On a Mountain

By V.L. Longspeer

Sixteen-year-old Eaton has a great summer planned in Montana running white water with his best friend Molly. They both hope to become guides when they are older. All that changes when a strange animal sighting hints at a dangerous town secret that is about to be unearthed . It is up to Eaton and Molly to save their families and the mountain they call home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483588070

Book preview

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Preface

My husband and I had hiked switchbacks up the mountain all morning. When the tree line leveled out onto a mesa, the stream was finally reached and a campsite was declared. He unpacked a fly rod from a long case that was strapped to the outside of his backpack.

Come with me to the river? he had asked and I had answered, Yes.

I followed him into the icy water, watching my footing, watching him. He cast once, twice. A strike! He played it and brought in a brilliantly colored cutthroat trout. Four more casts and another strike. He bowed to the trout and handed the rod to me. I felt the pull not just of the trout, but of the future, the pull of the River.

This book is possible because of that day, and many that followed on rivers all over the intermountain West. Thank you to my husband, our daughter, and those bound to us not by blood but by the more powerful spirit of the River who share our ongoing journey.

You can never step into the same river twice.

Heraclitus

Prologue

On a mountain, in an aspen grove that was half-hidden in mist and shadow, the geese landed. The flock had come from the North, where light meets dark, heat meets cold, and passion can never be tamed. The place where the wildness begins.

The geese took refuge in the shade of the trees. They shook the wildness from their feathers and were still. They tucked their heads under their wings and slept for many days. But theirs was not a peaceful sleep, for they had eaten from the fields of the wildness and it called to them in their dreams.

The wind came to them too. In a gentle breeze, it whispered the story of the mountain as told to it by a young brave on his vision quest. The story was old in the years used by men to measure time, but the message was a warning of such urgency that even now the geese twitched uneasily in their sleep.

Would you help? the wind pleaded as it showed them the beast.

Could you resist her wiles? it asked as it flashed the woman’s face before them.

And most importantly, the boy. He must be found. This is what I ask of you, beseeched the wind.

The geese stirred in that place between sleep and wakefulness. A low, throaty call passed from one to another. When the last had responded, they answered a collective yes, for they were the wildness and now of the wind.

The wind circled the birds and pressed them further. It was happy for its new allies, but impatient.

Wake up! Wake up! it called, breathing through their wings until the need to fly was greater than the need to rest.

Awakened, the geese were thirsty. They licked the dew from the aspen leaves. They tasted the sweetness that the sun’s heat drew out of the leaves in the chill of the morning. In that drink, they could taste what was to come to the mountain. They knew the truth of what the wind told.

The wind blew again, nudging them along.

Hurry, said the wind. Hurry!

The geese remembered the dream and knew their quest. They shouted to each other in loud, rousting calls. One after another flapped its wings as it prepared for flight. The first ascended, then groups of ten and twenty quickly followed. In less than a minute, the sky filled with the massive flock. Then, as quickly as they had arrived, they were gone.

Soon all that was left behind on the mountain half-hidden in mist and in shadow was the memory of the goose calls, the warmth where they had lain and the seeds in their droppings, which they had eaten in the place where the wildness began.

Then one day the mist did not come to the mountain; instead the sun was allowed to burn bright. The seeds from the droppings began to sprout. From these sprouts came seedlings and from these seedlings came trees, all protected and hidden by the aspen grove.

These trees had the wildness in them. They called to the wildness and the wildness came to them. The wind came to the grove again too. For these trees possessed a power too strong for man. If discovered, as had been foretold to the wind, strange and evil things would come to the mountain.

So the wind stayed and it blew.

It wrapped itself between the growing branches and whipped around the thickening trunks. It grew stronger as the trees grew larger. It could not help but take on the qualities of the wildness, for that was the way of the wildness. The wind blew with a fierceness and passion it had never known before. This wildness left the wind confused, but even more determined that no human nor beast must ever find this grove.

Especially no beast, wailed the wind as it remembered the prophecy. Its breezes churned into a gale that blew hard and would not be calmed.

The old man in the town at the foot of the mountain paused in his work. He had heard the geese and felt the wind.

Again? he asked, first of himself and then of the wind. How can this be?

For there had been another time when the wildness had come to the mountain. The cost had been high for him and for the town to rid themselves of the wildness. He did not know if it could be done again.

