Death Canyon

by David Riley Bertsch

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  This book is dedicated to my lovely and supportive wife, Katie, and to my family. Without you, I would never have had the courage to try.

  JACKSON HOLE, WYOMING

  One early summer evening, the valley was filled with a hushed rumbling. At first only the wildlife and household pets took notice. It was something almost magnetic, an ethereal reverberation that didn’t easily fit into any one sensory category. The elk and bison perceived it at the base of their skulls where their spinal cords met their brains. Their ears perked up in unspoken unison as they looked at the other animals in their herds. A threat, but what kind of threat? Their oversized binocular eyes scanned the tree lines and hillsides for predators. Nothing.

  When the earth moved beneath them again, the shiver was no longer a delicate static. It morphed toward the realm of the physical, corporeal. Pebbles jumped about on the earth like dry corn dumped into a scorching-hot pan.

  Its intensity increased rapidly. Almost exponentially. The mammals stamped their feet, their eyes still wandering to find the source of the tumult. The tremors amplified so that humans could detect them, too, and people in town stopped what they were doing, alarmed. They braced themselves for a full-blown quake, eyeing doorjambs and safe spots.

  Then, it stopped. The valley was still again. The herds resumed their evening grazing. The townspeople resumed their shopping, headed out to dinner, or went back to work.

  But the phenomenon repeated itself the next morning and again a few days later, over and over until the frequency of small tremors called the regional newspapers to attention. The headline in the Daily read, “Quakes Felt from Bend, Oregon, to Cedar Breaks, Utah.”

  Taproom and restaurant conversation convulsed with speculation. Could this really be it? Quakes weren’t unheard of here, but not like this. Everyone, even regional scientists and universities, began taking notice. Twenty-three occurrences in nine days.

  Are we due for the big one?

  SNAKE RIVER CANYON, JACKSON HOLE. ONE MONTH LATER.

  “What the hell was that?” the first man asked.

  His companion shook his head. “ ’Nother quake maybe.”

  Once the men were sure their friend was dead, they rigged a ratty climbing rope loose around his ankles so they could pull it off him when they were done. They had no choice but to burn the rope—if someone found it near the body, their plan would fail.

  Straining in the dark, they lowered the corpse from the cliff top down to the rapids below. It wasn’t easy detecting when the lifeless body hit; they couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead, and the force of the current pulled at the rope just as gravity had when they lowered him headfirst down the cliff.

  With just a few feet of rope left, they hesitated. Peering over the edge, they stared into an empty, black chasm. One of the men shrugged in the direction of his partner. They shook the rope and no longer felt the weight of the corpse. The man called Ryder turned back toward the car, trembling from the strain. The other man, cloaked in black, pulled up the remainder of the rope.

  They made their way back to the car without a word. The man called the Shaman took the driver’s seat and stashed the rope under it.

  In the passenger seat, a feeling of dense blackness consumed Ryder as the gravity of what he had just done set in. Their task hadn’t been easy. Killing a person, no matter the circumstances or the extent of the justification, was a horribly disturbing undertaking.

  As the Shaman eased the car onto the dirt road, Ryder started to formulate a thought. The Shaman had doubted Ryder’s commitment to the cause not because he didn’t trust him but because the Shaman himself appreciated the gravity of the act.

  So much was lost in yourself when you took another man’s life. Ryder understood that now. A sense of calm washed over him. He looked at the Shaman, whose expression exposed nothing. The man in black had surely done this before.

  They drove another mile and pulled over into a clearing to burn the rope. As he watched the embers ascend into the night, Ryder said a prayer to himself. He didn’t dare say it aloud.

  When they arrived back at their camp, men and women—some fully nude—were already dancing around the fire. With tears in their eyes, they looked up toward the moon with a look of mourning. Their attempt at a chant was cacophonous and incoherent. Very few of them properly spoke the Lakota Sioux language. The chant was called “Mitakuye Oyasin,” which means “all my relations.”

