Flooding Granite

By Tom Mahony

Running from a flood of trouble...

Zack Pruitt is a river guide long on skill but short on nerve: he dropped out of college, quit his job, and abandoned his girlfriend and young son when things got tough. Back in the Sierra Nevada, Zack signs on for a high-water river trip with three other guides and eleven clients. As the flotilla careens toward Gallows—a brutal rapid that's always terrorized him—events spin out of control. A near-fatal accident coupled with a rush of snowmelt leave the guides and clients fighting for survival, and Zack discovers that for once running is not an option.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Mahony
• Release date: Dec 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310399268

Tom Mahony

Tom Mahony is a biological consultant in California with an MS from Humboldt State University. He is the author of the novels Imperfect Solitude, Flooding Granite, and Pacific Offering. Visit him at tommahony.net.

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Praise for

FLOODING GRANITE

Honorable Mention: 2011 Best Book of the Year

—Guide to Outdoor Literature

"River guide Zack Pruitt and his clients get more excitement than they bargained for in this gripping account of three days on the water battling nature, each other, and their own demons. Tightly-wrought tension crests to life-threatening levels as Mahony takes readers on a ride filled with unexpected twists and turns ... Flooding Granite offers nail-chomping suspense on every page."

—Robin Stratton, Boston Literary Magazine

"Tom Mahony knows how to tell a story and, as a scientist, understands the natural environment. In Flooding Granite, he demonstrates both of these skills with an intelligent action tale that grabs you by the collar and doesn't let go ... More than a man-battles-nature story, Flooding Granite is layered with a human element that will have you rooting for Zack and caring for him despite, and maybe because of, his flaws."

—Wayne Scheer, Author of Revealing Moments

"This novel has an earthy and contemporary writing style that reminds me of writers like Norman Maclean and Jim Harrison ... Cross that style with the adventure and suspense of a film The River Wild and you have Tom Mahony's novel Flooding Granite in your hands."

—Lavinia Ludlow, Small Press Reviews

You can tell Mahony has spent some time behind the oars. His descriptions of everything from rapids and river running to the hassles of dealing with clients are spot-on. It makes you wish you were on the river with him.

—Eugene Buchanan, Paddling Life Magazine

A fine novel by an author who has nicely captured the ambiance of a whitewater river trip: the interactions between guides and members of the party, the challenges of the river, all played out against the backdrop of the natural environment.

—Ron Watters, Guide to Outdoor Literature

FLOODING

GRANITE

A Novel

Tom Mahony

Copyright © 2014 Tom Mahony

All rights reserved.

Distributed by Smashwords

Originally published in trade paperback format by Casperian Books on October 1, 2011.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

For my mom

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Author Bio

Chapter 1

Water rumbled through the canyon steady and dense, snowmelt plunging toward the sea. Zack Pruitt felt the river in his bones: big water over granite. He hoisted his pack and started down the trail. Fellow river guides, clients, and a gear-laden pack train followed behind. Pounding footsteps stirred dust in the mountain air. The river grew louder as they descended into the canyon.

Zack felt a rush of excitement and fear, that fragile balance, but as he hiked toward the river his fear grew. He focused not on what he'd done well in the past, the fun and successful trips, but what he hadn't: Gallows. It was a brutal rapid, his nemesis. He'd never guided it successfully—had, in fact, been pummeled each time through—and he dreaded a high-water bid. The place was shrouded in mystique. No matter how much he mastered the river, Gallows owned him.

Anxiety overtook him. Zack dropped his pack and slumped against a boulder. Sunlight filtered through the sequoia canopy. He studied the massive trees, rooted well above the river, and envied their upland habitat, their inability to speculate. The mind was a curse. He wanted to run to higher ground. Running was easy, what he did best; it had brought him to this very place. But he couldn't run from here. Three river guides and eleven clients depended on him. Dependence triggered his flight instinct, but there was only one way out: down the river and through Gallows.

Gabe Arenal, the trip leader, approached. You okay?

Yeah, just taking a break.

Got the fear?

Zack shrugged, couldn't admit it. You?

Gabe grinned, a blend of stress and lunacy. Always. But fear's the engine that drives the fun, right?

Zack found the grin unnerving. The sunlight seemed too bright all of a sudden. It reflected off the granite, warmed the mountains, and forced a dry breeze up the canyon and cumulus over Sierra Nevada peaks. The breeze smelled of pinesap and dust. He could do this. Had to.

Right, Zack muttered. Fun. He stood, hoisted his pack, and headed down the trail.

*****

Eager to see the water level, Zack hustled down the canyon and reached the Sequoia River ahead of everyone else. A string of warm days had melted the heaviest snow pack in memory and sent it through this lovely but relentless granite cleft in the Sierra Nevada. Their usual campsite on the gravel bar was flooded, willow islands in the current. White fir and sugar pine clung to a terrace above the channel, just enough dry ground to set up camp for the night.

He dumped his pack and approached the river. Snowmelt churned and roiled through the channel and the weight of matter and gravity seemed to push against his chest. He kneeled and splashed water across his face, cold and clear. It washed away the sweat and trail dust and sent his heart racing. The conflict of the river: the water you needed to live—to drink and wash and play—was also the water that could hold you under and pin you down and fuck you up for good. Pick the right line and you were set. Stray a few feet and you were finished.

