In Cave Danger

by Kate Dyer-Seeley

  Send me the deets.

  He responded immediately with a long list of links about an expedition to the Lava River Caves. The caving tour was a joint project with the U.S. Forest Service and the High Desert Research Center. I read through the links that Matt had sent and felt a wave of excitement pulse through me. The Forest Service and High Desert Research Center were partnering to allow unprecedented access to the lava tunnel in response to new legislation proposed by Congressman Riley from Eastern Oregon. The congressman’s bill would loosen federal restrictions on Forest Service land. I printed out copies of the bill and quickly learned that there was already a battle brewing between Congressman Riley and his constituents against the Forest Service. He and a group of his supporters would be touring the cave as part of publicity tour to garner support for the bill.

  This was exactly the story I had been looking for. It had all the makings for a substantial piece—controversy and a subterranean trek. Not to mention that if Greg agreed to send me to Bend, it would also mean a few days away with Matt.

  Chapter 2

  I spent some time gathering as much research as I could on the caving tour, and by the time of our weekly pitch meeting I was armed with a stack of data about the lava tube and a list of reasons why I was the best person to cover the story.

  After an unbearably hot summer, September had ushered in cool, breezy mornings, a refreshing welcome from the unrelenting heat. I tucked my research notes into my pink canvas tote, grabbed a pale pink cardigan sweater, and headed for my car. I knew that by later in the day I would lose the sweater, but the misty air held the promise of fall. Portland is nothing short of spectacular in the fall, with crisp mornings and lingering late-evening sun, perfect for grabbing a pint after work or, as most of my colleagues prefer, sneaking out early for a hike in Forest Park.

  The tree-lined streets in my North Portland (affectionately called NoPo by locals) neighborhood were beginning to turn. The tips of old oak leaves faded into golden yellows, and red twinges glinted in the sunlight. Soon organic farm stands would pop up on street corners, where artisans would sell homemade apple and pear butter and carved festive gourds. The breweries would release their fall lines featuring pumpkin ales and hoppy Oktoberfest brews. I couldn’t wait to see tents line the Willamette River and hear the sound of bands jamming on the waterfront. Only this year I won’t have my two best friends to celebrate with, I thought with a sigh.

  I never anticipated that we’d be splitting up this soon. Maybe I was naïve, but I had always imagined that Jill, Matt, and I would stay in Portland for a while. The city wasn’t the same as it had been in my youth. Over the last decade Portland had seen an influx of millennials who came west to follow their dreams. I understood the lure of the young city. Portland had become a mecca for twenty-somethings with a deep wanderlust. The city offered hipster culture, a pioneering spirit, and abundant opportunities for adventure. With so many new residents, Portland was experiencing serious growing pains. Housing was outrageous. City officials had declared a housing crisis as rents soared and buyers offered thousands of dollars over the asking price for tiny bungalows. Urban neighborhoods had become gentrified, pushing out longtime residents and at-risk families. Homelessness had reached an all-time high. Tent cities sprouted up throughout the city, causing alarm to tourists and neighborhood associations.

  As much as I loved the city, I wondered if there was a place for me here now. Before I had time to dwell more on my future, I arrived at Northwest Extreme’s headquarters. The vintage brick warehouse sat next to the Willamette River. A paved path ran the length of the waterfront. This morning runners in brightly colored spandex lined the pathway. The Portland Marathon was just a few weeks away, and there was rarely a moment when the popular running trail wasn’t packed with people training for the event.

  I paused for a moment and took in the sight of the golden brown leaves rustling in the wind and the choppy river below. This might be going away too if Greg decided to sell the magazine—which was looking more and more likely. Greg had dropped a bombshell at our last staff meeting. He had been at the helm of Northwest Extreme for ten years and had made the magazine the outdoor publication in the United States and overseas. Our readership had grown by tens of thousands, but Greg told us he was considering selling. A Japanese investment firm, Hoshino, was interested in purchasing the magazine, and he was thinking over their offer.

