by Gary Hansen
She recoiled. "I'm trying to be serious."
"So am I," he retorted, a little too aggressively.
"Well, if you're going to act like . . ." She turned and walked into the kitchen.
Grant felt guilty for snapping at her. It wasn't her fault. She was just trying to put a positive spin on it. He knew he should chase after her and apologize, but he didn't have the energy. Not now. Besides, getting up out of the chair at the moment was unthinkable. He vowed to make up with her later. But at that moment he needed to be left alone.
He reclined and glanced around the room. He guessed it looked like any other middle-class TV room in Denver. A thirty-two inch TV sat in the cabinet, not a big-screen. The couch reclined, but the kids had broken the left side, so it slouched slightly. The veneer coffee table was nice enough, but didn't match the oak entertainment center, something that bothered his wife, but Grant couldn't care less about. Everything about the room was unremarkable.
When he thought about it, he realized he didn't know a single person who'd been on an African safari. That would have been something different, something special. Now what? Would they spend a couple days camping and roasting wieners instead? In Africa, he had a chance to see an elephant in the wild, or a cheetah. Now, if he was lucky he might see a jackrabbit. Then there was work. Talking to the Chinese engineers could have made up for a year of paperwork. Now what? For all the excitement he expected in the next couple of weeks, he could manage the Bureau from his recliner.
He leaned back in the chair and aimed the remote at the TV. The channel came up on some court TV show. He flipped through various channels, seeing nothing that interested him. He passed a channel showing an expanse of water he recognized. He went back to it. It was LakePowell. The camera panned across the horizon of the lake, showing the red rock cliffs surrounding a large bay. It zoomed slightly and focused on a large rock formation that Grant recognized as Castle Rock, which separated WahweapBay from WarmSpringsBay. Two houseboats meandered through a shallow cut between the two bays. He turned up the volume so he could hear the woman reporter.
"The below-normal spring runoff in the west has contributed to what was already a multi-year drought."
The camera, again panning the horizon, zoomed quickly to a narrow rock channel snaking back and forth. A water-ski boat motored next to the vertical rock cliffs.
"As you can see, water levels at LakePowell are well below normal."
The reporter referred to a bleached white band surrounding the lake. The contrast between the red rock and the white band left no doubt as to where the water levels had previously been. Grant didn't remember ever seeing the lake that low.
"Water allocation, already a problem on the Colorado River, has become more complicated."
The camera angle, obviously shot from a helicopter, showed the upstream side of the Glen Canyon Dam. In one fluid motion the helicopter flew over the crest, allowing viewers to look straight down the face of the six-hundred-foot dam. The next camera angle showed the dam with LakePowell stretching for miles behind it. The GlenCanyonBridge, a modern, silver-arched structure just downstream from the dam, stretched across the top of the screen, and framed the view perfectly.
While working at the Bureau for the last eighteen years, Grant had traveled to the Glen Canyon Dam many times. Like every civil engineer, he loved to look at it. However, in spite of his many visits, he had never actually been on the lake. His wife wanted to know where to vacation; maybe LakePowell was the answer. They could rent a houseboat and get lost on the lake for a week. Of course he didn't have a ski boat or any equipment, but he supposed you could rent all that stuff.
The reporter continued. "Although the Glen Canyon Dam is equipped with eight huge turbines, capable of generating enough power for over a million homes, low water has limited releases from the dam, forcing the Bureau of Reclamation to shut off four of the turbines. This has added to the power shortage in the west, just when households need it the most, during the air conditioning season."
Grant tried to remember the name of the new guy in charge of operations at GlenCanyon. Wasn't he scheduled to be at the symposium in Kenya? Maybe he could take Grant's spot at the Three Gorges discussion. Gee, maybe he could even take Grant's place on the safari.
The TV showed an aerial shot of another huge concrete dam, which Grant immediately recognized. "Similar circumstances exist downstream at Lake Mead and Hoover Dam - water levels and power output are both below normal."
