Several hours later as the deer trail leveled out on the edge of the bench, a reasonably flattened chunk of real estate cut stair step-like halfway up the steep slope, Jake neared his destination. He was high above the cabin now, where dark pine gave way to a clearing of tall grasses, thick service berry, Russian olive bushes, and aspen trees stunted by generations of elk feeding on their tender tops when the winter snow was too deep, and grasses too buried, to allow for other nutrition. He sat on the remains of a fallen tree to catch his breath and to watch the golden flames of sunlight cascade down the mountain slopes on the far side of his valley as the sun rose above the peak he was climbing.
“Good call,” he said aloud.
The day was already warming, as he'd predicted. He chuckled. He always did when he gave the temperatures in mountain country serious thought. Back in the city, they'd call him a “climate change denier.” Made him hoot. Made him nearly pee himself. Lying lawyer politicians, computer nerds, and crybabies stealing power, stealing money, and making the sheep tear their hair out in fear over a change of one or two degrees “average” over a couple of decades. Lord have mercy, it was 35 degrees when he left his cabin and would reach nearly 80 degrees by late afternoon. “Global warming,” he told the sky with a chuckle. Hadn't been but a few short years since they'd called it “Global cooling” and with as much hysteria and as dang little sense had told everybody that a new ice age was coming. Folks who denied that were called haters and fools as well. The folks who actually live and work in it, he thought with a shake of his head, we call it weather.
Debate over, and aware he'd better get moving, Jake lifted himself to his feet. The heat of the day would soon make the critters lock down; then nothing would move.
He needed a nice deer. They'd be bedded on the back side of the bench, he knew, and he needed to close the gap before morning's moisture evaporated and turned the vegetation under foot to cornflakes. Moving with techniques developed over thirty years of hunting, he slipped unseen and unheard through the underbrush in search of his quarry, stopping every couple of steps to examine the shapes and changing shadows of the forest.
He'd traveled about fifty yards when, without warning, twenty-five yards in front of him, a mule deer buck stood up from its hidden bed. Jake froze. The beautiful buck stood tall, a king of the forest, his ears moving in unison to collect the sound from Jake's direction. That surprised the hunter. He'd been careful and, as far as he knew, hadn't made a peep. But there was no doubt the animal was looking his way. Thank God and Cabela's, as long as he stayed unmoving, he was virtually invisible. The deer stared. Then Jake saw the animal's eyes lock on something… behind him. He didn't know what. He couldn't turn to see without giving himself away. But, stone still, Jake desperately wanted to know.
The buck was more than curious. Jake watched his muscles tighten. The buck let out a horrendous 'warning' snort then, in one fluid movement, coiled its legs, crouched low to the ground, turned, and leapt high into the air. The buck crashed to the ground, coiled again, changed direction, and vaulted back into the air. Then it was gone, disappeared into the brush. All that remained were the snaps of breaking branches and fading snorts of fear.
Jake felt like cussing, but didn't take the time. He turned to look behind him, wondering, what in tarnation! Two more deer, and then a third, erupted from the ground cover behind him and on each side. Snorting and jumping, they bounded past him in terror, following their monarch into the timber.
Turning full around, Jake peered into the forest from which he had come in search of the threat that had put those deer on the run. There was nothing he could see… and he realized there was no longer any noise. The birds had quit chirping; the squirrels had quit chattering. It was as if everything had vacated that part of the mountain.
He waited and watched.
Jake saw the brush move on each side of him. A rabbit running for cover? A coyote slinking by? He didn't know. Perhaps it was a bear close by? Or maybe even a mountain lion? He turned in a small circle, then again, searching the timbers around that small clearing for a sight or sign. Was it possible a predator was stalking its prey? Was it possible a predator was stalking him? That was as far as Jake's imagination would take him, for he was not a particularly imaginative fellow. He sensed danger and went so far as to wonder about the presence of one dangerous animal. It did not occur to him that he was being surrounded.
