Authors: Sarah Andrews
Dead Dry (24 page)
Julia seemed hesitant. “What did you have in mind?”
“I figured to drive out near the ranch, get my samples, and then if I follow the creeks out toward the canyon, I can find out where the Arapahoe outcrops, and—”
“You are no doubt driving a rental car,” she said irritably. “You can’t go where you need to go with that. I’ll bring the Jeep. Just stay there in Castle Rock. Where I can find you? I’ll be there in an hour.”
THE SUN BEAT DOWN ON MY HEAD AND SHOULDERS like a renegade masseuse as Julia and I climbed the odd, conical hill known as Wildcat Mountain. The air was stifling hot and weirdly humid and still. A few miles to the west, the clouds continued to rise along the peaks like a great, gray fleece, growing darker by the hour. The birds had stopped singing. I made a mental note to get off the high, rocky protuberance of Wildcat’s summit before the tops of the clouds blew over into thunderheads.
Julia led the way up the trail through chokecherries and wild plum trees, her long legs carrying her with an elastic
stride. She wore an old pair of boots with hand-sewn welts of the same make and vintage as her departed former husband, beat-up khaki pants, and a short-sleeved cotton shirt, and her hair was tucked up underneath her cap to leave the back of her neck open to the scant breeze she made by moving through the air. “This is the key to the whole mess,” she was telling me. “Right here. See how big the pore throats are in this stuff?” She pointed at the red sandstone that outcropped all along the top of the hill, which was in fact a hogback like so many other ridges along the mountain front, but in this case a hog with a very short back.
stride. She wore an old pair of boots with hand-sewn welts of the same make and vintage as her departed former husband, beat-up khaki pants, and a short-sleeved cotton shirt, and her hair was tucked up underneath her cap to leave the back of her neck open to the scant breeze she made by moving through the air. “This is the key to the whole mess,” she was telling me. “Right here. See how big the pore throats are in this stuff?” She pointed at the red sandstone that outcropped all along the top of the hill, which was in fact a hogback like so many other ridges along the mountain front, but in this case a hog with a very short back.
As we reached the summit, we could see the long train of hogbacks that ran all the way up to Dinosaur Ridge. I said, “What I don’t get is why this hogback doesn’t go very far. It’s just a point instead of a long ridge.”
Julia gave me a tight smile. “You always were observant, Hansen. You’ve asked the hundred-million-dollar question.” She swept her arms out to take in the trend of the mountain front. “Here we stand at the end of the Cretaceous. The Rocky Mountains are rising, and the rivers are eroding the granites and carrying all that nice, fresh, coarse sediment downhill to the east. Right here, a river breaks out of the mountains and onto the flats, just like today, right out of a nice, narrow valley, say.” She raised both arms to form a V. “So now tell me, what are we standing on?”
“We have the apex of the fan,” I said. “Are you telling me that this is the original morphology of this sandstone? I thought it had been eroded into this shape.”
Julia dropped her arms to her sides. “Bob Raynolds figured this out. He came down here with his wife and his kids and their pet potbellied pig and saw all the thrust faults along here between Wildcat and the foothills, and he saw the stacked channel deposits, and he said, ‘Must be synorogenic deposition!’”
“Syn …”
“Synorogenic. It means ‘sediments deposited same time as the mountains were building.’”
“As opposed to …”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know … sometimes there’s erosion going on but the sediments are washed clear away to some other place.” She began to gesture with her hands. “See, as the mountains came up to the west, the fan was able to grow and grow and grow to the east, stacking up on top of itself like books loading onto one of those spring-loaded carts under the book-return chute in the public library.” She dropped her hands and looked around at the scenery, remembering earlier visits. “Bob brought Afton down here, and Afton brought me and the kids.”
“Then is this where the water recharges the aquifer?” I asked. “The snow-melt from the mountains, seeping down into the sandstone right here?” I knew the answer to this, but wanted to hear what she would say.
She shook her head. “That’s where the whole thing falls apart, see. It’d be a great system if that were happening, but people take water out in human time spans—damned quickly—and it seeps back in geologic time—slooooooowwwly. It’s the tortoise and the hare story all over again. Except this time, nobody wins.”
“And this is the best aquifer in the Denver Basin,” I said.
