The Maze Page 8

  Maverick? Rick thought. Lon just called one of his condors by a nickname. My nickname.

  Rick thought better of mentioning it. Instead he said, “The sound that his wings made…”

  “I call that condor music.”

  The mercurial biologist was unmistakably trying to be friendly.

  “So what do you do now?”

  “We track him with the radio. This is all in the game. This is what makes it interesting.”

  12

  Past the Standing Rocks they jumped out of the truck. Lon held up the small tracking antenna while tuning in the condor’s frequency on the radio fastened to his belt. He pointed the antenna north, toward the Maze, then rotated it gradually to the east.

  Four rapid beeps started to come in, then grew stronger and stronger as the antenna pointed straight down the road. “That’s good,” Lon said. “He’s landed. If we’re lucky, he won’t have landed somewhere real tricky.”

  They drove another half mile, took another reading. Lon scanned ahead with his powerful binoculars but couldn’t see Maverick. “How much do we have on the odometer?”

  “Four and a half miles.”

  “The dope.”

  “You have to hand it to him, though. From what you’re saying, that’s a pretty amazing flight for his age.”

  “An epic flight. But there’s a reason we pick a line of cliffs for our reintroduction sites. There are thermal upcurrents along the cliffs that provide tremendous lift. Fledglings can fly back and forth along the rim for weeks as they improve their flying skills. Even without parents to teach them, fledgling condors tend to be canny enough to stick with the good flying air and all those safe perches that the cliffs provide. It’s real different down on the flats. Even an adult condor has to work like crazy to get airborne off level ground.”

  “You mean he might not be able to get back up?”

  “Might not. He won’t be the only one to go through this lesson; he’s just the first. Let’s drive a little farther, see if we can spot him.”

  They did spot him, out in the middle of Lon’s landing zone.

  Lon passed the binoculars to Rick. The condor was looking all around like a lost kid in the big city. “He looks clueless,” Rick said.

  “He may be an orphan, but he’s got some instincts. He’s been looking at this landscape for six weeks. He knows that those cliffs back there are home base.”

  They waited for the condor’s next move. They waited all afternoon through the building of the clouds, through thunder and lightning and rain lashing the windshield. Maverick, standing in the rain, was a murky and forlorn figure.

  “Won’t he catch sick?” Rick worried.

  “Condors are tough, tough birds. They’re going to be out here in the winter, in the cold and snow. Sometimes they’ll move to a protected spot, but a lot of times they won’t.”

  “It snows out here?”

  “Not a lot, but it does.”

  “You’ll be here in the winter?”

  “Sure. If this first year is successful, I might be here year-round for the next twenty. More birds twice a year, same as at Vermilion Cliffs, in Arizona, and our California sites.”

  “Vermilion Cliffs—is that where Josh comes from?”

  Lon nodded. “North of the Grand Canyon and southwest of Page, Arizona. Josh and Andrea and David work there; I used to. It’s our third year down there—fledged twenty-eight birds so far.”

  Rick thought about the big net in the back of the truck. “It’s five-thirty. What if it gets dark? Aren’t you going to try to catch him?”

  “Not today. Let’s hope he gets anxious with the dark coming on and flies to his familiar roosts. It’s best if he does it on his own. My chances of netting him in the open on the LZ are about zip anyway. I don’t want to spook him into some worse spot than he is now. Better to wait, let him rest, see if he can possibly take off cleanly, gain some altitude, head home. I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s the most precocious flier of any condor fledgling I’ve ever seen.”

  “Sounds like you think he can do it.”

  “I think he’s got it in him. He’s got some serious flaws, but he’s also got great potential if he just survives the next couple months.”

  They watched until dark. Maverick never flew. “What now?”

  “We hope for the best,” Lon said grimly. “We’ll be back at first light. Hope the coyotes don’t get him.”

  “He’s awful big. Can’t he fight ’em off with his talons, like that eagle did to M1 and M3?”

