Chapter 3: The Red River

The factory was empty when they awoke. There was barely a trace of the cook fire where Chris and Sharon’s camp had been, underneath the crane claw. The nomads had moved on.

Out in the parking lot, Ben paused for a moment beside the car. It was a sunny morning, and he felt rejuvenated from a splash in the creek. Birds flitted between the trees growing out of the roof of the factory. A young rabbit browsed in the bushes lining the path to the entrance. The place looked a lot different in the daylight.

“Hurry up, Ben. I’m hungry.”

Ben climbed into the car and shut the door. “The Red River Gorge is only a few hours away. We’ll need to pick up supplies before then. Enough for a couple days, maybe.”

“A couple days? Buddy, you’ve never even camped before.”

“I have now. How much harder could it be in the woods?”

“This is insane.” Tyler crumpled his third hamburger wrapper and tossed it in the car. There were no trash cans in the trailhead parking lot, probably because there wasn’t a parking lot. They hadn’t seen anything resembling civilization in the last hour.

This part of Kentucky was a network of heavily wooded, stony ridges. The ridges grew steeper and sharper and the forests thicker the deeper they went into Daniel Boone National Forest. The old logging road they’d followed was a roller coaster of steep climbs and sharp drops. It blasted through tunnels of solid rock and zigzagged around fallen trees and rockslides before reaching the trailhead at the top of a ridge. It was marked by a small sign just off a narrow shoulder.

Ben took a deep breath. “We’re really in the boonies now.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” Tyler replied. “You want to spend two days in that?” He gestured to the forest. A narrow path disappeared into the underbrush within a few yards.

Ben wiped his forehead. It was early afternoon, and it was already hot, but that wasn’t the only reason Ben was sweating. The forest scared him. This was not a manicured city park, or a state campground with toilets and shelters attended by janitors in jumpsuits. There were no pigeons or sparrows watching from powerlines along paved paths. Birds he’d never heard before hooted and cried from the canopies of these ancient trees. Bigger, hungrier things surely lurked in the shadows. This was an alien world. A great unknown.

“I read there were two black bears for every square mile out here.”

“That’s great, Ben. Maybe they’ll eat each other.”

Ben looked at his little school backpack leaned against the Mustang. It was stuffed to the brim with cans and supplies. Pots and pans hung from the bottom, attached by bungie cords and ropes. The tarp from the factory crate protruded more than a foot from the main compartment. It would serve as their tent, their own little bastion of civilization in the preternatural wilderness of the gorge. A thin film of plastic separating them from the terrors of the early dusk beneath the shadow of the trees.

Yes, he was scared of the forest, and perhaps rightly so. But this was what he’d come for. He hefted the pack, clutched his gallon jug of spring water, and staggered into the trees.

Stepping into the Red River Gorge was like walking back in time. The place had nearly been clearcut during the booming days of Kentucky’s frontier logging industry. But some trees, deep in the heart of the gorge, had never been felled, and the rest of the forest had been undisturbed for more than a century.

Now, young white pines and beeches thrived beneath a towering canopy of oaks and hickories. The stony trail meandered through an understory so lush with rhododendron and big leaf magnolia that Ben could often see no more than fifty feet ahead. The air was close and clear. Sound seemed to dissipate only a few yards from its source. More than once, Ben turned a corner on a switchback cut into a steep ridge and stumbled upon deer using the same path. The animals fled into the brush, white tails bobbing. They seemed as surprised as he was.

As they descended rootstairs and rock scrambles leading deeper into the gorge, occasionally the thick blanket of the forest would roll back. Ben marveled at sandstone arches and sedimentary cliffs eroded by the elements at impossible angles over millennia, reminders of a time much older than even the largest trees.

After an hour or two spent tottering on sandstone bridges spanning thirty-foot gaps and exploring clusters of undulating pockets melted into exposed cliffs, they discovered a rock amphitheater at the bottom of a ridge—a spectacular overhang large enough to swallow a small army. Trees grew on all sides of the amphitheater; gnarled roots snaked over the top and hung into space, channeling drops of water onto the dry silt a hundred feet below. A patchwork system of dripping sandstone and seams of rust-red iron lined the underside of the rock shelf, creating structures reminiscent of melting honeycombs.

