Leave No Trace Page 20

  Lucky her.

  The path widened ahead as the rocky terrain opened up to reveal a steep slope to the right with the glint of the churning Conasauga River snaking below through scrub and trees. Ahead the path eased downward into the cradle of the forest.

  We can make it. Only about sixty feet. We just—

  The arrow drilled into the rocky path only a foot in front of her, embedding itself at a steep angle. Meg had only a split second to try to maneuver her foot around it, but she was moving too fast and there was no time to change course. Her left boot hooked on the arrow and she crashed forward into the rock-strewn path, only barely getting her hands up in time to break her fall. Air whooshed from her lungs as the jarring landing nearly knocked the wind out of her. Instantly recognizing the danger of her position, unmoving on the ground, she did the only thing possible and rolled to her right, aiming to take shelter below the edge of the path away from the archer. As she rotated, the pack she wore stopped her sideways motion. Pressing both hands into the dirt, she pushed with all her might, rolling over the bulk of the pack to go over the edge of the path to the hillside beyond.

  The force that saved her from an arrow strike now played against her. She reached out to stop her roll, but nothing but mossy rocks, dried leaves, and buried tree roots met her fingertips, not offering any chance for a handhold. Then she was tumbling down a slope steeper than she anticipated, rolling and spinning out of control, her hands outstretched, grasping for any hold. But anything she managed to get a partial grip on ripped painfully out of her hands as inertia carried her downward. Hard rocks buffeted her body, tossing her like a rag doll, and then her only thought was to protect her head rather than stop her slide. Stiff, scrubby branches whipped at her exposed skin, and one ripped across her forehead, slicing like a knife.

  She made a Hail Mary grab for another branch as she spun by, this time latching on desperately and trying to swing her body around to dig her boots into the ground downhill to stop her descent. She got her right boot into the dirt, pushing back hard, but it wasn’t enough, and her inertia carried her forward into a somersault and then tumbling farther down through the underbrush.

  Somewhere in the distance, she heard a dog barking frantically.

  Abruptly she went airborne as her body helplessly spun like a top.

  Then she was tossed into ice-cold water, the surface closing over her head as the raging current wrapped around her flailing body, dragging her inexorably under.

  CHAPTER 21

  Strainer: A river hazard caused by an obstruction like a downed tree that constricts the flow of water in multiple places. As the current flows through the strainer it pulls anything on the surface underwater into the strainer.

  Tuesday, April 16, 2:47 PM

  Cohutta Wilderness

  Murray County, Georgia

  Meg’s knee-jerk reaction to the stunning cold was to gasp in a startled breath, and she only barely caught herself in time to stop icy water from pouring into her lungs. Tumbling through the water, dragged by a current that kept trying to pull her deeper, she kicked out, trying to fight her way back up. A second later, her head broke the surface and she sucked in a huge lungful of air just before water churned over her head and she went under again.

  Dragged and buffeted, Meg had the presence of mind to shimmy out of her pack, knowing the added weight would only drag her down or wedge her against obstacles. The bag slithered off, returning freedom of movement and some of her buoyancy. She clawed her way to the surface again, blinking furiously, kicking hard to keep her head above water. Around her, the river seethed like it was just below the boiling point, and flotsam—branches in full leaf and larger tree limbs—stabbed out of the water and then disappeared again under the foam.

  Search-and-rescue handlers were trained in wilderness survival because of the amount of time spent outdoors, often in isolated and dangerous locations. Meg knew how to handle a fall into the river, but her training hadn’t counted on Class IV rapids as an extra layer of lethal challenge. Rafters and kayakers fell out of their boats all the time, but they had life jackets, helmets, and wet suits to protect them from deadly obstacles and the brutal cold. She had no protective gear whatsoever.

  But she knew the rules that could save her life: Never attempt to stand or put a foot down—if it got wedged between rocks, the current would push her facedown into the water and hold her there while she drowned. Assume the defensive swimming position—on her back, leading with her feet so her hiking boots struck any upcoming boulders instead of her head. Try to be aware of how the water is moving and how deep it is. Swim perpendicular to the current to reach the shore and then get the hell out of the water.

  Meg scanned the shoreline on one side and then the other, but everything was moving much too fast as she shot down the river.

  She sucked in air, trying to keep panic at bay. You can get out of this. Get to shore. Get where it’s shallow. Find the—

  Her mind went blank as the current yanked her under again, and this time she was unprepared and gulped in a mouthful of gritty, frigid water. Frantically struggling to the surface, she desperately coughed water back up.

  Move with the current, try to keep above it. Flush drowning is going to be a risk if you get many more dunkings.

  Above the sound of the water, a louder roar reached her ears. Trying to rise a little out of the water, Meg stared with horror downstream to where two large boulders broke the surface, white-water foam churning around them as they split the river into channels.

  She was going to have to shoot the rapids with no boat, no helmet, and no life jacket.

  It was going to be a miracle if she survived the next few minutes.