  Greg had insisted that the Hoshino team wanted to keep the magazine intact. “I don’t foresee major layoffs,” he had said, trying to calm everyone’s nerves. “You’re going to love these guys. They are completely enamored with the Pacific Northwest. Don’t sweat it.”

  Of course everyone was sweating it. Three of my colleagues had already started interviewing with other publications. I probably should have started plastering my résumé around town, but I wanted to wait it out and see if Greg really did sell and whether the Japanese team would consider keeping me on. I’d come to love my job at Northwest Extreme. If you had asked me a year ago if I would be saying that, I’m sure the answer would have been no. But things had changed. I wasn’t a novice anymore and, surprisingly, I enjoyed writing about the outdoors and extreme sports.

  Sure, maybe I wasn’t the most athletic or adventurous staff member, but being out in wild, untouched corners of the Northwest had given me a new appreciation for the land and a new ability to connect and go within. I didn’t want to give that up. So much so that I was willing to do just about anything to keep my job—even if that meant testing my fear of enclosed spaces.

  I dropped my bag off at my desk and headed for the conference room, which had a wall of windows looking out to the waterfront path. Greg stood at the helm of the large rectangular table. He reminded me of Indiana Jones, only more chiseled and polished. I caught him glance at my sparkly pink top and layered, pastel tulle skirt. He greeted me with a friendly wave. A slight smile spread to his cheeks. Let’s just say that I don’t exactly always look the part of an adventure journalist. I prefer vintage fashion and all things pink. My coworkers constantly tease me about my work attire, but I’ve learned to banter back. I mean, come on, how fashion forward are hiking boots and mud marathon T-shirts?

  Figuring out where I stood with Greg had been a challenge, not just because of his rugged good looks but because I had recently learned that he and Pops had worked together at the O. Matt found a picture of them in the newspaper’s archives but made me promise not to say anything to Greg yet. The fact that Greg knew Pops had changed everything. Pops had been the O’s lead investigative reporter until his untimely death. Before Pops was killed in a hit-and-run accident on his bike, he’d been fired by the newspaper after nearly twenty years on the beat. His exposé on Oregon’s meth epidemic, Meth Madness, had led to his dismissal, and I was convinced it had also led to his death.

  The problem was that I had no idea who I could trust. Greg had confessed that he’d been asked by someone at the O to keep an eye on me after Pops died and insisted that he was looking out for me. I wanted to believe him, but I also wanted to play it smart. Greg could have my best interest at heart, or he could be working with the people who killed Pops. To be honest, part of me wondered if everyone in the state of Oregon was hiding something.

  Every clue I had found in Pops’ murder had led to more questions. Like, Sheriff Daniels. I’d first met the sheriff on assignment for Northwest Extreme. The sheriff had claimed that he and Pops were old friends, and I had made the mistake of believing him. He and Gam even started dating, but she had recently called things off. I wasn’t sure if Sheriff Daniels had broken her heart or if she suspected, like I was beginning to, that the sheriff’s motives were cloudy when it came to the investigation into Pops’ death. Did Greg think so too, or had he been tasked by Sheriff Daniels to keep an eye on me? I didn’t know, but I knew that for the time being I had to play it cool.

  * * *

  I returned Greg’s wave and slid into an empty chair next to Angela, Northwest Extreme’s u
ptight bookkeeper. She acknowledged me with her usual scowl, letting her eyes linger on my strappy sandals. Rolling her eyes, she returned her gaze to a stack of highlighted spreadsheets in front of her. I don’t know why, but she’s never liked me. I get the impression that I annoy her. It used to bug me, but fortunately she works part-time and I do my best to avoid her at all costs and to triple-check my expense reports before I turn them in for reimbursement.

  “Good morning, everyone,” Greg said, clearing his throat. “Another Monday. Another fun day.” He chuckled, but his face looked strained. His face was bronzed, as always, from spending so much time on the side of cliffs and at mountaintops, but I noticed stress lines in the corner of his eyes and middle of his brow.

  No one else laughed. Usually our weekly staff meetings were lively and full of constant chatter and friendly competition. Not today. The tension in the room was thicker than a small bank of clouds hovering above the river.