Even after a fiery pain ripped through his right thigh.
He emptied his lungs screaming as he grabbed for his leg. Then he felt another searing sensation of flame tear into his left calf. He crumbled to the ground. The pain was incredible. Battling to keep his senses, Jake pulled off a glove and shoved it in his mouth, biting down hard to keep from screaming.
He couldn't move either leg, nothing from the hips down. Still he knew he wasn't paralyzed. At least he didn't think so. People that were paralyzed, as far as he knew, had no feeling in the area. But he had feeling. Boy howdy! His legs were on fire; they were a raging inferno! He didn't know what had caused it. But he knew something had and he knew he needed to defend himself. He jerked his head from side to side searching for the rifle he'd dropped.
Then he heard the voice; a guttural, ominous voice that sounded like it come from Satan himself, demanding, “Why are you on my mountain?”
Jake jerked his head searching for the source.
“Why have you come here!”
“Who are you?” Jake yelled. “Where are you?”
In answer came a laugh. Then the voice again, screaming now, “This is MY mountain!”
Desperately trying to sit up and look around, Jake could identify nothing amid the thick understory of the timbers. Then the flames struck again. The pain shot through his arms, into his chest, his neck, his guts. His whole body was on fire. Flat on his back, he looked up through the canopy of trees at an ever brightening sky. Tears welled in his eyes. Then he felt pain like he'd never imagined. Teeth… ripping and tearing at his flesh. Something… somethings… biting his legs, his ribs, his arms with pieces of each yanked away in chunks. The pain pulled at his conscious mind, then pushed it beyond comprehension.
Jake had always understood there was danger in the wilderness of the mountains. A man could die in so many ways. Never in his most morbid imaginations could he have conceived of… being eaten alive.
“Jacob Altobell,” said a small, weakening voice in the back of his brain. “You are dead. You're dead and don't even know what killed you.”
His mind, unable to take any more pain, slipped into unconsciousness.
Chapter 12
On hearing the word glacier, the mind's eye tends to travel up the Alaskan coast and into the Arctic delivering images of ice sheets breaking off towering white cliffs to crash in salt sea waves around frolicking whales; dramatic, even romantic, images but far from the only ones. Little did most know, glaciers still existed in the Rocky Mountains. Nearly two hundred massive fields of ice and snow lived and breathed now on the spine of the North American continent.
Once there were many more and all left their mark. The incredible weight of accumulated ice and snow, pulled from high mountain perches by gravity, carved and scoured the rock upon which it lay and left behind dramatic evidence of its passing.
Nearly eight thousand years after one of these sculptors of nature receded into oblivion, the valley it created in its wake, and the crown of peaks left as sentinels along its exterior ring, were named the Cirque of the Towers. Though located in remote wilderness, this breathtaking and awe inspiring work of art in granite would become world renowned as a challenge to those who would dare scale the faces of these guardians of rock.
It was precisely that which brought Dusty Rennaker, and his companion Marcus Temme, to this place. Only twenty-one years of age, Dusty already had a decade of rock climbing under his belt. He'd cut his teeth on the Hoback Shield south of Jackson, Wyoming and became immediately addicted. As time, and his first paychecks, allowed he explored the mo
untains of Wyoming, Idaho, and Colorado in a constant search for greater challenge and a heavier dose of adrenalin.
Marcus, on the other hand, was a climbing rookie. But he wasn't intimidated; his background forbade it. The product of a troubled inner city childhood, Marcus had lived hard in a few short years and, ultimately, had wound up with only two options, either join the military or go to a ranch in the Rockies set up to keep young offenders out of jail. Having already seen all he wanted of guns and violence, he opted for the ranch. As it happened, Marcus took well to western life and, after being released from “The Program,” decided to stake a permanent home far away from his roots. He found a job and dove into the outdoors with a vengeance. Marcus met Dusty, the assistant instructor at a Beginner's climbing class, and a bond was forged from that moment on.
