“Station M06, here we come,” Cassidy said.
Two
Mt. St. Helens, Washington
October 21, 2014, 2:41 p.m.
“Ready?” Cassidy said from inside her jerry-rigged bee protection suit. They had arrived at their last station, M03, to discover a baseball-sized wasp nest affixed to the back of the solar panel mount.
“Ready,” Pete said from his post fifteen feet away.
A steady, soft breeze ushered the welcome promise of a cool evening. Cassidy was so hot and sweaty inside the black garbage bag pulled over her torso and the bug hood tucked into her zip-neck polypropylene hiking shirt that she felt like she might melt.
“You sure you don’t want me to do it?” Pete asked as Cassidy walked to the back of the panel mount.
“Yes,” she replied. “This is why they pay me the big bucks,” she added with false cheer. If only they hadn’t lost the can of Raid.
The seismic station’s wires, car battery, and Pelican box were already packed into the litter and the fragile seismometer was wrapped up carefully in the external frame backpack. All that remained was this last solar panel and the mount.
“Okay,” Cassidy said, her gloved hands lifting the shovel blade so it rested underneath the grey, papery nest. Wasps buzzed in and out. She applied a small amount of pressure, hoping to lift the nest just enough to break the seal of wasp spit or whatever the little demons used as glue. But the nest didn’t move. She stepped closer and readjusted her angle to use the side edge of the blade. A few more wasps exited the nest, buzzing around the shovel handle. Pulses of fear pumped through Cassidy’s bloodstream.
“How’s it going?” Pete called from the other side of the mount.
“Fine,” Cassidy called back, her voice sounding high. She added a bit more upward pressure to the shovel and felt something give. Bees flooded out of the hive, ramming the shovel handle, her arms, and flew around her head, their aggressive buzzing crowding into her ears. A sensation of panic gripped her as the swarm made it difficult to see. While watching her feet to make sure she didn’t trip as she walked gingerly away from the station, she felt the first sting on her thigh. “Ow!” she yelped. Another sting, this one behind her knee. Were they getting inside her pants somehow? Or stinging her through the thin fabric? A few more steps, she thought, and I can put it down. A sharp burn on her collarbone made her jump and it took everything she had not to drop the shovel. Were they getting into her shirt? Breathing fast, she hurried, taking just a few more steps, but something caught her left toe and she stumbled. More bees flooded out of the hive. Panicked now, Cassidy lowered the nest into a hollow beneath a layer of downed logs. She felt more stings: her legs, the back of her neck, her head—how were they getting through her hat?—then she slid the shovel out and ran.
“Big bucks, huh?” Pete said as they pulled the litter to a stop at the back of the Suburban a little before five p.m. They were both hot and exhausted. She caught a whiff of Pete’s salty skin tinged with forest dust and wondered what she smelled like. A welt from an errant blackberry vine marked Pete’s cheek. His arms glowed pink and his right knee poked out of his pant leg from a deep rip after a tumble. Cassidy knew she probably looked as beat up—sunburned nose, bruised knees, and a blister on her left heel, plus seven wasp stings that had swollen to the size of silver dollars.
“And the fame,” she said, laughing. “Don’t forget about that part.”
Despite the trials of the day, she felt exhilarated. They had packed up three stations in eleven hours. She would never have been able to accomplish such a feat with an undergrad field assistant. The difference was Pete. Most graduate students possessed superhuman strength during field days, and Pete’s drive was at least that even though this wasn’t his project.
“I have some Benadryl in my first-aid kit if you want,” he said, eying the row of stings on her collarbone.
“Thanks,” she said, collapsing onto the tailgate with her water bottle. His compassionate expression unsettled her. “But I’m afraid it’ll make me too tired for the drive.”
“I can drive if you want.”
“I wish,” she replied. “But if anything happened and they found out I wasn’t driving . . . ”
Pete nodded. “Sure, but if you were really hurt—”
“I’m okay,” she said to cut him off. She wasn’t used to anyone fussing over her, and his attention was making her uncomfortable.
After driving halfway down the mountain road with all of the windows open and the evening air cool against her parched skin, Cassidy remembered the waterfall. She had only been there once, with her advisor and two other graduate students a year ago. Where was it? She had been thinking more about the shower and cold beer waiting for her at the motel. She snuck a glance at Pete, who had one arm resting on the window ledge and the other in his lap, his gaze straight ahead.
“What?” he said, catching her.
“How are you with surprises?” she asked.
He raised a dusty eyebrow. “What kind of question is that?”
Cassidy grinned. “I guess I’m asking if you want to know the surprise, or if you’d rather I tell you.”
“If you told me, then it wouldn’t be a surprise.” His eyes danced with amusement.
Cassidy laughed, though not sure why this conversation was so funny. “Okay,” she said. “Then are
