breath. “What do you think?”
I thought that the series of three small pools with their blue plastic linings were ugly. The nearby ground was discolored from the minerals, the corrugated tubing that carried the water out of the rocks was strictly utilitarian, and the pockets of old snow were pockmarked with debris. Worse yet, the mountain air was tainted with the smell of sulfur. The only saving grace was the view of Windy Mountain and the surrounding foothills.
“It's … rugged,” I said finally, sitting down on a streaked boulder and panting.
“It's relatively unspoiled,” Skye remarked, taking in the vista between the western cedars. “I'd like to see it stay that way.”
At the moment, I didn't care if Blake and Stan put up a Ferris wheel. I was hot, tired, and vaguely disappointed. Somehow, I'd expected rippling waterfalls, sylvan pools, and a shady glen that hinted of primeval romance. The only bit of charm was a birdhouse made of cedar shakes which sat on a sturdy vine maple pole about six feet off the ground. Maybe Stan had put it up to encourage nesting. I was too beat to ask.
Fists on hips, Skye was studying her surroundings. “Second-growth timber,” she noted. “From when? The Twenties?”
Stan nodded. “Most of this area was logged in the first quarter of the century.” He looked past Skye to where I was sitting. “Right, Emma?”
“Right.” Carl Clemans had been ahead of his time, reforesting the land. The timber after the 1929 harvest had been limited to isolated parcels, mainly beyond the summit and to the north of Stevens Pass.
Skye gestured at the pools. “Who did this? The seller?”
Blake regarded the plastic-lined holes in the ground.
“No. The people who use the springs fixed them up. Or so we were told by Mr. Hollenberg.”
It figured. Leonard wouldn't bother himself. Maybe he wanted to get rid of the property before somebody took a tumble and sued his broad butt off.
Skye was laughing, somewhat derisively. “I think you two are crazy. Even crazier than usual. Look at this terrain—it'd take a mountain goat to get around here. Why did you pick this place? There are mineral springs all over the Pacific Northwest in more feasible locales.”
Stan, who had been eyeing the birdhouse, now turned to frown at Skye. “You know the answer to that. Most of the others are already tied in with some kind of resort or are on government-owned property. Scenic was available. We'll have to make the best of it.”
“How?” Skye snapped. “By bulldozing and blasting?” Now her laugh was scornful. “That's the only way you
can
create a building site. And CATE won't stand for it. We're prepared to fight you every inch of the way.”
Though Stan was frowning, Blake appeared unperturbed. “Right, we're as seasoned at litigation as you are. Our Suits versus your Suits. We're prepared to put this on the ballot and let the locals decide. We can offer jobs. What will CATE give these poor out-of-work bastards? Spotted owl crap and a free dip in the springs?”
Skye was glaring at Blake. “We have the law on our side, Fannucci. The environment is protected.”
“This is private property, sweetheart,” Blake retorted. “Check your Washington State laws. You're blowing smoke. Go save a whale or some other worthless animal.”
“Like you?” Skye shot Blake a withering look, then started back toward the trail. I finally got up and began snapping a few pictures. I could get a shot of Skye inthe so-called parking lot, unless she decided to walk back to Alpine. I wouldn't have put it past her.
But she hadn't. By the time we had put the sulfuric stink behind us and arrived at the bottom of the trail, Skye was leaning against the Range Rover, wearing a stern expression. Approaching her gingerly, I asked if I could take a photo.
She shrugged. “Why not? It's good publicity for CATE.”
I got her to pose at the trailhead. As a rule, my photographs are never as good as Carla's. Or Vida's,
I thought that the series of three small pools with their blue plastic linings were ugly. The nearby ground was discolored from the minerals, the corrugated tubing that carried the water out of the rocks was strictly utilitarian, and the pockets of old snow were pockmarked with debris. Worse yet, the mountain air was tainted with the smell of sulfur. The only saving grace was the view of Windy Mountain and the surrounding foothills.
“It's … rugged,” I said finally, sitting down on a streaked boulder and panting.
“It's relatively unspoiled,” Skye remarked, taking in the vista between the western cedars. “I'd like to see it stay that way.”
At the moment, I didn't care if Blake and Stan put up a Ferris wheel. I was hot, tired, and vaguely disappointed. Somehow, I'd expected rippling waterfalls, sylvan pools, and a shady glen that hinted of primeval romance. The only bit of charm was a birdhouse made of cedar shakes which sat on a sturdy vine maple pole about six feet off the ground. Maybe Stan had put it up to encourage nesting. I was too beat to ask.
Fists on hips, Skye was studying her surroundings. “Second-growth timber,” she noted. “From when? The Twenties?”
Stan nodded. “Most of this area was logged in the first quarter of the century.” He looked past Skye to where I was sitting. “Right, Emma?”
“Right.” Carl Clemans had been ahead of his time, reforesting the land. The timber after the 1929 harvest had been limited to isolated parcels, mainly beyond the summit and to the north of Stevens Pass.
Skye gestured at the pools. “Who did this? The seller?”
Blake regarded the plastic-lined holes in the ground.
“No. The people who use the springs fixed them up. Or so we were told by Mr. Hollenberg.”
It figured. Leonard wouldn't bother himself. Maybe he wanted to get rid of the property before somebody took a tumble and sued his broad butt off.
Skye was laughing, somewhat derisively. “I think you two are crazy. Even crazier than usual. Look at this terrain—it'd take a mountain goat to get around here. Why did you pick this place? There are mineral springs all over the Pacific Northwest in more feasible locales.”
Stan, who had been eyeing the birdhouse, now turned to frown at Skye. “You know the answer to that. Most of the others are already tied in with some kind of resort or are on government-owned property. Scenic was available. We'll have to make the best of it.”
“How?” Skye snapped. “By bulldozing and blasting?” Now her laugh was scornful. “That's the only way you
can
create a building site. And CATE won't stand for it. We're prepared to fight you every inch of the way.”
Though Stan was frowning, Blake appeared unperturbed. “Right, we're as seasoned at litigation as you are. Our Suits versus your Suits. We're prepared to put this on the ballot and let the locals decide. We can offer jobs. What will CATE give these poor out-of-work bastards? Spotted owl crap and a free dip in the springs?”
Skye was glaring at Blake. “We have the law on our side, Fannucci. The environment is protected.”
“This is private property, sweetheart,” Blake retorted. “Check your Washington State laws. You're blowing smoke. Go save a whale or some other worthless animal.”
“Like you?” Skye shot Blake a withering look, then started back toward the trail. I finally got up and began snapping a few pictures. I could get a shot of Skye inthe so-called parking lot, unless she decided to walk back to Alpine. I wouldn't have put it past her.
But she hadn't. By the time we had put the sulfuric stink behind us and arrived at the bottom of the trail, Skye was leaning against the Range Rover, wearing a stern expression. Approaching her gingerly, I asked if I could take a photo.
She shrugged. “Why not? It's good publicity for CATE.”
I got her to pose at the trailhead. As a rule, my photographs are never as good as Carla's. Or Vida's,
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