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Book #6 of the Mogi Franklin Series
While on vacation, Mogi and Jennifer take scuba lessons at Lake Powell, Utah, unaware that two hundred feet below them is the route used by Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid to escape pursuers after the biggest train robbery of their career.
Meeting a history professor trying to answer questions about Butch and Sundance suddenly draws the two youngsters into involvement in an insane terrorist’s incredible plan to blow up the dam holding back Lake Powell – and devastate most of the Southwest. It’s not long before Mogi finds himself in the terrible situation of having to choose between preventing the dam’s destruction and saving his own life. |
Read two chapters
Library of Congress Control Number 2017963325 Distributed by SCB Distributors, (800) 729-6423
Chapter 1
Southeastern Wyoming, June 2, 1899
Drenched by heavy sheets of blowing, near-freezing rain, the Union Pacific Overland Flyer Number One pulled next to the water tower in Rock River, Wyoming, at about 2 a.m. Guided by a lantern, the shivering, barrel-chested fireman caught the let-down rope whipping in the wind, stepped to the back of the coal tender, and pulled hard on the spout to lower it into the
opening of the water tank.
Inside the cab, the train’s engineer blew small, even puffs of smoke from his pipe as he patiently watched.
When the water burped out of the opening, the fireman played out the rope as the spout’s counterweight pulled it back upright, flopped the lid over the tank’s hole, and tightened it down. Muttering curses about the rain, the wind, the cold, and the darkness, he returned to shoveling coal into the firebox.
The engineer pulled hard on the whistle and leaned into his control lever. With agonizing slowness, the engine, pulling two express cars, three passenger coaches, and a caboose, struggled forward with the harsh sound of steam pounding against pistons. Coming up to speed, the engine was back to slicing through the curtains of rain, hard on its way to Wilcox station, a tiny piece of civilization in the middle of the Wyoming wilderness.
A few minutes later, the engineer saw three swinging lanterns ahead in the darkness. On a night like this, it would not have been unusual for a stream to have risen and taken out a bridge or part of the track, so the engineer immediately slacked off the steam and applied the brakes, the heavy iron wheels jerking and sputtering as the train slowed.
But instead of delivering a warning about a washed-out track, three masked men quickly jumped onto the locomotive’s steps, forcing their way up with pistols in their hands. Holding the barrel of his gun against the engineer’s ear, one of the men directed him to pull the train ahead of a short trestle in front of them, which he did. Then he watched as the trestle was blown to smithereens.
One of the men ran back beyond the last express car, uncoupled the following car, and mounted the back platform, signaling that his job was done. The train was driven further a couple of more miles where three more men on horseback rode in beside the tracks, pulling saddled horses behind them.
The first express car was ransacked, but revealed nothing of value. The guard inside the second express car, a loyal railroad employee named Charles Woodcock, refused to open the locked express car door. A stick of dynamite later, the door and a dazed Woodcock lay in a pile of splinters. Without Woodcock to provide the combination to the huge safe inside, one of the outlaws grew impatient and placed three sticks of dynamite on the handle of the safe.
The blast not only blew the door off the safe, but also blew most of the top and sides of the express car a hundred feet into the countryside.As the smoke cleared, hundreds of currency bills mixed with the rain as they fluttered back to earth. The outlaws gathered what remained, packed it into their saddlebags, and galloped into the darkness.
Three of the outlaws headed toward Casper, and three others toward Lander. Over the next three days, sometimes together, sometimes splitting apart and then rejoining, each group of outlaws raced along various trails through the Wyoming countryside, riding hundreds of miles in a weaving pattern. As planned beforehand, they found fresh mounts and food at friendly ranches and towns.
Within a day or two, the best trackers and lawmen in the country were chasing anyone and everyone connected to the Wilcox holdup. The Union Pacific refused to officially reveal how much had been stolen. A later report, however, stated, “The six outlaws had gathered unsigned bank notes, considerable cash, nineteen scarf pins, twenty-nine gold-plated cuff button pairs, and four new Elgin watches.” Eventually, Union Pacific admitted that more than $50,000 had been taken, including a significant amount in gold coin. The haul was huge—sufficient to make the six outlaws very happy.
After three harrowing days and nights on the run and giving the slip to every lawman after them, the bandits came together at Anderson’s hog ranch, close to the crossing of the Little Muddy River between Fort Washakie and Thermopolis, where they divided the loot.
Harvey Logan, the man who held the pistol to the engineer’s ear, had been in charge of the robbery and was voted to get first pick. He had no use for scarf pins or cuff buttons, but selected one of the fancy pocket watches, the face circled with diamonds and outfitted with the newest innovation in watch design: a stem-winding mechanism. It was a watch far more beautiful than any of the men had seen. Of course, he also took a pile of money.
Another man, called Butch Cassidy, the leader of the Wild Bunch gang and the planner of the train robbery, took a different pile of money and then selected a diamond-studded watch just like Harvey’s.The rest of the men quickly took care of the remaining money and jewelry.
