Five
YOSEMITE
VALLEY
FRIDAY
MORNING
For several hours
that day Drake managed to lose himself and his quirks in the wonders of
creation. He concluded Yosemite National Park had to be the world’s finest
example of a glacier carved valley. John Muir had said of it, “God Himself
seems to be always doing His best here.” To be sure, Drake knew there were impressive
glaciated valleys found in Northern Europe, but he also knew he would need a
submarine, or at least a good exposure suit to see them, as they were more
commonly known as the fjords of Scandinavia.
According to his
extensive pre-trip research the entire shebang had started, as near as the
geologists can figure it, around four and a half billion years ago. How they
know these things wasn’t exactly clear to Drake. He figured it would probably
be wise to give or take a billion or so years, just for the sake of scientific
objectivity.
Anyway, longer
ago than Drake or anyone else could seem to remember, the mighty Sierra Nevada
mountain range was in fact a gently undulating sea bed. The silting action of
the ages had deposited a massive layer of sediment on this sea floor. Under the
weight of the ocean’s pressure and its own accumulated burden of silt, the
sediment began to compress into rock. Further stress caused by the earth’s
geologic activity and marked by the receding of the ocean, caused the
sedimentary rock to fold, forming ridges and hills: Behold the infant Sierras.
Meanwhile—geologically
speaking—there began an up-thrust of molten granite from beneath the hills and
ridgelets. Liquefied stone violently surged upward into the folds and crevices
of sedimentary rock and then cooled, leaving a marble-cake effect and forming
the raw material out of which Yosemite Valley would eventually be sculpted.
Drake had
concocted a mental picture which helped him visualize the whole process. He
imagined the Western United States as an immense floor. In that expanse he thought
of the Sierras, running roughly North and South, as a long trap door hinged on
the western, San Joaquin side. This great door had begun a massive thrust
upwards from the Eastern side, so that the hinged San Joaquin side of the
Sierras developed a gradual slope while the Eastern side assumed an abrupt,
precipitous ascent.
Rivers that for
centuries had meandered through the gently rolling hills and dales of the
pre-Sierra gradually assumed steeper and more direct descents out of
increasingly higher elevations. Those rivers began doing what respectable
rivers always do, cutting channels into the ancient sedimentary rock, carving
characteristic “V” shapes into the valley floors.
Had the course of
nature continued to run along those lines Yosemite would have remained a
typical, narrow, deep valley with a river running along its foot. God however,
had bigger plans for Yosemite.
The next sweeping
geologic change occurred a short time ago as geological ages go. Within the
last million years the great ice ages had scoured their way across the northern
hemisphere. California, on the whole, had escaped the great sheet of ice that
stretched across Canada from Siberia to Greenland. There were, however, many
comparatively smaller glaciers rumbling through the more southerly mountain
valleys.
Like its former
river, Yosemite’s glacier rolled westward down the valley. Unlike the flowing
river, the new shape carved by the great, grinding river of ice was not a
narrow deep “V” but a wide flat “U.” As the glacier rumbled and ground its way
along the valley it scraped and gouged out the less permeable sedimentary rock
dating back to that ancient seabed. It also scoured away the weaker, fractured
granite as it passed over. And this was just the glacier to do the job too.
Solid ice filled Yosemite Valley to a depth of some four thousand feet, finally
petering out at the present valley entrance. Eventually that first great
glacier melted leaving a scattered jumble of stony refuse in its wake.
Drake knew that
all that activity merely represented the roughed out work. Over the ages
another glacier appeared; smaller—a mere thousand feet deep. This second
glacier had done the finish work, polishing the faces of the exposed granite
and bulldozing the debris left over from the last time on ahead of it. It
shoved the stony debris all the way to the foot of the valley forming a moraine, or natural dam. When that
second glacier finally melted the glacial waters had been contained behind the
rocky moraine, forming ancient Lake Yosemite. Over the course of another
gazillion years or so, the lake had slowly received the sediment steadily
washed down by rivers and streams until it too became silted up, thereby
producing—viola!—the level valley
floor Drake found himself standing on.
