Rapid Descent

Nell bent to one of the storage compartments that lined the base of the RV and found the spare key where Mike had left it. Joe had the original. Her heart stuttered at the thought. She slammed the storage door shut with unnecessary force and unlocked the door to the RV, closing it on her mother’s face and the TV reporter, who was climbing out of the news van. Before the driver could think to block her in, Nell started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, leaving her mother and the reporter blinking in the sunlight.

Nell didn’t like surprises. Claire knew that. And she had better things to do than…than…Nell bashed the steering wheel with her fist and dashed tears from her eyes as she made a turn. She and her mom hadn’t had a real conversation since her dad died, but surely…surely Claire knew she wouldn’t want to talk to a reporter. Didn’t her own mother know her better than that? A soft voice whispered in the back of her mind, accusing that she hadn’t given Claire a chance to know her better. Not since the accident that claimed her father and the woman he was sleeping with. Nell shoved that thought away for later. Right now she had to find Joe.

By the time she reached the put-in at Burnt Mille Bridge and parked, Nell was exhausted. Her headache had grown from a soft rattle of padded drumsticks on her skull to a big bass drum of misery. She popped two ibuprofen, forced down a bowl of cereal and drank a liter of water. Then she flipped supply switches, making sure the RV had plenty of propane, water and space in the waste-storage tanks. Habit. She knew exactly what was left, because neither she nor Joe had used much of anything on the trip.

She gargled with warm saltwater to help her throat, found an old pair of Joe’s sunglasses and slipped them on, then added a sun visor, one that went all the way around her head instead of clamping on the sides of her skull. Her injured cranium couldn’t handle the pressure. She pulled on a sleeveless, insulated vest over the tees, still feeling the cold of the river. Hypothermia could hang around, especially after a lot of stress; Nell figured the trip down the river qualified as a lot of stress. Satisfied, she stepped into the October sunshine.

The put-in at Burnt Mill Bridge on the Clear Fork River was a place with a whole lotta nothing. No fast food, no gas, no hotel, no camping, no amenities at all. It was not much more than a double loop of gravel off a secondary road, a tiered grassy area in the trees with picnic tables, a few park trails and the old, blocked-off, one-lane trestle bridge. The bridge looked like a rusted derelict against the brand-spanking-new one.

The site was the midway point on a run that started ten miles upstream on the Clear Fork River and ended seven miles downstream at the Leatherwood takeout, and any river runner who had once been there could find it. However, if Claire tried to find the put-in, Nell’s mother would end up lost in the middle of nowhere. Nell felt a bit guilty about leaving her mother in the hospital parking lot. As soon as she could borrow a cell phone she’d call her. For now, it was too late to do anything about her mother’s whereabouts.

In the Burnt Mill parking area, there were five trucks, two vans and Mike’s huge SUV. More vehicles turned in to the parking area as she watched. Equipment and people were scattered across the gravel and grass in a mass of organized chaos. Kayaks, paddles, helmets and PFDs rested untouched on the slip of sandy bank that showed above the high water. Rescue ropes, flex, biners and other equipment were being tested and inspected by a couple dozen men and women, some wearing wet suits, dry suits and river shoes, others in hiker’s gear and boots.

A park ranger in his brown uniform looked rumpled and unshaven, and was almost twanging with energy. He stood with Mike and a group of boaters and hikers, each with a radio, checking equipment. There was a Cumberland County Rescue Squad van, the volunteers dressed in matching red T-shirts over warmer clothes in the cool morning air.

In the center of the throng was one full-size, self-bailing, Maravia Ranger river raft. It was Joe’s and hers—the shop name painted on its bright blue side—and was fully inflated and ready to go. Clearly Mike hadn’t transported it from the shop filled with air. He must have brought an air compressor with him in his truck. Organized as always.

Mike raised his paddle above his head, calling her over. Nell pocketed the RV keys and headed across the lot. There were familiar faces from Pigeon River in the crowd. Besides Mike, there was Harvey, RiverAnn, Turtle Tom, Hamp and Stewart, all guides she had worked with during her summers on the river, before she and Joe dreamed up Rocking River, the mom-and-pop river-guide, white-water-rafting and kayak-instruction shop they had opened the previous May. Seeing them so far from home, obviously here to help, brought tears to her eyes and Nell was glad she was hiding behind the dark lenses.

