Through Others Eyes

Through Others Eyes

A bronze plaque, depicting a man rising out of the water, arms raised to the sky, reads “THEY DIED TO MAKE THE DESERT BLOOM”.  Hidden to all but the keenest eye, is the face of a man lying in the water depicting those that gave all to construct this massive infrastructure. High above the baked desert and sun bleached concrete; the American flag in its bold red, white and blue starkly contrasts with the muted desert tones below.

A few hundred yards to the north is a sculpture of a high-scaler.  Those brave men who hung from the canyon walls drilling, blasting and knocking loose rock from its face. On the back of the sculpture is a plaque with the names of the ninety six men who perished building this massive structure.

726’ of concrete weighing in at over 6,600,000 tons towers over the majestic Colorado River. Tourists gaze at this colossal giant in a daze, unable to fathom the immensity of the structure. Their eyes register the beauty of black canyon spanned by the mammoth concrete arched dam. Sandy rose colored cliffs, bridged by white concrete, the blue Colorado River splits the canyon. The east canyon walls belong to Nevada the Silver State, the west canyon walls are of Arizona.

There was a time when I saw what they see. Not so, now.

To me, it’s 1244’ by 726’ of death. Everywhere I look, I can see deaths shadow.

At the plaque depicting a man rising out of the water, I see an elderly man, with froth bubbling from his mouth and mucus dripping from his nostrils. I see his eyes, rolled into the back of his head.  They don’t have that gleam of life, they’re filmy and that fragile flame of life is all but extinguished.  I pull him form his car, his head slips between my forearms.  He’s not breathing, no pulse.  I begin CPR, I can feel his scruff pressing against my face.  My fingers slip in the mucus as I try to pinch his nostrils shut, so I can get air into his lungs. I tilt his head, press my lips to his mouth and try to give him a puff of air, it won’t go in. I reposition his head and give him another puff…it goes in and his chest rises slightly. Lifelessly the air escapes from his lungs and a faint taste of alcohol lingers in my mouth. I begin chest compressions, and with each thrust of my clasped hands I hear and feel the snapping and cracking of ribs, cartilage and god knows what else. I go back to ventilations and I’m aware that his belly is getting that round distended appearance and I know he’s going to blow. Thirty minutes later I’m relieved by the ambulance crew. He never vomited. I’m thankful. Later, I learn from his daughter that it was his 81st birthday and earlier that day he shot a hole in one on the golf course.

When I look towards the center of the dam, also the state line, I see an old man lying at the bottom of the dam in the catch basin. He looks peaceful from this distance, almost like he is napping. He’s not napping, I know this and when I arrive at his body I see his head, surprisingly, is intact. Both his legs are broken in many places. His arms are mangled from the impact. He has road rash, or rather, dam rash, from sliding down the concrete wall. Blood leaks from his smashed, but intact head. His glasses lay twenty feet away a little scratched but still serviceable. One of his shoes ended up a few feet away.  A sheet is passed under his body and used to hoist him into the waiting body bag. As he is lifted, his back bursts open and the sheet slowly turns burgundy. The burgundy fluid fills every fiber of the sheet. It reminds me of watching a paper towel soak up spilled kool-aid when I was a child. I find his car in one of the parking lots. On the key chain is a pendant that reads “Worlds Best Grandfather”. I look through his wallet for identification and see a picture of a little raven haired girl. I can only guess that this is the child who gave him the key chain.

When I look out to the intake towers on the Arizona side. I see a Ruger 9 mm. lying on an 18 inch lip of the wall. I notice a single shell lying on the ground to the left of the gun. This is bullshit I say to myself. There’s no way, if someone shot them self the gun would have gone in the water too.  There’s no blood splatter. A check of the parking lots is made and we find a truck, with a note, and a bottle of liquid courage, half empty. Three weeks later a crew operating a remote camera looking for cracks in the intake tower notifies us that they see a diver near the intake tower, approximately 200’ down. We hook the “diver” and drag him to the service. He’s heavy, because he has a backpack full of rocks strapped to him. He surfaces and blood and gore pours from his mouth and head.

When I look at the bathroom on the Arizona side of the dam, I see a heroin junkie lying face up in the catch basin, 490’ below the restroom. Half his head is gone, his brain, a glob of mush, is lying 15 feet away from his head. A tourist actually catches the man on video. He walks through the view of the camera at 1447 at 1450 he’s seen through the lens of the camera again, but this time he’s tumbling down the face of the dam. He hits the catch basin wall, bounces 10’ into the air lands in a seated position and like on a pendulum, his top half whips back towards the ground…I actually see his brain fly from his head.

As motorist sweep through a large hairpin like turn they are treated with a spectacular view of Black Canyon. When I drive through this hairpin turn I see gouges in the pavement 25’ long and at the end pf the gouges is a Chevy Avalanche, its front wheels shorn off. I see myself and another officer, guns drawn…and then a pop and a flash from inside the Avalanche. Slowly we approach the Avalanche guns still drawn; I see the barrel of a 12 gauge shotgun pointing my direction, bigger then life, through the open window. The driver is lying face down slumped over towards the passenger side of the vehicle. There is a blazing red pool of blood on the seat.  I’ve never seen blood that red. I instruct the other officers on the scene “Keep a gun on him.” He’s probably dead but I don’t want to take the chance. My partner tells me that probably isn’t necessary and to come look from the passengers side. I look through the passengers’ side window and realize this guy is no longer a threat. His brain has filled both sides of a double cup holder. There is gore everywhere all over the seat, the windshield, dripping from the ceiling. The detectives and coroners office arrive and do their own investigations. The body is laid out on the highway next to the Avalanche. A flap of skin with a nose and eye brows is all that remains of his face. The flap covers a gaping whole in his head the size of a large mans fist. We retrieve seventeen shotgun shells from his pockets. He was ready for a fight. While I look at the man, I’m in awe. It’s not the gore, the sawed off shotgun with the trigger guard removed for faster deployment, it’s his socks. They are as white as freshly fallen snow. They look like they're right out of the package.

Every time I tell this story I’m told “You know you’ve seen too much death when, above all else, you notice a dead mans socks are clean.”

You and many others see Hoover Dam; I don’t care to look anymore.

The End.