Thursday, August 28, 2008 – Romulo and Ixcel!

We thought we had seen beautiful, clear sea water in Grand Cayman, and of course we had. But when we arrived at Cozumel, we were astonished by the turquoise water, and the gradations of color, from deep cerulean blue to light aquamarine.

Cozumel has been a cruise ship port for 20 years, and there’s a major concentration of tourist shops at Punta Langosta where we docked. After toodling about for a quick hour, we caught our excursion bus to Chankanaab National Park, about 15 minutes away.

At Chankanaab, the 100 or so of us who had signed on for the dolphin excursion were broken into small groups of 12. Each group donned life vests and filed out on the docks that formed a square enclosure, cordoning off a 2,000 x 3,000 yard portion of the azure water with underwater hurricane fences. We could see the dolphins sticking their heads up, leaping and swimming around groups of tourists already in the water.

Our group assembled in the water, standing on a platform about 4 feet deep. One at a time, we did various activities with Romulo, a 15-year-old male dolphin with scars on his forehead, from skirmishes with other males fighting over the females we were told. We kissed and hugged Romulo. We got rides holding onto his dorsal fins while he swam upside down. We held onto a boogie board while Romulo pushed us from behind, positioning his round snout right on the sole of one of our feet—trust me, you can get going plenty fast this way.

At the end, we moved over for our “free time,” our “tiempo libre,” with two female dolphins, including one named Ixcel (sp?). They swam down the line of people, letting us run our hands along their sleek sides. They leaped high in the air. They splashed us with water.

Finally, it was over and we were led in our dripping suits into small TV viewing rooms where we watched video presentations of our group’s experience, miraculously edited in record time so that we could view it immediately, complete with slow motion sequences of our dolphin rides.
Finally, it was time to return to Conquest, and we joined the great throng walking out on the piers to the two ships. Inspiration was docked alongside Conquest. The Royal Caribbean ship Liberty of the Seas had also come to Cozumel, but was at a separate dock five miles away. No tender boats this time. The embarkation staff inserted our sea and sail ID cards one at a time as we boarded, each one making a loud “ding,” indicating one more passenger had returned to the floating city. Was anyone ever left behind? It happens infrequently, we were told—those who fail to reboard in time are aided by Carnival staff on land, and typically fly back to their port of origin, after paying a significant fine.

Aug. 27, 2008 – Reef and Rays!

At dawn Tom awoke and found we were sliding into our first port stop, Grand Cayman. To our surprise and awe, another great cruise ship pulled up alongside us, then another, until there were three floating hotels anchored in the azure waters a mile or two offshore. To our left was Liberty of the Seas, a Royal Caribbean liner, and to our right was Inspiration, the little sister of Conquest, about two thirds our size.

This was our only port stop where we were to travel to the shore by “tender,” meaning there was no deep water pier sufficient to dock the vast cruise ships and they anchored offshore, with smaller boats shuttling groups of cruisers to and fro all day.

On shore we waited for a while and then caught our bus to our chosen shore excursion. We were surprised when the bus turned into a residential area, but pleased that it showed us a bit of daily life, at least for those who could afford vacation homes in Grand Cayman. The bus route mystery was solved when we pulled up to a dock between two big houses on a canal which served the wealthy vacation homers, allowing them to launch their boats from their back yards.

The snorkeling boat crew immediately engaged us with high spirited banter, particularly the ring leader Rob, a Brit who was funny, articulate, informative, a great guide and host. All three crew members were sunburned white guys, the youngest seemingly in his 20s. Their boat Emerald Eyes was a flat bottomed, motorized, double decker catamaran.

We motored down the canal and Tom was stunned to see dozens of 2-3 foot long Honduran iguanas lounging in the backyard grass and docks of the wealthy homes. It was like instead of dogs or cats there were these cat sized lizards with incredibly back fringes and long droopy chin wattles.

In half an hour we neared our first stop, the coral reef that lined the mouth of the islands North Sound for many miles. The white lines of breaking surf clearly showed the location of the shallow reef. After brief instruction, the 50 or so tourists on board donned masks and snorkels and fins and slid into the incredible, swimming-pool clear turquoise water. Visibility must have been close to 100 feet. The reef was 3-8 feet below us, and we floated over it, hovering, occasionally flipping with feet or stroking with arms, pulled back and forth over the coral below by the waves.

The boat had laminated sheets of color images identifying about 60 species of reef fish, and Tom swam back once to look at it before coming back to find Lauren. We saw “Dorie” from Finding Nemo, a blue tang. We saw two different types of wrasse, fish that are one color in front and different colors in back, with a vertical stripe in the middle of their bodies demarcating the color break. Sea fans waved in the clear current, wafting gently back and forth. Millions of little fish of all kinds and colors ducked in and out of sheltering holes in the brain coral and stalk coral. We saw something called a trunkfish, who had a body like a triangular puffer fish and used its long snout to blow a little clear space in the white sand and root for food. One fish had a dark blue-black body pocked with iridescent dots all over its back, like electric blue stars against a black night sky. There were parrot fish and tiny iridescent blue guys with forked tales called blue chromiss. Finally, after all to short a time (about 40 minutes), the boat’s air horn signaled it was time to motor over a half mile or so to our next stop, the famed Stingray City.

In various books and web sites that reference snorkeling in the Caribbean, the Stingray City sand bar on Grand Cayman invariably is cited as one of the top snorkeling experiences in the region. As we pulled up, Rob explained that for many decades, island fishermen had been fishing in the deeper water beyond the reef, then they’d come into calmer waters inside the reef to clean the fish and chuck the guts and heads overboard. Over the years, stingrays learned to associate this area with a free meal.

The fishing boats may be gone, but the tourist boats now come in such numbers that Cayman wildlife authorities have forbidden tourists to feed the rays—only guides can now do so. All of us reentered the water, this time over 8-10 foot deep white sand several hundred yards inside the reef. Rob and his mate Nick proceeded to feed the rays squid while the rest of us swarmed like schooling fish. Lauren had a close encounter where the entire underside of a ray and brushed along her thigh. Tom stroked the undersides of several rays, which ranged in size from big dinner plates to big guys 3-4 feet in diameter. As Rob said, touching a ray did indeed feel like stroking a soft mushroom.

Finally, the tour boat brought us back to the dock, where we tendered back out to the ship. Tomorrow, swimming with dolphins at Cozumel…

P.S. It is now Saturday morning, Aug. 30 (my blog posts are several days behind!), and Hurricane Gustav is now northwest of Grand Cayman, expected to hit Texas on Monday or Tuesday. Weather is typical around Conquest--sunny with a light breeze. It appears almost certain we will outrun Gustav and make port in Galveston a day or two ahead of the storm.

Aug. 26, 2008 – Cruiser Bacchanalia!

Our third morning dawned much like the first two. We are finally getting to know the ways of this floating city. One floor down leads to the Promenade deck, sushi and coffee. Two floors up leads to Cezanne restaurant, the immense buffet where those too informal or impatient for sit-down meals can que up and load up. For us this morning, however, it was coffee and fruit early, followed by a real sit-down breakfast at the Monet restaurant.

We were seated with three other couples. One were 30 somethings from California who had resettled in the Dallas area, apparently so the husband could attend school to be a Chiropractor. She had broken her leg a few weeks before the trip and was in a wheelchair, but this had not seemed to dampen their spirits. Next to them was a most interesting young black couple. Her name was Saudi, and she had shaved her head almost bald. She hailed from New York city, and her favorite recreational activity was shopping, primarily for shoes. He was an installer of TV network systems for hospitals, a hunky fitness-oriented jocky type who had hunted for squirrels and rabbits in the forests of East Texas as a boy, but had somehow ended up with a high maintenance city woman. Down from them on the end were a very chatty and friendly woman from rural New York and her balding husband from France, who sat quietly and could rarely be drawn into conversation throughout the morning while his wife hailed forth in the nonstop stream common to women who have hit their stride. At one point, Tom the ex-reporter could not help probing to try to understand the psyche of Saudi the recreational shoe shopper. “Where should I go if I’m in New York city?” She politely tried to think of places where a nature boy could venture in the city that never sleeps—Central Park, maybe? Further probing about her favorite place revealed that the must-see spot in the city involved shops along Canal Street. Why was it called Canal Street, is there a canal nearby? I don’t know, never thought about that, it’s all about the shops don’t you see? Tom—the kind of shopping I prefer involves locally crafted artisan goods, preferably done by indigenous tribes in remote areas. Saudi—well, they do have quite a few ethnic artists, including some wonderful street painters who can sketch a remarkable likeness of you in minutes. And so it went…

That afternoon, time finally slowed to a lazy, limitless crawl, defined solely by movement from the Sky Deck’s cool water pool (adult’s only, rules say no diapers) to the adjacent hot tubs, and back again. Some reading in deck chairs to break up the routine. Some chevre and garlic pizza from the Sky Deck pizzeria (staffed by the omnipresent Asians, who were unfailingly smiling and friendly all over the boat) and red wine from the stateroom bottle (one of two that came aboard in Tom’s bag). Slide into the cool pool again. Marinate in the hot tub some more. You get the idea. I could get used to this. Boy, the kids would love it. They’d go ape ___ all over this big boat. Wonder if we should see about a multi-family spring break on one of these ships? Who would come?

