Slippery Slope

  Chapter 15

  THE country had changed. Thick, curtainlike forest had given way to open hillsides dotted with pines rolling into the distance. It was the type of landscape down which wild bands of Indians charged in Westerns. The river flowed peacefully now, its youthful energies spent, as though it was gathering itself for its final fury in the canyon that lay ahead. Craig paddled strongly, working his arm and shoulder muscles rhythmically. In—draw—feather—out. A thousand times since breakfast, each stroke pushing the boat further toward the end of his journey. In the last day he had felt his muscles grow. He had become a part of the canoe, reveling in its motion, delighting in his increasing skill. Ahead of the canoe, the water split and lifted up to foam backward along the hull, and the boat hissed like a thing alive.

  Craig had wakened early, bustling about in the chill before dawn lighting the fire, fetching water, and brushing the frost from his sleeping bag before he rolled it into his rucksack. It had been a cold night, and he had slept fitfully. At one point he had awakened suddenly, roused from a dream where his father had been pushing him into a large whirlpool while Jean looked on screaming helplessly. Shivering both from the cold and the lingering terror of the dream he had lit a cigarette and lain back on the hard sand, gazing at the stars. That had been no comfort. The stars had glittered, diamond-hard and impersonal, framed by the dark trees. The night was still and the branches hung motionless above him.

  Once, several years before, Craig had had a dream that he had died and his soul had been released into the universe. The terror of the dream had been that he existed in a complete void where, though he was acutely aware of the passage of time, nothing happened—and nothing, he knew, would ever happen.

  He had awakened screaming to an empty house, and the experience had etched itself on his mind. He had sought happiness in the mountains and on the sea, while his heart had cried out for companionship. He felt more alone than ever, lying there with the river gently babbling to him and the depths of space above his head. Despite the cold, morning had been a relief. His body and his mind craved action, and the tedious little tasks of preparation seemed almost pleasurable.

  There had been no sign of Martin. Water, unlike earth, leaves no trace of passage. In the early morning, with the sun slanting low behind him, he had become aware of the wildlife that shared the river with him. He had pursued a flock of fish-eating ducks, greens and grays, fluttering for fifty or sixty feet, then plowing the water again, heavy with fish. After a mile of this they had huddled into the bank and allowed him to pass. Perhaps Martin had done the same. But he was surely unaware of Craig's presence and must be pushing hard down the stream. Around one bend he had come upon a deer, head bent low to the stream, drinking peacefully, as though it were the only creature in God's universe. With a start it rose up, swung its head from the water, and was off with a great leap. Craig valued these fleeting contacts. They drew him out of himself and into his surroundings.

  He was canoeing through a paradise. Violet hills rolled up, their summits capped with snow and their sides broken with solitary pines, like the work of some eighteenth-century landscape gardener. Capability Brown would have approved. So would Wordsworth.

  As he paddled, verses from the Romantic poets rolled in his mind. They too had been solitaries, reaching out to each other through Nature. And eventually the mountains and the rivers had let them down. Or they had grown beyond empathy with the wild. A glory had passed away from the earth, and the cares of the world had begun to press in upon them. Perhaps what the poets had to tell him was that Nature, even with a capital N, was not enough. A retreat into Nature was a selfishness that mankind, either as individuals or collectively, could not afford. Adventure in the wilderness could bring people together, force them into a realization of their dependence on each other. But it was strong wine to a solitary man nurturing his egoism and his selfishness. Looking back, Craig could recognize how he had sacrificed people to Nature, how he had put it before everything.

  The river was sweeping into a narrow stretch forced between rocky cliffs. He slowed the canoe to seek a passage. Ahead he could hear the crash of the water as it poured over the drops in the river bottom, and he could see the white foam as it sped into a curve below. He let the canoe slide into the vee at the head of the rapid, making the boat respond to the thrust of his paddle. The splashing of the river reverberated from the walls of rock bordering it, thundering and rolling in Craig's ears. The canoe bucked and danced like a wild horse. A rock loomed up, half covered by a haystack of water. He pulled right once, twice, with full-strength strokes dragging the canoe bodily sideways through the water. Great sheets of spray broke over the bow blinding him for an instant and drenching him to the skin.