  “Okay, then.” Greg shifted his tone. “On to business. As most of you already know, the team from Japan will be arriving this afternoon.”

  Someone on the far side of the table let out an audible groan.

  “Easy, easy.” Greg held out his hands. “I know you’re all freaking out, but I promise I have the magazine and all of your best interests at heart. Give these guys a chance. I think they’re going to surprise you.” He glanced out the window behind him and gave a nod of acknowledgment to a team of runners who breezed past.

  “By laying us all off,” Chris, one of the ad team members sitting across from me, mumbled.

  Angela shot him a nasty look.

  Greg either didn’t hear the comment or was choosing to ignore it. He leafed through a stack of papers and then passed them around. “Here’s the itinerary for their visit. I’ve slotted each of you for an hour session. If there’s a conflict, see me after the meeting and we’ll get it switched.” Narrowing his eyes, he made eye contact with everyone around the table. “I’m serious, you guys, it’s really important that you give them a chance. They want to get to know you and hear what you do.”

  I could tell that Greg was serious by the way that the lines on his forehead deepened. I could also tell that he was quickly losing control of the room. As a general rule I’ve learned that most people don’t like change, especially when it involves their livelihood.

  “Nothing is inked in yet, so I’m asking you all to go into the next few days with an open mind. This may be the best financial move we have.” He looked to Angela for support.

  Even by-the-book Angela frowned from behind her librarian glasses and didn’t glance up from her spreadsheets.

  I’d never seen Greg look flustered. He shifted his weight from side to side and seemed to be waiting for anyone to comment. No one did. The silence was heavy and palpable. Behind him a jet boat zoomed past on the river. I was struck by the contrast of thrill seekers flying across the choppy waves and the heavy vibe inside one of the most well-respected adventure publications in the world. Months ago someone would have headed over to the window to give the jet boaters a thumbs-up, and someone else would have suggested a team bonding trip on the river. I felt bad for Greg.

  “Hey, are we pitching today too?” I asked, raising my hand.

  Greg smiled with genuine relief. He mouthed Thanks, and said, “Yeah, I definitely want to hear your pitches. What do you have in mind, Meg? I can always count on you for a crazy Monday pitch.”

  A few of my colleagues teased me about my last pitch, helping to break the tension. “Remember when Meg wanted to go hang gliding?” Chris said with a laugh. “Can you imagine our little Meg soaring through the air in all that pink?”

  I laughed along. I was happy to throw myself under the bus if it meant a change of tone in the strained room.

  I grinned. “I don’t know if it’s crazy, but it’s more political than anything I’ve covered to date. Maybe anything the magazine has ever covered.”

  Greg folded his arms across his chest. “Go on. I’m intrigued.”

  Launching into my pitch, I told them about the lava cave expedition. In my preliminary sketches I had outlined a political angle that might tie in nicely with the feature. Congressman Riley’s bill could completely change the landscape of how people accessed forests, and as an outdoor magazine it seemed like we had a stake in the outcome. Plus, I had learned that Oregon’s most senior statesman had already gathered thousands of signatures in support of the legislation. The bill was due to go to the House floor in three months—right when my feature would hit.

  “I know we don’t usually cover politics,” I said to Greg, “but the legislation that Congressman Riley is introducing will have a direct impact on outdoor recreation in Oregon.”

  “How so?” Greg jotted notes on a yellow legal pad.

  “Congressman Riley has been in politics for over thirty years. He heads a variety of committees and subcommittees in the House, and from what I’ve read he has major influence.”

  “And?”

  “And the bill has a good shot of passing with his backing.” I caught Greg’s eye. He gave me a nod to continue. Thankfully, I had printed copies of the bill. I passed them around the conference table. “As you’ll see, the bill intends to grant local governments control over access to Forest Service land.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Chris asked.

