Snowshark

By Clyde V. Collard

Human fear of sharks is not just a reaction to the Jaws films. Scientists have confirmed that we have an inherent fear of sharks dating from our evolutionary period as aquatic apes. We have inherited an innate fascination with sharks and a paralyzing terror of the rending teeth and insatiable maw. Now that which we encountered only in our most appalling swims in the snow like a shark swims in the ocean..and eats people. Here is a tale of that enormous beast as it terrorizes a ski resort during the greatest snowstorm of the century.
Over thirty years have passed since the Great Snowstorm of 1976. Few people who experienced that terrible disaster ever knew of a small group who were exposed to a horrifying chimera as a result of that storm.
This is the story of that courageous company.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 30, 2009
• ISBN: 9781465330819

Clyde V. Collard

Clyde V. Collard experienced a wide variety of industrial and scientifi c occupations in his youth. After receiving his doctoral degree in sociology from Louisiana State University, he spent the next thirty years as a college professor. As an academician, Dr. Collard wrote and published in his chosen fi eld for many years before turning his literary skills to the realm of fi ction. In this electrifying tale the author uses his knowledge of human behavior to examine the personal feelings and social interactions of the people caught in a kaleidoscopic swirl of duty, love, challenge, fear, and horror.

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Copyright © 2009 by Clyde V. Collard.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either

are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and

any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales

is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

Dedicated to Richard Paul Fleury, incomparable friend.

PROLOGUE

Over thirty years have passed since the Great Snowstorm of 1976. In California today those who are ignorant of the devastating results of that tempest might welcome a few good storms. Collectively we are more concerned about the warming of the earth and the lessening of heavenly precipitation which will lead to disastrous droughts and ravage the agricultural empire which anchors the world’s fourth largest economy.

In the year of the storm, a third of a century ago, we had put the troubles of the war decades behind us and were basking in the peace and happiness of a nation reestablishing normality. The Korean War was over and we had disentangled ourselves from the jungles of Viet Nam. The crazy sixties were behind us. This was the placid decade . . . innocent and unsuspecting of the tumultuous decades to follow.

On the morning that the snow began to fall natives were enjoying a mild California winter day. The highways were bustling, shoppers crowded stores dreaming of the coming holiday season, and lovers strolled cobbled paths. The length of the elongated state citizens were joyfully intrigued to witness the snow fall in major cities, in the Great Central Valley, and along the coast from San Diego to Fort Bragg. Children began to make snowmen while their fathers planed slopes for sled runs; they were not dismayed that the snowfall persisted all that day. However, authorities became concerned when it continued the next day and all through the week. Their apprehension heightened in accordance with the alarmingly increasing snow depth; one foot, two, five, until ten feet of snow blanketed the golden state of California from the peaks of the high Sierra to the crashing waves of the Pacific ocean. Highways became impassible, stores were closed, schools shutdown, hospitals became inaccessible, and food supplies dwindled.

The government became paralyzed. Emergency facilities could not function. Law enforcement agencies were stymied as a massive outbreak of looting and violence swept the state. President Ford declared a state of emergency and rushed federal forces to California but these found themselves as blocked as the local authorities.

Thousands of people perished, property damage ran into the billions and environmental destruction was incalculable. It would be a whole decade before the state totally recovered from the Great Snow Storm of 1976. Few people who experienced this terrible disaster ever knew of a small group who were exposed to a horrifying terror as a result of that storm.

This is the story of that courageous company.

CHAPTER 1

Adrian Bradshaw, 37, president A.J. Bradshaw Electronics, came sliding over the packed snow schussing down the slope, knees flexed, muscular shoulders level, arms at 45 degrees from the horizontal plane, poles slightly a trail; the classic portrait of athletic grace embodied in the expertly competent skier. He came swiftly off the hill. He had stayed out longer than he had intended, twilight was deepening and night was coming on fast; he could see below the flow of lights from the lodge and hear the music and singing. There was a nip in the air and he anticipated the pleasure of backing up to the fire’s warmth with a hot mug in his hand.

His skis made a sharp shushing sound gliding over the crystals of crisp snow. Then, from behind him, there came another sound, a louder, harsher sound like a keen knife tearing through cardboard. He turned his head. He felt the bite of the wind, he heard the violent slicing sound and he saw something which spread his eyes in terror. It was the last thing Adrian J. Bradshaw saw.

