by John Randall
“Logic says that once the blow-hole line around the caldera is completed, the sea of magma underneath the surface will, for a better word, consume the remaining interior surface. When I say ‘consume’, I mean completely destroy everything; trees, roads, waterfalls, buffalo. The center of what was Yellowstone National Park will be like a sock being turned inside out, except the inside will consume the outside.
“Will the eruptions stop? Again, it’s hard to tell. What will remain? The magma at the center of the earth will be at the earth’s surface. Imagine a fifty-mile square lake of molten lava somewhere between 1300-2100 degrees Fahrenheit. Does it get bigger? Does it burn everything in Wyoming? Does it act like a black hole? For certain, it will create its own weather. It’s not going to be like Arizona in the summer. It’s going to be a wet heat, very wet. I suspect the 50-mile square lake will get bigger as the magma eats away everything around it.
“Regardless, Mr. President, there isn’t diddly-shit you’re going to be able to do about it. I’m here in Costa Rica and you aren’t. And, I’m not getting on a plane back to the States. Good luck.”
Dr. Harris disconnected SKYPE.
There was a pregnant pause in the room.
“I don’t like that man,” the President said. “Can I fire him?”
“Already done, sir,” replied the Secretary of the Interior, David Jackson.
McCone County, Montana
I’m a long way from home and so all alone
Homesick like I never thought I’d be
I’m a long way from home, everything is wrong
Someone please watch over me
I’m a Long Way from Home
Waylon Jennings
The damn road’s going uphill. OK now, but sweet Jesus on a stick its cold. Robert came to a rise in the road. He harrumphed to himself. Hmmm. Might as well be on the fucking moon. Darlin’, what are you doin’ now? His thoughts went back to His Sweet Nancy. Your Baby Boy is in deep trouble. Robert stumbled forward, numbed by the cold—not warmed by the morning sun, which seemed like it was light years away, like in one of those movies where the duel suns come over the cold horizon but only give a pale light.
He came to a rise in the road called Indian Hill, the highest spot in McCone County. To his right in the distance was a canyon of Fort Peck Lake that meandered south—aptly called the Dead Arm. There were trees and a boat dock called the Bear Creek Recreation area. To his left was an amazing moonscape of Americana; the land gently descended into a prairie-like desert as far as the eye could see—or at least, as far as Robert could see. Behind him was Fort Peck, the destroyed dam and the town of Fort Peck on the north side of the Missouri River.
Too tired; can’t sleep, freeze to death.
Robert stopped walking and gave a second look to his surroundings. There was nothing in his view that gave him any promise.
All I had to do was turn the other way; run north instead of south. There are people on the other side, warm people, and hot coffee. But, no! You had to turn south where there’s not a fucking tree to pee on between here and Texas.
He looked back again and could see the massive rift in the Fort Peck Dam and the water filling the riverbank on the eastern side, already overflowing to nearby farmland.
All you had to do Bobby-boy was turn right instead of left and you’d be safe and warm. Safe and warm. Jeez, I can’t feel my fingers.
I can’t--
My sweet Nancy; remember our first trip?
“Well, this is romantic,” 32-year old Nancy Simpson announced as the pair drove north on US-395 after leaving the LA Basin, windows down in the 92-degree day, although a dry heat. “Where are you taking me?” she added, in the kind of voice that expected an answer. He looked at her, all tight body and short-cropped hair, an outdoor woman.
“You’ll see,” Robert replied. Never in his wildest dreams did he think he’d be lucky enough to have a shot at falling in love with a woman so far out of his expectations as a young man growing up, then into his thirties and finally into his “power” years, all unmarried, never in his wildest dreams.
“We’re going to a place that’s hard to get to; is that OK?” he smiled, a bit rakish. Dressed in rolled-up light-fabric shirt, lightweight khaki cargo pants topped with a cowboy hat that didn’t look dorky; in fact, very Marlboro-ish without the cigarette. Robert was a man who could wear a hat and look cool doing it, like the hat wasn’t just an afterthought but something important, something worn with purpose. Nancy liked that he looked good wearing a hat.
US-395, one of the most dangerous roads in America to drive because of the way the road was constructed; simply laid asphalt over the terrain, which meant the road was a rollercoaster all the way from the lower Mohave to Ridgecrest. It could be a numbing experience, especially at night when the ups and downs could be mesmerizing. Distances were impossible to judge.
On this trip Robert O’Brien was having a difficult time taking his eyes of young Nancy Simpson’s legs, smooth shaved legs that tucked into six-inch shorts. Her top was casual as well, the breeze from the open window fluffing the blouse’s third button back and forth. He didn’t think there was much underneath, if anything. Everything considered except her shoes, she had about three ounces of clothes on her slim body. She wore a smile of confidence and expectation and wore it well.
Also in the group of never-married, Robert was amazed that he’d been able to get her out of her office at the Department of Energy in the first place. That and she was just so fucking smart; never met anyone that fucking smart, he muttered. God, that woman could laser onto something and see in her mind’s eye six subsets of options, like she was watching a movie.
