Deborah gasps. “Shit, he’s untying one of the gear boats.”
She’s right. Forcing myself to keep digging in with my paddle, I watch in horrified silence as the bulky shadow on shore throws a couple of coolers out of one gear raft and onto the sand. He tosses out a stack of chairs next, where they land with a clatter. Then he drags the gear boat across the sand and into the water with surprising strength and hefts himself into the seat at the guide oars.
“Focus, ladies,” Macy demands. “We’ve gotta catch the other raft before they go over Anvil. They won’t make it without a guide.”
We keep rowing, but nobody can tear their eyes away from Bryan and the gear raft. Within a few seconds, he’srowing hard across the current in our direction, following directly behind us.
Macy lets out a ragged sob then says, “Look ahead, keep rowing. He’s a shit guide, he’s not going to make Anvil Falls. Weare—but only if we row!”
“In a Class IV or V rapid, the margin for error is measured in fractions of seconds. A single missed stroke, a moment’s hesitation, can mean the difference between a clean run and catastrophe.”
—The River Guide’s Almanac
17
For the first time since arriving at Camas Creek, I really, truly consider the source of the sound that’s growing louder by the second.
Anvil Falls.
If the Devil’s Stairs was lightning, Anvil Falls is thunder.
And we’re about to face it. In the middle of the fucking night.
“Hang on!” Macy calls ahead to the first raft. “Let us in front so we can lead you through!” We’re closing the distance, but it’s clear the other vessel is losing their fight with the current—it’s too heavy, and the current is too strong.
“Shit,” Macy snaps. “Shit, shit, shit.”
Soon, I have a better view of the other boat. Even in the dark, it’s clear that it’s way over capacity. The women are piled in so haphazardly it’s difficult to count them all, but the left side of the DayGlo orange raft is sagging, uneven and strangely low in the water. Anyone who has a hold of a paddle—only about half of them—holds it like a shovel, digging hard into the current to keep the raft from inching over the steep edge of the monstrous falls.
But it’s plain to see that exhaustion and panic are winning out.
Feet ahead, the river narrows dramatically through the canyon where the black, snaking current turns to frothing cream. The other raft slips forward, nosing into the whitewater.
Deborah and I watch with dread while Allie and Pam crane their necks at Bryan’s boat, which is encroaching from maybe fifteen yards away.
“Don’t look at him! Look forward!” Macy screams at them. “Row together!”
“Beth!” Deborah cries ahead to her sister, her voice ragged. “Row hard, hon, you’re gonna be okay! I’ll see you at the end!”
“I love you!” Beth screams above the roar of the falls.
Macy curses again before firing off instructions to the other raft, which has taken the unyielding lead. “Wedge your feet deep into the raft, row together, donotlet the raft get sideways!” Macy screams over the churn of roaring water. “Donothit the canyon walls. Donothit the line of boulders at the bottom—they’re gonna be hard to see in the dark. You have to stay left until the very end, and then make a hard right so you miss those boulders. I can guide you through this, okay? We’ll be right behind you.”
The first raft is gaining speed in front of us, flying toward an enormous rolling wave. The boat’s neon shape rides on black water, against black canyon walls, almost seeming to float in space. Against Macy’s orders, I steal a glance behind us. Bryan’s raft is gaining speed, too.
Parker, I need you,I beg—a prayer I don’t expect to be answered.
He can’t save me. No one can.
But I can’t help but remember my dream from the first night, where he guided me down an impassable rapid, smiling, telling me,“Head down, row hard.”
So that’s what I do, digging my paddle into the water with all my might.
Macy is still screaming instructions when the first raft slams into the towering wave. I can barely hear her at this point, and we’re in the same raft. “Keep rowing hard when you hit that trough. It’s a big hit, butdo notfucking stop,” she cries. “The second wave will pop you high up into the air—when you come back down, dig in again!”
Our raft is moving into the whitewater now, maybe ten yards behind the first, and gaining incredible speed. In every other rapid we’ve coursed through during the past two days, the guides have maintained a much larger gap between boats. If anybody goes overboard now, they’re going to get run over.
But there’s no time to do this the right way. We couldn’t wait if we wanted to.
