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Though Grandpa had said that the cave was in the Ardèche region, about an hour away, that was only true if you were leaving from the Noels' home and moving across country as the crow flies. It took me closer to two hours to get there. I had to take a cab up the highway past the city of Avignon and then farther north on the big road toward Lyon. About halfway up, we turned west and soon reached the
Réserve Naturelle
that I'd seen on the map. The Ardèche River flowed through it like a blue snake, and the road wound along above it at the top of a massive gorge. I was surprised at the heavy traffic. This was obviously a popular tourist area. It wasn't hard to see why. Everything was just
so
stunningly beautiful and the views were incredible. I thought of how this was so unlike back home, and for some reason that made me think of Leon and how much he would love to have the chance to see this. I stared down into the gorge at the dots of canoes and kayaks and the little beaches, beige and gray, sandy and rocky. Just after we'd passed through the park, the Pont d'Arc itself came into view: a famous tourist spot on the river that I'd seen on the reserve's website. It was about a million years old, a rock formation that actually formed a huge bridge! There were even trees growing on it. It rose about thirty yards above the river, like some sort of prehistoric animal stretching itself over the water. I gazed down onto the sheer limestone cliffs below, green about two thirds of the way up with lush trees and plants, but light brown, almost yellow, near their tops. Was the great cave out there somewhere, in one of these mountains? That snapped me out of my tourist dream.
Danger.
That's what Grandpa had said. And when Rose explained why, it made a lot of sense. The other tasks were difficult—but this one could get me into very deep trouble. I was nearing the beginning of my most daunting mission. My stomach started to churn.

We got closer to the river as we approached Vallon-Pont-d'Arc and soon were traveling through some dark little tunnels cut right into the gorge. It barely seemed like there was enough room for two cars to pass.

I had asked the driver to leave me in the village. That seemed like the best place to start. I had to find out exactly where the cave was, ask discreetly, and never give away what I really wanted.

The town was a little smaller than I imagined, but it was gorgeous. It was ancient, of course, with narrow streets and low stone walls and many stone buildings. Quite a few of the buildings had half-pipe shingles on their roofs and the little shops had colorful awnings. There were lots of flowers and trees, some of them kind of like the palm trees we have in Florida. The whole place was so tightly packed that it was almost claustrophobic. But it was awfully impressive too, like being on the set of a historical film, a romantic one, I guess, maybe a chick flick. Something I could take Vanessa to, or maybe Shirley. That would probably be better. The little sidewalks were filled with people and the cutesy stores were jammed with tourists. Unfortunately, I could often tell which ones were American. They were talking to the French the way I had at first—loudly and slowly.

I figured that a place like this would have a tourist kiosk, and I asked to be dropped off there. Sure enough, it was in an old stone building in a sort of courtyard in the center of the town. A big wooden door that looked like it had been made for a castle was wide open, and people were pouring in and out of the building, women's heels clicking on the heavily polished wood floor. I had to wait in line for a while. The woman who finally spoke to me from behind the counter was probably in her thirties, slim, with dark hair cut in a fashionable short style. She was wearing subtle makeup and smelled awfully good.

“
Américain?
” she asked. That was the first of several depressing things she said. I had thought I was at least a bit different from the other Americans.

“I am looking for some information about the Chauvet Cave.”

“You cannot go there,” she said very quickly and firmly. Then she smiled. “May I help you with anything else?”

“I-I don't want to go there, of course. I know it isn't open to the public—”

“That is correct.”

“But—”

“Anything else, sir?”

“Can you just tell me where it is?”

“Why would you want to know that?”

“Just so I can see it from a distance.”

“But there is nothing to see from a distance.” She flashed her wonderful smile again. “There is much to do in Vallon-Pont-d'Arc itself and, of course, even more in the surrounding area. This region of l'Ardèche is one of the most beautiful natural places on the earth. You can hike, canoe or kayak, or simply—”

“I am not a hiker or a kayaker. But thank you.”

I thought she gave me a bit of a suspicious look as I stepped away from the counter. I noticed that a few of the other employees had glanced my way when I persisted with my questions. It was obvious that the official line in the area was to not encourage average people or tourists to be curious about the cave. But I wasn't an average person or a tourist, not now.

