by Amy Waeschle
“Station M06, here we come,” Cassidy said.
Two
Mt. St. Helens, Washington
October 21, 2014, 2:41 p.m.
“Ready?” Cassidy said from inside her jerry-rigged bee protection suit. They had arrived at their last station, M03, to discover a baseball-sized wasp nest affixed to the back of the solar panel mount.
“Ready,” Pete said from his post fifteen feet away.
A steady, soft breeze ushered the welcome promise of a cool evening. Cassidy was so hot and sweaty inside the black garbage bag pulled over her torso and the bug hood tucked into her zip-neck polypropylene hiking shirt that she felt like she might melt.
“You sure you don’t want me to do it?” Pete asked as Cassidy walked to the back of the panel mount.
“Yes,” she replied. “This is why they pay me the big bucks,” she added with false cheer. If only they hadn’t lost the can of Raid.
The seismic station’s wires, car battery, and Pelican box were already packed into the litter and the fragile seismometer was wrapped up carefully in the external frame backpack. All that remained was this last solar panel and the mount.
“Okay,” Cassidy said, her gloved hands lifting the shovel blade so it rested underneath the grey, papery nest. Wasps buzzed in and out. She applied a small amount of pressure, hoping to lift the nest just enough to break the seal of wasp spit or whatever the little demons used as glue. But the nest didn’t move. She stepped closer and readjusted her angle to use the side edge of the blade. A few more wasps exited the nest, buzzing around the shovel handle. Pulses of fear pumped through Cassidy’s bloodstream.
“How’s it going?” Pete called from the other side of the mount.
“Fine,” Cassidy called back, her voice sounding high. She added a bit more upward pressure to the shovel and felt something give. Bees flooded out of the hive, ramming the shovel handle, her arms, and flew around her head, their aggressive buzzing crowding into her ears. A sensation of panic gripped her as the swarm made it difficult to see. While watching her feet to make sure she didn’t trip as she walked gingerly away from the station, she felt the first sting on her thigh. “Ow!” she yelped. Another sting, this one behind her knee. Were they getting inside her pants somehow? Or stinging her through the thin fabric? A few more steps, she thought, and I can put it down. A sharp burn on her collarbone made her jump and it took everything she had not to drop the shovel. Were they getting into her shirt? Breathing fast, she hurried, taking just a few more steps, but something caught her left toe and she stumbled. More bees flooded out of the hive. Panicked now, Cassidy lowered the nest into a hollow beneath a layer of downed logs. She felt more stings: her legs, the back of her neck, her head—how were they getting through her hat?—then she slid the shovel out and ran.
“Big bucks, huh?” Pete said as they pulled the litter to a stop at the back of the Suburban a little before five p.m. They were both hot and exhausted. She caught a whiff of Pete’s salty skin tinged with forest dust and wondered what she smelled like. A welt from an errant blackberry vine marked Pete’s cheek. His arms glowed pink and his right knee poked out of his pant leg from a deep rip after a tumble. Cassidy knew she probably looked as beat up—sunburned nose, bruised knees, and a blister on her left heel, plus seven wasp stings that had swollen to the size of silver dollars.
“And the fame,” she said, laughing. “Don’t forget about that part.”
Despite the trials of the day, she felt exhilarated. They had packed up three stations in eleven hours. She would never have been able to accomplish such a feat with an undergrad field assistant. The difference was Pete. Most graduate students possessed superhuman strength during field days, and Pete’s drive was at least that even though this wasn’t his project.
“I have some Benadryl in my first-aid kit if you want,” he said, eying the row of stings on her collarbone.
“Thanks,” she said, collapsing onto the tailgate with her water bottle. His compassionate expression unsettled her. “But I’m afraid it’ll make me too tired for the drive.”
“I can drive if you want.”
“I wish,” she replied. “But if anything happened and they found out I wasn’t driving . . . ”
Pete nodded. “Sure, but if you were really hurt—”
“I’m okay,” she said to cut him off. She wasn’t used to anyone fussing over her, and his attention was making her uncomfortable.
