How it happened, Sandy never knew. One moment he had the paddle; the next instant he saw it shoot out of his hand and land in the water out of reach. He was helpless, caught in the grip of Lost River, minutes away from a bone-shattering fall over Cutthroat Rapids.
Fighting down the panic that threatened to overwhelm him, Sandy twisted around to call for help. Mike was standing just about where he had left him, patiently practicing his casts, unaware of the terrible danger that had suddenly overtaken Sandy.
“Mike!” Sandy screamed, realizing, as he shouted, that nobody could help him now. “Mike!”
Mike looked up with a start. A look of surprise and horror passed over his face as he took in the situation. Sandy saw him turn and shout something to his father and Joe. Then he was running along the side of the river, his fly rod still clutched in his hand.
Cutthroat Rapids was closer now. It sent up a deep, angry roar as hundreds of tons of water thundered over its rocks. Sandy’s fragile raft swayed and shook, tossed in every direction by the seething current. Clinging desperately to the slippery sides of his raft, Sandy could feel a cold spray lash at his face. Shifting his weight to ride out the bucking river, Sandy leaned to one side, then the other. Suddenly the raft leaped out of the water, gave an agonized shake and fell back on its side. The force of the fall threw Sandy from the raft and he was swept along into the remorseless current. The raging waters carried him for about fifteen feet before they slammed him, dazed and shaken, into an obstruction that clogged the river just above the rapids.
At first Sandy thought he had hit a rock. But as his groping hands clawed for a grip, he felt the sharp scratch of a branch and the rough, comforting scrape of a tree trunk.
Miraculously, the current had deposited him on the upriver side of a log jam that trembled less than twenty yards above the rapids.
Gasping for breath, Sandy shook the water out of his eyes and took a closer look at his island. He knew almost immediately that this was merely a reprieve. Already the tangle of trees groaned and shifted under the insistent tugging of the current. Here and there a few branches were tearing free, too frail to withstand the pounding pressure of the surly river.
He glanced over at the nearest shore. Only about twenty feet. He hadn’t realized he was that close. The distance gave him an idea. The rope around his middle! Would it reach? Would he be able to throw it? Hardly daring to believe he had a chance, he took a tight grip on a stout branch and, with his free hand, began to unwind the line.
When he looked back at the shore, the rope dangling from one hand, he saw that Mike had arrived and was trying to wade out into the water toward him.