(Fast forward to 7:40 a.m., Aug. 28 - As I type this, recalling the events of two days ago, the island of Cozumel has just come into view. I looked up from the keyboard, while sitting on our stateroom balcony, and there it was…a line of land on the horizon, strip of white sand beach along the near edge with green vegetation spreading behind it, what appears to be a tall red and white lighthouse. Miraculously, marvelously, no visible development marks this island. No buildings, no roads, no people. Wait a minute. This may not be Cozumel, not enough tourism development. That must be Cozumel away over there to the right, with the tall white oblongs of buildings clustered off on the farther horizon. As I type, a little white fishing boat emerges in view, not 500 yards from the massive Conquest, between us and the beautiful island. Except for the lighthouse, this could be what Spanish explorers saw when they first arrived—land at last, a pristine island of white sand and green trees, and one of the natives has ventured out in his little boat to say hello. Maybe you who read these words will see the photo I just took of the little boat and the island. I will certainly see that photo again some day, and read these words, and remember arriving at Cozumel on my first cruise.)

Back to Aug. 26…

After dinner this night, while finishing what had become our standard desert, the chocolate melting cake, we pondered the evening’s options. The cruise director and staff had planned a mondo party for our last night at sea before three days in port began. Tom was feeling pooped, but decided to gamely at least explore what this mega-party was supposed to be.

We arrived at Henri’s disco to find the man in charge was Chicken Little, the 21-year-old assistant cruise director with the hoarse English accent, hoarse as all cruise directors seemed destined to be from their continual exhortations for cruisers to have fun, fun, fun. Chicken had a cute English assistant who proceeded to swipe half inch bands of white “war paint” along the cheeks of anyone foolhardy enough to enter the dance floor. Chicken explained that we were the White Team, and we had to achieve certain ends to defeat the Blue Team and the Red Team. He taught us our team cheer, “Go White Team, Go White Team, Go!” We all then taught us what seemed to Tom like a complicated line dance involving a lot of right foot here and left foot there and a lot of jumping and turning. Then, when the crowd had its blood pumping, we chanted our way out the door and down the promenade, hooting our team cheer as loud as we could right past the equally deafening Red Team, holding our fingers up to form little W’s for white.

We ended up in the Tahiti casino, where cruise director Jen herself hailed forth in an excitable hoarse English shout that made Chicken Little seem shrimpy. She started up deafening dance tunes and pounded us through a series of group line dances, starting with the Macarena, then the chicken dance, then something British called the Piano Man that in one section involved some fun hopping like you’re playing the bagpipes. Just when we began to feel like flagging athletes in some kind of bizarre cruiser Olympics, we chanted out of the casino and over to the Degas lounge, scene of Tom’s failed but fun James Brown attempt. Here a mad American gal in cowgirl getup led White Team through a last series of outrageously fun stunts, including one involving three couples where the women rode the men like bulls in a rodeo.

Finally, as the midnight hour rounded, we toddled off to bed. One last treat awaited us in the stateroom this night. Lauren, observing with amusement the steward’s habit of leaving cleverly constructed little animals made of white bath towels, had decided to leave the cleaning crew a little surprise of our own. She created a very passable sea turtle, complete with little dark flecks of fabric for eyes, and had left it lying on the bed where we normally found the nightly towel critters. When we returned, exhausted from our high energy cruise night of deafening dancing, we found, there on the bed where Lauren had left her turtle, a replacement. The crew had responded to Lauren’s little joke with a tour de force towel swan.

Whew… We came, we saw, we partied like cruiser cattle. Tomorrow, Grand Cayman, snorkeling coral reefs and swimming with stingrays.

Carnival Conquest cruise log, Aug. 25, 2008 – Blue Water!

Despite staying up til close to midnight Sunday night watching cruisers go wild and crazy singing Karaoke in the Degas Lounge, we awoke around 6:40 a.m. Monday and emerged onto our balcony to find the ocean had changed. Gone was the gray-blue of the Texas near shore waters. Gone were the dozens of oil and gas production platforms, which had continued to bristle for hundreds of miles all around us into late Sunday night.

Instead we found a new world where the sea had gone cobalt blue--a startling, deep, royal blue--and the sky was splattered with cumulus clouds of gray and white that puffed by close overhead or lined the distant horizon in linear bands that piled up into billowing hills above and flattened into wide, gray lines with occasional fingers of dark rain coming down to the sea below. The rising sun shone through the cloud mass to the east, sending rays of light breaking through holes in the vapor. The horizon was unbroken, limitless, a sweeping arc from left to right, ocean meeting sky, the rim of the world clearly made visible, with no trees, no hills, no telephone poles or buildings or anything to break the sight lines. Transitory shadows of clouds were stark and obvious here and there across the otherwise uniform blue surface. Looking down from our stateroom balcony, the churning foam of the ship’s wake tinted the water nearest the hull a lighter, aquamarine tinge.

We did 8 a.m. yoga and found the young fitness center crew had a much more simple, active, approach, much different than what Lauren was used to at Yoga Yoga in Austin. This took place in the ship gym, high on the 12th floor above the prow, with windows all around showing the big blue sliding by way down below.

After this came breakfast, followed by the first power nap of the day. Then Tom headed off for an aerobic workout back at the gym on an elliptical trainer. Then we showered and dressed for the Park West company art auction.

The art auction was most interesting, not least because they were offering original works by Picasso, Chagall, Dali, Rembrandt and other famous “dead guys,” as the delightfully perky and charming ship’s art director Kelsey referred to them. After we strolled through the arrayed canvases sipping free champagne, we sat down and Kelsey rocketed us through the “fun ship” approach to art auctioneering, extremely fast and high energy, with lots of cheering and hooting. Nobody shelled out $14,000 for an original Dali piece done as a series of illustrations for Dante’s Divine Comedy, but several folks paid hundreds for the work of more current artists.

Lunch followed, and afterward the second power nap of the day (are you sensing a pattern?). This little snooze was truncated by a sudden announcement from the captain, whose strongly-accented voice was unmistakably different from the hoarse British huskiness of the cruise director’s frequent announcements. The captain’s message shocked us. A tropical storm named Gustov was heading northwest into the Western Caribbean, they had made a decision to drop our Jamaica port stop entirely, and instead go straight to Grand Cayman, then Cozumel, and add a new stop in Progreso on the northern coast of the Yucatan Peninsula. No Jamaica!? Huh?! Lauren (and about 3,000 other fellow cruisers) were most bummed, as Jamaica mon had been one of the whole points of the trip. Oh well. Our swimming with dolphins shore excursion at Ocho Rios in Jamaica had been automatically cancelled. We decided to switch our Tulum trip at Cozumel to instead do a dolphin swim excursion there, and added a Mayan ruin trip at Progreso. Que sera, sera.

This sobering news, landing like a grenade in our stateroom as we groggily emerged from nappage, required immediate additional coffee for Tom, who had taken to mixing hot chocolate and coffee from the many 24 hour beverage bars, since there was only one place aboard ship that claimed to have good coffee, and it was suspect, since they had no organic beans and seemed to be searching for a clue when the topic was probed. News of the itinerary change and Gustav’s onset buzzed through the ship for the next few hours, and lines formed at the shore excursions desk as cruisers tried to shift plans.

Nonetheless, the evening unfolded as delightfully pleasant. We chose this moment to pop our bottle of Vino Verdhe and downed most of it in our stateroom, then carried full glasses up to the sky deck on the stern to see a spectacular sunset. The wind had died and the sea was like molten lead, smooth and liquid. We then stepped smartly back to our stateroom and donned our nicest togs for assigned dining, which for us occurred every night at table 222 in the Renoir restaurant. This was one of two nights at sea when the dress code forbade shorts and T-shirts and called for elegant attire. Tom wore the 1950s vintage shawl tuxedo jacket acquired for our wedding in 1988, stored in the closet all these years. Lauren wore a beautiful crimson dress, set off by a newly expanded and restrung pearl necklace which Tom had lengthened as an anniversary surprise.

Then followed Tom’s wild night of Karaoke. Originally, we wandered down thinking to sing one tune, and Tom signed up to sing Saw Her Standing There by the Beatles, but never got to it, as he was swept away by an impulse to join a competition to be James Brown in some kind of ship show, and instead sang I Feel Good, going up against two other guys. Unfortunately, the first guy smoked Tom and the other young fellow, who watched in dismay as this guy not only sang his ass off, but pranced around doing some pretty cool JB dance moves, including the famous splits. After witnessing this, we knew it was all over, and tried to concede, but the Karaoke director, a strangely stiff and rule-oriented young gal named Allison, required us to get out there and go down in flames. So we all hammed it up and there emerged a wild, back-slapping, friendly camaraderie among the three would-be JBs.

We finally returned to our stateroom close to midnight once again, to find that the housekeeping crew had left another one of their incredible towel critters on our freshly made bed. Unlike the strange but somehow cute little shapeless ghost from the night before, this was a far grander creation, a quickly recognizable cute little rabbit lying prone with long ears flopping back. We had never heard of towel critters before (!?), and pondered whether the finer hotels did this sort of thing.

