by Spencer Hyde
“Scholarships? As in, more than one?” said Wyatt.
“Yeah. Key word being was,” said Skye.
“Why does it matter if you wanted to fish?” asked Wyatt.
“Because I’m supposed to play soccer. That’s always been the plan.”
“Whose plan?” I said.
“Exactly,” said Wyatt.
Skye was quiet for a minute. “Well, now you know my secret. It’s not a big deal. At least it was my own fault I lost my leg.” He shifted his weight in the sand.
“I think the application to guide is the bigger secret,” I said. “So what was the alert for? On your phone?”
“Whatever,” he said, ignoring me. “We’ll see what happens. I don’t even know if I want to do that anymore.”
“Why not?” said Wyatt.
“Whose turn is it now?” said Skye, deflecting again.
“I think that’s it,” said Wyatt. “We should probably help set up camp.”
“That’s messed up, guys,” said Skye. “C’mon.”
“Wyatt’s right,” I said. “Wouldn’t want to seem entitled or lazy.”
“You still have to go,” said Skye.
“Maybe later,” I said.
We all stood up, and Skye and Wyatt took off to set up tents and change clothes. Shelby brushed the sand from her shorts, and I realized I was still staring at her. I hadn’t noticed before that her eyebrows were drawn on. They looked so perfect, like the rest of her.
“Wish you had your phone so it could go viral?” she said.
“I don’t think that way,” I said.
“I do. I wish I didn’t. It’s okay, though. I get it. It’s weird.”
“No, you don’t get it. I’m staring because I think you look really pretty. I think it’s amazing.”
She gave me a look heavy with apprehension, but I felt like most of my comment had gotten through to her.
As we set up our tents, I kept thinking of Nash and the food we’d lost to the bear. I wondered how Nash had communicated with his crew to let them know to bring more food to our meet-up the next day, since Nash had said the radio wasn’t working.
I knew exactly where it was—partly because Nash kept looking at it on his shoulder that first day, and, later, at the dry-bag he kept it in while on the raft, but mostly because it called to me, promising me a way out. But I was also starting to want that way out less and less as I got more and more of the people around me. People like Shelby and her unabashed baldness.
Forty minutes later, we were all in the same dry clothes from the night before and sitting next to the fire Nash had started while we were setting up tents.
The most noticeable thing: Shelby was wearing another wig. I didn’t feel like I could ask her about it yet, but I nodded and she smiled and we let it go. I was surprised she’d packed one, though, because Thatcher had been adamant about us only taking essentials for two days, and a backup wig didn’t seem essential. Well, I guess not to me because that wasn’t my life.
The fire moved like a school of red-orange fishes toward the logs, sparks leaping into the higher reaches of the pines that stretched over the campsite and out over the river. Nash looked beaten down by the day, or perhaps it was just his wrinkled features in the firelight.
“We have a lot of fruit for dinner tonight,” said Nash. “I’m still looking for some MREs, but I think we lost nearly all of the good dry food. I’m so sorry, team. I have a few more eggs and some cheese for breakfast—leftovers from today’s lunch. Or would you prefer to eat them now?”
Nobody spoke. We looked at one another. I think the others were as surprised as I was, and we were all questioning just how great this guide was.
“Okay. Well, we’ll save the eggs and cheese for breakfast, I guess.”
“How can your radio not work? Don’t you plan for the whole no-reception thing?” Wyatt said. Wyatt: always the brave one. Or maybe just the brash one. Maybe just the disrespectful, belligerent one.
Not that he was super brave in mentioning it, but brave in that he was calling out an adult. Yes, we were nearly all adults ourselves, but there was still this odd, almost transparent wall between teenagers and adults that we were afraid to step through or cross over or reach through sometimes.
Wyatt seemed to care very little for that idea, and I think we were all happy he said what we were thinking. Besides, nothing is worse than a group of hangry teenagers sitting by a fire with no internet and no car and no friend’s house to escape to.
