Where the River Ends Read Online Free PDF Page B

we pulled around back and I left the car running. Gus, the owner and my former boss, had told me to make myself at home whenever I came back to town, so that’s what I intended to do.
    One of the great things about small South Georgia–Norman Rockwell towns was how little things actually changed from decade to decade. Gus had never been too big on alarms or changing locks because the crime rate in St. George was usually limited to cow-tipping kids or truckers attempting to avoid agricultural inspection stations, so I slid my key into the lock and turned it, unlocking the gate.
    I grew up in a trailer park not far from here. From midway through the eighth grade to the year I left for college, I worked and guided for Gus. Conservative estimates would suggest that I logged more than three thousand kayak or canoe miles on the St. Marys—more than anyone I ever knew or heard of. Including Gus.
    I decided I’d try the honest approach. I knocked on the door of Gus’s trailer. A few seconds later the light clicked on and Gus cracked the door. One eye was shut, the other barely open. “Hey, Doss.”
    “Hey.”
    “Gimme a second.”
    Gus was maybe fifty now. Sun-battered and river-weary but he was fitter than most college kids. He stepped out looking more weathered and pruney, yet his smile was unchanged. Gus knew me, my story and had been the first to sign his name to the documents that got me through high school. I extended my hand, said, “Gus, I need to do some shopping.”
    He glanced at the car. “You want to talk about it?”
    I shook my head. “Not really.”
    “You sure?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Whatever you need. Make yourself at home.”
    I backed up to the door—the engine running—while Gus unlocked the bolt and rolled open the door above me. I pulled down two eighteen-foot Mad River canoes—one tan and one mango-colored—off the rental racks, three paddles and a couple of life vests and we tied them to the roof racks atop the Jeep. Gus noticed Abbie asleep inside but said nothing. I walked through the warehouse cramming a duffel bag with whatever I thought I needed.
    Inside the store, I threw some food and canned goods into a cooler, along with a stove and some small green propane tanks, two large blue tarps, a tent, a spinning reel along with a few Beetle Spins, and whatever else I could carry. Opening the glass of the display case, I lifted a small waterproof handheld Garmin GPS unit. The GPS used satellites to locate position. I didn’t grab it to tell me where I was, although it would do that within about three feet. I knew the river well enough. But I needed it to tell me how far we’d traveled and distance to future points. It would help me plan breaks, overnights and help me anticipate shelter. The problem with the river, even for someone like me, is that it is constantly changing. And in changing, it can look different with little notice. Also, with the tidal influence we’d encounter at Trader’s Hill, it would be nearly impossible to judge how fast we were traveling and, as a result, how far we’d traveled. Two miles an hour makes a world of difference. Lastly, the more tired I became, and I was sure I would, the less I’d be able to judge speed or distance. The GPS would guard against that.
    Gus picked up on my shopping and began laying a few things on the countertop that he thought I might need. He scratched his chin. “You going to the sound?”
    I nodded.
    “You going alone?”
    I looked at the car and shrugged.
    About that time, somebody knocked on the front door. Gus frowned, and spoke to himself. “It’s the middle of the night.” He stared through the door and saw two men standing in the shadows. He hollered through the glass, “We’re closed.”
    The first man spoke up. “Don’t look like it.”
    Gus smiled. “Why don’t you come back tomorrow morning? We’re doing inventory.”
    The second man pressed his face to the glass. “We’re going gigging and just needed a few