He’d gone to explore a cave system in Utah with two of his best friends—a bachelor’s trip for one of the guys who was getting married the following month. The cave—called “Cookie Dough,” for its clay-heavy walls—sounded silly enough for me to think it was tame. I spent that whole carefree weekend watchingLove Is Blindin my pajamas, with Bambi stretched out across my lap.
It was the bachelor who called me, frantic, at ten-thirty on Saturday night, as I was washing my face before bed.
The men had decided to explore a less-traveled section of Cookie Dough that had openings so narrow you had to wriggle through with your arms at your sides.
Parker had gone first, of course. Always the explorer.
For half an hour after he got stuck, nobody worried much. They were sure he’d be able to get himself out. They laughed while Parker cracked jokes and rolled onto his side, clay and rock crumbling around him. His friends crawled into the narrow opening behind him, pulling, trying to help him find a way to wriggle back through the tight space.
Then Parker told them he was having a hard time breathing, with his head and chest angled downward.
That was when one friend hurried back through the cave by himself as fast as he could, while the other stayed behind with Parker.
That friend called 9-1-1, then me, as soon as he had service.
It took an hour for EMTs to reach the cave mouth in the remote desert. When the emergency responders were unsuccessful in extricating Parker, they started to drill. Allwhile I drove the three hundred miles to Utah through the night, my heart in my throat.
By the time I arrived, the EMTs had just reached him, and were lowering a microphone down into the hole that ran parallel to the main cave shaft.
When I heard his raspy laugh and an “Oh, thank god,” sweet relief flooded my body. He was going to be okay. Everything was going to be okay.
I think about that moment every day. How stupid I was.
How I’ll never be that naive person again.
I force the memory away, blinking into the sparkling surface of the river as it widens and smooths out ahead. Then I look across the raft in time to see Allie—the librarian in theCrime Junkieshat—side-eye Macy. Nudging the woman beside her, Allie says, “Hey, did anybody else watch that Lifemark movie about Camas Creek?Blood in the Water?This river issomuch narrower than I was expecting. I bet they didn’t even film it in Idaho—”
“All forward!” Macy interrupts, before anyone can reply to Allie. There isn’t a rapid in sight. “Give me three left, ladies! Yes! That’s it!”
Allie exchanges a glance with the woman next to her and rolls her eyes, obediently digging in with her paddle.
Despite the churn in my gut, I bite my lip to hide a smile. Allie might be making the guides uncomfortable, but she’s only making me curious. And without Google out here to satisfy that kind of curiosity, I hope she’ll keep asking questions.
There’s nothing like somebody else’s tragedy to take your mind off your own.
I draw in a steadying breath, resolving to at least try to be present and enjoy myself.Just be here.That’s what Parker would say if he were beside me in this raft. He’d sense that I was getting lost in my head, and point out the midge flies skipping across the water like acrobats, or thepair of ravens hopping playfully from rock to rock along the canyon wall. He’d talk about the lighting, how water’s reflection and shadow of the cliffs made everything dramatic and unforgettable.
Hemade everything unforgettable.
Be here,I tell myself. At this point, I truly can’t be anywhere else. There’s no going back now, unless I insist Macy somehow row us all upstream, only to drive me ten hours back along that maze of dirt roads.
A crazy bubble of laughter works its way up my throat as the reality of what I’ve gotten myself into settles on my shoulders. For better or for worse, I’m locked into this raft with Allie, Deborah, Beth, and all the other strangers for the next five days.
Be here.It’s the least I can do.
Because he can’t.
3
To my surprise, my resolve actually works. Once I set my mind to it—to embrace this peculiar pilgrimage on the river—I start to settle in and even enjoy myself.
Macy leads the way at the helm of our raft, followed by Bryan in the first gear boat; then Gracie in the other passenger raft, and finally, Josh in the second gear boat. Between the women’s light chatter and the constant instruction to “Row, all forward! Now left, hard left, dig in!” I manage to relax.
I lose myself in the feel of the paddle catching the current, the sound of the water’s surface breaking over and over in a rhythm, the river breeze on my face, and the stunning curve of the canyon ahead. Scrappy green pines burst from nooks and crannies in the steep basalt cliffs; lazy stretches of water reflect the deep blue, cloudless sky overhead; starlings dip and dive across our path in quick bursts, leading us as we glide.
“How fast are we moving?” asks a voice behind me. I turn to look at the woman wearing a black headscarf and enormous gold-rimmed aviators. She adds, “It feels like we’re in a time warp down here.”
“We’re going about five miles an hour through the calm stretches, ten in the fastest parts,” Macy says matter-of-factlywith a smile. “So, we’ll only do about seven miles today, even though it feels longer in the slower water. Tomorrow we’ll do thirty-five. Sounds like a lot, but we’ll be moving way faster once we start cruising through rapids. If you pick the right lines and raft through the night, you could actually cover this whole stretch of river in a day and a half.” She smiles again. “I’m not gonna recommend that, though. Way too dangerous.”
