at Mile 39.
“But fortunately the dam didn’t happen,” he said, “thanks to some heavy-duty ads by the Sierra Club.”
“David Brower, to be more accurate,” Mitchell noted.
“Who’s that?” Susan asked Jill, not wanting to publicize her lack of knowledge. But Mitchell overheard.
“Are you kidding? President of the Sierra Club? The man who sacrificed Glen Canyon? Though he was very contrite about it,” Mitchell said.
“He was indeed,” said JT, catching Abo’s eye.
“Said it was his biggest regret,” Mitchell continued. “I met David Brower once. Fairly intelligent guy. Look—is that it?”
Far up on the left, a miniature debris fan spilled out of a darkened cavity in the cliff.
“Hope no ones claustrophobic,” Mitchell joked.
They headed toward shore, and JT found himself wondering if he should simply let Mitchell take over this side excursion, since he knew so much about it. But his stubborn streak prevailed, and so, as they disembarked from the boats, he heard himself giving orders—telling Abo to stay at the boats with Ruth and Lloyd, reminding everyone else to clip their life jackets to something stable.
“Can the dog come?” Sam asked.
JT didn’t see a problem with this. “Here,” and he tossed Sam a short length of rope. “Make a leash.”
In single file they hiked up a path and headed into the tunnel, gingerly stepping over rocks and puddles and groping each other for balance. As it grew darker they slowed to a shuffle, their murmurs and laughter echoing off the dank walls. It smelled wet and tinny. They rounded a corner, and the last glint of daylight vanished; now there was just JT’s flashlight at the head of the line, bobbing in the darkness. The air was cool. Water dripped, unseen. Evelyn stumbled. Mitchell steadied her.
“Thank you,” Evelyn whispered.
“Why are we whispering?” whispered Peter.
Eventually JT stopped, and people gathered around as he beamed his flashlight up and pointed out the air shaft.
“Can everyone see?”
“Excuse me,” said Mitchell, “excuse me,” and he squeezed through the group to crouch and aim his camera straight up. (“Sure hope you’ll send me a copy of that,” Peter said.) The flash went off, startling everyone—including the dog, who wrenched free from Sam’s grasp and trotted back the way they’d come. By the time JT shone his flashlight in that direction, the dog had vanished.
“Oh, well,” said JT. “Not a big deal. But maybe we should all head back.”
“No, wait! Turn your flashlight off!” said Mitchell.
So JT took the time to switch off his flashlight, to give them a sense of total darkness. The air seemed inexplicably warmer, and with hushed murmurs they craned their necks this way and that.
“Okay,” said JT, “party’s over. Let’s get back before Ruth and Lloyd drink up all the beer.”
For some reason it seemed much shorter going out. The air warmed with each step, and there was the strange sensation of traveling from one time period to the next. Mitchell informed them that the Ebola virus originated in bat caves. JT told them this wasn’t a bat cave. Mitchell said you never knew about these things but hey, he wasn’t concerned. Eventually they turned a corner, and a circle of light appeared.
And with it, the unmistakable smell of skunk.
It rolled over them, thick and pungent, cloaking them in a toxic cloud. There were groans and cries, then pushing and shoving as they all spilled out into the hot white light. And there was the dog, lying on the path with his nose between his paws.
“You’re shittin’ me,” said JT.
Abo came running up the hillside.
“I couldn’t stop him!” he said breathlessly. “We were watching the skunk from the boat, we could just barely see it in the bushes and nobody was moving and Ruth was getting some great pictures and then the damn dog comes running and barking down the hill!”
“Sam, stop!” Jill said sharply.
Sam knelt in the gravel, ten feet from the dog.
JT scratched the back of his neck. He didn’t know what to say. He stared at the dog. He put his hands on his hips.
“Got tomato juice?” asked Peter.
“You damn dog,” JT said. “You goddamn dog.”
They had to break into the lower reaches of the drop box to find the case of V8. One by one, JT popped open the cans and poured the juice into a bailing bucket, and with Abo holding the dog’s head and Peter grasping his hind end, JT doused the dog and massaged the V8 into his fur.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen an animal look so absolutely pitiful,” Mitchell observed.
The bath did nothing