 They stopped in the shadow of the overhang. Ben collapsed against a boulder, not bothering to remove his pack. He drank greedily from the jug, which was already nearly empty. Tyler drained the last of his own supply and lay on his back, panting. They were both drenched in sweat.

Ben was exhausted. They’d brought too much weight. He struggled out from beneath the backpack and rummaged for a couple of snack bars, tossing one to Tyler. Tyler tore into it gratefully.

It had been a bright and sunny afternoon when they’d entered the forest a couple hours before, but it was already growing dark under the canopy. It was becoming unbearably humid. Rain was coming.

It didn’t rain that afternoon. It poured. The temperature had dropped dramatically, and they were soaked to the bone.

They set up camp on a patch of sand beside the river at the bottom of the gorge. A jagged boulder leaned over the tiny peninsula, providing some measure of protection from the rain. They spread their tarp over a hollow created by the exposed roots of a sycamore sagging into the current, securing the ends with stones as best they could. The rain was deafening on the bellying plastic.

“Remind me why we didn’t set up in the woods?” Tyler asked.

“The trees might drop their branches in the storm.”

“Is that better than freezing to death?”

Ben shivered violently. “It’s wet in there, too. We just have to wait it out, then we’ll make a fire. Everything will be fine.”

“That could be hours, or days. We need a fire now.” Tyler stormed out into the rain. Ben watched him disappear into the woods.

“Good luck,” he muttered. He fished his blanket out of his pack and wrapped it around him as tightly as he could. It was as wet as he was.

He held out his water jug to catch some of the runoff streaming down the sagging tarp. Thunder rumbled. Ben sighed and curled up as best he could in the hollow. He fell asleep watching the rain dance on the river.

It was a short storm. Ben woke to find the sun shining. Tendrils of fog drifted out of the woods and off the water. Everything was dripping.

Tyler was squatting barefoot in his underwear over a ring of stones on the muddy peninsula, muttering over a pile of twigs. There were as many used matches as twigs in the kindling at his feet. He’d spread out his sodden clothes on a rock near the riverside.

Ben popped his joints and stumbled out of the shelter, sighing as he stepped into the sun. “Any luck?”

“Everything’s soaked. It’s useless.” Tyler tossed the box of matches at the kindling and sagged onto his haunches. “No fire for us.”

Ben peeled off his sodden shirt and began wrestling with his shoes as Tyler walked past him toward the river. “The sun is out. I guarantee it’ll be a sauna again in an hour. Where are you going?”

“Swimming,” Tyler said over his shoulder.

“Now?”

“Why not? I’m already wet.”

“Fair enough.”

Tyler sprinted through the shallows and dove into the river. He came up with a whoop, spouting water. “It’s warm!”

He splashed off into deeper water collecting around another boulder, and soon disappeared behind a bend in the river. Ben waded out to the shallows, enjoying the feeling of soft silt and small stones on his bare feet. He sat down on a mossy rock in the center of current. It was already dry and warm to the touch. He sat down and breathed deeply. The air smelled clean and pure.

He wondered what this little waterway must have seen in all its years hidden from the world. It had scratched its way down here over eons, one grain of sandstone at a time, to this hidden hundred-mile garden. Was it happy here? Maybe it wished it could be the Columbia, roaring through the heart of the Pacific Crest under wide-open skies. Did it envy the mighty Mississippi its teeming fish, its friendship with barges and cities and commerce? Maybe it wished for a calling like theirs. Purpose on a continental scale.

Or could it content itself with warm summer evenings in the company of frogs, and silent trees, and travelers sunning themselves on rocks? Ben wanted to think so. He wandered around the river bank for a while, enjoying the warming sun on his back. He built a little castle of stone cairns and dragged a few branches around it. Water striders and tiny fish flitted around inside the enclosure. He caught a few.

“Ben!”

His eyes snapped up. Tyler was sprinting toward him along the river bank. A vehicle that looked like a cross between a golf cart and a tank ripped around the bend, churning through the river shallows. It roared toward their camp, hot on Tyler’s heels. A second vehicle, and a third, followed. The drivers and passengers hooted as Tyler thrashed across the river toward Ben.

