PRECIPICE (7 page)

The question led to a ten second void of awkward silence as Harris looked inquiringly at Sutherland. The older man stared at the vaulted ceiling and refused to meet his gaze. Then Sutherland sighed, removed his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He placed the glasses carefully on the table next to the computer. This was even trickier than he’d anticipated. His eyes finally met Harris’, and he nodded in acquiescence.

Harris gave Chip a serious look. This would be easier one operator to another, without a filter. He was now sure that they not only needed the kid’s advice, they needed his experience and skills on this mission. No more dissembling. He leaned in and spoke quietly. “The objective is to reach those buildings. For reasons we won’t go into, the river is the only way we can access them. You’re saying that the water level is a consideration—we understand that. We knew we were looking for enough water in the river to float a raft, but we hadn’t considered the possibility that there might be too much. That buys us a little time, but we expect the water to begin dropping soon. What we need to know is: at the correct water level, could you catch that eddy, set an anchor in the rock wall, and then rope us over before we went over the falls?”

“Yeah,” Chip nodded with quiet confidence. His mind was racing trying to figure out what this was all about. It didn’t feel real. Was he actually being asked by a Navy SEAL if he could help tackle a mysterious river canyon? He looked at the satellite picture on the screen again and saw not only a river, but the adventure of a lifetime. He continued, “If you’re serious about this, you’ll need more training than what we did on the Gauley. That was big water like they have in Africa. This is more of a creek. It’s steeper and more technically demanding. Can you zoom out?” This last was directed at Sutherland, who reached to the trackpad and expanded the view of the canyon.

Chip pointed at another white blur about a half-mile upstream of the buildings. “See, there’s a smaller falls here that you’ll probably have to paddle over. You should do some training for waterfalls and technical whitewater before you go.” This was looking better and better. Chip could smell a road trip, and these guys obviously had the bankroll to do it. He’d probably even get paid to go.

“Where can we go to train?”

That was the tricky part, Chip realized. The floodwaters from tropical storm Katia had receded quickly, leaving minimal flow in the rivers of the Appalachian Mountains—not enough for paddling. All of the snow had melted off the mountain out west months ago, leaving rivers there empty this time of year as well. The rainy season probably wouldn’t start in the Pacific Northwest for another couple of weeks. He could only think of one possibility.

“Can you get internet on here?” He indicated the laptop.

Sutherland pulled up his browser, turned the computer slightly toward Chip, and sat back to give him room.

Chip slid his now-empty breakfast plate out of the way and worked the keys, pulling up an online listing of current water levels in many of the continent’s best whitewater rivers. The one he was looking for was close to the top. The level was 3.2 meters, just what he was looking for. He checked the forecast for Vancouver. More rain expected on the weekend. “The rains have started already in BC. That’s the only place going right now that has what you’re looking for. Unless you want to go to South America…” he finished hopefully.

“So British Columbia has what we need?” Harris headed off Chip’s wishful thinking.

Sutherland interrupted, taking charge again now that the discussion had moved back into logistics, which were his forte. “OK, so we need to get the team to Canada for additional training as soon as possible. We’ll pay you the same rate—five hundred per day—for a week of training. If all goes well, we’ll meet again and reassess the mission.”

The word ‘mission’ confirmed Chip’s suspicions. There was more to this than running a river, but they weren’t telling him yet. That was fine with him, especially since he was about to get paid five hundred dollars per day to go kayaking in BC. He had definitely hit the jackpot.

“How soon can you leave?”

“I’ve gotta guide on the weekend, but I can get out of that if I have to.”

“Okay, no need for that drastic a move. You can fly out next Monday. Here’s my card. Please email me any special equipment needs this afternoon—kayak, paddle, and so on—and we’ll have them waiting for you when you land. I’ll email you back with your flight information, and we can have a driver pick you up here. Is there anything else we need to consider?” He looked at both men as he said this. Both shook their heads.

Sutherland shut his laptop down and closed it, returning it to his briefcase. “Let’s talk about what you’re going to tell your friends about this.” He looked pointedly at the younger man.