It had been a book about classic rock climbing locations that pointed Dusty toward the Cirque, in general, and Pingora Peak, in particular. It was close to home, it was dramatic to look at, and it was a classic that needed to be climbed. It wasn't long after that Dusty and Marcus broke camp on the south side of Jackass Pass and made the final hike to the base of Pingora.
“Oh, my God,” Marcus whispered breathlessly as the peak first came into sight. “That's it, isn't it?”
“Yeah. Is this not the greatest climb you've ever looked at?” His partner stared in awestruck silence. “Marcus. Hey, Marcus?”
“Yeah, man,” he answered, snapping out of his trance. “Sorry, man, I'm just…”
A long pause followed. Other than the beating of his own heart, heavy in his ears, Marcus could hear nothing but the occasional whistle of a pica somewhere in the rocks and the gentle song of the wind as it caressed the talus fields, rippled the surface of Lonesome Lake, and moved into the stand of pines on the opposite shore.
“You okay, Marcus?”
“Yeah, man. It's just… Are you sure I'm ready for this?”
“Quit looking at it.”
Marcus didn't think he could.
“Quit looking at it,” Dusty barked. “Look at me!” With his partner's undivided attention, he calmed himself in order to calm Marcus. “Look, this is like every climb we've ever done. You take it one pitch at a time. By the time we finish pitch two you'll be on your game big time. And when we finish pitch seven we're home. Got it?”
“Yeah, I've got it. No worries, brother, I'll be alright. It's just… WOW!”
“I know. That's why we gotta do this! Come on, we're burning daylight.”
As Dusty had promised, Marcus found his stride as soon as they'd reach the shoulder. By pitch two he was climbing like he'd been doing it his whole life. Watching Dusty in the lead was always educational and, just now, inspiring. They could do this. He could do it.
They completed pitch six and Dusty started up the last, long vertical face. Marcus paused, breathing deeply. His muscles ached but it was a satisfying pain, a pain of victory. They were almost to the top of a climb that had scared him. He'd never admit it to anyone but it had scared him. But he'd beaten the fear. And he was about to beat the climb.
He watched Dusty move along the rock face, every reach, every pull of his arms, every push of his legs a calculated maneuver. Dusty, a true friend who, though he didn't know it, had taught Marcus a lot about not only climbing rock but climbing life. It was a good day.
One hundred feet or so up the final leg of the climb, Dusty was almost there. The ledge where the pitch ended and the scramble to the top would take place stood only a few feet above. One more pull and he'd be out of Marcus' sight. He'd be on the top. They'd done it! He peered back down, catching a last proud glimpse of his partner. God it tasted sweet!
Dusty made his move where the pitch slanted toward the peak and became less severe. He reached overhead, found a handhold, and pulled himself to the ledge. He raised his head, peaking over the lip. Dusty saw a flash of movement as the blunt head of a war club slammed into his forehead.
Everything went dark as his skull gave under the force and pushed the shattered bone into his brain above his eyebrows. He went limp as life disappeared. His body gave in to gravity, tipping away from the rock face, and tumbling into space. It bounced once, then twice, off the rock. His helmet cracked under the impact and echoed through the otherwise silent air.
Marcus heard the first impact, then the second, and stood holding the ropes in utter confusion as he saw the body of his climbing buddy go airborne overhead, race toward him skimming the slope of granite, then ricochet back into the wind like so much loose gravel.
An unfathomable instant passed. Then the line ripped Marcus up off his feet. It yanked him toward the summit, slammed his chin into the rock, and bounced his knees hard off the granite face. Marcus took the pain, shook it off, reacted. He pushed with his thighs, extended his legs, and forced his feet into position. Hanging horizontally, he broke his partner's fall and held him suspended in air.
“Now what?” Marcus' mind was racing. “Now what? Now what?”
Now a laugh, a deep and throaty laugh, rang out from the top of the mountain.
