Fear No Evil

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.

Twenty minutes later, the thunder was closer. The wind was picking up as well, and I was about to get my rain gear handy when I heard Sampson bellowing, “Alex! Alex! Come here! Fast!”

My first thought was Bear! And he doesn’t have the rifle!

I grabbed the shotgun, raced to the river, and came out on the bank in time to see John running along the sandbar, his fly rod nearly bent in two.

“Alex!” he shouted. “I’ve got one! It’s a monster!”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Bring a phone to take a picture in case I can land it!”

By the time I’d waded the back channel and run down the sandbar to him, Sampson was kneeling in the shallows by a cutthroat trout that was at least a foot long.

“It’s huge!” I said.

“Told you.” He grinned. “Now I’m going to scoop it up with my hands and you take the picture.”

I set down the shotgun and dug out my phone. He lifted the fish with both hands and pushed it toward me as I snapped several pictures. Then he gently lowered the fish into the water with one hand, grabbed the fly with a pair of thin pliers, and twisted the hook free. He held the fish by its tail, moved it back and forth in the current several times, and let it go.

The fish lazed there a moment and then disappeared into the swifter water with a flick of its tail.

Sampson looked at me like he couldn’t believe it. “I caught a big trout on a fly, Alex. How is that possible?”

“I think someone might have been helping you a little, John.”

He smiled wistfully. “It is a beautiful place for her.”

“It is,” I said.

It was nearly four thirty. The thunder was getting even closer. I could see dark clouds cresting the mountain opposite us as we started back up the sandbar.

The sun vanished behind clouds. The wind gusted, threw grit in our eyes.

As we neared the back channel that separated us from the riverbank and our camp, we heard a faint buzzing noise far to the north.

Sampson said, “What’s that?”

“No idea,” I said, raising my binoculars from the chest harness and seeing nothing at first.

But as the buzz changed to a steady chop and thump, there was a flash in the air that I caught through the trees, the sun reflecting off a windshield that quickly became a helicopter flying low over the water as it arced around the bend three hundred yards north of us and flew south fast.

“What the hell? Helicopters aren’t allowed in the wilderness,” Sampson said.

“They can’t land in the wilderness,” I said just as a man leaned out the right rear door of the chopper with an AR rifle.

“Gun!” we both shouted and leaped into the back channel, going for the riverbank, cover, and our weapons.

The gunman opened up. Bursts of bullets from an automatic weapon skipped across the water and tore into the sandbar and the channel water right behind us.