Wet Desert: Tracking Down a Terrorist on the Colorado River (73 page)

"A small environmental group called The Sonoran Institute, one of the few groups focused on restoring the delta, has maintained over the years that if just 10% of the Colorado River were allowed to flow into the ocean year round, the delta would be largely restored. Our compromise will include that number."

Grant nodded. He looked around and saw that many others in the crowd were smiling.

"Our treaty with
Mexico
will be amended to double the allocation of water from 1.5 million to 3 million acre feet per year.
Mexico
will agree to allow half of their allocation to flow freely into the delta. Additionally,
Mexico
has embraced a plan to create a new entity called the Colorado River Delta National Preserve. They have been told it will be popular with American tourists."

The President pointed to the second easel, which the two congressmen uncovered. "Here is our plan for restoring the delta." The display showed the map of the delta including blue shading where water would cover the delta.

The crowd erupted in applause. The President motioned to the other politicians behind him who bowed and tipped their heads, obviously proud of what they had done.

The President held out his hands to quiet the crowd. "As I said before, compromise requires sacrifice. The allocations to all seven western states will be reduced, some more than others. Although many will be tempted to fight this decision in courts for years to come, I admonish all citizens in these states to accept this compromise, to adopt water rationing and recycling programs, and I promise you the water will do what you need it to do. One of the greatest sacrifices will be losing wonderful sites inside
Glen
Canyon
again when we refill
Lake
Powell
. I recommend that everyone interested come and see them now, while they are still accessible. Last time it took five years to build the dam and eighteen years to fill
Lake
Powell
, so you have a while. But don't wait too long."

The President hesitated, taking a moment to glance at the four politicians behind him. "Although my colleagues and I would like to stay, we have a lot of work to do back in
Washington
. All seven states' legislators will need to ratify the new Compact, so they will also be busy. Besides, we have a new dam to build, so let's get this stuff cleaned up and get started. Oh, and by the way, we have a new commissioner of the Bureau of Reclamation, the organization that will rebuild all these dams. His name is Bruce Godfrey."

The President waved to a cheering crowd, then walked off the stand and started shaking hands. The news correspondents jumped in front of their cameras and gave commentary. The crowd milled around congratulating each other. Grant and Fred stood quietly under the tree.

Grant could not believe what the President had said at the end. Bruce Godfrey would head up the Bureau? That was awesome. No wonder Bruce had seemed nervous before the press conference. Grant glanced over at Fred, who nodded with raised eyebrows.

"Amazing," Grant mumbled.

"Looks like you guys are going to be busy for a while," Fred said.

Grant glanced down in the canyon and wondered how long it would take to rebuild the Glen Canyon Dam. In some ways the hard part was already done, with the foundation still in place from before. While Grant was thinking, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He thought it was Fred, but turned to see Bruce Godfrey.

"Already planning how you're going to rebuild it?" Bruce said, smiling.

Grant's eyes widened. "What do you mean? Are you saying . . ." He didn't dare say it.

"Well, haven't you dreamed about this your whole life?"

Grant glanced at Fred who was smiling broadly.

Bruce continued. "Of course you'll have to convince your wife and kids into moving out to the desert for a while. You could live in Page, but St. George is a little more civilized. But that would be a tough commute." Bruce tapped his index finger on his chin as if he were perplexing about the decision.

Grant wanted to hear the words. "What are you saying, Bruce?"

Bruce smiled. "I'm saying that I want you to be in charge when we rebuild the Glen Canyon Dam. Do you want the job or not?"

Grant was speechless. He wondered how many men it would take. He needed to put a rough schedule together.
And what about the budget?
He would need some help with the financials.

"Well?" Bruce asked impatiently. "You want me to get somebody else?"

Grant looked back at Bruce. "No. I want it!"

"Good. You're the man." Bruce turned to leave,
then
stopped, looking down into the canyon. "Oh, Grant. I want a better design this time. I don't want this dam to crumble for any one-man shows."

"Yes, boss," Grant said. He smiled as he watched his friend walk away. And as far as ideas for improving the dam, Grant Stevens thought he already had a few.

AUTHOR NOTES

Since
Wet
Desert
was my first book, and since I was in my forties when I finished, it means that I have either been writing for my whole life without success, or I had a mid-life crisis and decided to write a novel. In my case it was the latter.

As an electrical engineer by trade, I do not remember attending any creative writing classes. I never planned on writing a book, although I occasionally wished I were smart enough to write one. When I wrote emails, memos, or manuals for work, I considered myself a blunt and clear writer. But, I read fiction at every opportunity.

In the early nineties while working as an engineer in
California
, I perused a friend's copy of the June 1991 edition of National Geographic and saw a story about the
Colorado River
. It was one of those stories where the author spends months traveling from one end to the other and meets people along the way. One of the pictures showed the remains of the Colorado River seeping into the sand and dying miles from its destination at the
Gulf of California
. I did not know before that moment that the river never reached the ocean. It shocked me, and I realized that it must really piss off the environmentalists. Not long after, I started telling my friends that someday I would write a book about an environmentalist taking matters into his own hands to restore the river. The only problem was
,
I had no idea how to write a novel.