He spent the
morning meandering around the meadows with Hank in tow. Yesterday’s storm had blown
through, revealing the Yosemite hidden from his brooding thoughts of the day
before. The clouds had passed leaving everything scrubbed and glossy in their
wake. Drake found himself mesmerized with wonder, astounded by the sheer
magnitude of the valley’s stone towers and buttresses. Human language fell
short of adequately describing his jumbled impressions. The place humbled him
in a way that Saint Peter’s Basilica in Rome had failed to.
“Come on, Pup,”
he recalled Hank from his own canine-type explorations. “Lunch time.” He knelt
to tussle briefly with the hound. “Back to the cabin.”
That afternoon
Drake wandered over to the Village, leaving Hank curled up on the rug with orders to be
good. He had no real agenda beyond seeing the sights and perhaps finding some
of the local artists he had heard about. He made a conscious effort to avoid
the tourist trinket shops, sticking to the official displays and museums. The
highlight of the afternoon, as far as Drake was concerned, consisted of the
bear museum; not a zoo but an imaginative collection of displays, photographs
and videos detailing the less favored activities of the local Black Bears.
Drake discovered it is unwise—not to say futile—to hide food from bears, in
your car or anywhere else for that matter. There were impressive photos of
shredded coolers and even automobile doors peeled—top to bottom—like a banana
by enterprising bears.
In a recreated
Indian village, visitors were privileged to see what life had been like for the
Valley’s original Native American population, before white men officially
“discovered” Yosemite. In 1848, while pursuing a fugitive from justice, a
semi-official posse known as the Mariposa Battalion had stumbled across the
entrance to the valley. Since that time Yosemite has been a ‘must see’
destination for travelers to the western United States.
At one point,
Drake made a near fatal mistake. Engrossed by the sights, he stopped near a shop
and narrowly avoided a grim and certain death-by-trampling from a horde of
eager souvenir hunters. He thought about the ultimate in vacation irony. Once
at Muir Woods in northern California, he had watched a load of tourists
disembarking from a tour bus.
“Remember,” the
bus driver called after them, “we leave promptly in fifteen minutes. Don’t
anybody stray too far!”
Drake had watched as all but one
of those tourists headed directly for the gift shop, in search of real-live,
redwood burl salt-n-pepper shakers stamped with the legend: Muir Woods. The
lone holdout had simply walked down the path a few feet and stood quietly in
the glade for his fifteen minutes. That had made a firm impression on Stan
Drake. To his mind, though there might be nothing really criminal in buying a
Muir Woods salt-n-pepper set or a Yosemite T-shirt, he certainly hadn’t paid
good money and come all that way just to buy the same old junk that he could
get at Wal-Mart, back home.
* * *
Just inside the western
entrance to Yosemite a lumbering Recreational Vehicle lurched to a stop at the
Big Oak Flat visitor center. Lettering on the vehicle’s flanks proclaimed it
the Sacred Earth Society’s Mobile Classroom. The vehicle’s presence and
educational activities in the park had become commonplace. Inside, The RV’s
occupants exchanged tense looks with one another. From beneath the linoleum
deck a series of low-pitched, feline growls filtered up. They peeked through
the curtains with short, nervous glances. Sidney, tall and fair, was not exhibiting
his usual satirical approach to life. Behind the wheel sat Carl, a stocky young
man with dark curly hair and, despite the early hour, an already shadowed face
from his heavy beard. Both were graduate students serving as summer interns
with Sacred Earth.
As they sat
waiting in the dining area of the custom-built Recreational Vehicle their
demeanor revealed mutual anxiety. Quick glances, short breathing, and nervous
drumming of fingers served more to build the tension rather than dissipate it.
Sidney and Carl were carrying out a delicate mission for the Sacred Earth
Society. The Mobile Classroom had been specially modified to fulfill their
mission in a number of ways. Restless sounds emanating from beneath their feet
were an annoying reminder of one of those special modifications.
“Finally!” said
Sidney jumping up, “Here comes Megan.” His responsibility for the mission
tended to cause worry over what failure could do to his career. Sharp footsteps
strode along the pavement outside. Abruptly, the side passenger door swung
open, actually increasing their strained wait was over. Megan Cameron entered, pulling the door closed behind
her. As before, both men were vaguely taken aback by her appearance. It seemed
unusual, to say the least, to encounter a woman dressed to the nines in the
midst of these rugged surroundings. As she mounted the steps she glanced up at
the men waiting above, a nervous smile playing across her face. They faced one
another for several taut, silent seconds that seemed to stretch into eternity.
