Читать книгу Public Trust - J. M. Mitchell - Страница 14

Jack stood by the truck, his pack stowed and sweat dripping from his brow, and watched as the crew drove up and stopped.

Johnny Reger climbed out of the 6-pack, and gave him a funny look. “Man, you look awful. About a quart low.”

“A little more coffee would be nice, but I’m alright.”

“I was thinking beer. You should’ve been with us last night. Lots happening.”

“Oh, I had a good time up here.”

“Jack, we’re worried about you. We think you’re a lonely man. We decided we’re gonna see it as our job to take care of you. We think you need a woman, or a few beers, or both.”

He frowned. “I’m going to work.” He grabbed his vest and charged off, to get away from such talk.

It was another hot day. When it was done, Jack resisted another invitation to Elena’s, but followed the crew down off the plateau.

The curves of the road failed to completely hold his attention. He began thinking about the Chamber of Commerce meeting and what he would say, and how he would answer the questions Mack Latham said he would get, most likely about the National Monument and how it would affect the local tourism economy.

Damn. Why couldn’t Joe find someone else to cover that meeting? He had other people to turn to.

At least this meeting would not be contentious.

— • —

On Wednesday morning, in dress uniform, Jack drove into town. The uniform felt a bit much for Las Piedras, but Joe Morgan would have expected it.

He found a place to park the government pickup, and entered the Inn of the Canyons by way of the porte-cochere, a stucco and timber some such designed to take on the flavor of the Southwest. Its elements of grandeur, combined perhaps to attract the wealthy and well heeled, seemed strangely out of place.

The sign in the lobby said the Chamber was meeting in the Cañon Room. Jack walked past the registration desk, the concierge, and the lounge, and hung a right at the hall leading to the meeting rooms.

He stopped at the door and looked inside. Sunlight reflected down the length of a conference table. Chairs were set around it, three to a side, and one each at the heads of the table. There was ample space between them, and more chairs against the walls.

He was not sure just whom he expected, but the attendees somehow put him on edge. In addition to Mack Latham, standing just inside the door, Jack recognized a couple of county commissioners, Wayne Enslow, and a few people he’d seen around town. Others looked like ranchers. It was not a large group, maybe a dozen.

Latham saw him at the door. “Come on in Jack,” he said. He extended an arm and shook hands.

Somehow this did not look like a Chamber of Commerce meeting. Jack remembered something he had heard about the innkeeper, about him needing to improve his bottom line. This market was not proving to be as lucrative as investors had hoped. But surely this meeting wouldn’t be about that.

“You’ve met Wayne Enslow?” Latham asked.

Enslow turned to him.

“Hello, Mr. Enslow,” Jack said. “I sent you that proclamation.”

“Yes, I got it,” Enslow said. He turned away.

Latham walked him past Enslow. “How about Tom Herrera and Helen Waite, our county commissioners?”

“Yes, we’ve met,” Jack said to Herrera. He shook his hand.

He looked surprised. “We have?”

Obviously Herrera wasn’t one to remember the little people. “Only once,” Jack said. He turned and shook hands with Waite. “I was with Joe Morgan.”

“Oh, yes,” Herrera said, as if he remembered.

“How about a cup of coffee, Jack,” Latham asked.

“That would be good.” He followed, giving the county commissioners one last nod. Were they always at Chamber of Commerce meetings?

Latham led him to the service table along the back wall, stopping beside a man drawing coffee from the silver coffee urn. The man’s well-made, Western cut sport coat gave him the appearance of an elected official or a comfortable stockman. The latter was such a rare thing to see these days. Must be a politician. Tall and solid, maybe in his sixties, hair gray and well groomed, there was something about him.

The man finished preparing his coffee and spun around. He looked Jack in the eye. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said. The expression on his face was cordial, but not warm.

“I don’t believe we have. I’m Jack Chastain.”

“Kip Culberson,” the man said. He shifted his cup to the other hand, and offered his right.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Jack said, as he shook hands with the man. It was a firm handshake. He was certain he had heard the name before.

“I’m sorry Kip,” Latham interjected. “I assumed you two knew each other.”

