Trey Watkins, Charles Allen Watkins III, whom everyone always jokingly referred to as “Your Honor,” because his name sounded more like that of a Supreme Court judge, than someone who could ski the back terrain at Aspen Highlands with the best of them. He’d done a few off-terrain videos in a few Warren Miller ski films—and rock-climbed out at Maroon Bells in the summer. He also used to teach hang gliding off the summit of Ajax.
Dani also knew he could get down this river without a hitch in the worst of conditions, and this surely wasn’t that.
There were abrasions all over his face and a fresh, oozing wound on his skull, and his neck was pitched at a horrifying angle. She grabbed his wrist and looked for a pulse, not finding even a hint of a heartbeat. Oh, Jesus, no . . . She rested him back down in the river.
Trey.
She knew he came out and did an early run before work sometimes, just to keep his feet in the game, now that he had a regular job. Regular, meaning off of skis, the mountain, or the river. She recalled how a few years back he and Dani had ended up together after last call at the Black Nugget, when Dani had come back after college after her mother had died. It wasn’t much of a relationship, or even what you’d call a fling. Trey wasn’t exactly boyfriend material back then. He was a quiet, rugged guy from a small town up north, and with his long ponytail, his washed out, blue-eyed smile, and that easy, but confident way, women always seemed to flock to him. As Dani had a couple of times, maybe a little rootless and angry back then over her mom.
But somehow Allie Benton made all that change. Trey settled down, married, cut his hair. He even got a totally “straight” job managing the Outdoor Adventures shop in town. They had a kid. Petey. Who everyone said made Trey a changed man. Dani had last seen him a couple of months ago at the Post Net store. He was mailing off an application to the national ski trade show. He’d developed this custom mounting for those GoPro action cameras that skiers and riders put on their helmets, and which they were selling like crazy in the store. Dani remembered thinking, Who’d ever figure Trey Watkins for an entrepreneur. Amazing what having a kid could do.
And here she was staring at him now. Bloodied and crumpled. Those washed-out blue eyes that looked like Roger Daltrey’s of the Who stilled. It didn’t make a bit of sense where they were. Trey could handle a rapid like the Cradle with Petey on his lap. He could do it blindfolded, even with this amount of water being pushed around. Dani inspected his kayak. She didn’t see any gashes or tears. She looked at the oozing abrasion on the side of his head. She just closed her eyes and shook her head in disbelief.
Poor Trey.
She thought about trying to drag the body out and administer CPR, but he was gone. It was clearly too late. She took out the radio from her belt. The company bus was set to meet them all not too much farther downstream. It was already on its way there.
“Rich. Rich . . .” she called in. “Can you hear me? It’s Dani.”
No one answered. Only a scratchy static came back.
“Rich, get on the horn, quick, I need you,” she said, trying again. “It’s urgent. Something’s happened here.”
“You at the fords already?” Her tour partner finally came on the line. “God, you’re early, Dani, it’s only—”
“Negative, Rich. I’m at the bottom of the Cradle and we’ve got some trouble here. There’s been an accident.”
“Oh, shit,” he went, imagining the worst. “Everyone okay . . . ?”
“Not us,” Dani said. “It’s Trey Watkins. His raft flipped over. There’s a gash on his head. He’s not breathing, Rich.”
“Trey? Oh my God . . .” Everyone knew him. “Any sign of a pulse?”
“Negative, again. I can’t believe this, Rich.” Trey could ride with the best of them out here. The most challenging water was all well behind him. She looked back and saw her raft team all gathered on the shore, looking on. “I’m holding him here, Rich. He’s dead.”