“It’s certainly the best one in Douglas County. It’s what’s filling all the bathtubs around here. Round numbers? About 200,000 people living on the south side of Denver here—Douglas and Arapahoe counties—depend on ground water for their water supply. The engineers have calculated that those people are pulling 53,000 acre-feet
per year
out of these rocks.” She patted the stone. “Do the math. That’s over seventeen
billion
gallons—375,000 boxcar loads—”
per year
out of these rocks.” She patted the stone. “Do the math. That’s over seventeen
billion
gallons—375,000 boxcar loads—”
“Boxcars don’t hold water,” I said ironically. “They’d leak like a sieve.”
“Don’t mess with me, Hansen. One and a half boxcars
per year for every man, woman, and child—and that’s a conservative calculation. Others double the numbers. She swept a hand out toward the eastern plains. “And the developers want to build and build and build.” She stared out across the dry landscape that was baking in the sun. “We’re in the middle of the worst drought in recorded history, and the speculation is that the population of this county is going to triple in the next forty years. Things have sure changed around here since we were in college.”
per year for every man, woman, and child—and that’s a conservative calculation. Others double the numbers. She swept a hand out toward the eastern plains. “And the developers want to build and build and build.” She stared out across the dry landscape that was baking in the sun. “We’re in the middle of the worst drought in recorded history, and the speculation is that the population of this county is going to triple in the next forty years. Things have sure changed around here since we were in college.”
“Yes, they have. There weren’t as many of us, not by half, and we didn’t feel we needed such fancy homes. We didn’t have as many private swimming pools, or have as many clothes to wash, or … or anything else that goes into the luxury developments like Wildcat Estates,” I said, beginning to fish for information about the local developers.
“Why is it that developers want to build such water-intensive fantasies?” Julia mused.
“Because that’s what people will buy? Because we’re all feeling so crowded that we need to isolate ourselves in a fantasy life of luxury? Because we’ve always preferred to pamper ourselves rather than contemplate our frailty? I guess we all try to find our space one way or another.” Before she could get going on Afton’s death and her losses, I asked, “What do you know about that development, Julia?”
Julia picked up a pebble and threw it out over the hillside, where it dropped noisily into the low, scrubby oaks. “Wildcat will be voted down. It has to, like they voted down that other development.”
“Where was that other one?”
She pointed to the south along the fetch of the foothills. “Just down there, a bunch of yay-hoos from Louisiana—
Louisiana,
damn it, where they’ve got so much water they have to build dikes to keep it off New Orleans—decided they were going to build heaven on Earth for all the golfing bozos. You know how much water your average golf course drinks, especially out here in ninety-degree heat and twenty percent humidity and fourteen inches annual rainfall?”
Louisiana,
damn it, where they’ve got so much water they have to build dikes to keep it off New Orleans—decided they were going to build heaven on Earth for all the golfing bozos. You know how much water your average golf course drinks, especially out here in ninety-degree heat and twenty percent humidity and fourteen inches annual rainfall?”
“I have no idea.”
“Eighty-eight million gallons per year—another two thousand boxcar loads just to grow
sod,
thank you very much, so some boys from the country club can wear pastel knits and knock little white balls around. They were going to cram in over one hundred deluxe homes and fifty cottages for transient guests from places where people don’t know what ‘drought’ means. Hey, let’s fly our personal jet up to Colorado for the weekend and loll around in our hot tubs, why don’t we?”
sod,
thank you very much, so some boys from the country club can wear pastel knits and knock little white balls around. They were going to cram in over one hundred deluxe homes and fifty cottages for transient guests from places where people don’t know what ‘drought’ means. Hey, let’s fly our personal jet up to Colorado for the weekend and loll around in our hot tubs, why don’t we?”
“How did that get voted down?”
“A local citizens’ group managed to convince the county commissioners to stop it, at least for the present. You won’t believe this, but they managed to get someone elected who understands the realities of this situation. Shocking, huh?”
“Someone who’s not just out for the deepest pockets so he can get reelected? I didn’t know that anyone like that made it into office anymore. That’s wonderful. And I’m glad they were able to stop that development. It sounds crazy.”
“They stopped it for a while, you mean. You know what the developers said when the gavel fell with a ‘no’ vote in the county commissioners’ meeting? ‘I am at a loss to understand why anyone would oppose this plan. It’s not reasonable to think this property is going to stay as it is forever.’ It’s insidious. The developers will just hold on to it for a few years or sell it to some other scoundrel, and they’ll wait until the county commissioners swing toward development again, and off we are to the races again.”
“What about those houses?” I asked, gesturing toward the little ranchettes that studded the landscape to the east.
“They’re running out of water.”
“I hear the latest thing is for municipalities to buy up water rights from the farmers. I wonder where the water will come from to grow food.”