  “Condors aren’t raptors—aren’t designed to kill. Their feet are different. They can hiss and grunt and put up a good bluff beating their wings, but when it comes down to it, their safety depends on flying. That’s why they need to roost every night in a place predators can’t reach, where they’ll be able to lift off easily too.”

  They returned to camp. Lon verified that the rest of the condors were accounted for. They’d perched close to one another as usual, in a draw below the Needle carcass, named after a nearby pinnacle. “Let’s have a real meal,” Lon announced. “We’ve got a lot of fresh food, and that’s not going to be the case much longer. All this salad stuff, some steaks…”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “All wrapped up nice in the bottom drawer of the fridge. Last time I fed ’em to the condors, when the birds were still in the pen. Made a nice treat.”

  “How do they like their steaks?”

  “On the raw side. Yourself?”

  “Medium rare.”

  “If you think about it, humans are vultures too. We locate our carrion at the supermarket.”

  “If you’re trying to gross me out of my steak, forget it.”

  “I’ll warm up some beans. You’re on for salad.”

  “How should we cook the steaks?”

  “I always hold mine over an open fire with my hands. That’s why I don’t eat steak very often. If you’ve got a better idea, you’re in charge.”

  “Let’s just kind of sear ’em in the frying pan.” Rick found a pan, lit the burner. “Hey,” he called. “What about Sky? Maybe she’d like to join us. I bet she’d appreciate a big, bloody steak. What do you say?”

  That caught Lon’s fancy. “I usually feed her out behind the tents, but sure, let’s invite her to dinner.” Lon got his glove, went out back, and returned with the eagle on his arm. “I think she’d like hers rare,” he said, setting Sky down on the slickrock.

  Soon the three of them were gnashing at their bloody steaks by the light of a propane lantern. There was no more talk of Maverick. Tomorrow would be here soon enough.

  13

  “Is it morning?” Rick asked.

  “Close enough. Let’s go.”

  Maverick had flown, but in the wrong direction. They located him perched on top of one of the giants in the Doll House. “We can’t afford to spook him,” Lon said. “If he flies any farther east, over the river, I doubt very much we’ll ever see him again. He’s definitely not ready for a major flight over a bottomless drop like that.”

  “When would he be?”

  “Couple of months, maybe. There’s a lot to learn. Six or eight months from now, a hundred and fifty miles in a day would be no problem. Up to fifteen thousand feet in altitude, no problem.”

  “Don’t let him hear you. How long could he sit there?”

  “Maybe he’ll take some short hops. It’s possible he won’t make a move until he’s hungry again. I don’t know what he’s going to do.”

  They returned to camp. Lon had fallen silent. Rick could tell that he was less and less optimistic about Maverick.

  Lon turned to observing the others. By late morning the five were flying up and down the line of cliffs. Two landed by the new Double Juniper carcass. An aggressive golden eagle, possibly the one they’d seen close up from the blind, wouldn’t let them feed.

  Lon scribbled notes furiously, then started pecking out an official-looking report on his manual typewriter. He explained that
each day he provided a summary of the birds’ behavior and activities. “I’m typing up yesterday’s report right now. It’s my longest one yet, on account of Maverick.”

  “Who reads ’em?”

  “Anyone who’s interested. People really like these field notes. They go out all over the country on the Internet.”

  “The Condor Project has a home page?”

  “Sure, like everybody else these days. Josh takes out my notes and updates the Maze site. After his next visit he’ll enter all this stuff. A couple of weeks from now, kids in schools all around the country will be reading about Maverick’s epic flight and misadventure.”

  “Do they see pictures of the condors?”

  “Sure. Andrea took lots of pictures the day we released ’em.”

  “Is there a picture of you?”

  Lon snorted. He thought that was funny. Something on the cliffs caught his eye; he reached for the binoculars. An eagle was dive-bombing a condor that was flying a hundred feet or so above the rim. The young condor maneuvered well enough to avoid being struck, then found a safe perch in the cliffs. A short while later it happened again.

  “I’m getting pretty bent out of shape about the eagles,” Rick said.

