Desolation Canyon: Tales of the Rafter

By Ken Hall

Danger and suspense await!
The crowds are gone and it is late in the fall. Dr. Benjamin Rafter should have the river to himself. His life has taken a hard tumble and he is looking for answers within himself. Benny seeks to find solitude and personal introspection as he undertakes a long, solo float trip down one of Americas most remote rivers. Instead of finding peace and self-realization, Benny finds that he is in the wrong place at the wrong time. A vicious group of criminals have been hired by a Russian billionaire to steal a unique rock that contains North America's most valuable petroglyphs. Benny's problems compound when he stumbles upon a group of unlikely Utah lesbians. In spite of the consequences, he falls hard for Ronnie Jones, their beautiful leader. Benny is no hero, yet against his better judgement, he is forced to try and save the priceless rock, the mysterious woman... as well as his own precious skin. Caution... the book contains adult scenarios and moderately graphic sex and violence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483552910

Book preview

note

Desolation Canyon

Chapter 1

We, the Moab Posse, snuck up on George Curry in his bedroll, having fallerd Butch Cassidy and the Wild Bunch all the way from the Injun Rock at Spring Canyon. We was tired and angry. Cassidy and Sun Dance Kid done left on fresh horses but we shot Flat Nose George dead right where he lay. May the Devil take him.

… Deputy Sheriff’s report, Grand County, Utah, April 19, 1900

A Collection in Stone, November 7, 2014

Wealthy people have a moral responsibility to civilization, Alexikoff said. He spoke in English with a heavy Russian accent. "The ability to do anything you wish must not be ruled by selfish greed, but by intelligent purpose."

The striking young man Alexikoff was speaking to, stood almost naked in a shaft of sunlight. He spoke no English. The young man, a boy really, wore only a small, revealing loin cloth. He was posed in front of a large slab of stone on which was carved a number of ancient petroglyphs. The boy held in his hands the same type of crude stone implements that may have been used to chip out the stone carvings, twelve thousand years ago.

The young man stood as still as he could. This was the difficult part of his job, posing and listening to this rich man babble in a language he didn’t understand.

For instance, you see all around us, my responsible purpose, Vladimir Alexikoff said. To collect these treasures…

The large Russian dabbed his paint brush in a small puddle of cadmium red paint and then meticulously applied it to the picture he was painting. It is important that I collect all of this ancient stone art work so that it will be preserved. Museums and governments cannot be trusted to protect such treasures. The Muslim uprisings that spread like the plague every few hundred years invade such collections and vent their violent stupidity upon history. And always, the peasant revolutions in the Americas burn and loot, as do the Christians. All this foolishness insures that little by little any remnants of past civilization are destroyed.

The continuous soliloquy seemed to steady his hand and help his concentration. Alexikoff made a few very small strokes with his brush and stepped back from his painting. He frowned.

You see how the rabble in Egypt and Afghanistan destroy their human heritage faster that I can buy it, he continued. If it were not for the want of money, the Islamic rebels would smash everything. Everything that is beautiful. Fools! They have no sense of art or history. They are thoughtless barbarians!

The boy said nothing. He spoke only Russian. He only knew to hold the pose and do whatever else the billionaire demanded of him. Well-paying jobs were rare in Russia. The boy shared this job with a number of young men and women who were more than eager to do the rich man’s bidding.

Alexikoff momentarily stopped painting to gaze out his large windows and admire his view of Saint Basil’s Cathedral. November was already becoming gray and bleak in St. Petersburg. The brightly colored onion domes of the famous Russian Orthodox Christian church were nearly the only color visible outside the broad sweep of his windows.

The inside of Vladimir Alexikoff’s vast studio contained, perhaps, the greatest collection of old, assorted stone sculptures in the world. His great collection had no real theme except that they were all carved from stone. Beyond that, they merely appealed artistically to Vladimir’s sense of aesthetics. He had nudes from Italy, dragons from China, and gods from Greece and Rome. There were gargoyles from Peru, pharaohs from Egypt and abstract, precision fitted stones from all over the world. His collection boasted a wide selection of pictographs and petroglyphs, laboriously quarried from cliff walls in Australia, France, Africa and the Middle East. There were virtually no known antiquities on the face of the Earth that he had not pillaged. Though he railed against the Sunnis and Shiites, their need of weapons had recently bought him several fine Buddha sculptures and stone nudes.

