In the Heart of the Canyon (6 page)

He didn’t give it any more thought but bent down, circled his arms underneath the dog, and hoisted him to his chest. Forty pounds, maybe, no more; JT had certainly carried heavier loads. With the dog in his arms, he retraced his steps out of the tamarisk grove and headed back down the path.

When he reached the hillock that sloped down to the camp, he saw people crowded around Dixie’s boat; she’d opened up her drink hatch, and people were fumbling through the burlap bags for their personal stashes. Evelyn noticed him first. Then Lena, who nudged Mitchell,
who said, “What
now?”
which caught everybody else’s attention, and they all turned to stare up at this grizzled man in a beat-up cowboy hat and a bleached plaid shirt staggering down the sandy slope in the shimmering heat with a dog in his arms.

Dixie shaded her eyes. “Am I on drugs?”

Once on the beach, JT squatted and set the dog on the sand. The two boys fell upon him before either parent could stop them, tussling his ears and trying to rub his belly, and the dog, who knew a good thing when he saw it, forgot about the thorn and happily rolled onto his back and splayed his legs, as though reuniting with his long-lost family.

Dixie hopped down off her raft. “Where did you find that thing?”

“Up in the bushes,” said JT. “I heard a rattling sound and thought it was a snake, and then I heard him whimper.”

“What’s a dog doing down here?” Mitchell asked with a wide smile. He’d taken off his hat; a band of tight curls lay plastered against his skull, making his head seem too small. There was something in his smile that made JT suspect that whatever explanation he offered, it wouldn’t satisfy this man.

“And where did it come from?” Evelyn asked.

“I don’t know,” JT said. “Sam, go fill a bowl with water.”

Sam ran off.

“What are you going to do with him?” said Mitchell.

“See if I can get this thorn out of his foot.”

“Oh, the poor dog!” exclaimed Amy, falling to her knees beside the dog. She had changed into another large T-shirt, this one dirty white, printed with the red and yellow logo from the Hard Rock Cafe.

“And then?” said Mitchell.

JT put his hands on his hips and looked at the dog, whose hind leg was kicking reflexively from all the petting.

“No idea, Mitchell,” said JT. “No idea at all.”

T
he thorn turned out to have a barbed tip, so Abo and Dixie had to pin the dog down while JT wiggled the thorn around with a pair of tweezers, trying to loosen the hook that had snagged itself into the dog’s flesh. At one point the dog snapped at Dixie, but eventually JT managed to release the catch and remove the barb. Abo and Dixie let go, and the dog wiggled to his feet, shook, limped over to lift his leg against a bush, and finally retreated to a patch of shade to lick his wounded paw.

JT tossed his hat into his boat, then waded into the water and submerged himself. Dripping wet, he hoisted himself up onto his boat, pulled up the drag bag, and got out a cold beer.

Abo and Dixie joined him. One by one the guests dispersed, except Mitchell.

“Give us a moment, okay, Mitchell?” JT said.

Mitchell turned and retreated.

Abo crumpled dramatically into the well of JT’s boat. “Well, this kind of puts a wrinkle in things, don’t you think?”

“You’re not kidding,” Dixie said. “Good thing he’s healthy.”

“Are you nuts, woman?” Abo demanded.

“Healthy enough so we don’t have to feel too sorry for him, is what I mean.”

“Ice queen,” JT told Abo.

“I’m not an ice queen,” said Dixie. “I’m just being pragmatic. Where’s he going to sleep tonight, for instance?”

“He can sleep on my boat,” said Abo.

“Or maybe with Mitchell,” murmured JT. They glanced toward the beach, where Mitchell had spread out a large map and appeared to be
cross-checking locations with information in his guidebook. The dog approached warily. Mitchell glanced at the dog, and the dog backed away.

“You think he’s a cattle dog?” asked Abo.

“Could be,” said JT. “Though he doesn’t look like one.”

“Maybe he came down in someone’s boat,” said Abo.

JT shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone getting a dog past the ranger. My guess is some hiker snuck him down one of the trails, then lost him.”

Abo leaned over the edge of the boat, pulled up the drag bag, and tossed another beer to each of them. JT set his aside.

“Let’s not get sidetracked, though,” said Dixie. “This could be a huge pain in the ass.”

Abo cupped his hands over his mouth. “Houston, we have a problem!”

“You better call Park Service,” said Dixie.

“You think this qualifies as an emergency?” JT said.

“You don’t?”

“And what’s Park Service going to do?” JT went on. “Stop everything and send down a boat? Then what? Hike him out? With an injured paw?”

“I hate to say this, Boss, but he doesn’t look so injured anymore,” said Abo, and they all looked back at the beach, where the dog was chasing sticks as quickly as Sam and Matthew could throw them. Every time the dog changed direction, he sent up a spray of sand. JT suspected that as far as the boys were concerned, this was completely normal—why, every time you went down the Colorado River you picked up a stray dog on the first night.

He checked his watch; it was almost seven, and they hadn’t even started dinner. “Let’s get people fed. We’ll deal with the dog later. I sure am not going to worry about it right now.”

“What’s the menu?” Dixie asked.

“Salmon.”

“Oh my god, I LOVE salmon!” Abo shouted.

“Good. Because you’re cooking it.”

“And I love COOKING salmon too!”

“Tone it down, Abo,” said Dixie, “or I am not going to survive two weeks on the river with you.”

Abo narrowed his eyes. “Sleep with me tonight, babe.”

“Been there, done that,” Dixie murmured.

JT tossed his empty beer can onto a tarp near the kitchen area. “Abo, start the grill. Dixie, teach those boys how to bust up the cans.” He opened the meat cooler, which was three-quarters solid ice and one-quarter frozen protein. He took out the slabs of salmon, then closed the cooler and looked up to see Mitchell standing at the bow.