Someone sent for a wagon full of fun-loving women from a nearby town, and they all soon devoted themselves to having a good time. After a long night of drinking, dancing, playing cards, and roasting an elk, most of the gang rode south for New Mexico, while others split in different directions.
Harvey Logan rode directly to Brown’s Hole, a hideout in a wide valley on the border of Utah and Colorado, straddling the Green River. Two days later, well-rested and trailing a string of fresh horses, he went south into the vast rock mazes of southern Utah. Hidden in the middle of twisted canyons, massive mesas, and confusing valleys was Robber’s Roost, the last hideout along the Outlaw Trail. It was known to the lawmen of that area, but the country was so rough, so bewildering, so effective at hiding men and horses, and especially so easy to defend against anyone not welcome, that the law knew to avoid it.
Finally reaching the ranch in a maze of canyons and mesas, Harvey met up with Butch and Harry Longabaugh, known as the Sundance Kid. The next day, Butch and Sundance left the Roost, descending westward from the mesa tops into the vast array of canyons making up the drainage basin of the Colorado River. Following the different valleys, they eventually headed up a secret trail out of the bare rock country to a ranch in eastern Utah.
Two days after they had left, Harvey set out on the same trail as Butch and Sundance. He had not been through the country before and closely followed Butch’s instructions. He walked his horses down the steep and difficult trail into the valley of the Dirty Devil River and then, at a place with a solid bottom, crossed and continued south for several miles until he reached Cass Hite’s ferry on the west side of the Colorado River.
Crossing to the east side of the river, Harvey searched for White Canyon. An unremarkable canyon from the river’s edge, White Canyon was the only canyon in the hundreds of square miles of twisting rock that had a trail where a man and horse could ride out of the canyonlands into the relatively flat country of eastern Utah. From a high point back at the Roost, Butch had pointed in the distance at the different canyon openings along the route that Harvey should go. At the time, the way seemed obvious. But when Harvey found himself on the riverbank, he was soon bewildered, now utterly dependent on the sign that Butch had placed at the White Canyon entrance.
“Take a sacred oath.”
That was the secret phrase Butch had given him. It matched a drawing that Butch had carved into the sandstone wall at the entrance of White Canyon, the only mark that distinguished it from the dozens of other canyons. Those who knew how to match the phrase to the drawing could identify the correct canyon opening; all others would ride right by.
“When you get across the Colorado at Hite’s ferry, ride south on the east bank until you see the sign to take a sacred oath.”
Harvey Logan muttered a long curse about Butch Cassidy and his secret phrases as he searched the sandstone walls.
Drenched by heavy sheets of blowing, near-freezing rain, the Union Pacific Overland Flyer Number One pulled next to the water tower in Rock River, Wyoming, at about 2 a.m. Guided by a lantern, the shivering, barrel-chested fireman caught the let-down rope whipping in the wind, stepped to the back of the coal tender, and pulled hard on the spout to lower it into the
opening of the water tank.
Inside the cab, the train’s engineer blew small, even puffs of smoke from his pipe as he patiently watched.
When the water burped out of the opening, the fireman played out the rope as the spout’s counterweight pulled it back upright, flopped the lid over the tank’s hole, and tightened it down. Muttering curses about the rain, the wind, the cold, and the darkness, he returned to shoveling coal into the firebox.
The engineer pulled hard on the whistle and leaned into his control lever. With agonizing slowness, the engine, pulling two express cars, three passenger coaches, and a caboose, struggled forward with the harsh sound of steam pounding against pistons. Coming up to speed, the engine was back to slicing through the curtains of rain, hard on its way to Wilcox station, a tiny piece of civilization in the middle of the Wyoming wilderness.
A few minutes later, the engineer saw three swinging lanterns ahead in the darkness. On a night like this, it would not have been unusual for a stream to have risen and taken out a bridge or part of the track, so the engineer immediately slacked off the steam and applied the brakes, the heavy iron wheels jerking and sputtering as the train slowed.
But instead of delivering a warning about a washed-out track, three masked men quickly jumped onto the locomotive’s steps, forcing their way up with pistols in their hands. Holding the barrel of his gun against the engineer’s ear, one of the men directed him to pull the train ahead of a short trestle in front of them, which he did. Then he watched as the trestle was blown to smithereens.
One of the men ran back beyond the last express car, uncoupled the following car, and mounted the back platform, signaling that his job was done. The train was driven further a couple of more miles where three more men on horseback rode in beside the tracks, pulling saddled horses behind them.
The first express car was ransacked, but revealed nothing of value. The guard inside the second express car, a loyal railroad employee named Charles Woodcock, refused to open the locked express car door. A stick of dynamite later, the door and a dazed Woodcock lay in a pile of splinters. Without Woodcock to provide the combination to the huge safe inside, one of the outlaws grew impatient and placed three sticks of dynamite on the handle of the safe.
The blast not only blew the door off the safe, but also blew most of the top and sides of the express car a hundred feet into the countryside.As the smoke cleared, hundreds of currency bills mixed with the rain as they fluttered back to earth. The outlaws gathered what remained, packed it into their saddlebags, and galloped into the darkness.