After driving halfway down the mountain road with all of the windows open and the evening air cool against her parched skin, Cassidy remembered the waterfall. She had only been there once, with her advisor and two other graduate students a year ago. Where was it? She had been thinking more about the shower and cold beer waiting for her at the motel. She snuck a glance at Pete, who had one arm resting on the window ledge and the other in his lap, his gaze straight ahead.
“What?” he said, catching her.
“How are you with surprises?” she asked.
He raised a dusty eyebrow. “What kind of question is that?”
Cassidy grinned. “I guess I’m asking if you want to know the surprise, or if you’d rather I tell you.”
“If you told me, then it wouldn’t be a surprise.” His eyes danced with amusement.
Cassidy laughed, though not sure why this conversation was so funny. “Okay,” she said. “Then are you good with a little side trip?”
Pete’s eyes turned steely with intrigue.
“That is if I can find it—and that’s a big ‘if’,” Cassidy added.
Cassidy parked the Suburban on the narrow pullout at the side of the gravel road. The slow creep of dusk had cooled the air another notch since they left their last field site, and the soft blue sky deepened further towards indigo with each passing minute. In an hour the sun would dip beneath the horizon, and they would be driving in the dark.
“I think this is it,” Cassidy said, glancing at Pete. “It’s a short walk and if I’m right it’ll be worth it.”
“Lead the way,” Pete said with a supportive nod. They exited the Suburban and the slam of their car doors sounded extra loud in the silent landscape.
Instead of towels, she brought her fleece shirt and an extra long-sleeved T-shirt. Pete copied her then fell in behind on the faint dirt path. Because this section of the forest had been clear-cut decades ago and replanted, their path snaked through slender Douglas Fir of uniform height crowded by leggy alders and huckleberry. Across the valley, the hills rose up in a bare patchwork of green, grey, and tan swaths of deforestation, the lines between each section sharp as a knife.
After a few moments, she heard the trickling of the creek. She wondered if the loggers ever stopped their tree cutting to frolic in the cool water. The thought of big, bearded males in the buff with the waterfall mist coating their beer bellies made her giggle.
The trail rounded a curve of land, and then the sound of the falls filled the air. A moment later they stopped at the base of a black rock shelf. Above, white ribbons of water cascaded down like a bridal veil and landed in a small pool about ten feet in diameter. A thin buffer of old-growth trees bordered the slope opposite the creek, but beyond them the landscape was scraped bare. It certainly wasn’t the most breathtaking waterfall she had ever seen, but seeing it amidst such devastation made it special.
“Nicely done,” Pete exclaimed as they gathered at the edge of the pool. Cassidy sat in the dirt to remove her boots.
“How’d you find this place?” he asked, tugging off his socks and placing them on a nearby rock.
“My advisor did. He’s been coming out here for decades.”
Cassidy zipped off the legs of her trekking pants. While raising the hem of her shirt, she felt suddenly self-conscious. Was it weird that she was about to be half-naked in a mountain pool, alone with him? She glanced at Pete, who was stepping out of his pants to reveal blue plaid boxers, looking completely unconcerned. Cassidy put the thought out of her mind. Pete was a professional, here to get a story
, that’s all. She stripped to her sports bra and moved slowly over the sharp rocks, the cold mountain water soothing her sticky, hot skin. Pete caught up but the sharp rocks didn’t seem to bother his feet as he rushed past her and plunged face first into the five-foot deep pool.
He surfaced with a splash. “Great Scott!” he bellowed.
Cassidy laughed, deep enough in the water now to feel her core temperature dropping delightfully. Once the water reached up to her belly, she slowly sank in to her neck, savoring every inch of the cold.
When she emerged after dunking her head, Pete was floating on his back, his arms sculling like oars to keep him afloat.
