Never Say Die (16 page)

I gave the raft a push and kept low as I moved forward along the side of the raft. I took my seat on the front cross tube and hung on tight. Before we escaped the canyon, we had twenty-three rapids to run.

R
yan pushed a couple strokes on the oars, out onto the river. The current took us like we had hooked on to a high-speed cable. Ryan pivoted the boat and rowed to the center of the river. Once there, he straightened the raft out so I was looking directly downstream over the front. In seconds we were going to drop into the first rapid.

I took a look over my shoulder. My brother was grinning from ear to ear. “There is nothing, absolutely nothing,” he cried, “like messing around in boats!”

The canyon was at its deepest in those last fourteen miles. The walls bristled with thin layers of rock thrust up into the air, their edges sharp as swords. Clouds were gathering in a frightening hurry. We lost the sun. The gusts were so intense, the raft was getting blown this way and that, making the rapids all the more difficult. Ryan made the adjustments and ran the gauntlet.

It was something.
Exciting
and
thrilling
and
chilling
don't begin to describe the crashing white water in those fourteen miles.
Heart-stopping
comes closer. In the howling wind, it was totally insane.
In your face!

By my watch, that run took an hour and fifty minutes. It felt like a whole lot less.

With the canyon at an end and the last rapid at our backs, I turned around and gave a cheer. “How'd you do that, Ryan?”

“With difficulty!” Still breathing hard, he put the oar handles under his knees and leaned forward to meet my fist bump.

We floated out of the mountains and onto the coastal plain. As the Firth flowed onto land that was all but flat, the river split into two channels, one on either side of an island of gravel.

At the speed the thunderstorm was moving, it would soon be upon us. We pulled on our rain gear.

The lightning and thunder drew closer. The wind out of the south was sweeping the water off the river and throwing it in our faces. A couple miles ahead, a huge hill with a spiny crest rose all on its lonesome out of the left bank of the river, one last vestige of the foothills on the flat coastal plain. The hill had a name: Last Mountain.

I was eager to get off the river, pitch our tent, and crawl inside. “We still gonna camp at the Last Mountain campsite, Ryan?”

“I'm planning on it, even if that couple from Montana is there. At a time like this, I bet they'd be thrilled to have the company. The map shows the campsite at the mouth of the creek just upstream of the mountain. Keep an eye out, so we don't slide by.”

I could see from the map that the Firth ran in braids through the delta, a maze of river channels among gravel islands. Just ahead, two islands rose from the river, separating the flow into three channels. Ryan pushed on the oars and steered us into the channel farthest left, where we needed to be. I reached for the binoculars and glassed the shore upstream from the foot of Last Mountain. I saw a splash of gold there, in front of the man-high willows that grew along the creek. “Think I see a tent, Ryan.”

Our new channel was thigh deep, without a strong current. On the coastal plain, the Firth had lost its punch. I got a good look at the campsite through the binoculars. “Yep, it's a tent, but it's flat on the ground. Wind must've collapsed it. Camp table got blown over too. Lots of gulls down there.”

“Where's the couple's raft?”

“I can see it through the willows. It's parked in the mouth of the creek—that yellow raft we saw running the canyon.”

“See him or her?”

“Sure don't. Maybe they had a bear in camp.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The gulls wouldn't hang around unless they found something to scavenge.”

“Maybe those folks left some food out,” Ryan said. “Maybe they're climbing the mountain.”

“In this weather? I don't like the looks of this. Let's not land there, okay?”

“You got it. We'll land on the island across from the camp. See if we can figure anything out.”

“You don't have to land on the island, Ryan. You can hover in the slow water close to its shore, and watch from the boat.”

“How come you don't want to land?”

“This channel's getting shallower. A bear could charge across it like nothing. We wouldn't have time to get away if we leave the boat and have to get back in.”

“You really think there's a bear over there, don't you?”

“There might be. Can't tell, with all the willow brush.”

Ryan kept us well away from the camp as he let the current take us downstream. The wind was blowing gale force, and it looked like the racing clouds were going to drop a deluge any minute. Ryan pulled into six inches of water alongside the shore of the island opposite the campsite. He shipped his oars. I glassed across seventy-five yards of water to the collapsed tent in a small clearing among clumps of willows. Ryan got out his big black Nikon with the long lens and began to take pictures of the disorder at the Last Mountain campsite.

The cries of the gulls still had me spooked. I felt for the bear protection at my side. My bear banger pouch was still there, and the launcher was loaded. Ryan had our only can of pepper spray holstered to his belt. How I wanted my rifle in my hands. I thought I saw some movement behind a gap in the blowing willows. Just then a bolt of lightning struck Last Mountain. I flinched, and the binoculars jumped.

I tried again. This time, through the willows, I spotted the head and the motions of a feeding bear. A grizzly, I thought—the head and the forelimbs were shades of brown. The grizzly had something pinned to the ground, and was ripping meat from it. Something about the claws wasn't right. They weren't as long as a grizzly's. “Bear in camp,” I whispered. “Behind the willows.”

“Where behind the willows?”

“To the right of the tent and behind it—sight on the gap between the two big clumps of willows.”

I looked again and got a better view as the bear stopped feeding and peered directly through the small break in the willow brush. Now I could see its body. The bulk of it was covered with dirty white fur. “It's the grolar bear, Ryan.”

“You're pulling my leg.”

“I wish I was. Look, he's got a satellite collar around his neck.”

