The Yellowstone Conundrum

by John Randall

  Robert tried his cell phone again. Nothing, not even an attempt to find a network; not “network busy” or “try again”, just nothing but dead air; shout and pout and knock yourself out, someone in his long-past memory had said.

  There were no bird sounds; no wind, no trees whistling or moaning on the river’s banks. Up close there would be a sloshy kind of sound as the river moved downstream.

  “There!” pointed Charley Lame Deer. Two miles away the Missouri River seemed to change itself from 2D to 3D as churned around the last bend in the river west of Wolf Point before straightening out toward the east. The water, now moving due north toward the town, simply became tired of being constrained by the low, meandering serpentine prairie gully it had been. Up close the river had a “storm surge” of nearly fifteen feet, a quarter-mile wide swath of river filled with every Tom, Dick and Harry of river debris imaginable; automobile tires, barbed wire, trees, plastic bottles, tree stumps. The surge launched itself out of the normal boundary and struck out across land, like a 2nd grade child freed of supervision; it ran amok.

  The bank at the corner of the bend had been shaped over many years by the path of the river into a smooth, sandy bar; at impact, the river surge angrily splashed twenty additional feet into the air, similar to the effect of a seawall on an approaching hurricane. But the river would have none of it, and treated the northern bank as no consequence. Now free and with sixty miles of unfettered water behind it, the Missouri rushed northward across Knorr, Idaho, Helena, Granville, Edgar, Dawson, Custer, Benton and Main Streets; the paved roads acting like autobahns for the water.

  Cutting through the town, the largest on the Assinboine and Sioux Reservation, also called the Fort Peck Reservation, was the Burlington Northern Santa Fe railroad line, separating the town into a north side and south side. The downtown business section, the high school, the Ford dealership, the American Legion and Elks Club, Arlo’s Bar and the Wolf Point Café were all on Main and Anaconda Streets, each one-way, just south of the tracks. Four five-story grain silos had been built near the tracks for easy access to ship grain to Billings to the west and Minot to the east.

  The Missouri rushed up Sixth and Forth Avenues South and without stopping, crossed the tracks and started thrashing the north side of town before losing some of its initial steam. The rushing water beat Wolf Point with an ugly stick. Houses on the south side; many were trailers on concrete blocks, were destroyed in the first wave of water. As the water poured in rushing to the north it crossed US Highway 2, which runs from Houlton, Maine to Everett, Washington, now called Sunset Drive, smashing through the Homestead Inn, McDonalds, the Old Town Grill, Subs n Such, KFC, before starting to bend eastward, ever so slightly downhill.

  Unlike a hurricane which has a start- and end-time to the beating, the new Missouri River had sixty miles of rushing water behind it and a reservoir of impounded water 150 miles long behind that. The amount of force would be calculable but the resulting number wouldn’t make any sense.

  Water started to shift eastward, being guided by the EW streets. In the first ten minutes of river surge, Wolf Point, Montana was scoured, erased from the map. Only the prescient and lucky were able to escape; most on highway 2 in either direction.

  Wolf Point Bridge on highway 13

  “Mother of God,” exclaimed Robert O’ Brien under his breath. It was like being witness to the Apocalypse. The two were stunned speechless; their breath two trails of vapor in the cold morning air.

  “Boss, we got to get out of here,“ Charley said simply, his senses recognizing that the 84-year old bridge might not survive the onslaught it was about to get. To the west the air was filled with debris, as if the town of Wolf Point was being blown up.

  “Shit!” shouted Robert, hustling around the Blazer and into the passenger seat. Charley Lame Deer quickly started the car and slammed it into gear, heading north across the bridge toward the junction with highway 2.

  “Wait a minute, Charley! Just wait!” Charley stopped what the hell on his face. Robert’s face was screwed up into deep concentration.

  Geography maps showing the various power grids ran through his mind. The Missouri River runs from Fort Peck, Montana eastward into North Dakota, then makes a sharp turn at the end of Lake Sakakawea, an impoundment of water equal to Fort Peck Lake, straight south through Bismarck and into South Dakota where massive Lake Oahe is dammed at the state capital of Pierre; cuts through South Dakota and is the border between it and Nebraska, then forms the border with Iowa, past Sioux City and Omaha, before being the border with Missouri and Kansas, makes a sharp right turn at Kansas City (KS/MO) and slams into the Mississippi River just north of St. Louis.