Three of the outlaws headed toward Casper, and three others toward Lander. Over the next three days, sometimes together, sometimes splitting apart and then rejoining, each group of outlaws raced along various trails through the Wyoming countryside, riding hundreds of miles in a weaving pattern. As planned beforehand, they found fresh mounts and food at friendly ranches and towns.
Within a day or two, the best trackers and lawmen in the country were chasing anyone and everyone connected to the Wilcox holdup. The Union Pacific refused to officially reveal how much had been stolen. A later report, however, stated, “The six outlaws had gathered unsigned bank notes, considerable cash, nineteen scarf pins, twenty-nine gold-plated cuff button pairs, and four new Elgin watches.” Eventually, Union Pacific admitted that more than $50,000 had been taken, including a significant amount in gold coin. The haul was huge—sufficient to make the six outlaws very happy.
After three harrowing days and nights on the run and giving the slip to every lawman after them, the bandits came together at Anderson’s hog ranch, close to the crossing of the Little Muddy River between Fort Washakie and Thermopolis, where they divided the loot.
Harvey Logan, the man who held the pistol to the engineer’s ear, had been in charge of the robbery and was voted to get first pick. He had no use for scarf pins or cuff buttons, but selected one of the fancy pocket watches, the face circled with diamonds and outfitted with the newest innovation in watch design: a stem-winding mechanism. It was a watch far more beautiful than any of the men had seen. Of course, he also took a pile of money.
Another man, called Butch Cassidy, the leader of the Wild Bunch gang and the planner of the train robbery, took a different pile of money and then selected a diamond-studded watch just like Harvey’s.The rest of the men quickly took care of the remaining money and jewelry.
Someone sent for a wagon full of fun-loving women from a nearby town, and they all soon devoted themselves to having a good time. After a long night of drinking, dancing, playing cards, and roasting an elk, most of the gang rode south for New Mexico, while others split in different directions.
Harvey Logan rode directly to Brown’s Hole, a hideout in a wide valley on the border of Utah and Colorado, straddling the Green River. Two days later, well-rested and trailing a string of fresh horses, he went south into the vast rock mazes of southern Utah. Hidden in the middle of twisted canyons, massive mesas, and confusing valleys was Robber’s Roost, the last hideout along the Outlaw Trail. It was known to the lawmen of that area, but the country was so rough, so bewildering, so effective at hiding men and horses, and especially so easy to defend against anyone not welcome, that the law knew to avoid it.
Finally reaching the ranch in a maze of canyons and mesas, Harvey met up with Butch and Harry Longabaugh, known as the Sundance Kid. The next day, Butch and Sundance left the Roost, descending westward from the mesa tops into the vast array of canyons making up the drainage basin of the Colorado River. Following the different valleys, they eventually headed up a secret trail out of the bare rock country to a ranch in eastern Utah.
Two days after they had left, Harvey set out on the same trail as Butch and Sundance. He had not been through the country before and closely followed Butch’s instructions. He walked his horses down the steep and difficult trail into the valley of the Dirty Devil River and then, at a place with a solid bottom, crossed and continued south for several miles until he reached Cass Hite’s ferry on the west side of the Colorado River.
Crossing to the east side of the river, Harvey searched for White Canyon. An unremarkable canyon from the river’s edge, White Canyon was the only canyon in the hundreds of square miles of twisting rock that had a trail where a man and horse could ride out of the canyonlands into the relatively flat country of eastern Utah. From a high point back at the Roost, Butch had pointed in the distance at the different canyon openings along the route that Harvey should go. At the time, the way seemed obvious. But when Harvey found himself on the riverbank, he was soon bewildered, now utterly dependent on the sign that Butch had placed at the White Canyon entrance.
“Take a sacred oath.”
That was the secret phrase Butch had given him. It matched a drawing that Butch had carved into the sandstone wall at the entrance of White Canyon, the only mark that distinguished it from the dozens of other canyons. Those who knew how to match the phrase to the drawing could identify the correct canyon opening; all others would ride right by.
“When you get across the Colorado at Hite’s ferry, ride south on the east bank until you see the sign to take a sacred oath.”
Harvey Logan muttered a long curse about Butch Cassidy and his secret phrases as he searched the sandstone walls.
Chapter 2
Lake Powell, Present Day
Except for putting on his weight belt, Mogi Franklin was ready. The other students were still milling around the deck, sorting out tanks, buckles, straps, respirators, depth gauges, chalkboards, knives, masks, and other equipment. Proud of being so quick to get his gear together, Mogi leaned against the houseboat’s railing and looked across the lake as heat waves radiated off the rock cliffs surrounding Farley Canyon Bay.
Let’s go, people! he was thinking. We’ve been at this three days—you should be faster by now!