The television showed the reporter in studio. She was a striking blond in a blue business suit worn over a red blouse. Her lipstick matched the blouse. A large flat screen monitor behind the reporter showed a close-up of a three-story houseboat towing two water-ski boats. The exposed part of the second deck carried six personal watercraft, with a large crane to lower them into the water. On the top deck, four bikini-clad women waved to the camera. Grant tried to focus on one, but the reporter's head moved in front of the scene.
The reporter furrowed her brows and looked directly into the camera. "The drought has everyone along the Colorado River nervous, especially the farmers. There are reports of cattle farmers in Utah and Arizona selling out due to lack of water for their herds."
A man's voice spoke, and the camera panned to show another reporter on the woman's right side. "Laura, how much rain do they need?"
She glanced at him for a second, before looking back at the camera. "That's a good question, Jim. The people I talked to at the Bureau of Reclamation say it rarely rains around these dams, that the Colorado River comes mostly from snow pack in the Rocky Mountains, not from rain."
The man turned to the camera. "So this problem isn't likely to get solved anytime soon then, is it?"
The camera zoomed in on the woman again. She shook her head, then stared into the camera. "No, Jim. It will take a wet winter, or more realistically, more than one, to get water levels back to normal on the Colorado."
The camera now moved to the male reporter. "Thanks for the report, Laura. In other news, a neighborhood in Boulder is suing the city for not responding to their complaints about -"
Grant pressed the button on the remote to shut off the TV. He stared blankly at the dark screen. Although he already knew the west was in another drought, he hadn't actually seen pictures of LakePowell. The low levels had shocked him, especially the one showing the boats passing through the cut next to Castle Rock. Normally that whole area was underwater. He remembered seeing low water before, but only in the fall, never in June. At this rate, by the end of the summer, the Castle Rock channel would be impassable, forcing boats to go the long way around Antelope Island, through the main river channel, an extra sixteen miles around from the marina.
He sat in his chair for a while, thinking. Finally he stood and walked into the kitchen. He took a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water from the sink. He held it up and looked through it, before taking a drink. Out the window, excess water from his neighbor's sprinklers sprayed into the street. A small rainbow sparkled in the mist. Water ran across the sidewalk and into the gutter. Grant leaned forward and looked up and down the neighborhood. His neighbors all kept their lawns watered and green. He wondered how many of his neighbors were concerned about a water shortage in the west.
It was not unusual for the Colorado River to be in drought conditions. After all, the Colorado and its tributaries watered the bulk of the southwestern states, from Wyoming to California, including Los Angeles, Phoenix, and Las Vegas. Grant knew about the drought even before the reporter said so. But obviously his neighbors either didn't know, or didn't care.
He glanced sideways and saw his wife bent over rearranging stuff in the fridge. With the khaki shorts hiked up her legs, he could see the contrast between the beginnings of her summer tan and the white flesh above. The position emphasized the muscles in her legs.
He went to her and placed his hands on the back of her thighs. She jumped then straightened up. When she was upright he let his hands go under her shi
rt to her stomach in an embrace from behind. She leaned her head back on his shoulder.
"What happened to mad Grant?" she asked
"He's still here."
She smiled. "Let's try not to wake him up, then."
She turned around and faced him, putting her arms around his neck. Her lips were very close to his. "I'm sorry about your safari."
He pulled back. "It was more than a safari. I would have had a whole week with the Chinese engineers."
She pulled him back. "I'm sorry about everything."
She reached up and kissed him, a tender kiss of compassion. He pulled her close and kissed her back.
"They'll be gone a week, right?" she asked.
He nodded.
"Maybe we can have a safari here."
"What do you mean?"
She smiled mischievously. "You'll see."