She stopped and greeted each of the guides, pulling on Harvey’s new beard, touching Turtle Tom’s newest tattoo, a huge-busted naked woman sitting on a rock beside an altar of river stones. He wore a sleeveless T-shirt to show it off. She flicked Hamp’s hat, a brown one with the initials of his school on it, Furman University, and kissed Stewart’s cheek. Stew wasn’t very bright, but he was a sweet guy, and he had no idea he was so gorgeous. He didn’t talk much, and he ducked his head, letting curly black hair cover his face.

Nell carefully didn’t comment on RiverAnn’s latest weight gain, just lifted a hand in salute. The girl gained and lost the same fifty pounds every year and seemed to be ending this season heavy. Still in high school, RiverAnn had hung around paddlers ever since she could drive, working as a waitress in a small restaurant that serviced the truckers who frequented I-40 and the few river people who stayed through the off-season, and working as a river guide in summers.

Nell had seen her a few times throughout the previous river-rafting season because she worked for Amos, the owner of the competition rafting company next door. But the girl stayed pretty much to herself and whatever river guide, climber or snow-patrol dude she happened to be with that season. RiverAnn laid her head on Harvey’s shoulder and Nell didn’t persist in trying to catch her eye. It seemed that she had picked out her winter beau already, and had eyes only for him.

Mike gave Nell a one-armed hug and handed her a high-power, multifrequency, two-way radio, a fancy walkie-talkie. She pressed the transmit button to hear the squelch sound, making sure it was working properly, and noted the channel the searchers were using. Cell phones didn’t work in the bottom of the gorge, and were carried only for emergencies where a paddler might have to climb out and call for help. The radios, while line-of-sight, were better than nothing, and radios could be used to pass messages up and down the gorge. Nell slid it into her vest pocket.

Mike said, “We’re ready to hit the water. Two of the hiking crews already left. We’ll have radio support all along the river, with hikers situated on the crests of the canyon walls, on the O & W road and the bridge. A couple of the most experienced guys are ready to rappel down to the canyon gorge.” When she raised her brows in surprise, he added, “They have climbing gear and experience, and I want to be able to throw a rope to shore and have it secured to a rock if we need it, or have them climb down to check out something we see up higher.”

Nell nodded, understanding and agreeing with his strategy. In swift water rescue, ropes were usually tied off to trees onshore, but parts of the gorge had few trees near the water. It was the closest thing to a western river gorge east of the Mississippi. Rock, rock and more rock close to the river, lots of white water and not much of anything else.

“We got three in the raft with me, and seven in kayaks. There’s another small team starting out from the put-in at the confluence of the Clear and the New Rivers at 10:00 a.m. We’ll meet them and work it from there.”

To Nell, Mike asked, “You met the team leader yet?”

“I thought that would be you.” Nell said, surprised. She was gratified to hear some life and volume in her voice. The hoarseness was fading.

“I’m taking up the rear in the raft.” He boomed out, “Elton. This is Nell.”

A slender man, not much taller than she was, handed a rescue rope to a woman beside him, raised his hand and walked over. He was blond, blue-eyed and all muscle, with the prematurely weathered skin and all-year tan of a river rat, ski patrol, mountain biker, hiker dude. A typical outdoor-loving mountain boy. Encased in the wet suit, he had the sinewy body of a black snake, a rolling, confident gait and not an ounce of body fat. He looked her over, seeing beyond the black eyes and bruises. “Hit a rock?” Elton asked, his voice soft, his words efficient.

“Concussion,” Nell said.

“Walk me through it.”

Once again Nell told her story and as she spoke, the crowd gathered around her. It was the first time they had heard the tale and she saw nods and shaken heads. When she reached the part about finding Joe’s boat, their eyes slid past her. Eyes that were filled with sympathy. Eyes that said her husband was dead. Stewart’s eyes filled with tears and he turned away. Harvey looked down, shaken. RiverAnn took his hand and squeezed. Turtle Tom reached out a hand and gripped Nell’s shoulder. “We’re here for you, Nell. Hang tough.”

