Mysteries in Our National Parks: Over The Edge: A Mystery in Grand Canyon National Park. Gloria Skurzynski
“I’m not giving up. I’m just not being taken in the way you seem to be.”
“He’s a troubled kid,” Steven answered evenly, “but those are exactly the ones who need our help. It isn’t like you to get rattled.” He gave her a quick, sideways hug that tucked Olivia beneath his lanky arm. “Give him another chance—he’ll warm up.”
“I hope you’re right,” she murmured. “There’s something about that boy that rubs me the wrong way.”
“You worry about the condors, and I’ll handle Morgan. Deal?”
“Deal,” Olivia said.
Jack knew he’d better hurry if he was going to capture a perfect shot. The morning sun cast shadows that outlined every crevice in the mesa-topped range. Compared to the mile-high cliffs of the Grand Canyon, the Vermilion Cliffs were dwarfs, and the shape of them wasn’t outstanding in this land of rugged peaks, pinnacles and crags, domes and forested ridges. But the colors! While other rock masses stood out in bold orange-reds, the reds of the Vermilion Cliffs had a bluish tinge. The blue-reds were layered in horizontal stripes by pale sedimentary rock left behind by ancient oceans. No wonder Native Americans called cliffs like these Land of the Sleeping Rainbow.
“Hey, where are the condors?” Ashley exclaimed, scanning the sky while shielding her eyes from the sun. “I thought you said they lived here.”
“Ashley, it would be a minor miracle if you spotted a condor. Right now there’s only one of them still out there in the wild. Come on, we’ve got to get to the field office.” Olivia started the engine while Jack and Ashley piled once more into the backseat. Steven took the map and checked the route.
“Wait—I think this is it,” Steven finally said. “The town of Vermilion Cliffs, christened after the cliffs of the same name.”
Morgan, finally looking up, muttered, “This is supposed to be a town? Jeez, it’s even smaller than Dry Creek! How many people live here?”
“About 30, I think,” Olivia answered. “And six of them work for the condor program.”
The town of Vermilion Cliffs consisted of a flat-roofed stone lodge with a neon “‘Vacancy” sign flashing; a fly-fishing shop; a couple of little trailers; and around the back of a loop from the highway, a double trailer. They parked next to the double trailer. A placard identified it as The Peregrine Fund California Condor Project.
At the door, they were met by Shawn, the research project’s chief biologist. Shawn had a beard that matched his hair, the same reddish brown they’d seen in their drive across the Painted Desert. Protective coloration, Jack thought, grinning to himself. Shawn would blend right in with the landscape. Tall and wiry, he must have been pretty tough—Olivia had said that every few days, Shawn strapped on a makeshift backpack and hiked two miles to deliver a 50-pound dead dairy calf to the hungry condors. When Olivia told them that, Steven had joked, “So all Shawn’s baggage must be carry-on.”
Jack laughed, but Ashley just looked puzzled.
Morgan snorted. “Carry-on. A pun on carrion, which is what condors eat. Dead animals are called carrion. Jeez, Ashley, what grade are you in?”
“Why don’t you go flame yourself,” she answered in a fake sweet voice.
Now Shawn greeted them with, “Hi. I guess you’re Olivia and Steven Landon. I’m Shawn.”
Olivia introduced Jack and Ashley, who shook hands with Shawn, and then Morgan, who kept his hands behind his back.
Getting right to the point, Olivia said, “The most puzzling part of all about this problem with the condors is the lead pellets. The report here says that they’re all different sizes. Is that correct?”
Shawn nodded. “We have no clue about where these are coming from. It’s pretty weird.”
“Could we see the x-rays that show the lead pellets? Do you keep them here?” Olivia asked.
“Yes. In the back. Follow me.”
Morgan said nothing, yet Jack had the sense that Morgan was pretty interested in what was happening, and Ashley noticed it, too. “Morgan likes anything to do with death,” she whispered.
Jack told her to hush, glancing quickly at Morgan to see if he’d heard, but his face had closed off in a way that Jack couldn’t read.
The six of them crowded into a small room while Shawn held up the first x-ray in front of a light screen. It felt strange to look at the insides of a big bird. When he was seven, Jack had seen an x-ray of his own broken arm, but this x-ray looked like a turkey carcass after the Landons had demolished it on Thanksgiving. Seven lead pellets inside the condor’s intestinal tract stood out in bright white in the dark x-ray, like a constellation of stars on a cloudy night. A second x-ray film showed five pellets. “See, the pellets are different sizes,” Shawn said, pointing.
“Maybe they got melted down during the condor’s digestion,” Ashley suggested, “and some just got digested more than others.”
Jack gave Ashley an elbow in the ribs for saying something so unscientific, but Shawn answered, “Actually, they do erode when they get digested.”
Ashley jabbed Jack with a triumphant return elbow.
“Which is why we try to get the pellets out as soon as possible—sometimes by tube, sometimes by surgery. We move fast so the lead won’t get into the bloodstream. But we don’t think digestion is the reason for the difference in pellet size. That part’s a mystery. We think it’s a key to finding the source of the lead, but….” He scratched at his beard. “Like I said, no one has a clue what it all means.”
“Could you please explain why the pellet size is so important?” Steven asked.
“Because we think these birds are all being poisoned from the same source—from a single kill. There are three distinct pellet sizes in all of the intestinal tracts. Although it’s possible that these pellets all came from one gun, it is also conceivable that the kill was shot at by at least three different guns. So, whatever animal was killed had to be big—big enough for a group of condors to feed on, anyway.”
“Except there’s a problem with your theory,” Morgan broke in. “Nobody shoots big game with a shotgun.” When they all looked at him, he said, “I have an online friend named Snipe. I’ve learned about guns. Anything large is taken out with a rifle.”
“Snipe?” Ashley mouthed to Jack, but Jack shook his head at her.
“You’re absolutely right about that, Morgan,” Shawn agreed. “It doesn’t make sense that one large animal was killed with a bunch of shotguns and left to rot. Shotguns are normally used for birds—duck hunting, that sort of thing. But a group of condors are not going to feed on a single dead duck, so that’s not the answer.” He sighed a long sigh as though he’d gone over every possibility.
Ashley’s hand darted up with anticipation. “Oh, I have an idea! Couldn’t one shell be filled up with those different-size pellets?”
“No way,” Morgan answered. “You can’t mix pellets together in one shell, or the gun will blow up in your hand.” When they all looked at him, he said, “What?”
“Your friend Snipe sure taught you a lot about guns,” Ashley stated.
Morgan’s eyebrows moved up. “Your point is…?”
“Let’s get back to what we know. What’s the largest number of pellets any condor has ingested so far?” Olivia asked.
Shawn answered without missing a beat. “Seventeen.”
“Seventeen!” Olivia gasped. “That’s a lot of lead!”
“Right. Unfortunately, we didn’t find the pellets until after the bird was dead.” Shawn went on to tell them about a condor called 65—none of the condors had names, only numbers.