I
had
to get close to the cave. In fact,
all
I had to do for now was to get close, just see it, do that thief-checking-out-the-lay-of-the-land thing. I had to figure out how in the world I might get in there.

The instant I was back on the street, it occurred to me that perhaps the regular citizens of Vallon-Pont-d'Arc wouldn't have the same reluctance about revealing the cave's location. So I plucked up my courage and entered the nearest patisserie. There were quite a few of them in the little town, despite its size. The French certainly liked their baking and their pastries. I figured the owners of these businesses were constantly dealing with American tourists, so they might be able to understand me.

It smelled like heaven inside—fresh-baked bread and sugar and chocolate and cinnamon and all sorts of good things. It was a quaint place, of course, with lots of wood and stone, as rustic and old as they could make it. The man behind the cash register looked as though he'd been eating quite a few of his own wares. He wore a chef 's hat, likely for the tourists.

“
Excusez moi, monsieur
,” I began. “
S'il vous plait,
où est la grotte du Chauvet?
”

The fat man looked at me for a long while, as if he were trying to figure out which kind of
pain aux
chocolate
I wanted.

“
Pardon?
” he finally said. I guess my accent wasn't that good.

“The Chauvet Cave?”

“Ah!” he exclaimed with a smile. “La Grotte Chauvet! Go to le Pont d'Arc, maybe two mile from the town, yes? It is on the road
à la direction de la
Réserve Naturelle
. Then, go up.”

“Up?”

“Up to the cliffs.
Comprenez-vous?
”

“
Oui. Merci beaucoup, monsieur
.”

That was all I got. But it was enough.

Thinking it unwise to ask anyone to take me there, I walked. Or at least I thought I would walk. Before I was too far out of town, already into the countryside (which appeared almost immediately), a little car pulled over. It roared like a chainsaw… a small one. There was a kayak about twice the length of the vehicle strapped to the roof.

“
Américain
?” the driver asked. He was a young guy, maybe a year or two older than me, wearing peach-colored shorts, a beaded turquoise necklace, sandals and no shirt. The Black Keys were playing on his iPod; I could hear the bass line pulsing right through his earbuds.

“
Oui.
”

“
Parlez-vous français?
”

“
Un peu
.” It sounded to me like I'd said “a poo.”

“Where are you going?”

“Can you take me to le Pont d'Arc?”

“
Mais oui, monsieur! Bien sur!
”

I got in, and he didn't say another word for the next two or three minutes as we careened at top speed along the little, curving road, past beautiful country houses, vineyards and fields, small tourist businesses, through those cool tunnels along the river, then to a large parking lot, dressed up with all sorts of trees and flowers to not look like a parking lot.

“
Voilà!
” said my new friend and immediately leaped from his little sardine can and began taking his kayak down. He acted as though we'd known each other for a while and he had simply given me a lift and then gone about his business. I considered asking him about the Chauvet Cave but decided against it. The parking lot was filled with people, many unloading canoes or kayaks or returning with them from the river. I had a hundred other candidates to choose from. I could pick the perfect one.

A gravel walkway led down from the parking lot to the Pont d'Arc. I could see it from where I stood. Though I wanted to get on with my quest, the sight of it stopped me in my tracks. I had rarely seen anything as beautiful. I'm not a big believer in God, or at least I don't think I am—haven't figured that out yet—but if God didn't make that giant bridge, then I don't know who or what did. The water was like glass and as blue as the sky. Kayaks and canoes glided on it as paddlers stared up at this magnificent creation.

I shook myself away from it and turned back to the lot. Mostly, I heard French voices, though there were a few other languages I wasn't sure about, and here and there, shouts in English, both British and American. Then I heard something that really caught my attention.

“Hey, man, let's get moving, eh!”

The guy was wearing a Toronto Maple Leafs T-shirt and khaki shorts, and his skin was tanned like leather. The dude he was yelling at was similarly bronzed, sporting a Molson Canadian beer shirt, kind of dragging himself behind, looking like he'd had too many glasses of his favorite brew during the lunch hour. They were heading down the gravel path to the water, where they had probably docked their boat.
Canadians.
It looked like they had been in the Ardèche for a while, taking in the sun. They were probably in their early twenties.