“The radio is an old one, but I was hoping it would last one more trip. It’s my fault. I should have purchased a new one before this journey so I could warn the crew. But, like I said, lots of food will be waiting for us tomorrow. And Thatcher will have the rest of the clothes you packed, and you can switch out for any gear you’d like. If you want a different tent or sleeping bag, he’ll have those as well. Plus more fresh water.”
“I can take care of dinner,” said Skye. “I’m in the mood for some trout.”
“Thanks, Mama Bear. Can you bring back some berries, too?” said Wyatt.
“Gross,” said Shelby. “I hate fish.”
“Well, they may not like you very much either,” said Wyatt.
“You’d rather eat eggs again?” Skye said.
“Fine. Do your thing,” said Wyatt.
Skye slowly moved to his tent to get his rod. Our makeshift campsite had a lot of mud but very little open space. It was clearly not a first option for river guides, but I appreciated Nash telling us to call it a day earlier than was probably normal after Shelby and Skye’s spill into the river.
We were still close enough to the Lower Bernard Creek Rapids that we could hear the rumbling as they ripped through the canyon just over one hundred yards from our site. A fan of light sat on the ridge of the canyon, and I watched as a bald eagle glided in the air, just sitting there, floating.
Skye returned minutes later, hunching to avoid scraping his face on the pine needles at eye-level next to the tent ring we’d formed—we didn’t have as much space to spread out as we’d had the night before. In fact, Nash’s tent was within twenty yards of mine, which made me uncomfortable. But at least it might deter bears, right?
“Give me a half hour, and I should have some trout ready. We can have fish and fruit.”
“Happy hunting,” I said.
“I’m fishing.”
“Whatever,” I said. “Still. It’s not a wand and you’re not a princess. The rod can handle an actual cast. Try to let it load like you know what you’re doing, and not like you cast this morning.”
“You were watching me?”
“Maybe,” I said.
Wyatt shook his head, then stood up and headed into the trees. Shelby grabbed her phone and aimed for the shoreline. I wasn’t close enough to hear what she was saying, but I figured it was about our awesome spill earlier.
Skye walked to the river’s edge and propped his body against a rock and leaned into his cast. It unfolded perfectly over the water like a kite string unspooling in a breeze. He was a master with the rod, and not many things impressed me like seeing someone properly cast a line and effortlessly float a fly for a hook set. Mom cast like that. Like it was part of her DNA.
Skye landed two big trout, and we had just finished preparing them for the fire when Wyatt returned holding what looked like an awful salad in his hands. He walked over to the fish and rubbed the greenery all over them before we set them in the fire to roast.
“Jack by the hedge,” said Wyatt.
We all looked around the fire to see if we could see a person, let alone something that might be termed a hedge.
“Not a person,” he said. “It’s a relative of the cabbage. Tastes like garlic. Trust me.”
“Who you calling Mama Bear now, man?” said Skye.
Wyatt shot back, “Whate
ver. It’s good.”
We trusted him, and it paid off. Turns out we didn’t really need the almost-tastes-decent food in the cooler, because Skye and Wyatt were equipped with enough know-how to keep us well-fed, as long as they could cooperate long enough to cook a fish.
“Thanks for the dinner, guys,” Shelby said.
“I thought you hated fish,” I said.
“Hate’s such a strong word, Indie. I dislike fish, I guess. But when you’re hungry, almost anything tastes good.”
I turned to Skye. “Next time, let me know if you want to learn how to properly float a line in fast-moving waters.”
“You’ll teach me how to fly-fish?”
“Some things can’t be taught. But you can watch me and try to get some insight.”
I hadn’t spoken to him much that day, and it seemed to bring a great deal of relief into his face when I said that.
What we all knew, but didn’t mention, was that Skye’s dad was the most famous guide in Victor. Probably the most expert fisherman in Idaho. He was often booked out months before any other guide. He was one of the handful of guides who truly understood the way the river worked, how it moved, how it slept, how it woke and turned its face to the morning sun, and how it hungered with a particular appetite for specific bugs. I imagined Skye also knew the riverbends near our home backwards, forwards, and sideways.