“We do now,” Culberson said. He moved past, and around to the other side of the table.

Kip Culberson. “How do I know that name?” Jack whispered to Latham.

“Rancher. Former state senator. Still involved in politics. Long family ties to the area.”

“Thanks.” Jack watched Culberson take a chair against the wall. More of what he knew of the man began to come to him. Culberson’s ranch abutted the park, sandwiched between the park and part of the new national monument. He was someone the agency was extremely careful about. Culberson knew how to get what he wanted. So, why would he be at a chamber of commerce meeting?

Latham led him back to the head of the table. Jack took the seat to his left.

“Welcome to The Inn of the Canyons,” Latham said, bringing the meeting to order. “Jack Chastain of the Park Service has joined us. I think we all know each other here.” He looked around the table. “Anyone need an introduction?”

No one asked. Jack saw faces he did not know, but he saw no point in asking for names.

“Jack, a lot is up in the air with the new National Monument. We wanted to have this little meeting--this discussion--with the Park Service, to pass on some things,” Latham said. His words were so deliberate, they sounded rehearsed. “We want the agency to know some imperatives in managing the monument...if it is to be a good neighbor to the community.”

Imperatives? Jack felt his heart pick up pace.

Latham continued. “Piedras Coloradas National Park has been here since early in the past century. But the National Monument is all very new, and frankly, the way the past president went about creating it has the potential to affect major plans for the people of this community.” He looked around the table. “Is that a fair characterization?”

That was the only opening needed by Helen Waite, the county commissioner. “We are offended by the federal government creating this National Monument,” she said angrily. She thumped a bony finger on the table. “We haven’t been involved in the least. We had no chance to participate in anything. We weren’t involved in deciding which lands would be in it, where the boundaries would be located, how it would be managed, anything. If I had my way I would have Congress cancel it.”

“Revoke it,” Herrera said.

“Whatever. The Park Service can work with us, or if they won’t, we’ll go straight to Congress. And by working with us, I mean working with us to complete the Canyon de Oro project. As planned.”

Wayne Enslow nodded at Waite.

“What do you have to say, Mr. Chastain?” Waite asked.

Jack looked around the table and back to Waite. “I’m sorry Madam Commissioner, but I’m not sure this is the proper forum for that kind of discussion.”

“There is no proper forum for these kinds of discussions,” boomed a voice from against the back wall.

All eyes turned in the direction of the voice. It was Kip Culberson.

“This is your classic smoke-filled room,” he continued. “But, we want you to take a message back to the Park Service. We expect you to work with us. Today you can ask questions, and you can listen to the answers. If there’s room for you to educate us, we’re here to let you do so. But, we’re expecting that education to be along the lines of how you can make things happen. If it’s not, we’ll elevate this matter to those who can do something. We’ll find someone who’ll cooperate.”

Jack looked around the room. All faces were on him. He had no idea how to respond.

Tom Herrera laid his palm on the table. “I’ll tell you the issues that are important to us. First--road access into Canyon de Oro. The project is extremely important to the people of this county. We want the Park Service to allow the construction of a road across the national monument and into the Enslow property.” He glanced in Enslow’s direction, and then back at Jack. “This is probably the single most important thing the Park Service can do to limit the impact of this new monument.” He stopped and glared, waiting for an answer.

The answer would not be an easy one to give. Jack tried not to look anxious, but he had to say something. “Mr. Herrera, here’s the background on building a road across the monument into Canyon de Oro,” Jack said. He hoped the rhythm of a detailed response would help. “When the President signed the proclamation establishing the National Monument, it included no provisions for a right of way across the monument. And, I have to be honest, there may be a reason for that. We’ve heard that one of the reasons why the President established the national monument had to do with the Canyon de Oro project, because so many people opposed it. I understand our solicitors have reviewed the language and all the lands records we’ve received from the Forest Service and BLM, and they’ve told us we don’t have the authority to grant a right of way across the monument for the purpose of allowing Mr. Enslow to develop Canyon de Oro. He already has access to his property. It may not be the road he wants, but it’s his access. If there’s not a public access reason for a road to be built in the new location, then we cannot construct or allow Mr. Enslow to construct a road to support that development.”