  “Don’t,” Lon told him. “It’s all a part of a condor’s education.”

  They drove back to the Doll House. Maverick had flown onto the flats among the formations. The flats were sprinkled with sagebrush, cactus, huge boulders, and numbers of pinyons and junipers—lots of hiding places for coyotes, according to Lon. “I can’t risk him spending another night out in the open. I’m not going to lose that bird.”

  “You’re going to try to net him?”

  Stroking his beard thoughtfully, Lon nodded.

  For more than thirty minutes Rick watched Lon inching on his elbows and belly toward the condor. The net was nearly three feet in diameter, like a huge fishing net. Thirty feet remained between the man and the bird, with only open ground between them. Just when it seemed this would go on forever. Rick detected a quick motion of the condor’s head in Lon’s direction. The bird was on to him. Suddenly Lon rose and started sprinting.

  Maverick was hopping and then running as fast as he could, beating his great wings. Rick was amazed by his size, by his speed as well. Lon was running full out and was very close to being close enough to net the bird. With a horizontal leap, Lon lunged and came up with only air. Rick watched as Maverick, wings beating furiously, gradually gained altitude and flew off.

  “That was quite a chase,” Rick said afterward. “You’ve got serious roadburn on your arms there.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “North.”

  “Maverick’s really spooked now. I must’ve been an awful scary sight. We’re going to have to try a different approach.”

  “Disguise yourself as a dead cow?”

  “Sort of,” Lon said, but he didn’t explain. “Let’s see if we can get another visual on him.”

  On foot now, they followed the signal from Lon’s electronic bloodhound north toward the confluence of the two rivers. The standing formations surrounding them were fantastic beyond imagining. It was a broken country of slickrock domes and terraces, cactus flats, and stone arches. Monumental sandstone fins stood in perfectly parallel rows with slots of flat, shady ground in between.

  The signal was strong but twilight was fading. Finally Lon located the condor on top of one of the narrow fins.

  Rick set up the spotting scope. Maverick had already tucked his head away in the ruff on his shoulders. “I’m going to catch you, Maverick,” Lon muttered.

  The man’s eyes were ablaze with determination. “We have a lot of work to do, Rick. Hang the field glasses from the scope; we’ll leave them here. We’ll have to find this place in the dark. When we find the equipment, we’ll know we’re back at the right place. We’ll have plenty to carry as it is: a shovel and a bow saw, some plastic buckets, a propane lantern, bird feed…. Let’s get going!”

  14

  They took their positions half an hour before dawn. The rest was waiting.

  Starting with first light, Rick had the binoculars on the condor. He saw the bird bring its head out from behind its shoulders and start looking around. From the cover of a slab of rock and through the gap in the branches of a juniper, Rick observed every slight movement, hoping Maverick was about to fly.

  He let his mind drift, imagining what that might be like. To fly, to be actually flying. To be soaring above these endless canyons and seeing it all from the air. To fly like Maverick, or like Lon under his hang glider. Lon had mentioned taking people up tandem. Rick could almost imagine what that would be like, the two of them under that big wing.

  If Lon ever offered, he wasn’t going to say no. Even if he was afraid. If he could take that leap off the cliff, he’d be living his dream.

  The first pair of ravens flew to the carcass in midmorning. Maverick looked on as the ravens started with the calf’s eyes, then opened the belly. By noon they’d been joined by a dozen others. One o’clock, one-thirty, and still the condor hadn’t flown. It took the patience of a vulture to wait out a vulture.

  He wondered if it was hot in the pit. He wondered if Lon was all cramped up. He wondered if the man was trying to remain in a kneeling position all this time, the way he’d been when Rick had left him before dawn.

  He was proud of that pit and the camouflage job they had done. There wasn’t a bit of raw earth showing around it. They’d hauled off every bucketful and scattered it. If the ravens hadn’t been suspicious, then Maverick shouldn’t be either.

  Maybe Maverick just wasn’t hungry?