Called “slickrock country,” southern Utah was an immense land of twisted canyons and tilted mesas. It was as if thick, cream-colored cake frosting had been smeared in thousand-foot layers over hundreds of square miles of earth, and then sculpted with a heavenly butter knife to make swirls, dips, and slices. But it was solid rock instead of cake frosting, and the swirls, dips, and slices made up a vast empire of mountains, winding valleys, gullies, canyons, and tall, isolated buttes. Void of vegetation except in the
dirt-filled bottoms of the deepest canyons, the country was famous for its smooth, bald surfaces of sandstone.
To the south, 135 miles from where Mogi stood, Glen Canyon Dam spanned a steep-walled canyon to block the mighty Colorado River. Built in 1961, it took almost five years to reach its full capacity as the tall, thick, concrete dam backed the river water into that vast empire of stone to form Lake Powell, one of the largest man-made lakes in the world.
With more shoreline by some accounts than the state of California and more than ninety individual canyons flooded with water, Lake Powell was an oasis for boating, fishing, water skiing, hiking, and camping that drew people from all over the world. The deep, calm, expansive waters were a haven for thousands of people who vacationed in rented houseboats—mini-houses sitting on top of monstrous aluminum pontoons, with bedrooms, living rooms, bathrooms, kitchens, and second floors of open- air decks. One or two massive outboard motors powered the crafts through the water.
The warm water, nearly clear conditions, and abundance of places to explore had also made Lake Powell one of the best places in the Southwest for scuba diving.
“Get your weight belts and we’ll go through our checklist,” the instructor called out.
Mogi muscled his way into the small crowd with a hunched-over swagger, his upper body leaning forward to balance the heavy tank strapped to his back.
The weight belts were hung on a rack next to the stairs, each belt a wide, nylon strap with lead weights attached. On the first day of class, every student was assigned a particular belt, to which weights were then added or taken off, depending on the person’s weight. Buckled around each diver’s waist, the weight of the lead made up for the natural buoyancy of the diver in the water. Without it, a diver would have a difficult time staying beneath the surface of the water, in spite of the weight of the tank and other equipment.
Mogi sorted through the labels for his own weight belt, found a few without labels, tried to be polite to the other hands picking through the belts, didn’t see his own label, and finally grabbed one that looked like what he’d worn the day before.
“Tank centered, straps tight, buckles clipped in, respirator in front and tested, depth gauge, tank gauge, watches in place, weight belt secure, fins, safety knife strapped and secure, dive mask . . . .” The instructor went down the equipment checklist, looking across the group for nodding heads.
Mogi had jumped at the chance to learn to scuba dive. A month before, an adventure outfitter in Flagstaff advertised a four-day scuba class at Lake Powell. Since the lake was only about ninety miles from his home in Bluff, a small town in the southeast part of Utah close to the famous Four Corners area, it was an easy decision for him to sign up. It took more effort to convince his sister, Jennifer, to do it, but when their parents worked out a deal for free housing during the days of the class, plus the weekends before and after, she finally agreed.
The McDowells were long-time family friends who owned a houseboat and a smaller speedboat at Lake Powell, keeping them docked at Hite Marina when not in use. In exchange for staying on the houseboat, Mogi and Jennifer would do some cleaning and minor repairs, working through a list of improvements that the McDowells had planned but never done.
Back in his position leaning against the railing, waiting as the instructors helped others with their equipment, Mogi grew increasingly impatient with the slow, methodical procedures of the instructors.
Let’s go, people! he continued to think. Quit talking, and let’s get going!
The class started on Sunday, a week before the Fourth of July weekend. The eight students gathered each morning at Hite Marina, located at the very north end of Lake Powell, and were then shuttled by speedboats to a large houseboat anchored in Farley Canyon, four miles south. The houseboat served as the center of operations. The largest model available for rent at the lake, the bedrooms housed the instructors, the equipment, and the food needed for the class; the kitchen and living room provided space for lunches and snacks; the large deck over the living area provided the space to store, sort, clean, repair, and issue the diving equipment and also served as the class- room; the area at the back of the houseboat served as the staging area to get divers in and out of the water.
At the end of each daily session, in the late afternoon, the students were motored back to the marina. While Jennifer and Mogi stayed on the McDowells’ houseboat, the others went back to their tents or RVs at the nearby campground.
After six training dives, a few lectures, a written exam, and a final qualifying dive passed successfully, each participant would qualify for scuba certification.
“Everybody, listen up,” the instructor said, “and let’s go through the safety briefing, like we do every time we enter the water. You must always be conscious of safety. Number one, never, ever get in a hurry. Two, know what equipment you have and be sure that everything is working. Three, check your tank gauge to know that you have a full tank. Four . . . .”
Mogi knew the briefing by heart; he could recite it if asked. Giving the instructor minimal attention, he looked over the railing and watched the water, hoping to see fish and wondering how expensive it would be to buy a spear gun. Going after fish with a spear gun would be pretty cool. “Six, if something goes wrong, you each have a slim-style emergency inflation vest, so pull the red cord and hold on; you’ll get to the surface pretty quick. Seven ...” The water was remarkably clear, the details of the lake bottom plainly visible even though it was ten feet beneath the boat. A big bass swam by. Mogi imagined zinging it with a spear and plopping it into a frying pan.