I would never admit this to anyone else, but I knew from experience that Canadians were a lot more international in their outlook than Americans. It always shocked me when I heard my cousins really get rolling in a conversation, not only about things that were happening in their own country, but also in America (though they always called it “the United States”) as well as in Europe and South America and even Africa, for God's sake. My buddies and I back home had enough trouble keeping informed about local politics! They didn't know
anything
about the Great White North, even though Canuck-land was just a few miles away over the border. I remember correcting them when they referred to Canada's president, instead of prime minister.

So, I figured these two guys at Pont d'Arc might have actually found out something about the Ardèche region before they came here. Americans, of course, rarely did that before they traveled. We just showed up. Canadians were usually pretty friendly too. I stepped toward them.

“Hey, guys!” I shouted.

The first one, the guy in the Leafs shirt, was looking back toward his friend. But he turned around, saw me and answered right away.

“Hey, man. American, right?”

God, even the Canucks can pick us out over here.

“Yeah, from Buffalo.”

“Oh…man, I'm sorry to hear that,” he said straight-faced. Then he smiled. “Just kidding!” He slapped me on the shoulder.

“You guys been here for a while?”

“Good guess, Sherlock,” said the Molson dude, coming up from behind.

“You ever heard of the Chauvet Cave?”

“Sure,” said Maple Leaf, “it's right up there.” He pointed slightly to the northeast and up the cliffs. “Checked it out before we came over, found the exact location on a satellite map, pretty interesting.”

Bingo.

“But you can't go there,” Maple Leaf said.

“I know.”

“We're here for the kayaking, man, and the babes.”

“And the wine,” said Molson.

“What if I wanted to go up there? How would I do it? I just want to see it from a distance.” Every Canadian I ever met pretty much minded his own business. It was a national characteristic. These guys would never ask me exactly why I was interested in the Chauvet Cave.

“There's a path that leads right from the lot here,” Maple Leaf offered right away. “It isn't marked. It's all very secret, you know,
une place sacrée
.” He laughed. “But if you walk over there”—he pointed at a spot at the far end of the lot—“and look into the shrubs, you'll see it. It's the only path at that end of the lot. It'll take you up to a place where the scientists work. They get there by a little road that goes off the main one a little ways back. We had a brewski in town with one of the tall foreheads working there. He wouldn't say much about it, but he told us about another path that leads from their buildings up to the cliffs. It takes you to the cave. He made a point of telling us that it was sealed off and under surveillance.”

“But we aren't interested anyway,” said Molson. “Too many girls and too much boating going on. I mean”—he looked up at the blue, sunny sky—“check out the rays, man. And besides, I hear they're pretty strict about protecting that cave. We'd rather spend our time out here”—he motioned at the gorgeous Pont d'Arc and the river—“in the company of
les femmes
, than in some French jail.”

“Adiós, Americano!” said Maple Leaf, and off they went.

I watched them walk away, wondering if it was advisable to even look for the trail without learning more about what exactly was up ahead. But I wasn't about to turn back now. At least, I reasoned, I can check out the buildings. I'll make a decision about what to do when I get there.

I was surprised at how quickly the buildings came into view. I must have walked uphill for about three or four minutes, tops, and there they were, in an opening off a small road, with a compact parking lot. The buildings weren't fancy; they looked like housing for the military, a group of concrete structures with barely a sign. I guess that made sense. It wasn't as if they appeared to be trying to hide anything—they just weren't looking to attract attention. There were about a dozen cars in the little lot. As I stood there, a good hundred feet away, a car pulled up and a man got out, wearing glasses and sporting a frizzy hairstyle that could be best described as neglected. He was dressed in brown shoes, beige pants and a short-sleeved, green-and-white-checked shirt, an awfully boring look for a Frenchman. He was carrying a big briefcase and didn't even notice me as he slammed his door, locked it and marched off across the lot toward the front entrance to the biggest building, his head down, muttering to himself. At the door, he was greeted by a man in a uniform. After they'd smiled at one another and exchanged a little conversation, the unfashionable guy headed off into the building and the other man, the one in the uniform, turned and looked right at me. I expected it to be just a glance, but he seemed to notice that I was looking his way and stepped out from the doorway and stared at me. I moved back down the trail I'd come up.