Free Grizzly by Will Collins Page A

breath. The water, in front of her, made a shimmering wall, half transparent, half opaque.
    Gail sensed movement, and her body tingled. Goosebumps broke out, from a combination of the chill air and anticipation of what was to come.
    A shadow moved to, then through, the dancing wall of water.
    She gave a giggle and said, "You sure got undressed quick."
    The big Dolly Varden trout swam in agitated circles. This pool, which was his home, had its rhythms and cycles, but all were known to the killer trout, who defended its waters against all other male Vardens. The sight or scent of blood was nothing new to the fish; many final battles had been fought in the pool, between fish or small mammals such as muskrat or water shrews.
    But now the pool was being flooded with a torrent of crimson that clouded the water with its swirling tendrils. It flowed—almost cascaded—from the ledge where the waterfall beat against the surface of the stream, coming in gushing torrents until the Dolly Varden flicked his tail and sped downstream to a place where the water was still fresh and clear.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    There are still many who believe that the insolent chariots sold by Detroit can go anywhere and surmount any terrain. This attitude may come from the first years of automobile driving, when cars were indeed able to take to the woods and follow deer paths. But those early Model A Fords, those Tin Lizzies, had high road clearance, and weighed only a quarter of present-day vehicles. Nor did they carry such rock-snagging undergear as mufflers, torsion-bar suspension or low-slung oil pans. One old-timer who passed on in 1924 had actually stipulated in his will that his Model A be buried with him because, in his own words, "I ain't never got into a hole that she couldn't get me out of."
    While the main roads in the park were of decent asphalt construction, many of the dirt roads going up to the remote camp sites were more like dry creek beds, filled with ruts, rocks and exposed tree roots. A Model A might have sputtered its way up them with little difficulty, but even an off-road jeep had trouble here and there.
    As for the visitors, in their new street cars, they would ignore the advice of the rangers to park at the lower level and pack in their gear, and try to make it on four wheels. Except for a cleanup crew who patrolled the roads every few days, some of the trails would soon have resembled junkyards, having become a graveyard of abandoned mufflers.
    On one such trail, a long blue Cadillac was clawing its way up the steep slope, lurching from one rut to the next, bottoming out with sickening crashes of metal against rock and hard-packed earth. On its gleaming imitation leather top, a huge green plastic baggage carrier strained at the tightly stretched shock cords that held it to the luggage rack. These cords, gaily striped with metal hooks at each end, had been intended to lash down loads on a motorcycle rack or to attach a suitcase to the trunk of a sports car. Lashed around the big baggage carrier, they were strained to their utmost endurance.
    Inside the Calllac, a heavy-set man clutched the wheel and mashed his foot to the floor. He was afraid to lose momentum. Once stopped, he would spin out trying to move the car again, and there wasn't room to turn around. Nor could he back down that winding trail. He was committed.
    But, he thought, as he smashed over another hump in the road, the Caddie would never be the same again.
    "Hang on!" he shouted, as the car reached what looked like the crest of a hill.
    The twelve-year-old boy beside him had been hanging on for quite a while now. He was afraid they were going to crash into a tree.
    The road widened as they topped the grade, and his father hit the brake to keep from passing the camp site. As usual, he forgot that the Caddie had power brakes, and its nose dipped and slammed into the ground, and he and his son were thrown forward into the dash-board.
    "Goddamn it!" yelled the man, glaring at