The Last to Drown

JULY 12, 2018

At first, Aspen isn’t sure what’s woken her in the middle of the night. Then comes the soft padding of footsteps on sand outside her tent.

Then breathing—just loud enough to compete with the ever-present drone of whitewater rapids shooting through the canyon at Anvil Falls, downriver from the campsite.

She sighs, more annoyed than worried.

With sixteen people crammed onto the narrow stretch of sandy shoreline above Anvil Falls, disturbances like this happen a dozen times each night. There’s always somebody snoring, flopping around in their sleeping bag, trying to kill a spider in the dark, or wandering around with a full bladder.

Moonlight and shadow play across the wall of Aspen’s billowing nylon tent, revealing the outline of broad shoulders, someone’s head.

It’s one of the men who make up half the group on this trip, she decides.

I swear to god, if you pee right here … She shifts in her sleeping bag and glares at the shadow hovering beside her tent, not sure how to finish the thought.

Yelling at a rafting guest would probably earn Idaho Thrills a one-star review on Yelp—a surefire way to ensure she doesn’t get invited back to guide again.

And as much as some parts of the job suck, she’s desperate to be back on the river next summer.

Despite working dawn-to-dusk, long days rowing until her arms ache, the constant preparing of bulk mediocre food in heavy Dutch ovens, the inevitable second-degree sunburns, cleaning up after guests, and rescuing obnoxious kids who jump out of the raft for a swim just before a Class-Four rapid, she wouldn’t change a thing.

Being on the Garnet River—especially the Middle Fork—and getting paid for it is everything she’s ever wanted.

Aspen would never be able to afford a trip like this at twenty years old.

Hell, even her parents can’t afford a trip like this, and they’re full-on adults.

Aspen doesn’t realize she’s fallen back asleep until she wakes again to more footfalls. Her eyes fly open just in time to see the shadow slip sideways, out of view.

Her annoyance flares again. Has it been two minutes or twenty? Is it the same guy she saw before? And most importantly—is he gone now?

When she strains to listen, the faint sound of breathing is her answer.

Whoever it is, they aren’t leaving. At least they aren’t peeing, though.

Aspen sighs and sits up in her sleeping bag, fully awake now and debating opening the tent flap.

Maybe the dude is sleepwalking? Is she obligated to try to wrangle this person back into their tent?

This isn’t my problem, she decides. If she hears somebody go splashing into the water, then she’ll intervene.

It’s her second summer guiding for Idaho Thrills, and even though the Middle Fork trip is the most exclusive—and expensive—adventure the outfitter offers, she’s camped here at Camas Creek above Anvil Falls at least a half dozen times now.

Despite the roaring whitewater downriver, the beach is a small but safe harbor.

The brightly colored passenger rafts and gear boats are banked on the sand nearby.

Twenty yards behind the camp, the beach dead-ends into a sheer canyon wall that stretches thirty stories straight up.

Unless you’re a mountain goat, there’s nowhere to go.

Aspen lies back down, easing herself into her still-warm sleeping bag and closing her bleary eyes.

She forces herself to visualize tomorrow’s stretch of river, running through the possible challenges and eliminating them one by one.

But before she can finish the first set of whitewater, the scritch of nylon—followed by a soft, metallic jingling sound—sends her eyes flying open again.

A hand—a dark shadow—is fumbling with the zipper of her tent.

The entry flap parts one inch, two inches.

Shit.

Her annoyance sours into fear. She’s only wearing pajama pants and a tank top, no bra.

“Hey! You have the wrong tent,” she hisses, not wanting to wake the entire beach as she leans forward to tug the zipper firmly back down.

The hand snaps back silently, recoiling into the night like it’s been burned.

Aspen sighs with relief, then holds her breath, listening for the shuffle of footsteps padding back down the beach, waiting for the opening and closing zip of the wanderer’s own tent.

There’s nothing, though. Just the static drone of the river, a light snore from an adjacent tent, and the reedy symphony of the crickets and katydids that never, ever shut up.

Then a subtle movement in the darkness—shifting shadows a few feet away—draws her eye.

He’s still fucking there.

“Who’s out there?” she asks, no longer trying to hide the frustration in her whisper.

If she doesn’t get back to sleep, tomorrow is going to be a total shit show.

This point of the Middle Fork, Anvil Falls, is considered the start of the notorious “Impassable Canyon,” where the ever-present cliff walls make it feel exactly how it sounds.

Tomorrow’s route will be an onslaught of big whitewater and nonstop Class-Three and -Four rapids before the appearance of the next camp-worthy beach—tiny, elusive, and twenty miles downriver.

Aspen needs to be rested and sharp to keep her guests safe.

With zero shoreline in the Impassable Canyon, even a Class-Three rapid can spell disaster.

The relentless force of thousands of gallons of water per second can pin bodies into boulder crevices faster than you can take one last breath.

If a raft were to flip, anyone in the water could easily become stuck between a literal rock and a hard place.

Aspen is still waiting for a response from outside the tent, but hears nothing.

Easing herself out of the sleeping bag again, she crouches forward and squints at the moonlight filtered through the thin nylon.

It’s impossible to make out any real shapes.

She keeps her face inches from the tent wall for a few more seconds.

Then she reaches for the zipper, resigned to figuring out what the hell is going on.

Cold air rushes in as she unzips the flap.

It’s July, high summertime, but this close to the river, the temperature always plummets into the low fifties at night.

Aspen pokes her head out of the tent, bracing against the chill, still hoping she can deal with the wanderer without getting fully dressed or getting her feet sandy.

She looks left, down the row of guest tents, craning her neck and squinting.

Her own tent is perched alongside the other three guide tents at the far end of the beach, just apart from the guests.

The darkness ahead reveals nothing but the glow of the sand, the half-moon glinting on the river’s ripples like melted butter.

He’s finally gone.

Is it possible she was dreaming? Or that she somehow missed the sound of footsteps padding away from her? The zip of a tent flap?

She looks right, and startles.

He’s not gone. A pair of sandal-clad feet peek from behind the angled rainfly of her tent. If she reached out, she could touch them.

Thick, dark hair covers the knuckles on the big toes.

Aspen’s pulse ticks faster. This is not okay. It’s a small beach, but this person is practically wedged against the side of her tent. Is he trying to scare her? Because at this point, he’s succeeding. Her pulse pounds harder in her ears, almost drowning out the crickets.

“What are you doing?” she hisses, still quiet enough that she won’t wake Jenny, the guide in the closest tent.

There’s no need to make a fuss, she tells herself. Because surely this is just a misunderstanding. It has to be.

No reply. But she can hear that breathing again, heavy and fast.

Aspen’s skin prickles with gooseflesh as she pulls on the zipper to open her tent flap all the way, suddenly desperate to get out. She ducks, her head just clearing the tent flap as she emerges.

And that’s when he strikes.

He moves like a coiled snake, so unexpectedly fast she doesn’t even make it past the tarp at the threshold of her tent, barely has time for one choked, squeaky scream as he shoves her backward through the open flap.

Something sharp breaks the skin on the side of her neck, slicing through flesh and muscle until it lands on bone with a sickening thud, cold then hot then wet. Liquid gushes from the wound, pouring down between her shoulder blades and throat.

Aspen tries and fails to scream as the blade twists. It’s then that she feels something vital give way, and her legs go numb beneath her.

Instinctively, she flails into the wall of the tent, desperate to get out, rolling against the thin nylon again and again until it partially collapses.

He follows easily, crashing on top of her. The tent poles snap and the canvas floor turns slick as she thrashes, trying to fight back as he brings the knife down again and again until the night explodes into stars behind her eyes.