  If I go north and the power stays out, it’s very possible we’ll be trapped on the “wrong” side of the river, again! Winter has another eight weeks to run, there is snow on the ground everywhere, and with the Missouri River running rampant, normal crossings may not be possible.

  I can’t get to Colorado by going north. Sweet Nancy. I could provide some technical and management assistance downstream in the Dakotas or further south. There’s nothing I’m going to be able to do to help in Williston, but perhaps at the Garrison Dam in Pick City.

  “How much gas do you have?” Robert asked. To their left the pair could hear the rumble of the advancing water and the destruction of Wolf Point. The timing was going to be close, no matter which way they went. It was the tingling kind of anxiety that made a person want to pee in his pants.

  “Enough to get home,” Charley Lame Deer replied, simply. Stuck on the wrong side of the river, with no electricity to pump gas; doing north didn’t offer much hope.

  “Turn around, Charlie. If you can get to Circle, let’s go. There’s nothing we can do here except get ourselves killed.

  Charley didn’t need a second invitation. The bridge was too narrow to make a U, so a K had to do. The Blazer seemed to be in slow motion and the Missouri River in fast-forward. Along the south bank of the river was a long sand bar which was crowded with trees—abundant water, more moderate temperatures. Highway 13 was elevated twenty feet above the river bed as Charley urged the Blazer forward.

  Then the Missouri River was on them. In the rear view mirror Charley could see the leading edge of the river surge strike the old bridge smack in the center; the water was parted in two, but the strike to the bridge was fatal. The surge followed the Blazer through the woods, chasing it, snapping at its rear tire. Thirty-year old trees were falling like toothpicks as the water relentlessly began to spread outward from its riverbed channel, seeking whatever flat land it could find.

  In a blink of an eye highway 13 was back on the high prairie, south of the rampaging river. Water had overflowed the banks, now mostly on the southern side; its fingers reached out to snap at the red car’s tires—but failed. The two men looked at each other with an expression of whew. Indeed, a bullet had been dodged.

  The sign said Circle 47.

  It was three in the afternoon. It had been a hell of a day. The afternoon would be getting short very quickly. Tomorrow would be another day.

  Circle, Montana--population 644 (2000) http://www.city-data.com/city/Circle-Montana.html

  Downtown Seattle

  When Ray woke up he found Marmaduke laying beside him. The pair had taken nearly four hours to climb down through the rubble of concrete that had been the Alaskian Viaduct; dead fish, crumpled automobiles, oily slime crap from the bottom of Elliott Bay, tree debris from across the Sound, shattered and smashed construction materials, large pieces of timber, home applicances, and bodies—hundreds of bodies, dismembered, gross, all dead. All dead but him.

  Why me?

  He had been so sore and tired that by the time he placed one foot in front of another onto the concrete of Madison Street, nearly two blocks uphil, past Western and Post, the sight was overwhelming. The tsunami had destroyed the buildings in the first two blocks, which then had collapsed into themselves. The rushing water used the uphill cross-streets as water
ways to move whatever could be moved back and forth, up and down Madison, Spring, Seneca, University, Union; further south, Marion, Columbia, Yesler.

  Ray wobbled and lurched like a man on a three-day drunk. Gotta rest. Can’t go on. So tired. To his right were the remains of a bagel shop, amazingly not pulverized like everything else; protected from the dreary rain, Ray sat down, the laid down on a bench seat and fell asleep, out cold. Two hours had passed before he awoke, Marmaduke sleeping on the rubble beside him. Ray sat up and was greated by a friendly woof, then a bark and a slobbery kiss. A kiss from a Great Dane is one of life’s wettest moments; like going through a warm car wash with the top down.

  “OK,‘Duke. OK, I’ll be all right,” which isn’t the way he felt.