“That’s unacceptable,” Herrera said. “There has to be a better road into this project.”

“If you wanted to, you could find a way,” Latham said.

Jack drew in a deep breath. “If we tried to put in the road, we’d have to contend with endangered species issues. The Fuego Canyon tree frog is found along Deerfly Creek and in some of the other creeks in the area. It’s my understanding that Mr. Enslow will have to take the frog into account on his land as well.”

“No, it’s not on my land,” Enslow said quickly.

The comment was unexpected. Jack remembered someone, either in BLM or Fish and Wildlife Service, telling him that Enslow would need to consider the potential. Surely the creeks on his property were suitable habitat. “Are you sure?” Jack asked. "Have you ever had someone look into it?”

“Yes. They’re not there.”

Jack waited for more explanation. It was not going to come.

“And,” Helen Waite said loudly, “I will not stand by and let the Park Service close the road to Kip Culberson’s ranch. I will go straight to the new Administration and demand that someone get fired.”

“What?” Jack asked. “I don’t understand. The Park Service has no plans to close the road to Culberson Ranch.”

“We don’t believe you feds as far as we can throw you.” She tapped her fingers on a sheet of paper lying on the table.

“There never has been any talk of closing the road to Culberson Ranch. I’m sure Mr. Culberson has an old and valid right of way. We couldn’t close that road if we tried.”

“That’s not what this says.” She passed the paper to Jack.

It appeared to be something pulled from the internet. Jack looked up. Only then did he notice that everyone at the table had a copy. He quickly scanned. It did not pretend to be distributed by the National Park Service, the Department of Interior, or any other official source, but the wording was authoritative. He skipped to the second paragraph and read:

'The National Park Service is planning to close all roads in Piedras Coloradas National Monument, and to restrict all activities. The closures will include the roads to Culberson and Ramirez Ranches, and the new road planned for the Canyon de Oro Estates project. When the National Park Service implements these plans, the...'

Jack could not go on. He sat the page on the table. “This is not...”

Kip Culberson interrupted. “You people have forgotten who you work for,” he said. His eyes glared. “How do we go about reminding you people that you work for us? These public lands are not for you government types, they’re for the American public.”

“Mr. Culberson, I’m sure you’re worried, especially after seeing this, but it’s not based on fact. Someone’s mistaken. We have no plans to close the road to your ranch. We couldn’t. We know that. I don’t know who posted that information, but this is the first I’ve seen it. Whoever wrote it was either misinformed or trying to misrepresent the situation.”

“That’s not good enough. We can’t trust you,” he said. The anger kept reaching new highs. “You people are up to something. All this road business is tied together in some way. You may think you can run us out of here, but you can’t.”

Jack wanted to speak but he knew he would be repeating himself. Nothing was going to convince Culberson. Here was a man who believed the National Park Service was out to get him, and this was not a man they wanted to have angry. There was little Jack could do.

The discussion continued, in the form of shots fired at the Park Service and the Federal government, and with Jack trying to clarify and correct.

They did not buy any of it.

— • —

Jack ended his report. “I’m sorry Joe, but it caught me by surprise. You sent the wrong person. You or someone else should have gone to that meeting yesterday, not me.”

“I’m sure you did as well as possible, under the circumstances,” Morgan said. “That was not the stated purpose of the meeting as they described it to me. Something changed, and what concerns me most is that website saying we want to close Culberson’s road.”

“Do we?”

“Hell, no. I have no idea where that came from. I’ll have Marge find the website. Culberson is an influential man. We don’t need him being misinformed. Draft a letter for my signature saying we have no intention of closing that road.”

“I need to get to the plateau. I have the fire staff waiting for me.”

“Do it before you leave. And get someone trained up there to do what you’re doing. I’ll need you here in the office next week.”

“Joe, I’ve only got a few more days worth of work up there.”

“I’m going to need you here.”

— • —

“I don’t get it,” Johnny said. “What should I be seeing?”

“Sh-h-h. Just watch,” Jack said.

Thirty feed away, a Gray vireo flit along a branch, picking at needles in a low lying pinyon.

