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Big Hole Drift - Sneak Peek

 

A cool fog hung over the river as Sammy Jo prepared to launch her raft. She surmised that the misty Saturday morning must have been the result of the thunderstorms the past two evenings. But the storms had also brought the water level up, which would be beneficial for her float. The sun was beginning to peek over the Pioneer Mountains, and she could feel its warmth on her suntanned face. Sammy Jo was delighted.

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A beautiful day for a float, she thought. Nothing more relaxing than a float through heaven’s valley.

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What she didn’t expect was that heaven and hell could occupy the same space at the same time. A lesson Sammy Jo would soon learn—a lesson she would carry with her for the rest of her life. Eventually, everyone endures a hardship or challenge and is left with a story to tell. Unbeknownst to Sammy Jo, she had just begun chapter one of her tale from the dark side of humanity.

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Loading her gear into the raft at the Fishtrap Campground, Sammy Jo noticed a bald eagle chick had successfully fledged from its nearby nest and was waiting impatiently for the adults to bring a morning meal. The rising of trout from the river agitated the raptor further, resulting in an embarrassing display of juvenile vocalizations. The young eagle still lacked the skills needed to take on the fishing endeavor teased by the trout and was dependent on its skilled parents.

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“In good time,” she said to the fledgling eagle and pushed her raft into the current.

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Sammy Jo had several miles of river to cover and likely numerous fishermen and guides to check for compliance. Her day would be long and only completed just before dusk. But she was in no hurry to end her last float of the season and fully intended to enjoy a sun-filled day in a beautiful setting now slightly tinted by the approach of fall. Her preferred office, like the one she was currently in, had no walls, no annoying copy machine or ringing phones, and no stale manufactured air—it was harmonious. Sammy Jo couldn’t imagine, not even remotely, how people managed to work in tall, city high rises and crammed into generic cubicles for eight hours a day, five days a week, and up to fifty-two weeks a year. Just the thought was inconceivable to her. Even living in a major city was unimaginable. For her, cities were concrete wildernesses to be avoided like Disney World during spring break. Nothing offered peace of mind like her native Montana backcountry.

 

Just a few hundred yards down river, Sammy Jo spotted two young otters playing tag along the east bank. They darted in and out of the water, up the bank, then back to the water without effort. Their play looked exhausting and appeared to aggravate their mother who was trying to call them to breakfast with her high-pitched bark. To avoid disturbing their morning meal, she quickly maneuvered her raft to the west side of the river and away from the aquatic comedy show. Mama otter was getting upset with her misbehaving pups, and Sammy Jo wanted to give her space. She guessed that otter discipline would soon be allocated and didn’t wish to play the part of a witness.

 

Sammy Jo couldn’t have asked for a better start to the morning and planned to make her first stop approximately three miles downriver, at the Anaconda Sportsman’s Park, for a courtesy call. She enjoyed visiting with the folks at the club’s campground and wanted to say goodbye for the season. As she approached the halfway point to the park, the river slowed to a calm glide. The slowing water allowed her to look ahead with her binoculars for fishermen to survey. It also allowed her to relax in the sun and search the area for wildlife. The banks of the river were lined with tall willows, and she hoped to catch a moose enjoying an early morning browse. The large herbivore had escaped her phone’s camera all summer, and she wished to check it off her “to find” list. Sammy Jo laughed at the thought of how an animal so large could be so elusive, and it turned her thoughts to love lost or at least the illusion of it.

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It was the previous fall while on the university campus in Missoula when Sammy Jo had first met who she thought was the man of her dreams. Unlike her, he had wavy, black hair, a chiseled chin, and deep-brown eyes that engendered a teenage dream of a young Clark Kent. He stood several inches taller than she at six-foot two and served as the second-string quarterback for the Montana Grizzlies. His name was Dakota.

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Sammy Jo found that she and Dakota shared many outdoor interests, several mutual friends, and were closely politically aligned—a favorable recipe. And after spending the fall supporting Dakota and the Grizzlies at all the home football games, she caught herself falling for the dark-haired dreamboat that fellow players had nicknamed “Hollywood.” Dakota was the first young man who she had expressed interest in since enrolling at the university, and their relationship appeared to be on course for something more permanent. But like most striking individuals with celebrity-level appeal, Dakota had many female admirers with their own personal agendas. Eventually, Dakota fell victim to his local celebrity status and the carnal temptations that came with it. As a result, Sammy Jo saw her visions of sharing a rustic cabin deep in the Montana mountains with her version of the Brawny paper towel lumberjack go down the toilet just like her spring semester grades. It was then she swore to never again be swayed by the appearance of a suitor or to plan her dreams around a man who, in all probability, didn’t exist.

There’s a lot to be said for a loving dog, she thought, as she continued her drift down the river.

 

The bolt and chatter of a kingfisher alerted Sammy Jo to movement on the west side of the river, and a brown clump caught her gaze. She maneuvered her raft to get a better look at the dark object in the willows—it wasn’t a moose but rugged-looking men studying the water depth. By the time it registered with her, it was too late.

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The men rushed the raft and caught their prey. Their expressions spoke volumes and they looked out of place. They weren’t fishermen. Sammy Jo knew instantly they brought hell with them. She didn’t need to see zebra stripes or orange jumpsuits to know they were the escaped convicts from Deer Lodge. Desperation was painted over three of the faces. The fourth was stained with lust.

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“Well, what do we have here?” asked the man missing some fingers. “Let’s see, Sammy Jo Pepper, Park Ranger,” reading her uniform nametag. “You pray for a miracle, and you get one. How’s that for luck, boys?”

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“Yeah, our savior in a tight, blond package,” added Ugly Bob.

 

 

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