A boat moves so fast when a river is near flood stage that Carlyle could only rely on his experience and a set of automatic moves buried deep in his subconscious. He would not be thinking his way down the Hudson; this was a read-and-react situation.
Because of the almost constant rain the mountains had received this week, the most treacherous ledges were submerged today. Only an idiot could have scraped rock on the Indian. But as the gradient increased and the river narrowed, Carlyle’s raft began to slide from wave to wave like a surfer coiled tightly inside a twenty-foot-high boil line.
For five or six minutes, Carlyle and his crew careened down through the Gooley Steps. If he allowed the boat to flip here, in a place where granite boulders plugged the current, someone might lose a couple of teeth—or worse—during a long, very cold swim.
When he finally reached the Confluence, Carlyle took several deep breaths. The experience of driving a raft through gut-churning rapids, where one was only seconds from a devastating accident, was almost hallucinogenic. Vital tasks, such as avoiding rocks that could rip the guts out of a boat, were all-consuming. The calculus of success here was simple. Either Carlyle made the right moves and his crew remained safe, or he let his attention wander and someone ended up in the river.
Just before they took off again, Nash said, “You sure you’re okay?”
“Listen, when you do this river over a hundred times, it’s in your DNA.”
“Wait a couple of hours before you decide to relax.”
Following Betts, Carlyle’s raft barreled across the current. Cedar Ledges was supposed to be a warm-up for what lay ahead, but it shocked Carlyle. There were truck-sized holes everywhere, thunderous recirc engines that would hold onto his boat till the next millennium if he screwed up. But because he remembered every foot of this river, Carlyle kept them far away from places where a boat could wrap around a boulder.
Halfway down Cedar, Sayers caught up to Carlyle’s raft. “Prettiest part of the trip, isn’t it?” Carlyle said.
“It’s all just lumber to me.”
“You ever hike around here?”
“Why come all this way? I got trees where I live.”
Twenty minutes later, Carlyle’s raft picked up speed as it got pushed through a sweeping right-hand turn. “Pay attention now!” he shouted. “Entrance is just ahead.”
As the Hudson churned south and east toward Blue Ledge basin, it crashed into a string of boulders and became a series of whitewater cauldrons, each one setting off a blast that reverberated through the canyon.
The river plummeted downhill. Surrounded by chest-high swells, they plowed past a series of white-tipped hydraulics. A line of boulders ahead turned the horizon into a ragged kaleidoscope of colors: deep green, white, and dark brown. Breathing deeply, Carlyle let himself slip into a rhythm, the reflexive process of threading a boat through a minefield. The procedure had an inexorable logic, a series of split-second calculations that got him through Entrance safely, but left him no time at all to be on the lookout for another surprise attack.
Just before noon, the convoy slid down into Blue Ledge Basin.
“We should take a break here,” Nash said.
“Keep moving,” Marshall said. “I’ve got to get off this river.”
Nash said, “Everyone’s exhausted. It’s our last chance to rest up before the Boreas.”
Marshall tried to sit up. “You heard what I said.” He turned to Sayers and Sutcliffe. “What about you two?”
“You bought me for the day,” Sayers said. “You call the shots.”
Sutcliffe said, “I say we get it over with.”
Nash turned to Betts. “You got an opinion?”
“Carlyle’s in charge. Let him handle it.”
“It’s been a tough morning,” Carlyle said. “No harm in stopping for a minute.”
After the guides beached their boats opposite the ice-covered cliffs, Carlyle handed out snacks to his crew and then walked over to Nash. “Marshall okay?”
“He’s got a chick stroking his forehead, probably wondering if he can get laid with broken ribs.”
“I need to talk to him.”
“What about?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“You’re welcome to him.” Nash headed toward the woods.
Marshall, eyes closed, was leaning against a thwart in Nash’s raft. “You going to make it?” Carlyle said.
“What choice do I have?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Are you serious? I can hardly breathe.”
Carlyle leaned close to the injured guide. “If you don’t answer me, we may not make it out of here.”
Marshall coughed and, when his ribs flexed, groaned.
“I’ll make it quick,” Carlyle said. “Are you the only one who runs that chute on the Indian?”
“No one will go near it after what happened to Blake.”
“You ever have an employee who’s handy with a canoe?”
“What’s this all about?”
“Just answer me.”
“Good enough to run one through the gorge?”
“That’s what I mean.”
“Betts is too big to. Nash’s specialty is kayaks. I’ve got no idea about Sutcliffe or Sayers.”
“Any of them fixated on the backcountry? You know, survivalist types?”
“You mean like living off berries and mushrooms?”
“Right.”
“They’re beer and brats people, for Christ’s sake.”
“You know where they all live?”
“I’m not the type you invite over for dinner, in case you didn’t notice.”
“Anybody drive a really old pickup?”
“Guides are generally poor as shit. Why do you think they do this kind of work?”
“Anyone good with a fly rod?”
“You’ve got to be kidding. That’s a rich man’s hobby.”
“Just answer me.”
“Betts uses dynamite to catch his dinner. No one has time to tie flies.”
“What about the two guides you hired today?”
“Sayers owns a few acres somewhere. Always short of money, like the rest of them.”
“Sutcliffe?”
“He’s local, too. Works part-time on the river. Keeps to himself. Will you stop asking me this shit?”
“That’s enough for now. We’ll get you out of here soon.”
Carlyle motioned Nash over. “We’re done.”
Nash stared at the blue-gray cliffs hovering over the river. “You’re doing great.”
“You’re not going to break my balls again?” Carlyle said. “What a surprise.”
“I meant for a professor.”
When it was time to move out, Carlyle brought his crew together. Sounding like a mother