The collection of the Russian billionaire was unique in one respect; he collected only the finest, most perfect samples. His large stones from Puma Punku were so precisely fitted that it was impossible to tell why or how they were made. His Aztec and Inca carved rock gods were the best preserved examples in the world. His Australian and African petroglyph slabs were astounding works of ancient mystery and artistic skills.

You must understand, Alexikoff intoned solemnly, turning back to his easel. It is my duty as a man of science and art, to hide these treasures from the ignorant religious, destructive fools that plague humanity. Do you not see that I do it for the sake of history, knowledge and beauty?

Alexikoff moved to the boy and shifted his loin cloth to better reveal his young buttocks.

The boy smiled at Alexikoff, but said nothing. The fat billionaire no longer offended his sensibilities. Just as he no longer paid heed to the meaningless soliloquies, he had grown used to the man’s hands upon his body.

Now, I have heard of another piece of art that I must have, the Russian said more enthusiastically. He daubed his brush in a mixture of alizarin crimson and cobalt blue. My new stone is currently hidden in the wilderness of the United States. That is a pity, for as you may know, it is relatively cheap and easy to acquire these splendid examples in war torn, or backward nations. They are even a bargain in most of Europe and China. Vladimir applied his new color to his painting. He struggled with the results which did not please him, so he frowned again. Perhaps he should not have mixed a translucent pigment with an opaque one.

What he painted did not look like stone.

He put down his painting tools and wandered a few feet away to his magnificent, life-sized, marble sculpture of Aphrodite, the goddess of pleasure, love and beauty. The billionaire reverently moved his hands over her smooth, cool form. The sculpture had originally been in a temple near the Parthenon in Greece, where it had stood for centuries until it was stolen, in 1944, by a general in The Third Reich. Afterwards, it had been transported to Argentina where Alexikoff had acquired it for only a few million dollars and the cost of several lives.

In most countries it is just a matter of a few dead people and an inconsequential amount of cash, The Russian scoffed. The United States is just as corrupt, only they are the consummate capitalists. They demand much higher prices. It’s not a matter of morality; they would sell their mothers if the price was right.

The boy did not understand a word. He only knew the fat man was no longer painting, so he put down his stone hammer and chisel. The boy turned his big, dark eyes to Alexikoff, shrugging and smiling. He dropped his loin cloth to the floor and waited.

Alexikoff didn’t seem to notice as he continued his rambling soliloquy about his new rock. He became more animated as he paced around his easel.

Obtaining my new rock from America will no different, he insisted. Now, he shrugged. I will have to pay the high American prices. Well, that is how it shall be. What is ten or twenty million dollars to me, my boy? Vladimir asked rhetorically. It is but a day’s income… perhaps two or three… maybe a week?

Alexikoff had been studying many books and papers on ancient North American Indian Art. He was intrigued by Fremont style petroglyphs. These ancient graphics mostly consisted of stylistic humans and animals pecked into boulders or sheltered cliff faces by patient craftsmen of varying skills. The fact that they were carvings in stone is what attracted him. There were thousands of these seven hundred to twelve hundred year old carvings all over Western America, but they were mostly all pedestrian examples of the same thing.

In a scholarly paper from the 1930’s, Alexikoff had read of a unique petroglyph found by a Smithsonian expedition in a wilderness canyon of Eastern Utah. There was a print of a photograph that showed a close-up of the art work. It was quite unlike anything these experts had ever seen as it was on a strange rock that protruded up from the ground, like pedestal or horn, almost phallic in form. From what he could see in the grainy old photo, and deduce from the text, the carving that encircled the smooth, polished rock appeared to be unique. The work was more precisely and expertly executed than the newer petroglyphs of the Fremont style. Vladimir blithely postulated that the art work, among other things, depicted space aliens in the act of screwing Indian maidens. The expedition members had not commented on their professional interpretations, that not being within the scope of their expertise, but the artwork was so graphic and obvious that future expeditions had referred to the nearly free-standing obelisk as the ‘Space Rock’. The Ute Indians in same area had call the rock ‘Ng’untai’, a name that loosely translated meant ‘Sky Father Stone’.