Cassidy sighed in contentment. She scrubbed at her arms, feeling the dirt melt away, then dunked her head again and rubbed at her forehead and temples. Salt crystals rolled beneath her fingertips. “I think we earned this,” she said. She grew quiet for a moment, thinking about how much he had impressed her. Never complaining, keeping up with her stride for stride, load for load, almost as if he relished the work. “Thanks for being such a workhorse today. Fieldwork isn’t easy.”
“Bah,” he said, “it beats farm work any day.”
“You said it’s a vineyard, now, right?” Cassidy remembered his explanation about the three different plots of land his parents farmed, each with a unique combination of soil and climate.
“Yeah. But when I was a kid it was vegetables, and we had a small dairy.”
Cassidy tried to picture Pete as a teenager, milking cows before going to school, or working a plow beneath a hot summer sun. No wonder his arms were so muscular, she thought, sneaking a look at his firm, naked torso.
“Well, I could use about three more of you,” she said. “If you ever want to switch careers and become a geologist, let me know.”
“Ha!” he guffawed. “That’s a very kind offer,” he teased. “And I have the utmost respect for what you do, but I’d go crazy crunching data and waiting years to write the story. I don’t have enough patience for that.”
Cassidy had never thought about it that way, but it made sense. Publishing results in the scientific world could take years, and though frustrating, she didn’t envy Pete, who was under the gun to come up with new story ideas every day.
“You ever ski Helens?” he asked, nodding his head in the general direction of the summit.
“No, but the ski club usually offers a trip in the spring. I might go next year if I’m not in Sicily.” Cassidy’s skin prickled with goose bumps. She supposed they should get out of the pool. It would be dark soon—not city dark, with the glow from streetlights to soften it, but real dark, the kind where you can’t see your own hand in front of your face. She hadn’t brought a headlamp for the walk back.
“Ski club, huh? Is that through University of Washington?”
“Yeah, though I’m not able to go on many of their backcountry trips because they take up the whole weekend and I can’t take that much time off, but at least there’s always someone to ski with if I want to go to Stevens Pass or Baker.”
“I would love to ski Helens someday,” Pete said.
Cassidy paused. Was this an invitation? Despite the coolness of the water, Cassidy felt a warm flush rise in her cheeks. “Yeah, me too,” she said. After dunking her head one last time to wash the feeling away, she swam to the edge of the pool.
Pete followed. Emerging from the water side by side, their bare arms almost touching, she felt a subtle shift in the energy around them.
They each dried off with their extra clothes and put on their shoes. She squeezed her braid one last time and pulled the extra T-shirt over her head. Pete glanced her way, and their eyes locked for a moment. Blood whooshed past her ears, and she had to remind herself to breathe. She looked away, and after each of them gathered their things, she led the way down the trail.
The shift in atmosphere persisted during the remaining ride down the mountain, and they talked little. By the time they arrived at the parking lot, her insides were in knots.
“So, I’ll probably have some follow-up questions,” Pete said while she idled the Suburban in the grocery store parking lot. “Okay if I call you?”
“Of course,” she said.
He seemed on the verge of saying something else, but it passed. “Well,” he said, grabbing his pack from the backseat, “Thanks again.” Pete slid from his seat and stepped to his car. She made sure he got in and started it—she’d never forgive herself if she left him here alone to deal with a breakdown, and from the looks of his car that seemed like a very real possibility. This was the kind of thing her dad had always done, and the memory of his kind face and steady voice brought on a sweeping sensation of warmth.
Pete’s lights came on, pulling Cassidy from her memory, and so she put the Suburban in gear and drove into the night.
Three
University of Washington, Seattle
November 4, 2014
Cassidy gathered her folders and shuffled out of the classroom behind her twenty-seven Geology 101 Lab students, snippets of their conversations rising above the din.
“. . . totally stressing out, it’s gonna be so hard . . .”
“. . . gonna meet her for coffee . . .”
“. . . I couldda killed that guy, I mean, if he thinks . . .”
“. . . ugh, my mom’s gonna freak . . .”
