It didn’t take long for Joe and Butch to sync, to read each other’s thoughts and keep the log—and Farkus—moving forward. When the bow of the log started to drift to the left, Joe’s side, Butch would drop a boot deep until it caught on a rock and the makeshift craft would correct to the right. They learned to slow it by dragging their feet on the riverbed like anchors, and turn it quickly if one man set his feet and the other lunged forward. They spoke very few words and navigated by feel and intuition.

“River right,” Joe would say, and Butch would either anchor a foot or shift his weight to cajole the log in that direction.

“River left—hard,” Joe would grunt, digging in so Butch could swing the craft over to avoid a series of bladelike rocks that blocked the right channel like a row of tombstones in a Civil War cemetery.

—

THE SOUND of the river was omnipresent, but Joe could tell the intensity of the fire above was dissipating. Either the timber on top there was already burned to the ground or the fire hadn’t yet reached it—he couldn’t tell. The narrow band of sky was still choked with smoke and light diffused through it.

Despite how dire their situation was, Joe allowed himself to be astounded by some of the sights and features they floated by. He vowed to himself to come back someday, maybe with an experienced kayaker, and run the river with time to appreciate it. There was no wilder river in the mountains. It had never been dammed because it was impractical in the canyon, and there wasn’t enough water in it to be used for navigation or even to float ties or lumber when the railroad had been built downstream or the towns constructed. It was useless for irrigation because of the canyon walls. The Middle Fork was rocky, foamy, untamed, and amoral. Few human beings had left a mark on it of any kind.

Joe knew that the Middle Fork would eventually feed into the North Fork of the Twelve Sleep River several miles downstream, according to maps he’d studied. But river miles were different than map miles, and included bends, channels, and meanders that could double or triple the actual distance on paper. At the confluence of the Middle Fork and North Fork was a popular Forest Service campground that would likely be occupied by campers—if they hadn’t yet been evacuated. Joe thought it unlikely, since the fire had spread so fast.

Campers meant vehicles, cell phones, and possibly medical supplies for Farkus. It also meant the end of the trail for Butch Roberson, one way or other. Joe thought Butch had to know that.

But first they had to get there.

—

IN SOME STRETCHES where the canyon walls were especially close and the spray hung in the air, the fast river created an ecosystem of its own, Joe noted. There were ponderosa pines growing almost parallel to the canyon wall itself that were eight feet in circumference and reached sixty feet in the air. They were the tallest—and oldest—trees Joe had ever seen in the mountains. Unfamiliar orchidlike wildflowers in vibrant colors clung to small shelves along the way, nurtured by the steady spray and almost constant shadow. Butch nodded at ancient hieroglyphics drawn on slatelike slabs. Joe could make out human forms, spears, bows and arrows. The stick men appeared to be hunting bison, although the bison looked more like wildebeests than the buffalo Joe was used to. He wished he had a camera.

But whenever Joe’s concentration wandered from studying the river ahead, they’d drift one direction or the other and have to overcorrect. Or Farkus would moan pitifully or vomit. Joe noted that Farkus’s shoulder seemed to have doubled in size since the deer hit him, and dark discoloration was creeping out on his neck from under his collar. He continued to drift in and out of consciousness, but something inside him kept him clinging to the log regardless.

—

THE WATER WAS COLD and was fed by springs and snowmelt high above. While it had been welcome at first, given the heat of the fire, Joe was wary of hypothermia setting in. His limbs were numb and tight and at times not responsive. It was as if the cold water was sapping his strength away. When they floated through a patch of sunlight, he basked in it and tilted his face up toward the source of the warmth.

When he glanced at Farkus, he saw that he, too, was cold. His skin was ghostly white, and his lips were pale and tinged with ultramarine.

—

THEY FLOATED THE FIRST HOUR—Joe guessed it had been three miles at best—without any serious mishaps. Given the circumstances, Joe felt almost ashamed of himself for enjoying the ride.

Until they heard the roar up ahead of them that sounded like the booming of thunder.

But it wasn’t thunder.

34

SAVAGE RUN CANYON PUSHED IN ON THE NARROW RIVER, which pinched the flow of water and speeded it up. Joe looked frantically right and left, looking for a place they could lay up so he could detach from the craft and scout ahead, but there were no banks—only slick vertical walls.

Ahead, the river narrowed in even more, and Joe couldn’t see beyond a sharp V of rock a hundred yards ahead of them. Beyond the V there was no sign of the river in the distance. Which meant it dropped sharply in elevation.

“Oh, man,” Butch said.

Joe tried to climb up the side of the log to get a glimpse of what was in front of them, but when he did he nearly tipped Farkus into the water.

“Have you ever heard of Middle Fork Falls?” Joe shouted above the growing roar.

Butch looked over with fear in his eyes. “No.”

“I haven’t, either,” Joe said. “So maybe it’s just a drop or rapid ahead and not a waterfall.”

“What should we do?” Butch shouted.

The river seemed to rise and bunch up with coiled power, as if it were gathering to propel them through the V. The walls on both sides shot by. Joe tentatively dropped his left boot to gauge the depth of the river, but he couldn’t touch bottom.

“Keep us in the middle and hold on tight,” Joe said. “Shout if it looks like we’re going to hit something.”

Butch nodded frantically, then turned to face the V as they powered into it.

Joe shouted into Farkus’s ear: “Wake up, Dave, and hold on.”

Farkus raised his head, looked ahead, and screamed.

—

THE FIRST SENSATION as they plummeted through the V was of exploding sunshine and weightlessness. The bow of the log was suspended in the air for a moment, and when Joe glanced up the length of it, he saw not river but treetops. Then it tipped and plunged.

There was a Middle Fork Falls after all, and the log rode it almost straight down in a twenty-foot drop. Joe could do nothing other than wrap his arms around the trunk and press his face into the slick wood. The momentum of the plunge knocked his legs back until they were parallel with the log itself, and they knifed into a deep pool below—immense silence, again—before floating back to the surface.

Joe did a quick inventory. Butch Roberson was sputtering and choking on water, but had held on. Farkus was moaning and had slipped over to Joe’s side, so Joe shoved the man back up on top and in balance.

While he did, Joe almost didn’t notice that the log was once again picking up speed.

“Jesus—look what’s ahead,” Butch yelled.

Farkus shouted, “I’m holding on!”

Joe swung around and could see the river. It was a terrible sight. From where they were until the river finally made a sharp bend to the left a quarter-mile below, it was angry white foam punctuated by rocks. The pitch of the river dropped steadily toward the bend below. Joe could detect no theme to the river, no central current or deeper passage where they could safely avoid the hazards. It was as if the river itself was being fed down a rocky chute.