  Its words gave thanks to the animals, plants, earth, and winds one by one. Swaying in the moonlight, the assembled sang:

  You are all my relations,

  my relatives without whom I would not live.

  We are in the circle of life together,

  coexisting, codependent, cocreating our destiny.

  One not more important than the other.

  1

  WEST BANK, SNAKE RIVER. TWO DAYS LATER.

  The day that would begin the darkest epoch in Jackson Hole’s history saw Jake Trent having a personal crisis of his own. He woke up that June morning without any of the rejuvenating energy that should result from a good night’s sleep. The previous day’s troubles hadn’t gone away. Coffee didn’t help. It only made him more anxious.

  The cause of Jake’s irritation was the same issue that had troubled him for months—the increasingly spineless nature of the Jackson Town Council. Whatever happened to standing up for what you believe in?

  Of course, Jake admitted cooperation and compromise were central to the concepts of democracy, but he ardently felt that such cooperation should take place in a setting free from the temptation of personal gain. Compromise wasn’t compromise when there was a reward involved. That was called a bribe.

  The issue was land—a very special piece of it. At some point during the council’s recent debate, the political forum had become polluted. Poorly disguised buy offs. Misinformation. Jake needed the council members to hear him out. His recommendations were essential if they were to hold on to any hope for a just result. He wasn’t so sure they had any such hope. Ears stuffed shut with money, the voting members weren’t listening anymore. They were happy to cash in and shut up. Quietly and without remark, Jake’s soapbox had been eroded out from under him.

  This was Jake’s fourth year on the five-member Environmental Review subcommittee of the Jackson Town Council, and he was beginning to think it might be his last. The role was as a citizen appointee, and the job wasn’t exactly thrilling—recycling policy, park usage, land impact review—but he liked it. As an ex-lawyer, Jake wasn’t afraid of details and fine print, and the gig made him feel connected to his adopted city. He and his fellow committee members could advise and cajole the council, but when it came down to hard decisions, they had to stand back and watch. For years Jake had awaited the dreadful scenario unfolding in front of his eyes now: the greedy overdevelopment of protected land and everyone grabbing for the biggest piece.

  The old ranch was beautiful and expansive. Classic Jackson Hole. An eight-hundred-foot-tall butte with magnificent views of the Tetons. Below the hill, a gentle slope continued toward the river. It drained two gin-clear spring creeks, the perfect habitat for spawning trout. Hummocks of cottonwoods provided shade near the creeks and river bottom. Unfortunately, these were all attributes that developers coveted, including the wildlife, fish, and flora. Two hundred and twenty lots were planned.

  Two hundred and twenty. They called the proposed neigh
borhood the Old Teton Dairy Ranch, which to anyone with some knowledge of French meant roughly the Old Breast Milk Ranch. Below that asinine name on the entrance sign, whimsical cursive letters enthusiastically proclaimed: “Taste the Tetons!”

  There was no doubt the development would affect the natural environment. Every study showed that. That was what the conservation easement was intended to protect. The easement now in question.

  It was a shame. If the protected lands—national parks and forests, riverbanks and mountainsides—were crudely partitioned and sold to the highest bidder, the town would come to regret it.

  The United States is still a young nation, Jake thought. We have the opportunity to learn from the mistakes of the more mature nations, he had always told others, a distinct advantage. In Jake’s mind, the United States was the fortunate youngest sibling of the developed world’s family. By ignoring the repercussions of our historical actions, we’ll only destroy ourselves.

  Jake’s inability to sway his audience stymied him. He felt, perhaps foolishly, that because of his past accomplishments, his arguments should be afforded some extra consideration. He’d woken up half-seriously asking himself, Doesn’t anybody in this damn town know who I am?

  Jake stood up and paced through his house. He was six feet, six one, maybe. Hair dark and short, with ever more gray around his temples. His body was lean but muscular, evidence of years of aerobic exercise: hiking, trail running, and biking. The push-up/sit-up routine he did every morning kept his upper body defined. His skin was dark now, but this wasn’t genetics. He had spent nearly a decade in the high-country sun.