Perhaps because of all the power napping, or maybe it was the extra coffee in the afternoon, or the fact that we had turned the A/C temperature up at bedtime and the room had warmed, but Tom awoke at 3:30 a.m. and couldn’t get back to sleep. This had a fortuitous turn, as the moon had risen, a horned new moon hanging above the horizon straight out from the stateroom balcony, sending a spectral glowing shine of moonlight across the water to the ship…supernatural, ghostly, beautiful. Tom prowled up on deck and had pizza and chocolate frogurt on the Sky Deck before going back down, discovering there were several cruisers still up and rowdy on this ship, parts of which clearly never sleep.

Carnival Conquest cruise log, Aug. 24, 2008 - We made it!

After winding through miles of twisting lines of passengers, we successfully navigated security and ship check-in and boarded the Conquest. We checked into our stateroom and promptly headed off to the sushi bar, marveling at the Vegas-like sprawling splendor all around, all done in French Impressionist themes. We visited the spa and gymn, took a walk on the breathtaking 11th floor wooden deck overlooking the multi-level pool and sun deck, and signed up for yoga at 8 a.m. Monday.

We were assigned dinner at 8:15 p.m. each night in the Renoir restaurant, table 222, where it appears we’ll be dining for the remainder of the cruise. This seemingly random assignment was made without our consent or consultation, but we have no complaints regarding the food or atmosphere. Lauren had Norwegian salmon, I had an Indian vegetarian spread, and we topped off with something they called a chocolate melting cake, which turned out to be to die for.

The ship is vast, complex, stunning in its diversity, and we are only beginning to sense its labyrinthine ways. To serve the 3,000 passengers, there must be at least 500 staff. The many floors, restaurants, decks, bars, theaters, clubs, gambling rooms, art galleries and shops boggle the mind.

After the evening meal, we strolled the upper deck again in the soft night air, seeing the ship decked out in strings of incandescent bulbs hanging from stem to stern. We could faintly make out the glint of stars in the Gulf sky past the bright lights of conquest, and could clearly see the great billow of diesel smoke puffing from the unmistakably distinctive T-shaped stacks protruding from the rear upper level.

We were on our way to the Toulouse Lautrec theater, when we discovered the ship’s art gallery. We ducked in and were chatted up by two delightful young Canadian gals who run the place. To our astonishment, they were showing original pieces by Picasso, Miro, Chagall and Rembrandt…huh!? They were promoting a champagne art auction at 12:30 p.m. Monday in the Degas lounge, urging us to come. (Drunk at lunch on a Monday?...already!?)

Finally around 11 p.m. we wandered back to the stateroom, to find our steward Juslin from Dominica and his housekeeping elves had turned down our bed clothes and left the strangest, cute little ghost of a critter, a towel curled up like a little creature on the bed, with two scraps of paper for eyes. Lauren and I puzzled over this thing for several minutes, and I finally decided to take a photo to prove its existence. We then uncorked one of our two wine bottles, a mediocre pinot noir, and sat on the balcony to see a wonderful lightning light show, which periodically lit the northeastern sky more than 100 miles away. All around us were the lighted shapes of oil and gas production platforms. Occasionally, a tanker would glide past only a few thousand yards away. I told Lauren one of my aha surprises of the trip so far was how much traffic and structure there appeared to be out in the open Gulf.

The Passing of the Torch

Below I am sharing a story I wrote for Texas Parks & Wildlife magazine about the 2007 Lone Star Land Steward and Leopold Conservation Award for Texas recipients. It was a great privilege to meet the Prices and see their place, and a huge amount of fun for me to watch urban news reporters interact with Gary and walk around in his pastures. With this piece, I took some serious liberties, creating a fiction-like narrative based on facts Gary shared with me.

How native grasses and one old cowboy helped the Price family turn overgrazed land into a conservation showplace.
By Tom Harvey

It was June 1959. The morning sun was just starting to send moist heat rising off the pastures at the 77 Ranch south of Dallas.

Ranch owner Lee Low stood in the corral, smiling up at a 10-year-old kid on a horse. The young rider was Gary Price, who never dreamed in those days that someday he’d own the ranch.

“You think you can handle that horse?” Low asked. The fine cutting horse had just arrived from Oklahoma City, where Lee’s son Bill was a successful cattle buyer.

“Yes, sir” said Price, though he eyed the big horse with some trepidation.

“All right,” said Low, saddling up to accompany his young charge.

Low was seeing Gary’s widowed aunt and had become like an uncle to the boy. The Prices lived in south Dallas, but Gary would come down on weekends and in the summer, tagging along and helping the old cowboy from San Saba. Somehow, the relationship between boy and man that began here grew into a lifelong friendship.

“Let’s go to the bumper gate,” Low said, and the two spurred their horses out of the corral. Low was riding Piss Ant, a horse that lived to be 35 and became a minor legend in Navarro County.

At the bumper gate pasture, Low told Price to move some dogies (motherless calves) into a corner, so he could try out the horse and “see how cowie he is.” The boy complied with gusto, but on the first calf he headed, the horse stopped so abruptly Price sailed off and got a mouthful of Navarro County. He quickly rolled to his feet, rubbing his noggin.

Low sat on his horse, laughing, but not unkindly.

“He stops hard, don’t he?” said Low.

“Yes, sir,” said Price, still rubbing.

After a few more tries, Price was able to sit a little deeper in the saddle and ride the cutting horse to Low’s satisfaction.

More than two decades later, Price and Low were again riding together, helping a neighbor catch some yearling cattle.

Over the years, the small boy at Low’s boot heels had grown into a young man. And Low had passed along some important insights, ranching principles that eventually led to model stewardship. Low had come from dry San Saba County, where ranchers emphasized drought-tolerant native grasses and rotational grazing to move cattle often from pasture to pasture so they won’t eat the grass down. These ideas were less common in the greener country east of I-35, but they took root in Gary Price.

Low was now more than 80 years old, but still active. Price still clearly recalls what happened that day.

“Lee came in behind this yearling, and he couldn’t quite get up there on old Piss Ant. I was worried it might get into the brush, and I was riding a young roan horse named Eveready, so I just flew right by Lee and roped it. I have some regrets about doing that, because it wasn’t quite cowboy etiquette. But that was probably the passing of the torch, right there.”

Several decades later still, Price was standing in the north pasture of the 77 Ranch, explaining his ranching approach to an Associated Press correspondent, a TV news crew from Dallas and other reporters.

Price was talking about grass. The reporters asked questions and took notes, trying to understand what’s so important about grass.

Much had happened since those early years with Low, and a series of events had brought Price full circle back to the 77. In the 1970s, Low’s son died suddenly, leaving him without an heir. Gary had married Sue and was in Lubbock, working for a veterinary pharmaceutical company. Lee surprised them one day by offering to sell them part of the ranch. The Prices moved back in 1977 and repaid Low over 20 years, continuing payments to his granddaughters after the old cowboy finally died in 1987.

The reporters don’t know any of this. But as Price speaks about grass in his slow, patient drawl, the pieces start to connect, and they begin to realize what he’s really talking about is a holistic approach to the land. It’s about working with natural processes as much as possible, about simulating the effects of migrating bison by rotating cattle, about using controlled burns to mimic long-suppressed natural wildfire, about restoring native grasses and plants, the ones that evolved to be here over millennia, about how these plants are better for cattle, and wildlife, and water resources, and ultimately for people too, for people in cities as well as folks in the country.

“The key for me was when I realized about water cycles,” Price said. “You can never control how much water you get, but you can control how much you keep. When you see that and understand it, it’s going to completely overhaul your land management. What we used to call weeds can be very beneficial plants.”

When raindrops fall on the 77 Ranch, tall native grasses with deep fibrous roots catch and hold the water, slowly filtering and releasing it, recharging the underground water table and sending cleaner water with less silty erosion downstream to Richland-Chambers Reservoir. For this reason, Tarrant Regional Water District and USDA Natural Resource Conservation Service have for years provided cost-share financial assistance to ranchers like the Prices.

“The water district is convinced that what happens in the watershed very often drives not just the quantity of water in our reservoirs, but also water quality,” said Darrell Andrews, TRWD assistant environmental director. “That in turn affects the water we sell to our customers in the western half of the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex. It translates to reduced costs, because the water is cheaper to treat, because the water going into the reservoir is cleaner.”

The Prices have some land they bought from adjacent owners, pastures covered with non-native coastal bermuda grass, low-growing turf introduced as cattle forage. But they’ve gravitated toward tall native bunch grasses, planting or protecting classic prairie species like eastern gamagrass, indiangrass, and big and little bluestem. This benefits not only water resources but wildlife as well.

One beneficiary is the bobwhite quail. Like many places in Texas, the 77 Ranch used to have a lot of quail, and years ago it hosted hunters from the Metroplex, but in recent years, few wild quail have been seen. The Prices have helped enlist their neighbors to reverse that trend by forming the Western Navarro Bobwhite Quail Initiative, comprising about 20,000 acres in western Navarro County.

For all these reasons, the 77 Ranch received the 2007 Leopold Conservation Award for Texas from Sand County Foundation and the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department, part of the agency’s Lone Star Land Steward Awards program.