  Ahead the full force of the river piled up against a ledge of rock. Suddenly, in amazement, Craig saw that sitting on the ledge was a bear, its paw extended to the water, fishing. He roared down upon it, unable to take a different course. For a moment he thought he was about to land on the bear's lap. Then, as the current swept him toward the ledge, Craig leaned almost out of the boat to the left, pulling desperately at the water with the blade of his paddle. With a swoosh, he was through and into the calm eddy on the left of the stream. The bear still regarded him, a quizzical look on its long brown face. It remained immobile, staring in awe at the strange being that had descended into its world. Craig sat still. Never before had he seen a bear this close. The great creature seemed almost human, a wild man, timid and alone among the hills. Craig could stand the eerie stare no longer. He took the wooden paddle and struck it hard on the hull of the canoe. The sound echoed and reechoed in the narrow gorge. The bear shot upright, stood for a second, and then dropped to all fours and was off up the steep hillside. Once near the top it paused and looked back down to where Craig still sat, mesmerized by his experience. Then off it went again, over the crest and into the trees.

  Craig paddled slowly out of the eddy and downstream to a long shingle beach. The canoe was half full of water and would have to be emptied before he could proceed. The hull grated on the stones, and he stepped out. He was still bemused by his meeting with the bear. Its gaze had sent a shiver of awe down his back. He tipped the boat on its side and watched the water slop over onto the pebbles. Reaching into the pocket of his sack, he brought out some dates and sat on the beach while he munched. He was wet and cold, and his legs felt atrophied with lack of use. He lit a cigarette, replacing the packet in a waterproof bag with his matches.

  Getting to his feet, he began to stroll down the bank, his feet clinking the stones. His foot struck something metallic among the pebbles. It was an empty sardine can. Stooping, he lifted it up. The inside still had the remains of sardines clinging to the sides, and a little oil lay in the bottom. It was fresh. There was no sign of any dew in the can. The oil looked quite undiluted. Obviously it had been discarded that day, perhaps only a few hours ago. There was a depression on the beach where someone had sat, and when Craig walked to the water's edge he saw a long trough in the pebbles where a canoe clearly had been dragged. Martin could not be too far ahead.

  He returned to his canoe, stubbed out his cigarette with his heel, and pushed off into the current once more. He would have liked to remain to savor this magnificent country, and better still, he would have given anything to have someone to share it with. He seemed to be doomed to be always running. Since the August night when the money had arrived from the sky, he had never been at rest. The mountains had held no joy for him, forced to be continually on the move, and now on this superb river he was still running. It would not be long now. Martin could not be far ahead. The river only had some thirty miles to run before it merged with the main Salmon River. Below the junction it was called the River of No Return, a name given to it by the early pioneers, and Craig felt sure that Martin would leave the river at the junction. A dirt road made its way into that point, and it was not a long walk back to the busy main road. Civilization. Company. Through rocky narrows he paddled, rhy
thmically, steadily, negotiating the minor rapids that the river placed in his path. He hissed along through great limpid pools, watching trout scatter at his approach. Scents of sage and fir filled the air, sweet and refreshing. Craig was driving the canoe fast, wasting little effort with his economical strokes. The water fell back from the bow in a rising and falling wave. The memory of sun-dappled days in fishing harbors in Maine swept into his head. Boat races with his brother, each vying to row farther and faster, recklessly darting their boats across a crowded harbor. Looking back, one only remembers the good times, not the painful moments or the divisions in the family, thought Craig.

  A dull, roaring sound brought him out of his reverie. The sound of a rapid—growing louder every second. A monster waterfall? Then his ears told him again what his brain had refused to believe. That was no rapid. The sound rose and fell, bouncing off the hills that sloped steeply toward the river. An airplane! For a second Craig sat bemused, his tired mind struggling to assimilate the information. Then it screamed at him—police!

  He swung the canoe toward the bank. The bushes were thin but provided the only cover available. He must not be seen. The roar of the engine filled the valley with the unmistakable sound of a helicopter.

  Then, just as the bow of the canoe crunched in among some slender older bushes washed by the river, Craig saw it. About a quarter of a mile away and a hundred feet up. Following the river. Hunting.