A flash flood in 1952 appeared to have destroyed, or swept away the art work, as it was never seen again. The name ‘Space Rock’ was then inherited by a nearby, huge, petroglyph covered rock that stood on the plateau a thousand feet above a place called Spring Canyon. This boulder was worth hiking to see, but it in no way compared to the original.

Then in the exceedingly wet spring of 2011, another large flash flood scoured Spring Wash and the original Space Rock was found again. Its location was being kept a secret to protect it from vandalism.

Alexikoff had been in Washington D.C. at a private fund raising dinner for the preservation of North American antiquities when he was told of the rock. From that moment on the greedy Russian began his plans to acquire the Space Rock for himself.

The billionaire watched the snow flurries out his studio window.

I am going to travel soon, back to America, he said. There is a seminar for preservationists which I shall attend. Perhaps I will learn of another specimen that I must have. In my own way I am the greatest preservationist of all, am I not? While I am there, I can check on the progress of my Space Rock acquisition.

As a precaution, Alexikoff usually stayed far away from the ancient sites he plundered, however, in this case he would feel safe enough to be relatively close by. His liberal use of bribes would shield him from any unwanted repercussions.

I go to the Wild West of America, my boy! Like a bandit who takes what he wishes. Too bad I am not younger. I would have enjoyed being an outlaw of a different sort. Perhaps I would have learned to kill people myself rather than pay others do my bidding. Shoot them and put a notch on my six-shooter. That would be the life, eh? Ah, no matter! The billionaire sighed. "Even the name of the place intrigues me. My new rock will come from a place called Desolation Canyon! A wild place with a history of outlaws and dead men! So! Now I will add to that history!

Vladimir turned to the boy, who was now openly playing with himself. The billionaire made a wry face.

This one is too eager, Alexikoff thought, after this time, he will have to be disposed of.

The ponderous, overweight collector lumbered toward the boy. He smiled to himself. In his world young toys were easy to obtain.

…………………………

Eastern Utah, Friday Morning, October 27

Mary Carson, the clerk at the B.L.M. field office in Price, Utah, had been at work since eight in the morning. The first order of the day had been to tally the river rafting permits that were authorized to launch on Desolation Canyon that day. The paperwork needed to be in order and the fees paid. Since it was Friday, she would not be in the office over the weekend, so she also tallied this information on the approved weekend launches. When she had her information finalized, she used a radio to call the Sand Wash Ranger Station to pass the information on to Eric Sanders, the river ranger.

The Sand Wash Ranger Station was a long way from anywhere and the only way to communicate was by radio. It was something of an anomaly in this day and age.

Mary poured herself a cup of coffee and adjusted the dials on the old radio. Sanders, as always, was expecting the call.

Mornin’ Mary. How are you doing this beautiful morning?

Oh, fine, I guess. It’s Friday, Mary said.

If you say so. The days are all about the same down here. Eric joked. Except for the fact that things have quieted down a lot, you could lose track of time. God, I’m glad it’s late fall and the crowds are gone.

Well, they’re not gone completely. You have two launches tomorrow and one on Sunday.

I remember when no one came down here at the end of October.

Times change, Mary said. Permits are hard to come by when it’s nice in the summer.

Sanders chuckled to himself. It was his opinion that the cool autumn conditions were far better than the hot, buggy days of summer.

Anyway, Mary continued. You have two launches tomorrow. There is a group of four; Trip Leader is named Zane Orderly. And there a solo guy. His name is Benjamin Rafter.

His name is Rafter? The ranger said. You’re kidding me.

No, I kid you not. That’s what it says, Mary replied. Actually, I recognized the name and looked him up in the files. He’s been coming down the river for more than twenty-five years, mostly a while ago. I didn’t actually count but it looked like a couple of dozen times.

An old salt, Sanders chuckled.

Looks that way, Mary agreed. The other group of four just got approved by telephone… which is kind of odd. Lew Hawkins, from the Washington office called at the last minute yesterday. He said this group had been cleared by the higher ups by some big Honcho in another federal department.

I hate those crony arrangements, Sander said. They’re usually politicians or oil people and they motor through the canyon as fast as they can. I suppose, all things considered, that’s a good thing, but people with special privileges annoy me. They think the rules don’t apply to them.