  Ray got to his feet and cleared his head. The day had been surreal. To his right Madison went uphill toward Seattle’s crest which was past the downtown office district with its highrises, and over the I-5 spaghetti to the hospitals, Virginia Mason, Swedish Medical and further to the south, Harborview.

  Seattle was a war zone; God verses humans; a great video game he thought to himself, and smiled for the first time in a while. The climb up and over the Alaskian Viaduct tsunami debris had been the most difficult physical challenge he’d ever gone through, including Parris Island. It was two in the afternoon.I still have a watch on! But, it might as well be night. February 20th had been a cold witch’s tit to Seattle. Some place in Texas there would be a preacher telling a radio audience that it was God’s revenge on those liberal homo-saxuals in Washington State, that God was paying the city back for being “progressive”.

  “Well,” Ray muttered to himself, Marmaduke attentive to his voice. “I guess we should go to work. That’s what they pay me to do,” Ray looked eastward up Madison Street, which now was nothing more than the center part of road, collapsed buildings and debris everywhere. Dead people don’t cry. The only sounds he heard were the sirens in the distance and the helicopters whappa-whapping overhead back and forth; that and the misty rain.

  Ray slowly walked east away from the collapsed viaduct, through the mounds of tsnunami rubble, heading uphill toward the Seattle Public Library where he worked. In Seattle the streets are maddenly one-way just about every other corner. For visitors it was a WTF (what the fuck) experience. You just couldn’t drive around the block because you missed something. No, you had to drive down, down, down, then around, around, around just to get back where you thought you were in the first place.

  At 1:56pm PST Ray Spaulding and his good dog Marmaduke stood at the corner of 4th and Madison in downtown Seattle. Lights were out everywhere; a light mist had turned to a light rain, typical Seattle weather. It was cold. Ahead, Ray could see people milling around what he knew was I-5; people parked on the interstate, not knowing what to do but feeling sure that they couldn’t move far from their parked car, jammed as it was. Everyone had a cell phone, nobody could connect. Cell phone towers were down, satellite connections were gone. It was raining, cold and nobody was coming to take Mom and Dad back home to Issaquah or Redmond or Bellevue.

  Photographer Ken Fries http://en.wikipedia.org.wiki/Image:SCL.jpg

  The Seattle Public Library is unlike any other library in the United States; in fact it was named one of the top 100 architectural buildings in the country. Approved by voters in 1998 and fully constructed in 2008, the Seattle Library had turned into a destination site for visitors bringing millions of tourist dollars to the downtown area, so different was its approach to “library”, yet so typical of residents of the greater NW. The library’s design had heart, imagination, function, humor, design cost and a futuristic look that said “look at me!”.

  In all, it was an incredibly huge step forward for mankind; clunky as it might initially seem from the outside, like a humongeous odd-shaped toy wrapped in a gigantic Glad ForceFlex garbage bag. All the building needed was a huge pair of red bunny ear-shaped drawstring ties by the wrap-artist Christo. Inside, it was an inviting, natural, user-friendly building with quirks that made people smile; like sitting down on a rainy day with a good book and a cat.

  On February 20th, Ray Spaulding first-shift I/T specialist, a bit late for work, stood outside the magnificent building on Madison Street at 4th. He bent over and wanted to throw up but there was nothing inside his system. Overhead were the helicopters, sirens of all sorts made it a Surroundsound experience.

  The new building was eleven stories high, with the entrance on the 4th Street side being nearly 50 feet beneath the entrance on the 5th Street side. Inside, the building was a marvel of engineering; huge areas for people to read, congregate, research; elegant, oddly-lit, playful escalators leading from floor to floor; natural sunlight reaching virtually every nook and cranny of the building; computers—easy to use computers—everywhere, a Kids area and a Teens area, with age-appropriate material available for learning, reading and enjoying.

  The Curtain Wall design of the “skin”, the outside of the building is what caused the most commotion over the final design and finish of the Seattle Public Library; the architecture was incredible, the outer layer of aluminium and glass, a spectacular engineering feat, wrapped the building in glass; the glass itself was double insulated for weather and in most places had a shielding layer of mesh aluminum between the outside double-layer of glass and the inside layer—or third layer of glass. The purpose was to allow visitors to see the natural beauty of Seattle and Puget Sound area without having to risk damage from the sun to the materials/people inside.

