by Frank Hughes
Two miles later the road leveled and entered a wide valley. Dead ahead was the ugly, narrow wound of Diablo Canyon, the entrance guarded by a skeletal steel tower. In the darkness of the canyon a yellow ball of light was descending.
The road curved away from the mountain and I saw the airfield, its perimeter marked by a cyclone fence topped with razor wire. The single runway was snow free. A little yellow tractor was towing a white and blue G5 towards one of the two hangars. Next to the control tower was a four door garage containing enough snow removal equipment for a small city.
The road turned away from the airstrip, back towards the mountain. Half a mile later we stopped in front of the cable car station, a modern concoction of glass, native stone, and gleaming Glulam beams. The central part of the roof angled up towards the mountain. Three cables ran to the first tower and beyond. The ball of light I had seen in the distance was now recognizable as a cable car.
It was about thirty degrees colder than in town. I zipped the parka all the way up and pulled on my ski gauntlets. Everyone seemed to be waiting for me to do something, so I trotted up the stone steps to the door. That short journey reminded me I was not yet used to the altitude. I was huffing and puffing while I held the door for Ms. Ricasso, who passed through without a thank you.
The waiting area boasted a cocktail lounge worthy of a country club. The front wall was glass, providing a spectacular view of the canyon and the cable car, which was now passing the first tower. Rather than the traditional rectangle I associated with Alpine ropeways, this car was round, with a flat bottom and convex roof. A brace or bumper of silver pipe surrounded the lower portion of the cabin, intersecting near both ends with identical pipes that looped around vertically.
“This way,” said Ms. Ricasso.
I followed her into the loading area and we waited in silence, watching the cable car approach at what seemed an alarming rate of speed. When it was about thirty feet out, the hum of the hauling machinery slowed and the cabin slowed smoothly, covering the remaining distance almost daintily. The cabin settled into its berth with a muffled thump. The whirring died to a whisper and the thick haul cable stopped moving.
I had no idea what to expect. An angry Jeffrey Boyd? A rush of armed goons? Herr Kohl in full SS Regalia? I braced myself.
The doors of the cabin purred open and I was blinded by a flash of light. Through the blue dots swimming before my eyes, I saw a tiny woman exit the cabin holding a digital camera. The flash went off again. When my vision cleared, the first thing I saw was a dazzling smile.
“Hi! You must be Nick. Welcome to Diablo Canyon,” she said. “I’m Cory.”
26.
Cory Canfield was barely five feet tall, but she radiated energy like a nuclear reactor. For such a tiny woman, she had a spectacular figure, which her tight black pants and clinging turtleneck sweater did nothing to hide. Her face was angelic, the olive skin smooth and flawless, the dark eyes skillfully made up. Her thick mane of shiny black hair was corralled in a ponytail.
“Mrs. Canfield,” I said, “a pleasure to meet you.”
“Oh, call me Cory,” she said, grabbing my hand and shaking it three times with great emphasis. She cranked out another high wattage smile for Ms. Ricasso. “Hi, Izzy!”
I looked at Ms. Ricasso, eager to see the explosion, but she managed something approximating a smile and nodded, probably not trusting herself to speak.
“I must say I’m a little surprised to be greeted by a senator’s wife,” I said, retrieving my hand.
“Oh, gosh, I love riding on this thing.” She held up the camera. “I’m trying to get pictures of the canyon at every time of day. The changes are amazing.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Photography is kind of a hobby of mine. I’m afraid it drives everyone nuts.”
“I’d love to see your pictures.”
She did some excited hops that caused the ponytail, among other things, to bounce up and down rhythmically. “Really? That would be great. I’ve got them on the Internet. We can use one of the computers.”
“Mrs. Canfield,” said Ms. Ricasso, “we should be going.”
“Oh gosh, Izzy, you’re right.” She waved me into the cabin. “Come on, Nick. You’re going to love this.” She turned and went in, clapping her hands in anticipation.
I looked at Ms. Ricasso, who rewarded me with her usual look of stony impassivity.
The passenger compartment had less head room than I would have expected, considering the overall size of the vehicle. Plush leather upholstered seats surrounded a central column, all facing out. This arrangement left plenty of standing room against the bulkhead, where a leather wrapped handrail was bolted just beneath the windows.
“Come on, Nick,” said Cory, “I know the best place to sit.”
She very nearly skipped along the carpeted deck to the opposite end of the cabin where there was another set of doors and a small console with a red telephone. Cory picked up the phone and pressed a button.
“Hi, it’s Cory. We’re ready.” After a pause she said in a slightly dejected tone. “Oh, okay.”
“Something wrong?” I said.
“She smiled and replaced the phone.” No, we have to wait while they fill the water.”
“Water?”
“Yeah.” She stamped her foot twice on the deck. “We carry fresh water up every time, mostly for the emergency supply, especially after the fire. The whole bottom part of the car is a water tank. It helps stabilize the cabin, too. Ballast, I think you call it.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you need to carry water up? Why not just capture rainwater or melt snow?”
She looked at me, astonished. “You really don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“It’s illegal in Colorado for us to capture rainwater.”