Then, despite her obvious apprehension, Megan flashed them a jaunty high sign;
thumbs up.
“Everything’s
set,” She announced. “The rest of the team is waiting in Yosemite Valley to
receive your furry little passenger.” Both men loosened up a little with that
news, exchanging expressions of relief. Megan watched with amusement as their
bodies visibly relaxed. Seeing their nervousness massaged her own ego.
“Good to hear,”
said Sidney, striving to project an air of nonchalance. “Alright,” he continued
briskly, “before we move out, I’d like to go through the whole plan once more.
I want us all to have our parts down pat, no mistakes.”
Megan cleared
her throat delicately and looked Sidney in the eyes, “Wally says the Professor
has been waiting for you. Apparently he’s getting a bit impatient. Maybe we’d
better skip the dress rehearsal and just get going.”
Sidney traded
a look with Carl, the dark silent one. Carl swallowed hard and nodded his curly
head; “Let’s go.”
“Alright-y
then,” Sidney said, reaching for nonchalance, “places everybody. Let’s get this
circus moving.”
Carl climbed
back into the driver’s seat. He started the engine and wrenched the gear lever,
sending the big green RV rolling out of the parking area. Turning right on Old Big
Oak Flat road, Carl headed south for their programmed encounter some
twenty-five miles away in Yosemite Valley. The knowledge lay heavy upon them that
before they arrived they would have to pass through one of the newly
established, Federal Government checkpoints at the Tioga Road junction. In fact
they had half-expected to be examined before leaving Big Oak Flat, but the
rangers there had simply passed them through, apparently because their vehicle was such a frequent Park visitor. That
gave them a sort of semi-official standing. At least it had worked at Big Oak
Flat. From past experience they knew that luck could not be counted on.
The
checkpoints worried Sidney. Sure, what they were
doing the right thing and all, yet it was still technically illegal. The recent
nuisance of the ATF, brought about by those crazy idiots calling themselves—with
typical right-wing pomposity—the Mariposa Militia. When Sidney and his team had
made their first delivery, just two weeks ago, they had accomplished it without
being stopped at all. Of course, there had been no checkpoints at that time,
therefore nothing really to fear back then. They hadn’t even thought a real
vehicle search within in the realm of possibility.
That was two
weeks ago. At present, because of those Militia wackos, every vehicle entering
the Park was now subject to some kind of search. But the ATF wasn’t being
systematic. You were never sure just how thorough a search you could expect. Of
the three test vehicles that had been sent through, one had been completely
torn apart while the other two had barely been glanced at. Apparently that
meant that the searches were completely random, depending on however the people
manning the checkpoints felt at any given moment.
As a
scientist, Sidney hated such randomness.
That left
them with only one option, they had to develop a plan which would cover all
conceivable contingencies. Scientists were good at that sort of thing. And so, they
put phase one of the plan into action. While Carl drove, Sidney and Megan
thoroughly sprayed the interior of the RV with a powerful disinfectant, heavy
with pine-fresh scent. The pine scent, they hoped, would mask the musky, cat odor
permeating the vehicle’s interior.
“We’re coming
up on Check Point Charlie,” called Carl from behind the wheel. “I hope you two
are ready back there.”
“How many
cars are there ahead of us?” asked Megan.
“Looks like,
oh… about eight.”
“Then relax,
Darling,” she said. “We have scads of time.” Megan made her way down the short,
narrow hallway, taking her action station in the RV’s claustrophobic bathroom. The
combination commode, sink and shower all shared the same cramped space. Megan
found the space so confining she left the narrow door open for the time being. She’d
close it if they were actually searched. The clumsy vehicle unexpectedly
lurched forward a few feet. Her arms flew outward bracing herself from falling,
and then again when the RV stopped. Each lurch signaled the passing of another
car through the checkpoint. In the tight confines, bouncing off the walls,
Megan made her preparations. In the event of a vehicle search, it would be her
job to implement phase two of the distraction plan.
Out in the
living area of the coach Sidney busied himself getting his own props together.
First he opened a can of beef stew, then wet down a large bath towel. Then he
waited, trying to keep his growing tension under control.
“How are we
doing, Carl?” apprehension distorted his voice.