  Except for the land issue, Jake was rarely incensed about anything. For the most part, since his move west, he had lived a carefree and happy life. He reminded himself of this fact, and rather than spending all morning wrestling with these questions, he decided to go fishing. He’d had plans to do so anyway—an old acquaintance from back East had asked Jake to take him out while he was in town. But the man had unexpectedly canceled, having been called back home for a pressing work matter. The real world. That was okay. Jake needed some time alone anyway.

  The conditions wouldn’t be ideal, of course; the water was still high and cold from the melting snow that flushed down the mountainsides each spring. But it was better than spending a sunny Saturday stewing over a righteous cause that was probably doomed anyway.

  Jake knew that once he got downstream from the Bald Eagle Creek Bridge, he wasn’t likely to encounter any humans for more than twenty-two miles. That suited him just fine. Moose, likely; bald eagles, certainly; bear, possibly—but not humans. Even though the water was moving quickly with spring runoff, which would speed up the boat and shorten the trip, the stretch necessitated an overnight stay. He prepared quickly, packing his hiker/biker two-man tent and a twenty-degree synthetic sleeping bag. A sweatshirt wrapped around an old life vest would serve as a makeshift pillow.

  When he was finished gathering what he needed from the house, Jake walked outside and down the worn path, parallel to the stand of lodgepole pines, and through the tall grass and occasional sagebrush.

  A pair of eerie eyes, a strikingly mismatched sky-blue and chestnut-brown duo of orbs, watched him from the tree line. Oblivious to his hidden onlooker, Jake strolled to his boat trailer and stashed his bag in the dry box.

  With his target distracted, the animal moved closer, carefully padding through the dry pine needles. Pausing there for a moment, he observed his subject. Clueless. Jake was bent over the gunwale of the boat, shuffling things around. It was the perfect moment for an ambush. The assailant picked up his pace and headed for Jake in an all-out sprint. In seconds, he was within thirty feet.

  The footfall startled Jake and he turned to face his attacker.

  “Hey! Stop! No!” Jake shouted, but it was too late. Wham! The muddy stray leaped up at him, planting his front paws firmly on Jake’s groin, tail wagging furiously. Jake stumbled backward, groaning in pain.

  The dog skittered away, frightened by the man’s outburst.

  Jake regained his composure. “Sorry. Shit. It’s okay, Chayote, er, whatever the hell your name is.” He brushed the mud off his pants and tried to pat the animal on the head. Chayote bounced backward nimbly, avoiding his touch.

  The animal slinked away into the woods, his stub tail trying to tuck itself between its legs in embarrassment. Jake shook his head.

  The little cattle dog had been hanging around for weeks now, and he was getting friendlier by the day, to Jake’s chagrin. At first he would watch Jake from afar and flee the second Jake acknowledged his presence. But by now, the pup was regularly approaching Jake, although he still wouldn’t allow Jake to handle him.

  He wore no collar, so Jake had started making up names for him: Munson, Sampson, Cutty, but he finally settled on Chayote. Jake didn’t know where he’d heard the name; he just liked how it sounded. Plus, the little mottled dog looked and acted like a coyote—athletic and curious and devious. He chuckled to himself at the dog’s contrary whims of moxie and reticence.

  Approaching his skiff, a sixteen-foot-long flat-bottomed vessel, Jake shook his head again, this time at the craft’s grimy floor—evidence of his inability to care for a possession that not only held significant sentimental value but also had provided him with a meager income and purpose during the first years after his relocation to Wyoming.

  The boat hadn’t been used in months. Checking the tension on the strap, Jake wasn’t satisfied that it held the boat securely to the trailer. He removed it and fastened it again, tighter. Then he checked the trailer wheels. A bit wobbly—the trailer was due for two new hubs—but it would be fine for a few more miles.

