Дэвид Балдаччи - Long Road to Mercy

Her collapsible trekking poles lightly touching the trail as she went, her headlamp brightly illuminating the area ahead, her long legs smoothly striding, she soon reached Cedar Ridge at the 1.5-mile marker. This was the strongly recommended turnaround point for day hikers, particularly in summer. Because every hike started with the descent first, it drew folks into a false sense of what they could accomplish. The hike out was always harder.

The temperature was under seventy right now, but she could still feel the sweat trickling down her back as she kept up her pace. She had a buff that she’d soaked in water around her neck. She’d heard rattles as snakes fled the vibration of her footfalls, and hooves striking dirt and rock as large mammals heard her approach and turned in the opposite direction. She accidentally stepped in mule dung once, left over from that day’s ride back up. She would meet no mules going down, because she would be off the trail before the mule train headed back up from Phantom in the morning. However, the pack mule train would head down around dawn. That would not be a problem for her, either. She’d be down at the inner gorge by then.

She ate as she went, balancing salty foods with taking small sips on her hydration line only to quench her thirst.

The temperature increased the farther down she ventured.

She passed the ominous-sounding Skeleton Point, having shed fourteen hundred feet of elevation since Ooh Aah. She stiffened a bit and slowed her punishing pace, as she heard footsteps approaching from the other way. The trail would really zig-zag now with a long series of switchbacks as it dropped her into the Tonto Plateau.

She had already passed the “tip-off phone,” which was a way to call rangers in case you were in trouble. There would not be another such line of communication on her way down.

Though it was far more prominent in the daylight, it had always intrigued Pine how the trail changed color as one went down. This was because the underlying rock changed. She had gone from red to a light brown.

A moment later twin headlamps appeared out of the darkness.

Two men.

Pine’s hand instinctively went to her Glock.

But the men, one younger and one older — perhaps father and son — passed by with a wave and matching weary smiles.

Their journey was almost over. Hers was just really beginning.

About three miles later, she reached a short tunnel cut into the stone and entered it. Her hand again went to her gun. This would be an ideal place for an ambush.

She left the tunnel and immediately stepped onto the Kaibab Suspension Bridge, more popularly known as the Black Bridge. This was also the mule bridge, because it was the only one the beasts used. It had high chain-link metal sides and a plank floor. The only other bridge in the canyon was the nearby Bright Angel Suspension Bridge, which one reached coming down that counterpart trail. It was known as the Silver Bridge because of its all-metal configuration. The mules didn’t like the open metal floor and thus wouldn’t walk on it. It had also been built to carry the water lines between the two rims, and Pine thought it might not be strong enough to support ten fifteen-hundred-pound mules and riders at a time, whereas the Black Bridge could.

Before setting foot on the Black Bridge, Pine could have veered west and taken the River Trail over to the Silver Bridge and crossed the Colorado there, but she liked the Black Bridge crossing. There was another reason she was going this way as well.

As she crossed the bridge, she looked down and saw the muddy Colorado roaring beneath her. Locals called that the true colorado , because that was the Spanish word for “reddish.” Without the complex dam systems that had been constructed around the Canyon, the mighty Colorado would, in certain parts of a drought-filled summer, be little more than puddles. But the dams had regulated the flow to make it more consistent and also to use it for hydroelectric power generation. It was also the reason that rafters could enjoy the challenging rapids. But without the water controls also provided by the dam system, parts of the Colorado could become so dangerous as to be rendered impassable by raft.

And the dam system had contributed to something else. The silt tended to accumulate behind the dams, resulting in clearer water downriver. The sunlight penetrating the water resulted in algae thriving. And this contributed to the green color of the Colorado, which was quite evident when viewed from higher altitudes.

She left the bridge and took a few minutes to go down to Boat Beach, lie in the sand, and stare at the star-filled sky. This was the other reason she had crossed at the Black Bridge. Pine made a practice of always coming to the beach and “sky staring,” and part of her perhaps thought that sticking to this routine would maybe bring her luck. But, then again, in her line of work, you tended to make your own luck by good preparation and even better execution.

But you’ve never taken on a nuke before, Pine.

She continued on, and the terrain became far more silty and loose, by-products of the water passing nearby. Pine could feel her feet slipping as she made her way forward. It was like walking on a beach, unreliable footing everywhere. That was the last thing she needed after her swift descent, but it wasn’t like she could lift off the ground and fly the rest of the way.

To reach Phantom Ranch she would simply follow the trail that would turn to the north. But she was not going to Phantom, where, no doubt, hikers and riders were now slumbering peacefully before their journey back up; she kept following the riverbank.

Bright Angel Creek was just up ahead. As she reached it, she took off her shoes, rolled up her pants, and waded into the shallow water. She sat down on a rock and let the cool water provide an amazing foot massage. The Creek finished its journey right here as it plunged into the Colorado at a spot roughly equidistant between the two bridges. Bright Angel Creek was the place to plop in the water down here if one was so inclined. The Colorado, even in places where it looked to be slow moving, was actually going more than four miles per hour. Few swimmers could fight that current. It was also deep and cold. Some young people had drowned at Boat Beach a number of years ago when they’d tried to swim across it.

Bright Angel had also been the source of a swimming pool at Phantom. Pine had seen old photos of it. It had been located between the amphitheater and the lodge. She knew it had been hand-excavated some time back during the Depression. She didn’t know when it had been done away with or why. It was long before her time here.

Also near the amphitheater was the ranger station. She waded out of the water, walked down a bit farther, and took a small footbridge over the creek. After reaching the other side, she dried her feet and put her socks and shoes back on. Kettler said he would be on duty tonight. That meant she was as close to him as she was likely to be down here. It would be good to have a capable man like Kettler with her on this.

But at the last minute, and after additional deliberation, Pine knew she couldn’t do that. This was her job, not his. This was her danger to face, not his. If she didn’t make it out of here alive, she wasn’t going to take the man down with her.

“Take care, Sam,” she said to the darkness. “If I don’t make it back, don’t forget me. At least for a little while.”

Okay, Pine, cut the melodramatic crap. You got a nuke to find.

God help me.

She passed a separate mule corral reserved for Park Service use, though she couldn’t see any mules in it now. There was also a sewage treatment plant down here. She headed west, with the campground and Phantom to the north of her. In the darkness Pine could make out the outlines of some tents in the distance, and even hear the echoing of late-night conversation among some of the campers. She walked for a time, her trekking poles methodically tapping the ground as she went. She used them even on level ground. Her knees, back, and hips would thank her later.