Great Falls by Steve Watkins

Author:Steve Watkins [Watkins, Steve]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-0-7636-8733-5
Publisher: Candlewick Press
Published: 2016-01-07T05:00:00+00:00

Jeremy has taken the M16 apart and laid all the pieces carefully on a tarp in a secluded spot hidden from the campsite by a thick copse of trees. He has a clear view of the river and the sandy beach and the canoe, but it takes me a minute to spot him when I return after making my calls. I guess that’s the idea.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” he grunts. A minute later he has the M16 back together and we’re easing back down to the boat. Jeremy climbs in first and lets me shove off.

“That was one seriously long shit,” he says.

“Diarrhea,” I say back, and he lets it go.

The next few hours are kind of fun as the river picks up speed and we paddle through rougher water. It isn’t anything like serious white water, but I have to keep my eyes peeled for obstructions. No more cows, thank god, but still plenty of boulders and logs to snag ourselves on or slam into.

We can see more houses now through trees lining the river, and I figure there must be a road up there above the left bank, judging from the sound of cars. We pass a couple more campgrounds but still don’t see anyone else on the river. We don’t talk the whole time, except for me telling Jeremy where he needs to steer around stuff, but that’s OK. I’m tired of talking. I just wish I could shut off my brain as well.

The mountains recede to the east, though we can still see them. The October sun burns higher in the sky, and we strip off our jackets and then our sweatshirts. I roll up my pant legs and take off my bloodstained boots. I stop paddling briefly to dangle them in the water, but not very much of the blood washes off, not even when I rub hard.

For a while things get rural again. No houses anyway, or none that we can see. We pass a couple of old ford sites, where dirt roads still lead down to the river from either side. Jeremy says they’re from colonial times and the Civil War. “Sheridan, the Union general, had his men destroy everything in the valley,” he says. “Torched fields, slaughtered livestock, you name it. If it could be killed, he killed it. And old George Armstrong Custer — around here is where he wiped out the Southern cavalry and turned himself into a celebrity killer. Getting a hard-on for the Indian Wars out west once there wasn’t anybody left around here to put down.”

“Thanks for the history lesson,” I say, not in the mood for anything at this point except something to eat. But despite his earlier promise, Jeremy hasn’t mentioned stopping again.

By midafternoon, probably five hours since we passed Strasburg, the trees thin out again, and farms and pastures on both sides of the river give way to more houses. The river curves even farther away from the mountains, which makes me depressed. I like having them there, looming over us to the east.

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