Julia’s gaze settled into a million-mile stare. “You mean like out by Rocky Ford, out there on the eastern plains? The
farmers had been using the water to grow melons. Do you know how much water it takes to grow just one melon?”
farmers had been using the water to grow melons. Do you know how much water it takes to grow just one melon?”
“I have no idea, Julia. You’re the numbers girl.”
“One hundred and twenty gallons,” she said, without skipping a beat. Julia ran her hands over the rock, as if soothing it. “The last good time we had together was here.”
“With Afton?”
“We brought the kids,” she said, a faint smile playing across her face. “Had PB&Js and squashed bananas. The kids ran around on these rocks like a couple of mountain goats.” The smile drained from her face. “It was later that day that he first showed me the ranch. Said he wanted to buy it. And I thought we were just taking a little field trip.”
“Wait, Afton knew the water was drying up in this aquifer before he bought the ranch?”
“Sure. He figured no one could develop around him because there wouldn’t be enough water. He thought he’d found heaven on earth, close enough to Denver to drop in on the real world when he felt like it but far enough out and sufficiently drought-stricken that he wouldn’t have many neighbors. Of course, then he had to figure out how to live on a patch of land that had no water, but you know Afton, he had a brain and a will to go with it.”
I said, “So that’s how he got into this green business? The old geologist’s imperative of being away from it all?”
She nodded. “And of course one thing led to another. He bought a dry ranch to be alone, but learning how to live on it took him to some pretty quirky conferences with people who see life as a spiritual crisis.”
“I can’t see how that would appeal to him,” I said, remembering him as the wild man with the presumptuous tattoo.
“You know how he could be—driven. Happiest when he had a new idea to screw his brain into. But then he decided that these green people weren’t all that smart, and he was of course nothing short of brilliant, so he had to save them all. He started to work with legislators to save the arid
lands for aridity, or something like that. First it was the Colorado state congress and then the federal. He developed quite a name for himself in certain circles quite quickly.” She laughed mirthlessly.
lands for aridity, or something like that. First it was the Colorado state congress and then the federal. He developed quite a name for himself in certain circles quite quickly.” She laughed mirthlessly.
“And somewhere in there, he developed a name for himself with Gilda.” I could just see Gilda working the room at some conference for firebrands and policymakers. People of power. People with their hands on money. “Gilda is an opportunist,” I said.
“I—I don’t want to talk about her,” she said.
A low rumbling reverberated across the landscape.
Julia looked up toward the mountain front as if watching for approaching Valkyries.
I said, “Let’s head down toward the creek. I saw some red clays in the soils along a cut bank.”
“No!” She suddenly seemed unnerved by the towering clouds. “We should leave. Get to shelter.”
“I’ve been watching those clouds, too, Julia. I saw the flash before the thunder and I counted, and it’s at least five miles off. And those clouds don’t look like they’re moving.”
“No. Field trip over for today, okay?”
“Okay,” I said, “but first I’ve got to grab a soil sample.”
“What for?” Julia asked.
I knew that Julia could help me know where to look, if I could get Michele’s permission. I pulled out my cell phone and punched in Michele’s number. The call rolled over to her message service, which indicated that she was somewhere where she was receiving no signal. I put my phone away. “Roll with me on this,” I said. “I’ve been looking for red clays.”
Julia shook her head impatiently and pointed at the darkening sky over the Rampart Range. “Em,
really
! This is
bad.
Just look at the tops of those clouds. They’ve been getting bigger, and now they’re bulging out toward us.”
really
! This is
bad.
Just look at the tops of those clouds. They’ve been getting bigger, and now they’re bulging out toward us.”
“But there’s still no wind,” I said. I had been watching the sky like any good ranch-bred person would, checking to make sure the clouds weren’t moving our way. Now I realized
that she was right, there was something very wrong about these clouds. “You’re right, let’s get out of here,” I said. “Then just one quick stop along the creek, and I’m done.”
that she was right, there was something very wrong about these clouds. “You’re right, let’s get out of here,” I said. “Then just one quick stop along the creek, and I’m done.”
Julia started moving.
We hurried down off the conical hill, slowing only to glance ahead when we had to jump down over rocks, to make sure we didn’t roust out any rattlesnakes who might be sunning themselves before the storm. Another crash of thunder surprised Julia just as she made one of her leaps. She missed her footing and landed like a sack of potatoes.
I rushed to her side. “Are you hurt?” I asked breathlessly, winded from our sprint.
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