  The bushes were not thick enough to prevent detection from above. As the canoe came to rest, its stem still jutted out into the stream. It could not be missed. Craig panicked, his heart beating wildly. As he twisted to look in horror at the approaching helicopter the canoe almost tipped, and only a sudden movement of the paddle averted a capsize. In a flash it came to him. His only chance was in the water. Craig rolled quickly sideways and fell into the river, holding onto the canoe. Scrabbling at the hull, he dragged the craft down into the water. It seemed an age before the water closed over the hull, and the roar of the helicopter's motors seemed almost overhead as Craig ducked under and into the silent world of roots and grasses. Holding firmly onto an alder with one hand and the canoe with the other, he raised his head up under the upturned hull. Some air was still trapped in the boat, and by arching his neck far back he could get his mouth out of the water. He could not last long in this position. He could feel the cold of the river eat at his strength, and to breathe in his constricted position was agony. Either the helicopter would move over quickly, or all was lost anyway. He could not stand it much longer. If it was all over—well, it was all over. Craig ducked from under the submerged boat and broke water with his head. Nothing above. As the water cleared from his ears he heard the beat of the rotors again, but farther away and receding. He floundered and struggled to the bank, dragging the leaden canoe behind him. Violent shivers rocked him as he strained to empty the boat. For one ghastly second he thought he had lost the paddle and would be stranded, but then he saw it wedged between two alders.

  At last Craig was ready to move again, stiff and aching from his exertions. His mind was in a fearful turmoil. The police were searching. The net was closing in. Perhaps they had seen Martin from the helicopter and were at this moment radioing to organize his interception. Surely the close search of the river was not routine. Something must have alerted them.

  As he paddled downriver Craig felt very near to the end. Physically, mentally, he could take little more. Should the helicopter return, he would accept his fate. Resignation brought a kind of peace, and he needed peace.

  When evening came Craig was still paddling, his arm muscles aching and tired. The helicopter had not returned, but that had failed to raise Craig's spirits. He was despondent. Ahead in the pale evening light he could see the dark slit of the canyon that enclosed the last fifteen miles of the river. He would have to stop on this side of it. It would be folly to paddle on into the canyon's dark depths in the failing light. In the long canyon lay the most difficult rapids in the length of the river, and they would be impossible at night. The trail left the river about a mile before the gorge and wound its way up above the cliffs, so Craig had not seen this stretch of the river. But he had heard Martin talk about it in excited, awed tones. "Christ, Craig, it's the most scary set of rapids I've been down. Not that they're the most difficult, but the great cliffs fall right into the water. If you come out, well, brother, you stay out. There are only a few places in the first five miles where you can stop, and there's only one spot to camp, about one mile in. You'd love it."

  Craig could feel his stomach tighten as he thought of what lay ahead. He had been through a few rapids of severe difficulty already, but the bank had always seemed close and accessible in the event of a spill. No, money or no money, he could not chance the canyon after dark. Perhaps his whole chase had been in vain. He did not see now how he could creep up on Martin unawares. In the narrow canyon there would be no way to get ahead or to surprise him. The only way would be a frontal attack, and Martin had the pistol. Perhaps it was better just to let him get away with the money and hope that he made it. No. Martin was not the type to spend it carefully and secretively. His newfound wealth would make him reckless and conspicuous. Stop him or run himself seemed the only alternatives to Craig. And he was tired of running.

  Just before the dark canyon was a grassy field on the right sloping gently to the river. Craig drew slowly into the bank beside a small group of pines. He dragged the canoe ashore and walked stiffly up, away from the water. Around him everything seemed drained of color in the twilight. He spread out his bag. He was almost too tired to eat but knew he must. Stumbling about almost in a daze, he collected twigs and set them in a fireplace built of rocks and left by some earlier party. Down the gorge the river rolled, dark and threatening. Tomorrow would be the crux. Craig hoped his courage would be adequate for the challenge. And his skill. It would be the supreme test. Suddenly, gazing into the cavernous jaws of the gorge, his tired eyes caught a glimmer of light. It was on the opposite bank from him. Moving. Or was it? No. It was a fire. A campfire down in the canyon. Martin must be there, a mere mile ahead, cooking his dinner and thinking of the end of the river. Now Craig knew he had two challenges to face in the morning: the river and Martin.