The Gorge by Ronald M. Berger

Author:Ronald M. Berger
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: N/A
Publisher: Bublish, Inc.
Published: 2020-09-22T16:00:00+00:00

Eleven

At 5:00 a.m. on Thursday, an hour before sunrise, he wrestled the canoe into the bone-chilling water. The sky was black, the trees mere stick figures, the river deafening. He could not risk buying the Grumman from someone local, so he’d taken the ferry to Vermont yesterday and hauled the boat back after dark. He might die if he made a mistake out here today, but vengeance has its costs. People might call him a madman, but privately they would be amazed by his audacity.

The heavy canoe moved sluggishly in the current. The headlamp strapped to his helmet washed over the boulders lining his path. He’d never felt such cold. Although wrapped in thick gloves, his hands were already numb, his fingers inflexible.

Moving slowly through mist blanketing the Indian, he picked his way downstream. Working almost sightless, he was seconds from disaster.

Forty-five minutes later, just as the sun broke over the horizon, he slithered down the left side of Cedar Ledges and straight into Entrance, where he simply abandoned himself to the boulder-strewn rapid.

Knowing he could not do the next stretch in semidarkness, he lined the boat down along the shore through the Narrows. Too exhausted to think straight, he trusted his instincts and experience to get him through Mile-Long. Having forgotten what warmth felt like, it took him another hour to reach his target at the bottom of Harris.

He wished he could see their faces when they realized he’d run the gorge in the dark. At first they’d simply deny that anyone could pull off such a stunt. He had accomplices, they would say, or he’d brought the boat in overland. Anything to deny him credit for daring and perseverance.

Bognor and the others might discover who he was and why he was doing this, but he would never give up, never disappoint his grandfather, never let Marshall’s old man get his way with the property on Johnston Mountain.

In Harris, the pain was beyond words. He had to stand in the freezing current, his feet and legs turning to stone, aware that he could be swept downstream any second. It took him nearly thirty minutes to find a place to put the boat and to secure the bow and stern with lashing straps.

By the time his work was done, ice hung from his helmet and he could feel nothing from the waist down. His left arm, the one he had broken two years ago, hung limp at his side. The skin on his face and hands felt as fragile as ancient parchment.

When he was sure the canoe wouldn’t be discovered until it was too late, he dragged himself from the water, hid his gear under thick brush, and turned his back on the river. Following the route he had marked two days ago, he scrambled up the embankment, made his way across the iron and oak trestle, and disappeared into the woods.

Carlyle awoke just after dawn. Beth was already sitting in a chair underneath the window.

“What are you doing today?” he said.

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