Mary had heard Eric’s rant on bureaucrats and politicians before. She wasn’t a rafter herself, and she didn’t really care who went down Desolation Canyon. As long as they crossed their ‘T’s and dotted their ‘I’s she didn’t worry about it. Pay your fees and you get a permit.

Well, I thought you should know. Lew said to cut them some slack. Try and be nice. It was kind of an odd conversation. But when I asked questions, I wasn’t told much. He mostly put me off and said he was busy. I just thought I should tell you so you’re not surprised.

Okay, thanks, Sanders said. I won’t be surprised.

There’s only one other weekend group, that’s a Ronnie Jones, party of six… on Sunday. Mary said. It’s Ronnie with an I-E. Got that?

Yes, I copy. What about the weather? Anything happening that I should know about?

Sanders, who was tucked away in his remote outpost was pretty much cut off from civilization. He liked it that way. However, he also liked to be informed of conditions that would affect river trips. He passed this information on to the boaters. The ranger took a sip of his coffee. It was getting cold.

Well, there’s storm coming in on Saturday, Mary said. First they talked like it wouldn’t be much, but now they’re predicting a big change…rain and maybe snow.

This didn’t surprise Eric. The weather had been too nice for too long. An early winter storm was overdue.

That’s good. We could use the moisture. Maybe some snow would shut down the river for the year. I’d like that.

I don’t know why anyone would want to go rafting in the fall? Mary said. I’ll be happy to be in my warm, dry house watching TV. They’d have to pay me my weight in hundred dollar bills to get me on that river.

Eric chuckled again to himself. He liked Mary okay, but he figured she sat around on her big butt watching too much TV. He briefly imagined Mary hunkered down in the front of a raft, holding down her big blond wig with her long, red, fake finger nails. He found the image amusing. Mary was a big chunk of a lady, and not sensitive about her weight.

That would be a heck of a lot of money, Eric said. The BLM would have to sell Deso to the oil guys to come up with that much. Let me know if they do. I’d like to be there when you see that big wave in Joe Hutch Rapid …that’ll wash your wig off.

It’ll never happen, Mary scoffed. The big wave part, I mean. The oil guys buyin’ Deso …well, that could happen easy enough. I know it gripes you, but money talks, rivers walk.

Rivers don’t walk, Mary. When you get to the bottom line, we don’t really need oil. We really do need rivers. Life on Earth revolves around water, not money. If they’re not careful they’ll have to build pipe lines from Canada in the near future to carry water, not oil.

Mary had heard Eric’s environmental lectures also. It bored her. As long as she had a good job, she didn’t give a hoot about the wilderness. The fact of the matter was, after fifteen years with the BLM she was looking at a job with an oil company. It paid more money and came with great benefits. She didn’t tell Eric. Instead, she changed the subject.

There’s one more thing you should know, Mary said. I won’t be here on Monday or Tuesday. I’ve got time off to go to Salt Lake for some medical test. So anyway, Nancy will cover for me. She knows the drill and will call you at the same time as always.

Okay. Thanks for the heads up. Is that it?

Yes, that’s it. You stay warm.

I’ll do that, Mary, Sanders said. You have a nice weekend and I’ll talk to you on Wednesday.

Over and out, Mary said.

Sanders clicked off the radio.

…….…………………

Sand Wash Ranger Station

Ranger Sanders knew the party of four had arrived in the early, early morning. It had still been dark as night when their flatbed truck and a van had driven into Sand Wash. Eric had glanced out his bedroom window to see a group of men dragging the already inflated rafts off the truck. A number of men had quickly unloaded the rafts and gear. They drove both vehicles away in just a few minutes.

Rafting put-ins were often busy places with people coming and going at all hours, even in the middle of the night so Eric didn’t think much about this pre-dawn episode. It griped him that some people made too much noise tending their equipment when everyone else was trying to sleep, but Desolation Canyon was such a long drive from most anywhere that sometimes being late was unavoidable. Flat tires and car troubles were all too frequent. Night time arrivals had happened numerous times before. Sanders watched from a window for a few moments, then he went back to bed and slept another two hours.

