17
For the first time since arriving at Camas Creek, I really, truly consider the source of the sound that’s growing louder by the second.
Anvil Falls.
If the Devil’s Stairs was lightning, Anvil Falls is thunder.
And we’re about to face it. In the middle of the fucking night.
“Hang on!” Macy calls ahead to the first raft. “Let us in front so we can lead you through!” We’re closing the distance, but it’s clear the other vessel is losing their fight with the current—it’s too heavy, and the current is too strong.
“Shit,” Macy snaps. “Shit, shit, shit.”
Soon, I have a better view of the other boat.
Even in the dark, it’s clear that it’s way over capacity.
The women are piled in so haphazardly it’s difficult to count them all, but the left side of the DayGlo orange raft is sagging, uneven and strangely low in the water.
Anyone who has a hold of a paddle—only about half of them—holds it like a shovel, digging hard into the current to keep the raft from inching over the steep edge of the monstrous falls.
But it’s plain to see that exhaustion and panic are winning out.
Feet ahead, the river narrows dramatically through the canyon where the black, snaking current turns to frothing cream. The other raft slips forward, nosing into the whitewater.
Deborah and I watch with dread while Allie and Pam crane their necks at Bryan’s boat, which is encroaching from maybe fifteen yards away.
“Don’t look at him! Look forward!” Macy screams at them. “Row together!”
“Beth!” Deborah cries ahead to her sister, her voice ragged. “Row hard, hon, you’re gonna be okay! I’ll see you at the end!”
“I love you!” Beth screams above the roar of the falls.
Macy curses again before firing off instructions to the other raft, which has taken the unyielding lead.
“Wedge your feet deep into the raft, row together, do not let the raft get sideways!” Macy screams over the churn of roaring water.
“Do not hit the canyon walls. Do not hit the line of boulders at the bottom—they’re gonna be hard to see in the dark.
You have to stay left until the very end, and then make a hard right so you miss those boulders.
I can guide you through this, okay? We’ll be right behind you. ”
The first raft is gaining speed in front of us, flying toward an enormous rolling wave. The boat’s neon shape rides on black water, against black canyon walls, almost seeming to float in space. Against Macy’s orders, I steal a glance behind us. Bryan’s raft is gaining speed, too.
Parker, I need you, I beg—a prayer I don’t expect to be answered.
He can’t save me. No one can.
But I can’t help but remember my dream from the first night, where he guided me down an impassable rapid, smiling, telling me, “Head down, row hard.”
So that’s what I do, digging my paddle into the water with all my might.
Macy is still screaming instructions when the first raft slams into the towering wave.
I can barely hear her at this point, and we’re in the same raft.
“Keep rowing hard when you hit that trough. It’s a big hit, but do not fucking stop,” she cries.
“The second wave will pop you high up into the air—when you come back down, dig in again!”
Our raft is moving into the whitewater now, maybe ten yards behind the first, and gaining incredible speed. In every other rapid we’ve coursed through during the past two days, the guides have maintained a much larger gap between boats. If anybody goes overboard now, they’re going to get run over.
But there’s no time to do this the right way. We couldn’t wait if we wanted to.
Against my better judgment, I whip around to check Bryan’s position one last time.
He’s lost some ground, trailing maybe thirty yards behind us now, straining hard against the current.
“Oh my god!” someone screams up ahead, as a wall of water slams into the first raft. Miraculously, no one tumbles out.
“That’s it!” Macy yells. “Keep straight, anchor your feet, and stay left through the next wave! There’s a huge undertow at the bottom of Anvil, so keep yourselves in that fucking boat no matter what!”
The clamor of the falls rises to a fever pitch as our raft hits the first drop.
I dig my paddle in deep, rowing hard as instructed, but we’re drifting toward the right wall of the canyon—exactly where Macy said not to go.
Even with the five of us rowing like mad, the force of the river feels exponentially more powerful.
“All left, come on!” Macy screams. “Row, row, don’t stop!”
The second wave pops us into the air, and I get another glimpse of the first raft carving a path down the dangerous gorge.
It’s still straight, still hugging the left canyon wall like Macy instructed.