Guns popped off. Tyler dove with a tremendous splash next to Ben. Ben jumped off the rock into a low crouch.

The UTVs circled them, engines roaring, the riders shouting and laughing and popping a couple of small caliber rifles in the air. There was no hiding.

Tyler stood up in the middle of the circle and glared, still naked except for his underwear. His chest and knees were bleeding from the fall. Ben stood back to back with him, clutching a stone in each hand. The biggest vehicle stopped in front of Tyler. The driver—middle-aged, potbellied— sneered at him.

“You pissed in the wrong backyard, bud.”

“It’s not your backyard,” Tyler spat.

“Are you insane?” Ben hissed. “They’ve got guns.”

The gang jeered. “We got a bold one, Bill!” somebody shouted.

A woman in a tank top and cutoffs leaned out of the leader’s passenger seat. “Knock his frickin’ teeth out, Billy!”

Bill squirted a stream of tobacco into the river, drained his beer, and dropped into the current. He was a big man.

Tyler planted his feet and raised his fists. The blood from his scrapes had run and smeared into the mud spattered across his formidable build. He bared his canines, eyes wide and wild.

“Go on, Billy-boy. Knock my frickin’ teeth out.”

Billy belched, balled his hands, and lunged.

Tyler landed one punch. Bill’s skull made a sickening thwack as it bounced off the hood of the UTV and landed with the rest of him in the river shallows.

The gorge was dead silent. Somebody worked a rifle bolt. Ben raised his rocks and prepared to die fighting.

BANG!

Every head swiveled to the riverbank.

BANGBANG!

“Rangers!”

“Grab Billy!”

The motorcade fled. The last vehicle, with a limp Bill flopping out of the back seat, ripped through a circle just before the river bend.

“Forest pigs!”

It churned its wheels in the current and was gone. Tyler whipped a stone after it and screamed.

Ben let out his breath. Tyler stared at him, naked shredded chest heaving, slick with sweat and blood and mud.

“Nice punch,” Ben managed.

The haze cleared from Tyler’s eyes. He blinked. “Thanks.” They both turned to the riverbank.

Two young women stood near their camp. One of them wore a ludicrously large revolver in a hip holster. Both of them wore smiles.

“Hello, boys,” they said together.

Tyler beamed and splashed toward their rescuers.

“Not so fast, champ,” said the woman with the gun. The shorter and stockier of the two, she wore a thick shock of copper hair pulled back in a tight braid. “Put some pants on and then we’ll talk.”

“Aw, but Asp,” said the other, “I kinda like him this way.” She was slightly taller, but the women were obviously sisters. Her eyes flickered across Tyler’s chest. Tyler grinned.

“Willow!” the first woman hissed, “I know you’re goin’ through a dry spell, but have some tact!”

Willow smirked.

“I’m Aspen,” said the red-headed gunslinger. “And that’s Willow.”

“Tyler. That’s Ben.”

“Hey, how old are you guys, anyhow?”

“Twenty,” Tyler lied. “Why? You’re not sixteen are you?”

Aspen snorted. “Try thirty. I told you Will, they’re just babies.”

“What a shame,” Willow purred. “Get dressed. We’re gonna have a fire soon, if you care to join us.” The sisters headed down the bank.

“With what wood?” Tyler called. “Everything’s soaking wet!”

The women looked over their shoulders, then at each other. Aspen shoved her sister. “Is he for real? Will, they ain’t just babies, they’re city babies! You got no eye for men, old girl.” Willow laughed and shrugged as the two walked back toward camp.

“Damn,” Tyler muttered.

“Really? That’s what you’re worried about right now?” Ben shook the mud spatters off his t-shirt with disgust.

Tyler spread his arms. “We’re young men in our prime. Here we are in the presence of unspoiled nature. It’s only natural.”

Ben rolled his eyes. “Let’s hope those guys don’t come back.”

“I doubt it. Come on. I want to see these girls try to get this fire going”

“Don’t antagonize them, Ty. They do have a gun.”

They found Aspen splitting logs beside a much-improved version of Tyler’s fire ring. Willow was rummaging through their food supplies. She looked up as they approached. “You two don’t look like you know the first thing about camp cooking, so we figured we’d help you out.”