“Need something, Mitchell?”

“Just wondering if you knew what you were going to do with the dog yet.”

“Nope.”

Mitchell set his hands on his hips—not belligerently. “Because some of us are concerned about trouble,” he began. “Lena’s got allergies. And if the dogs been exposed to rabies or something …”

“Well take care of it, Mitchell,” JT assured him.

“I’ve been waiting years for this trip,” Mitchell said.

“I read you, Mitchell,” said JT, feeling a certain level of professional tolerance dropping. “But don’t worry. The dog’s not going to spoil things.”

“We’ve got some gin, by the way, if you fellas want a gin and tonic,” Mitchell offered.

“Thanks,” said JT. “A rain check, maybe. Gotta get dinner going right now.”

And within a mere half hour, they did in fact have a splendid dinner ready. Nobody forgot about the Fourth of July, either: using two oars, twine, and some fancy knot-tying skills, Abo strung up red, white, and blue balloons over the serving table, and for dessert there was a cake decorated like an American flag, which Dixie presented complete with a sparkler, to great applause. The dog, who two hours ago had seemed so seriously crippled, now darted between people’s legs in search of dropped morsels; he soon learned that all he had to do was follow
Lloyd, who had a tendency to set his plate down and wander off in search of something else.

“That’s three plates of salmon you’ve taken now!” Ruth scolded him. “Now stay put!”

Although they had known each other just over twenty-four hours, as a group they were already forming tentative bonds. Amy, who had brought a deck of cards, mystified Sam and Matthew with card tricks. Mark and Mitchell found they had skied at the same resort in Canada as boys. Lena convinced Jill that navigating the menu of a digital camera was not as difficult as Jill feared.

Only JT sat by himself, alone on his raft, listening to the sound of water sloshing against his boat. It was dusk, and the color had drained out of the cliffs, leaving them starkly silhouetted against an apricot sky. He did not intend to let the matter of the dog spoil the evening for him; he had faith that it would work out, one way or another. Very few things could rattle JT, which was why he was such a good river guide: he handled the unforeseen with grace, and usually managed to learn something from it and come out ahead.

He looked at the group; people were sitting on mats, logs, or the sand itself, finishing dessert. It seemed to be a good bunch, for the most part. Mitchell had the potential to be a pain, he knew, and Amy’s weight troubled him; he’d never had such an overweight person on a trip before. He’d have to think about balancing the boats and scheduling hikes with lots of turnaround options. But so what if she didn’t hike as much as the others? The canyon belonged to everyone, regardless of physical limitations. She would still have a good time. And who knew what she might learn about herself?

This was, in fact, what he enjoyed about these trips: watching people discover new sides of themselves on the river. The fearful took risks; the quiet ones opened up; sometimes (though not always), the loud ones quieted down. Egos got checked, life plans altered. You saw a lot of Plan Bs develop on a river trip.

“Last call on dessert!” shouted Abo.

By now the light of a quarter moon was sliding down the western wall. There were dishes to wash, pots to scrub, food to be packed
away. Then, a good night’s sleep. They would figure out the dog issue tomorrow.

Overall, if you’d asked him to assign a letter grade to the first day, he’d have given it a good solid A.

Fine. A-minus, given the dog.

JT
was leery of naming the dog, but people are driven to name things—especially on a river trip, where you have a lot of time to contemplate things you normally wouldn’t. And so the next morning, as Abo and Dixie were cooking breakfast, people stood around proposing names for the dog. Evelyn suggested Glen, after Glen Canyon. Peter came up with Lassie, as a joke. Sam for some reason got stuck on the name Roger. Matthew, already well aware that Sam was getting more attention than he on this trip, countered with the name Groover. Mitchell, who, like JT, knew the danger of naming any animal, remained silent.

But since nobody could agree, for now they simply called him River Dog, which seemed appropriate given his tendency to dash into the water after anything they could throw. Not everyone was enthusiastic about playing with the dog, though; and, it being their first morning on the river, many of them simply milled about, not quite sure what to do with themselves before breakfast was ready—whether to brush teeth and wash, or skip the hygiene and go straight for the coffee. Jill, for the first time since the boys were toddlers, did not insist that anyone do anything; she ladled out a cup of coffee and stood quietly on the beach, taking in the reflections of cliff and sky on the moving surface of the water. She felt an unfamiliar serenity as she stood there, a realignment of nerves that allowed each breath to resonate out through the tips of her fingers. She felt like a lot of things that mattered two days ago no longer mattered. Fleetingly, she wished that she were on this trip without her family.

JT sat on his raft, also drinking coffee. It was six thirty; he figured he would wait until seven to call Park Service and see if they had any
boats coming by today that could perhaps take the dog down to Phantom Ranch, where somebody might be able to hike him out. Meanwhile, he opened up his map and planned out the day. Just ahead was House Rock Rapid, rated seven, sure to wake everybody up. Then there was a flat stretch of water, followed by the Roaring Twenties, a five-mile series of nonstop rapids. Tonight, depending on how much time they made, they could camp down around Shinumo Wash or Fence Fault.

As JT was folding up the map, Mitchell strolled over, mug in hand. JT wanted to get off to a good start with the man this morning, so he called out, “Morning, Mitchell! Sleep okay?”

“Slept great,” said Mitchell. “So! How far do you think well go today?”

“Don’t know,” said JT cheerfully. “Maybe ten miles, maybe fifteen.”

“Think we can go up to Silver Grotto?”

“Well see,” said JT. “No vetoes, no promises.”

Mitchell nodded. He sipped his coffee.

“I was wondering,” he said after a moment, “if you decided what to do about the dog.”