9:00 in the morning rolled around quickly.

For Eric, it was time to go to work.

Sanders put on his uniform, and strapped on his gun and mace. Unfortunately, being a ranger these days was more about law enforcement than giving campfire talks about owls and star constellations. The gun was a part of the job now. Eric put on his hat, picked up his clip board and stepped out of the old trailer door. It closed with a squeak and a bang. The ranger took a deep breath of the cool, fresh, autumn air then headed down to the river.

Eric Sanders distrusted the four men on first sight. They didn’t match the profile of your standard outdoor recreationalist. They looked like bad news.

The trip leader, the man whose name was on the permit, was Zane Orderly. He was a tall, lean, bald-faced man with long, clean fingernails and hard, gray eyes. His mannerisms suggested he was used to being in charge. He wore entirely inappropriate clothes for rafting, as if he had gotten his outdoor clothing from Lord and Taylor’s. Orderly had a way of looking at everyone else as if they were not in his league. There was an arrogance and coldness about him that read like a book, and not a good book either. Eric Sanders instantly felt a keen dislike for this man.

Zane Orderly offered his hand and the ranger shook it. The man’s hands were soft… not like the hardened, callused fingers of most outdoorsmen. Nothing about Orderly indicated that he was the kind of man who would enjoy participating in any kind of rafting trip, especially not a tough trip like Desolation in late Fall.

Ranger Sanders thought he had seen every kind of rafter but this aloof character was altogether something different.

I just need to check things out before you launch, Sanders said as he began looking over their boats.

Help yourself, Orderly replied. We’re in no particular hurry, Ranger. He nodded at Sanders with aloof tolerance and rubbed his jaw.

There were three other men.

One of the crew was busy rigging the large, grey boats while two others watched. The man was a skinny runt but he looked hard and as tough as the desert. He had a hatchet for a face. He had close-set, black eyes that burned with the intensity of a hunting ferret. The man occasionally looked up from his work and stared at the ranger with what appeared to be scarcely concealed violence. Maybe it was just Eric’s imagination. He had been reading a lot of murder mysteries lately and perhaps they had colored his thoughts.

The skinny, hatchet faced man was rigging the old rafts with pieces of rope which he held in his teeth. The lengths of rope were cut from a large coil, much like an old fashioned river man might have done a few decades ago. It was an odd sight. These days everyone used cam straps, nylon webbing and carabineers…specialized gear. No one used ropes like that anymore. The narrow-headed man wore a constant, sardonic smile that was just plain scary.

The guy caught Eric staring.

It’s okay, Mr. Officer. I was born with no lips. the man said as he tied the last rope. I ain’t gonna bite you. He smiled like a skeleton and took a long drag from his cigarette. Name’s Sharky. I been down this river before. Me and th’ big fella there, we’s been here lots… ‘specially him. Sharky gestured toward a huge man who came wandering from the bushes, zipping up his pants.

The huge man looked at Sharky like he would look at a particularly disgusting, poisonous snake. The man grunted and turned to his boat.

Sharky grinned again. It was nasty thing to see. He spat and tossed his cigarette butt in the river. It’s organic, he said, thinking it would irritate the ranger. Sharky like to push. He doubted that the law man would challenge him about it. No filters, he said.

Eric tore his gaze away from the giant of a man and glanced at Sharky. Do that again, Mr. Sharky, and I’ll cite you for littering, Eric said. All trash is to be carried out, organic or not. Even cigarette butts,

Oh, hell yes, I just forgot, Sharky grinned.

The big man, who most likely had been peeing in the bushes, was now rigging the second raft. He was huge. The ranger thought he might have seen him before, maybe in Green River. Probably not though, he would remember such a big, hairy, ugly man. He was definitely the largest man Sanders had ever seen. Like something out of a movie. Where a man like that found anything to fit him was a mystery. The guy’s arms and legs looked like tree stumps and his hands looked like half gallons of gristle. While the other men watched, the big guy lifted up one side of the large, beached raft and dragged the fully loaded boat into the river. The ranger wouldn’t have believed such a thing was possible. He had to see it to believe it.

