Читать книгу Tracker's Canyon - Pam Withers - Страница 8

The Sunday customers turn out to be Dominik plus some smoochie newlyweds, Harry and Angela Siefkin. Definitely nervous novices, I decide, overhearing the questions with which they pepper poor Brigit and her thirty-five-year-old boss, Alex, during the entire bouncing truck ride to our hike-in point:

“How long is this canyon hike?”

“If we get scared, can we turn back?”

“You’ll show us how to put on all this gear, right?”

“Why do we have to wear helmets?”

“Just checking, but you said we’d be back before dark?”

“Relax, you’ll love it, and you’re with my best guide!” Alex says after answering their questions. “And yes, I’ll be at the end point with the truck to pick you up well before dark. Here we are!” He pulls the Chevy up to the trailhead, hops out, and stretches. “Lucky we had such a dry winter, so we can start trips early this year.”

A little too early, I’m thinking; Dad would never have put his customers in a stream in June, when the air is still chilly, and there’s more chance of a downpour and snowmelt bringing flash floods. Still, I’m not that worried. It’s only a little early, and it’s only the Upper Canyon.

“Alex is more about profits than safety,” Dad used to worry out loud to Mom and me. But I figure he was exaggerating because the two were competitors. “Plus, he spends all his days off going into the canyon alone,” Dad would say. “For no reason he’ll ever tell me. Fool.”

Of course, Alex’s guiding service has raked in the dough since Dad disappeared.

“You mean June isn’t such a good time to try canyoneering?” Harry asks, frowning as he and Angela sign release forms that protect Swallow Canyon Expeditions if anything bad happens. Dominik and I, having already signed ours, busy ourselves helping Brigit unload gear.

“I’m just saying we don’t usually start up until July,” Alex says cautiously, “when water levels in the canyon tend to go down. But this winter has been unusually dry, so you’ll be absolutely fine. It’s special being on the first trip of the year!”

“Can’t wait,” I say, my body tingling with excitement as I arrange my wetsuit and ropes in my backpack and strap my helmet on top of it. I can’t help feeling like a freed prisoner after a tough fall and winter spent mostly indoors. But I’m also proud of how I’ve kept Mom and me going. Giving some stuff up — big deal. This day will have been worth the wait.

“Seek out the seed of triumph in every adversity,” Dad used to say, quoting some guy named Og.

Alex has said little to me the entire drive; maybe he’s a little uncomfortable around me because of his and Dad’s relationship, or maybe he feels sorry for me about losing Dad. Anyway, he turns to me now and says, “Glad to see you back at it, young Tristan. Your dad would be proud. How’s your mom doing?”

Did I imagine it, or did Brigit just swing around to hear my reply? She’s staring at me full-on, as if waiting.

“She’s fine,” I reply automatically. If I charged twenty-five bucks for every time someone asked me that, I’d make good cash.

“Well, it’s a good sign she has let you come along,” Alex says.

Is it? I wonder. I hope so. Or is it just a sign of her being confused and under Elspeth’s spell?

“Angela, do you need help with closing up your pack?” I ask to dead-end that conversation. Coils of unwound rope are sprouting from the top of her bag like out-of-control dreadlocks.

“Thanks!” she says after I’ve tucked them in.

“Well, I’m off,” Alex informs us. “See you all in a few hours. Have fun!” And he roars off in the truck.

As I move out of the dust he churns up, Brigit calls from a few yards away, “Over here, everyone! Gather around. Safety talk time!”

I lope over and instruct myself to look sharp and interested, even if I could pretty much rattle off the safety pointers better than anyone here.

“First, I’m giving you each a whistle,” she says.

“Got my own,” I let her know.

“Me, too,” Dominik says.