Slickrock Paradox (2 page)

In fifteen minutes Silas reached the top of the breach and pulled himself onto the tableland. He retrieved his pack just half a mile away. He fished his water from the bag and drank greedily. As he consulted his map, he traced his underground passage with swollen fingers and sighed deeply. He rubbed his face.

Hat back on his head, the pack on his back, Silas turned east again. He walked his zigzag traverse until there was no earth left to walk upon. He stopped on the rim of the canyon, the Wingate sandstone dropping five hundred feet straight down into a narrow talus slope, and then down again, a thousand feet to the canyon floor. Below him was the Middle Fork of Shafer Canyon, and farther on the East Fork, rising up abruptly to the plateau of Dead Horse Point. Though not visible from where he stood, just miles to the southeast the Colorado River twisted through the earth below, doubling back on itself in the vicinity of the Gooseneck.

She was not here. It was a fact.

Silas retreated to the meager shade offered by a solitary Utah juniper on the cliff edge. He found his
GPS
unit and calculated the day's progress: a mere five and a half miles, not including the narrow slot. More than a thousand feet of up and down.

Despondent, he pulled up the totals for his three and a half years of journeying: 4212 miles. Had he been walking across the United States he could have strode from San Diego, California, to Bangor, Maine, and halfway back again in that time. He did the calculation for elevation: just over three hundred thousand feet, up and down, up and down. He could have climbed Mount Everest ten times. He put the
GPS
back in his pack, weary with accumulated effort.

He sat in the refuge of the juniper's shade and surveyed the scene. It was not uninviting. In fact, Silas knew that it was beautiful. Beautiful in a terrible, reaching, agoraphobic sort of way.

But for Silas, it was not beautiful. It was not repulsive. It was empty.

SILAS DROVE BACK ACROSS THE
Island in the Sky mesa, a can of Molson Canadian tucked in his crotch, the windows of his dusty 2008 Subaru Outback rolled down, the early evening air still oppressively hot. He had bought the car new, off the lot—cash—when he had moved to Utah from Flagstaff, Arizona, to begin his search. The odometer now read 109,000 miles. He was on his third set of tires, his fourth windshield and his fifth set of headlights. He'd stopped trying to keep up with the cracks in the fog lights, which were too low to the ground, and the innumerable chips, dents and scratches on the body. The car looked like it had done two tours in Desert Storm, complete with a real bullet hole in the rear hatch from when he'd strayed too far onto private property.

In Canada, when you wandered too far onto private land, he mused, they took you in and fed you and then showed you where you had taken a wrong turn. In Utah, they shot at you. It was one of a thousand things he had resigned himself to never fully understanding, despite these dozen years living south of the border.

Silas pulled off his sweat-stained hat and put it on the passenger seat next to him. He ran his fingers through his gritty, gray hair. It stood on end with the dirt and grime. He scratched his beard.

Business was always slow in Moab in the middle of the summer. Most people were smart enough to stay out of the desert during the inferno of the season. Silas had taken all of this week off from his sporadic, irregular schedule at his bookstore to devote himself to this futile search. He had scarcely been home. For three nights he'd slept in the back of the car far out on Bureau of Land Management land. Every single day of the last seven he'd paced a transect covering some anonymous section of the region. His body felt worse for wear. Seven days of hiking across the tableland through temperatures that topped 115 degrees. Three times he'd been caught by torrential thunderstorms that pounded the parched earth with rain, forcing him to find refuge, but leaving the earth as dry as it had been.

He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other bringing the can of beer up to his eager lips. Hard to find a decent canned beer in Utah. In the grocery stores it was all Budweiser and Coors, and to add insult to injury, 3.2 per cent, for which no redemption would ever be possible. He turned to his native Molson's—now owned by Coors anyway—for the solace of the familiar.

Soon Silas descended off the plateau and into Nine Mile Canyon. He flipped his second empty beer can onto the floor behind his seat, buckled up his seat belt and turned onto the highway.

Within range of Moab, he checked his cell phone for messages. Few people had his number. His two grown sons never called. Robbie, twenty-four, and Jamie, nineteen, both lived in Vancouver, British Columbia, close to their mother, his second wife. The only other people who had his number were Grand County Sheriff Dexter Willis and the
FBI
Assistant Special Agent from Monticello, Dwight Taylor. They never called either. He flipped the cell phone shut and put it back in his pack.

Before he could retreat to his private sanctuary near the top of the Castle Valley, Silas would have to brave the not-so-private world of Moab. A week away from the Red Rock Canyon bookstore and the town of Moab meant his supplies were low and his mail was piling up.

Tucked between canyon walls and situated near the banks and slew of the Colorado River, Moab had first been settled by white people in 1855 when the Elk Mountain Mission of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints built a fort in Spanish Valley. They forged a tenuous peace with the Utes and Navajo Indians who had been traveling to this location for thousands of years. When that peace broke down, and several Mormon settlers were killed, Spanish Valley was abandoned until the 1880s, when ranchers returned. In 1884 the settlement was named Moab, a biblical reference to a dry, mountainous area east of the Dead Sea and southeast of Jerusalem. By 1920 the area was synonymous with the uranium industry, and by 1955 it was the uranium capital of the world.

That boom was short lived, and as the Cold War cooled, so did the demand for uranium. By the mid 1960s, Moab's mines had laid off hundreds. It would be two decades before a fascination with a different kind of rock—slickrock, and the national parks and recreation areas that surrounded the town—would supplant uranium's dominance.

He piloted the Outback down the broad Main Street, its art shops and bars flooding light onto the widened thoroughfare, and then turned up Center and down South 400 Street. Silas's Red Rock Canyon Books was not Moab's premier bookshop. That distinction belonged to Back of Beyond Books, which had graced the town's busy Main Street for more than twenty years.