At least Sharky and the big guy seemed to know what they were doing, in an old fashioned sort of way. Still, there was something not quite right about these men. Sanders had a strange feeling about these characters and the way they interacted. Usually friends went together on week-long river trips, and these men did not act like friends. Eric’s thoughts were compounded by a distinct chill he felt deep inside. Something was terribly wrong, but he could not put his finger on it.

He flipped to his equipment check list and went on with his work. Definitely his imagination was working overtime.

The fourth man seemed distinctly foreign, perhaps Eastern European or Russian. He stood by himself, away from everyone else and just watched with his cold, blue eyes taking everything in. The man didn’t speak, but only stood back and drank from a small bottle of what appeared to be vodka. He wore a black, fur-collared jacket with a bulge where a gun might be. A big, fancy knife of some Middle Eastern sort hung from a scabbard at his waist. The man also wore a constant smirk that Eric figured would grow to be irritating in no time at all. Like the big man, this knife-guy made no effort to introduce himself… a lack of social graces for which Eric was already grateful.

They were an odd bunch of rafters, but none this stuff was illegal. Not even the suspicions bulge in knife-guy’s jacket.

There was no law against looking like a bunch of goons. Not at Sand Wash, Utah. Guns and knives were fairly common here. Eric had seen plenty of back woods Mormons, militant young Indians and big game hunters that looked almost as bad.

Hell, some of the riff-raff that worked the new oil fields are just as bad, Eric reminded himself.

Sanders wasn’t here to judge them, just to make sure they were in compliance. It was a long way to come ill-prepared.

It was nearly thirty dusty or muddy miles of dirt road down to the Desolation Canyon boat launch on the Green River. This strange outpost was so far out in the boonies that the first time a person traveled here they would invariably be struck nearly speechless by the bleak, remote outpost. Here, at the put-in, Desolation was a good name for it. The grand expanses of canyons and buttes were spellbinding to some. To others it was a vast, barren, isolated wasteland.

It was damn sure an unlikely place for these men to be.

Eric Sanders was a tough, seasoned law enforcement officer who was not easily intimidated. He was pretty big himself, and these days he always wore his gun. He had handled his share of people who didn’t understand the rules or didn’t think they applied to them. He had a job to do and he was good at it. Sanders had the authority to detain or arrest people if he felt it was necessary to protect the public’s interest and to keep the peace. If these men gave him trouble, well, that’s why he wore the gun, a canister of mace and a Taser.

The ranger asked the men to stand aside while he checked their rafts for the required gear. This was a standard procedure on regulated rivers.

This will only take a couple of minutes then you fellas can start down the river, the ranger said. I need to see life jackets, a fire-pan, waste containers. Stuff like that.

Sure. No problem, Zane said. I think you’ll find these guys have set us up with everything you require.

Yeah. We’re old pros at this shit, Sharky said. Me and the big guy, that’s Levi, we been raftin’ rivers all over hell and back. We got all the right stuff.

Hope so, the ranger said. Your life jackets are old. I’ll let them slide this time. But if you ever come back you’ll need new ones. Eric began moving things aside and looking in the big dry boxes. Normally he would not have searched anyone’s boat like this, but Eric was suspicious of these men. The strange cold feeling had not left him, but he ignored it as he went about his work. Sanders opened an old, water tight, military rocket box. There were several guns inside. You guys have licenses for these weapons?

Hunting licenses, Zane said. You want to see them?

Yes, if you would please. Eric rustled through their old, beat-up equipment. Your toilet vault is rusty. Looks like it might start leaking. Next time bring a new one. He pulled back a tarp revealing a host of unusual items. Big gasoline cans, pneumatic rock drills, a generator, heavy duty grinders and a case of what appeared to be dynamite. This stuff was all bad news. These men were up to something no good. He pulled the tarp back in place and turned to the men. There was no doubt in his mind that this group was dangerous. They were watching him closely. The guy with the big knife looked nervous as hell.

That equipment has all been cleared, Orderly stated emphatically.

I see, Eric said, puzzled.

This was a code red situation. Sanders knew that he needed to immediately radio the sheriff’s office for back up.

The radio was in his trailer.

Everything seems to be in order, Eric said. I have to go to the office and stamp your special permit. This will only take a minute. You can show me those fire arm licenses when I come back.

Sure. Take your time, Officer. We’ll wait right here, Zane smiled.