The wind heard his question and rushed to him. As if in answer, it released a gust so powerful the old man found it hard to stand.

No! the old man exclaimed. It’s not possible.

Still the wind persisted.

The old man was troubled. It wasn’t like the wind to treat him this way. Something must be wrong with his friend. He watched as the wind danced among the tall grasses in the field, tearing them from their roots and hurling them skyward.

What could it be? the old man wondered. Then it hit him with the same force as that of the wind. What if this was the time of which he had been told? What if this was the time of the prophecy? He quickly dismissed the thought. It was too big for him. He shook his head and turned his back on the wind.

But the wind refused to give up. It too switched directions and again blew in the old man’s face.

No, he repeated. He was an old man who had seen too much, worried too much. The prophecy could not possibly be his responsibility anymore. Surely it would pass to the next generation.

In response, the wind released another mighty gale and sent the old man tumbling. It continued its brutal assault until it pinned the old man to the ground.

Then the old man did a curious thing. Instead of fighting the wind, he grew still and lay where he had fallen. He closed his eyes and let the wind wash over him, breathing it in and slowly letting it out from between his pale, dry lips. As he exhaled, he listened. He heard the wind speak. It came first as a whisper, a stirring, and then built with intensity as it repeated the story it had told to the geese.

The old man’s mind reeled. The weight of the words overwhelmed him. It was true. His fears were realized. The prophecy was here. The wind’s story was his story too, the one that had been passed from his great-grandfather to his grandfather to his father and then to him, Stuart WingRaven.

The story was that of a young brave who had sat many days and nights waiting for his spirit animal. He had been told it would reveal itself when his mind was clear and his body still. For his journey, he had chosen the high peak of the mountain, where he was closest to the sky. He opened himself up to the universe and waited. Instead of a vision for himself, he received one for the mountain. It was not a visit from a spirit animal but a prophecy, and one of darkness and death.

The brave was frightened. How could this be for the mountain? And why had the vision chosen him? He asked the vision to travel on, explaining that he was on a quest for a vision of his own, but it refused. More days and nights passed and still it stayed. The brave became desperate. He thought that perhaps if he drew a picture of the vision on a log and then burned it, he would release it back to where it had come from, or send it along where it was meant to go.

This he did. The images were strange and troubling: that of a woman, atop a beast, eating the mountain. They were ravenous and gobbled big chunks, but still they were not satisfied. They ate until nothing was left but death.

As the young brave worked, another vision revealed itself. This was of a boy standing above the woman and beast, a canoe over his head. The canoe was tilted and the river poured from it, knocking the pair down and washing them away.

The brave felt hope. Could this mean that one would come who could save the mountain?

The brave worked long and hard and recorded the visions as he saw them, using charcoal from his fire. Once he had finished, he threw the log on the flame. He watched as the images were consumed and released. He was filled with relief. He had done his part. The message was free to continue on its journey.

And it did. When the vision traveling on the breath of the fire’s smoke reached the wind, the wind saw the mountain’s fate and what could be done to prevent it. The message had been delivered. As the mountain was a friend to the wind, it vowed to help. The wind would search for the boy. When he was found, the wind would call him to the mountain.

Time passed. The brave grew into an old man and a wise chief. He had many sons, and his sons had sons. His vision of the salvation of the mountain was retold to each. And as happens to most stories in the retelling, it was added to and embellished into the fantastic. The boy became known to be friends with the water and the water with him. Through this friendship, he could come and go on the river as he pleased, even where the teeth of the river smiled and bit into rapids. In the retelling, he became fearless, a warrior most valiant. And the boy’s story moved past anything of this earth. The boy with the canoe had become a legend, a hero.

Time was different for the wind, but still it passed. The wind saw much as it waited by its friend’s side. Rains came, and droughts too. Animals and men lived many seasons on the mountain. Roads replaced game trails, trucks replaced horses, and cabins replaced teepees. Through it all, the wind stayed vigilant. It watched for the woman and beast and waited for the boy.

Stuart WingRaven paused as he again relived the story of his fathers. He let the words take hold. The vision would come to pass in his time. He had been chosen just as the boy had been. He was both honored and overwhelmed, but he made a vow. He would do what was asked of him; what his ancestors had prepared him for.

To the wind, he spoke two words: The prophecy.

Yes, the wind answered back, releasing WingRaven. The message had been delivered. The wait was over. Two hundred years later, the boy had arrived.