On May 23 at the Austin awards banquet, when Gary and Sue Price stepped on stage to receive their award, a surprise guest was there to shake their hands, Governor Rick Perry.
The small boy who used to ride out with Lee Low had become the toast of the hour, a model for others.

It has not been an easy road. The past two years brought extreme drought to the area, and the Prices came close to selling all of their cattle last fall. Fortunately, rain finally returned this spring.

“When you lose production, you lose income, and trying to balance financial needs with protecting natural resources can be quite a challenge,” Price said. “But we know that by protecting the resource, when we finally do get water, the country is going to respond better and we’re better off in the long run. We’re not looking for short-term gains; we’re in it for the long-term. My son runs a ranch in West Texas, and I’d like him to have the option to come back here and run this place. It’s the old standard of leaving it better than I found it. That’s what Lee Low taught me.”

Two, a novel - Chapter 2

This is the second chapter of my novel in progress, working title "Two." Look for other chapters in separate posts.

MUSTER

The Prometheus drifted in slow orbit around the blue-white sphere of Rawling’s Planet. It was several hundred thousand kilometers from the New Hope laboratory station that rotated in similar orbit, the station that until recently had housed several cylinders of experimental bio-electronic material.
Designed originally as a military vessel, the great silver and gray oblong craft had been cunningly retrofitted with newer gear designed for stealth and investigation, the perfect fit for her new line of work.
Inside the expansive docking bay, people and machines scurried about. The level of activity might have been normal, except for the higher than usual number of senior crewmembers who had come to watch the shuttle’s return.
An elongated accordion-like corridor stretched out toward the shuttle door. It rumbled into place around the liftgate, its mouth end designed to conform perfectly to the craft’s shape and create a bio-electronic seal.
The liftgate eased down inside the mobile corridor. Inside, Leona and Stone stood behind the crew, who had gathered at the opening. They watched as the gangway lifted slowly down. The two outsiders had clothed themselves with spare, gray coveralls. Stone’s was tight, too small. Leona’s was a bit baggy. She looked up at her companion.
“We should fit right in now.”
Stone grunted and gave an almost imperceptible smile.
“Of course, we want to look our best for our new friends,” she said, pretending to smooth her outfit. Her tail was stuffed down inside a pant leg.
The liftgate touched down inside the corridor. Out went Chain, followed by Erstwhile, then the other three, who carried the dark duffel bags.
They moved about 50 meters through the corridor toward an airlock. Chain turned around and looked at Stone and Leona for the first time since preparing to leave the shuttle.
“You two stay back. I want our entire team in first, nice and clean. When the airlock opens again, you come on through.”
Inside the white-walled, hexagonal decontamination lab, two technicians sat at workstations. Through a translucent wall, they could see each of Chain’s men move from the airlock into a small waiting area. From there, a door slid up to admit subjects into an even smaller cylindrical chamber. Twin doors slid up on either side, one for entry, another to exit. The doors slid down to temporarily enclose each entering passenger for screening. Data showing the subject’s status appeared on the workstation displays.
A short, thin man with dark skin and graying hair, his shoulders arched over in a slight hunch, stood next to one of the workstations, watching. Next to him sat a man on a hovering speeder, like those used for solo ground travel on a planet’s surface, but smaller and with more customized controls.
“I don’t see anything unusual,” said the gray-haired man as Chain stood in the screening chamber.
“No, sir,” said the technician. He let out a sigh as he kept is eyes on the readout, fingers adjusting controls. He gave his head a little shake. “Assim negative so far.”
Chain and Erstwhile had moved through. One of the other three set his duffel in the decontam chamber and backed out. The entry door slid closed, encasing the duffel. The technician bent over the screen as readouts piled up on the display.
“Good god.”
“What?” said the older man, who leaned over to look. They could see the outline of the cylindrical container inside the bag.
“It’s off the scale,” said the tech. “Container integrity is holding. It doesn’t appear to be active, but god help us if it got out. I don’t know what it is, what it might do.”
“It’s all right,” said the man in the hoverchair, moving closer. “We expected this. The container will hold.” His voice was deep and calm.
The gray-haired man looked at him, then back at the workstation in bird-like flicks of his head. The chamber doors slid up. The man moved in, picked up the duffel and moved it through, then stood in the chamber for screening. At last, all three duffels and all of the men had gone through.
The airlock opened again. Leona pranced across the hatch opening with high steps, whisked to a stop, stood up tall and lowered her head to look through the wall at the watchers. The twin slits of her eyes shone at them. She was noticeably taller than any of the men who’d just gone before. Her presence was striking, even in baggy coveralls that were a little too big for her.
Then Stone’s lowered head poked through, just under the airlock doorway opening. He stood up in the small waiting room, bumped his head and crouched downward. Both technicians’ mouths dropped open. Leona suddenly looked small and frail.
“Get on with it,” said the deep voice of the man in the chair. “Open the chamber.”
The young man next to the doctor flicked his left hand. The chamber entry door slid up.
Leona quickly stepped in and turned to face them. She could not see out, but she knew they could see in. She rested one hand on a hip that suddenly swung out sideways, letting the other hand snake up to caress the back of her neck.
“She’s posing,” exclaimed the tech with a grin. He looked down at the workstation. Leona’s lithe, muscled form was unmistakable on the display. “Whoa,” the tech said softly.
“What? What is it?” asked the doctor.
“Um, she’s really built, sir.”
“I can see that. Oh, move out of the way.”
The little old man leaned over the display, adjusting several controls. The young tech wheeled his chair sideways, grinning up at the chamber. He looked over at the man in the chair, and the grin snapped away.
“Sorry, Captain.”
The man in the chair looked back at the chamber. Inside, Leona put a hand up to her mouth and blew a kiss. One eyebrow lifted on the captain’s face.
“Quite unusual,” said the doctor, puzzling over the display. “Extraordinary piece of genetic engineering.”
“That’s very interesting, doctor,” said the man in the chair. His words were soft and deliberate. “But is she clean?”
“Yes, I believe so.” The gray head lifted. He turned to the captain. “Odd, but assim negative according to these results.”
“Then, please let her out of there.”
“Yes, of course.” With his forefinger, he activated the chamber exit door. It lifted out of the way, and Leona stepped out of view.
There was a noise at the door to the lab. Heads turned to see Chain come in, followed by Erstwhile and the others.
Chain broke his stride for a moment and did a little salute. “Captain.”
“Welcome back, Chain, and well done, all of you.”
“Thank you, sir.” He paused as the captain eyed his crew. He let out a sharp sigh. “We lost a man.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that, Chain.” The captain looked at his face. “I want hear all about it, but let’s get this over with first.” He turned back to the chamber.
It was a tight fit, but Stone managed to stuff himself in. The door slid down.
A warning beacon suddenly sounded. Numbers again piled up on the display.
“We’ve got something,” the tech said, scanning the readout, adjusting controls. “I knew it,” Chain said, shaking his head. He stepped up next to the captain.
The captain looked at the huge man in the chamber. “Is he…compromised?”
“I think so, but it’s not your typical active infection. Doctor, what do you make of this?” The main pointed. The doctor leaned in again.
“Nannites are clearly present,” the older man said. He brought a hand up and tapped fingertips on his chin. “But possibly…dormant?”
After another moment the doctor turned. “I cannot clear this man. I have not seen anything like this before.”
“And you won’t see anything like him again,” said a voice.
Leona had entered the lab. Head cocked to one side, she strolled over to the group gathered before the chamber. Her eyes floated across the men, coming to rest on the captain. She nodded and smiled. She came to a stop and the smile disappeared.
“This man saved the lives of your entire shuttle crew.” She was pointing at Stone, but she looked pointedly at Chain.
“Is this true?” asked the captain, also looking at Chain, who kept his eyes on Leona.
“I can’t vouch for either one of these folks,” said Chain. “I don’t know anything about them. But, she’s right, he saved us.” He looked at Stone in the chamber, then at the captain.
Chain flicked his head in Stone’s direction. “Guy took on an active assimilator. With his bare hands.” He looked over at Leona again. “Stuck in his thumbs, pulled out a plum, and whisked that whole bad boy right out of the way.” He moved over right in front of her. “I was going to try to help Jason, but she stopped me. And the assimilator took him.” Leona met his gaze evenly. She cocked her head, but said nothing.
Chain turned back to the captain.
“No, sir, I can’t vouch for the big guy. And it doesn’t surprise me one bit that he’s got hitchhikers. I’m telling you he was in direct, smoking, physical contact with an active assimilator.”
“Extraordinary,” said the doctor, looking at Stone.
The captain looked at the doctor, then back at Chain.
“Excuse me, sir.” The captain turned in Leona’s direction. “Forgive me for saying so, but you have no idea what you’ve got here.” She faced the man in the chair squarely.
“And who are you?”
“My name is Leona.” She smiled at him beneath lowered lids.
“I see. I am Captain Moebius. This is Doctor Eugenio. And I see you’ve met Chain and his team.”
She took a deep breath and let it out.
“Stone and I are the products of Dr. Rawling’s experiments on New Hope station. I have my own gifts.” She tilted her head. “But Stone is unique. Dr. Rawling was trying to develop a person who could withstand active contact. And I believe he succeeded.”
She turned to look at Stone.
“Incredible,” said the doctor, gaping.