There was a flurry of snow, a rending and breaking of wood, a sharp agonized bark of pain and nothing more. A single ski, torn free, bounced crazily in the snow, righted itself and slid on silently down the hill.

Billy Cooper liked his job. He liked the life he led. He liked people. Billy Cooper was in many ways similar to Will Rogers. He never met a man he didn’t like or, when it came right down to it, a woman. The interesting thing was that few people knew this. He often presented a gruff exterior not unlike a grouchy, growling bear. He frequently burst into mild expletives, groused overly about slight matters and was, in general, considered a hard man. In spite of this he was liked and admired. There was about him a certain lovable charm and if he was like Will Rogers he was, too, in some aspects like Snow White’s irascible but reliable Grumpy. He had a slow, gentle sense of humor, always carried his fair share of the load and more, never shirked a nasty chore, invariably helped those in need, was generous to a fault and brave to the point of foolhardiness. All in all, he possessed and exhibited the quality traits essential in a good county deputy sheriff. This was patently convenient for that was precisely what Billy Cooper was; a good county deputy sheriff.

At eight AM Monday morning Billy Cooper entered the small local office of the Groveland Branch of the Tuolumne County Sheriff’s Office. His night had been long and essentially sleepless so he was, consequently, more than his usual testy self. Coffee would help and so would about eight hours of sound sleep.

Jane Goodman; deputy, secretary, Girl Friday and resident Mother Hen was at the switchboard and speaking into the microphone. She was trim, pretty, sexy, vivacious, smart, and competent. At twenty-nine, and considering the whole package, her role of Mother Hen was a jolting incongruity. On the other hand, the sages have long known that mothering is more consistently equated with mental state than with biological maturity. In the case of Jane Goodman the sages guessed right for she was, indeed, a Mother Hen and her chicks included anyone who entered her office door or, indiscriminately, anyone who chanced within her broad bailiwick.

Billy was exactly three years her senior, both being Aquarians born at six AM, February 14, in the tiny antiquated hospital at Sonora and there were rumors and expectations of romance between the two. Contrariwise there was no more than a deep friendship between them and any thought of more would have been for them repugnantly incestuous.

Jane waved at Billy without breaking her verbal flow into the mike. Billy grunted and passed on directly to the coffee pot. The pot rested on a high heavy table in the corner surrounded by the usual condiments and was both a relic and the pride of the county. No one knew its origin but it came into being about the same time as electricity and in the whole world only Jane Goodman could make it work. The coffee it produced was a mixture of ambrosia and nectar. Billy had half a cup of Jane’s brew inside him and was beginning to feel better when she finished the call and turned with a smile. Billy returned a smile with his greeting, Good morning, Jane. What’s going on?

Not much. Mostly little stuff easily handled by phone. Bad night?

Long. Maybe it’ll be a quiet Monday for a change. Snow’s hip deep to a tall giraffe and I have no desire to go mucking about in it.

Well, there is one thing.

Oh? He put on his grumpy face.

We got a call from John Early up at Gold Valley.

What’s his problem?

He’s not sure, Jane shrugged. Mystery. Somebody’s missing.

Hell, let ’em send out the ski patrol. Some poor amateur stuck overnight on the mountain. He will come stumbling in about noon, half frozen and have a wild yarn to bore his wife with for the next ten years.

It’s more than that, Jane said, shaking her head. He’s already been missing for a day. He didn’t show up Saturday night. They spent all day Sunday looking for him. Apparently there are a couple other things that make Early think it’s more than the usual lost skier.

What’s that? Billy turned his head slightly and a frown appeared.

He didn’t say. Just implied there was more. He wants someone up there.

Well, Hell. He slammed the coffee mug down on the counter. Damnation. It’s eighty miles up there. Probably snowing all the way. I’ll freeze in that goddam jeep. The goddam jeep" to which he was referring was a two year old Jeep Cherokee.

Oh, you and Molly will make it okay, Jane displayed the easy optimism reserved to one contemplating someone else’s plight. Molly was Jane’s name for Billy’s jeep. Previously, Billy had owned a surplus army jeep before getting the new Cherokee. Molly had thought the little jeep cute so had christened it Molly and when Billy got the Cherokee she applied the same name to the new vehicle. Billy thought it was stupid. He never had and never would name an inanimate object. He only referred to the WW II veteran with the pejorative appellation of that goddam jeep despite the fact that with its fading olive drab paint, army markings and oversized gas can, it was a reliable and versatile vehicle. Though the Cherokee was a marvel of modern engineering with all the amenities including heat and four wheel drive, Billy still referred to it as that goddam jeep.

