13
By the time we finally pull onto the narrow beach above Anvil Falls—also known as Camas Creek—it’s around eight o’clock, which means the sun has long since dipped below the canyon rim. The temperature has dropped at least twenty degrees, and my wet clothes cling miserably to my skin.
After rafting the last section of river in near-darkness, everybody is on edge—cold, hungry, and thirsty.
The mood has soured so drastically that hardly anyone speaks while we unload the cooking and camping gear from the rafts in the dark.
The roar of the falls vibrates the ground as we shuffle past each other on the tiny strip of sand—maybe twenty yards wide and walled in by imposing basalt.
We’ve all been keeping our water bottles close since the disaster, taking tiny bird-like sips.
There’s plenty of fresh water surrounding us, but as Gracie has reiterated several times, drinking it is a terrible idea.
Going thirsty for a few hours is far better than risking Giardia or E.
coli. The river is riddled with wildlife waste, rotting animal carcasses, and worse.
Drinking directly from it without boiling is a fast-track to vomiting, diarrhea, and dehydration.
That’s the last thing we need, since half the boat is still complaining of stomach cramps from the river wraps. And without a satellite phone, we can’t take any more risks.
“Bryan, can you get us some water boiling before you set up the groover?” Josh asks, his voice barely masking his irritation as he hurries to assemble the camp stove. A few feet away, Gracie and Macy unload chairs like it’s a contest.
I bristle. Bryan can’t set up the groover and get water boiling.
“Hey!” I snap, glaring at Josh. But when he whips his head in my direction and I see his face, I think better of starting an argument.
He might be physically imposing, and he might be an expert rafter, but he’s still just a human being pushed to the day’s limits.
All the guides are. Everyone is. And that is terrifying all by itself.
“I really need the bathroom ASAP,” someone pipes up.
“No, we really need water first,” Deborah says, unbuckling her life jacket and throwing it into an empty passenger raft.
My stomach coils. This trip is turning into what Parker would call a “Nashville” experience.
The year we got married, we’d flown into town for a concert at the massive Nissan Stadium.
Garth Brooks was only a minute into his second song on stage when threatening storm clouds converged overhead, lightning striking dangerously close to the stadium.
Announcers rushed Garth and his band offstage and sent seventy thousand concertgoers spilling into the night—even though a flash flood was overtaking the city.
Most of us had Ubered to the event from nearby hotels.
But with the flash-flood emergency alerts in effect, there were suddenly no taxis or rideshares to be found.
Parker and I walked back to our hotel through the storm until two o’clock in the morning, shivering violently in the rain, cowering under the thunder and lightning, fighting knee-deep water rushing down the streets.
The only other alternative would have been to hunker down in a parking garage until morning.
It was a horrible experience—scary, unpleasant, even dangerous.
There wasn’t a thing about it that I wanted to repeat.
But when we were finally safe and showered—had devoured the candy from the minibar in bed, lying hip-to-hip—we looked at each other and laughed until we both cried.
The memory imprinted on both of us, deeper than so many of the more beautiful memories we’d made over the years.
We’d survived something together. And something about that was precious.
Whenever anything started to really go off the rails after that, we’d look at each other and mouth, “Nashville.” Like a safe word. It was a reminder that no matter how hard something seemed, we’d laugh about it later—hip-to-hip.
That whispered word, “Nashville,” never failed to make me smile, even in the most stressful moments. Until our final moment. There was no “Nashville” to be found in that underground cave system.
And without him, there is no Nashville here, either.
But there is one thing I know for sure: Parker would jump into action, trying to make the best of all the bad. And suddenly, I know that’s what I have to do.
“Let me help,” I call out over the guides arguing in the dark. “I can get the water boiling or help Bryan set up the groover.”
Bryan stops wrestling with the contraption, seemingly shocked to have been offered a hand. Like it’s the first time that’s ever happened.
Macy pauses in wrangling chairs and smiles, exhausted. When she speaks, her voice shakes a little like she’s trying not to cry. “Thanks … if you can get the water boiling, I’d really appreciate it.”
“Happy to,” I say, feeling some of my anxiety melting already. It strikes me then how young Macy is—how young all of the guides are. They’re probably freaking out even more than any of us.
The energy in the group shifts as Deborah steps forward too, clapping my back. “Atta girl, Kaia.” She turns to the others. “Come on, let’s pitch some tents, ladies! Whining isn’t going to get us fed and in bed any faster.” She gives my shoulder a motherly squeeze, and warmth spreads through me.
For the next hour, everyone rallies, bustling together on the tiny beach.
The campfire crackles to life, and soon plenty of drinkable, albeit hot, water is simmering in the Dutch ovens.
The tents are pitched, the pads and sleeping bags rolled out, and dinner—steak and potatoes—is served steaming hot. We eat in exhausted, ravenous silence.
By the time I sip down the dregs of my hot chocolate, my soggy clothes have nearly dried out. All I want to do now is sleep. I sigh contentedly and stand from my spot at the edge of the campfire, then hand my empty plate and cup to Bryan, who is on dish duty again.
“I’m turning in,” I tell the group. “See you all in the morning.”
A few of the other women stand to follow suit. Everyone wears the same bone-weary expressions as they shuffle around the dwindling fire, collecting their belongings.
Right as I turn to go, I hear a loud sniffling sound coming from the far end of the circle, where Allie and Nikki are huddled together. Then comes a full-on sob.
“I’m sorry,” Allie hiccups, when all eyes turn toward her. Firelight glints off the tears streaming down both women’s cheeks. “I know you don’t want to hear any more about Camas Creek, but I’m really freaking out. We can’t just go to sleep.”
My heart sinks. Not this again.
The four guides exchange nervous glances at the fringes of the campfire. For a moment, no one says a word.
Josh is the one who finally speaks. And to my surprise, he doesn’t roll his eyes at her like he did this morning.
I wouldn’t blame him for being irritated, given the nightmare of a day we’ve all had.
But his tone is gentle. “Allie, Nikki—listen to me. Camas Creek happened a long-ass time ago. Kellen Stroop is dead. You both know that. I know that. And I can tell you, I’ve been down this river over and over again, and nothing really bad has ever happened.
Hell, we forgot the satellite phone one trip last summer, too.
I slept like a baby all five nights—including on this beach—and I got home totally safe.
” He pauses to let that sink in, then goes on.
“We’ve all had a tough day. But it’s not gonna get any better if we stay up all night freaking out.
Tomorrow we’ve got a lot more rapids. The best thing for both of you—for all of us—is to get some rest.”
Allie sniffles again but doesn’t protest.
Nikki reaches for her hand and squeezes. “He’s probably right, Al. Come on. Let’s get some cozy pajamas on, at least. You wanna share a tent?”
Allie looks at me, like I might have words of comfort for her, too.
All I can do is smile weakly, praying that exhaustion will get all of us through the night.