“That’s fine by me,” Tyler replied. “But you’re wasting your time with that wood. I already tried.”

Willow snorted. “You tried wrong, city-boy.”

Ben changed the subject. “So, you two are rangers?”

“Nope,” Aspen said. “We’re climbers. Some of the best climbing in the world’s in the Gorge.” She brought her hatchet down on a log with expert precision. The two halves split evenly down the middle. Ben watched, fascinated, as she split the wood into progressively smaller pieces. For the first time, he noticed her hands. They were abnormally wide and knotted with muscle.

“Climbers?” he asked.

“Yep,” Aspen looked up. Her face was earnest and warm. “Ain’t you seen the sandstone around here? It’s dangerous, since it’s so soft and all, which means it’s like to crumble sometimes, but it’s pure heaven to climb. People come from all over the world to climb the Gorge.”

“Huh,” Tyler grunted. He gestured at the revolver on her hip. “Is that hand cannon legal?”

“I don’t care if it’s legal or not. Don’t think I need to explain why I keep it with me.”

“Fair enough. Thanks for using it, by the way.” Aspen tipped an imaginary cap.“So, where you girls from?”

“First off, I thought we already established we ain’t girls,” Aspen said. “But if we were, we’d be

from Wyoming—Mitchell, Wyoming, to be exact. On the Big Horns. It’s a sleepy little mountain town, but we like it.”

“You like it,” Willow retorted. “I hate it.”

Aspen rolled her eyes. “Willow was born with stars in her eyes. Country life is too small for her. Hey—what’s your name again?”

“Ben.”

“Ben?” When she said it, it sounded closer to Bin. “That’s not gonna cut it. We need to get you guys some proper trail names.”

Tyler perked up. “How bout—”

“You have to be given a trail name, guy.”

“And you’re City-Boy,” Willow declared.

“That’s lame.”

“Deal with it, City-Boy.”

“We’ll think of one for you, Ben,” Aspen assured him. “You don’t talk too much, do you?”

“I guess not.”

“That’s ok,” Aspen chattered. “I talk enough for two.”

She does, Willow mouthed. Ben suppressed a smile.

“Hand me that log over there, Ben,” Aspen continued. “See, the trick to startin’ a fire with wet wood is, one, always carry dry tinder with you, and two, keep it dry. But that’s a given. The real magic is this: you gotta find the dry wood inside the wet wood. See how I scraped all the bark off that big log ’fore I split it all into little pieces like that?”

Ben nodded.

“Right, that stuff in the middle is the dry part. And then, if your kindling got wet, you gotta shave off little pieces of that middle split ’til you got enough.” She unsheathed a huge knife and demonstrated drawing off shavings. “Like this. Make a loose little pile of ’em. Then you stack the split pieces like Lincoln logs. Lotta people use a teepee, but Lincoln logs are way more stable, and you get better airflow too. Then you put the really wet stuff on the outside, so it can dry out, and light ’er up. That’s all there is to it. Where’s the matches, sis?”

“Here, Asp.”

Aspen struck the match. In less than thirty seconds, she had a flame. Tyler sucked in an audible breath. Willow laughed at him.

“That’s how you build a fire with wet wood. Now grab that knife and open those cans for me. Hurry up, City-Boy. I’m hungry.”

Ben gathered more firewood and practiced stripping bark with Aspen while Tyler and Willow worked on the meal. It was dark by the time they all sat down beside the fire ring for dinner. Really dark.

The only light came from the campfire, dancing through the shadows of stones and roots and river grass. Stars were visible where the trees opened over the water, and a chorus of tree frogs joined the constant low burbling of the river. Night birds traded solos from the trees. Small animals rustled in the brush.

In the city, it was seldom quiet, and never dark. But he didn’t mind that. It was comforting, in a way. He was used to street lights and shouting neighbors. Nightriders and thumping base. The absence of those things was at once fearful and deeply satisfying. In a way, the forest noises felt silent, like an invisible enclosure just overhead and out of reach that kept the air comfortably close and the outside world safely hidden. It was a peaceful symphony.

“Dinner is served,” Willow declared. “Hold out your bowls, boys.”

Their guests obeyed. Willow spooned a steaming ladleful into each of their dishes, then served her sister and herself.