I’ll be right back, The ranger said, resting his hand on his gun. He was supposed to cut these men some slack, but that was just not going to happen. These men are bad news. Sanders turned and started walking quickly toward the trailer.

Eric had only gone about twenty feet when one of the men pulled a gun and shot him twice in the back.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

……………………………

Same Day, Three Hours Later

Benny the Rafter paddled his small, heavily loaded inflatable around a sharp bend and landed near the top of the muddy beach at the Sand Wash Ranger Station. Dr. Benjamin Rafter hadn’t come down the long dirt road like most people do. He had paddled the thirty miles of slow, flat water that flowed down from the Ouray Bridge. It was a deserted section of river that almost no one floats. The slow water and low bluffs attracted very few enthusiasts. It was quiet and serene.

Rafter enjoyed the meandering river and the vast, open country upstream almost as much as he loved the rapids and colossal canyons downstream. It was enough just to be floating for days on end without seeing another soul.

Benny was on a solo trip and he was glad to be by himself. Some other time a group of friends would be welcome but not now. A bunch of laughing, noisy people would just spoil the contemplative mood.

He was here to get his mind right.

Benny didn’t really know what that meant or what it might entail. Details had never been his strong suit. Perhaps he would be struck with an epiphany while he was out here. Life changing inspiration is easy to find if you are new to the wilderness, Benny, however was a seasoned outdoorsman and he would have to ponder long and hard in order to glean any new perspective from his self-imposed isolation. He was well versed in the camper’s contemplation of life’s complex natural order, so apparent in the daytime, and he was equally aware of the unimaginable, universal vastness of the night sky. These things were not new to him, so if the wilderness had anything new to say it most likely would not be a shout, but a whisper.

Whatever the case, Benny looked forward to being alone while he contemplated the mess he seemed to have made of his life.

The fact that his medical practice had finally staggered to an end was a great relief to Dr. Benjamin Rafter. Why he had chosen that path such a long time ago, was now a mystery to him. It must have made sense at one time, but now the particular reasons were shrouded in the clouds of time. Perhaps he had done it for women and money? It now seemed as if he had been trying to lead someone else’s life.

Benny was one those odd cases where a gifted, intelligent person had somehow gotten on the wrong track in life and couldn’t find a way to get off.

Benjamin Rafter had been an Ophthalmologist, an eye doctor. He had struggled to make a go of it for fifteen years, and although he was an excellent practitioner, his business acumen had always been severely lacking. In pursuit of his artistic dreams, he became more interested in illustrating for medical posters and dental journals than taking care of the few patients he had. He was very good at painting and illustrating, but it didn’t pay nearly well enough to keep him afloat, nor did a few and dwindling number of patients make up the difference. Benny wound up with a defunct medical practice, replete with all the latest equipment and no way to pay for it. As a consequence, he was nearly broke. And probably as a consequence of that, he was also recently divorced.

Even now, as Benny floated down the Green River, lawyers were busy dividing up what little remained of his worldly goods. At least most of his creditors would be paid off for pennies on the dollar. The money he still owed for his years of education and his ex-wife was another matter entirely.

The Rafter didn’t know how he was going to pay those debts. It was entirely his fault, of course. At the time banks were eager to loan him great gobs of money and he was just as eager to take it. In his happy-go-lucky way, Benny figured it would all work out great somehow…even without a good plan. Well, it didn’t. Over the past few years everything went to hell in a hand basket. Benny didn’t like to dwell on such matters, certainly not on the river. He knew all those unpleasant things could darn well wait to ambush him when he popped up in civilization again and he was in no hurry to do that.

Benny acknowledged that the expiration of his marriage was mostly his fault too.

It had expired, not failed, just as Benny figured all marriages should. And it wasn’t just about the money, no doubt about that. No doubt about that at all.

Benny had always been a sucker for beautiful women. He fell in love at the drop of his pants. That and the little dimples he liked to kiss explained why he had married Katy in the first place.

When gorgeous, naked, Katrina Lovings had first gone down on him at a convention in Las Vegas, he was hooked. As Katy continued her over-eager ministrations throughout the weekend, Benny knew she was the girl for him. She had the name, the sex and the looks. Even in Las Vegas, where pretty women were relatively abundant, Katrina was exceptional.