“Yes,” she said. She placed a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. Surprised, he flinched away, hunching over and peering up at her. She looked at him with a new expression, almost imploring.
“He is clean. It may not show that way on your instruments, but I assure you he poses no threat. Please, let him out.”
The radiant woman next to the gray dwarf was a startling juxtaposition. Eugenio blinked his eyes rapidly, looked at the captain, then back at Leona. The doctor then turned back to the display, frowning.
“There are nannites, there at the molecular level, in his brain, in his central nervous system, several places I can see, no doubt about it. But they do not appear to be active. Why this is so, I cannot say.” He whirled back to the captain.
“If you ask my judgment sir, we should admit this man. If he truly possesses some power to confront active threats, this would be a powerful tool.” His eyes had a hungry light. He was nodding.
With a quick movement, Eugenio plucked a small vial out of his white lab coat pocket. He held it up, looking at it.
“I am so close.” He looked back at the captain. “Maybe, if this man will cooperate, I can complete my work. This is a tremendous opportunity.” He was speaking rapidly. The vial shook in his hand.
“Doctor, put that down before you drop it and release whatever is inside all over this lab.” Eugenio’s head shook with a jerk. He set the vial on the edge of the workstation table.
“Sir, I am telling you I am very close. It has been so long. So very long. To be so close…”
“You have been telling me this for months. I have been subjected to endless briefings on the subject. Please, calm yourself.”
The doctor placed his hands together before him. The tips of his fingers twiddled against each other. He watched the captain like some gray bird of prey.
Leona was looking at the vial, her brow furrowed. She could only imagine what was inside, but what concerned her was the doctor’s plans for Stone. Her mouth set in a hard line. She watched, alert.
The captain had turned back to Stone. He appeared to be thinking it over.
With a sudden start, the doctor moved toward the captain. He swept his hands up in a gesture of supplication. He opened his mouth to speak…and the technician shouted.
“Hey!”
Everyone saw the vial topple on the edge for a moment, then fall. The doctor’s arm had brushed against it. He ineffectually turned to try to retrieve the lost object, but was too slow.
In that split second, Leona reacted. She had seen the tiny clear container wobble, and she lunged. With reflexes no human could match, she flew across the lab, a tawny blur. One outstretched hand snatched the vial in mid air and pulled it in close to her body. She rolled smoothly to her feet and unfolded her limbs. As she rose up to stand fully erect, the fingers of her right hand slowly rolled out to reveal the vial resting on her open palm.
The others stared. No one said anything. It had happened so fast. They had gone from surprise to fear to resignation in a heartbeat, then had it all pulled right out from under them.
Leona walked over slowly, swinging her hips, to Captain Moebius. She put one hand on her thigh and leaned down, bending at the waist with knees and back straight. She held out the vial, her face close to his. He started as she flicked her fingers open and the vial fell. It landed in his lap with a soft thump. Leona stood back, hands on hips.
Moebius looked down, picked up the vial and looked back up at her. A soft smile curved his lips.
“I think perhaps you and your large companion may find a place in my crew. However, first I need to see you both in my study.”
His decision made, the captain turned his hoverchair and moved toward the door. He stopped by Eugenio and held out the vial.
“Do try to contain your excitement, doctor, and be more careful in the future. I appreciate your passion for the work, but don’t let it become a liability. Keep it in safe storage from now on.”
He moved off toward the lab door.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir,” said Eugenio, nodding.
“And let that man out of the chamber. Send them both to me first. Then I want to see Chain.” The hatchway opened and he was gone.
* * *
The captain’s study was old fashioned, to say the least. He sat behind a desk that appeared to be made of dark, polished wood. The walls shone with a lighter wood paneling that may have been oak. Soft light illuminated the room from a lamp in a corner and another on the desk. The desk lamp had a shade that focused a round yellow pool on the dark wood. The captain sat behind the desk, hands resting on the armrests of his hoverchair.
Leona lounged, as much as lounging was possible, in a hardwood chair. A second chair next to her was vacant. Stone stood behind it toward a corner of the room. Behind him, an ancient nautical chart depicted one of the oceans on old Earth. The captain had offered them refreshments, which they declined. Now they waited for him to speak. Stone’s expression was impassable as ever. Leona wore a bemused smile.
Moebius leaned forward and folded his hands on the desk.
“If you want to be part of this crew, you must accept my authority.”
“Of course, captain,” said Leona. “But please, tell us what you’re about. Where are you going and what do you wish?”
The captain stared at her in silence without a trace of amusement. Gradually, her smile faded.
“Excuse me. Please go on.”
He pointedly hesitated for another moment, regarding her stonily.
“We provide security for an elite clientele. We also perform missions to acquire certain…items of high scientific value.”
“Oh, you’re mercenaries and thieves. It is an old and, in my view, entirely reasonable line of work. And not without its own brand of honor and loyalty, as I recall, and as I see here on this ship.”
Moebius again regarded her quietly, but this time a hint of amusement crinkled in his eyes.
“You are a most unorthodox person, Ms…Leona. Please let me say it is not necessary to prove yourself or parade your independence by mocking me or disrespecting my business.”
Leona folded her hands in her lap and sat upright in the chair. The supercilious grin faded again as he spoke.
“I believe you to be uniquely gifted, and capable of loyalty and judgment, or you would not be sitting here. However, I am not your father or your schoolteacher to be the focus of some latent, rebellious flirtation. If we are to work together, we must communicate with respect.”
Now it was her turn to sit silently for a moment, watching the captain’s face carefully.
“Sorry. I meant no offense.”
“No great offense taken. I only mean to say what I mean.” He smiled. “Please, be at ease.”
“But what of your friend? Is our discussion not worthy of his participation?” Without moving his head, the captain’s eyes had moved to Stone. Moebius started with surprise as the big man moved.
With a queer, lumbering grace, Stone moved around between the chair and the desk. Slowly and carefully, he let himself down into the chair. As his bulk settled in, the oaken chair creaked and groaned. But it held.
“Forgive me, sir. I too meant no disrespect.” The voice rumbled through the room. “Leona and I share the same views in most matters. I find it efficient for her to speak on my behalf.”
Moebius had cocked an eye. He glanced at Leona with a look of mild mock surprise.
“Oh yes, he can talk,” she said. “Thinks regularly too.”
Moebius glowered at her with disapproval that might have been feigned. She couldn’t tell. Stone ignored the exchange.
“We would be pleased to serve as part of your crew, until other arrangements can be made. We will earn our keep. I do have one question, sir.”
“Yes?”
“Who do we serve? I mean to say, who hired you to go to New Hope station?”
The captain clasped his hands together on the desk.
“On this mission, we work for Mr. Marchen.”
* * *
Later that night, Leona sat on the bed in their quarters. They had managed to get a room to themselves. Stone was looking through clothing and equipment that had been brought to them. He had a number of things laid out on the room’s single table. He picked up a hand weapon and turned it over, looking at it. He put it down and picked up something else. Leona sat and stared at the wall.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
She looked up at him, but he was looking down at the things on the table. She looked away again.
“I thought it would be wonderful to be free.”
“It is.”
She brought her hands up to her mouth.
“But we don’t belong here. We don’t belong anywhere. They think we’re freaks.” Her voice trailed off. “And they’re right.”
The big man stopped what he was doing and turned to look at her. He came over and sat down next to her on the bed, facing the wall just like her.
“Hmm,” he said.
“What?”
“There was a time, when Dr. Rawling was…working with us…that I used to wish I was like other people.”
He patted the fingers of both hands together softly, arms resting on his knees.
“But I came to accept the differences.”
He turned to her. She looked into his face.
“I realized they were not better than us. More than that, I came to believe that we are here for a reason.”
Leona spoke. Uncharacteristic worry lines showed on her smooth face. “Do you think…the doctor, Eugenio. Might he be able to…” She looked down into her lap, where one hand worked slowly through the other. “He works with genetics. Might he be able to make me more…normal?” She looked back up at Stone. “Should we ask him?”
Stone lifted a hand up to her cheek. He spoke slowly, with deliberate precision.
“Don’t you ever let anyone make you feel bad about who you are. And don’t you ever change a thing about yourself. You are beautiful. You are strong. We may not always be together…”
“Don’t say that.” She put a hand up and covered his. Her eyes were moist. She was smiling.
“…but you…you…”
She moved her hand to his face and placed her fingertips over his mouth. She brought one knee up between them and faced him fully. With her other hand, she reached out and slowly removed his visor. He blinked and winced, squinting against the dim light from the single lamp behind him in the corner. His eyes were sky blue, but in the center, where a black pupil should have been, instead there shone a white disk.
“Don’t you ever say that,” she said. He blinked rapidly, but kept looking at her. She brought her face up next to his, so close he could feel her breath on his cheek. No despair showed now in the set of her brows, no indecision clouded the glitter of her cat’s eyes. He could smell her. She was so near.
“We will always be together,” she said. “You’d better get real clear on that.” She lay back on the bed and stretched. She moved her arms and her torso in delicious, sinuous ripples, keeping her eyes locked on his. She finally came to rest, hands over her head on the pillow.
“Come here,” she said. And he went to her.