Silas parked his car in front of his shop on the nearly deserted street. The narrow adobe building was tucked between two shotgun houses that squatted on the double-wide lot. Next to one of the houses spread an ancient and enormous cottonwood tree, its stalwart arms reaching across all three buildings. At the front door he swept up the pile of flyers and newspapers that had accumulated there. He checked for spiders or scorpions inside the ceramic pot that doubled as a mailbox and grabbed the handful of bills and junk mail. Everything was coated with a fine red dust. He balanced all of this under one arm while he unlocked the glass-fronted door with the other.

The sign on the door read, “Red Rock Canyon Books. Open when I'm here. Closed when I'm not.”

Once inside, he found the switch and flipped on the bank of lights that ran down the center of the narrow building. The room was oppressively hot. Silas flicked on the wall-mounted air conditioner as he made his way to the back of the shop. The two long, low outside walls were lined with bookshelves weighed down with thousands of titles. Pot lights created pools of illumination on the narrow, red carpet that ran the length of the store. The ceiling boasted hundred-year-old pine joists, the thatched adobe ceiling visible between them. At the back of the store was a small, ornate wooden desk with a computer on it that doubled as the sales counter, in case someone bought a book.

Silas threw the flyers in the trash and put the papers down on the desk, amid piles of other paperwork. He sat down heavily in his leather office chair—liberated from his final teaching post at Northern Arizona University—and turned on his computer. While the machine grumbled to life, he scanned the area newspapers' headlines, including the
Salt Lake City Tribune
, for relevant stories concerning a mysterious discovery, a crank call to the police about something—anything—turning up where it shouldn't. There was nothing about a body.

He checked his email, deleting almost everything without reading it. There seemed to be no trace whatsoever.

Feeling suddenly weary beyond words, Silas turned off the computer, switched off the air conditioner and the lights and left the store in darkness. He made his way to the City Market for a stack of frozen dinners, then to the state liquor store for a case of Molson Canadian. He left Moab via Highway 191 north. Thirty minutes and he'd be home.

For a moment Silas slipped into a familiar wistful reverie: He was driving up the narrow, looping road that led from Flagstaff, Arizona, to his home in the woods below the San Francisco Peaks. The sun was setting and the forest was full of long shadows; the vanilla scent of the pines was intoxicating, invigorating. As warm as the days of the autumn semester could be, it was always cool in the evening deep in the woods along the base of Humphrey's Peak. Soon he'd be home. They might sit on the wide porch a while, sipping gin and tonics; maybe he'd retreat to his library, as he often did, to review notes for the next day's lecture.

His wife, however, did not await him at his new home in the Castle Valley. It had been three and a half years since Silas had seen Penelope. It had been three and a half years since she had gone for a hike, somewhere within a day's drive of Moab, never to return.

Lost in his dream, Silas took the turnoff to his small ranch house too fast. He kicked a spray of gravel and sand into the defenseless weeds and cactus before driving the track to a single-story, wood frame house that sat pressed against the fifteen-hundred-foot sheer wall of Porcupine Rim. His lights swept across the front of the house as he came to a stop, a cloud of dust swirling up and then settling in the dense evening air. He turned the engine off and sat for a moment, feeling tired and thirsty and numb.

Hunger soon won out over fatigue, and he stepped from the car, carrying as much of his gear as he could to the front door. The house was hot and airless. He went first to the kitchen and opened the fridge to let its cool air spill out. He took the last cold can of beer from the fridge and opened it. Without stopping for a breath, he downed half of it, then put the new case in the nearly empty icebox. He tucked the dozen frozen dinners, save one, into the freezer, and popped the remaining meal into the microwave. The four water bottles from his dusty day pack he rinsed and refilled, then placed in the freezer next to the dinners.

Silas closed the fridge door, went into the living room and turned on the central air conditioner. He carried the rest of the gear to the second bedroom, which he had turned into a gear room, and plugged in his
GPS
. Next he went to his bedroom. A small chest of drawers sat against one wall next to the open closet. Beside the bed stood a nightstand with a lamp, a clock radio, and a single framed picture, and on the walls hung half a dozen large-scale road maps of the region.

At the back of the house, next to the bathroom, was the utility room, with a back door that led to a picnic table and hammock beneath a thatched pergola. With the lights off, he stripped naked next to the washing machine and put his sweat-stained, dusty clothing directly into the wash. He padded to the bathroom and took a cold shower.

By the time Silas was finished, dressed, and had dinner ready, the house had begun to cool. He sat in the darkness at a small, square table at the center of the room and looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the world beyond. His view was dominated by the conical form of Round Mountain, and beyond that the steep precipice of the Adobe Mesa. In the faint light cast by the stars he could just make out the mesa's edge, its forested crown looking like the bristles on a wire brush.

He ate half of the cardboard meal and finished the beer and sat back in his chair and regarded the darkness. There was one more task to complete and then he could fall into bed, perchance to sleep.

He turned on the lights in the living room. The walls were filled from floor to ceiling with a series of topographic maps. The 7.5 minute quadrangles were arranged end to end: the entirety of the Canyonlands and Arches National Parks; the Manti-La Sal National Forest, stretching south to Natural Bridges National Monument; and farther south still through the Vermilion Cliffs and the Grand Canyon. Then west to Glen Canyon, Dark Canyon, and Paria Canyon; the Arizona Strip; and then, on another wall, the vast expanse of the Kaiparowits Plateau and the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument. On a third wall were trail maps of various national monuments, state parks and national forests scattered across the American Southwest.