The gray-haired river runner bent forward from her low chair and drew a line in the sand.  Her friend, Beeker, his blond beard stringy and tan from river silt, reached and with a stick drew a line intersecting the first.  He said, "You've been running rivers longer than anybody I know, Hecla, how'd you get started?"
      "It's been 68 years since I first got stowed in a canoe as part of the luggage.  I don't remember much myself.  My Ma says I spent a lot of time sleeping."
      "And when did you learn to lie?"
      "You know, Beeker, lying is an art form. 
      "What do you mean?"
      "A lying river runner has a handicap."  She drew another line in the soft sand using her index finger, this one parallel to the first.  "We're expected to lie.  Like fishermen." 
       Beeker scratched his head and sand grains flew through the air sparkling in the warm evening sun.  He asked, "How many times have you heard the question, ‘How do you know if a river runner is lying?'"
      "‘His lips are moving.' About a thousand times, I'd guess," Hecla said, stretching her long legs and digging bare heels into the warm sand.  "Lying takes a different skill."  she continued, "More like magic.  A good magician lets you examine the box and the saw, then cuts his subject in half.  No smoke screens." 
       Beeker followed Hecla's line in the sand, drawing now the fourth, forming a large ‘#' in the warm red grains.  Combing his beard with oar-strengthened fingers Beeker asked, "So, what's the best lie you ever told?"
       Hecla's face slipped into a smile.  Crow's feet connected to smile creases and random wisps of long salt & pepper hair struck out on their own, like waves rising from rapids. 
     "Well," she started, "there's no way that any river lie could compete with advertisers' lies, but there is a story that has to do with a gent my folks knew.  He used to come along on our canoe trips when I was a kid.  In the evenings he'd tell some old ghost story around the campfire.  Had me scared ‘most every night, but I loved it.  My Ma used to let me go ask Uncle Red -- that's what we called him, though he was no relation; ‘Red' on account of his bright orange beard and mustache -- ask Uncle Red if he'd join us on our next adventure.
      "Well, one autumn the four of us were on a little creek in southern Colorado.  Days as bright as polished brass work on the Queen's yacht, and nights so full of stars there was hardly any room for black in between.  Near camp, Uncle Red found a skull of a long-dead bighorn, but he didn't let any of us know.  With its horns in full curl, he set it inside my sleeping bag.  He wrapped his flashlight in orange cellophane and put it inside the skull so the eyes glowed hideously, and the old teeth in that skull, what few remained, had a rime of orange blood about them.
      "That night about the campfire, he told his usual ghost story, but with a little twist.  I don't remember exactly, but the gist of the story was; a bighorn had been trapped in a box canyon and gotten so hungry it had turned carnivore, eating mice and woodchucks to survive. It had finally found its way out, but rumors started about it chasing humans, and according to Uncle Red, that mountain sheep was still wandering around these parts.  In fact, he'd been told by several hunters that was so. 
      "When I went to bed I was pretty uneasy, looking about me until I got into the safety of my tent.  I relaxed just a bit then rolled down the corner of my sleeping bag and let out the blood-curdlingest scream ever to issue from an eight year-old's mouth.  It took the rest of the night for my parents to calm me down, even with Uncle Red helping.
      "From then on, I tried everything to scare Uncle Red.  I'd bury my leg from the knee down in the sand next to a fallen tree, then put my shoe on the other side of that hefty log and proceed to yell for help.  Uncle Red would come a running and he'd start digging like a dog recovering its favorite bone only to stop a minute later ‘cause I couldn't hold back my laughing.
      "Once I swamped my canoe.  Then I stuffed some old straw into my spare pants and shirt to make a rag doll, and tossed it into the water.  I made a big ruckus, splashing and yelling, then hid in the bushes to watch as Uncle Red ran to shore, jumped in after my ‘body' floating down stream and came back with my jeans and some soggy hay.
      "He never got mad, but he did get even.  We had all out war scaring and tricking the other.  Nothing dangerous, mind you.  Just good fun.  He'd set a trap for me, then I'd set one for him, until we both got so good at it we'd never know when we were being funned or not.  Then one day it turned not so funny.
      "It was a few years later, when I was 13 or 14.  Don't remember exactly.  I was getting pretty good in a kayak by then.  Uncle Red was visiting and we talked about what river to run together.  I suggested Bailey Creek, along the mountains west of home and Red got real still and quiet.