Two, a novel - Chaper 1

This is the first chapter of my novel in progress, working title "Two." Look for other chapters in separate posts.

JOINING

The five men moved down the darkened hallway in quick, light steps, weapons ready. Their progress was swift and silent, with a choreography about it that spoke of practice. Visors hid their eyes. As they went, they made continuous, rapid glances at the surroundings and each other. Hand gestures communicated intent, direction, coordination. Throughout their progress, the lights were dim and sporadic, indicating perhaps some power-saving mode on the vacant space station.
Presently the hallway opened and split into a larger, rounded set of corridors that curved away on either side. Dead ahead were big double doors made of some translucent material. A faintly blue-green tint to the doors indicated something there in what otherwise might have been a vacant opening.
The men silently pooled up around the base of the doors, which stood three meters high and two across. A tall figure beckoned and all five huddled, heads together. He lifted up, glanced either way, then bent again to the circle of heads and began to speak softly over the comlink.
“We’ve made it this far with no trouble. Either the security systems have gone dead or we haven’t looked threatening. When we crack these doors that could change. We need to get the material and get out as fast as possible.”
The speaker glanced side to side at the shaded visors.
“Let’s do it.”
The group quickly fanned out. Two men took up positions by the gangway opening, carrying heavier weapons held ready. Two scurried to the base of the doors. They placed gray tubes lengthwise and began to unscrew the ends. The tall leader stood off to the side, glancing back and forth, watching everything. Two glistening black rods came slowly out of the tubes. The men let them slide out and come to rest along the doorway base, then turned and looked back. The leader made a sweeping gesture back away from the doors and everyone retreated to the relative shelter of the gangway opening.
One man pulled out a small transmitter, looked at it, looked up, then thumbed a key. All five froze, watching intently.
The slick, glistening rods began to move, softening and pooling. In apparent defiance of gravity, the material began to flow up the sides and front of the translucent doors.
Beyond the doors, the men could see a wide rectangular space arrayed with lab tables and machines. Smaller see-through doors opened off the main space to other lab areas, protecting—or confining—whatever lay inside.
The black material had now turned a light gray as it spread across the big front doors. Light smoke or vapor wafted from it. Motion crinkled on the surface, busy activity on a micro scale. The men watched and waited.
Within two minutes, the doors began to change. Activity accelerated. The entire surface of the material, the sides and hinges, the locks and handles, began shifting and molding.
The man with the transmitter looked down and entered coded commands with rapid keystrokes.
A seam appeared in the middle where the two doors met and they began to part. The smoking material melted back away from the growing opening. Within another minute, a rounded archway now beckoned where before there had been no passage.
Several of the men stirred, as if to move for the opening, recalling the urgency of time. But the leader put his hand on one shoulder. They waited another 30 seconds.
The archway had now stabilized. The vapors stilled. All seemed quiet.
At last, the leader chopped two fingers down toward the entry. In a quick stream, the men shuffled through the opening.
Inside, they moved past tables and equipment to a smaller doorway on the far side of the lab. They halted while one man consulted a display on his forearm. It showed a map of the lab interior, a map that had been difficult to obtain. They hoped it was current and reliable. The man looked at one door, then the one next to it, then back down at the display. Finally, he pointed at the entry on the left.
Quickly, they placed another tube at the base of the door and moved back. The process repeated, the black ooze sliding up to cover the translucent surface. Within minutes the doors melted back to an arched opening. Three men moved inside, the other two stayed out, eyes continuously arcing around the room, watching the lab.
Inside the smaller room, a round table was covered by a large clear dome. Wheels operated sealed hatches to segmented chambers inside the dome. Inside the chambers rested large container tubes stacked vertically, color-coded and labeled. The leader moved around the storage table.
He stopped before green tubes marked “ORG” and gestured and stepped back. Another man came up, turned the wheel and opened the hatch. He pulled a black fabric duffel from a pouch on his coveralls and kneeled down, unfolding and spreading it on the floor. He stood and carefully reached into the chamber. His gloved hand grasped one tube and gently pulled. It came free easily and he lifted it out and placed it in the duffle.
All during this time, the leader and the other man stood near the doorway, watching. Now they also pulled out duffels and began removing containers.
The leader chose a set of black tubes marked “MIL.” The other man chose red ones marked “MED.” In all, there were six categories. The others were marked “INF,” “ECO” and “BIO.” The three men moved carefully and methodically, but at the ends of gestures, a sudden quickness of movement betrayed the urgency of their task.
* * *
At the entrance to another room two doors down, a face watched from the bottom corner. Under a lab table in front of the doorway, she could see the booted feet of the men standing guard across the way. The watcher crawled back away from the door and stood up. She had a woman’s form, but short, soft hair covered her body from head to toe. Long, round muscles were defined with a sculptor’s art along her arms, legs and torso.
She moved with lithe grace back into the room, which was spare—only two cots, a small sink, refrigerator, and a storage cabinet. She looked down at her companion, who was sitting on one of the cots. They wore only the barest clothing.
“What are they doing?” a deep voice rumbled.
“I can’t be sure, my love, but I believe they’ve come to sack the place.”
She stood tall, shoulders back, and lowered her head. Her eyes glinted, revealing green irises with feline slits. Her face was beautiful, with high cheekbones and full lips. The hair on her head stuck out about an inch, only a bit longer than the light brown, downy fuzz that covered the rest of her body. The most striking features of her face were two catlike ears that stuck up and out on either side, with darker, pointed tufts at the ends. She smiled, revealing a row of white teeth with four sharp fangs.
“This is our chance.”
He looked up at her, nodding. For almost four days now, they had been trapped in the small room, left behind when the science teams fled. They were imprisoned, yet also insulated and protected from the terrifying threats that had emerged on the station.
“Can you do it?” she asked.
“I can try. I think I can. But I won’t be worth much for a while afterward.”
“Just get the doors open and I’ll do the rest.” Her voice was soft and low. But beneath the softness, there was something dangerous in the clipped precision of her speech.
The man slowly rose from the cot. She was almost two meters tall, but as he stood, he towered up over her, his head almost touching the roof of the chamber. Where she was a sinuous curve, he was a fortress. Thick muscles stood out on every part of his massive frame. His legs were like tree trunks, his face like chiseled rock. A wrap-around visor hid his eyes. The hair on his head was shaved down to a fine stubble.
She moved up next to him and placed the fingertips of one hand on his chest. A prehensile tail slid out from behind her and curled up around his left leg like a snake sliding around a tree. She looked up into his face.
“These people must have come in a ship. When they leave, we need to be on that ship.”
A hard smile curved her lips, with a hint of sneer. She passed her hand across his chest and up to his face.
“Surely they’ll welcome some new talent.”
A bare whisper of amusement showed on the big man’s face. Slowly and gently, he stepped away from her toward the door. She let her arm and tail slide off of him, watching his progress the entire way.
Standing before the translucent doorway, he planted his feet firmly, flexed his arms and turned them up so that his fingers rested like claw hammers at the seam of the door. It was sealed so tightly that hardly a crack showed, yet he placed his fingers on the seam.
He took a deep, slow breath and lifted his head. Seconds passed and nothing happened, while he remained almost motionless. Then, the thinnest trace of white smoke began to rise from around his hands. Slowly, the hard surface began to soften and his fingers sank into it.
The giant began to pull. Muscles corded across his back and arms. He took a deep breath and held it. Vapor clouded the area around his hands. His limbs began to vibrate with the strain.
* * *
The storage chamber holding the two captives ripped open with a sound like a giant sheet of paper tearing.
The two operatives guarding the lab whipped around and saw a giant of a man shuffle through the opening and slump down against the wall behind the row of lab tables and equipment.
Barely had they registered this than a tan streak shot through the ruined doorway. She hit the floor in front of the door in a crouch, gathered herself and sprang. In a flying leap she crossed the room in less than a second. Ten centimeter-long claws extended from the ends of her knuckles as she flew across the lab tables. Curled over, they made a striking edge hard as bone. The pointed ends were like razors.
She struck her target in the chest. The weapon spun out of his hands and he flailed backward into a tall superstructure of hoses, boxes and cylinders on the lab table behind him. In a split second, she used his body as a launch ramp to leap at the next man.
Too late he realized what was happening. Fearful that he’d shoot his companion, he’d held his fire. As she shot past, she snaked an arm around his neck and whirled around behind him.
One hand reached down, sunk four claws into his crotch and pulled upward. He winced and gasped as her other hand pulled back on his throat, choking him. The weapon fell from his hands, both of which came up to his throat.
Out of the storage chamber burst the other three men. One rolled out on the floor and came to rest aiming his weapon, but could not find a clean shot at the woman behind his comrade.
“Christ in a cupcake. Who the quark are you?” said the leader. With apparent calm, he strolled slowly closer to the woman and her captive. The third man knelt by the wall, seeking a clean shot.
“I’m your new best friend,” she said, with a smile. She spoke around the side of the man’s neck, her cheek pressed close against his nape.
The leader stopped and looked at her, brow wrinkling, head cocking to one side. “Hello. You are a bit odd.” He could see one tufted ear, one feline eye.
A noise erupted from the man she had hit first. All three of his comrades turned in alarm to see his body smoking and writhing. The lab equipment seemed to be leaning over him, wrapping around him. His body shook but he didn’t move away. His mouth was open, jaw slack, eyes unfocused. A thin line of gray liquid began to flow down the side of his forehead.
“You have less than two minutes before he becomes a deadly enemy to all of us.” She had raised her voice, causing them to start and look back at her.
“This lab, this whole ship is full of active systems. They will assimilate you all. Without us, you don’t have a chance to get out alive. I know this ship. I can lead you out. Now, we don’t have much time. You have a choice to make. Either you trust me and tell your men to lower your weapons, or I spew his blood all over the walls.” The points of four claws pressed into the captive man’s neck, not quite breaking the surface of the skin.
The stricken man continued to shake and smoke, his clothes and skin covering with the dark liquid. The leader lowered his head and looked at her under glowering brows.
“I don’t know how the hell a naked cat-woman is going to get us past an active systems array, but I’m inclined to take your offer…friend.” He said the last word with a flick of his head and a manic smile. He gestured to his armed companions. “Put ‘em down.”
Immediately she loosed her hold on the captive and he stumbled away, one hand on his crotch, the other on his neck. She threw back her shoulders and rose to her full height.
“Stone,” she said, keeping her eyes on the leader.
“Here,” came an answering rumble. The giant stood up and quickly stepped around to her side. He looked down at the three men.
“Oh, yeah,” said the leader as his gaze swiveled slowly upward. “You got any more…friends?”
The woman broke and ran around the table toward the lab door, Stone in her wake. “Run! Keep up with us!” she called back over her shoulder.
The four men ran. Three of them carried black duffels strapped to their backs.
Just outside the lab doors, she had turned right, going around the curving hall that circled the lab.
“Where is she going?” said one of the men as they rushed to catch up.
Her voice trailed back to them. “The main hallways are more active. We’ll never make it that way.”
“Good ears,” said another.
For some minutes they raced along the corridors. The four could see Stone’s great form just ahead of them, turning corners, thundering down halls. Finally, they panted up to a side door. She was holding it open.
“Inside! It’s a maintenance corridor.”
As the leader came up to her, she fixed her slit pupils on him. “Your ship’s in the main docking bay?”
“Yeah.” He couldn’t help a quick stare.
“Keep moving,” she said, pushing him in. “Your comrade is not far behind now, and we don’t want him to catch us.”
The door closed behind them. They made the best time they could down a cramped, busy space with pipes and cables running overhead. Boxes and bins lined the walls. Switches and access panels showed periodically.
