Diablo Mesa(43)

She hit him on the shoulder rather harder than she intended.





26



BITAN ARRIVED KITTED out as if on safari, with a day pack, two water bottles strapped to his belt, a gigantic straw sun hat, sunglasses, and his nose coated with sunscreen. He carried an elaborate GPS unit.

Mitty spied him approaching in the dark and gave a bark, then rushed forward for a greeting. Bitan took a moment to rub his ears, murmuring affectionate words in Hebrew.

“We’re going to walk in the direction the trench points us in,” he said, immediately setting off, striding so fast Skip struggled to keep up, Mitty bounding ahead eagerly. “The oval I described is about five miles away, in the Atalaya plains, and it extends two miles into the hills.”

“Right.”

“I worked out a search pattern last night. I’ll Bluetooth it to you. We’re going to split up once we reach the valley to cover more ground.”

The sun mounted over the horizon into a cloudless sky, casting golden shadows. It was still chilly in the early morning, but Skip knew it was going to warm up quickly. Hopefully it wouldn’t get too hot.

For a man close to fifty, Bitan proved to be full of energy. As they walked, he told tales of growing up in Be’er Sheva in the Negev desert, which he mentioned was also the ancient Biblical town of Beersheba; and he talked about its history, the place where Abraham planted the tamarisk tree and the Lord spoke to Isaac and Jacob, and later where the Battle of Beersheba took place during World War I. He was a fount of knowledge and stories, and Skip hung on every word.

After about two miles, Skip saw they were coming to the edge of Diablo Mesa, the vast, low formation on which the camp was situated. A cliff abruptly dropped away to a huge, treeless valley with a dry lake bed in the middle.

They stood at the edge of the mesa in the morning light while Bitan consulted his GPS. Skip took a moment to give Mitty some water.

“According to the map, that valley is called the Plains of Atalaya,” Bitan said. “The white area is Dead Lake, and those hills on the other side are the Horse Heaven Hills. The buttes beyond are Los Gigantes, and the blue mountains, Los Fuertes.”

“Picturesque names.”

“It amazes me how much this landscape looks like the Negev. But now we have to find our way down into the valley.”

Skip peered over the edge with a frown. It was only a few hundred feet, but the rimrock was sheer.

“From the topo map,” said Bitan, examining his GPS, “it looks like there might be a way down the cliffs to the left.”

They walked along the mesa edge as the sun climbed in the sky. The views were endless. There were no roads, no trails, no signs of human existence. It was a landscape that made Skip feel small, but in a good way. And the possibility of being part of a discovery that would change the world filled him with excitement and wonder.

From time to time Bitan halted and peered ahead with binoculars.

“I’ll be damned,” he said at one of these stops. “Take a look.”

He handed the binoculars to Skip. In the distance, at the edge of the mesa, he could see a broken tower of stone.

“The watchtower,” he said.

“Here we are, only pretending to look for it, and yet we found it! I take it as a sign we’ll be lucky in what we are looking for.” He hastened forward, Skip following.

The tower was circular, built of rough stone blocks mortared with adobe. Most of it had fallen down the cliffside, while other stones lay strewn about. Inside there was just enough shade for them to hunker down and have a drink of water. Mitty lapped his share furiously from a collapsible bowl.

Skip noticed some green-glazed potsherds and picked one up.

“What’s that?”

Skip handed it to Bitan. “Spanish pottery, I would think.”

Bitan turned it over. “Keep it. We’ll show it to your sister. Maybe she can identify it.”

Skip hunted around and found a few larger pieces, some with yellow designs, and slipped them in his pocket.

After a short rest, they walked past the tower and discovered the remains of an ancient trail going down into the valley. As they descended toward the base of the cliffs, the wind started picking up, carrying white dust from the dry lake bed. The temperature gradually rose. Bitan finally seemed to run out of conversation. When they had gotten back on course, they set off across the Plains of Atalaya toward the distant hills, Bitan periodically checking his GPS. After another two hours or so he halted. The hills were much closer now, and Skip could see they were covered with grass and dotted with low, twisted oak trees.

“We’ve reached the southern edge of the oval,” Bitan said. “Time to split up and begin searching. We’ll meet back here at five.”

Five. That would give them three hours to get back to camp before nightfall. This was cutting it close, but Skip decided not to mention it.

Bitan went over the search pattern Skip was to follow: a downloaded Google Earth file that showed his location and suggested path. Even though they were out of cell range, the satellite coverage was good, and the GPS was working well. But as Skip looked ahead at the hot alkali flats where his search was to begin, his heart sank a little. Already, they’d hiked quite a distance in the growing heat. But it would get better, he told himself, when he reached those grassy hills. Mitty was still going strong, and Skip was glad to have him along.