Free Yellowstone Standoff by Scott Graham Page A

duffles, their hiking boots drying on rocks beside them.
    Kaifong’s cheeks glowed. “Well, that sucked,” she announced.
    â€œI’m sorry, Kaifong,” Randall said from where he stood on the far side of the fire, his voice cracking. “I’m so, so sorry, chickadee.”
    She waved him off. “I shouldn’t have gotten so close to the back of the boat—and I should have buckled my life jacket.”
    â€œI never should’ve left my seat,” Randall said, twisting his hands in front of him.
    â€œAt least it all ended okay,” Chuck said. He glanced at the boat, where the pilot returned PFDs to the compartments beneath the bench seats. “About ready to head back across?” he asked Kaifong.
    â€œI’m not sure I want to go back out to sea so soon.” She pressed her hands between her knees and gazed at the roiling water of the open lake beyond the mouth of the arm before turning to Chuck. “What about you?”
    â€œI’m staying. But it wasn’t me who almost drowned.”
    Randall said to Kaifong, “Don’t you think you should have a doctor check you out?”
    â€œWe’ve been waiting two years to get into the backcountry,” she replied. “We’re finally here.”
    She shifted on the log to face the upper Yellowstone River valley rising to the south, mile after mile of pristine forest broken by grassy meadows, every bit of it devoid of human development. Groves of whitebark pines climbed the sides of the broad valley, blanketing ridges that swept upward to alpine tundra studded by snowcapped peaks.
    Janelle, standing behind Chuck, said, “There’s still plenty of daylight. We can call in a med-evac if you have trouble on the hike to camp—in which case, you’ll be choppered out instead of having to go back out on the lake.”
    â€œOnce the boat’s gone, there’ll be no radio,” Chuck warned. “Someone would have to make it to the cabin to use the satellite phone before any evacuation could happen. There’s no cell phone service out here.”
    â€œOr,” Janelle said, “she could press the button on her emergency beacon.”
    â€œTrue, I suppose,” Chuck said. “As a last resort.”
    A horse whinnied from out of sight in the forest to the south, followed by a pair of whinnies in response.
    Janelle cocked her head at the sound of the horses. “Maybe you could ride to camp,” she told Kaifong.
    â€œMe? Ride a horse?” Kaifong shook her head. “Never. Those things terrify me.” She reached for her boots.
    â€œIt’s four miles,” Chuck warned her. He pulled the map from his pack, flipped it open, and showed her the trail winding upstream east of the river. “Not steep, but uphill all the way.”
    â€œI’ll be fine. I’m sure of it.”
    A string of ten pack horses, their saddles empty, emerged from the woods. A mounted wrangler led the string, reins loose in his leather-gloved hand. A second wrangler brought up the rear. The two horsemen, square-jawed and middle-aged, wore Stetsons low over their eyes, their faces shadowed in the afternoon sunlight. The horses made their way along a well-trodden path toward the pier.
    â€œGuess I’d better get to it, then,” Randall said.
    He left the fire and worked alongside the others, placing the duffles, storage kegs, and plastic cases from the gear boat in an orderly line, ready for loading on the pack animals.
    Kaifong stood up after lacing her hiking boots. “Thank you,” she said to Chuck as he tied his own boots, still damp from their dunking in the lake. “You saved my life.”
    He looked up at her from his seat on the log. “Glad I could be of service.”
    Beyond the pier, Clarence and the girls stood at the edge of the lake. They skipped rocks toward the Molly Islands, two rounded humps of sand and stone rising out of the southeast