After clearing the pack, she bee-lined to her office, located in a separate building across a small courtyard behind Johnson Hall. Rain fell steadily but Cassidy didn’t stop to put on the raincoat hanging over her arm. After living in Seattle for three years, she had grown used to the wet weather, and it didn’t bother her as long as the rain meant snow in the mountains. Sure, she missed the California sunshine, but the green of the Pacific Northwest was a welcome trade-off. She had moved to Seattle during the summer, amazed by the vibrant, lush green flashing from everywhere, and the lack of crowds in the mountains compared to some of her favorite trails in California. It felt like an oasis. When the season faded into fall, September and October were just as pleasant as summer but almost better due to the cool temperatures and longer nights. While hiking or in the field, the crisp cool mornings felt like a promise from the weather gods that snow was coming soon.
Her recent day of grueling fieldwork on St. Helens with Peter O’Dea was a perfect example of this. She remembered the faded fireweed stirring in the afternoon breeze while they tramped through the clear cuts, and the gorgeous view of the mountain, the recent snow covering the cindery slopes like a lacy petticoat. She also remembered his insightful questions and the funny stories he had entertained her with, not to mention the tingly warmth she had felt in her belly after their trip to the waterfall. Had he really intended to suggest they ski St. Helens together? Or was it one of those offhand comments people made? Ever since her breakup with Luke, she didn’t trust herself to figure out stuff like this.
After entering the annex building, she wiped her feet and headed for her office, her sneakers squeaking on the speckled linoleum. All of the other doors along the hallway stood closed except for two towards the end of the hallway. From inside one of them, she heard the high, soft voice of a student—meaning another grad student was holding office hours. Most of the time, students came to grovel for a better grade on an assignment or quiz in the form of an excuse. Their roommate barfed on their homework, or they hadn’t been able to study because their ADHD medication ran out and they couldn’t get to the pharmacy for more, or they were trying but still “just didn’t understand” the material, so couldn’t they just get a break? However, Geology 101 had to be one of the easiest classes in the universe, so her compassion often failed to appear. So as the student droned on, Cassidy sometimes retreated into her mind to brainstorm or refine her to-do list for the day.
Cassidy slid the key into her lock and swung her door open, then closed it behind her. If any student happened to drop by she would appear unavailable, which suited her perfectly. After flipping the button on the coffeemaker to “on” a
nd filing her lab section teaching material in its place on her shelf, she hung up her coat and settled into her sturdy wooden chair. She logged in to her computer, and her most recent file blinked to life, along with several graphs of the seismic data from Mount St. Helens. A surge of pride filled her—she had just returned from the annual GSA conference, this one held in Vancouver, B.C., where she had presented some of her findings. To her delight, she had been invited to lunch with Dr. Fred Tatum of the Hawaii Volcano Observatory and his colleague Dr. Nina French from the University of Hawaii to discuss a possible project on Kilauea. They wondered if she might be interested in analyzing existing seismic data to look for trends. The goal of course would be to help predict the next eruption, and then publish her findings. Even though it was unlikely that Cassidy would land the coveted first authorship of the paper, she was thrilled. Their meeting had ended with her volunteering to apply for a grant that could get their collaboration off the ground. She was tapping away at this proposal when her office phone rang.
Not now, she thought, deciding to let it go to voice mail.
Even though the ringing stopped, her flow had been disrupted, so she rose to pour herself a cup of coffee. She reread her work, sipping, then picked up where she left off.
Her coffee cup was empty when the phone rang again but this time, she blocked it out. Five minutes later a knock sounded against her door. Surprised, she jumped out of her chair. A woman, dressed smartly in a tweed blazer and slacks stood with a stern expression. Cassidy recognized her as the geology office secretary—Joan? Jillian?
“There’s someone trying to get a hold of you,” Joan-Jillian said, holding up a collection of white square memos. “Would you please answer them so he stops pestering me?” Her nostrils flared slightly, and the image of a dragon preparing to blast her with fire filled her mind.