WingRaven was thoughtful for a moment. The boy. Do we know who?

The wind joined with the voices of his ancestors and answered, Eaton.

Eaton, repeated WingRaven.

Eaton, echoed the mountain.

Chapter One

Eaton set his side of the raft down on the riverbank. He stood up and surveyed the river, watching as a log the length of a pickup truck caught the current. It was swept with the swelling water through the rocks, then disappeared as the river folded over on itself in a rapid. A rapid with a name: Lion’s Roar.

Eaton’s heart beat faster. He, along with every other kid in the small Montana town, had been taught that the river was dangerous.

His mother’s words came racing back. Not a place to swim. The water is too unpredictable to stick in so much as a toe. Then she would look him in the eye and, lowering her voice, remind him, Remember the man who drowned?

This was when his father would join in. Currents grab hold and drag a person. You’d be swept into Miner’s Peril. His father would then clear his throat, and Eaton knew what was to come. He would wait patiently to hear once again the recitation of the town’s worst river accident. He knew it by heart, but still his father continued. Not just any vacationing kayaker, either. The Olympic star kayaker. He wasn’t able to make the landing before Miner’s and was forced to run the canyon. Fragments of his kayak, his father would stress, "fragments, surfaced downriver. The famous kayaker was never found."

As he looked at the water again, his parents’ warning took on new meaning. A nagging thought lingered in his mind: maybe they were right. A gust of wind grabbed Eaton’s hat. He caught it just in time and set it firmly back on his head, trying to gain courage. Still, he couldn’t help asking himself why he was here. He usually mowed lawns for his summer job. He was good at it, too. He had most of the nicer properties in town. He took pride that Marjorie’s Mountain Resort, known simply as the Double M Resort, the prime destination for travelers to this area, even used him as their number one lawn service.

But not this summer. This vacation he wanted to try something different. For a reason he could not explain, he felt drawn to the river. He thought maybe he could run shuttles or cater lunches until he got enough experience to establish himself as a guide.

That was why he had applied at WingRaven River Tours. Sure, there were several companies that ran the river in summer, but WingRaven River Tours had the best reputation. The owner, Stuart WingRaven, was part of the original tribe from this mountain, and maybe that was why he was so protective of all that went on there. It was like he was the mountain’s own personal guardian.

He was also known to be a hard boss and an even harder guide. WingRaven wanted his employees and his clients to have respect for the river. He wasn’t shy about his feelings, either. If a client didn’t have the right attitude for the river or the fish, WingRaven would row right past the good holding water and not a single fish would be caught all day.

Other clients were even less lucky. They never got to the water. On the way, WingRaven would slam on the brakes and order them out. With tires spinning, he would drive off, leaving the confused tourist to walk back to town.

The locals always knew who had not won WingRaven’s approval. They were the vacationers wearing bewildered looks as they stumbled along in their freshly purchased waders and fly vests. Folks would feign a smile as they passed. They had learned. A few still stopped to give the more pitiful-looking ones a lift, but they always regretted the decision. They learned firsthand why the unfortunate tourists were wearing the felt off the soles of their wading boots. They were arrogant and had a total disregard for the town’s blue ribbon fly-fishing river. Even with the strict catch-and-release policy posted everywhere, the conversation centered around not getting to eat the fish they caught or taking The Big One home to mount on the wall. Surely there were enough fish for just this once? This was their big trip to Montana.

But all the one times added up and the fishery would be ruined, the locals would explain.

The belligerent passenger would then argue that it sure seemed like a big enough river never to run out of fish.

The now-disgusted local would then stop the vehicle, and the ex-WingRaven client and now ex-welcomed hitchhiker would be walking for the second time that day.

It was like WingRaven had an inner sense of who had goodness in his heart and who did not. And he was always right. The townspeople kept him at a distance, but at the same time they respected him and valued his opinion.

WingRaven was equally hard on his staff. He expected of them what he demanded of himself—vigilance. He even had a sign posted by the schedule. Respect was all it said, but what it meant was no daydreaming or slacking. Rivers, especially this one, changed from day to day; guides could not assume the way they ran the river yesterday would be the same way they did it today. They could not fall into complacency. If they didn’t take the time to read the water before each run, they and the clients could both be placed in danger. At that point, as far as WingRaven was concerned, they had lost the respect for which he held them accountable. He would demote them, and they would drive shuttles and dry out the neoprene wet suits and life vests until WingRaven said otherwise.