It will wait, Billy picked up the cup again. Give them another day. He’ll show up. No use running up there for nothing. Tell them to call the Highway Patrol.

The sheriff wants you.

Oh? Ummmm. Right. Suddenly he was all business; no more grumbling, no more pretense about taking a drive he loved to take, rain or shine. If the boss wanted him there something was up. Billy had great respect and admiration for Sheriff Michael Riley, admiration for him as a person and respect for his knowledgeable opinions. Ever since Billy had straightened out that mess with the three Egyptian fliers over at Chinese Camp five summers ago he had been the sheriff’s homicide expert. He had functioned in that capacity many times in the intervening years but nothing so far had been as spectacular as those pyramid flyboys and their belly-dancing houris.

When the sheriff wanted him specifically it was usually something both interesting and serious. Billy’s mind began preparing categories and pigeon holes like little magic boxes, some empty awaiting new material and others filled with the most extraordinary bits of information. There wasn’t much to go on and maybe it was no more than it appeared but he would be giving it plenty of thought during his long drive. He considered calling Early back but decided against that. It was always best to be right there where he could see and hear for himself. He would find out whatever was necessary as soon as he got there.

Okay, Jane. I’ll get on it. Have to swing by the house to pick up some stuff. Take me about three hours for the drive. It’s about eight-thirty now, his eyes flicked to the old schoolhouse clock on the wall. I’ll check in with you around eleven-thirty or twelve, God willing.

Sure, Billy. Take your boots.

CHAPTER 2

Emigrant basin is one of the relatively remote regions of California. Discovered by Bidwell and Bartleson in 1841 and explored by the restless John Muir, it is a smaller reflection of the more popular Yosemite Valley which lies over a ridge to the south.

Gold Valley Lodge was built on property leased from the federal government. It rested on the eastern rise of the Basin where heavy snowfall and long barren slopes made excellent ski country.

It had not snowed since the snowplow last cleared the road and, except for occasional spots of ice, driving conditions were good. Billy sped easily along in the powerful jeep between the high mounds of snow thrown up by the undeviating spray of the plow.

The splendor of the countryside was staggering. Billy was an old hand in the Basin yet each visit was as fresh and exhilarating as though he was seeing it for the first time. As a youth he had camped in these mountains, fishing the streams in the spring, hiking over trails in the summer, hunting wooded hillsides in the autumn, and skiing the slopes in the winter. He could not pick a favorite season; the best time was always whatever time he was there.

The basin was still the untouched wilderness encountered by the Duckwall party and other first settlers into California. Still as pristine as when Indians had intermittently resided there centuries ago. If Billy remembered his history correctly it was in this very wilderness that Bidwell and Duckwall had been lost, nearly suffering the fate of the notorious Donner party. It was not until they wandered into the open valley of the Basin had they been saved. The little town of Relief commemorated that event. No, it hasn’t changed much, Billy considered and one could still get lost in the unchanged wilderness. If the missing man had strayed too far into these hills he could be in real trouble.

The giant peaks of the Sierras surround the Basin rising higher and higher as they march away to the east in immutable grandeur. Great firs filled wooded fields which once had been marshy meadows and the slopes of crumbled granite were rimmed by the same majestic forests. Even now in the frozen winter streams ran bubbling over jutting boulders sparkling in the subdued sunshine. Set in the vivid blue sky, billowing masses of white cumulus clouds swept over the high peaks.

Billy’s mood flowed with the graceful surroundings and his spirit merged with the infinite beauty and serenity of this paradise. He fought to escape the euphoric sense of ‘I am alone in my own garden of Eden,’ to re-focus his thoughts on the problem ahead but he could not. In a resigned state he accepted the certainty that he would soon be dealing with the problem of his job and the ‘real world’ and gave himself over to the enjoyment of the enthralling paradise.

Gold Valley Lodge was built against the forest which hid the smaller outbuildings and parking areas. All of the beautifying efforts had been concentrated on the front which faced the slopes. Here were the dining porches and balustraded verandas, picture windows and quaint gingerbread facades designed to match the building’s steep-roofed alpine motif. Directly in front of the lodge were the beginner slopes and beyond, to the right, was the lift to higher levels. The lodge faced southwest, ideally positioned for optimum sun-shade proportions on the slopes and for presenting pleasing late afternoon sun and sunsets to tired but happily evening-oriented skiers. As Billy crested the rise before descending the last sweeping incline to the lodge he saw exactly what was meant to be seen; a charming, inviting ski lodge nestled in a romanticized Swiss setting.

