A thin creek fed out of Shoo Fly Canyon — as I decided to name it — meeting the South Yuba River.
A confluence of two waterways.
We were in the neighborhood and now the question became, which way to go?
The float could have come down the Yuba from a source farther up the main canyon, or it could have come down the thin creek from a source up Shoo Fly Canyon. Or perhaps — however unlikely and undesirable — it could have come from both waterways.
Walter and I sampled a dozen yards farther up the South Yuba and then a dozen yards up Shoo Fly Creek. We struck out on the Yuba. We struck cross-studded float on the side canyon creek.
Life just got simpler.
We headed up Shoo Fly Canyon.
We began to find a new and interesting addition to the float, salt-and-pepper colored diorite.
Shelburne shouted “Henry!”
I thought, he’s expecting a reply. I nearly did, myself. We were getting closer. We all sensed it. We were closing in on the contact zone between the slate and a diorite dike, birthplace of chiastolite hornfels. We were in range of the address and the question would then become, is Henry living there right now?
We moved slowly because there was no trail, no path, just a rock-hopping contour up the creek. We stopped twice to sample because there were two skinnier side canyons that fed creeklets down into Shoo Fly creek and we did not want to miss a turnoff.
More problematic, the slate-gray sky was darkening by the yard.
And then it began to rain.
We dug out ponchos and covered our heads and our packs with urethane-coated nylon. The clouds heaved and the rain hardened. We pussyfooted, now, slipping on wet rock and clay soil turned to slickenside. And then we were no longer searching for float, we were hunting a flat spot to anchor and wait out the rain. If need be, to set up tents. And then Shelburne said there’s old mining tunnels all the hell over the place, and within another five minutes we indeed came upon the black mouth of a tunnel.
I looked at Shelburne.
He nodded. As he’d said.
This tunnel cut into a sturdy stretch of the rockwall and, peeking inside, we saw that it was a straight-shot gullet, empty and dry.
Walter retrieved the mini-G gas detector from my pack and went into the tunnel. He came out with an upraised thumb.
We moved in.
As we shucked our packs and dripping ponchos, I reflected on the fact that we’d taken shelter in a tunnel cut into the general neighborhood of the Shelburne family offshoot of the deep blue lead. If this were the Dogtown television show, we’d prospect the gullet and encounter the legendary blue.
Instead, we huddled near the mouth and watched the flux of rain and then, shit, sheet lightning smeared the rock of the gorge.
The Shoo Fly Formation lit up like Christmas.
11
Thunder followed the lightning, as it does.
Thunder echoed up and down the gorge like rocks kicked over a ridge.
Thunder got right into the tunnel with us, a long-period rumble that I felt in my bones.
I wondered where Henry sheltered — since he didn’t like enclosed spaces.
We sat shivering until the thunder stopped and then in hurried consultation we chose to wait until the storm passed, or night came.
An hour later, night came.
Thunder and lightning were sporadic now but the rain did not falter.
We unrolled our pads and sleeping bags on the hard rock floor. We removed our boots and rubbed our feet and put on clean socks and campsite sandals. Walter switched on our LED lantern and Shelburne unpacked his stove. Shelburne offered to heat water for all three of us, to reconstitute the freeze-dried glop that would pass as dinner. I didn’t envy his fancy stove. I appreciated his offer to do the work.
I was deeply and thoroughly fatigued.
So fatigued that it took me a good minute to process the steel clip hooked on the torn mesh pocket of Shelburne’s backpack. As he took the wide-mouth water bottle out of the torn pocket, the clip caught the low-angle light from Walter’s lantern. Steel gleamed. I stared at it. Wondering why Shelburne carried a bottle clip when he didn’t clip his bottle to his belt. Wondering if the steel edge had caught the mesh at some point, tearing it. Thinking, no, the clip was not in position to do that. To tear the mesh, the clip would need to be cinched around the neck of the bottle, edged toward the mesh. But why carry a bottle with the clip attached in a backpack pocket? The whole point of the clip is to clip the bottle to your belt. Or to a D-ring on your shoulder strap.
I watched Shelburne pour water into the cook pot on top of the stove.
I listened to the hiss of the little gas flame.
Nothing to do but wait for the water to boil. And obsess over the water-bottle clip.
Five minutes later we were eating our glop. Shrimp Creole for Shelburne. Chili Mac With Beef for Walter and me. I suspected it all tasted the same. If this were the Dogtown TV show we’d be eating canned beans and glad for the grub.
The rain hardened and lightning and thunder returned, as if they’d taken a break and were now refreshed.
Deeply and thoroughly fatigued, we all three moved to our sleeping bags.
Walter switched off the lantern.
Like some kind of weird slumber party. Normally I sleep alone in my tent. Normally I sleep in as little as possible but the cold and the company got my attention. I slipped out of my Crocs and stripped down to a T-shirt and pulled on silk long underwear, suitably modest. I grabbed my poncho and ventured just outside the tunnel to pee. No need for a flashlight. Lightning lit my way.
Walter and Shelburne took their turns.
Chilled, I wormed into my sleeping bag and shivered until body heat flared and my thoughts fuzzed.
Next thing I knew I was back at the bedrock hump across the Yuba watching lightning bolts duel. Rain like needles. Me, sodden. Benumbed on the gravel bar. Electricity in the air. The taste of ozone. Me, thinking I’m sticking up like a sore thumb on this flat river. And then a lightning bolt the size of Nevada struck the water, speared down to the bed of the river and it brought up on the point of its spear a silver heart. It quivered in front of me. I put out my finger to touch it. Who can resist? And then my hand went straight through the heart and the quicksilver wrapped my wrist. Flashing in the glow of the lightning storm, it thinned, now looking like a steel bottle clip.
Sometime later I thought I heard bees. I woke.
Snug in my sleeping bag, water sampling on my mind.
Hydrology 101 back in college — you attach the specimen bottle to the sampling pole with a steel clip and then dip it in the water to grab the sample. For that class, I’d been sampling sediment load. The equipment I’d used had been designed for the task. Shelburne’s steel clip and wide-mouth bottle would be an improvisation, but doable.
I sat up straight.
It was morning. Early light, silvered. Foggy.
Not enough light to allow me to re-examine Shelburne’s steel clip. Enough light, though, to make out his hunched form at the mouth of the tunnel, up there watching the day break. Humming to himself.
Sounded like bees.
I wetted my lips. My mouth was cottony, tasting of ozone. I cleared my throat, to ask Shelburne if he himself had done some water sampling on those site scouts he’d mentioned. His father had been out water sampling when he’d had his heart attack. Alone, Shelburne had said. Hadn’t he?
I said, “Hey.”
Shelburne didn’t hear me. Probably could not hear me over the drum roll of Walter snoring.
Good thing, because I didn’t know how to phrase my question without accusing Shelburne of lying. Were you in Sacramento when your father died? Or did I misremember the timing?