CHAPTER 3
6:00 p.m. - Lake Powell, Utah
Julie Crawford and Erika Sanders paddled their kayak leisurely along a stretch of water next to the cliffs in an isolated rock canyon. The yellow kayak was the sit-on-top variety, and had been purchased specifically for LakePowell. It was especially fun in the late afternoons when they could paddle next to the cliffs and stay in the shade. Their water-ski boat was resting, tied to the houseboat, which in turn was tied to the rocky shore only a hundred feet away. Their husbands, along with Max and Darlene, were lounging under the shaded deck of the houseboat.
The two women stopped paddling. Julie dipped her hand in the water, and wiped the wetness on her cheeks. "Man, can you imagine being out here before the lake was here, when it was dry?"
Erika nodded. "Yuk. I'd die. I already feel like I'm going to burn up if I don't get in the water every few minutes." She pointed at the others. "I can't believe they're not in here too." She looked over her shoulder at Julie. "By the way, how long will we be out of the water tomorrow while we're hiking?"
The plan for the next day included an excursion to "Hole in the Rock", a spot made famous by a group of pioneers in the 1800s who were looking for a shortcut. They had blasted a trail and transported their oxen and covered wagons down a mile-long grade to the Colorado River. Although the bottom of the original grade was buried under LakePowell, Hole in the Rock was a popular spot. Hikers who could manage the steep climb were rewarded with a panoramic view, a monument, and a close-up perspective of what it would have been like to move oxen and wagons down the hill. The husbands had hiked to the spot before, but Julie and Erika never had.
"I think Greg said it was about an hour to the top."
Erika considered the information. "So an hour up and an hour down. That's two hours out of the water. What if I die?"
Julie laughed. "Going down shouldn't take as long as hiking up. Although, I guess if we rest for a while at the top, we might still be out of the water for two hours."
Erika rolled her eyes.
Julie pointed toward the houseboat. "That's why Greg's making us leave so early in the morning. We'll get up there and hike it before it gets too hot, and be back by noon."
"I think Darlene has the right idea," Erika said.
"There will be plenty of time during the week to sit around and read," Julie argued.
Max and Darlene had elected to stay behind the next morning. Darlene said she was too fat to climb the hill. The other two couples had argued with them, but to no avail. Darlene could stand to lose a few pounds and the hike was just what she needed. It would do her good. Greg had even suggested they modify the plan to go someplace less strenuous, like some of the rock cathedrals up the Escalante Branch of the lake, but both Max and Darlene had declined, insisting that the two younger couples needed some time together. Julie suspected that Darlene was already absorbed in her book, a romance novel.
"And we're stopping at Rainbow after?" Erica asked.
Julie shook her head. "No, before. On the way."
Since the trip to Hole in the Rock ran right past RainbowBridge, they planned on a quick stop to see the huge rock arch as part of the next morning's activities. Rainbow was by far the most famous attraction at LakePowell, and was visited by almost two hundred thousand tourists every year.
"Wouldn't the hike be cooler if we did it first, before Rainbow?"
Julie had wondered the same thing. "Yeah. I agree. But Greg says if we try to stop on the way back, the tour boats will already be there and it'll be too crowded. Plus we would be all sweaty."
In the summer, large boats from Wahweap and Bullfrog Marinas arrived at RainbowBridge by 10 a.m., spilling tourists out and changing the serene atmosphere to one more like Disneyland. Julie had been there at the same time as the big boats before and agreed that it ruined the experience.
Erika nodded as if that made sense. "Are we going to ski on the way?"
"We could, but it would take longer. Ya know, all the stops and everything. Besides, it's no fun to ski in the main channel. It's too rough."
Erika flicked some hair off her face. "I remember Rainbow being huge. How tall is it?"
"I don't remember the exact dimensions; I think around three hundred feet high. They say you could fly a 747 through it."
Erika reached down in the water then ran her fingers through her hair. "Isn't it one of the seven natural wonders of the world?"
