Dad grabs the fish head when I finish with it. He plucks out an eyeball, pops it in his mouth, and chews it slowly, licking his lips. “Best part, kiddo. Um-hmmm. And good for ya too!”
Gross! I think. But if he can do it so can I.
I pluck out the other eyeball and pop it into my mouth like a grape.
PFOOW! I spit it out and watch it roll across the ground.
“Gross!” I yell it this time. “That tasted like . . . like an eyeball!”
I’d rather go hungry.
I try to rinse out the taste with water while Dad licks each finger, like he was eating a buffalo wing or something. Then we break camp on empty stomachs.
Lanezi Lake funnels back into the Cariboo River. We’re running on empty, but we’re not letting that slow us down. We’re lean mean paddling machines. The quicker we can get to our next campsite, probably on Unna Lake, the sooner we can fish again.
Ducks scatter out of our way. Snowy mountains slide by. The sky is clear blue here, scudded with clouds there, ever changing.
We’re racing against our bellies.
My mind’s no longer like a maze. It’s focused. It’s like an arrow flying toward >>>> FOOD.
We’re moving so fast that we almost miss the channel into Sandy Lake. I’m in back. I execute a left pivot in the nick of time. The lake’s shallow with sandspits sticking way out into the lake. Around us, the cedars have turned to pine, the mountains to snow-dusted hills.
We only pause to drink water from our bottles. There’s a cool breeze but the sun is hot. Sweat stings our eyes. We need salt.
And we need food. I’d give anything for a bag of chips!
We keep paddling.
After Sandy Lake we fly down another river passage and then turn into the narrow entrance to Unna Lake. A tiny, enchanted gem, crystal clear. Awesome. Down below our kayak, we can see schools of small fish—too small to catch—darting in zigs and zags, as if with one intention:
Get away.
Although it’s still early afternoon, we find a good spot beneath some aspen trees, and set up camp on high speed. The plan is to fish now, eat, and then maybe take a hike up to nearby Cariboo Falls, if we have the energy.
Easier said than done. It’s too sunny for good fishing. The fish are sleeping, hanging low along the bottom, or in the reeds.
But we fish, anyway. No choice. We’re hungry.
We fish the reeds and snag our lures and catch nothing but duckweed. I lose one lure and Dad loses two. After two hours we’re about to give up when Dad pulls in a little lake trout. It will have to do.
But we use up half the remaining matches to get a fire going.
That leaves four!
I try not to think about the future. I’m living in the now. At least this time the fire burns long enough to cook the fish.
Again I eat my share of fish in four or five bites, but this time I chew slowly, savoring the taste, trying to make it last.
And no, I don’t eat the eyeballs.
There are no mosquitoes in the warm sun. Even the deerflies seem to be sleeping. Dad says he feels like a nap, but I remind him that we were going to go to Cariboo Falls. And now that we’ve eaten, I feel like we could make it.
“We’ll go in the morning,” he says. He yawns, lies back on the ground, and cradles his head in his crossed arms.
“Tomorrow we won’t have the energy to hike up to the falls. We’ll probably be starving. Come on, Dad. Let’s go! It’ll be cool!”
“You go, I’ll nap.” He pops a toothpick into his mouth and smiles.
“Geez, Dad! You told me they’re like five times the size of the Isaac River Falls. Epic!” I can’t believe myself. I’m actually begging my dad to come with me. A day ago I would’ve been deliriously happy to just go by myself.
What happened? Something has changed.
“Come on, Dad, you promised! We have to see the falls!” I punch his shoulder. I actually punch his shoulder! If he’d done that to me a few days ago I would’ve slugged him. Hard!
“Okay, okay!” Dad sits up. “First just let me rinse off!” He pulls off his grimy flannel shirt, kneels by the lake, and splashes water into his face and under his arms. I can see he’s lost weight on this trip, and he was already skinny.
At this rate he’ll be all skin and bones. And a scraggly beard.
But right now I’m practically running in place, raring to go. I’m totally psyched about climbing the falls. It’s sort of like a sugar high, but I’m suddenly aware it’s really a hunger high. I read something about it one time, maybe in a story by Ernest Hemingway. I can’t remember. Whatever. I’m bursting with hungry energy, my mind as sharp as an ice pick.
“We’ll climb the falls,” I say. “Then we’ll come back and fish when the sun is down and the fish are jumping.”
