Page 93 of Dead Mountain

“Temperature mid-twenties,” Nora said. “Wind moderate, snow cover good. I’d say we’re fortunate with the weather—so far. But we better hurry.”

Corrie nodded.

They had reached the end of the road and parked in a plowed circular area at the far end of the valley. On their right stretched a row of small peaks, along with a notch through which their route lay, as Puller had marked on the map. Nora slipped into the saddle of the touring snowmobile, and Corrie got in behind her. The monosuit was snug and warm. The route on her map indicated a trip of five miles to T1. If all went well, they should be there in half an hour or less.

“You’ve ridden a snowmobile before, right?” Nora asked.

“In Colorado. It didn’t, ah, go all that well.”

“We’ll take it slow and easy. Just hang on tight, keep your weight forward and centered. Okay?”

“Got it.”

Nora started up the machine, put it in gear, and eased it forward. They moved slowly across the open expanse of snow and into the fir trees. The conditions were good: plenty of snow, the sun behind clouds spreading an even gray light across the landscape. Nora eased the machine among the trees and through the notch. They continued along the shallow side of a hill through a forest of big firs, far enough apart to make their way easy. The trees soon gave way to a ridge, with heavy snow and cornices on one side and nearly bare ground on the other. Still moving at an unhurried pace, Nora guided the machine along the strip of firm snow in between, stopping from time to time to consult her map and the GPS on her phone. Nora didn’t trust Corrie’s ability to map-read in the wilderness, so she insisted on doing both the driving and the navigating.

Once they were out on the open ridgetop, the wind picked up a little, and that, combined with a layer of fresh powder, generated some flying snow as they drove, but it was light and dry and they had good electric helmets that kept it from sticking. Nora was able to average a steady ten to twelve miles per hour.

The views were stupendous. On their left lay the Knot: a crazy warren of canyons, ravines, and pinnacles, choked with fir and pine trees, with nary a flat place in sight. To their right rose the central spine of the Manzanos. Puller had routed them well, although in a few spots they had to negotiate downed timber and some steep slopes. The trail descended along ridges into the Knot, and in half an hour, just as Nora predicted, they had arrived at T1.

Nora pulled up the last length of ridge and stopped the snowmobile as the terrain leveled out. “We’re here.”

“Nice going, Evel Knievel.”

Nora got off, brushed the loose snow from her lap, and looked around. The ground rose gradually above the Knot, covered with tall firs. A definite clearing had been made here some years ago, with many young firs now growing up. The ridge had been flattened, cut into the hill at one end and graded flat.

“That doesn’t look natural,” said Nora.

“This could be it,” said Corrie. She took a few steps in the snow, sinking up to her thighs.

“We need snowshoes,” Nora told her.

They quickly strapped in and grabbed the poles. The little trees around the clearing were loaded with fresh snow, and they pushed through them, knocking off powdery clumps as they went. Nora headed toward a spot at the far end of the ridge, where it appeared to have been cut across the ridge and leveled, creating a flat, circular area. Any opening into the mountain would be along that cut somewhere—unless it was a hatch in the ground. In that case, it would be hidden under a layer of snow and much harder to find.

They reached the far end, where the cut ridge had exposed a wall of rock.

“Let’s examine the area from north to south,” Nora said.

The little trees were especially thick along the rockface. They pushed through them, getting covered with loose snow.

“Hey, check this out,” said Corrie.

Nora looked over. Corrie was pointing to a cylindrical cavity drilled into the side of the rockface—the remains of a blasting hole.

Nora couldn’t help but feel surprised. Part of her had assumed this would be just another of Corrie’s wild-goose chases. But a blasting hole, here in the middle of nowhere—that was the real deal.

They continued exploring the face of the rock, pulling back small trees and clearing off overhanging vegetation, looking for some sort of entrance. And suddenly, there it was: a small steel door, painted in camo to blend into the rock.

“My God,” said Nora. “I can hardly believe it.”

“Believe it!” Corrie said excitedly.

They searched for a keypad. The door was set so naturally into the rock that it was hard to follow its outlines, but Nora ripped down some hanging vegetation and exposed an old-fashioned mechanical keypad with buttons.

“The code was Rodney O’Connell’s birthdate,” Corrie said. “April 3, 1986.”

Nora watched as Corrie keyed in 4386. Nothing. She tried 431986. Still nothing. Then she punched in 04031986. At the press of the last number, this time Nora heard a muffled click. Corrie heaved against the door with her shoulder, with no result.

“Maybe it swings outward,” said Nora.

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