Clients, guides, and the pack train drifted down the trail and onto the terrace. Gabe and the other river guides, Mitch Messy Messing and Carey Graves, started unloading gear: rafts, oars, paddles, coolers, cooking gear, dry bags. Enough supplies for fifteen people and three nights in a mountain wilderness.

As Zack focused on the river again conflicting emotions rushed through him. Countering his fear was the reckless need for excitement. Both made him Zack Pruitt. When they checked each other, good things happened, made him a respected class-five guide and kept him alive to spin the yarn. But when they broke apart, disaster followed, because fear was the engine that drove the fun.

Chapter 2

The guides unloaded gear from the mules and piled it onto the terrace. Billy, the man who ran the pack train, loitered around smoking a cigarette and jawing with anyone who'd listen. He had a big mustache, suspenders, and a floppy hat and looked fresh off a mining claim circa 1850. He helped Zack haul the four rafts—deflated and rolled up like sleeping bags—onto a sandy berm above the river.

Billy nodded at the water. Got your work cut out for you. I've never seen it this high.

Me neither, Zack said.

Hope you guys survive it. Billy laughed. I need the business. He laughed again, turned, and led his mules up the trail.

The guides gathered on a gravel bar above the water line. Gabe tapped a cobble with a stick of driftwood. He was a Costa Rican transplant with a deep tan, dark hair, wry humor, and heavy skill. He whistled: drawn out, respectful. Water's charging.

Carey nodded. She was a sturdy, competent woman in her early thirties, a smart guide slow to rattle. She'd pulled Zack from the water numerous times, saved his life at Gallows. Twice. He trusted her completely. Messy—a big, quiet man of dubious personal hygiene—just stared at the river. He rowed a gear boat; no clients, no talking. It suited him. He loosed words sparingly, as if they chafed his throat.

What's Gallows like at this level? Zack said.

Gabe shrugged. Worse.

Zack's adrenaline junkie retreated to his cave. The old flight instinct returned, told him to run from this challenge—a war of idiots within him. His skills were solid in big water, and Gabe had tapped him for this trip because of his experience: twelve years on the river. Guides trusted him, and he'd earned that trust when things got heavy. But Gallows had his number, and not just because of the whitewater. He'd guided other dangerous rivers without trouble. Maybe it had nothing to do with the river and everything to do with him. Gallows seemed some weird symbol for all his troubles and until he busted it wide open, nothing would change.

We're up for the challenge, Gabe said. It's runnable, but there's no room for error. Get in the zone and stay there.

You sorted out the crews yet? Carey asked.

Gabe shook his head. Let's observe the clients and see who fits where. Make the call later.

They dispersed to their chores. Zack walked over to the four rafts piled by the river. As he inflated them with a hand pump, he watched the eclectic mix of clients milling around and setting up camp. The loudest group consisted of four men in their twenties on a bachelor party. They looked athletic, but despite their obvious paddling strength Zack knew that obnoxious men on a bachelor party were dangerous clients indeed. They often mistook stupidity for bravery and were just stupid enough to get themselves into trouble.

Another foursome consisted of middle-aged accountants from Bakersfield: two men and two women. They moved around with a sort of competent efficiency, their gear arranged in tidy bundles, their camp spacing logical and orderly. Not a bad crew for these conditions. In Zack's experience, number-crunching types followed directions, wanted the balance sheet to reconcile.

The last group was a family of three: father, mother, and daughter. The father and mother appeared around fifty, the daughter in her early twenties. She struggled with her tent. Zack could tell she was not skilled in the outdoors, looked more suited to a shopping mall than a river trip. But she appeared in good physical condition and, like everyone else on the trip, had the prerequisite paddling experience and had passed the swim test earlier, so she was good to go.

After inflating two rafts, he was drenched in sweat. He walked over to the river and dunked his head underwater. The snowmelt shocked his system like a shot of caffeine. He studied the current. It was indifferent, pursuing the lowest contour, all math and physics. Solve the equation and find the truth.

He glanced downstream and noticed most of the rocks, obstacles, and landmarks were submerged in the high flow. He barely recognized the place. He felt disoriented and knew his usual routes through the whitewater would need adjustment. The lines he'd run in the past, etched into his memory for quick retrieval, were now worthless; he'd have to read and run. But at this flow, with obstacles underwater, the routes might get easier, washed out. Or they might get a hell of a lot harder.

Can you give me a hand?

The words pulled him from thought. He glanced up. The daughter stood over him. He couldn't recall her name. Gabe had given him the rundown on all the clients but Zack had been too consumed with trip preparations to remember much. She had a mane of dark curly hair, wilted with sweat, but her blue eyes were energized. There was something cutting about them.

Huh? he mumbled.

She smiled, bright and clear. Can you help me with my tent?

Zack regained coherence. Sure.

They walked over to her patch of dry ground beneath a black oak. Her tent was piled in a heap and turned inside out. It was just a small dome affair, simple as they come, but she'd made a mess of it. He untangled it, snapped poles together, and slid them through loops in the fabric.

