“C’mon Paul, even men of few words gotta cut loose on a day like today.”
“I am avoiding paying for a helicopter,” he said, his words heavy with Navajo accent. “We finish reading veg plots. You go back to your project.”
“Can you believe it? Middle of a drought, all this from the headwaters.”
“Confuses things. Range beat to hell, much water in the river.” Yazzi let his paddle balance on the deck of his kayak. “I appreciate your help. I am sorry to pull you away from the report to agencies and Congress.”
Jack turned away.
“You want me to keep you from your work?”
Jack let the thought settle over him. “It’s done. Mostly.”
“Good. What’s next?”
“The Congress part.”
“Good.”
“Not sure it is. I’m starting to think we should limit our actions. Do what we can without dealing with politicians.”
“Why?”
“Because . . . of their games.”
“We need new authorities. To do the things to keep ranchers and environmentalists working together. And why would Congress care? Unless they’re from New Mexico?”
Jack furrowed his brow, and let out a long, seething breath.
“You’re angry. This is not like you.”
“Sorry, Paul.” He pulled off his helmet, loosened the strap on his sunglasses, and slipped them off. He gave his head a shake. Wet, brown strands settled over blue eyes. He swept them away from his face. “It’s just . . . .” He scowled. “Never mind.”
“Famous white man saying—all politics are local. Let our members of Congress earn their keep.” Paul skimmed the water with his paddle. “You’ve done much good here, Jack. Three years ago, the president created the national monument. Afterwards, hell. Everyone fought. Now, they work together. They remember they’re part of the same community. You made that happen. Don’t stop now.”
“It was your work, too, Paul.” Jack sighed. “As much as I want us to do what we can to help preserve this little part of the world, keep people together, help them save what they value . . . the next phase scares me.”
Yazzi laughed. “You white guys. You think too hard. Do this. You’re good at it.”
Jack shrugged, and slipped on his helmet. “Where to now?”
“Next drainage, on the right. We’ll climb out to monitoring sites. Important ones.”
Jack paddled into the current, then waited for Paul to come alongside.
The gorge grew wide, its walls pulling back from the river. Around a bend, on river right, two rafts came into view, beached on the sand. Paddling close to shore, they approached the rafts. Half a dozen men sat under a cottonwood, alongside a creek feeding into the river. River guides—one male, one female—hunkered over a table, picking at food and packing it away.
Chastain and Yazzi came ashore, upstream of the rafts.
The male guide, in river shorts and white Grateful Dead T-shirt, looked up. “Rangers!” he hollered, “hide the contraband.”
“Contraband?” a client hollered back, sounding confused.
The guide laughed, and tossed back his long, sun bleached hair.
“Hey, Stew.” Jack crawled out of the kayak, stood, and stretched his tall, lanky frame. He took hold of the webbing on the bow of the kayak, and dragged it onto the sand. “Who’s your partner? New guide?”
Stew, lean and muscled, let out a yawn. “Sorry, I need a nap. This is Lizzy. Lizzy McClaren. Not exactly new. She started last summer.”
“Haven’t had a chance to meet,” Jack said, extending a hand.
The woman looked up through locks of curly red hair, her green eyes piercing. Equally lean, shoulders muscled, she wore a sleeveless sun dress, threadbare and sun bleached. She set down the knife, shook the hand, and finished chewing. “You are?”
“Jack Chastain, Park Service. This is Paul Yazzi, Bureau of Land Management.” He gave her dress another look. Typical river guide. Squeaking by. Doing whatever it takes for a life on the river.
She glanced at Yazzi and took another bite. “We still in the park?”
“You left the park a few miles back. You’re in the national monument, one of the reaches managed by BLM.”
“I figured as much.” She backed away. “No time to chat. If we wanna good camp, we gotta keep moving.” She lugged a stack of plastic containers to the downstream raft, reached over the tube, opened an ice chest, and tossed them in. She turned back. “Unless you’re doing inspections, we’ll see you down river.” She waved her clients over. “Load up,” she shouted.
“Inspections? No.” Jack glanced at Stew, then back. “This is a science trip.”
“I see,” she said, unfazed. She held a garbage bag open to the clients as they climbed into the raft. Following them over the tube, she stashed the bag, and pointed to life vests. “Get yours on first, then someone hand me mine.” She plopped down and took hold of the oars. Stew untied her line, setting her adrift.
As Stew’s clients boarded, he turned to Jack. “She’s good,” he whispered. “Sometimes a little distant. She’s from back east. New York.”
“No worries. Catch you over beer at Elena’s.”
“Deal, we’ll . . . ” Stew paused. He cupped an ear.
Jack heard it. Low. Rumbling. Growing by the moment. Rising over the sound of the river.
Paul turned to listen. “That cannot be.”
The sound. Rock against rock, water pounding walls.
Willow and cottonwood leaves rustled. Breeze turned to gust.
“Smell that?” Jack said, turning to Yazzie.
He nodded.
“What?” Stew asked.
“Dirt.” He glanced at the sky. Blue, scattered clouds. But, . . . “Get your people upslope. Now.” He pointed upstream. “There. Do it fast.”
Stew rushed his boat. “Get out. Quick!” Clients jumped from the tube and ran, feet fighting sand.
Jack waved the other boat to shore, an eye on the side canyon. The sound grew loud, a freight train barreling toward them, hidden by serpentine cuts through the rock.
Lizzy pushed the oars. The raft lurched forward, bumping the shore. Two men jumped, already running. Lizzy started after, but stopped. A third man tugged at a river bag lashed to the boat frame. She clutched the man’s arm and pulled, jerking him back. His glasses flew off. He fought as she pulled.
Ready to move, Jack glanced from boat to side canyon. The rumble changed. Air shook. He watched as water exploded from the canyon. Dark, filthy water, laden with debris, tens of feet high. “Run.”
“Leave ’em!” Lizzy shouted.
The man ripped his arm away and reached for his glasses. He put them on. His eyes grew wide.
Paul dashed toward talus, dragging his kayak. Jack waited seconds, then followed, grabbing his in a tenuous hold as he moved away from the surge.
It hit. Water, debris, the surge scooping up the rafts, flipping them over, pushing them into the current, belly up. The rafts floated downstream, through a bend of the river.