“We’ve practiced how to stay oriented below the surface,” the instructor continued. “Today, we’re going deeper than we have, down to fifty feet. Everybody needs to be on their toes. We picked this bay because there’s a wide shelf around the shoreline, but we’re going beyond it to get our fifty feet of depth. That will be closer to the middle of the bay where the water is around two hundred feet deep. You won’t see a bottom anymore and it’ll be pretty dark, so stay with your partner and pay attention.” After a few more instructions, one by one, each diver shuffled to the back of the boat and stepped down onto a platform tied alongside. They awkwardly put on their fins, turned around and squatted, took a firm hold of their masks and respirators, and fell backward into the water, disappearing beneath the surface.
Mogi followed the others. After sliding on his fins and tightening up the straps, he stood up, feeling like a fully equipped warrior. Then he squatted, tipped backward, and was soon in the water, angling forward to come up beside Jennifer. He already felt more coordinated and confident than the day before.
In fact, he felt powerful.
He swallowed to equalize the pressure in his ears. The instructor swam along the shore, with the students lining out behind him. The frog-awkwardness that everyone had displayed on the boat was replaced with slowly and smoothly swaying fins, with columns of bubbles swirling up from the respirators.
Mogi kept Jennifer on his left. He admired how graceful she was; to her, swimming was just another form of dancing, and she was really good at dancing.
Mogi was fourteen and tall for his age, but his muscles had not yet caught up with his bones, so he was gangly and spindly and a little bit awkward, which is to say, normal for his position in life. But he was smarter than most, which gave him some comfort. He took after his mom’s side of the family with his looks and his shyness, but seemed to be a sum of both families on the brain side— he was smart, quick-minded, mentally disciplined and orderly, and had a natural talent for solving puzzles.
Jennifer, at seventeen, was his opposite. She definitely took after their father. Shorter than her brother by a half- foot, with thick, brown hair cut short, she was strong, athletic, and graceful, had a keen sense of human nature, and loved being around people. While Mogi was the obsessive, analytical, adventurous problem-solver, Jennifer was the cautious, emotionally centered people person. He pushed her to do more than she thought she ought to; she pulled him back into what was reasonable.
Oh, yeah, and he didn’t have a driver’s license yet, so that’s why he had to make sure she took the scuba class.
The filtered sunlight from above jumped and shook and wiggled across the backs of the swimmers ahead of him. Below, the shimmering light died in the soft mud, where a scattering of rocks and submerged logs gave a jumbled texture to the silt-covered sandstone shelf. Everything lost its color, appearing dim and dull under a layer of mud.
Mogi looked side to side and listened to the gurgle of his respirator.
The previous days’ training drills had gradually in- creased the depth, the time, and the distances the students swam. Combining increasingly difficult dives with lectures—about equipment, water, air, buoyancy, how pres- sure works, and the dangers of diving—most of the students were now comfortable with their equipment and the out-of-this-world experience of moving under water.
After gagging a few times and panicking once or twice the first day, Mogi had settled into a comfortable groove.
Piece of cake.
The instructors gave hand signals and turned toward the center of the bay. Everyone moved out from over the sloped shelf, watched the edge of the rocks pass below them, and swam into the emptiness.
Mogi immediately sensed the decreased light. Everything on the sides of the submerged canyon walls—the rim, the rock layers, the mud—dropped out of sight below him, fading into the darkness. It surprised and frightened him. He instinctively swam upward, as if to escape a force pulling him downward.
The group descended in a slow spiral. The instructors stopped the group at thirty, then forty, and then fifty feet, each time motioning for everyone to check their gauges and watches.
At fifty feet, the craggy features of the rock layers of the wall beside Mogi turned soft and appeared as if covered by fog, the lack of light dimming the whole scene. Jennifer was beside him, now upright, slowly moving her fins to keep herself at a constant depth. She checked her pressure gauge and watch, looked at him with a sense of awe, and then slowly twirled around.
She nudged him as the instructors motioned for each pair of partners to swim in a circle, and he fell in beside her as they found the rhythm of their kicks. He struggled to keep at her level, using his arms to swim upward as she glided along. His breath was coming in short heaves, and he focused to keep his respirator at a constant gurgle. It was surprisingly more work than what he had found the day before.
There was a muted clanging sound. The instructor used the handle of her dive knife to bang against her tank, the signal for everyone to come together. It was time to ascend back to ten feet, check everyone out, and then descend again.
Mogi followed Jennifer as she headed upward, checking gauges at the various levels. He had been impressed the day before at how well he and his sister were attuned to each other, how smoothly they worked together. But he was now pumping hard to keep up with her. At the ten-foot depth, expecting to relax and hang beside her, he kept drifting downward instead, having to sometimes kick his fins to come back to her side. He didn’t remember that from the day before.
When everyone gave the thumbs-up sign, the group descended again. Each pair of partners would spiral directly to fifty feet, spend another five minutes in a circular pattern, ascend to the surface, and then get back on the houseboat. One last lecture about handling diving emergencies was scheduled after lunch and another dive afterward, which left only the qualification dive the next morning. Mogi was tired. He looked forward to being back on the boat and taking off all his gear, and it would be lunchtime, too, which was always a high point of the day.