      "He scratched behind his neck, then twisted his bright orange whiskers like red spaghetti in the fork of his fingers.  Then he rolled his shirt cuffs up and turned them right around and rolled them down again.  He looked me square in the eye and said, ‘Well, that ‘un's a tough ‘un, all right.  Lots logs and limbs felled crost that stream last time I run ‘er.  You think you up to that?'"
      "‘I've already run it,' I said to him, though I hadn't.  It was a bad lie, because if he took me up on it, I'd have to do it and it was tougher than any creek I'd boated."  I stared right back at him.  I could tell he was measuring: lie or not.  But there was something else going on.  He was nervous.  I could see he was rubbing his palms across his long, tan pants trying to dry them off."
      "'Well, if your Momma says it's all right, I reckon we kin give ‘er a go,'" he said.
      "Now, that little creek isn't all that tough.  Maybe class 3 most of the year.  But there is a narrow chute that I'd been told about.  Fast, and rocky on both sides and deep between jointed, rough granite.  Logs got jammed there and made it insane to run.  Anybody I'd known, including my Dad who'd done it lots of times, always carried a saw along. That way they could cut the worst out and the portage wouldn't be so long."
      "Well, I talked my parents into letting me go and we invited one other paddler along.  Cheet."
      "McCaslin?"  Beeker had two Xs to her one O, and Hecla was taking her time getting the next O in place.  The sun was near setting and the last warm rays danced off water and rock.  "You've boated with Preacher Cheet?  He's gotta be 90, older'n you.  Was he that good a boater?"
      "Pretty good, especially for back then.  Now let me get on with this story while I'm gettin' into it."
      "At the put in, Cheet turned to Red, lifted the corner of his cap exposing his shiny pate and said, ‘You ever run Broken Rock Gorge, Red?'"
      "‘Nope.  Caint say I have that.'"
      "‘Do we cut first, or just carry around?'"
      "‘Well, there's saws in your boat and mine.  I put ‘em there.  Reckon we'll cut if there's cuttin' to be done.  That's one hellacious portage.'"
      "I was trying to look nonchalant and knowledgeable, both at the same time.  But that was too much lie for my face, I guess, and Red looks at me and says, ‘Don't you worry, none, Heccky' -- he always called me that -- ‘I know you never been on this here Bailey, and I wouldn'ta ‘greed to took ya, if your momma and pap had said otherwise.'"
      "So, they knew, and I could start acting nervous like I really was.  Cheet, when he saw me fumbling with my spray skirt told me a joke.  A tale about one of Red's lies."
      "‘Hecla,'" he said, helping me stretch on the skirt.  "‘Ever I tell you about how Red and I met?'"
      "No, sir, Mr. McCaslin. I don't believe so." 
      "‘Well, I was fishin', down here on this creek one spring.  Had nothin' to speak of fer all my hours tossing worms to the water, when ‘round the bend comes bobbin' and crashin' this crazy, red-bearded man in a bright red boat.  His cheeks were puffin' and they, too, were red from the cold water.'"
      "'I was standin' in my waders in shallow water, casting to the deeper far side of the river, when Red pulled up next to me and asks, ‘How's fishin'?'"
      "'I told him and he says, 'Hold on just a minute.'"
      "Well, Red paddled out into the main current, rolled over upside down, and came up with a fish in his mouth.  I broke a smile so broad my teeth almost got lost in the wind.  Red paddled over to me and took that trout outta his teeth and stuffed it in my creel, like it was the naturalist thing.'"
      "I could see Red was watching and listening now, a big smile on his face as he followed Cheet tell the story.  He spoke up then."
      "‘Cheet, it took you so dang long to figure out that lie I coulda paddled to ‘laska and back by the time you got it.'"
      "‘See, Heccky,'" Red goes on.  "‘I didn't fish no trout outta the river.  I bought that fish at the market that morning, and figuring I'd have it fresher for supper that night, I had it carefully  wrapped and stuffed in my lifejacket.  When I rolled, I fished it out, chomping down on it before rolling up again.'"
      "Relaxed with his tale and shared laughter, we launched and paddled.  The water was awful cold that day.  Must of been melting about a hundred yards upstream.  But it wasn't running too high and we were all having a good time."
      "'Hecla?'" Cheet paddled up next to me.  "'This water's so cold it's a wonder the fish don't freeze.  It's ‘bout time you got set to pull off up here, before Broken Rock Gorge.'"
