a flash of metal where the zipper parted.
“Did you bring a freaking gun?” I said, trying to stay calm.
He laughed. “No. It’s a hatchet. Stupid not to bring them, really. But I considered bringing a gun.”
“Them? Like more than one?”
“That’s usually what ‘them’ means. They’re throwing hatchets. It’s not a big deal. Hey, this way, I’ll fit into what Skye and Shelby think of me by bringing primitive weapons.”
I watched as my response options ticked right below Wyatt’s face. I shook my head, as if that would somehow help, like I could shake the sand around in an Etch A Sketch. I’d been trying that for years, but it never helped, and yet I persisted. Definition of insanity, right?
“Well, just keep them in the bag, man.”
“Of course. But you have to do something for me.”
“Shoot.”
“Don’t talk like Skye and his thuggish goons, please. Drop the ‘man’ business.”
“Deal.”
“If I don’t need to use these, I won’t. But I’ll probably practice with them one night when we have some downtime,” he said, hefting a hatchet in his hand.
“Your dad teach you how to throw them?”
Wyatt looked at me, his face saying Are you kidding me? I guess it was a dumb question, knowing what little I did about his dad.
“He’s only taught me about the kind of people who need to have hatchets thrown at them. But I’ll stick to logs. These are only for protection and fun anyway.”
Wyatt undid his bun, mussed it, and then tied it back in a ponytail and paused. His sighs echoed in the shade of the ponderosa pines. Spotted shadows gathered on the canyon floor.
“Sorry, that’s a little much. But he’s not easy on me. I’m sure you’ve heard him. You and your grandpa are close enough you can probably hear the bad nights. Even the good nights are probably too noisy with his drinking and shouting about football. He loves Boise State football more than he loves me, but I’ve come to terms with it.”
I didn’t know how to respond, so I stepped aside into a nice opening and Wyatt came right behind. We ducked below a branch, and Wyatt moved a few rocks and brushed the site with his foot.
“This is good. Not many prickly pear cacti nearby. We can both fit here.” His face got red, and he shuffled back to his bag. “I mean, if you want to be near me. I don’t snore or anything. I don’t mind being alone. It’s not a big deal. In fact, it’s probably best I’m alone.”
“No. I want to be here. This is great,” I said.
Seeing Wyatt’s smile made me feel good. There was something so soft about him, so sweet, and yet the exterior suggested everything but that.
He helped me set up my tent in no time. It was a snug place to sleep, but it’s not like the raft had tons of room for giant tents. Nash had already explained that he ran a lean outfit, so we would not be glamping by any means. I was surprised he knew that word, but it made sense. He only had a few guys and gals and a few rafts, and oars are freaking expensive. Just one oar cost over five hundred bucks. That was according to Wyatt—how he knew, I didn’t ask.
Knowing that our guide was running a small outfit on a tight budget meant nobody was all that excited about the food. Until we saw it. We gathered around the fire, where Nash was taking bags out of the “dry” cooler and the chilly bin—the one that held all the perishable stuff.
He took out three Dutch ovens and assigned us our individual duties for the night. I was in charge of getting briquettes going and setting them under the ovens, which was super easy. Skye and Shelby were on prepping food and washing dishes downstream. Wyatt was on groover duty.
That’s something every rafter gets to know about right away—the groover. It was really just an ammo can that was placed in a spot far from camp where we could do our business and return with lines etched into our thighs where we rested our butts on the dang thing. It was small and awkward, and I wasn’t looking forward to my turn on “groover duty.”
“So, where do you want me to set up our toilet?” Wyatt said to Nash.
“Make sure it’s somewhere scenic,” said Skye.
“Planning on it,” said Wyatt. “I’ll have it overlooking the water with a nice view of the distant peaks, just for Shelby.”
“Just make sure it’s private,” I said.
Wyatt walked away into the trees and around where the river bent toward the dying light. Nash pulled out some Hawaiian sweet rolls and some veggies. Shelby stared into her phone’s small screen, recording Skye prepping a peach cobbler and some barbecued chicken. She coughed as the smoke switched directions with the slight breeze that was whispering through the pine needles.
“This is the worst,” she said through a wheeze and a half-cough. Her eyes were watering, and she stepped into the pines and continued hacking. “Guys, this is why I don’t camp.”
I turned becaus
e I thought she was talking to us, but nope, she was talking to her phone. Those “guys” were her followers, her crew, her squad, her fam.
Nash looked up as I stepped closer to the fire to carry more briquettes to the ovens. Wyatt was adjusting the coals on the lid of the ovens, turning them, ash dusting off in flakes.
“All set up?” Nash asked me. “Rain-fly on?”
“I’m not a child.”
“Just checking,” Nash said. “I wouldn’t expect rain, but best to be safe. Forecast looks good for this week.”
“Right.”
“Dinner should be ready in thirty,” said Skye.
I hunched my shoulders against the wind and pulled up my hood. I was in board shorts with a swimsuit underneath, and I had a massive hoodie to keep me warm at night. Wyatt returned through the pines and sat across the fire from me. Skye sat down and then patted the boulder next to him, but I shook my head. I was just fine where I was, thanks.
“Okay, team,” said Nash. “We’ll talk river rules in the morning. For now, relax by the fire and get ready for the ride of your lives.”
“Or our demise,” I said.
Nash sighed and slouched and walked to the ovens to help Shelby with the charcoal and plating the food.
“Why are you so tough on the guy, Indie? How do you two know each other, anyway?” Skye’s hesitation grew into a gaping curiosity. “Do you know him?”
“Sure,” I said.
“He didn’t tell us anything while we waited for you at the drop-in. He said you needed a moment to fix your swimsuit. But, as the son of a divorce, I know how to read subtext. I think. Correct me?”
I had a few options appear before me:
1.Tell Skye the whole story, with Nash in earshot to edit my recounting of every detail, and set us off on a path of shame and guilt and regret, especially with the one feeling guilt being the only one capable of safely getting us out of the canyon.
2.Tell him I hate beards and river guides over fifty.