He and Jennifer spiraled downward as the hazy canyon sides once again moved past them. Though he didn’t in- tend to, he had soon left Jennifer in the water above him.
At forty feet, he knew something was wrong.
When he had to give several hard kicks to level out at fifty feet, he felt sweat dripping from his eyebrows inside his mask. Bile rose in his throat as he kicked his legs back and forth. His depth gauge reading dropped to fifty-five and then to sixty feet. He pumped his legs hard, straining at pushing the fins through the water, powering as much as he could. But in spite of the extra effort, Mogi continued to slip down, deeper into the darkness below.
Jennifer swam furiously toward him, pulling at his hands but unable to stop his descent. She grabbed her dive knife and banged it hard against her tank.
Mogi panicked. He doubled his efforts, his fins swinging furiously, his arms frantically stroking for the surface. His legs felt like lead, and his thighs burned with every movement. He struggled to remain upright. It was almost too dark to read the depth gauge, but he saw that it had moved to seventy, and then to seventy-five.
He beat against the water, fighting to follow his bubbles, resisting the thoughts of what he had been told about scuba divers who went too deep: eyes bulging, eardrums exploding . . . .
His energy finally drained and he went limp, the blackness swallowing him.
He felt only a small bump when a body crashed against him, reached around his tank, and pulled on the red cord attached to his harness. There was an immediate jerk, and his exhausted body felt relief as it quit sinking and started rising toward the surface. Suspended in a netherworld of exhaustion, he no longer recognized what was happening or why.
As the instructor held onto his harness from the back, Mogi glanced down through the bubbles streaming across his mask. With his head feeling somehow detached from his body, he idly watched as a strange fish swam toward him from below.
It was a funny-shaped, multi-colored fish, unlike any he had ever seen. The fish seemed to pause and then drifted backward. Through the gray of the dark, Mogi noticed a light glowing from the fish. Not all over, just a distorted pattern of light from the top.
Mogi slowly realized that from inside the light on top of the funny fish, a man’s face stared back at him.
Except for putting on his weight belt, Mogi Franklin was ready. The other students were still milling around the deck, sorting out tanks, buckles, straps, respirators, depth gauges, chalkboards, knives, masks, and other equipment. Proud of being so quick to get his gear together, Mogi leaned against the houseboat’s railing and looked across the lake as heat waves radiated off the rock cliffs surrounding Farley Canyon Bay.
Let’s go, people! he was thinking. We’ve been at this three days—you should be faster by now!
Called “slickrock country,” southern Utah was an immense land of twisted canyons and tilted mesas. It was as if thick, cream-colored cake frosting had been smeared in thousand-foot layers over hundreds of square miles of earth, and then sculpted with a heavenly butter knife to make swirls, dips, and slices. But it was solid rock instead of cake frosting, and the swirls, dips, and slices made up a vast empire of mountains, winding valleys, gullies, canyons, and tall, isolated buttes. Void of vegetation except in the
dirt-filled bottoms of the deepest canyons, the country was famous for its smooth, bald surfaces of sandstone.
To the south, 135 miles from where Mogi stood, Glen Canyon Dam spanned a steep-walled canyon to block the mighty Colorado River. Built in 1961, it took almost five years to reach its full capacity as the tall, thick, concrete dam backed the river water into that vast empire of stone to form Lake Powell, one of the largest man-made lakes in the world.
With more shoreline by some accounts than the state of California and more than ninety individual canyons flooded with water, Lake Powell was an oasis for boating, fishing, water skiing, hiking, and camping that drew people from all over the world. The deep, calm, expansive waters were a haven for thousands of people who vacationed in rented houseboats—mini-houses sitting on top of monstrous aluminum pontoons, with bedrooms, living rooms, bathrooms, kitchens, and second floors of open- air decks. One or two massive outboard motors powered the crafts through the water.
The warm water, nearly clear conditions, and abundance of places to explore had also made Lake Powell one of the best places in the Southwest for scuba diving.
“Get your weight belts and we’ll go through our checklist,” the instructor called out.
Mogi muscled his way into the small crowd with a hunched-over swagger, his upper body leaning forward to balance the heavy tank strapped to his back.
The weight belts were hung on a rack next to the stairs, each belt a wide, nylon strap with lead weights attached. On the first day of class, every student was assigned a particular belt, to which weights were then added or taken off, depending on the person’s weight. Buckled around each diver’s waist, the weight of the lead made up for the natural buoyancy of the diver in the water. Without it, a diver would have a difficult time staying beneath the surface of the water, in spite of the weight of the tank and other equipment.
Mogi sorted through the labels for his own weight belt, found a few without labels, tried to be polite to the other hands picking through the belts, didn’t see his own label, and finally grabbed one that looked like what he’d worn the day before.
“Tank centered, straps tight, buckles clipped in, respirator in front and tested, depth gauge, tank gauge, watches in place, weight belt secure, fins, safety knife strapped and secure, dive mask . . . .” The instructor went down the equipment checklist, looking across the group for nodding heads.