Ryan adjusted his lens. “Now I see him.” He took three quick pictures. “Come out in the open, big fella. Let's get a look at you.”

At that moment, the bear lumbered through the brush and into a clearing. Its strange patchwork coat was on full display. Ryan's shutter whirred and whirred. “How bizarre is that,” he said under his breath. “Just like you said—more like a grizzly's head, more like a polar bear's body, except for the brown legs. Whoa, he's huge.”

I held my breath, hoping the grolar bear wasn't on to us. So far it wasn't.

The grolar bear went to feed on something behind the tussock grass. Next time it lifted its head, it had a human arm, elbow to fingers, in its jaws.

“Oh no,” I said. “Oh no.”

“Get the sat phone,” Ryan said under his breath. “Make the call before the storm breaks. We might lose the signal.”

“Who do I call?”

“The numbers are on the inside lid of the ammo can. Start with Search and Rescue in Inuvik. They'll dispatch a helicopter.”

I tried to unbuckle the lid as silently as possible, but it opened with a screech. I looked across the river. The grolar bear rose to its full height, with that arm still in its mouth. Ryan took a picture. I stopped breathing. We held dead still.

I couldn't be sure the beast was on to us. The grolar bear dropped the arm, then walked in our direction, three upright steps to the shore. Ryan took another picture. The bear woofed at us two, three times, then came down on all fours, growled, and laid back its ears—Ryan taking pictures all the while. “Ryan,” I whispered. “Let's slip out of here before it decides to charge.”

“You got it!”

The bear woofed again.

Ryan didn't take the time to put away the camera. He let it hang from his neck as he reached for the oars. I snapped the lid of the ammo can closed so our sat phone couldn't get wet. I'd have to wait to make the call; rain was sweeping toward us in sheets from the mountains. Ryan began to ply the oars. Soon as he did, the grolar bear charged into the river.

Lightning struck barely downstream, shocking me half to death. Unfazed, the bear kept charging. By the time Ryan reached the current, and had the raft moving as fast as he could possibly power it, the bear was closing on us fast, splashing through the river with unbelievable speed. Ryan stopped rowing, but why?

When I turned around and looked, he was handing me the pepper spray out of its holster. “Here, take it,” he cried. I did, and he started rowing again.

By chance, we were over deeper water. Soon, the bear was too. Rather than swim after us, the grolar bear swam toward the shallows bordering the island. It hauled out on the island and started racing after us along the shore. “Good grief,” Ryan said, “the thing is a monster, like you said.”

Ryan was heaving on the oars with all his might. Pulling the raft downstream meant looking over his shoulder to see where he was going. Somehow he was able to keep in the fastest current. I was looking upstream off the front of the boat. My eyes were on the bear as it raced down the shore of the island. It was about to draw even with us where the island came to an end.

As the current swept us around the bottom of the island toward the current coming in from the other side, the grolar bear plunged into the river with a roar.

The thing swam faster than I would have thought possible. It was gaining on us, breath whooshing in and out of its nostrils. The beast was twenty feet behind us and closing.

I looked back at Ryan, my eyes begging for more speed. “Boat's heavy,” he panted. “Get ready with the pepper spray. Safety off?”

“Safety off!”

“In this wind, you'll have to wait until it's close!”

“How close?”

“So much wind … arm's length!”

When I looked, the bear's face was right there, no more than ten feet away from me. The grolar bear's small amber eyes were filled with the same rage I'd seen on the Mackenzie. With powerful strokes, the creature quickly closed the gap. Up came a paw, about to slash the raft. I leaned forward and blasted the monster's face. Its flailing claws knocked the pepper spray into the river.

I could barely see, I could barely breathe.

“You got him!” Ryan cried.

My eyes and my throat were on fire. “I got myself!”

“The bear got the worst of it! He's heading for shore—can't even swim straight.”

“Glad to hear it,” I managed.

Ten minutes later the searing pain was backing off, and I could function again. We were onshore, in a torrent of rain. Ryan had the sat phone out, and was punching numbers without even trying to protect it from the rain. He reached Search and Rescue in Inuvik and told them what we had seen at Last Mountain campsite. The dispatcher asked if one or both of the victims might be alive. Ryan said he didn't think so but didn't know for sure. “How soon can you come?” he asked.

“No time soon, if the forecast is right. Maybe not for three days. Has the storm arrived at the delta of the Firth River?”

“Big-time.”

“It might turn into what they're calling ‘a marine bomb.' Shingle Point has been evacuated. Hang on—we can't fly in this weather. We'll get to you as soon as we can.”

That was the last we heard. A bolt of lightning downstream sent a herd of musk oxen stampeding by us, heading upriver. The blast was like that bomb they were talking about. The thunder kept rolling, right through my bones. “Signal's gone,” Ryan reported.

T
he rain was falling harder and faster than I'd ever seen, and the winds were ferocious. Ryan stowed the sat phone. “You hear what the man said, Nick?”

“Help is not on the way.”

“Is your family out at Shingle Point?” The rain was so loud, Ryan was practically shouting.

“I sure don't think so. Some people go in late June, but we always wait for July. This time, there's no way they would go early.”

“You don't have to worry about your family, but they've heard about this storm and must be worried about you. You want to try to call them right now?”

“The signal's out, and we'd ruin the phone in the rain. We don't have time to mess around! We can't row back upstream…. The river's going to flood, isn't it?”

“It's gonna flood something awful, and soon. I can't picture a safe place to camp on the delta—the whole thing is a floodplain.”