“I didn’t catch your name,” the leader said, running beside her.
“Leona,” she said, and flashed him a smile with white daggers.
“I’m Chain.” They sailed around a corner.
“Why didn’t the active systems engage earlier,” Chain asked, “when we were coming in?”
“Maybe they wanted to lure you into the inner sanctum. Where you couldn’t escape. The station’s running on backup power. The scientists destroyed the main solar power array. They tried to starve their little creatures, but it was too late.” She vaulted a box on the floor and glanced over at him, eyes crinkling in a wicked grin.
“They’ve been wasting away. You little flies were just the ticket. With your ship, they could get out.”
Both of them ducked a low hanging line of ducts and pipes.
“What if there’s something active ahead?” he asked.
“Stone can take care of it. That’s why he’s up front.”
Up ahead, the others had stopped. Leona and Chain ran up and almost plowed into them. The men were leaned over, hands on thighs, panting.
Stone looked at Leona. “Which way?” They had reached an intersection where another maintenance corridor came in from the side.
At that moment, a clumping sound became audible, growing in the corridor behind them. They all looked back and listened.
“This way,” she broke the spell and charged off down the right hand corridor, Stone right behind. The group bunched and bustled trying to follow. As the last man turned, he cried out. “Oh my god. It’s coming!”
They raced along the crowded corridor, this one more cramped than the last. They ducked under overhead obstructions and dodged around bins and equipment stacked on the sides. Somehow, Stone managed to keep pace in spite of his size. Behind them, the clumping noise receded.
Again they rushed up to a stop, and again they bunched together, this time before a larger door. Leona was looking at them. Her eyes flicked from face to face.
“Right. This leads to storage just off the docking bay. Stone will go first. There will be an active threat here.”
The big man turned to the door and placed his hand on the nob. All eyes were on him as he eased it open.
With an explosion of sound, the clanking, pounding noise suddenly sounded loud in the passage. Everyone looked back. A strange, towering thing was coming down the corridor. Pieces of lab gear and scraps of clothing flapped on the sides of its gray-black, gelatinous exterior. Where there should have been a face was a flat mask. There were no eyes, but a rounded opening on the lower half remained open in an endless, silent howl. Down the corridor it came, grabbing and swinging on overhead pipes with its arms, extending its crazy, flexible legs over obstacles on the floor. Its “feet” landed in a driving rhythm.
“Oh no,” said the last man. “No, no, no,” he said with increasing intensity as he pushed the others toward the door. They were crowding through the entrance. Stone went through, then one of the men. Panic seized the others as the thing came closer.
A scream erupted from behind Chain. He knew what was happening. He didn’t want to see. He pushed toward the door. The man in front of him slipped through. Leona was crouched there, looking back. The sight of her shamed him. For a second he stopped and looked at her. “Should we? Is it…”
She stared at him evenly as if reading his mind. “There’s nothing we can do. Go on.” She motioned with her head.
Still he hesitated. He started to turn around. He was responsible. He should try something.
But her hand slapped into his back. “Go!”
He rushed through. She came behind him. They fled through the storage room, rushing to catch the others. Lockers and bins flashed by, and they burst through the far door to the other side.
Compared to the cramped corridors, the docking bay was vast. It spread out away from them and to the sides, hundreds of meters high and wide. Twin ramps led down to the main deck. There was the ship, gleaming silver and gray, beautiful in the glow of artificial light mixed with starlight coming through the translucent airlock doors.
But the men had stopped before the shuttle’s lowered gangway liftgate. Before the entrance, blocking the last few steps to freedom and escape, a hulking apparatus loomed. It may have once been a mobile service module to fuel and repair incoming and departing ships. But now it towered, strange and menacing, a conglomeration of parts that waved and clutched.
“What’s he doing?” Chain asked. Stone was standing motionless before the thing, head down, hands clasped before him.
“Watch,” said Leona, and she slinked ahead of him down the right hand ramp. They came up next to the three others, who stood to the side, eyes moving from Stone to the machine.
With a sudden jerk, the assimilator launched itself at Stone. He surprised them all by rushing to meet it, hands outstretched. They met with a crash.
“Jesus!” Chain said, eyes narrowed. “Is he sacrificing himself?”
The machine wrapped its many limbs around Stone’s upper body. They could see the muscles in his legs working as he slowly pushed it back and to the side.
“He’s clearing the way!” a man yelled and moved forward.
Smoke now rose all around the assimilator where it had encased Stone’s upper body. Still, he kept pushing. The way opened, and they rushed up the gangplank.
Inside the ship, Chain moved quickly forward to navigation control. A hatch swung open before him and he passed through. Sitting in one of two cockpit thrones, a young blond man with a smooth-shaven face grinned at him.
“You made it! I thought you were all gone when that thing took up residence outside.” “Hey, Erstwhile. Lift the gangplank,” Chain said.
“What about the guy outside?”
“We can’t do anything for him.”
“Yes, we can,” said a silky voice.
Both men turned to see Leona in the doorway. They could see the others behind her. She stepped all the way in and shut the hatch.
“We will wait for Stone,” she said. “He has…capabilities that you don’t know. We wait and watch.”
Chain took his hands off the unmanned cockpit seatback and moved over to stand right in front of Leona, his face level with hers.
“I believe it was you who said we could do nothing when we left my man back there.” He was smiling but his eyes were wide. “That’s just the way it has to be, right?”
“That was different.”
“Oh? How so. My guy is worth less?”
“No. Stone is different. He has a chance. Your man didn’t. You would have died if you tried to save him.”
“Oh, I see. Just like we might die here if we wait around for your friend?”
With blazing speed, he whipped his hand up to Leona’s throat. His fingers tightened and forearm tensed, lifting her almost off her feet.
“We’re not waiting. We’re leaving. I’m not risking this crew.”
Leona gave a languid smile, chin raised, lids lowered. She drew in a breath and sighed. Her whole attitude seemed to relax.
“Well, you’ve got the tiger by the tail,” she spoke through clenched teeth.
Afterward, the pilot often tried to recall exactly what happened next. One moment, Leona was standing still, apparently submissive. The next moment, Chain was flying backward.
As he fell, she sprang onto him. Raking claws grabbed fistfulls of his suit. She put her face down next to his. Her lips curled back, showing white teeth, four of them long and sharp.
“If you ever cross me again, I’ll rip out your beating heart and hold it up before your dying eyes. Do you understand me, sweetheart?”
Chain looked up at her, hair hanging in his eyes. His mouth twisted in a sneer. “I understand. Bitch.”
With a screaming howl, Leona pulled her hand back to strike him.
“Look!” said the pilot.
Leona flicked her head upward. Through the clear forward viewport, she could see out into the docking bay. The crazy, weaving tower of parts that was the assimilated man was coming down the left ramp.
She turned to face the pilot. He had a handgun pointed at her head. She slowly lowered her hand back down to Chain.
“Open the gangway or I’ll rip his face off.”
The man was breathing harder. He looked down at Chain, who nodded.
“Open the gangway, ” Chain said. He looked back up at Leona. “But if either one of those things starts coming in, lift it back up and blast out of here. Kill her and don’t worry about me.”
The pilot turned, sat forward and thumbed a switch.
Leona let go of Chain and he fell back on the floor. She quickly opened the hatch and moved aft.
The other three men were looking down the gangway. Leona and Chain came up and looked past them down the ramp. One of the men shot a glance at them.
“It’s incredible. He’s fighting it with nothing but his hands, and it can’t get him.”
Stone had maneuvered the machine around so that his back was to the ramp. His feet were close.
A change had come over the assimilator. Its gray surfaces were now mostly black. So much vapor was rising that it was hard to see, but Stone’s back and head were now clearly visible. His arms were sunk into the machine. They could hear the other apparatus clanking down the ramp leading onto the docking bay floor.
Leona snatched a weapon from one of the men and held it up. A beam of light seared out of the gangway entry and struck the second assimilator. The shaft tore into it. She knifed the glowing line back and forth, chopping off pieces of the thing, which fell smoking to the floor.
Stone was still inching backward, and his feet now almost touched the gangway. He had pulled back most of his arms from the hulking gel-like mass. Only his hands now remained embedded. His right heel touched the gangway.
A fresh emission of gray-white vapor began rising all around Stone’s hands. The assimilator began to vibrate. The watchers heard a sound. It started low, a guttural groaning, and increased in volume.
With a final bellow, the big man pushed the machine back and jerked his hands out. He staggered back and turned. He slipped and fell on the gangplank. Leona squirmed around the others and ran down to him. She grabbed his arm just under his shoulder and pulled upward. For a moment, his head lolled, listless. Then, he recovered and stumbled up the flat walkway. The men gave back and they piled inside. Stone fell in a heap just to the side of the entry and Leona sprang sideways.
“Liftgate up!” Chain shouted. The gangway hummed into motion. The assimilator lurched toward it, two smoking holes showing in its mid section. But the liftgate moved too quickly, rising up and in, blocking the view of the docking station.
Chain came and stood looking down at Stone.
“Is he clean? I don’t want any active infection spreading on this ship.” Chain looked at Leona.
“He’s clean,” she said. She stood over her partner, hips slung sideways. “I can explain later. But he’s clean. Just exhausted.”
“The station systems don’t respond,” Erstwhile blurted over the intercom. “The main airlock won’t open.”
“Get strapped in,” Chain said to his men. He threw a glance at Leona. “It’s going to be a bumpy ride out of here.”
The men moved to cocoon-like deck chairs used for takeoff, landing and sleep. No one offered to help Leona, who struggled to move Stone.
Chain leaped forward into the cockpit and sealed the hatch behind him. He slid into the second navigation throne and began strapping in. Erstwhile had powered up the ship and it was arcing slowly around. The translucent expanse of the airlock doors was coming into full view.
“I don’t see an option,” the young pilot said. “I’m going to have to blast a hole.” He turned to look at Chain. “It’ll be messy.”
Chain nodded. “Do it.”
Erstwhile’s hands danced over the control console, flicking switches. He moved his grip to twin ergonomic joysticks. A see-through quantumgraphic display appeared in the air before him. He brought the joysticks up before him and a red targeting beacon showed on the display. He focused the beacon on the seam where the big doors met and squeezed a red button with his right thumb.
A white beam stabbed off the forward weapons array and struck the doors. For a few seconds nothing appeared to happen, although the light danced all around the translucent material. Then the material began to glow, first red, then white.
The beam breached a hole in the doors and anything not nailed down began sucking toward it. With no vacuum properly prepared in advance, the effect was pronounced. Smaller pieces of equipment flew through the air. Chain saw a piece of the assimilator Leona had sawed off. The ship itself began to vibrate.
Erstwhile worked the beam back and forth, methodically cutting the hole bigger. He glanced at a readout and spoke.
“Assimilator’s latched onto us. It’s trying to breach our assim defenses.” He shook his head as he watched the readout. “It’s not in, but it’s working away.” He looked back at the hole he was making in the doors. He worked the beam back and forth, cutting a big rectangle ever wider.
“I don’t want to take chance. If that stuff gets under our skin, it could be hell to pay later. I’m going to have to exit through the doors before I can get a nice, big, comfy opening. It’ll be rough, but we don’t have a choice. When we take off, the drives will incinerate everything in this docking bay, and then some. It ought to clean off anything trying to hitch a ride.”
With a final glance at the assim readout, he toggled new switches and another quantum display popped up. This one was much larger. It filled the entire forward viewport, showing star charts and ship system readouts, overlays upon overlays that could be switched back to front or up to down, dimmed or brightened as needed. The pilot sketched the rectangular opening he had made on the screen, and the ship’s navigation software computed a trajectory.
Erstwhile sat back in his seat. Chain reflexively gripped the auxiliary joysticks he held. The pilot spoke into a mouthpiece on a slim stalk by his lips.
“This is it. Takeoff imminent in two seconds.”
The ship’s secondary engines fired in the enclosed space. Instantly, red and white flames billowed all around them, blocking all visibility through the viewport. The crewmembers jerked back in their restraints. The vessel fired into the too-small opening and blasted through it with a lurching jolt. Debris scattered behind them around the station as they shot into space.