Chip thought quickly. “I got hired to go to Africa to support your adventure race team?”

Harris broke into an ‘
I told you so
’ smile and looked at Sutherland, who raised his eyebrows in surprised approval.

“I think you’ll do just fine.” Sutherland nodded as he stood and shook hands with Chip then handed him an envelope full of cash.

They said their goodbyes and Chip headed for the door, stuffing the envelope into his pants pocket as he went. He’d have enough money for a new kayak
and
a trip to Ecuador, but all he could think about was the images of that mysterious river canyon and the waterfalls that dwelled within it. Whatever it took, he wanted to go there.

*

Sheldon Moore stood in front of a massive oak dresser and resignedly adjusted his bow tie in the mirror. In the expanse of glass he could see the reflection of his wife behind him across the room, adjusting a black dress that clung to her hips as she looked in her own oak-framed, full-length mirror. He marveled at how little her figure had changed in the twenty-four years since they’d met. Of course, he had the personal trainer bills to show for it. Appearances had always been important to Liza. Her hair was perfectly styled and colored—she wasn’t quite ready to gracefully go grey. Her wardrobe for every event was chosen without flaw down to each tiny accessory and tastefully displayed jewel. She was the perfect image of a politician’s wife, but beneath the shiny veneer was formidable substance.

They had only been dating for a few weeks when his father had been diagnosed with cancer. She was on the senator’s staff and had been active in organizing his last campaign. After losing the farm and moving to DC to work for his father, Sheldon was left foundering when the colonel passed away. He became even more disoriented when the governor said he’d like to appoint him to replace Howell C. Moore in the Senate. He was determined to honor his father’s memory—and to console his grieving mother—by accepting the appointment. But at the same time he was overwhelmed with reconciling the new responsibility with his own desires, whatever they might be.

Liza had been the rock to which he’d clung in his grief and confusion, his savior. What he lacked in direction and drive, she made up for in spades. He’d fallen madly in love, and they’d married the following year. Being a senator’s wife was a dream come true for Liza. She loved everything about it, from the influence to the parties, the prestige, and the political game. When his first term had ended, she had encouraged him to run for reelection and managed a brilliant campaign for him. There was no way he would have let her down or taken away the things that made her so happy. She had carefully steered his career ever since. Never one to buck the system, Sheldon had gone along. Anything was fine with him as long as he had Liza to hold onto.

She walked across the room toward him, her high heels clicking on the hardwood floor, and turned him by the shoulder so she could fix his tie. He’d worn the tuxedo hundreds of times, but he could never quite get it right. She insisted that he not wear a clip-on. They were low class. Her ministrations to the propriety of his appearance had all of the intimacy of a dental examination and the delicate precision of surgery. Sheldon endured it silently, dropping his hands placidly to his sides and feeling the weight of the heavy cufflinks tugging at his sleeves. There was nothing left to say.

He wasn’t sure when the love which had sustained him for so long had turned to resentment that he was living her dream and not his own. The heart attack had called it to his attention, but it must have started long before. The tangled mess of love, family, responsibility, booze, politics, and physical ailments dimmed like a hazy reflection in his mental rear-view mirror, and it was impossible to separate the causes from the cures in the morass. All he was sure of was that no matter how he’d gotten into this mess, for the first time in his life he was willing to take action to get himself out.

She adjusted his cummerbund, brushed some lint from his pants leg, then turned and clicked away into her bathroom. Sheldon certainly would not miss these social functions. His wife lived for them, seeming to come alive when they walked out the door only to return to a distant somnolence the moment they returned home. For a long time he hadn’t wanted to take this joy away from her; but what about his joy? He had precious little left except for his talks with his daughter and the rare moment of peace when he was on a hunting trip far from the turmoil and treachery of this wretched town.

He pulled his coat off the hanger where it hung on the closet door, slid it on, and headed downstairs. He had time for one drink before they had to leave.