"I don't know about that, but I read that before GlenCanyon was flooded, only a couple thousand people ever saw it, not counting the Navajos. It was so remote. The hike down to it was over twenty miles in burning heat. Many of them rode mules. When environmentalists protested the flooding of GlenCanyon, the government pointed out that most of the protesters had never even seen the arch. The environmentalists couldn't even argue. Now, supposedly, over a hundred thousand people see it every year."
"Not as remote as it used to be, huh?" Erika said.
Julie slid over and let herself drop off the kayak into the water. Erika followed. While Erika held on, Julie dove underwater to wet her hair.
Julie swam back and draped her arms over the kayak like Erika. "You'd think the environmentalists would be happy that the area is more accessible. I mean, I understand they covered up some stuff with the water, but at least now, people can get there."
Erika cocked her head. "That's not the way they think. They don't want people to see it, or enjoy it. Didn't you hear? They want to eliminate cars from Yosemite, and snowmobiles from Yellowstone. They want to ban motorcycles from the desert. They use words like undisturbed, and pristine. They think that only they should be able to see it. The rest of us should be satisfied with pictures."
Julie smiled. "Wow, I didn't know you felt so strong about it."
Erika continued, "You know why it pisses me off? Because I consider myself an environmentalist. I'm against big businesses dumping garbage into the rivers, air pollution, and all that other stuff. But the environmentalists in the news are over the top. Shutting down logging over an owl, sleeping in trees, lying in front of bulldozers and trains. They're nuts. They believe we should pretend there aren't millions of people in America. Environmentalists are giving environmentalism a bad name."
Julie laughed. "Ya know, I never looked at it like that. But, when it comes down to it, I feel the same way. I don't litter. I recycle. Aren't I an environmentalist?"
Erika laughed. "Not in their minds. You're a heathen. You drive a car; actually, worse - a pickup. You live in a neighborhood." She gasped and cupped her hand over her mouth. "You eat meat, you sicko. And worst of all, you take hot showers with soap and scented shampoos, every day, sometimes multiple times a day. Don't you know that to be a true environmentalist you have to wear one of those dyed tee-shirts with weird colors, use a blue bandana to tie up your unwashed, uncombed hair, and let the hair grow out in your armpits and on your legs?" Erika wagged her finger. "No. You are not, and never will be, a true environmentalist."
Julie held up her arm and looked at her cleanly shaved armpit. "No, I guess not."
* * *
6:30 p.m. - Hoover Dam, outside Las Vega
s, Nevada
Fred Grainger stood behind the computer technician in the control room at Hoover Dam. The control room was located on the downstream side of the dam just above river level. Fred, the site supervisor, had worked there for twenty-two years. At 53, he was the oldest guy at Hoover. Actually, that was only true if you counted the people who took care of the dam and were employed by the Bureau of Reclamation. There were many others, guides and even a few security guards that were older than Fred. But Fred considered them another group.
Jeremy Rottingham, the technician in front of Fred, stopped typing and turned around. "Just got a down request from California Edison. Want me to turn down Arizona or Nevada?"
Fred's group was responsible for monitoring power needs from locations throughout the western United States and adjusting electricity generation accordingly. Basically, all major dam controls at Hoover were his responsibility. There were two generation plants, one on the Nevada side of the river, and one on the Arizona side, hence Jeremy's question of which plant to throttle down.
"Which one is hotter?"
"Nevada, but not by much."
"Let's take it out of Arizona, then; she carried the load yesterday."
Jeremy made the necessary adjustments with the keyboard. The computer handled the rest of the job. Most of the controls at Hoover had been automated. The technicians set the amount of power that they wanted from each plant and the computer did the rest. The rest entailed adjusting water flow through the penstocks to each generator to determine power output. Penstocks were the huge tubes that carried water to each generator. At Hoover, each penstock was thirteen feet in diameter. Nine generators were housed in the Arizona plant and eight in the Nevada plant. Each generator rose over seven stories high and was capable of powering 100,000 homes. With all seventeen generators running, Hoover could power a respectable portion of the West.
"Aren't you out tomorrow?" Jeremy asked.