Isn’t that like the song? Summertime . . . and the fish are . . . de duh duh . . . Something like that. One of Dad’s old bluesy jazz tunes.
Dad slaps his face three more times, climbs to his feet, and slips back into his flannel shirt, only buttoning it halfway up. His chest hair is like a thick rug.
I start off before he can catch up. It’s an easy walk uphill, less than a mile. Through the cedar trees we can hear the roar of the falls in the distance. As the trail starts to dip the roar grows louder and louder.
I’m not prepared for what comes next. Instead of climbing the waterfall, we come to a drop-off, just above Cariboo Falls, and look down.
“Awesome!” I say. So much POWER! The thundering falls blast through a narrow canyon, rush over a ledge, and plunge down, sending up a powerful back spray that rises into the sky, creating a hazy, glowing rainbow in the sunlight.
Dad comes to my side. We just stand there, in a kind of awe. The falls are so fast and wide and powerful. And at the bottom the water churns and gallops like a herd of wild white horses.
I wipe the mist from my face and say, “Let’s climb down!”
“I don’t know, Aaron. Looks dangerous.”
“Oh my god! Dad! Come on! It’s a challenge, right?”
“That it is,” he says. “But it’s not for me. You go, if you really want to. But be careful! I’ll watch.” He bites his lip, looking worried. But then his grin splits his dark whiskers.
This time I don’t argue. I’m too psyched. I take one more look down the falls and say, “Okay. Here goes!”
I scramble down like a mountain goat, leaping from one mossy, mist-soaked rock to the next.
Suddenly, my feet fly out from under me.
“WHOA!” I scream.
I’m falling. I’m going to plunge into the boiling cauldron below. I flail my arms and legs and crash on my side about ten feet below where I last jumped. I tumble head over heels, and slide down until I finally grab hold of a root and stop my fall. The root is clinging to a narrow rock ledge, which I pull myself up onto. It looks like I’ve fallen about halfway down from the top—maybe sixty feet. Maybe more.
Nice move, Aaron.
The wind is knocked out of me, my left side hurts like hell, and I’m being hammered by the full force of the waterfall. The ledge slopes and it’s slippery, so I cling to the root.
“Aaron!” Dad calls. I can barely hear him above the roar.
“Hang on! I’m coming!” Dad’s coming. All I have to do is hang on.
But I can’t!
The water’s pounding down on me. I’m losing my grip. The blast of the waterfall is like a hurricane at my back.
Next thing I know, I’m dangling below the ledge, spinning. I’ve still got a hold of the root, thank God. But either my arm is going to tear from my body or it’s going to tear from the thin root.
Dad is coming. I can tell because little rocks are bouncing down over my head.
But I can’t hold on any longer.
I’m slipping, slipping. . . .
Suddenly Dad is there, reaching out to me. . . .
Too late! The root slides out of my hand.
Dad’s hands grip my arm like a vice, but it’s too late. We both fall.
It’s incredibly fast and in slow motion at the same time. My heart’s crying out. Mom! Dad! Help!
SMACK! We smash into the river below.
We’re torn apart. I tumble underwater, crashing, smashing rock, thrashing, flailing, holding my breath.
And holding it . . . and holding it . . . somersaulting through a cyclone of currents, like a monster’s coils trying to hold me under. Me kicking, clawing, trying to reach the surface.
My lungs want to burst. Pinpoints of light explode behind my eyes. I’m about to inhale water, breathe in all the water in the river, when. . . .
I burst out into sunlight.
Air!
I gasp and gag and splutter. I tumble and roll onto my back, twisting and sliding feetfirst down the rapids, bouncing off boulders like a ball in a pinball machine.
The water is so cold my chest seizes. I can’t breathe.
I’ve got to breathe!
I cough and shudder and cough again. Hard!
My ribs finally loosen. I snag a breath and look around.
What’s that downriver? A bundle. A bundle of dark flannel draped over a sweeper.
Dad!
I veer toward him. My soaked clothes are so heavy they almost drag me down.
I fight and kick to keep my head above the surface.
Closer . . . closer now . . . I’m almost there.
Almost there!
I crash feetfirst right beside him and almost get sucked under again. I snatch the dead limb and pull myself up, and hold on.
“Dad!” I yell. I fight my way toward him, try to grab hold . . .
. . . but suddenly he’s pulled under and away by the river.
He’s gone! My hand holds empty air. I can see him bouncing and rolling downriver like a rag doll.
“Dad! Dad!”