Her throat closed up and Nell patted his hand, fighting for a breath, finishing with tears in her own eyes, tears that were becoming habitual and unwelcome. Her Tennessee dialect strong in half-whispered words, she shook off his hand, took off her sunglasses, claimed the eyes around her and said, “Joe’s out there. In trouble. With no one but youns to help him. Please. Find him and bring him home.”

Mike looked at Elton, who gave him a single nod. “Let’s do it, people,” Elton said.

As the group began to disperse, each person to his or her assigned job, Nell went to every single one, clasping a hand or giving a hug, depending how well she knew each. Saying the same thing over and over. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” The once-alien tears no longer felt so foreign, and Nell didn’t try to keep them from falling, even though they burned, even though they made some of the searchers uncomfortable.

To the guides from the Pigeon, she added an extra word or two. “Thank youns for being such good friends. Thank youns for coming all this way for Joe.”

Each of them seemed awkward, embarrassed with the extra attention, and Turtle Tom shook his head, hugging her. “I just wish it hadn’t happened. You know?” he said, his big brown eyes staring at the trees on the far shore rather than at her tears.

“I know,” Nell said, feeling the guilt well up in her. Joe was lost. And if she hadn’t gotten stuck in a strainer, he would be fine. It was her fault. All her fault.

7

A swift-water search and rescue was a risky business. Nell had seen a simple training run turn dangerous with a foot entrapment in two feet of water, or as a submerged strainer trapped an unwary swimmer. No team leader wanted to evac out a hiker with a broken leg or be forced to rescue one of the rescuers, but it happened, and a good team leader was prepared for it.

Nell watched Elton give instructions, making sure that each radio was on the same channel and assigning other channels for nonemergency chatter. He liaised with the sheriff’s deputy who drove through the lot. He chatted with the park rangers, two of whom drove up just before they hit the water, and the hyper guy who was leading one of the canyon wall hiking teams. Some of the hikers left by van and Jeep to start out from the takeout and work their way upstream. Three kayakers were on the water early, practicing rolls. It was bedlam, but it was structured bedlam.

Then Elton blew a piercing whistle and shouted, “We do a complete river run this morning, from put-in to takeout. We’ll be meeting up with Argonaut at the confluence of the Clear and the New, and taking the last rapids down together.” The teams nodded, recognizing the moniker. Argonaut was Jason Adams, river-named after the historical sailor. “Everybody keep an eye out for emergency signals, branches or rocks in an X shape, fire, equipment, even a person lying on a bank or rock.

“Remember to check clefts that might have been available to a boat in bigger water. Today it’s running at fifteen hundred. It was up to twenty-five hundred CFS earlier, so we’re looking at two feet of river we don’t have today. I want the kayakers to scout the shore as often as possible, but don’t get left behind. Stay with the group. I want to be down the river by 2:00 p.m. Hikers, take the paths. Watch for signs.

“In places where line-of-sight radio communication is impossible, three long whistle bursts means we found him. Everyone who hears the whistle, pass the word where we are, and move into place to get him out. Anyone not close enough to be of immediate assistance, get your butt back to a put-in or a takeout.

“Anyone who gets injured on the river but can paddle to a support site alone, get off the water. We’ll have support in four places. At Leatherwood takeout, of course—” Elton held up a finger “—at the confluence of the Clear and New Rivers above the Double Falls.” He held up a second finger and then a third. “At the start of the Narrows, but that one’ll mean a hike up to the old railroad road and no parking to speak of, so try not to get hurt there so we don’t have to stop and drag you up the mountain.” Everyone laughed and Elton held up a fourth finger. “And at the O & W bridge. Paddle to whichever support site is closest. Questions?” Everyone here knew the river and no one raised a hand.

Elton said, “The support teams will have food and water for anyone who needs it, and trucks to cart you out. We’ll have support people at each site by noon, but unless you get hurt, you’ll be carting your own boat and gear to the trucks. No princess rides today.” That got another laugh. Princess rides were raft trips with a pretty girl as one of the paddlers. She usually got to sit and look at scenery while the other rafters did all the work and the male guides ogled her.