Eaton knew his chances of being accepted with WingRaven River Tours were not good. He had no experience running rapids. He knew nothing about how to read white water. He didn’t even know what gear he needed. But he wanted to learn. And he wanted WingRaven’s approval.

Ever since the wind had returned, Eaton had sensed a change within himself. It was a restlessness and yearning he didn’t understand.

At night, when he was alone in his room and quiet within himself, the wind would find him. As he lay in his bed, he could hear the questions on the backside of the wind as it blew through the crack of his bedroom window.

Why do you stay away from the river? the wind asked as it hummed. It had a melody about it that was familiar to Eaton. A song he had heard his grandmother sing under her breath when she thought no one was there. It had the melancholy notes of a mourning dove as it cooed to the fading light at sunset.

The song filled Eaton with longing. He listened to the song, to the wind, until the wind’s questions became his questions too. They were slow to come at first, mere fragments of ideas mixed with this new awakening in him. He worked hard to form the questions from his feelings. He felt awkward, shy as he moved from his learned past to where he needed to be. His first question was hesitant, shaky, almost as if taking that first step as a child.

Miner’s Peril, Eaton began, not knowing where to start. People have died there. It ended up not being a question at all but instead the fear inside of Eaton being released.

The wind was quick to respond to its new student. Wasn’t there more to the river than Miner’s Peril? it asked in return.

Yes, said Eaton, listening both to the wind and to the melody that filled the room. But the danger, he added as he continued to shed his old ideas.

There is danger in all, but is that always bad? sang the wind in its low moan.

No, said Eaton. It is not. He knew everything carried this burden. He had just never thought of it applied to the river before.

The wind lingered by the window. Before it left, it had one more question. Isn’t risk part of knowing something bigger than yourself?

Alone, Eaton would lie thinking of all the wind had said. He was filled with what he knew of the river and what the wind wanted him to learn. It was both hard and easy to accept his new place with the river. Like most people in town, he fly-fished, and he had only seen the river as a fisherman would. His heart warmed to what he knew as familiar. He let his mind wander there one more time.

He knew the smell of snow that melted into runoff and tumbled down the mountain. He knew the smell of rain that mixed with pine from the groves that washed into the river. He knew the smell of earth as it was carved from the banks and was carried downstream into the canyons. He knew the roundness of the rocks under his feet when he waded. He knew the boulders and the holding water behind them where the trout lived and fed. He knew the deep holes below the bushes on the bank where light mixed with dark and the shadows hid the large trout. He knew the line of bubbles that formed after a submerged log held back the regular current. Trout fed along these too. This was what Eaton knew when he looked at the river.

Then there was the rest of the river. Eaton lumped it all together as the white-water parts, the Miner’s Perils. These were the parts that were unfamiliar, unknown to Eaton, and where the wind wanted him to go.

As he lay sleepless night after night, these thoughts consumed him. And every night, the wind would blow the songs of the geese as they called to each other, as they called to him. While he didn’t know it, within the calls were the notes of the wildness. Their calls mixed with the white water in Eaton’s dreams, and with time, Eaton too became unknowingly filled with the wildness. He began to see beyond his boundaries of water and rock that had been, up to now, his definition of what the river was, and began to see the river as a wild thing to be treated with respect.

Isn’t it a matter of learning how to handle that which is wild? murmured the wind.

Eaton was lulled to sleep by the wind as it continued to blow. As he slept, the same question whispered in his thoughts. What if I could run the white water?

And the wind answered his question with another: What if you could run Miner’s Peril?

Stuart WingRaven called and offered Eaton a job with his raft company.

The conversation had started out oddly, Eaton thought.

I am glad you are finally here, said WingRaven.

Thank you, sir, Eaton stammered, caught off guard. His heart sank. WingRaven saying what he did made no sense. He must have confused him with someone else. What did he mean, glad he was finally here? Eaton lived here. He always had.

He wondered what he should do. What he wanted to do was let WingRaven assume he was this other person that he seemed so happy to hire. But that would be wrong; he had to tell WingRaven the truth and hope for the best. Maybe there was still a chance he would get a job. He spoke up, said his piece.

I’m sorry, sir, but you must have me mistaken for someone else. I don’t have any river experience. In fact, I didn’t apply until after your deadline for the season. I usually mow lawns. But I want to learn. If you give me a chance, I won’t disappoint you. I can do this.