Ben glanced at the contents of his dish. It looked like someone had eviscerated an animal, poured the offal over rice, and called it macaroni. He looked at Tyler.

“So,” Tyler ventured, “what do you call this?”

Willow snickered as she blew on her bowl. “Satan’s Guts. It’s our very own trail recipe. Eat up.”

Aspen nodded as she shoveled the stuff into her mouth. “It’s good! Promise!”

Ben eyed the still-bubbling pot. The concoction looked truly evil. He suppressed a grimace and raised a spoonful. It did smell good.

“What’s in it?”

“It’s real simple,” Aspen said. She put her empty bowl to the side and leaned back, wiping her lips with the back of one hand. “It’s a blend of highly caloric fats, slow burning carbohydrates, lean protein, vegetable fiber, and sugar, to restock your depleted muscles after a good long hike.”

Willow snorted. “That’s dork-speak for brown rice, black beans, sweet corn, and chopped-up Spam with Vienna sausage. That’s the guts part. You can make Angel Guts with navy beans instead of black, but we like it better like this. We used your Spam and corn, by the way. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Huh.” Ben tasted it. Tyler’s eyes lit up when he did the same. It was delicious. The women laughed as they tore into the meal.

Ben had finished his third bowl and was about to chase it with a second bag of cheesepuffs when he heard something in the woods. His head snapped to the right. Somebody was coming. Flashlights bobbed through the trees. Ben tensed, preparing for a four-wheeler counterattack.

Instead, a tall, heavily bearded man carrying a massive wooden mallet slung over both shoulders loped out of the forest. A ragged column of mostly smaller figures tromped behind him, laden with bags of trash and debris. Some of them were carrying or rolling tires covered in rust and grime. They were all wearing sweat-soaked grey shirts, black boots, and the filthiest khaki pants Ben had ever seen.

“Oh, it’s those guys!” Aspen cried. “The Ned Candy Children’s Choir!”

“The what?”

“The N-triple-C,” Aspen said. “They’re doing some volunteer trail work out here.”

“Funny,” Willow said, “they told me they were from the North Carolina Corrections Corps.”

“Well I guess it don’t really matter,” Aspen said impatiently. “They fished all that trash out of the Red today, just out of the goodness of their hearts. And most of ’em are just babies like you two. ’Cept the ranger in the front,” she whispered to Ben. “That’s a man.”

“I’ll say,” Willow agreed.

The trail crew’s stench reached the camp before the rest of them. Ben wondered if he’d smell that bad tomorrow after two days without a shower.

“Hold up,” the Ranger called amiably as the crew approached the camp. The trail crew bunched up around him, grinning into the firelight. There were about ten of them, a mix of young men and women who couldn’t have been much older than Ben and Tyler, each filthier than the last. Most of them were grinning as they plopped down on their tires or squatted on their haunches. They were having a blast.

“Evening.” The ranger planted the butt of the enormous mallet in the dirt and rested his arms on the business end. Lean and well-muscled, he looked the part in khaki trail jeans and a dark green US Forest Service polo. The black beard flowed in a continuous mat down his neck and into his open shirt collar. His dark eyes smiled instead of his lips, and he smelled like the woods.

“Nice to see you too, Davy,” Willow purred. “What are you doing out so late? When we passed you three hours ago you said you were headed back up to the rim.”

“We got side-tracked,” the ranger admitted. “Had to chase some guys a ways off the trail.”

“That where you got that thing?” Aspen pointed at the mallet.

The skin around the ranger’s eyes crinkled. “This little guy? Yeah. I took it off a drunk that was swinging it around trying to squash some chipmunks. Said its name was Thor, and he took it everywhere. I told him that was fine but he’d better stop or I’d squash him with it instead.”

“You didn’t rough him up too bad, did you, Davy?” Willow asked.

The ranger lifted his ball cap and scratched his matted hair. “I didn’t have to. He ran off. I could tell there were others out and about though. Saw the tracks from the UTVs.” His dark eyes turned coal black. “Damn hicks aren’t satisfied with tearing up their own backyards. Have to be going where they know they’re not allowed.”

“UTV’s?” Tyler spoke up. “Like an overgrown go-kart stuffed with a bunch of drunks?”