  “Well there are two camps on the issue,” I replied. “Congressman Riley and his supporters are taking the perspective that they are granting recreation on forest land back to the public. His position statement talks about allowing snowmobiles and recreational vehicles on old forest roads. However, his opponents are taking the stance that four-wheelers have no place out in the wild and that opening up the land to motorized vehicles will endanger the forest’s vulnerable ecosystem.”

  Greg tapped his pencil on the notebook. “Hmm. Interesting stuff. What’s your position?”

  I was taken aback by the question. In journalism school we were reminded on many occasions that our job was to report both sides of any story fairly and accurately without judgment or bias.

  “Um, I don’t know.” I could hear a lack of confidence in my voice as I fumbled over my words. That’s nothing new. Anytime I’m in close proximity to Greg, I tend to revert back to acting like a teenager.

  “Of course you know,” Greg retorted.

  “But we’re not supposed to take sides.” I bit my bottom lip. “However, I do think that access on public lands is a timely topic, especially after the hostage situation out in Eastern Oregon a few months ago.” A group of ranchers had taken control of a wildlife refuge in Eastern Oregon in protest over land rights. The standoff lasted for a month with heavily armed militia occupying the refuge. It eventually ended in a shoot-out killing one of the protesters. Despite the fact that the remaining protesters had been arrested, the battle over who controlled the territory raged on.

  “Exactly! It’s a hot topic.” Greg clapped his hands. “Meg Reed, I know that deep within you is the heart of an investigative reporter, but let me remind you that you write for Northwest Extreme. We take a position. I want you to take a side. That’s your story.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. Greg was right, of course. Writing for Northwest Extreme was very different from how I imagined working for the O might have been. I grew up inside the newsroom. The smell of newsprint, stale coffee, and the stress of a deadline were forever embedded in my memory. So was Pops’ work ethic. When he was on a story he fully immersed himself in the piece. Mother and I would go days without seeing him, and when he was home he was often distracted and in his head. “Maggie, grab me that stack of notes, would you?” he would ask, chewing on the tip of his pencil. I would gather his notes and sit on the floor at the foot of his desk, watching him work. His dedication to following every lead and seeing a story through to the end stuck with me.

  Before I could decide how to respond to Greg, he addressed everyone. “Let’s go around the table. Show of hands, how many of you
are opposed to this legislation?”

  Every hand except one raised.

  “In support?” Greg asked.

  Chris raised his hand and then gave Greg a sheepish look. “Sorry, I love snowmobiling, dude, but I don’t know about the other stuff. Those ranchers who took over the refuge were pretty extreme.”

  Greg waved him off. “Don’t sweat it, man.” Then he gave me a satisfied grin. “There you have it, Meg. In our very formal poll, consensus is clearly a no. What’s your take?”

  Was he pressuring me to go along with the group mentality? I mean, my first thought when I’d skimmed the bill was that it sounded suspect, but I always try to keep an open mind. I wanted to hear firsthand from Congressman Riley and his supporters about why they thought it was a good idea. Or was Greg testing me? He’d been encouraging me to take more ownership of my work. I’d been tasked with managing and growing Northwest Extreme’s social media accounts, and we had seen great success. Our numbers had exploded since I started posting pictures and sharing adventure links and tips with our followers. The rest of the staff had latched on. My coworkers had begun hashtagging posts and sending me content to share.

  I think I impressed Greg by taking on the task. He had a one-on-one meeting with me to express his thanks. Hoshino was thrilled with our social media presence, and Greg said that most of that was due to me. But he also challenged me to build on what I had accomplished online. “Meg, you tend to sit back in our team meetings. I know that some of the other staff writers are older, but you’re doing great things. Don’t let age intimidate you. I want to see you stand up and really defend what you’re working on.”

  Gam had a similar philosophy on age. She held a firm belief that age was simply a state of being. I still had a lot to figure out at twenty-four, but I was proud of what I had accomplished working at Northwest Extreme. Sure I’d made plenty of mistakes along the way and stretched the truth every once in a while, but I’d also pushed myself to do things that I never would have imagined, like scaling mountains and windsurfing. If Greg wanted me to take more ownership of my work, I could do that.