“You’re kidding.”
She shook her head. “Water belongs to everyone. If people started collecting rain water the aquifer would be even more depleted than it is already.” She leaned in close. “And it’s pretty bad already. Global warming.” She sat back up, nodding her head as if I’d raised an objection. “We’re in a serious drought.”
“Reminds me of a saying I heard once.”
“What was that?’
“Out west whisky’s for drinking and water’s for fighting over.”
She seemed puzzled for a moment, then sat back and laughed. “Oh, gosh, that’s good. I’ll have to tell Jack that one.”
We sat in silence until a thought hit me.
“What do they carry down?” I said.
“What do what carry down?”
“The cable car. If you use water as ballast on the way up, what do you use on the way down?”
She thought for a moment. “You know, I don’t know. Let me ask.”
She jumped up and went to the phone again. After a brief pause, she repeated my question. The answers apparently fascinated her.
“Oh. Oh! Really! That is interesting. Thank you so much… Oh, okay!” She hung up the phone and turned to me, shivering with anticipation. She clapped her hands lightly. “We’re going to start.”
She returned to the seat next to me. I was acutely aware of her perfume and the warmth that radiated off her. Senator Canfield was either the happiest man alive or ready to shoot himself. Ms. Ricasso stood at the other end of the car, watching us with an expression that never changed. I began to wonder if she had forgotten to peel off a facial mask.
“So,” said Cory, “do you want to know what I learned?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, the ballast isn’t necessary, unless the wind gets to hurricane force. That’s why the car is shaped so funny, so the wind bends around it and it doesn’t blow into the towers. You know, old cable cars are sort of square, so wind gusts really affect them. This one is designed for winds up to seventy-five miles an hour, but he told me that if the wind gets over fifty here, they don’t empty the tank when they get to the top.”
Just then a bell rang twice. A few moments later, the cabin jerked slightly and we accelerated smoothly out of the berth. As soon as we cleared the station, the floor and seats began to rotate.
“Isn’t this cool?” said Cory, in a tone worthy of a twelve year old. “I always sit here, because it brings you around at the perfect time to see the view down the canyon. It’s spectacular.”
“Good,” I said.
The first tower swept by, with only a few gentle bumps to mark our passage over the guide wheels.
“Did you feel that?” she asked.
“Ummm, yes.”
“When the car passes over the pylon, it changes the tension on the cable. There is this huge concrete block, gosh, it weighs tons, that helps maintain the tension on the guide wires. It’s really weird looking, with big holes in it. I’ll show it to you.”
“Thanks. That would be great.”
We entered the maw of Diablo Canyon, where the narrow walls and angled winter sun resulted in something close to twilight. The sheer granite was shot through with cracks and fissures, accented here and there with ice falls. The deep snow could not hide the fact that the canyon floor passing beneath us was strewn with jagged shards of stone and massive boulders that had fallen from the rock face.
We rode along in silence for a few minutes, the seats slowly moving down the cabin. Considering it was nearly empty, it seemed a little odd that we were sitting so close together, but who was I to complain? Her shoulder was pressed against mine, but maybe she was cold. I just hoped she kept her eyes on the passing scenery and did not notice the involuntary proof that I was not immune to a little feminine stimulation.
“Gosh, that’s huge!” she suddenly exclaimed.
“Who, what?” I felt the blood rush to my face.
She jumped out of her seat and went to the window. “Look at that ice fall!”
She pointed at a frozen waterfall, whose thick frosty stalactites extended hundreds of feet towards the canyon floor.
“I’ve got to get a picture of that,” said Cory.
She pushed open one of the windows. Air blasted into the cabin. Caught off balance, she stumbled back, falling into my arms, her body pressing against mine. I caught her, my hand briefly cupping one lovely breast as I lifted her to her feet.
“Wow. Thanks,” she said, collecting herself. “I didn’t expect that wind to be so strong.” She held up her right hand to show the camera dangling from her wrist. “Good thing I was wearing the strap.”
“Absolutely,” I said.
I glanced back at Ms. Ricasso. I’d seen lions on Animal Planet watch passing gazelles with the same expression.
“Okay, I’m going to try again,” said Cory. She stepped up to the window. “Oh, darn. I wish I wasn’t so small.” She turned to me. “Can you do me a big favor?”
“Sure. I think.”
“Can you lift me up so I can get this shot?”
I looked over at Ms. Ricasso. “Gee, I’m not sure.”
“Oh, come on, Nick. Please? I’m going to miss it.”
“Alright.”
She smiled and turned back to the window with a little hop. I placed both hands on her waist and lifted her into the air. While I tried to remember the number of the commandment I was breaking, she snapped merrily away.
“Okay. I’m done. Thanks.”
I set her gently down and she turned, her breasts lightly brushing me just below the rib cage. She didn’t seem to notice, focused as she was on scrolling through the pictures she had just taken.
“Great, great. I got it. Look at that.”
She thrust the camera into my face. It did indeed show a picture of the ice fall, in focus but indifferently framed.
“Very nice.”