Carl glanced
back, hands locked on the rim of the steering wheel, “There are still three
cars ahead of us,” he said. “Oops,” the Motor Coach jerked ahead again, “make
that two.”
“Megan?”
Sidney glanced back, “get ready. And shut that door!”
“I’m ready,
don’t worry.” came the muffled reply. The door remained cracked as the RV
staggered forward again.
“Okay, said
Carl, “They’re shining the next two cars on. It’s our turn, now. Maybe we’ll
get a free pass too.”
“Come on,
guys,” Sidney whispered to himself as he crossed his fingers, “ignore the nice,
innocent, environmentally-pure rolling classroom. Wave us through.”
No such luck.
At the direction
of a serious-looking young woman, wearing a blue ATF windbreaker, and one of
those head-mounted radios, Carl brought the big green Coach to a halt. Outside,
on the other side of the vehicle, someone began pounding on the passenger door.
Carl left his seat, moving back to open the door. He stuck his head through the
crack. “Yeah?” he asked as casually as possible.
“Excuse me,
sir,” said a husky young man, sporting an identical blue windbreaker and “fast=Food”
radio headset. Carl grimaced. The cop held up a leather-covered badge. “My
partner and I are Federal officers. You have entered a Safety Control point on
Federal property. I have legal authority to search your vehicle. Please open
the door.”
“Oh, hey,”
objected Carl, “we just got checked ten miles back.” He put a touch of
belligerence in his voice. “What if we don’t feel like doing it all over
again?”
“No problem,
sir,” responded the officer, controlling his irritation. “You can just turn
your vehicle around and leave the Park.”
Carl pulled
his head inside to check on their readiness. Sidney got down on his knees,
tossed a generous amount of beef stew on the floor and began smearing the mess
around with the bath towel. “Alright, don’t shoot. I surrender,” said Carl.
“Come on in poke around and get it over with. But I’m warning you, you’ll be
sorry. Just make it snappy, will you? We’ve already had a rough enough trip as
it is.”
The young officer mounted the steps and
entered the RV. “Pe-ewww!,” he exclaimed, involuntarily wrinkling his nose. A
heavy—almost overpowering—concentration of sharp acidity overlaid with a
saccharine sweetness filled the confined atmosphere. “What is that awful
stench?”
“That’s what
I’ve been trying to tell you,” said Carl patiently. He pointed down the aisle
to where Sidney crouched, scrubbing the floor. Carl continued, “The poor guy
got carsick rolling around all those curves. He finally barfed up his lunch all
over the floor.
“Yech!”
observed the officer, a queasy feeling churning in his own stomach. “Hey, I’m
really sorry,” he said, allowing a tone of human feeling to poke through the
professional demeanor. “But look, I still gotta check the place out, Okay?”
“Be our
guest,” said Carl with a magnanimous wave of his arm.
The officer
spent several minutes lifting cushions, checking bins, and poking through
cupboards. He accomplished all this while holding his nose, and managing to
avoid the stuff on the floor. When he finished with the forward part of the
vehicle, he gingerly moved down the short hallway, leading aft. Sidney groaned
loudly, sliding onto the dining settee. “Sorry man,” said the officer as he
stepped past. Sidney groaned pathetically, Megan’s signal to initiate phase two
of the diversion.
As the man
walked down the narrow passage, he heard a muffled question from somewhere
behind the plywood walls. The bathroom door suddenly flew open right in front
of his startled face. The Federal man stood there, one hand clamped to his nose,
the other on his holstered weapon. Sidney and Carl worked hard to keep from
laughing out loud at the ridiculous sight. The cop starred, dumbfounded, at
Megan’s beautiful, towel-draped form emerging from the bath. Megan’s damp towel
and hair proclaimed her fresh from the shower. She had carefully chosen the
smallest towel she could find. Putting on a show for the government man, she
allowed her eyes to widen, feigning shock while moving her right hand to her
open mouth. The shifting of her hand allowed a strategic corner of the towel to
drop, giving the Government man even more of a show. He stood there
flat-footed, embarrassed by the intimate circumstances, but obviously enjoying
the view.
“Uhh…” he
hesitated, “Well… Um, I guess I’ve seen all there is to see here,” he
stammered, face reddening. “Thank you for your full and complete cooperation,”
he added ironically. On the way out, standing in the doorway, he looked back in
time to see Megan blow him a kiss goodbye.
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