I began collecting research and even visited Hoover Dam. But, I did not write. I didn't know how to start. After eight years, I started waking in the middle of the night thinking about the plot. Originally, my protagonist was to be a team of FBI agents, like Tommy Lee Jones' posse in the "Fugitive" and "
U.S.
Marshals", but the more research I did, the more I felt my character should be an engineer. In the summer of 2001, I was sorting through the mail and came upon a class listing for
Saddleback
College
. Instead of tossing it, I scanned it for a Spanish class. But, I found something I was not expecting: "How to write a fiction novel." I enrolled immediately for my first college class in over ten years.

When I arrived that first night, I noticed the bulk of the class were not college kids, but old farts like me. It looked as if I was not the only person having a mid-life crisis. The teacher's name was Shelba Robison. She had crutches and a bum leg, so she did not stand. It was obvious she knew some of the other students, but it was not until she began talking that I learned many of the students had attended before, and the ones she didn't know, like me, were referred to as "newbies." She told us very clearly that if we were not writing a book, we were in the wrong class, and that we must all have a specific book in mind and be ready to write. On the first night, two students brought chapters for us to take home and review. All newbies were required to write a two-page outline of our book's plot, and meet Shelba in her office during the week to discuss whether the class was right for them.

I left the first night invigorated, and wrote my two-page outline in a couple of hours. After almost a decade of research, it came easily. When I met with Shelba, she eyed me skeptically,
then
asked to see my outline. I waited while she read it. Without finishing it, she looked up and asked if I knew enough about dams to write the book, and I told her about my years of research. She nodded and asked me if I was committed to the project. I responded that I was. She asked if I had a family. I confirmed that yes I was married and had four young kids. She grimaced and said the best thing would be to convince my wife I was having an affair until the book was done. I guess I convinced Shelba I was serious, because she let me stay in the class.

I started writing on Aug 30, 2001. I handed in my first chapter the next week. On Sep 12th, the day after the bombing of the World Trade Centers, the class sat in a circle and gave me feedback on my writing. Although I had thought my ten-page chapter was a masterpiece, my peers found it riddled with passive verbs, confusing points of view, and plain vanilla characters. But, my classmates liked the story, and they argued enthusiastically about the plot. After a few minutes, Shelba interrupted them. She said, "As you can see,
Gary
has a very interesting story to tell; unfortunately, his writing is getting in the way of him telling it."

Over the next eighteen months, I repeated Shelba's class twice, and had a dozen chapters reviewed by my classmates. I would like to go on record now that Shelba Robison and my fellow authors from
Saddleback
College
taught me what little I know about the craft of writing. I owe this book to them and wish I could name each of them individually.

Although many gave good input to my story and my writing, I would like to name six who made significant contributions: 1) Bruce Spencer, a pilot friend who flew me to Lake Powell, edited the entire manuscript, and gave invaluable insight into airplanes, helicopters, and houseboat life on Lake Powell, 2) Tom Glazier, a district attorney who edited the entire manuscript and helped with fishing scenes, law enforcement, and houseboats, 3) Uncle Earl Jolley, a lifelong heavy equipment operator who provided key information about bulldozers, building earth dams, and sandbags, 4) an anonymous engineer at the Bureau of Reclamation who helped me with water velocities in floods which established the timelines for flooding on the river, 5) my mother, who read the whole first draft and because she's my mom, saw virtually no problems, 6) and finally my wife Becca, who helped in all phases of the project, who read the manuscript out loud to me during editing, who corrected my grammar, who never gave up on me, and who put up with my fanatical focus through this entire ordeal over the past fifteen years.

Although it seems a little weird to thank God for helping in the creation of a novel about a terrorist, I can't deny that I was inspired to pursue this project, and motivated along the way. Maybe someday I will know why.

Since I began my research in the early nineties, things have changed dramatically on the
Colorado River
. Almost a decade of drought has lowered the reserves in both
Lake
Powell
and
Lake Mead
to critical levels. As of midyear 2005,
Lake
Powell
was down over a 130 feet and classified at under 45% of capacity.
Lake Mead
was also very low. If the Glen Canyon Dam were to fail under those conditions,
Lake Mead
would be able to capture the entire flood and make my story non-plausible.

As far as the explosives are concerned, I have done enough research to know what steps to leave out of the formula so as to prohibit someone using the book as a recipe. If the book seems real in spite of the fiction, then it means that at least in that regard, I accomplished what I wanted.

Lastly, I'd like to thank you for reading my book. I hope you liked it. Since the story is now published, and I have survived my midlife crisis, if you wonder about me, I will be perusing old issues of National Geographic to see if other stories need to be told, and to see if I learned enough writing craft from Shelba Robison to write a second book.

Gary Hansen

www.wetdesert.net