Chuck's paranoia girdled the globe and once bent back and bit him in the butt. When (much later) he was planning a river trip in Tanzania, the heavily discounted price of a round-the-world airline ticket lured him in. Perhaps target-fixated-like a moth drawn to a fire-he routed himself through Moscow during the Brezhnev era. At the In-tourist hotel, he refused to hand over his passport to the then-ubiquitous hotel floor monitors, explaining that it was illegal to surrender an American passport and, anyway, he was only going out for a walk. Before he could further elaborate his "nyet," two beefy men in ill-fitting suits grabbed him by the elbows and escorted him out.
I don't know how long he remained in KGB custody (he wouldn't say), but he left Russia as soon as he was allowed.
In a few minutes the chopper was visible. It was headed straight for our campsite. Chuck's paranoia had turned to prescience and become contagious. What could they possibly want from us? We scrambled to bury the pot and hide the liquor (Joyce and I were under age), and cover our nakedness (an eccentricity indulged in by all but Joyce).But it wasn't enough to still the fear and angst that by now shook us mercilessly and wouldn't let go. Unable to just sit and wait, we tidied up camp.
The chopper landed on a hill behind us, about 100 feet away. Out jumped a DPS officer in full storm trooper regalia, and walked over to our kayaks. "Those your canoes?" he asked.
Like a scene out of a Cheech and Chong sketch, Chuck blurted "No" and I said "Yes." The cop looked at us suspiciously. We clarified that they were kayaks, not canoes; but that yes, they were ours.
"But they're green and red," he declared, seeking confirmation in an attempt to clarify any misunderstanding.
"Well, not actually," I said, pointing out that my kayak was orange and Chuck's lacked gel-coat, rendering it translucent, albeit vaguely greenish. The cop was losing his patience.
Finally he said they had a report of four overdue canoeists in two canoes, one red and one green. With our communication finally cleared up, the tension eased, and we told him about the Deliverance Boys, where we last saw them, and our assessment of them. He thanked us and left. A bit later, soon after nightfall, we heard the helicopter retracing its flight path and wondered what had transpired.
The following day a much bigger helicopter awoke us at dawn, passing right over on its way upstream. Norton, a National Guard pilot, identified it. Based on the model he speculated that one or more of the Deliverance Boys had gone on to his reckoning.
The Verde River ends its unconstrained run at Horseshoe Reservoir, seven miles of impoundment above Horseshoe Dam. We took turns rowing the raft across the lake and spoke hardly at all. As we neared the take-out, the big chopper passed back over us and landed next to the dam. Meanwhile, a Game and Fish Department skiff approached us. The ranger, ignorant of our part in the unfolding drama, brought us up to date-without details-on the canoers' rescue. He advised us not to approach the goings-on on shore. Ambulances awaited-but with no sirens blaring. We stayed away, busy loading our shuttle vehicle and hesitant to confront the vagaries of fate any closer.
The next day's newspaper carried all the details, many of them garbled, as newspapers are wont to do. But they got the basics right: One canoer had abandoned the trip and walked out to civilization safely, another had broken a leg, and a third had nearly died from exposure. The fourth had drowned. We were not mentioned-a fact that relieved Chuck immensely.