“You ever been in the mountains?” he asked.
“Only once or twice,” she replied, a smile on her face.
They continued through the desert north of Ridgecrest, then up 395 to Lone Pine where Robert parked on Main Street and went into the Forest Service Office, returning shortly with a permit.
“Oh, we’re going hiking,” she smiled, knowing long ahead of time his interest in the High Sierras and the beauty and strength of hiking in God’s Country.
“Yeah, but this one’s going to be different,” Robert smiled.
The couple made a stop at the only light in Lone Pine; left was up and up and up to Whitney Portal, right would eventually wind through the desert of the dried-up Owens River and cross over some of the most desolate mountain ranges in the United States before dropping down into Death Valley.
“You sure you don’t want to spend the night?” Nancy smiled as they passed the Dow Villa motel, complete with swimming pool and a well-used hot tub that required a camera for the night guy at the desk to monitor. The Forest Service summer interns took advantage of the bubbly hot tub, especially if one of them was a frisky rookie female.
Eight miles later Robert turned left toward the mountains at Independence, another one-light village on the Eastern Sierras, this one a little more sad-sack; while Independence was the county seat; it was Lone Pine with the road to Whitney Portal that commanded the visitors. Independence and its three little motels and no eateries was left in the dust.
The road to the west started a long climb through the desert, deceptively so. Cars used to bumping traffic on LA freeways oftentimes found themselves gagging on the thin air of 8,000 feet. Robert’s six-speed Jeep Wrangler had no problem. Third gear was an excellent gear, although mostly unused in the city. At 10, 500 feet, and several ear pops, the pair arrived at the Onion Valley campground; a sturdy set of restrooms were set well away from the campground, which offered tight accommodations for tents and trailers.
“Let’s go on up,” Robert suggested.
It was getting on past 4:00 and while the summer sun had hours left in the day, the alternatives of hiking higher verses tent-camping were a tossup.
“I’m game,” Nancy replied, quickly. This was something new for her, a man who knew his way around unfamiliar territory. She was drenched in her perspiratio
n and “sucking wind” the phrase used to describe the inadequate feeling of not being able to draw in a complete breath.
But, Nancy wasn’t a pussy; no, she was determined to match what or exceed what he was looking for in her.
Why am I so competitive? She asked herself. Why did you lead your class at Cal Tech? And at Stanford? Why do you have to be number one in everything? She asked herself for the thousandth time.
Tossing light-weight backpacks, the pair started up the dusty switchbacks that led from the Onion Valley campground to the first available campsites at Gilbert Lake, a thousand feet above them. A beautiful, nearly circular lake, Gilbert Lake had a hundred nice campsites surrounding it; unfortunately many of the sites were on the main path headed relentlessly uphill toward Kearsarge Pass, named not for a person but for a ship (!), a Civil War vintage warship. In the 1860s supporters of the Union lived in Independence and above, while supporters of the Confederacy lived in Lone Pine and below.
At Gilbert Lake, 11,000 feet or so, Robert took the trail less travelled to the left, leaving the main trail. A half hour later of ups and downs he came to a very nice and level campsite at what Nancy would learn later was named Heart Lake. The campsite was at the exact point where the butt cheeks of the heart-shaped lake met. High above them the fading evening light struck the tall palisades of the High Sierra. Far in the distance to their right were the mountain ranges of eastern California and western Nevada.
The campsite was on the edge of a small cliff. Thirty feet below was the still, cold water of Heart Lake, warmed only by six hours of sunlight in the summertime before being occluded by the mountains.
Small birds chirped as the pair quickly made camp, a single tent, sleeping bags; a small gasoline stove set over by a ring of rocks.
“You’ve been here before,” she stated, satisfied this was one of the most beautiful places she’d ever seen.
“I have,” Robert answered. “I was a summer intern for the Inyo National Forest, back when they hired people to learn how to do things,” his voice trailed off into remembrance.
“You worked here?” she asked, incredulously.
“Yes, two summers. I’d go back into town once every three weeks for re-supply. Most of the time I was there to just check permits, that sort of thing,” Robert reminisced. “But, when I wasn’t I had this place to myself.”
Nancy walked over to the edge of the campsite, which pitched sharply down 30 feet to the pristine lake below, now growing darker by the moment with the receding light.
“It’s OK,” he said gently.
“What do you mean, ‘It’s OK’?” she asked her head askew.
“To jump,” Robert added his tone more serious.
“Jump, as in jump over the edge of this cliff into the lake?” she laughed.
A long pause before “Yes,” Robert answered simply.
A billion stars lit the sky. A ¾ moon started to rise over the mountains in Nevada, the light from the sun now diminished to just the tips of the peaks above them; light fading quickly into night.
“But, you have to do it naked,” Robert laughed.
No way started to form over her lips until she realized he was serious. While sex wasn’t an issue with them, after all they were adults and living in the 21st century; and their sex was fantastic; but, his was different.
Robert walked to the edge of the drop-off and took off his shirt, pants, u-trow, socks and sneakers. In the matter of 30 seconds he was butt naked, his manly features obscured by the moonlight.