What Price Solitude?

I recall a science fiction story about a world where the human population had grown so great that finding a few moments alone was precious. Only the very rich could afford a pleasant space to themselves.

The longer I live, the more it seems I love solitude, especially in nature. From my home in south Austin, within 10 minutes I can be on the Barton Creek Greenbelt, walking along the cool, shady paths by the creek. Sometimes I bring the dogs, and their feisty romping brings a fresh liveliness to the experience. Never a moment of boredom there. They are ALIVE, tuned in to every sound and smell, every rustle and snap.

I fantasize about the solitude and grandeur of pristine natural settings. Mountains, river valleys, forests, and especially, remote South Pacific islands. In my dreams I fly over coral atolls and see the waves breaking on the outer reefs. Over and over, I walk in slow motion, carrying my surfboard down a green-dappled jungle path, bare feet sifting the sand.

In summer 2007, my 11-yeard-old son and I spent three days in the backcountry at Denali National Park. This was as close to real wilderness as most of us will ever come. Although we were never more than a few miles from the park road, a line of mountains separated us from it, and it turned out to be much harder than we ever imagined to get from the Teklanika River back to the road. More on that in other posts...

I think some people might wonder, wouldn't it be lonely out there? Wouldn't you miss the swirl of human companionship and conversation? Are you some kind of anti-social lone wolf?

I once had my Myers-Briggs type analyzed at work. Turns out I'm an ENTP, combining the four types Extraverted, Intuitive, Thinking, Perceiving. Caution: these words are loaded with rich layers of meanings ascribed by the M-B system; conventional definitions do not fully or correctly apply. The M-B Web site describes the ENTP type as "Quick, ingenious, stimulating, alert, and outspoken. Resourceful in solving new and challenging problems. Adept at generating conceptual possibilities and then analyzing them strategically. Good at reading other people. Bored by routine, will seldom do the same thing the same way, apt to turn to one new interest after another." I view this sort of like a horoscope, with mixed degrees of skepticism and surprise that much of it seems on target for me. But one point here is that I don't seem cut out to be a loner.

Still, I find solitude nourishing, rejuvenating, liberating. Again, especially in natural settings. But what does it cost? There are significant financial costs to get to Alaska or to a remote island, costs so high that most people will probably never get here. And the personal costs can be great--what sacrifices would you have to make, what relationships would be strained or broken, what career paths might be truncated or forsaken?

Certainly, you could find natural solitude in a city park or in your own back yard at the right time of day. Can that be the same as the solitude that comes when you know there are no others around for hundreds or thousands of miles? For me, there is a distinct difference. Agreed, the experience of natural solitude is partly a function of perspective and attitude, the way you look at things. But there is an order of magnitude difference achieved in remote, pristine settings.

How costly and difficult is it becoming to find that "real" solitude? How many of us who have lived awhile can recall visiting some beautiful place in youth, only to return decades later and discovered that tourism or civilization have arrived, that the place is transformed to be almost unrecognizable, that people and buildings and cars and planes are now there, and the solitude has moved on, farther out, farther away.

And so the diaspora continues from civilized, urban zones, with each generation pushing the boundaries farther. All of this drives the importance of setting aside or protecting places, parks, "refuges" where people and animals can find what solitude remains. That also has a price. In the context of this topic, it is some of the most important work being done on spaceship Earth. But it is not free. Someone will pay.

Probably my son will live to return to Alaska in future decades, and he will see it changed. Maybe he will come back with his son or daughter to Denali National Park. And I doubt the park and its mountains, rivers, tundra meadows, taiga forests, bears, wolves, caribou and willow ptarmigans will have changed much. The highway outside the park will have even more pricey hotels and lodges. The paving and parceling of The Last Frontier will have advanced. There will be more people and roads and buildings.

But someone paid to set aside six million acres of wilderness in Alaska. Some people still pay the price to get there. It's worth it.