Coffee?, John Early picked up the shiny percolator.

Billy nodded, Sugar, please.

John Early’s face was a manager’s face; intense eyes cornered with worry lines, pleasant smiling lips, good teeth, small ears, put all together in a competent, assertive face. Several inches smaller than Billy’s six foot frame, he was uncommonly free of a shorter man’s awareness of stature. Whether a man was three feet tall or seven feet tall John Early wouldn’t have noticed the difference. In his perspective, he could care less what the package looked like; he wanted to know what was inside. Now he had taken Billy straight into his office after their greeting and waved him to a chair before offering the coffee.

Okay, John, what’s your problem? Billy skipped over the small talk.

I gave the essentials to Jane. We have a man missing . . . two days now. We had the patrol out and covered the routine search. He hasn’t shown up.

She said you hinted there was more to it.

There is, he handed Billy a mug and held out a sugar bowl. Put in your own sugar. I always get it too sweet. This isn’t the usual thing. First, one of his skis came home. It was lying out front about ten feet from the building. Looked like it just slid down right off the slope and stopped in front of the ski rack.

Maybe he left it there, Billy’s tone was patient yet carried a hint that he still wasn’t convinced that this was a matter which warranted the attention of the sheriff’s office.

That’s what we thought at first, Early missed the touch of skepticism. He was too deeply concerned to believe that Billy did not share his concern. Though it is kind of strange. Why would he carry off one ski and leave the other lying in the snow? We thought maybe he forgot it or dropped it, though that’s unlikely. So maybe he went to his car and drove off . . . God knows why. But his car is still in the lot, his bed wasn’t slept in and nobody has seen him since Saturday morning.

Did he go out on the hill? Billy slurred this question with his mouth full of hot coffee.

Sure. Several people saw him. He goes right up to the high country, sometimes stays all day. He’s a top skier.

Okay. Billy compiled the facts, So he goes out in the morning. Doesn’t come back. You find one ski. You are not sure if he . . . or somebody . . . left it there or if it ran off the hill by itself. Maybe he took it off for some reason, it got away from him and slid in.

It couldn’t have run that far. If he had been that close he would have just walked in himself.

Come on, John. What else have you got? Billy still couldn’t see this as anything more than a lost skier.

We checked the whole area and about a hundred yards out we found part of his other ski. About two feet of the tip.

I thought you said you figured something about him carrying off the other one, Billy was not so bland that he would miss even a minor discrepancy.

That was before we found it. Early shot Billy a hurt ‘don’t you believe me?’ look. I was just trying to give you things as they happened in sequence and what we did.

Okay, Billy caught the look and shifted his tone to a placating mode. So what else did you find?

The snow had been kicked up a bit where we found the broken ski, like there was a fight, maybe. But that’s all. Nothing else.

Nothing? No clothes, cap, blood?

Nothing, Early shook his head. Well, nothing for sure. There was a discoloration in some of the snow. It could have been blood but it could have been anything.

Ummmm, Billy made his noncommittal sound as he looked out the full wall window at the expanse of the white hillsides. Nice view.

Gives me a quick picture of what is going on. Early spoke without bothering to turn his head. Distracting sometimes.

Billy watched the bundled duo carrying skis over their shoulders like soldiers’ rifles, moving toward the lift; tight ski pants and formfitting sweaters did little to hide or even disguise the shapely, youthfully slim bodies within. I see what you mean, he said. So far you have a missing man, two skis . . . one broken, a scuffed up area of snow and something that might possibly be blood. Correct?

That’s it, Early sighed a sigh of relief as if to say—now it’s in the hands of authority and everything will be alright.

Ummmm, Billy’s noncommittal sound meant he still wasn’t convinced. So how do you read it? Animal attack? Bear or big cat?

Not likely. There hasn’t been a grizzly around here for a hundred years . . . though a big black bear could do a lot of damage . . . and I can’t figure a mountain lion attacking a man. Besides, if one of those did kill him we would find the body or even if they did eat . . . the thought made him grimace, "did eat him we’d find something, part of the body, bones,