Mogi had jumped at the chance to learn to scuba dive. A month before, an adventure outfitter in Flagstaff advertised a four-day scuba class at Lake Powell. Since the lake was only about ninety miles from his home in Bluff, a small town in the southeast part of Utah close to the famous Four Corners area, it was an easy decision for him to sign up. It took more effort to convince his sister, Jennifer, to do it, but when their parents worked out a deal for free housing during the days of the class, plus the weekends before and after, she finally agreed.
The McDowells were long-time family friends who owned a houseboat and a smaller speedboat at Lake Powell, keeping them docked at Hite Marina when not in use. In exchange for staying on the houseboat, Mogi and Jennifer would do some cleaning and minor repairs, working through a list of improvements that the McDowells had planned but never done.
Back in his position leaning against the railing, waiting as the instructors helped others with their equipment, Mogi grew increasingly impatient with the slow, methodical procedures of the instructors.
Let’s go, people! he continued to think. Quit talking, and let’s get going!
The class started on Sunday, a week before the Fourth of July weekend. The eight students gathered each morning at Hite Marina, located at the very north end of Lake Powell, and were then shuttled by speedboats to a large houseboat anchored in Farley Canyon, four miles south. The houseboat served as the center of operations. The largest model available for rent at the lake, the bedrooms housed the instructors, the equipment, and the food needed for the class; the kitchen and living room provided space for lunches and snacks; the large deck over the living area provided the space to store, sort, clean, repair, and issue the diving equipment and also served as the class- room; the area at the back of the houseboat served as the staging area to get divers in and out of the water.
At the end of each daily session, in the late afternoon, the students were motored back to the marina. While Jennifer and Mogi stayed on the McDowells’ houseboat, the others went back to their tents or RVs at the nearby campground.
After six training dives, a few lectures, a written exam, and a final qualifying dive passed successfully, each participant would qualify for scuba certification.
“Everybody, listen up,” the instructor said, “and let’s go through the safety briefing, like we do every time we enter the water. You must always be conscious of safety. Number one, never, ever get in a hurry. Two, know what equipment you have and be sure that everything is working. Three, check your tank gauge to know that you have a full tank. Four . . . .”
Mogi knew the briefing by heart; he could recite it if asked. Giving the instructor minimal attention, he looked over the railing and watched the water, hoping to see fish and wondering how expensive it would be to buy a spear gun. Going after fish with a spear gun would be pretty cool. “Six, if something goes wrong, you each have a slim-style emergency inflation vest, so pull the red cord and hold on; you’ll get to the surface pretty quick. Seven ...” The water was remarkably clear, the details of the lake bottom plainly visible even though it was ten feet beneath the boat. A big bass swam by. Mogi imagined zinging it with a spear and plopping it into a frying pan.
“We’ve practiced how to stay oriented below the surface,” the instructor continued. “Today, we’re going deeper than we have, down to fifty feet. Everybody needs to be on their toes. We picked this bay because there’s a wide shelf around the shoreline, but we’re going beyond it to get our fifty feet of depth. That will be closer to the middle of the bay where the water is around two hundred feet deep. You won’t see a bottom anymore and it’ll be pretty dark, so stay with your partner and pay attention.” After a few more instructions, one by one, each diver shuffled to the back of the boat and stepped down onto a platform tied alongside. They awkwardly put on their fins, turned around and squatted, took a firm hold of their masks and respirators, and fell backward into the water, disappearing beneath the surface.
Mogi followed the others. After sliding on his fins and tightening up the straps, he stood up, feeling like a fully equipped warrior. Then he squatted, tipped backward, and was soon in the water, angling forward to come up beside Jennifer. He already felt more coordinated and confident than the day before.
In fact, he felt powerful.
He swallowed to equalize the pressure in his ears. The instructor swam along the shore, with the students lining out behind him. The frog-awkwardness that everyone had displayed on the boat was replaced with slowly and smoothly swaying fins, with columns of bubbles swirling up from the respirators.
Mogi kept Jennifer on his left. He admired how graceful she was; to her, swimming was just another form of dancing, and she was really good at dancing.
Mogi was fourteen and tall for his age, but his muscles had not yet caught up with his bones, so he was gangly and spindly and a little bit awkward, which is to say, normal for his position in life. But he was smarter than most, which gave him some comfort. He took after his mom’s side of the family with his looks and his shyness, but seemed to be a sum of both families on the brain side— he was smart, quick-minded, mentally disciplined and orderly, and had a natural talent for solving puzzles.
Jennifer, at seventeen, was his opposite. She definitely took after their father. Shorter than her brother by a half- foot, with thick, brown hair cut short, she was strong, athletic, and graceful, had a keen sense of human nature, and loved being around people. While Mogi was the obsessive, analytical, adventurous problem-solver, Jennifer was the cautious, emotionally centered people person. He pushed her to do more than she thought she ought to; she pulled him back into what was reasonable.