She stood beside him, twisting her hair around her index finger. You're Zack, right?

He nodded. What was your name again?

Victoria. She smirked. Named for the queen.

He pushed tent stakes into the ground, unsure what to make of that revelation, distracted thinking about everything he had to do before nightfall.

Thanks for offering to set up my tent, she said.

He didn't recall offering. Not that he minded setting it up, but class-five clients normally went without tents in fair weather or knew how to pitch their own. Zack knew the challenge of the river would be exacerbated by her inexperience. It could be overcome, but it would take work. He just hoped she was not in his raft and the work would fall to another guide. Ever been camping before? he asked.

Sure, but I avoid manual labor whenever possible. I love nature and river trips but I'm not big into roughing it. She corralled her massive hair into a ponytail. Where I come from, guys don't offer to help with stuff like that.

Zack began to think maybe he had offered. And where's that?

LA. Chivalry is dead there.

Zack finished the job and stood back admiring his handiwork. There you go.

She flashed him the confident smile of a woman who had something to offer and knew it.

Hey, Zack.

He turned to the voice. Carey waved him over. He said goodbye to Victoria and helped Carey haul coolers to the cooking area. They unloaded food for dinner: steak, chicken, pasta, French bread, fixings for a serious salad. They didn't scrimp on food for river trips. A gourmet meal in the wilderness was priceless comfort, every bite enhanced by the effort required to create it, a touch of home in an alien world.

How are you feeling? Carey asked.

Tired.

I can see why. She gestured toward Victoria. Saw you setting up her tent. How generous.

Just doing my job.

Oh, you're doing a job, all right. She walked away, smirking. Working it quite hard.

Zack watched her retreat. Carey was never without a snide comment, as if her own biography warranted medals and ceremony. Barely into her thirties, she'd already laid claim to two divorces and a well-practiced walk of shame. He returned to inflating and rigging boats.

Victoria walked up. Need any help?

I thought you avoided manual labor.

She laughed. I can be talked into things.

Zack studied her. She didn't seem the sort to engage in idle chitchat. More likely she was advertising the possibility of something and he was free to apply. He had no problem with that, in theory. In the past he'd exploited similar opportunities without hesitation. They were quick, uncomplicated, and easy to run from, perfect relationships with a clear endpoint: a couple of nights on the river, then have a good life, best of luck in all your endeavors.

He wasn't sure about Victoria, maybe because he'd just turned thirty-five and was starting to feel like the creepy older guy he'd laughed at back in the day, that suspicious character lurking around the college bars, sporting the un-cool sweater and embryonic comb-over. But it was more than that. He'd lost much of late but hadn't lost the canine instinct of knowing when to hang around and when to fade away. And in Victoria he sensed someone to fade from.

Maybe it had nothing to do with her and everything to do with Maddie and Luke. Just thinking of his girlfriend—ex-girlfriend—and son caused a wave of sorrow and regret. Mistakes made, chances blown. Perhaps a distraction was in order. He turned to Victoria, conflicted, not ready to discard the possibility just yet. You can help if you want.

Good. What should I do?

He handed her a snarled pile of webbing and carabiners. You can untangle this heap.

She took the jumble, sat beside him, and began fiddling. She'd done about eight seconds of work before dropping it on the ground. This is a mess.

He laughed. That's why it needs to be untangled.

She tinkered with the webbing indifferently. Where are you from?

All over.

Well, where do you pay rent?

I don't. I live in my truck and on the river.

Sounds nomadic.

He nodded. It can be.

Afraid of settling down?

Zack stared at the river gravel, smooth and oval. He didn't answer.

Have a girlfriend?

He thought of Maddie. She'd resurfaced in his mind lately, haunting his subconscious like a beautiful spirit. And how was Luke? Today was his second birthday. Two years since Zack stood in the delivery room, watching the boy pop into the world, a slippery blob of love. It had been magic, for a while.

He shook his head. No.

Aren't you going to ask about me?

He hesitated a moment. What should I know?

Don't you care where I'm from?

LA. You already told me.

Victoria's father approached and stood beside Zack. Putting paying customers to work, huh? The man was short and thick, like maybe he'd been muscled at one point but let it go soft. His shaved head looked rather severe for the wilderness, a little too industrial.

She offered, Zack said.

You've managed to do something I've never been able to do.

What's that?

Get my daughter to work. The man grinned and extended his hand. Dane Tindel.

Zack shook it. The man's grip was solid. Zack Pruitt.

So, I guess you'll be guiding us down the river.

I'm one of four guides. I don't know whose raft you'll be in.

Who's the best? Dane's grin faded. There was something deep about him, intense, like maybe he'd seen heavy shit in some foreign war but never talked about it.

Zack shrugged. We're all good.

Dane stared in that probing way but after a moment his grin returned. Right answer.

A woman walked up and introduced herself as Jackie, Victoria's mother. She was a petite woman, vaguely pretty, with a chipper attitude that seemed out of place in the rugged canyon. Victoria had inherited the better part of both parents. She'd lucked out: a different