  With difficulty and only limited buoyancy in the choppy water, she struggled to get her body flat on the surface of the river, her boots pointed downstream. Keeping her head up and out of the water, she tried to gauge the best route—was it safer to go between the boulders or around them? She alternately paddled like mad under the surface to keep from sinking and used her hands as rudders to steady her path and steer between the boulders, where she calculated the water was deeper and could protect her from hidden rocks below. Her heart thumped as if some invisible creature was pounding its fist on her chest, and she fought to control her breathing in an effort to slow the rising panic that no matter what she did, she was about to die.

  As she got closer to the rapids, the water became choppier and waves broke over her head again and again. Coughing and spluttering, Meg frantically worked to keep herself above water. Craning her head, she checked the distance again.

  Twenty feet.

  She was close enough now to see some of the branches crashing into the rocks and shattering into splinters on impact.

  It’s all over if you hit the rocks. You’ll shatter like those branches.

  Ten feet.

  Here we go.

  She took a deep breath.

  She shot between the boulders, her body lifting from the water for a fraction of a second as the cascade crashed over rocks far below the surface. Then she was back in the water, swept along into an eddy where the water spun, sucking her toward the rocks she’d just cleared. The current pulled her under, tumbling her in a somersault. She fought her way to the surface and launched forward on her stomach, stroking strongly for the water that streamed past the rocks, purposely digging into it with her upstream arm so she got caught in the current and dragged along, popping free of the rapids.

  She knew she’d gotten lucky, but that luck might not hold the next time. She needed to find a way out, and she needed to do it now.

  Meg whipped her head toward the left bank at the sound of barking, her eyes going wide with disbelief at the sight of Hawk sprinting alongside, trying to keep pace with her. He must have followed her down the hill and then been drawn to the river by the sounds of her struggles.

  Now to make sure he stayed out of it. “Talon!” She tried desperately to raise her voice above the roar of the water ca
rrying her downstream. “No, Talon. Stay!”

  She had no way of knowing if he heard her. Then there was no time to worry about her dog as the next downstream risk came into view.

  A large log broke the surface of the river, snagged on something below the waterline, holding it in place so it lay as a perpendicular block across a large part of the river. Meg had only seconds to decide how to react. There was no time to try to steer around it, so she could either go over it and risk crashing into it if she couldn’t clear the obstacle, or go under and take her chances that she could escape whatever held the log in place.

  Going under was possibly a death sentence, as she, too, risked getting caught in the obstruction.

  Over it was.

  For a fraction of a second she thought about trying to climb on top of the log and staying there, out of the danger of the raging river, but quickly realized the insanity in that plan. If the log rolled, she could get trapped by whatever caught at it from below and it would be game over.

  Over and off, then.

  Still on her belly facing forward, Meg dug in with an aggressive front crawl, aiming directly for the log, increasing her forward thrust in the water. When she got within ten feet, she stopped swimming, letting her momentum and the current carry her, bracing her hands out in front of her. As she hit the log, she grabbed the top of it, pulling up and levering her torso over it. It was harder than she anticipated; the cold was affecting her coordination, and her muscles were sluggish. Her fingers had trouble grasping the slimy bark, nearly slipping as she pushed her body up. But once she cleared her upper body, she kicked as hard as she could and propelled herself forward, slithering off the log and back into the water on the far side, panting in relief.

  She couldn’t take much more of this. She needed to get to shore before she drowned.

  Flooded from the spring rains, the river was about twenty-five feet wide, and trees rose out of the water instead of along the bank. But if she could get to the side and grab a tree trunk or a branch, she might be able to use it to pull herself out.

  Up ahead, several tree branches bent low over the water. Keeping her eye on the branches as she bobbed in the churning water, Meg turned and swam perpendicular to the current, hoping to make enough progress toward the bank that she’d line up with the dangling branches. A strong undertow caught at her, nearly pulling her under and causing her to swallow more water. She tossed her head back to stare up at blue sky, keeping her face above water as she fought to stay afloat and to get her arms clear of the surface.

  Closer . . . closer . . .

  Meg kicked with all her might, driving her body up five or six precious inches, while swinging her right arm over her head like she was serving a volleyball overhand. The first branch hit her palm with a stinging blow, then whipped away before she could close her fist around it. But she got her fingers around the branch behind it and clamped on, swinging her left hand up to help support her weight in the drag of the river.

  She gave herself a moment to hang, coughing and gagging, still three-quarters in the river, her body floating downstream as the current tried to pull her along while she gathered herself.

  More frantic barking sounded to her left and she glanced over at the far bank.

  Hawk danced at the water’s edge, not able to hold still as he desperately calculated how to reach her. He braced himself as if about to leap into the water after her, then shied away, then braced again, his eyes locked on her.

  There was no doubt he was preparing to throw himself in the river after her. But if the undercurrent grabbed him, he could drown.

  “Hawk, stay.” Meg tried to raise her voice further. “Stay, boy. This is way too dangerous for you. I’ll—”

  The branch broke under her weight combined with the added drag of the current and she fell backward into the river, her arms slapping the surface over her head as she was sucked under. Hawk’s barking cut off as the sound of rushing water filled her ears. She didn’t have time to catch a breath, but at least her mouth was closed this time and she clenched her teeth to keep it that way.

