Читать книгу Risking the Rapids - Irene O'Garden - Страница 15

Montana, Day One: Tenting Tonight

After setting up camp we all drive a half-hour to the little town of Seely Lake, where we gobble down decent pizza.

“How will Mom know we’re alright in the wilderness?” asks Derek, Don’s ten-year-old, a sunny buzz-cut towhead boy, even-tempered, slim. Leopard to his sister Lauren’s lioness.

“Show him the GPS, will ya Mike?” asks Don.

“Sure,” says Mike, pulling it from his pocket. “Once a day, I’ll perch this doohickey on an open spot. The satellite’ll beam ‘We’re OK’ to Jolyne. Then she’ll email your Mom and everyone’s spouse. It can also say ‘Send Help’ if we need it and show our coordinates.”

Satisfied, Derek folds in another slice.

•••

Later on, Jim and Ro and I stop at a bar overlooking the lake and share a sunset drink on the deck. They know I’ve been working on a family memoir. I confess my trepidation. “I don’t want the people I love most to stop speaking to me,” I tell them. “I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.”

“You can’t worry about that,” says Ro. “Write what you have to write. People will understand.”

“Write whatever you need to,” says Jim. “If my life can help somebody else, I’ll be happy.”

Hearing this from the two of them, even my DNA relaxes.

•••

The stars are just beginning to appear when we get back to camp. Mike drives the trailer over to the outfitters so they can pack the mules first thing.

Mike, thirty-five, Jim’s eldest, is a law clerk and the “Ramrod” on our journey. He chose the route, rented two twelve-foot rafts, planned and procured six days’ worth of food and supplies for the nine of us. Hired the outfitters, rented our horses and guide. He’ll make all major decisions on land and water. Mike is also chief cook. Like his dad and brothers, this he relishes.

Although seven months pregnant with their baby daughter, his wife Jolyne has agreed to stay home and play single mom to year-old Creighton this week. This brainy, cuddly redhead knows the annual trip to the backcountry is lifeblood to these men.

Mike loves freedom. It’s why he loves Montana: “They’re not gonna tell you what to do. You don’t wear helmets on horseback here. They figure you got common sense.” His ideal trip would be off by himself in the backcountry on a horse with a dog at his side, but he’ll go with us for this trip, his twenty-ninth.

Jack has been nearly as often. He’s the chortling uncle you’ve always wanted, ever-willing to play games, and the first friend you’d turn to in crisis for counsel wise beyond his years. He’s gotten time off at the taco shop—a job he likes since it gives him plenty of time to read philosophy and ruminate. He also enjoys dealing with the public. He can bike to work, the food’s good, and it’s locally owned, all of which deeply matters to him.

While Mike’s at the outfitters, Jack and Don build a handsome campfire. A computer and marketing whiz for AAA, Don loves gadgets, technology, and camping with his kids. This, however, will be the longest camping trip he and Lauren and Derek have taken, but he seems prepared for anything.

Ro and I marvel at this skill set. Growing up in our house, we were lucky to get the plaid tin cooler packed with baloney sandwiches for our trips up to the lake.

We lean back in smoke-and-sooty spider-foldy steel-and-poly camp chairs. Jim slots red Solos into our cupholders, cracks a well-chosen single malt, and passes the bottle. We heave a communal sigh. We’re here. It’s begun.

A bouncing lance of light crests the hill. Mike’s back. He pours a couple fingers in a red Solo, swigs, and says, “We spend tomorrow in camp.”

“What happened?”

“Outfitters said too many in our party canceled.” Some of Jim’s friends and in-laws decided at the last minute not to come. “Had to give another group our horses. We go day after tomorrow.”

We sit and sip. Immediate relief we’re not riding at dawn. Only postpones the inevitable, though. How will I do? How will I hold up?

“Well, I’m gonna wash up. Where are the towels, Jim?”

“Hand it to her, will ya Jack?”

He offers a hand towel.

I laugh. “Joker. Could I have a bigger one, please?”

“That’s it. That’s our towel.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No. We keep it simple. Just the one.”

“For nine of us? For six days?”

“It’s all we ever use.”

“Why didn’t you let me bring my towel?”

“I honestly didn’t think you’d need it.”

He’s serious.

“Jim, I need a towel.”

“Okay, Mike—when you head into Seely Lake tomorrow, pick one up, will ya?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks, Jim. Thought I’d have to pull the gauze out of the first aid kit.”

“Oh, we don’t bother with that.”

“No first aid kit?”

“Naw. Few Band-Aids are enough.”

Ro and I are dumbfounded. We shore don’ wanna be quiverin’ womenfolk burdenin’ them saddlebags, but since when is safety sissy?

“Jim, this is wilderness! Mike, for us greenhorns, please get a first aid kit tomorrow.”

“Oh, all right.”

They are so casual. They are not trying to impress us with their macho. They all had to impress Grandpa Bill years ago. Now it’s just how they travel.

It’s good Ro and I have Big Agnes. We change into our pajamas and whisper our shared astonishment. The ground’s lumpy, but the stars are beautiful. I want to leave open the mesh panels to look all night, but Ro is more experienced.

“If our sleeping bags get wet, they won’t keep us warm.”

She’s no good when she’s cold. I’m no good when I’m hot. We zip up and into sleep.