Nancy was thrilled so much she wanted to pee right there and now. Her 42-year old boyfriend was standing naked on the edge of a 30-foot cliff overlooking a pristine and cold lake in the middle of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and taunting her to do the same.
“Wanna join me?” he asked, smiling to that she could only see the whites of his teeth. Robert took four steps toward her, in his complete nakedness, turned and sprinted for the edge of the campsite. He yelled a yahoo yell of some kind as he plummeted out into the darkness, followed by a lapse of five seconds, then a splash of water below.
“Robert!” she shouted.
Then a yell of success.
“Your turn,” he shouted from below.
“Lead or get out of the way,” she muttered. She shucked her blouse, shorty-shorts, g-string panty, then retraced Robert’s steps back into the darkness of the campsite; her pubic hair was neatly trimmed to a small V above the heat-seeking point; her small breasts hardly jiggled, nipples taut from the adrenal rush, her short sandy hair shaggy cute. She turned and dashed for the edge, not a trace of cellulite in her pink butt and upper thighs. She timed her jump perfectly. Arms and legs spread wide she let out a shout of victory over doubt as she hurtled into the abyss.
Darlin’, I can’t go on…
Robert O’Brien, Undersecretary of the Department of the Interior, Secretary of the Bureau of Land Management, age 52, fell to the pavement of McCone County highway number 24. It was 10:08 AM MST.
Yellowstone National Park
In the northwestern section of Yellowstone National Park, at the point where the 8 in the park’s highway meets on the western side, called Madison Junction for the fifth president of the United States, James Madison, the man who single-handedly created what is now the United States of America by his forward thinking and sponsorship of the Lewis and Clark expeditions and purchase of half of America’s current territory for the equivalent of two fungo bats and a bag of used baseballs; the caldera continued to erupt, like a red-hot knife through snow-covered butter. On the interior side the land began to decompose; on the exterior, a wall of flames.
At Madison Junction the gas station was divided straight down the middle, men’s on the outside, ladies on the interior, or fiery side. Of course, there was nothing left of either gender’s bathrooms because of the heat. Flames spit into the morning sky. Southbound from the rift, ash and molten rock shot high into the air. The surrounding forest was ablaze, even though snow-shrouded. Animals of all kind ran for their very lives away from the flames. Above, birds scattered and squawked in all directions away from the rift.
The timing of the earthquakes in the Pacific Northwest was so quirky that one might leap to the conclusion that God had a perverse sense of humor, that He deliberately caused the earth to move at 6:20 am just to make things that much more difficult for His people.
In Seattle the morning rush hour was in earnest; from the early birds getting the good parking spots downtown, to folks in the suburbs who were hopping onto I-90, I-405, I-5 to do the same. An earthquake at 3:22 A.M. would have caused as much physical damage, but an Order of Magnitude less emotional damage.
Hanford Nuclear Reservation
Columbia Generating Plant
In the suburbs of Richland, Washington the same perverse sense of humor could be said about God’s timing at the Columbia Generating Station, formerly WPPSS (whoops!) plant #2, now owned by Northwest Energy, Inc. Six twenty is still on the graveyard shift. No 24-hour company runs a graveyard shift with the same number of people it does on the daytime or evening shift, including Northwest Energy. There were two people instead of four in the Control Room; which is busier during 7:00am-10:00 pm when electricity is mostly used.
There was no scheduled PM (preventative maintenance) inside the plant that night, thus fewer people inside the massive structure. There were only four maintenance workers in the cooling tower complex, a supervisor and three workers. The administrative offices were closed until 8:00. Plant security, including guards at the gates and in the perimeter was at full staff, normal for all three shifts. The “dead soldier” field of spent radioactive waste water required nothing more than electronic monitoring as did the old-style single- and double-shelled storage tanks, aging beasts that housed a witches’ brew of toxic waste from 50 years of nuclear energy.
New storage for radioactive materials
6 large cooling towers
Stock photos, Department of Energy
The nucle
ar industry thought it had the problem of what to do with the radioactive waste products all solved until it was discovered that groundwater ran through Yucca Mountain, 100 miles NW of Las Vegas, much faster than originally thought. For political reasons, construction of the nuclear waste depository was abandoned. Hanford—NW Energy—Columbia Generating Station had to find a practical way to store the mess because in 2007 one of the tanks in the 200 West tank farm began to leak. There were 177 1-million gallon old-style storage tanks at Hanford. Until the politics of nuclear waste storage are figured out, storage of waste water will be done by expanding the “dead soldier” field, upright concrete and steel containers.
Tank farm in 200-W Reactor Core
Diagram of process closeup of cooling tower
The tall 50s-style (clunky) buildings house the reactor vessel, the turbine generator, the condensers, the pumps, the miles of pipes and the tons of water inside the pipes. After going through the generator, the steam passes through a condenser, which cools it and returns it to water form. The hot water (not radioactive) is then passed through one of the adjacent cooling towers, releasing steam into the air. The cooled water is then re-cycled back into the plant to be re-heated to create steam, etc.