  Meg clawed her way upward again. Exhaustion was starting to pull at her now, and combined with the temperature of the water, her muscles felt weighted with lead, delaying her reaction time. Her head broke the surface and she pushed her sodden hair out of her eyes to look for her next way out.

  Something bumped into her from the side and she jerked, nearly going under. She took a precious second to find out what was in the water with her.

  Hawk paddled madly beside her, working hard to keep his head above water, using his body to drive her toward the far bank. He kept himself downstream of her, seemingly sensing the only way out was to swim perpendicular to the current as it carried them along, sweeping them closer to the shoreline.

  Part of her had known he wouldn’t obey her command to stay, not when she was so clearly in trouble. Dogs were helpers, but search-and-rescue dogs had a drive to save that sometimes couldn’t be contained by an order to stop, especially when it was their handler at risk.

  Now they needed to save each other because she was terrified this river was too much, even for a natural-born water dog. They needed a plan to get out of the water before the next set of rapids, and they needed it fast. It was one thing to bob along in the brutal, sucking current. It was something else altogether to be slammed full body against the rocks that kayaks and white-water rafts skimmed over. And while she could strategically try to shoot the rapids feetfirst, she wouldn’t be able to coach Hawk.

  She was lucky to have made it this far with only minor bumps and bruises. But as exhaustion overtook her, staying afloat was becoming a life-or-death struggle. As her reactions slowed, the risk of flush drowning rose exponentially. Time to use the strength she had left, bolstered by her dog, and get to safety.

  They floated toward where the river curved to the right, revealing a sight that made Meg’s heart rate ratchet up. A maze-like cluster of rocks stabbed out of the river, blocking everything except for a narrow pathway slightly to one side of center. Past the rocks, the river disappeared, dropping out of view.

  A drop like that would likely have a back current that would suck one or both of them under until they drowned.

  But in a bend in the river, the water at the outside of the curve would be flowing faster than the inside. Time to aim for the inner angle of the bend. Meg pointed to the bank. “Talon! Swim!”

  They both pulled hard for the right bank. When Meg’s strength started to flag and her strokes faltered, Hawk only swam harder, driving her against the current and toward the bank. Then, suddenly, the rocky shoreline was under her hiking boots and Meg could push up to stand, rising out of water that came only to just above her waist. She slogged forward, gripping the top handle of Hawk’s vest with her stiff fingers and pulling him with her until the water was shallow enough that he could stand as well.

  Meg staggered out of the river and dropped to her knees, collapsing forward, her cheek against the hard dirt of the exposed bank as she retched up any remaining water she’d swallowed, one arm wrapped around her panting dog. Her lungs worked like bellows, desperately trying to drag in enough air to satisfy her oxygen-starved body. Shaking, she managed to raise herself up a few inches and then collapsed. Hawk wriggled out from under her arm to nudge her with his cold nose, poking at her and whining.

  “It’s okay, Hawk. I’m okay.” Her voice sounded like sandpaper scraped over her vocal cords and she had to stop as a paroxysm of coughing wracked her. “Good boy. My hero.”

  He licked her cheek, his tongue warm on her frigid skin.

  She gave herself a minute to lie there and tried to regulate her breathing, forcing herself to inhale and exhale slowly. Her first few attempts were rocky, her breath hitching in and exploding out, but, gradually, she relaxed her breathing, and her heart rate slowed in response.

  This time she got her knees under her and then lurched to her feet. A toppled tree trunk lay ahead and she staggered over and s
agged down on it, utterly wrung out from her battle to stay alive in the river. She let her eyes close as her head drooped.

  She jerked when a spray of water hit her. “Hawk!”

  All four feet braced, the Labrador stopped shaking and looked up at her, practically grinning, his tongue lolling playfully from one side of his mouth.

  She couldn’t help but smile. “Come here, bud. Let me get that vest off you so you can really dry off.” She unbuckled his waterproof vest—it at least remained dry minus the outer cover, which repelled water—and turned her face away as he gave another shake. When he was finished, she buckled his vest on.

  Frankly, she was jealous of the fact he was practically waterproof. Between his thick undercoat and its natural oils that repelled water, he was made for an excursion like the one they’d just survived. She was wet, cold, and miserable, while he would be completely dry inside twenty minutes. Meg had the bad feeling she’d remain soggy until they got back to civilization.

  Back to civilization . . . that was going to be the trick since she had no idea where they were. Somewhere in the Cohutta Wilderness, but that was about all she knew. And while they were both trained in wilderness skills, they were missing their usual supplies. She’d lost their go bag in the river, so they had no food, water, first-aid supplies, compass, or communication since both her satellite phone and cell phone had been in the bag. Her jacket pockets were now empty, so even Hawk’s leash was lost. She ran her hands over both hips, discouragement filling her when nothing but nylon and Lycra met her fingertips. Both holsters—one with bear spray and one with her Glock 19—were gone, lost when she careened down the hill, or as she was tossed through the river. She slid her right hand down her hip to her upper thigh and was rewarded by a rectangular lump.