Moonlight bounces like a slow strobe across the glowing orange rubber and the dark figures crammed inside.
We surge over the next wave, and the next. The hits come so fast, so strong, walls of water crashing over us while Macy shouts directions, her voice ragged and cutting in and out. For a while, I don’t even have time to look back at Bryan.
All I can see is the first raft ahead, and the poor women crammed inside. They’re still hanging in there. Still rowing. Still managing to stay left.
“Next wave, go hard right!” Macy bellows.
The nose of our raft is nearly touching the bumper of the first raft now, close enough to make out more details in the moonlight.
And when I blink away the water blurring my vision, I see the jagged edge of a submerged boulder spiking up through the churning current—waiting to catch the nose of their raft and send it hurtling directly into the opposite rocky wall.
My heart stutters in my chest.
The canyon walls are terrifyingly narrow here, maybe fifteen feet apart and slick with spray.
The water rushing through the narrow slot is impossibly fast and wild.
I brace for the worst, eyes glued to that first raft while I row like mad.
It’s less than a boat’s width away from us as it careens forward.
The other women are doubled over with the effort of trying to pull the raft’s bow right, but a rolling wave catches the back of the boat and keeps them tracking left.
“No!” Allie cries, catching sight of the boulder ahead. “They’re gonna flip!”
“Right, row hard right!” Macy demands, but her voice is collapsing at the edges.
It’s clear, then, that the others aren’t going to make it to the opposite wall—not in time to skirt around the hidden line of boulders.
And even worse, only a few of those women are wearing life jackets. Most of the vests are in our boat.
I see the terrifying sequence play out in my mind, a horror film. The first raft will glance off the first jagged boulder and slam hard against the right wall. Then it’ll flip, hitting the front of our raft. The impact will shove our raft into the boulder, too.
Then we’ll flip.
Every single one of us will be ejected into the churn, then funneled into the undertow at the bottom of Anvil. Even life jackets might not help us at that point.
I grit my teeth and keep rowing, clinging to hope as Macy screams, “You’re almost there!”
I cling to those words. Almost there. I have to believe we’ve still got a chance.
But almost isn’t good enough.
The first raft barely nicks one of the boulders. I watch helplessly as the boat shudders and gives a little buck, sending bodies tumbling against each other.
The women struggle to right themselves around the rim of the boat, pushing paddles into the whitewater—and somehow manage to scrape along the right wall of the canyon without slamming into it.
“Hell yes!” Deborah whoops beside me as we close in on the first raft’s bumper—only a few feet ahead of us now. We manage to avoid clipping the edge of that damn boulder altogether.
We’re almost there.
The exit to Anvil is directly ahead, down a final steep stretch of swift, rolling whitewater. The first boat is nearly free of the churn now, tantalizingly close to that final drop where the canyon widens and the river stretches open into stillness. One more wave, and we’ll be sailing smooth.
Something glints in the moonlight partway down the canyon wall. An old mining pulley? No, it’s way too close to the water for that.
My brain clocks it as strange, but I just grip my paddle harder and try to focus.
Only one more wave, one more drop—nothing compared to what we’ve just made it through.
My stomach clenches. During the chaos of Anvil, I’ve momentarily forgotten about Bryan.
There’s little question that he’ll be right behind us—if he makes it through the falls. And if he follows Macy’s line of travel, he probably will.
As if reading my thoughts, Macy calls out hoarsely, “Keep rowing once we get past the canyon. There’s a lot of us and only one of him. We’ve got more power than he does. We just need to put enough distance between us on the river—”
Then the roar of the falls fades and Macy’s voice goes quiet, replaced by a dull humming in my head. Then a deep, familiar voice echoing through my mind.
“Head down!”
It’s Parker’s voice.
Is this a mental break?
His voice comes again, pleading. “Head down, Kaia! Now!”
The words rip through my mind right as the raft ahead of us shoots through the final stretch of whitewater, nosing down the drop then popping up like a cork on the final wave.
And just as it does, the two figures at the front of the boat jerk back violently.
So do the women behind them, dropping into the water like a chain of dominoes, toppling out of control.