I thought his dad sounded a lot like Grandpa. I’ve heard fly-fishermen talk about the river the same way others talk about God. Grandpa said the best fishing holes were secrets between him and the Good Lord, and that those spots were saved for the most devout, the most religious.
Grandpa seemed to know what fish were biting at any moment, even if he was sleeping, as if he had dreams of Klinkhammers and Caddis and Red Quill snagging the perfect brown or rainbow trout. Mosquitos and gnats meant more to him than the rest of us. Any flies, really. I often noticed him just letting bugs land on him and watching them intently. He never waved his hand to get rid of the bugs—he just slowed down and looked closer, squinting and talking to himself and the bug under his breath.
“Well, I’m off to meditate,” said Nash. “I’ll be near my tent if you need me. Be ready for an early start. I’d like to make good headway before lunch. Make sure to drink a lot of water tonight, because it’s supposed to be hot tomorrow. We’ll get new supplies near Hominy Creek—and more food. But, hey, we saved almost half a bag of marshmallows, as long as you don’t mind possible bear breath on them. Thanks for the fish, Skye and Wyatt. Right. G’night, team.”
It seemed early for Nash to be heading off to his tent, but he also seemed a bit hangdog, for some reason. It wasn’t a big deal, but any lack of professionalism carried a lot more meaning and weight considering my presence and Nash’s history with my mom. I knew Nash was feeling the pressure of needing to provide a perfect trip down the Snake River for a few teenagers on nice, sunny, summer days. Then again, maybe he was just tired.
If I’d been a bird at that moment, I would have risen above our camp and looked down on the small, pine-needle-covered paths between bunches of trees and sharp rocks and limbs reaching into the river like fingers. I imagined I’d be able to see our group around the fire like dots around a small sun. Maybe I’d be able to see other outfits with other rafters in boats—some on the shore, some stuck in eddies, some bathing, and some still floating down the river looking for a campsite. Maybe I’d even be able to see a smoke tendril rise up and around a large Fremont poplar tree from our campsite.
But I wasn’t a bird. That was ridiculous. I was tired, and I was tired of thinking about Nash, so I let my attention snap back to the fire and stay with the group.
“I never thought I’d say this, but being with you guys isn’t the worst,” said Shelby.
“We’re not the worst? That’s so sweet, Shelbs,” said Wyatt. He opened the tied half-bag of marshmallows and put one on a stick.
“Gross. And don’t call me Shelbs.”
“Shelbs it is,” said Skye, nodding for the marshmallow bag.
“Weren’t you guys terrified of coming on this trip? I was. I was promised an easy week, but it’s never easy when adults say things like that. I hate getting wet,” she said, gesturing to her wig. “At least I’ll end up with tons of good material for my followers.”
“Me too,” said Wyatt.
“You have followers?” I asked.
“Well, you wanted a secret,” said Wyatt. “Something nobody knows about, right?”
“Yeah,” said Skye. “I just never thought you’d share.”
“Neither did I. But there you go. That’s mine.”
“What’s yours?” I asked.
“My secret. I have followers. Kind of. I run a blog about art,” he said. “Well, it’s mostly about the way light is handled in different works of art. Don’t tell my dad, or he’ll lose it.”
“Seriously?” said Skye.
“Yeah. He’s pretty small-minded,” said Wyatt. “Kind of like you and your buddies.”
“That’s not fair, Wyatt,” said Shelby.
“It’s not? Do you even know about what he did, Shelbs? Why don’t you tell them about Chisum, Skye?”
Skye breathed out, his shoulders slumping. He looked away from the fire, squinting into the dark. “That wasn’t me, man.”
“That wasn’t you, man? I thought you said you rolled with Royal and Chase. That not true anymore, now that you’re trying to impress Indie?” asked Wyatt.