Benny spent a ton of money courting her. Those first few months had given Katy an entirely wrong impression. They had given her the idea that Rafter was a dedicated doctor who would work his ass off to give her anything her little heart desired.

They were married a few months later.

Poor Kate had been mistaken in her assessment of Benny as a doctor. She thought that the handsome, witty, fun-loving doctor would eventually knuckle down and build a successful practice which would provide them with enough money to pursue a life of travel and leisure. It took her a long time to realize that Benny was a dreamer. He wandered impulsively through life, believing in nonsensical fantasies and following his heart. Financially, the man was a lost cause. But Katy was a trooper and a wonderfully patient person which compelled her to stay with him for almost ten years.

Katy’s fascination slowly gave way to frustration.

Benny, on the other hand, had been quite happy with his wife. She stayed in shape and for a few years she proven to be his best friend… and provided him the best sex of his life. The idea that such a wonderful relationship would inevitably founder on rocks of disappointment never occurred to him until it was too late. Even if he had been able to see it coming, Benny was the kind of optimistic romantic that would have thought something as shallow as financial success and a few misunderstandings could never destroy their relationship. He was happy painting in his studio. After all, he reasoned that most of the world is poor, and even poor people maintained their loving commitments, don’t they?

His friends told him, Well, not in America they don’t.

His ophthalmology business, as well as other things, continued to fall apart for Benny, and Kate gradually withdrew. It was a sad, slow progression that caused Benny to spend even more time with his pretty hired help and more time in his painting studio.

It was a natural progression for both of them.

The more Kate ignored him, the more pretty women he would hire, and it hadn’t just been for the ambiance.

Benny had a hobby of painting nudes in his spare time, which he seemed to have more and more of as his practice foundered. He would spend a month or two rendering voluptuous, big breast red-headed princesses smiling seductively from their opulent, erotic boudoirs, and then, as if he had been misguided by his muse, he would switch to painting slim, dark-haired waifs peering longingly from their tattered rags. In those first few years, Kate found this to be an amusing, arousing turn on. She would often find him late at night in his studio with his pants down, lusting after his make believe creations. This was such a change from her previous, straight-laced, pragmatic boyfriends. Kate was happily enthralled. Sometimes she would interrupt and join him. Often though, Kate would just secretly watch while she enjoyed her own erotic pursuits.

Benny was very good at painting too. For a short while it seemed as if there might be some money to be made in the art business. People were impressed by Benny’s skill. Kate helped to arrange dozens of art shows all around the country in spite of the fact that it was a money losing proposition, she and Benny sold quite a few paintings, particularly the ones that portrayed a few naked women looking coy or innocent in a lush garden.

I am the Thomas Kincaid of nudes. he liked to tell his clients.

Benny had a good friend who dropped out of medical school to quickly make several million dollars in the California porno business. He had told Benny that no one ever lost money selling pictures of naked people.

Well, Benny managed to be an exception to that. He was going belly-up as an artist too.

As his businesses collapsed, so did his marriage. Kate had been a good wife for many years but she refused to circle the drain with Dr. Rafter.

When Kate started lying to him and sleeping in a separate room Benny finally knew it was over. She had found someone else. Their marriage had lasted longer than he had ever expected and Benny was not surprised. That kind of attitude produces the expected results.

One day, when she was supposed to be in Paris, Kate paid a surprise visit to the faltering practice. She found Benny humping his new, busty assistant on the reception desk. He was never good at details and he idiotically hadn’t even bothered to lock the door. Anyone could have walked in on them.

Kate filed for divorce.

Benny was both sad and relieved. He had often felt that truly beautiful women belonged to the world, and that’s what made them hard to keep. They were only on loan to you. Kate was truly beautiful and now, she was his no more.

The closing of his ophthalmology practice, plus the sale of his big house in Genesee, Colorado, was a done deal. Benny had to liquidate all of his retirement funds to pay off his creditors and a small portion of his college loan. Whenever he could get Kate the last of her five hundred thousand dollars he would almost be in the clear. At this point in his life, Rafter owed a total of almost a million dollars.

Benny had no idea how he was ever going to pay his debts.

Fortunately Kate didn’t