I called Adam from my car as I headed up to Steamboat Springs, the poor Ford engine struggled in the thin air. He was shocked, then disgusted, then relieved to hear what I had to tell him. The Masons weren’t his friends, but they were the fathers of some of his friends and by this time, their families would most likely just be relieved to have the bodies. He was also starting to guess where the body in Minneapolis might be found when I lost cell phone coverage and began to climb over Rabbit Ear Pass and then into Steamboat Springs. The incident in the silo hadn’t entirely sunk in, possibly because it wasn’t over yet. I imagined that once I found out the fate of Clifton Johns, it would all hit me and I’d try to sort things out, but not just yet.
I parked by a river and decided just to walk around and enjoy the sights of the cute ski-lodge town. Funny how in some way or another, most of the rent around here was paid by recreation. Sure, there were still coal mines and the occasional rancher, but skiing had eclipsed those industries years ago. My guidebook explained that in 1947, of the 1700 residents, 1685 were skiers. Was it a case of who was drawn here, or how the sports claimed you regardless of your supposed free-will, I wondered.
By the river I stumbled upon a skateboard park. Of all the sports that I’d observed over the years, done around MIT and on the courts, fields and rinks of Boston, few had the finesse of skateboarding. The act of making the board hop into the air was an apparent bit of physics-defying magic that most police or parents probably didn’t even credit their sons and daughters for mastering. Friction plus torque, flex and timing made the board hop, and when it was done right, it looked like they weren’t even trying. I walked up to one of the kids.
“Hey, what’s up, my G.”
“Err, hello, can I help you?” he responded.
“Oh, yes, sorry. My name is Theo. I’m from Boston. Just visiting your little town here on vacation.”
“I’m Alex.” He shook my hand.
“Say, Alex, are there any weird legends that you’ve heard around here? I am sort of following a story, and if the story came here, chances are that you’d have heard of it. Does the name Clifton Johns mean anything to you?”
“No. This town is pretty normal, actually, the only unusual thing is the springs. Sulphur springs, sulphur caves and stuff. In fact,” and he pointed up the hill to the now green ski terrain, “the sulphur caves are right up there. There’s a story about Indians or cowboys, I forget which one, throwing the other in their to suffocate.”
“Not cool.”
“No, G, not cool. Good luck.” Then he skated back into the park and I expected that he’d soon tell his friends about the big nerd in the corduroys and striped shirt, but he didn’t. He just worked on his particular skate trick. Delightfully unexpected.
At the Steamboat Spring Museum, you can walk through an entire house that has been built to model an early settlement from the area. It’s creepy. I’m not sure why it is, but stuff that dead people used, setting around a house, has always been creepy to me. I imagine that someone someday will look at something that I own, whether it’s my breakfast dice or my Beowolf-clustered Linux Workstation and find it creepy. No. That’s won’t happen.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, hello, I am a bit of a history buff and I was wondering about a certain figure from Steamboat Springs history.”
“Well, ask away! My name is Gail.”
“Hello Gail, I’m Theo.”
“Have you ever heard of a man named Clifton Johns?”
I was disappointed when her face stayed unaffected.
“No, sir, I haven’t. I’m sorry.”
“Oh. That’s too bad. Can you tell me something about the sulphur springs?”
Gail proceeded to politely explain that the Ute Indians had been the first people to seek a therapeutic value in the springs. And that later, white families had moved in and attempted to turn the area into a giant spa and recreation center. They had succeeded. The area was probably fifty-percent larger than when Clifton Johns would have passed through. Construction was booming and there was no end in site. I thanked Gail and walked through the display on skiing throughout history.
I was just about to politely leave the museum when the reflection of Gail’s face appeared on the glass case where I was half-interestedly looking at photos of early ski lifts.
“You know, the Utes thought that the sulphur springs did more than therapy, they thought that it gave you visions of spirits and things. They called it being sighted.”
Then Gail pulled her head back to her counter and the photo that her reflected face had been covering shown through to my open mouth. In a black in white photo, several skiers were standing near a cave, about to make a descent. On the bottom of the photo, drawn in fading pen but barely visible was the symbol of the all-signing eye.
Gail had never noticed it before, but she had helped me find it. I thanked her and nearly left before she asked me to check out there gift shop. I returned to the Mustang with a bag full of pioneer themed goodies.
I couldn’t wait until full sunlight tomorrow. I had to make my way up to the sulphur cave tonight. It was a bit of a hike, but I grabbed my flashlight and started the muddy trek. They call this Mud Season in Steamboat because it’s not quite snow and it’s not quite hiking season. Except for me, that is.
I knew that I was nearing the cave as I started to smell the strong smell of sulphur. Several signs informed me that the air was toxic and that I should leave the area. It was also private property. Didn’t they know me? I got to the edge of the cave and was certain to be standing where Clifton Johns had stood fifty years ago. The all-seeing eye. The ability to be sighted. It must have been all too much for Clifton Johns to avoid. I stood at the mouth of the cave, as sulphur pored out, nearly choking me. I couldn’t believe that the Indians had enjoyed this stuff. Weren’t they supposed to be wiser than those of us who followed and ruined the land? Within the billowing smoke, on the cave wall I thought that I saw a letter. I shined my flashlight, but the billows of steam obscured it. Then I saw it again. The letters Y, O … maybe U. I couldn’t see any more. I started to enter the cave, but my eyes were watering and I could barely breath.
Then, I walked out. I turned toward fresh air and walked. I felt entirely calm and I started to hike back down the hill. I knew it. I knew what it said. I said nothing. It was either written by a madman, or it was written by a kid, but it meant nothing. And by walking out of a potentially lethal mixture of air, I had proven something to myself. I felt a good sort of insight that didn’t require smoke or lights or codes. I was sane. I headed for my car.
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