“I remember Chisum,” said Shelby. “That wasn’t your fault, Wyatt.”
Wyatt gave a loud mock-laugh. “I know it wasn’t my fault. I know exactly whose fault it was,” he said. “Skye and his buddies basically killed my friend. Isn’t that right, Skye? Buddy?”
“I wasn’t a part of it, Wyatt,” said Skye. He dropped his stick into the fire and let the marshmallow on the end burn. He started tapping his prosthetic again.
“Sure you weren’t,” Wyatt said.
“I had nothing to do with it,” said Skye.
“They’re your friends, right?”
“They were. They’re not anymore. I’m not the same person,” said Skye. He threw a rock into the fire.
“So what person were you? What did you do? Too shy to say it now?”
“I didn’t know what they were going to do,” said Skye quietly.
“Of course you didn’t,” said Wyatt. “Because your friends are always looking to learn new things, to brush up on editing tech, right? They’re always eager to learn and grow for the sake of knowledge, and not to bully, right?”
“I only showed them how to use some things on Lightroom. I didn’t know why they needed to know that.”
“Right,” said Wyatt.
“I swear,” Skye said.
Wyatt went on to recount the story, but from an angle I hadn’t heard.
Chisum was a kid in our high school who was gay, but hadn’t announced it or come out about it or whatever. But rumors are alive—and sometimes vicious. Some kids at school had taken Chisum’s photo and made it look like he had the body of Heath Ledger, the guy from Brokeback Mountain. In the picture, he was wearing a cowboy hat and standing next to a naked man. A speech bubble above him said, “Why Can’t I Quit You?” In our town, those things tended to stick around because of how they portrayed the West and the cowboy code, and how they mocked small towns like Victor and Tetonia.
They were posted all over the school one morning. The principal took them down immediately, but it was too late. That night Chisum shot himself with his dad’s Colt revolver in their tack shed. The horses whinnied until his mother found him there, on the floor.
“I’m sorry, Wyatt,” said Skye. “I am. I didn’t know what they were going to do.”
“But they were your friends. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Not anymore. That’s all I’m saying.�
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“What’s changed?” asked Wyatt. He threw his burnt marshmallow into the fire and put another one on the stick. I wasn’t sure why—maybe just to watch something burn.
“A lot,” said Skye.
“Like?”
“Like a lot. I don’t even know who my friends are anymore.”
“I can make a list,” said Wyatt. “I know who they are.”
“No. I don’t have any.”
Wyatt turned his head from the fire, but I didn’t think it was because of the smoke.
Skye grabbed the marshmallow bag and shifted in his spot, pushing a log aside to open up a spot for the coals. “I can’t play soccer anymore, and my parents don’t know what to do because now they can’t keep harping on me about scholarships. Like I said.”
“How sad,” said Wyatt.
“Look, Wyatt, I’m used to letting my parents tell everyone that I’m this amazing soccer player set for a big university and a starting position, so I just smile and nod. But I don’t love soccer the way I love other things. That’s why I was checking my phone for that email, because I care more about other stuff. But I let my parents say it, because it was easier than standing up to it. Which is basically what happened with Chisum—it was easier for me to just let my friends do what they wanted than ask why or try to stop them. I didn’t even know I was doing it. ‘There goes Skye again. Just tell him he’s great and he’ll do whatever you say.’ A stupid monkey, is what I am. I don’t know what I am, really.”
“I won’t argue with the monkey part,” said Wyatt, a half-smile on his face. “But I didn’t know the rest.”
“Whoa! Did anybody else hear that?” Shelby stood and put both arms out. We all got quiet and listened, thinking there might be another bear hulking in the forest.
“What?” I whispered.
“Wyatt just apologized!”
“Ha ha,” said Wyatt.
“Did he?” I asked. “I didn’t hear an apology.”
“That’s as close as you’ll get, is my guess,” said Shelby.
“I think it’s great,” I said to Skye. “Not being ‘just the soccer player,’ I mean. Now you can be whatever you want.”