Skye's face. “But he says more when he does.”
I shrugged. We agreed to meet at the Burger Barn around one. There would be room for all four of us in the Range Rover. Blake and Stan might not be thrilled at hauling along the enemy, but I'd been put on the spot.
By the time I got home with my camera and a couple of rolls of film, Stan was just leaving. He had seen blue jays, a downy woodpecker, several robins, a pair of purple finches, and countless sparrows. Even Standidn't seem much interested in the noisy, contentious crows that flapped among the trees and often frightened the smaller birds away.
“Maybe I'll sight the cedar waxwings next time,” he said optimistically.
Somewhat awkwardly, I told him about Skye Piersall. His thin features changed dramatically, and I thought there was alarm in his dark eyes.
“Skye Piersall is
here!
Oh, God!” He turned around on his long, thin legs, a hand to his balding head. Then slowly, almost shyly, he looked at me from over his shoulder. “Skye's a terror when it comes to preserving the natural environment. This rock, that tree, those ferns—everything is sacred. She hates anything man-made. If Skye had her way, she'd live naked under the stars.”
Strangely, the idea seemed to calm him. He was now smiling and looking back off into the evergreens. I wondered if he'd seen another bird. Or maybe the image of Skye Piersall. Naked.
Whatever I imagined about Stan Levine's reaction to Skye Piersall, the initial encounter was uneventful. He and Blake greeted Skye politely, but with reserve. On the way up to the turnoff, I was left to make small talk. I filled the Range Rover's empty air with an account of the Iron Goat Trail and the enthusiasts who spent their spare time preserving the Great Northern Railroad's old route.
“They come from all over,” I pointed out, “though they're restricted by the weather. Some of them use their vacations and camp out along the way.”
None of my listeners, with the possible exception of Stan, seemed to give a damn. I switched to the topic of mountain goats and the National Park Service proposalto blast them off the ridges. Blake was indifferent, Stan reacted with a frown, and, to my surprise, Skye endorsed the idea with enthusiasm.
“That's where CATE differs from other organizations,” she declared, setting her jaw. “It isn't only humans who harm the environment. Animals cause great damage, too. The worst of it is, you can't reason with them. Of course some people are just as bad.” Her green eyes flashed at Blake and Stan. Neither responded, though I thought there was a faint smile on Blake's lips and Stan seemed to stiffen a bit.
Fortunately, die drive was brief. The Californians obviously knew their way, which was more than I did. After we'd bumped along for a short distance on a rough washboard of a road, Stan pulled into what passed for a parking area under the huge power lines that cut across the Cascade Mountains.
The trail began nearby, a narrow, steep incline almost immediately swallowed up by trees and underbrush. Standing next to Blake, I hesitated. Despite living amid raw nature, I wasn't exactly the hearty outdoor type. My so-called hiking shoes were a pair of sturdy Rockports. Fortunately, my companions pretended not to notice. The two Californians and Skye Piersall were properly attired in laced-up boots that looked as if they could have scaled K2.
The ascent was taxing. Except for safety ropes tied to trees, Leonard Hollenberg obviously hadn't bothered to maintain the trail. Despite the sun, which occasionally filtered through the evergreens, the air turned chilly as we gained altitude. Upon reaching the last quarter mile, the ground itself grew muddy. I was about to remark on a patch of dirty snow between two rotting logs when the trail took a sudden dip and we saw a wooden sign that read: HOT SPRINGS—USE AT OWN RISK.
“Here they are,” Blake announced, his expansivenessheld in check by a shortness of
I shrugged. We agreed to meet at the Burger Barn around one. There would be room for all four of us in the Range Rover. Blake and Stan might not be thrilled at hauling along the enemy, but I'd been put on the spot.
By the time I got home with my camera and a couple of rolls of film, Stan was just leaving. He had seen blue jays, a downy woodpecker, several robins, a pair of purple finches, and countless sparrows. Even Standidn't seem much interested in the noisy, contentious crows that flapped among the trees and often frightened the smaller birds away.
“Maybe I'll sight the cedar waxwings next time,” he said optimistically.
Somewhat awkwardly, I told him about Skye Piersall. His thin features changed dramatically, and I thought there was alarm in his dark eyes.
“Skye Piersall is
here!
Oh, God!” He turned around on his long, thin legs, a hand to his balding head. Then slowly, almost shyly, he looked at me from over his shoulder. “Skye's a terror when it comes to preserving the natural environment. This rock, that tree, those ferns—everything is sacred. She hates anything man-made. If Skye had her way, she'd live naked under the stars.”
Strangely, the idea seemed to calm him. He was now smiling and looking back off into the evergreens. I wondered if he'd seen another bird. Or maybe the image of Skye Piersall. Naked.
Whatever I imagined about Stan Levine's reaction to Skye Piersall, the initial encounter was uneventful. He and Blake greeted Skye politely, but with reserve. On the way up to the turnoff, I was left to make small talk. I filled the Range Rover's empty air with an account of the Iron Goat Trail and the enthusiasts who spent their spare time preserving the Great Northern Railroad's old route.
“They come from all over,” I pointed out, “though they're restricted by the weather. Some of them use their vacations and camp out along the way.”
None of my listeners, with the possible exception of Stan, seemed to give a damn. I switched to the topic of mountain goats and the National Park Service proposalto blast them off the ridges. Blake was indifferent, Stan reacted with a frown, and, to my surprise, Skye endorsed the idea with enthusiasm.
“That's where CATE differs from other organizations,” she declared, setting her jaw. “It isn't only humans who harm the environment. Animals cause great damage, too. The worst of it is, you can't reason with them. Of course some people are just as bad.” Her green eyes flashed at Blake and Stan. Neither responded, though I thought there was a faint smile on Blake's lips and Stan seemed to stiffen a bit.
Fortunately, die drive was brief. The Californians obviously knew their way, which was more than I did. After we'd bumped along for a short distance on a rough washboard of a road, Stan pulled into what passed for a parking area under the huge power lines that cut across the Cascade Mountains.
The trail began nearby, a narrow, steep incline almost immediately swallowed up by trees and underbrush. Standing next to Blake, I hesitated. Despite living amid raw nature, I wasn't exactly the hearty outdoor type. My so-called hiking shoes were a pair of sturdy Rockports. Fortunately, my companions pretended not to notice. The two Californians and Skye Piersall were properly attired in laced-up boots that looked as if they could have scaled K2.
The ascent was taxing. Except for safety ropes tied to trees, Leonard Hollenberg obviously hadn't bothered to maintain the trail. Despite the sun, which occasionally filtered through the evergreens, the air turned chilly as we gained altitude. Upon reaching the last quarter mile, the ground itself grew muddy. I was about to remark on a patch of dirty snow between two rotting logs when the trail took a sudden dip and we saw a wooden sign that read: HOT SPRINGS—USE AT OWN RISK.
“Here they are,” Blake announced, his expansivenessheld in check by a shortness of
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