OverTime 03: Slipping (First 70 Chapters)

Chapter 29: Defying Gravity (Lillabit)

How had I gone over a week, never more than five miles away from the North Platte, without visiting it? Oh, I'd occasionally caught flashes of silver reflection in the distance, from where the tree line marked the river's passage, but I'd had no idea. None.

It would be like spending all your time in Chicago without ever swinging by Lake Michigan, or visiting Florida without checking out a beach. As if, this whole time, I'd been forgetting to breathe.

This river didn't rush so much as meander, but it still made a wonderful, flowing sound. Even the birdsong got louder on approach. In fact, a massive cloud of large birds took flight at our appearance.

"Cranes," answered Jacob, before I had to ask.

And those weren't all the birds hanging around the Platte, or even all the cranes--just the ones close enough for our presence to make nervous. The cranes that took off just relocated some distance off, like stubble on the water. So. Much. Water.

This river was huge, well deserving of having the whole valley named after it, and I kind of fell in love.

The Platte had more breadth than a 10-lane highway. Maybe wider than two of them. But, it wasn't just one river so much as a filigree of riverlets around just as many sandbars. Various streams and channels braided in and out of each other, leaving countless long, thin islands, some little more than bare sand, some complete with weeds and brush, and a few growing honest-to-god trees.

"Too thick to drink," drawled Benj. "Too thin to plow."

"That's just what Jacob said!" When the others looked at me, I added, "I mean – what Mr. Garrison said."

Yeesh! Someday I would get the hang of that.

Mr. Garrison eyed the knotwork of earth and water, then eyed Benj skeptically. "Found a ford," he challenged.

"Indeed I did. Thisaway."

"It looks pretty shallow," I said. But to judge from the tension around the subject of river crossings, this couldn't be so easy. "What am I missing?"

Jacob said, "Quicksand."

Ah. That made all those lovely sandbars a tad less inviting.

We rode along the river's edge in air cool for midday in August, with not a trace of dust, until Benj found a tree that somehow stood out from all the rest—because he'd cut a gash in its bark. From there, Benj turned his gelding and rode right into the water, his mount's hooves making little splashes as it crossed the first of maybe six channels.

He called, "I reckon last week's storm washed some extra bottom our direction, and it settled right along here."

The rest of us watched him as his horse alternately waded or even swam across channels, alternately climbing onto and over islands. At one point, we lost him behind some mid-river trees. But eventually, he rode wetly up the opposite bank, onto firm ground.

He had to cup his mouth with his hands to call, "Easy going!" And I still had to strain to hear him. Part of that was because of the delicious murmur of moving water. Most of it was because of just how far the opposite bank was.

Benj started back, while Jacob and Jorge headed into the water. Jacob turned to point imperiously at me, before I could follow. "Stay here."

So I stayed with Milton. I didn't even dismount and go to the river's edge, despite how badly I suddenly wanted to go wading. I just didn't want to get into another round of who would burn whose saddle if things went south. Still, it was fascinating just to watch.