I know exactly who you are, Eaton Erikson. I’ve waited a long time for you, WingRaven said as if he knew more than what he was saying. He then added, I’ll have you doing mostly gofer work at first. But with time, as you get to know the river, I’ll use you as a guide.

As I get to know the river, Eaton repeated to himself, the whisper of the wind getting stronger. As I get to know the river… I could run Miner’s Peril.

Eaton scanned the water for the log that had disappeared into Lion’s Roar Rapid. There was still no sign of it.

Eaton grew impatient. He had had enough of this waiting and thinking. He wanted to get on the river and get it over with. He had to know if he could do this; if not, he hoped there was time to possibly get back his old lawn job. He stepped up on a tree stump to get a higher vantage point, but still there was no sign of the others. In his excitement, he had bolted from the van and left everyone else far behind.

As he waited, he kept an eye on the riverbank. Living in Montana, he had developed the habit of being watchful. This was bear and mountain lion country. The bears had been out of their hibernation for a month and had headed to lower ground in their search of food after the long winter. Only now, as the snow had thawed from the mountain, had they returned to forage at higher altitudes.

Eaton had heard there was a winter-killed deer north of where boat trailers can park at the river’s launch site. A warden had spotted it sticking out of one of the last remaining snowdrifts. This would be a great find for a bear. When—not if—a bear found it, it would become territorial and would claim all rights to it. The last thing a person wanted to do was stumble across a ravenous hostile bear as it fed.

The bushes were tall and thick here by the riverbank, and Eaton watched the tops for any movement, although if the bear were bedded down he would see nothing. He also looked for scat on the ground and fortunately found none. Still, this spot screamed, BEAR! and the sooner they got the raft in the water, the better.

Eaton had learned early to be always on his guard. He remembered in second grade when a mountain lion had been spotted on the playground. Had this meant an end to recess? No! This was Montana. Wildlife encounters were an everyday occurrence. Bald eagles glided on the thermals high in the air above the town. Deer came into backyards and munched on gardens. Moose were a common sight behind the exhibitions at the summer fair. And one of the jobs of airport security was keeping the runway clear of the antelope herd that had picked the field surrounding the airport as their range.

People just got used to wildlife and adapted. So instead of closing the playground, the school had called in the game warden. WingRaven too.

While they worked with dogs to find the large cat, the students learned what to do if confronted with a lion. They were told not to show fear, to look as large as possible, and to never turn their back to a lion. The kids practiced holding their coats above their heads to look bigger. They practiced walking slowly backwards, always facing the imaginary lions.

They had been given the skills to better their chances in case of an encounter, Eaton recalled.

The warden and WingRaven had trapped the lion. Eaton remembered crowding around the cage with his friends. They pushed and shoved each other to get a better look at the huge cat. Eaton got the closest. The lion’s eyes caught Eaton’s. There was a chilling coldness to its stare. There was a power, a message. Eaton was held in its spell. He could not look away. The lion had chosen to reveal himself to Eaton. Its gaze seared through him, and in it, Eaton saw where light meets dark, where heat meets cold, where passion can never be tamed. Eaton saw where the wildness began, and heard the message of the wind for the first time.

Only when one of Eaton’s friends spoke did the lion release Eaton from his trance. What will happen to the mountain lion now?

The lion snarled in the cage. Everyone moved back as it lunged forward.

He’ll go to a zoo, the game warden replied. Then, under his breath, he muttered, Just like the others.

WingRaven gave the game warden a cautionary look. The warden then added, The others who have lost their fear of people.

The two men moved out of earshot of most of the students. From where Eaton stood, though, he was able to hear their continued conversation.

Are you sure it’s still secure? the game warden questioned in a lowered voice.

I call about Cage 17 every week, WingRaven assured him.

This is how it started before, said the game warden, worried. The number of cat sightings is way up.

As long as the zoo keeps their agreement, it can’t be like before, said WingRaven in a tone that dismissed further conversation.

The game warden, not convinced, finished loading the cat.

Eaton watched as the game warden’s truck disappeared down the road. The conversation had made no sense. That, plus the weird moment when the mountain lion had singled him out with his gaze, left Eaton thinking there was more to this incident than just the capture of a wild animal in town.

Even now, years later, Eaton remembered the lion’s eyes and wondered at the meaning