  It was just after 2:00 P.M. when Rick saw the sudden bend in the bird’s knees, saw him unfold his great wings and launch himself off the edge of the fin. Maverick was coming down to feed! Rick saw him put his tail flaps down, flare his wings, and make a less than graceful landing fifteen feet from the carcass.

  The ravens were agitated by the condor’s arrival, but they didn’t fly. Maverick acted like a spectator for a full ten minutes before he made his move. Slouching close to the pit, he thrust his head forward, hissing. The ravens stayed by the calf until Maverick bluffed with several rapid flaps of his huge wings, which scattered them.

  Looking around carefully, the condor stepped onto the calf. He continued looking around a full minute longer before he began to feed. At this exact moment Lon was looking up from underneath Maverick and the calf, through the slot they’d so carefully camouflaged with weeds and bits of grass. At this moment Lon was looking right at the condor’s face as the bird bobbed for meat.

  The wait continued. It was killing Rick that the biologist hadn’t made his move. If Lon waited much longer, Maverick might step off the carcass. Maverick might fill his crop and be gone.

  The ravens were moving back in, working at the calf around the edges. The condor lunged at one; it jumped away. Maverick shifted his position, and started looking around warily instead of feeding.

  That’s when Lon struck. Through the binoculars Rick saw it clearly. He saw Lon’s hands seize the base of the condor’s legs. Suddenly the condor was wearing leg shackles made of human hands.

  Rick expected that the condor would slash instantly at the man’s hands with his powerful beak, but Maverick hesitated, as if his feet were stuck in place of their own accord. He beat his great wings once, twice, trying to rise, then flapped for balance as Lon began to pull him slowly downward.

  As the condor was descending, it folded its wings tight against its body as if cooperating. Rick watched as Maverick’s shoulders and head slowly disappeared inside the pit.

  And then Rick ran. He ran as fast as he could.

  “What can I do?” he asked, all out of breath.

  “Lay the calf aside,” came the voice from inside the pit. “Clear off the branches and stuff, but not too fast. Easy does it.”

  Within a few minutes Rick cleared most of the roof from the pit. Lon was kneeling with the body of the condor
under his left arm, his right hand holding Maverick’s head and jaw from underneath so the bird couldn’t attack him. Lon rose slowly until he was standing upright. “Man, am I sore.”

  “Good job!” Rick cried. He’d never felt so happy in his life. It was amazing to see the condor up close. Incredible. So prehistoric-looking, so strange. Maverick’s feet were enormous.

  “I need a step,” Lon said calmly. “Slide down into the pit, Rick, real slow. I’ll use your back.”

  It worked. Lon stepped out of the pit without stumbling or jostling the bird. “Wait a minute,” Rick said. “We forgot the bird kennel. We’ve got nothing to carry him in.”

  “Get me that red jacket of yours. If he’s wrapped up he won’t be as nervous. I thought about the bird kennel and decided against it. We’re close enough we don’t need it. Too much risk of Maverick injuring himself banging around in there loose, after being so stressed out.”

  Rick ran for his jacket, helped maneuver it around the bird as Lon readjusted the grip of his left arm.

  “Okay,” Lon announced. “Let’s march. Bring the binoculars; we’ll come back for the spotting scope and the rest of the stuff later.”

  Rick didn’t say another word until they got back to the truck. Lon was all concentration, walking with the bird, and there was a painful grimace on his face. “My arm’s all cramped up,” he said finally. “We’re going to have to transfer him to you.”

  “I’m not sure I can do it.”

  Lon shook his head. “Set that stuff aside, open up the passenger door, and get into the seat. I’m going to give him to you. I want you to swivel toward me as I come to you. Take hold of the bird exactly as I’m holding him right now. Left arm first; I’ll pull mine away when yours is in place. Then we’ll make the switch with our right hands. Hold him firm against yourself so he’s got no room to maneuver, but not so tight you hurt him. Stay focused. And don’t be afraid of holding his head firm. If his head gets loose, he could put your eye out.”

  “Got it.” Rick’s heart was racing.