Lisa Michaels

Grand Ambition

Glen was glad to see her spending less time in the barn, though he tried not to show his relief. When she sat nearby he felt the need to keep her occupied, to explain each step as he did it, and the talking wore him out. Language was his wife's terrain and he was glad to cede it. What he really wanted was to finish the boat swiftly and in quiet and get on the river before the weather turned colder. On the days when he talked through his work, he felt redoubled gratitude toward Captain Guleke, who had taught him everything he knew about boat making, back when he was nothing but a fence post with an Adam's apple. The old man had spiced these lessons with all his superstitions about how to survive on a river, and so far they had served Glen well. He had the sudden urge to send Guleke a telegram, just a quick word to say they were setting out. He could just picture the pissy expression such a show of feeling would summon in the old man. Good thing he was beyond the reach of telegraph lines most of the time, or Glen would have to dip into their meager cash supply just for the pleasure of getting his goat.

Guleke had made his name running machinery and supplies to miners in the deepest canyons of the Salmon River, and the men who relied on his services claimed it was like having someone deliver you tea in the bowels of hell. He shot through those canyons in his heavy barge, running rapids that made other men bite their tongues with fear, and pulled in at some rocky bank to hand out flour as dry as talc. They said that on the one occasion when Guleke flipped and lost his gear, he lived for two weeks on plug tobacco and river water.

Maybe a telegram wasn't such a bad idea. Under his crust, the old man might be pleased to know they were building a scow like the ones he had mastered. It was a boat designed to take a beating, sixteen feet long and six wide, with long sweep oars extending off each end, and doubled floorboards as a caution against rocks. One of its virtues: it didn't require any special soaking and bending of wood. It was a rectangular box, with the bow and stern tipped outward, so from the side it made a perfect trapezoid, like a child's paper boat.

Still, even Guleke, hard to impress, would have been drop-jawed to hear what they were planning to do with it—run the scow down the length of the Grand Canyon. Since 1869, when John Wesley Powell first explored the river by boat, only nine expeditions had attempted such a trip. He and Bessie would be the tenth, and the only ones to do it for pleasure. Most of the men who'd made it through had been surveyors—exploring sites for a dam or a railroad—or grizzled outdoorsmen, after gold and furs. Only lately had a few parties gone through for publicity, taking photographs and motion pictures. But never had a woman attempted the journey.

As soon as he got the scow roughed together, Glen brought his wife to have a look. They would stow their duffel in two piles—front and back, for counterbalance. In the center was a clear place to stand and a high bench, nailed across the width of the boat, where they would man the sweeps. Bessie watched as he jumped up to take the handles. A shaft of sun came down through the hayloft window and fell over the scow. She had to admit it looked bizarre, sitting flat on the barn floor, without water softening its lines. The sweeps jutted off the back and front like giant hockey sticks, resting heavily on the floor.

"You stand sideways to the stream," Glen said, turning to face her. "And try to keep the handles about waist height, like this." He slipped a weight sack over each handle, and the long articulated blades lifted as gently as false limbs. There was a little delay, a little creakiness, but they did all right.

"Come and try it," he said, giving her a hand up.

She found it awkward at first, judging the right amount of pressure, but she soon got the knack and worked the oars in soft circles, trying all the points of the blades.

"Of course, they feel different when you're in fast water," Glen said. "Sometimes you'll be going along just fine and an eddy will yank one right out of your hand. And if the blade hits a rock, you fly like a spit wad."

"God, do you have to put it like that?" She laughed and jumped down from the bench. The sides of the scow nearly reached her shoulders. "If you need me during rough water, I'll be right down here," she said, pointing to the floor. "We could rig up some cushions, a little bell."

"All right, Cleopatra." He stepped down to the floorboards and pulled her close. Her hair smelled like lavender. "Do you know what today is?"

"Friday?"

"Friday, October twelfth," he said.

She scanned his face, trying to guess the significance.

"It's our six-month anniversary," he said finally, smiling a little. "I thought women kept track of these things."

She stood on tiptoe and gave him a kiss. "You're sweet to remember." She wrapped her hands around his waist. "So what do you give a girl you've been married to for six months? Napkins, hemp?"

He brushed his thumb along her jaw. "I'm giving this one a boat."