Water laps gently against the boat as we get under way, morning mist rises from the banks, and great white herons swoop low for leaping fish. No wonder some people spend their whole lives here. Just like Joe said, it’s a pleasant way to travel, with the lovely river to do most of the work.

Or maybe saying so was all for show, because we haven’t drifted far before Joe and Red and the captain become thin lipped, and wound tight as rattlers. About ten miles downriver from Chattanooga, I discover why.

We reach a narrow gorge. Walls of rock rise up on either side as the water flows fast and white, like it’s being pushed through a mill chute. The wind picks up, whipping at my short hair. Spray coats my skin, making me shiver. The walls of the gorge sweep by faster and faster.

The captain orders the Joyner family inside, and Mrs. Joyner can’t comply fast enough. Her husband lingers beneath the overhang. “Chisholm!” he booms. “Our contract stipulates safe passage to Missouri. If we don’t arrive safely, you don’t get paid.”

“You’ve nothing to worry about, sir,” the captain returns.

But once Mr. Joyner ducks inside, Captain Chisholm and Joe Fiddle exchange a dark look. The captain takes the steerboard while Joe and Red grab their poles and take up position to either side of the boat.

I still don’t have a pole of my own. I look around for something useful to do, but the boat dips violently, and my legs fly out from under me. I hit the deck hard, pain shooting up my tailbone. The boat lurches again as I scramble for the edge, for anything to hold on to.

The captain stands on the roof, yelling out hazards, riding the waves like a duck in a storm, while I cling for dear life. We veer left, toward the wall. It looms over me, getting closer and closer. The wall is slick with tiny waterfalls, and dotted with clumps of stubborn vegetation that I could reach out and touch if I wanted.

The captain strains at the steerage, but our course won’t correct. What happens if we hit the wall? I imagine the boat splintering apart, wood and water flying everywhere. Peony can swim in a pinch. I hope the Joyners can too.

Red Jack jams his pole all the way down to the bottom of the river. He strains until every vein in his neck stands out as though painted in blue ink. The water froths between the boat and the cliff side, geysering up and soaking me to the skin. I hold my breath.

Slowly, the boat turns on Red’s pivot.

We break free, and the boat shoots down the center of the gorge like an arrow. Red Jack lets out a whoop of joy.