Oh, yeah, and he didn’t have a driver’s license yet, so that’s why he had to make sure she took the scuba class.
The filtered sunlight from above jumped and shook and wiggled across the backs of the swimmers ahead of him. Below, the shimmering light died in the soft mud, where a scattering of rocks and submerged logs gave a jumbled texture to the silt-covered sandstone shelf. Everything lost its color, appearing dim and dull under a layer of mud.
Mogi looked side to side and listened to the gurgle of his respirator.
The previous days’ training drills had gradually in- creased the depth, the time, and the distances the students swam. Combining increasingly difficult dives with lectures—about equipment, water, air, buoyancy, how pres- sure works, and the dangers of diving—most of the students were now comfortable with their equipment and the out-of-this-world experience of moving under water.
After gagging a few times and panicking once or twice the first day, Mogi had settled into a comfortable groove.
Piece of cake.
The instructors gave hand signals and turned toward the center of the bay. Everyone moved out from over the sloped shelf, watched the edge of the rocks pass below them, and swam into the emptiness.
Mogi immediately sensed the decreased light. Everything on the sides of the submerged canyon walls—the rim, the rock layers, the mud—dropped out of sight below him, fading into the darkness. It surprised and frightened him. He instinctively swam upward, as if to escape a force pulling him downward.
The group descended in a slow spiral. The instructors stopped the group at thirty, then forty, and then fifty feet, each time motioning for everyone to check their gauges and watches.
At fifty feet, the craggy features of the rock layers of the wall beside Mogi turned soft and appeared as if covered by fog, the lack of light dimming the whole scene. Jennifer was beside him, now upright, slowly moving her fins to keep herself at a constant depth. She checked her pressure gauge and watch, looked at him with a sense of awe, and then slowly twirled around.
She nudged him as the instructors motioned for each pair of partners to swim in a circle, and he fell in beside her as they found the rhythm of their kicks. He struggled to keep at her level, using his arms to swim upward as she glided along. His breath was coming in short heaves, and he focused to keep his respirator at a constant gurgle. It was surprisingly more work than what he had found the day before.
There was a muted clanging sound. The instructor used the handle of her dive knife to bang against her tank, the signal for everyone to come together. It was time to ascend back to ten feet, check everyone out, and then descend again.
Mogi followed Jennifer as she headed upward, checking gauges at the various levels. He had been impressed the day before at how well he and his sister were attuned to each other, how smoothly they worked together. But he was now pumping hard to keep up with her. At the ten-foot depth, expecting to relax and hang beside her, he kept drifting downward instead, having to sometimes kick his fins to come back to her side. He didn’t remember that from the day before.
When everyone gave the thumbs-up sign, the group descended again. Each pair of partners would spiral directly to fifty feet, spend another five minutes in a circular pattern, ascend to the surface, and then get back on the houseboat. One last lecture about handling diving emergencies was scheduled after lunch and another dive afterward, which left only the qualification dive the next morning. Mogi was tired. He looked forward to being back on the boat and taking off all his gear, and it would be lunchtime, too, which was always a high point of the day.
He and Jennifer spiraled downward as the hazy canyon sides once again moved past them. Though he didn’t in- tend to, he had soon left Jennifer in the water above him.
At forty feet, he knew something was wrong.
When he had to give several hard kicks to level out at fifty feet, he felt sweat dripping from his eyebrows inside his mask. Bile rose in his throat as he kicked his legs back and forth. His depth gauge reading dropped to fifty-five and then to sixty feet. He pumped his legs hard, straining at pushing the fins through the water, powering as much as he could. But in spite of the extra effort, Mogi continued to slip down, deeper into the darkness below.
Jennifer swam furiously toward him, pulling at his hands but unable to stop his descent. She grabbed her dive knife and banged it hard against her tank.
Mogi panicked. He doubled his efforts, his fins swinging furiously, his arms frantically stroking for the surface. His legs felt like lead, and his thighs burned with every movement. He struggled to remain upright. It was almost too dark to read the depth gauge, but he saw that it had moved to seventy, and then to seventy-five.
He beat against the water, fighting to follow his bubbles, resisting the thoughts of what he had been told about scuba divers who went too deep: eyes bulging, eardrums exploding . . . .
His energy finally drained and he went limp, the blackness swallowing him.
He felt only a small bump when a body crashed against him, reached around his tank, and pulled on the red cord attached to his harness. There was an immediate jerk, and his exhausted body felt relief as it quit sinking and started rising toward the surface. Suspended in a netherworld of exhaustion, he no longer recognized what was happening or why.
As the instructor held onto his harness from the back, Mogi glanced down through the bubbles streaming across his mask. With his head feeling somehow detached from his body, he idly watched as a strange fish swam toward him from below.
It was a funny-shaped, multi-colored fish, unlike any he had ever seen. The fish seemed to pause and then drifted backward. Through the gray of the dark, Mogi noticed a light glowing from the fish. Not all over, just a distorted pattern of light from the top.
Mogi slowly realized that from inside the light on top of the funny fish, a man’s face stared back at him.