      "I was grateful for the warning.  Cheet paddled ahead and I started to paddle off when I got stuck on a shallow rock in mid-river.  The current held me for a minute.  I could hear the roar of whitewater around the bend and I was nervous.   Too nervous."
      "Red saw my predicament just about the time I floated backwards off that rock.  I was going in the wrong direction now with a string of rocks between me and the shore.  Cheet had already pulled out and was standing next to his boat.
      "I was drifting backwards, and panicky.  I kept banging into that row of rocks and couldn't think to grab one to stop.  Red came barreling up behind me and gave a shove as hard as he could.  Almost gave me whiplash, but my boat skittered across those rocks and I was going to be ok.  That is, ‘til I looked up and saw Cheet turn white as a snow-capped peak in mid-January.  I turned around just in time to see Red disappear over the lip and into Broken Rock Gorge."
      "I don't remember saying anything, but Cheet told me later that I screamed and paddled toward him so hard I put a hole in the bow of my boat when I hit ground."
      "‘What happened?'  I asked Cheet."
      "He said, ‘When Red pushed you over those rocks, he slid the opposite way and couldn't stop from goin' into the gorge.'"
      "The two of us ran over the rocks to look down into the gorge and there was Red, stuck like a prisoner at hanging time.  His boat was completely under a log in the middle of the gorge, and he was holding on to the limbs, knuckles pale white with thin streaks of blood running down them into the water.  We started climbing down toward him, but the smooth, steep rock was slow going.  Cheet ordered me back to the top, but I wouldn't go."
      "‘We're comin', Red!'" We yelled, though I could barely hear my own words above the sound of the water crashing over those twisted trees." "Just then I saw Red let go with one hand.  He reached down into his boat beneath him and came up with his saw.  It was just a small one, like the one Momma used to use to trim shrubs and tree limbs.  But it was sharp, and I could see the glint of sunlight off metal teeth as Red started to cut."
      "‘He's probably got his feet trapped in his boat,'" Cheet said as we climbed slowly down.  'He's got a lotta tree to cut through.  Damn that water's so cold.  I don't see how Red can stand it.'"
      "I looked and saw that he couldn't.  He was sawing, his blade now a few inches into the six-inch trunk, but he was sliding deeper, getting sucked under the tree.  And here we were creeping along.  I heard Cheet muttering out loud:
      "‘No rope.  Damn, fool that I am.  I shoulda...'"
      "‘Look!'" I screamed as I saw Red disappear under the log. The only part of him visible was his hand, still gripping the saw handle."
      "Cheet almost slid down the last dozen feet."
      "‘He's still sawing!'" I yelled. 
      "‘Quick.  Hecla, hold me and I'll climb out there.'"
      "I held onto one of Cheet's hands while he balanced out over that narrow tree.  The slick, wet bark threatened to send him into the river.  He reached down into the water and yanked hard, then nearly slipped over backwards as what he was holding gave way.  He showed me what was in his hand.  It was Red's hair.  A whole handful of it."
      "‘BELOW!  There,'" I screamed and pointed.  There were Red's legs dangling below the tree that had him trapped.  We could both see his hand was still red-knuckle wrapped around that saw, and bound into the tree."
      "Cheet leaned over to grab one leg.  I could see Red's orange leg hairs flailing in the water like paramecium's flagella.  Cheet pulled.  Nothing moved."
      "‘Wait!' I said, ‘Pull again.  I thought...yes, he's still gripping the saw.  He must be caught in tree limbs and still trying to cut his way out.'"
      "Cheet pulled again.  I climbed beside him and pulled, too.  Each time we yanked on that leg, the saw would pull through the log a little and bits of wet saw dust would float down toward Cheet and me.  Then the springy tree limbs would rebound and Red's hand and saw would move back again, ready for the next stroke.  We pulled and heaved on his leg and that saw kept sliding back and forth."
      "It's your move."
      "What?  What move?"  Beeker's head jerked to look down at the Xs and Os and saw he would lose either way he played.
      "Hecla, what happened to Red?  Did he die?  Did you ever get him out?"
      "Oh, never had to."
      "Never had to?  How...?"
      "Well, you see, I was pulling your leg just like we were pulling his and..."
       Beeker slung his stick down, got up and walked off.
      "Well," Hecla shouted after him.  "You wanted to know what was the best lie."
       Beeker turned around.
      "That's always the one being told."
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