“Thanks! Come on.”
She led me back to our seats, which had continued their slow progress towards the opposite end of the cabin.
“So, Cory, tell me, is the senator here with you?”
“No, but he will be. He’s flying in today for the party.”
“Party?”
“Yes. We’re having a dinner party for some people tonight.”
“Is that right? Anyone interesting?”
“Not really. Just the mayor and the EPA guys, and some other people from the town.”
“The police chief?”
“I hope so. I really like Catherine.”
The cabin shuddered slightly as we crossed another tower. Our seats were now facing back down the canyon.
“Isn’t that an amazing view?” said Cory.
Indeed it was, although it was like looking out from the mouth of a crocodile.
“Oh, look, I bet that’s Jack!” cried Cory.
I followed her pointing finger. Sunlight flashed off the wings of a small jet as it settled onto the airstrip.
“Is he coming from Washington?”
“No,” said Cory. “Arizona. He’s been down there speaking about the border.”
“That’s a big deal for him, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, her tone very serious. “Jack believes that border security is the most important issue of our time, what with the drug violence in Mexico, illegal immigration, and the ongoing threat of terrorism.”
“He may be right,” I said.
Someone must have helped her memorize the talking points, I thought unkindly. Equally cynical was my thought that it was handy for Canfield to have a Latina wife when his core issue was policing the border with Mexico. She added credibility to the claim that his only concern was national security. Nevertheless, he was probably smart to leave her on a mountaintop when he was out talking policy. No telling what might come out of her mouth when she got wound up.
The cabin abruptly filled with sunshine as we climbed above the enveloping arms of Diablo Canyon. The distant mountains were given dramatic counterpoint by the thick stands of conifer trees sweeping by on the nearby slope. A spot of color caught my eye, a skier in one of those orange staff parkas. I watched in awe as he effortlessly navigated a narrow, steep ski trail that skirted the cliff edge, protected only by a low wooden fence.
“That’s Corrida del Diablo,” said Cory.
“Devil’s Run,” I said, half to myself.
“A triple black diamond.” She looked at me. “You speak Spanish?”
“Enough to order groceries in a bodega.”
“You’re funny,” she said, laughing. “Do you ski?”
“Not like that.”
“I know what you mean. It’s very dangerous. I asked Jack to stay away from that trail.”
I watched the skier, wondering how he stayed on his feet in such tortured terrain. Then the trail curved away from the cliff, and he vanished into the trees.
“Oh, come on, Nick,” said Cory, grabbing my hand. “This is really cool.” She dragged me to the other end of the cabin. “We’re actually going inside the mountain.”
Ahead was a sheer cliff. The only break in the gray wall was a bright, rectangular cave guarded by a sloping roof, about thirty feet below the crest. Inside was the cable car station.
“That’s part of the bar,” said Cory, pointing up.
Directly above the station sunlight reflected off tall windows right at the edge of the cliff.
“Must be a helluva view,” I said.
“Oh, the restaurant is better. You can see the ski area and the whole town.”
The cabin began to slow as we approached the tramway station. The berth was nearly identical to the one below. Twin pipes, about five inches in diameter, protruded about a foot from the concrete wall just below the doors in each berth. The angle was slightly suggestive, but maybe it was my mood.
We rode the last few feet into the cavern at a gentle rate of speed and came to a smooth halt with no hint of wobble. Several seconds later, the doors facing the station hissed open. I turned to let Cory by. She shook her head and gave me that big smile.
“No, you go ahead. I’m going down to meet Jack.” She stuck out he
r hand. “It was great meeting you, Nick.”
“The pleasure was all mine,” I said.
I took her hand, and on the spur of the moment, decided to imitate Herr Kohl. I bent slightly at the waist and raised her hand to my lips. Damned if she didn’t giggle, too. The old boy might have something with this hand kissing stuff. Ms. Ricasso studiously ignored us, brushing past me into the station. As she did so, the warning bell rang twice. I released Cory’s hand and exited the cabin.
The upper tramway station was Spartan compared to the one at the bottom, an odd mixture of Flintstones and Star Wars. A little over two stories tall and about seventy feet deep, the walls were mostly bare rock. The reinforced concrete boarding platform was identical to the base station, but it seemed to grow right out of the granite. The cables disappeared into an opening in the back wall. Just below them, looking down on the platform, was the control room for the tramway, shielded by a window of thick Plexiglas. A man in a high backed chair worked the console. It occurred to me that this was the reverse of the usual arrangement. Ropeways were normally operated from the base; here control was reserved to those on the mountain.
A servo whined, followed by the clank of heavy machinery engaging. I heard a whisper of sound and looked up to see the tow cable start moving. The cabin left the bay with a sound like champagne corks popping. After a gentle start, it sank swiftly towards the valley floor.
“Craig!”
Jeffrey Boyd was approaching from elevator doors at the back of the station. Ms Ricasso stood patiently a few feet behind me.
“I told you to stay away from Colorado,” Boyd said, when he reached me. Before I could answer, he looked over my shoulder and said, “That will be all for now, Ms. Ricasso.”