“That sounds about right. Round here anyway. Why? You seen ’em?”

“I knocked out their head honcho right over there after he tried to run me over.”

“I would have liked to see that. Did you catch his name?”

“They said it was Bill.”

David spat. “How long ago was this?”

“A couple hours, maybe.”

“And they were drunk?”

“Sloshed.”

“They probably didn’t get too far, then.” He peered out at the river, sparkling silver in the light of a rising moon. “More than likely that’s Bill Williamson and his bunch of goons.”

“You know him?”

“He owns a lot of land around here, out in Stanton, and his family donated quite a bit to the Forest back in the day. If he wasn’t a drunk and he kept to his own tracts, I’d say he’s a good guy. But this is the heart and soul of the gorge. Out here, that gang is a sin on the land.”

“Can’t you arrest him?” Tyler demanded.

“If anybody could, it’s you, Davy,” Willow added.

“Wouldn’t do any good. He knows a lot of people.” He grinned for the first time—or rather, a wide slit appeared in the beard where a grin should’ve been.

“Tell you what I can do.” He turned to a young woman who looked a little older than the rest of the crew. “Nikki, do me a favor and take your crew out. I’ll meet up with you in the morning.”

The workers prepared to leave. Aspen elbowed Ben. “Watch this. Hey N-trips! What’s your names?”

Nikki beamed and saluted smartly at the head of the column as they began to march. “North Carolina Corrections Corps, team Delta One—sound off!”

“Twiggy present,” said the next in line.

“The Witch!”

“Pork-born.”

“Bread here.”

“Banjos.”

“Blazin’ Bruce.”

“Kirk Kandy, still alive.”

“Dorito!”

“Soultrain.”

“And Grampa,” called the caboose. “All present and accounted for.”

The crew fell out of formation and tromped off into the woods, laughing. The ranger traded the caboose his mallet in exchange for an axe. He pointed it at Tyler. “Which way’d those four-wheelers go?”

Tyler showed him.

“Good. You up for a little fun?”

“You bet.”

“Miss Aspen, toss him that hatchet, if you don’t mind.” Aspen tossed it. “If we’re not back in an hour or two—don’t come looking.” David slung the axe over his shoulders and ambled into the river shallows, whistling with the tree frog chorus.

Tyler hefted the hatchet and grinned at Ben. “Later babe.” He winked at the women. “Bye girls.”

Willow whipped an empty can at Tyler’s back as he trotted off. “Watch your back, City-Boy! There’s cougars in the woods!”

Aspen shoved her sister. “The only cougar in these woods is you, old girl.”

“Shhh!” Willow laughed. “Let him sweat.”

“What do you think David’s gonna do with that axe?” Aspen whispered. “Chop Billy and his gang’s nuts off?”

“I don’t care what Davy does to Billy’s nuts,” Willow declared. “Long as he keeps his intact.”

Aspen punched her leg and the two fell off the log they were perched on, laughing and shrieking.

Ben shook his head and smiled. He rolled out his blanket and lay down on his back beside the fire. The blanket was mostly dry now. He took a deep breath and let it out. His body was tired, but his mind was wide awake. He lay there for what seemed like hours, listening to the sound of the forest. Watching the firelight dance on the canopy.

The moon rose over the river and passed out of view before his eyelids began to droop. He was barely aware of the sound of boots sloshing across the shallows before succumbing to a dreamless sleep.

He awoke to someone licking his face.

Someone with warm, moist, meaty breath.

He opened his eyes and screamed. The bear sampling last night’s cheesepuffs from his cheeks jumped back.

Suddenly Tyler was yelling too. A woman’s voice shrieked. Ben sprang to his feet and began waving his arms, screaming gibberish. The bear snorted and shrank into a crouch. Everyone was awake now. The campers bunched together and flailed their arms and legs, all of them screaming.

The bear, deciding a few more licks of cheese powder were no longer worth tangling with the screeching mass of tasty-carcasses-that-were-not-dead-anymore, fled into the brush. The campers separated from the knot, panting. Ben swiped at his sticky face in disbelief.

“Bearbait!” Tyler cried. “Benjamin Bearbait!”

“Bearbait!” Willow and Aspen cheered.