“Is it looking for insects?” Johnny whispered. “Hey, what’s that?”

Jack caught a flash of brown picking something out of the air. “Townsends Solitaire. Yes, it’s looking for insects. Both of them are.” He pointed. “How about the pinyon jay?”

The jay, hopping on the ground, gleaned through leaf litter alongside a downed limb.

“Seeds?”

“Yes, seeds, and possibly insects. So what am I trying to show you?”

“Leave some understory? And some dead and downed material? The little critters need some habitat?”

“Very good,” Jack said.

“Break up the canopy and reduce the fuel...but not all of it?”

“Correct.” Jack watched him study the scene. Reger would carry these lessons with him for the rest of his career, just as he himself had, after getting them years before under the wing of another teacher. Someday, Reger--in some colorful way--would pass them on to someone else.

At day’s end, the crew packed up, talking of another wild night at Elena’s. Jack watched them disappear around a bend in the road, and then pulled his pack out from under the tarp in the back of the pickup.

Caveras Creek. He needed it after the Chamber of Commerce meeting.

He changed into canvas shorts and a T-shirt, and made one last check of his equipment. He had the usual gear, plus a few pieces of specialized equipment--a climbing rope, a seat harness, some webbing, half a dozen locking carabiners and a figure-eight rappelling device. The trip into Caveras Creek was said to be worth it, but it ended with a 40-foot rappel over a waterfall.

He moved out quickly, heading north-northwest. Before long he was breaking sweat, even under the cover of pine and fir. After nearly an hour of rolling terrain, he came to a ridge overlooking a drainage. He checked the map. This was Caveras Creek. Going in from the head of the creek would be easier, but it would take longer. Let’s get to water, he thought. He dropped off the ridge, and bushwhacked through Gamble oak, picking his way down to the creek.

Caveras Creek was running. Good. He headed downstream, having to wade, but the stream was shallow and cool. He grew anxious to find the pools.

The creek gradient picked up and he found himself having to rock hop and scramble down and around cascades framed by the deepening, red-rock canyon.

Around a bend, the canyon walls narrowed. No more than six feet apart, light peeked in from beyond the confines of the canyon. The creek appeared to drop away into thin air. He moved toward the light and emerged from the canyon. He crept to the edge.

There they were. Pools, terraced by travertine, filled with blue waters. The largest spilled into others. They in turn poured into even smaller ones, until finally, in the distance, the waters came together again to reform Caveras Creek and continue their way down the canyon.

The splatter of water against water and stone echoed off the walls. Below his feet, the ledge rounded so gradually that he could not see any more than the top of the waterfall.

He moved along the ledge, trying to get a better look, hoping to see dry land below. It didn’t help, and the ledge was supposedly rounded on the underside as well. The end of the rappel would be free--suspended only on the rope until he reached bottom. Depending on the tree used for an anchor, he could end up rappelling either into a pool or onto dry land, if there really was any. He’d been assured there was. He wasn’t sure he wanted to tread water with a pack on, but he also didn’t want to risk lowering it into the pool. He decided to wear it down. He walked to the end of the ledge, and picked an upslope ponderosa to use as an anchor.

He pulled off his pack and dug out his seat harness. Then, he took a piece of one-inch webbing and wrapped it several times around the trunk of the ponderosa, and knotted the ends together. He checked the knots twice, and took two locking carabiners and clipped them into the webbing, orienting their gates in opposite directions. Unwinding the climbing rope, he found its center, tied a figure-eight knot, clipped it into the opposing carabiners and locked them down. Next, he dug out his figure-eight rappelling device, fed the strands of rope through, and clipped it into his harness. He put on his pack.

Ready to go.

He started to yell, ‘look out below’ before tossing the rope over the side but didn’t. The notion seemed silly. He tossed the rope, and watched its coils disappear below the edge.

He backed away from the anchor, tightening the rope. The rock curved at his feet. He approached the edge, feeding rope through the figure-eight and putting distance between himself and the anchor. He planted his feet and released more rope. His rear lowered until his legs were horizontal to the ground below. He saw sand. Good--that was the right tree.