4

Sunday, October 16th

CHIP STARED INTO the flames of the bonfire and distractedly took the Mason jar that was making its way around the circle. He raised it to his lips and was careful to breathe out through his nose as he sipped the clear liquid. He could feel the white lighnin’ burn from his tongue down his gullet before exploding like a bomb of warmth deep in his belly and spreading all the way to the ends of his fingers and toes. He heard one of the other guides belt out a feral “Yeeeeoooow!,” the shout building in volume and echoing into the chilly West Virginia night. Chip took another sip of the fiery liquor then wiped a stray drop from the jar’s threads and licked it from his finger as he passed the homemade corn whiskey on down the line.

It was the end of the rafting season, the very last day. He had guided the Upper section of the river on Saturday and then camped with his customers on the side of the river that night. The rafting company always served steak and salmon at the campsite, and as usual, they had tapped a keg of beer for the guests and guides. Although the trips were exhausting, Chip loved working the overnighters. You just couldn’t beat getting paid to eat good food and drink beer. Plus you made better tips when you partied with your crew. The next morning the same group had taken buses back to the top and done the same section of river again, with Chip guiding his crew smoothly down the rapids a second time.

When all of the trips were finished for the day, the entire staff that remained had gathered for their end-of-season party. Some talked excitedly of winter paddling trips which they had saved up money all summer to afford, while others had plans to migrate to jobs operating ski lifts or patrolling the slopes at various resorts. These were the ‘lifestylers,’ Chip’s peers. The college kids on break and schoolteachers earning extra summer income had gone home months ago. The guides that were left were the true professionals, people who molded the rest of their lives around the river rather than fitting river time into the gaps of their normal lives.

Chip hadn’t always been a lifestyler. He’d first gotten hooked on whitewater when his father took the family rafting when he was only twelve. He’d been fascinated by the colorful plastic kayaks darting around the river and had asked his dad if they could learn how. Later that same summer, his dad had enrolled them in a weekend kayaking course through an outfitter in North Carolina. Chip had taken to it instantly—he was a natural.

Back home in Atlanta, young Chip had begged for more. His father had found a kayaking club that met at a local community swimming pool, and Chip had become a weekly fixture at the meetings. He’d mastered the Eskimo roll for righting an upturned kayak both with and without a paddle, and he was soon joining the adults from the club on their weekend adventures to the rivers of northern Georgia, Alabama, and even North Carolina. Chip’s obsession had only grown deeper when he’d gotten his driver’s license and was able to drive himself to the rivers.

As soon as he was old enough to work, he’d gotten summer jobs guiding rafts. After graduating from high school, he’d spent an entire year working on the rivers of North Carolina, ostensibly to establish residency so he could get in-state college tuition. He’d spent four years at Appalachian State University in Boone where he got a degree in environmental geology between summers of raft guiding. He’d kayaked after class almost every day. When he’d graduated from college, his parents and professors had all wanted him to get a job. But he’d told them that he already had one—he was a river guide. He’d been a full-time guide ever since. He’d had opportunities over the years to make the jump to become a sponsored pro kayaker and hit the road to compete or film for extreme-sports videos. He certainly had the skills for it, and he paddled with some of those guys from time to time. It was just that making a lot of noise wasn’t Chip’s style. Rather than earning a living by touting his skills, he preferred to fly under the radar and always kayak on his own terms.

A tiny figure barreled around the fire and ran into him, nestling under his arm. Kaitlin was a spunky little thing, maybe five-foot-one on a good day, and her head barely reached to Chip’s broad shoulder. She was cute and had a decent figure, although she was a little bit stocky like many girls who made their living pushing thousand-pound rafts down rivers. She wore her long brown hair in pigtails which made her look younger than her twenty-six years. Chip and Kaitlin had been a thing for a couple of years in their early twenties, but the divergent migrations of their lifestyles had eventually forced them apart. She went to Florida every winter to teach sea kayaking and escape the cold, while Chip couldn’t leave his beloved whitewater rivers behind. He and Kaitlin were still friends, and he occasionally regretted that it hadn’t worked out between them. He’d tried to at least get her back in the sack several times over the years, but she wasn’t into the casual thing.