  Jake arrived at the popular put-in across from Charlie’s convenience store at 9:15 a.m. Although there weren’t many guides launching boats this early in the season, he felt unusually self-conscious to be heading out alone. A solo trip was a bit unusual. He figured that it wouldn’t go unrecognized, especially with his one-of-a-kind sky-blue skiff and his reputation as a bit of a loner—a reputation he felt unfairly assigned.

  Jake couldn’t blame the other guides and local fishermen for thinking it strange to float the canyon alone. It was impossible to control the boat and fish at the same time. It was practically a piscine tragedy that he would be back rowing and positioning his skiff simply for his own enjoyment with no anglers standing ready to cast to the trout’s likely lies.

  Oh well; hopefully nobody is out there today.

  As he stepped out to ready the boat, a familiar silver Suburban approached with a drift boat in tow.

  So much for solitude.

  “Jake, how are you, man? How’d winter treat ya?” Even in June, winter was a not-so-distant memory in the mountains of Wyoming. The driver was shouting over to Jake as he opened the doors for his clients, two well-dressed, portly men who immediately walked off to the Porta Johns. “Hold your breath while you’re in there, boys. It’s no Four Seasons.”

  “Not bad, Caddy. Yours?” Jake and the man walked toward each other and shook hands. “Good to see you.” Caddy was already tan and leather-skinned despite the early season. Jake thought it must be his permanent skin tone after so many summers.

  “Fuckin’ Wall Street guys. They’ll be a blast. Real exciting folks.” The sarcasm was thick. He was pointing toward the toilets and rolling his eyes. “Winter? Shit, too long, man. I need this damn river to clear up so I can make some consistent money.” He looked over to see how close his clients were and then spoke in a hushed tone, like what he’d just said wasn’t offensive. “We’re not gonna catch shit today. Fuckin’ first-timers, man! Gonna be a long day!” Caddy put in a bubblegum-sized charge of oily, reddish-black tobacco.

  “Well, I have faith in you.” Jake gave him a friendly pat on the back.

  “What you got going today?” Caddy looked around for Jake’s clients. “They in the can?”

  “Nada. Just gonna enjoy the day. Going out alone.” Jake held eye contact to see how the
man would react.

  He almost spit out his chew laughing. “Shit, only Jake Trent would come out here in these conditions to ‘enjoy the day.’ ” Caddy collected himself and then let drool what looked like a mugful of tobacco juice into the dust. “Well, you have fun out there. Don’t catch ’em all.” Caddy rolled his eyes again.

  “Will do. Good luck.”

  Jake tried to let Caddy put in first, but the guide insisted. Jake knew he was trying to kill time—fishing guides sometimes found ways to do this when the fishing was no good.

  “Let the water warm up a bit,” he was probably telling them. “They ain’t been biting till ’bout noon.” Probably true, but also convenient for Caddy.

  When the boat was launched, Jake headed for a side channel branching away from the main river. He loved to fish the side channels. Dozens of drift boats might float by on the main river, but they were out of sight and mind amid the thick cottonwoods and willows lining the channels. Besides, with this volume of water in the river, the trout wouldn’t fight the main river’s strong current just to consume the few morsels of food they would make out through the muddy, churning water. Somehow, they always knew the perfect balance between expending energy in the hunt and gaining energy from its spoils. Jake supposed that this idiom applied to all animals, including humans—wasn’t it true that no one did anything unless they expected to be rewarded for their work? Maybe that explained the council’s behavior.

  The fishing in the side channels proved worthwhile. He caught plenty of twelve- to sixteen-inch cutthroats and one large rainbow trout, a nonnative species of West Coast origin that he would keep for the frying pan. While fun to catch, rainbows competed for food and river space with the cutthroats, which were completely unique to the region. Conservationists encouraged the harvest of rainbow trout.

  When evening began to settle into the canyon, Jake passed the halfway point of the float and looked for a good campsite. He backed his skiff into a stout and powerful eddy that had formed at the head of an island, and he was reminded again of the force of this river during spring runoff as he struggled to keep the boat parallel to the current lines. If he crossed at the wrong angle, he could capsize.