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STEVE SULLIVAN turned off County Road onto an old narrow track ending at the mouth of Cedar Canyon. This was his third yearly trip to the canyon to conduct the scheduled survey of the stand of western red cedar. It was more than just a job toward earning his PhD, he felt, for walking among these giants was a spiritual experience to which he looked forward. In the canyon, he would make a photographic survey of cedar and fir trees and riparian conditions along Cold Springs Creek for Old Growth Survey (OGS), a conservation group in Bozeman.
Steve knew the western red cedar well, an evergreen conifer in the cypress family, and not actually a cedar. He marveled at these giants growing to more than 190 feet and living up to 800 years. He was anxious to again be in the solitude of the canyon among these giants.
The ocean climate along the northwest coast suited it well. Yet, strangely enough, he thought, these trees could also be found in dry, but highly acidic, soils. Thus, groves of these majestic giants can be found in a few places along the western slopes of the northern Rocky Mountains, seldom growing in pure stands, and usually mixed with other species such as Douglas fir, Sitka spruce and western hemlock. One of these rare inland groves was in Cedar Canyon, at the southern end of Hershey Ridge in the Bitterroot National Forest.
Steve stopped his SUV, got out, stretched and took a deep breath, exhilarated by the smells and cold clean air. He hefted the backpack onto his shoulders and started hiking uphill. Around him were stands of fir, hemlock and some aspen. He had to shrug his shoulders every few feet to keep the straps of his overstuffed backpack from digging into him and pulling him over backward. It was crammed full with instruments for the measurement of ground moisture and acidity, as well as with sandwiches and water.
Cold Springs Creek was formed from a trickle of frigid snow melt seeping through the stratified layers of ancient rock and deposits. This year-round brook was augmented by rain clouds that hung over the southern tip of Hershey Ridge during much of the year. Steve walked along the south side of the creek, steadily gaining elevation. The giant cedars were all around him. He felt in good company.
He stopped and stared across the creek, blinking a few times. The splash of white didn’t belong among these trees. Something didn’t look right.
What the heck is that?” he mumbled and stared.
He took a few steps closer to the creek.
Is that a plane?” He tried to comprehend what he was seeing. “It’s gotta be. Holy cow!”
The view of the plane was partially blocked by the big tree trunks, but in a few seconds he recognized the shape of a small airplane nose down among the big trees.
“Christ. How long’s it been here? Gotta get over there.”
Picking his way over the slippery rocks, he crossed the creek and started toward the downed plane.
Single engine Cessna.”
He took a few more steps toward the plane. It’s nose was buried enough in the ground to make him shudder.
Can’t be anybody in it. I wonder...?”
Still some yards from the plane, he heard a voice behind him.
Hold it. That’s far enough.”
He heard a gun being cocked. A chill went up his back.
Steve turned and saw a denim-clad man holding a pistol about twenty feet away. Speechless for a few seconds, he then recovered. “What...what do you want?” Steve stared at the black pistol and then at the unshaven and grizzled face of the man walking toward him.
Stand over facing that tree. Spread your arms out.”
Steve did as he was told. He felt the man pat down his pockets. “I haven’t got anything on me, just some instruments. I left my wallet in the SUV.”
“Let’s head back. Go on, don’t give me trouble.”
Steve turned around. The man motioned with the pistol for Steve to cross back over the creek.
But the airplane...someone may be in it,” exclaimed Steve glancing back toward the crash site.
The stranger spat a stream of tobacco juice in front of him. Steve shuddered when he met the gaze from a cold vacuous stare. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand out.
I...I don’t have much money, just credit cards. I’m here for the OGS...doing some survey work.”
Yeah, yeah. Get goin’. Don’t give me any trouble. Head back to your car.”
Steve walked ahead of the gunman and crossed the creek. He looked around him, but saw no avenue of escape.
What do you want with me? Want my SUV? Take it.”
Shut up.” The stranger shoved Steve. “Move faster.”
Got something to do with the plane? I wasn’t near it.” Steve began to sweat and tremble.
I’m not gonna tell you again. Shut up and keep movin’,” growled the gunman.
Near the entrance to the canyon, they stopped.
Steve turned to face the stranger. “What do you want with me?” He barely got the words out. He tried to swallow.
Turn around.”
What...?”
The gunman grabbed Steve by the arm turning him to face the SUV. He raised his pistol. Two quick shots to the head and Steve, rumbled to the ground. He had not even heard the second shot.
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The shooter calmly picked up the spent shells and pocketed them, and then hurried back to the airplane, walking through the flowing creek in various places. He glanced at the remains of the dead pilot and copilot sandwiched in the cockpit. When he opened the cockpit door he hesitated, eyes beginning to water from the nauseating odor of decomposition. Then trying to hold his breath, he hurriedly loaded his backpack with ten one-kilo packs of cocaine and walked up-canyon into the forest. He left many more packs in the fuselage. Thirty minutes later he returned and loaded the remaining packages into his backpack, and again headed into the forest.
He came out of the forest onto a long abandoned and overgrown logging road toward his old red pickup. He hurried toward it, heaved the backpack into the truck bed, and massaged his shoulder muscles. He pulled a stained kerchief from his back pocket and wiped his brow. A branch snapped and he was suddenly alert. He stood still and listened to the forest noises for a minute before stuffing the kerchief back in his pocket.
Gotta get outa here. Lew’ll be waiting,” he mumbled.
Climbing into the back of the pickup, he went to the bales of hay that were pushed toward the cab. The bale toward the front was the one he was interested in. Grabbing it by the top edge, he pulled it toward him. The top several inches swung upward to expose a box-like cavity. Moving quickly, he emptied his backpack of the carefully wrapped packages, and stacked them neatly with the others. When he finished, he pressed the top back down, making it look like any other bale of hay as he twisted two strands of baling wire around it. Before entering the cab, he shook out the backpack thoroughly, and checked it for any sign of the illicit powder.
He wondered if anyone had paid attention to the earlier shots. Caution suggested to him that the pistol be thrown away, buried somewhere. But then, he liked the gun. It had never failed him. Maybe he’d get a new barrel for it, then shook his head and tucked it in his belt. He drove slowly down the side of the mountain, not wanting to disturb the hay bales. He’d meet up with Lew at the campground below and let him know that there had been a problem. If anyone found the plane now, there wasn’t much they could conclude except that someone had been there. So what? |
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