  During the earthquake the seismic steel beams between floors, eleven sets in all, set in a multiple snowflake formations between floors, did exactly what they were intended to do. The building did the boogie up and down, down and around, back and forth, but came back in exactly the correct position, just as designed, like a great-big-kid’s-toy. Thank God for the designers of seismic steel, a topic way too complicated to explain other than the steel beams were constructed to flex during extreme vibration. Hard to think of steel “flexing”. Expensive. Big time.

  The ultramodern, ultracool, ultra-ultra Seattle Main Library building; the big toy in the big baggie survived the 9.45 earthquake centered underneath nearby Bainbridge Island, whereas all of the other skyscrapers had windows blown out, skin sheared, and damage ranging from moderate to tear-it-down. Downtown Seattle was awash in glass; fires had broken out all over town. Anyone on the street in the seven-square-block from the 1201 Third Building down to City Hall would have been killed by falling glass around 6:20 PST.

  Ray looked up at the library building, now a dark hulk at the corner of 4th and Madison. It was past mid-day, there were no lights in the city, and winter gloom had captured the city. But, God-damn—the Library is OK! He turned behind him and looked back at Elliott Bay. The reverse hulk of the ferry Wenatchee sat semi-emersed on the other side of the emense moraine; a tsunami acts in an instant like a receding glacier does in an eon. As it recedes it drops all the material it carried along with it, creating a moraine; simply a barrier of shit, a repository of nature’s crap.

  Ray looked upward at the Library, then down 4th. Everywhere he could see along 4th and up Madison, glass pods from the building had been popped out out, like kernels of corn after meeting hot oil. While the interior of the building was built with seismic steel, the structure of the upper floor was critical to the entire building. The building was constructed with a massive 5’x5’ interconnecting array of aluminium mesh with double-layered thermal glass, each “kernel” housing two layers of glass, a layer of aluminum mesh, insulating gas between the layers; then mounted on another layer of glass—a window-on-a-window; light could get in, but not heat. Visitors could see out to the surrounding area without being blocked. It was state-of-the-art.

  Ray crossed Madison, whose normal traffic would be downhill toward the docks, and approached the building on the 4th Street side, his normal early morning entrance where the metal detectors were located.

  The guards weren’t there. Huh? It was two in th
e afternoon and there were no guards at the employee entrance; in fact, from what he could see through the windows, there was nobody inside within view. That just didn’t make any sense. Black Dave and Shirley were always there; so were Hebron and Skinny Mike; private security guards hired by the Library to provide entrance protection to calm the public. While several of the first shift guards had a full protection license, it was more expensive to hire rent-a-cops than actually qualified protection agents. Just who the hell is going to terrorize the Seattle Public Library?

  It didn’t matter. It was two PM and no one was at the 4th Avenue entrance.

  Marmaduke loped beside him, giving Ray the what’s up goofy look Great Danes do up close; the same looks that scare the shit out of people not familiar with them. ‘Duke had eaten a variety of food this morning, a virtual smorgesborg of crap not good for you. But that was OK because when a Great Dane takes a shit, it’s one of those other things you’re not sure you ever want to see. Well, that’s certainly an interesting deposit.

  Ray looked through glass at the 4th Street entrance. It took a massive support organization to make a major library seem like a tourist attraction, one where the average Jane or Joe could wander in, enjoy themselves for a period of time, then leave without feeling like they’d met up with City Government, leaving actually better off emotionally than they had come into the building. A walk through the Seattle Public Library was like taking a smiley pill, a slow version of an adult Disneyland ride, with completely different visual effects.

  There were happy escalators with yellow walls and yellow lights; red corridors with red walls and red ceilings; a kids area near the 4th Avenue entrance, then an escalator ride that would take you to the Madison and Spring Street entrances, then on to Level 5 where the central book reference was; all the while looking to the immedate distance to see the skin of the building, windows that gave you a view of the Seattle skyline, the Olympics, the weather outside, but kept you warm and cozy, no matter what. Natural light infiltrated the entire building.