Marcus' pride, his oh-so-fleeting pride, vanished, overtaken by panic. His rope went slack.
Marcus, with Dusty dangling beneath, plummeted down the face of granite with the severed rope trailing like a pair of long, lonely tails.
On the far side of Lonesome Lake, two young women, climbers both, headed that way, had been surveying Pingora Peak and the climb they would soon be making. Both halted at the same instant as, unbelievably, they caught sight of two climbers falling. Awestruck, the girls could do nothing but watch as the bodies tumbled, bounced off the rock face, and finally slammed into the talus and scrub pine at the base.
Over the distance, over their own screams, the pair were unable to hear the low vicious laughter emanating from the summit of Pingora Peak.
Chapter 13
Lights still burned in the Museum of the National Park Ranger as Ranger Ron Franklin, Frankie to those who knew him, pulled into the lot and parked. Nothing new there. The staff began leaving inside lights on at night after a break-in five years ago. Then, after Bart Houser's death, they'd started making extra patrols of the area. Seemed odd, out there in the middle of nowhere, but you went where the trouble was. That night, there'd been trouble in spades. Franklin shivered at the memory.
Bart, a part-time ranger, had been a friend of Franklin's. They weren't bosom buddies, and certainly didn't share great secrets, but Bart was a fellow ranger with whom he'd been on friendly terms. His presence, and particularly his sense of humor, Franklin had enjoyed. Bart had good traits and, as they'd discovered, a dark side but his had been one hell of a way to die. Franklin shivered again. Anyway, they'd been making extra patrols of the museum ever since.
When working the day shift, Franklin made a habit of stopping at the museum and visiting with the volunteer staff, most of them retired chief rangers, park superintendents, and educators who'd worked parks all across the nation. He enjoyed the comradery. Besides there was an added benefit. The Park catered to millions of guests each year but less than 30,000 Yellowstone visitors found their way to the museum. For those rangers whose egos could survive that brutal fact, stopping for a soft drink and a chat was a pleasant momentary escape from the summer crowds.
Franklin climbed the long steps to the wide wooden boardwalk surrounding the facility. He paused to gaze at a few of the exhibits through the front windows, thinking how life had been rugged and isolated for the old boys stationed there in the early 1900s. He took the walk to the left around the old cabin making certain the building was secure, checking windows, and rattling doors.
The Gibbon River gurgled in the darkness to the south. Then he heard something else, something moving in the water. He spotted a creature by the bank, the silhouette of a mule deer frozen in place. He thought for a moment he'd startled it but, now Franklin saw, the deer was looking the other way into the darkness. It too had heard something in the river. Probably another critter but Franklin had to admit,
to himself at least, he didn't like the idea a bit. The mule deer didn't like the situation either. It darted to the left across the river and was gone. The ranger felt like doing the same. Chances were good it was a large predator.
The thought of a grizzly crossed his mind and he tried to push it aside as quickly as it came.
He wondered if he'd merely been hearing things? He would have calmed himself with that thought had it not been for the reaction of the deer. In spite of himself, Franklin's breath grew shallow and his heart rate increased. He could feel the adrenaline pumping as he instinctively prepared for fight or flight. He squinted hard into the darkness but could see nothing. He had no intention of wandering out to investigate. For what? The predators owned the park at night and they had no curfew. Instead he hurried back around the boardwalk in long quick strides. Time to move on.
He reached the front of the museum and stopped to listen. He heard nothing but he felt something. He couldn't begin to describe it. He felt the air pressing in, suffocating him, a dark foreboding that had no name and no visible explanation. Suddenly Franklin was genuinely frightened. He couldn't fathom where the feeling came from but years of working in law enforcement taught him one ironclad lesson, never second-guess your instincts. He let himself into the museum.
He locked the door behind him and looked out at the darkness searching for whatever it was that had so frightened him. He flipped the inside light switch, throwing himself into darkness, to better see out. Still nothing. He turned to find another window.
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