In the Heart of the Canyon - By Elisabeth Hyde Page 0,70
ree-ul payantree,’ and Mark steps in at that point and reminds them that we’ve had mice and don’t really feel like storing a hundred pounds of rice in our basement.”
“That’s nice, that he sticks up for you.”
“I suppose. Although being the bitch that I am, I always focus on what he doesn’t do for me, instead of what he does do.”
Both women chuckled, in mutual recognition.
“Remind me again, where’s Amy’s father?” Jill asked.
“Boston,” Susan replied. “Amy goes and visits him in August. He has a cottage on a lake. She babysits his kids.” It suddenly seemed pathetic to her, that that was what her daughter did for the month of August at age seventeen.
“What’s high school been like for her?” Jill asked. “I know when I was in high school, kids were pretty cruel. Is it still as bad?”
“It was worse in middle school,” Susan said. “Now they just ignore her. Although I will admit that she’s gone to a few parties this past year, like last Halloween. But then she didn’t go out much after that. Not sure why.”
“Well, its a start,” said Jill. “Does she have a boyfriend?”
Susan wanted to throw her arms around Jill, simply for asking. None of her friends back in Mequon had ever thought to wonder.
“Be careful what you wish for,” Jill declared. “From what my sister says, sometimes it’s best that we don’t know everything our kids do.”
Just then, the boat bumped against something solid, and they turned around to find themselves nudging up against a steep shoreline alongside JT’s boat. The sun was dipping toward the rim. A long, drawn-out canyon dusk would follow. Peter shipped his oars.
“You got us here?” Jill said.
“Available for hire,” said Peter. “Anytime.”
Dixie slid off the bow of the boat and stood in the water, grasping the rope and bracing them against the current as they unclipped their day bags.
“Let’s continue this over wine,” Susan said.
But Jill was already climbing over the massive pile of gear. “I swear to god, if Evelyn takes the biggest campsite tonight, I am going to wring her thick little neck.”
33
Day Nine, Evening
Mile 150
Upset Hotel, as their campsite was called, was a difficult one to access. The water was deep and swift here, and sharp chunks of limestone made pull-ins tricky. In addition, the camping area itself was situated up a steep embankment, a daunting climb even without all their gear.
But JT didn’t want to chance going farther downriver. If the next two camps were already taken, there would be no place large enough for them before Havasu, and since no camping was allowed at Havasu, they’d have to continue on downriver.
JT didn’t want to think about the prospect of Mitchell missing Havasu.
So they tied up the boats at Upset and, in keeping with the spirit of the last two days, everyone rallied cheerfully, spacing out the fire line and hauling up the tables and the stove and the Blaster and the groover and the kitchen supply boxes and the can smasher and the first aid box and the twenty-four large blue dry bags and the twelve smaller white ones, with everyone joking all along about how easy it would be to get the gear back down to the boats the next morning. Soon they had the kitchen set up, the steaks defrosting; and those who appreciated geology were able to take a moment and enjoy the view.
Mitchell being among them. He’d dressed for dinner tonight in a bold turquoise Hawaiian shirt with a few lost buttons that revealed a hairy belly when he moved about. “Things just keep getting more and more beautiful,” he murmured, gazing downriver, where gray-green cliffs, furred with sage and cactus, tilted out of the river. With a few quick twists he set up his tripod. “Whoever would have thought I’d get so interested in rocks?”
“How many pictures have you taken, Mitchell?” asked Peter.
“Twelve, maybe thirteen hundred.”
“You could publish a book,” said Amy.
“I intend to,” said Mitchell.
He fastened his camera to his tripod and concentrated on photographing the downstream landscape—although by changing the angle, he was also able to photograph the guides, who had remained down on the boats and seemed to be in no hurry to start dinner. People began to quip that the guides were on strike tonight, and for once they appreciated Mitchell’s efforts, because they would remember the scene fondly: the night the passengers got dinner going while the guides had a little R & R on the boats.