“In the event that we don’t find Joe by two, we start a slower, more methodical search downstream from the confluence above the Double. The paddlers will rendezvous at Leatherwood at 6:00 p.m. There’ll be trucks at the takeout to haul your boats from the river upstream to the campsite at the confluence or back here to get your vehicles. We have permission to camp at the confluence for those interested.

“Hikers will meet up with a support team at 6:00 p.m. Same thing with regard to transportation.”

He looked around the gathered, meeting eyes. Making his most important point. “No fun and games today, people. No playing. Not until after Joe Stevens is found. Got it?”

A chorus of yips followed his question, and several boaters gave the Hawaiian “okay” sign of thumb and little finger in the air, the other fingers curled under, hand waggling. The hikers took off with long strides. The Ranger raft pushed off, into the sluggish current. The hardboat paddlers went to their kayaks and began the serious business of getting on the water. Those still onshore skirted themselves into their boats and slid into the water and under the old and new bridges.

Nell watched as they moved down the river and slowly out of sight. When they were gone, she surveyed the nearly empty lot. One of the two park guys pulled out, spinning gravel; the other one strode up to the second tier of parking.

Soon the rescue squad auxiliary organization would be bringing food for the searchers and organizing ways to make sure each hiker and boater had ample supplies of water and food. There would be coffee, doughnuts, trail mix, sandwiches, maybe some soup to ward off the chill at each support station. People who were willing to run errands. Medical personnel. News vans. But little of that would take place here. Most of it would be at Leatherwood at the bottom of the run, and at the two put-ins midway down.

Nell knew she would have to move soon to keep up with the search, and wondered if the RV could make it down the one-lane, steeply graded, sorta-maybe-could-be-a-road to the parking above the confluence near the Double Falls, or if it would be better to park at the top of the hill above the Narrows. Turning the RV around on any of the one-lane roads would be a bugger. The O & W would allow a turnaround, but if she met anyone coming, she would have to figure out how to back up. Maybe for a long way. She didn’t want to have to. That left Leatherwood or the confluence for her day camping.

The news van she had run from pulled into the lot and headed for the lone park ranger. And then there’ll be the press, she thought. Nell escaped to the RV and headed out.

Nell was parked at Leatherwood near two groups of day campers with rowdy preschoolers, and bored high schoolers and the lone support vehicle to arrive so far, a beat-up pickup truck. The truck bed contained extra paddles, rescue ropes, and a rescue stretcher, the kind shaped like a canoe, with flex security straps and tie-offs for hauling a wounded victim up a steep hill. An old man was sleeping in the cab, his head tilted back, mouth hanging open, hogwashers and a threadbare white T-shirt the only parts of him visible.

She turned to the water. The river was still high, rushing over the low bridge kept open by the park rangers to show campers and tourists where the original Leatherwood Ford used by colonists and by the Indians before them was. Cars and trucks no longer used the low bridge, not since the construction of a steel and concrete bridge. The newer bridge was normally some twenty-five feet above the river flow, but the distance was less today, with fresh, dark high-water marks two feet higher.

The storm that had turned the river into a raging torrent had come out of nowhere. In forty-eight hours the high water would all be gone. But for now, it was a foamy blur in her tears. Nell wanted to be out there with them, on the water, helping with the SAR, but she knew that with her head pounding and her vision not quite steady, she would become a liability to the water team. It was the first time since she was sixteen that she hadn’t been on the water during an S and R.

She sat at the small dining table, staring across at the seat Joe should have occupied. Like most married couples, they had each chosen a seat and stayed in it for meals. Joe sat with his back to the driver’s seat. Nell faced him. Now his seat was empty, but there was evidence of Joe everywhere. His map of the river was unfolded on the dinette seat, next to his beat-up copy of Southeastern White Water, the out-of-print kayakers’ bible. His second-best sunglasses were open on the dash, but had slid into the angle between windshield and dash. She hadn’t noticed them when she drove to the put-in.