I took over the oars around ten thirty and soon got the hang of using them to pivot and angle the raft so it rode the deepest water. Sampson was up front, taking it all in with a bittersweet smile.
“Gorgeous spot,” I said.
He looked back at me. “Only thing missing is Billie.”
“Who says she’s missing?”
John thought about that and then nodded. “Yeah, I guess that’s the point.”
“You said you were bringing some of her ashes.”
“And I did,” he said. “I just wish she could have seen this, Alex. She would have loved it. The scenery. The animals. The silence.”
“It is incredible. I haven’t heard anything but the river for the past three hours.”
“I’m hoping to hear nothing but the river for the next five days,” Sampson said. “It’s hypnotic. Good for the head and the soul.”
“I feel you, brother.”
Around noon, we stopped on a sandbar for lunch and looked at our position on Sampson’s phone. He’d bought an app from a company called OnX that allowed us to download a satellite map of the entire river between Gordon Creek and the takeout. It looked like we had only a two-hour float to where the broad sage flat ended and the river wound into a long, narrow canyon with swifter water.
“See Burnt Creek, about mile seven? Above the canyon?” Sampson said, pointing to it. “Bauer said the fishing’s always good where a creek meets a river. He showed me pictures of the area. It’s beautiful, a fitting place for Billie’s ashes.”
“Then that’s as far as we’ll go today.”
We packed up and got back on the river, with me at the oars in no hurry whatsoever. Just happy to be alive.
“I appreciate you being here, Alex,” Sampson said after a long silence.
“I would not have it any other way, my friend. What do you think of bringing Ali and Willow out here in a few years?”
He looked over his shoulder at me and nodded. “I’d like that. I think the kids would like that too.”
“I’m sure Ali would be going out of his mind right about now,” I said and laughed.
“Especially if you had to take another butt soak in the river.”
“Hey, you can’t show those pictures to anyone.”
“Really?” Sampson said. “I was going to get one framed for Bree for Christmas.”
Chapter
82
We kept up the easy banter between extended periods of quiet while we soaked up the new and remarkable surroundings. Two hours later, Sampson got pictures of a big bull moose crossing the river in front of us.
After negotiating a few small rapids, we pulled the raft over on the west side of the river opposite Burnt Creek and the long pool the outfitter said always held fish. We unloaded the raft, pulled it all the way up on the bank and into the trees, and tied it securely to an aspen trunk. Then we set up the dome tent near it and suspended a tarp over a spot we decided would be our kitchen.
It was close to three in the afternoon by the time we had the portable table and camp chairs up and had gathered enough dead branches for a fire later. Sampson got his fly rod, bear spray, and the rifle before going to the river.
I followed him. It was a spectacular spot. There were more sandbars downriver. The mountain opposite us had burned several years before but was now covered in tall green grass and knee-high fir trees.
Sampson set the rifle and fly rod down and stood there a long time, his hand to his brow.
“Looking for fish?” I asked.
“Trying to figure out how to let Billie go.”
I felt a surge of pity go through me and stayed quiet. After a few minutes, he picked up his fly rod, left the rifle, and started into the knee-deep back channel with his Teva sandals on.
“I think some of her should be right here in this river,” he said. “She’ll go first downstream, clearing the way for us the rest of the trip.”
I smiled sadly as he waded the back channel to a long sandbar and crossed it to face the big pool where the creek met the river. After a few moments, he set down his rod, reached into his pocket, and retrieved Billie’s ashes in a small purple velvet bag.
He held the bag to his chest, waded into the river a few feet, and looked skyward before he spread his late wife’s ashes on the water. John stood there for the longest time watching as some of his love slipped downstream.
I got tears in my eyes as thunder rumbled to our west.
Sampson climbed out, got his fly rod, and walked north along the sandbar a good thirty yards. Figuring he needed time alone, I picked up the shotgun and went back to the kitchen to organize a gourmet meal of Mountain House freeze-dried chicken stew and vegetables.