Ben barely registered his new trail name as he ran to the river to douse his face. He was just glad to be alive.

After breakfast, it took about an hour to pack up camp. Willow and Aspen spent half of that laughing at Tyler and Ben and giving pointers, inordinately amused by the city dwellers’ forest incompetence.

Ben grunted as he leaned his body weight into their rolled-up tarp. It refused to go any farther into his pack. He gave up and zipped the thing as best he could. Tyler whistled as he hefted his own sloppy, bulging mess. He was sipping out of a small metal canteen.

Waking up to sloppy morning kisses from a bear had completely pushed the events of the night out of Ben’s head. He stood bolt upright as he remembered.

“Hey! What’d you and the ranger do last night?”

Tyler took another sip from the canteen, which Ben suddenly realized was not his—nor was it a canteen.

“David tracked the gang to their camp, which was only about a mile downstream. We made sure they were all drunk as skunks, then hacked up all their tires and stole their booze. Well, I stole their booze. David stole their boots. He hiked out last night and I came back here.”

Ben stared. Tyler raised the flask. “I told you I’d get my Kentucky whiskey.” He swallowed. “Which reminds me, we’d better get going. They’re gonna wake up soon. And hot damn, is them boys gonna be sore!” he drawled. “Ladies, what we waitin’ around fer? Daylight’s burnin’.”

“’Bout time, City-Boy,” Willow returned. “Lemme have some of what’s in that flask and I might forgive that atrocious accent.”

Tyler winked at Ben. “Bearbait, you coming?”

Ben shook his head and kicked Tyler behind the knee as he headed for the trail. “I’ll be amazed if you live past forty, Ty.”

“Don’t intend to. I’m gonna die hot. For-ward, march!”

For the return trek, their new friends steered them to a steeper but shorter path leading up out of the gorge. They’d started early, and the forest was still wet from yesterday’s rain. Hemlocks, maples and oaks dripped in silence as they passed. The woods smelled like pine straw and green leaves and damp soil. Narrow gullies thick with rhododendron glistened with dew, their canopies reflecting the morning light like mesmerizing pools of liquid silver.

Aspen chattered most of the way. She showed Ben a tiny groundcover plant with little pink berries that tasted like bubblegum and taught him to tell the difference between three different species of pine. Bright green, fresh needles from Eastern White Pines made the best pine needle tea. They were an excellent[D1]  source of vitamin C, she said, and they tasted just like berries. You could eat them straight off the tree!

Ben was skeptical at first. But by the time they emerged out of the forest, he was stripping needles off branches with his teeth like a billy goat.

“Where are you off to now?” Aspen asked as they sat resting on their packs at the trailhead. The new trail had exited the forest in a different spot. The Wyomingites’ dusty pick-up leaned over the shoulder, but Tyler’s Mustang had to be a couple miles away.

“New Orleans,” Ben replied. “Then west, to the deserts, and the mountains, and parts unknown.”

“Ok, guy. If you two Lewis-and-Clarks ever need a place to lay low for a while, or you need to make some cash for the next leg, you’re welcome in Mitchell.” Aspen said. “Our daddy is a shop foreman at the soda ash plant and he’s always lookin’ for workers. He’d put you up, too.” She scrawled an address and phone number on a scrap of paper and handed it to Ben. “But for starters, we can take you to your car. Hop in the truck.”

They tossed their packs in the bed and clambered in as the engine fired up. The morning was just warm enough that the breeze felt deliciously cool on Ben’s grimy skin, and he was glad to be out from under the pack. He sighed contentedly and settled in for the ride. Tyler looked at him.

“Benjamin Bearbait, you are a filthy man.”

Ben smiled. “Maybe so, but I’ve never met a City-Boy who smelled anywhere near as bad as you.”

Tyler grinned. He raised the flask. “Kentucky!”

Ben toasted with his gallon jug, and they drained them both. Aspen stuck her head out the driver’s side window. “Hold on back there, boys.”

Tyler gave a thumbs up. Ben popped his last bunch of pine needles in his mouth and gripped the walls as Aspen revved the engine. Not a moment too soon. Roaring down the backroads of Kentucky ridge country in the bed of a truck, with a mountain native at the wheel, was one of the most joyously terrifying rides Ben ever got.