I pressed the accelerator and we rattled on down Slate River Road. We braked at the green and white sign for Oh Be Joyful Canyon.
“This is where we turn.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“What?”
“That’s the name?” Lisa asked.
“No lie,” I said.
I pointed to the heavily eroded jeep trail that plunged down to our left.
“Might not be so joyful.”
I cranked the wheel hard left and the Scout jolted downward, S-curving several times before the trail dead-ended at the river. The creek was about five yards across and its crystalline current churned up white spouts across its length. Tall cottonwoods leaned precariously over shale-ledged banks. We sat in silence, contemplating the deep water.
“The road picks up on the other side,” I said, pointing.
I had been down this way a week earlier, when my dad and a few men erected the tipi. The river wasn’t quite as high today as it had been, but this time I was driving.
“Fuckin’ A,” I murmured.
Lisa got out and peered at the river. Beneath the ties of Lisa’s halter-top, goose bumps pricked her arms. She lit a Marlboro, taking a deep drag.
“It’s at least three feet deep in the middle. Maybe more,” she said.
She reached a finger out and touched the icy current.
“With enough speed we might get across,” she continued.
Lisa climbed back in the car. Her family had lived in the mountains surrounding Boulder on roads that were little more than deer paths, whereas my family’s idea of navigating a river was inner tubing down the concrete irrigation ditch that ran through our front yard.
“I’m sure this tank has crossed worse,” I said with false bravado. “Hang on.”
I cranked the shifter into reverse, backed up five yards, then roared towards the river. The current slapped against us as if the truck, nudging us off course. I gripped the wheel like a life preserver and gunned it. Half way across, the water coursed up to the doors. For a moment we began to drift.
“No fucking way!” Lisa yelled.
My own voice was crammed way up in my throat somewhere and all that came out of my mouth was a high-pitched croak. The Scout’s wheels gripped the gray rocks of the riverbed and yanked us forward. Water splashed all the up to the windshield as we forged through to the other side, bucked up out of the water and bounced up the opposite bank. The two of us sat still for a moment, listening to the water drip off the sheet metal.
“What a rush,” Lisa croaked.
“Totally,” I said.
I parked the Scout under a tall Ponderosa pine and killed the engine. I wanted to hug Lisa but thought better of it. Being alone deep in the mountains was enough togetherness for now.
“The road picks up on the other side,” I said, pointing.
I had been down this way a week earlier, when my dad and a few men erected the tipi. The river wasn’t quite as high today as it had been, but this time I was driving.
“Fuckin’ A,” I murmured.
Lisa got out and peered at the river. Beneath the ties of Lisa’s halter-top, goose bumps pricked her arms. She lit a Marlboro, taking a deep drag.
“It’s at least three feet deep in the middle. Maybe more,” she said.
She reached a finger out and touched the icy current.
“With enough speed we might get across,” she continued.
Lisa climbed back in the car. Her family had lived in the mountains surrounding Boulder on roads that were little more than deer paths, whereas my family’s idea of navigating a river was inner tubing down the concrete irrigation ditch that ran through our front yard.
“I’m sure this tank has crossed worse,” I said with false bravado. “Hang on.”
I cranked the shifter into reverse, backed up five yards, then roared towards the river. The current slapped against us as if the truck, nudging us off course. I gripped the wheel like a life preserver and gunned it. Half way across, the water coursed up to the doors. For a moment we began to drift.
“No fucking way!” Lisa yelled.
My own voice was crammed way up in my throat somewhere and all that came out of my mouth was a high-pitched croak. The Scout’s wheels gripped the gray rocks of the riverbed and yanked us forward. Water splashed all the up to the windshield as we forged through to the other side, bucked up out of the water and bounced up the opposite bank. The two of us sat still for a moment, listening to the water drip off the sheet metal.
“What a rush,” Lisa croaked.
“Totally,” I said.
I parked the Scout under a tall Ponderosa pine and killed the engine. I wanted to hug Lisa but thought better of it. Being alone deep in the mountains was enough togetherness for now.
