Well, her zoom wasn’t quite giving her the winning photos she’d imagined, and the frustration showed on her pretty, little face as she made her way up the incline of the boat ramp.  Over the past few weeks, The Columbus Dispatch has been running a photo contest with weekly winners. Jess is hopeful because the grand prize-winner is awarded the coveted Canon XTi digital camera with 18-55 lens (whatever that means), a retail value of $799.99. Lightening fast, the camera can capture the wings of a hummingbird at a hundred yards. (I might be exaggerating but I’m not sure since I know nothing about cameras.) 

We headed back to the car. Shaking off the last feelings of defeat, Jess mumbled a couple things about being a crumby photographer. We pulled back onto the road for home, but I had other plans. “Where are you going?” Jess asked, when I took a left at The Duke and Dutchess.

“You still want to get some pictures?” I asked. Out of the corner of my eye, I detected her face was glowing, but her response was guarded, like I might be up to something. Another turn took us through the yellow autumn trees and up a windy road that snaked past the frisbee golf course and led behind Hoover Dam itself.

More or less, I was thinking wildlife action shots, maybe a close up of an irritated Alaskan wolf, or, perhaps,  a giraffe, unguarded with her babies drinking from the reservoir. I doubt if Jess was. But given the less than rugged environment of Columbus, Ohio (not counting the Columbus Zoo, of course), the best we’d probably get would be a washed ashore bluegill.

But, no, things went off better than expected. After missing the opportunity to capture an elusive yellow butterfly, we moved on. Jess had her camera out, firing away at the dam and its surroundings, near where the reservoir ended and the dam began. I was lost in a hypnotized world, under the spell of the pressure valve, which  produced a constant blast of lake water out the side of the dam.  

Drifting away, I leaned over the concrete wall that secured us from tumbling below to our watery deaths, turning my attention south to the near-dried up river (the Hoover River?) that once cut through the land, probably when George Washington was president. Almost thirty feet below, perched one-legged on a rock, was our award winning photo, posing for us in a massive heap of beak and feathers. It was a blue heron!   

 The bird looked so majestic and graceful among its brushy and still-water environs. Then again, it wasn’t so hard to imagine the 4 foot tall bird somehow getting ticked off and carrying one of us off forever in its giant beak. Either way, National Geographic was written all over it. Jess leaned over with her camera and did her best from an aerial view. “We’re up too high,” she said, followed by, “I’m just no good at this.”

But I wasn’t about to let her give up. “Let’s go down there,” I said.

“Way down there?”

“Yeah, down there.”

“We’ll get in trouble,” Jess said. “We’re not supposed to be down there. They’ll give us a ticket.”

Well, that was a risk we’d just have to take if we wanted to roll with the big-timers. Besides, my adventurous mood may have slightly clouded my senses. But I wasn’t about to admit that.

Searching for a way down, Jess followed closely behind with stories of people she knew or of those who someone else knew who had experienced the rigid Hoover Dam authority for straying off the park’s marked path. I didn’t see any prohibiting signs, and even if I did, I was on an anti-establishment high at the moment. It was in the name of art. Tell that to the judge.

 I grinned at this thought as Jess and I stumbled and slid down a near 90 degree slope of loose rock, briers and wild animal dung. Watch your step.

 ”Joe! Wait up.” O, yeah - Jess. I gave her my hand. “I don’t have the right shoes for this,” she said.

Jess had on a pair of imitation Native American moccasins. Once fashioned in the latest durable deer or bear hide style by careful, knowing hands, the ancient foot covering is now produced from flimsy synthetic fibers and thrown together by a brainless factory machine. They looked nice; she felt every pebble.

But I didn’t let on about this. ”Sure you do. They’re perfect. You have on the same shoes the Indians wore,” I said.

Finally, we reached the bottom. Waiting for us was another cleverly placed heap of animal dung, a little trap set by a raccoon or a feral cat with intestinal problems, no doubt. And it became obvious that some animals were down here making sandwiches before we arrived, because stuck in the bushes was a half loaf of Wonder Bread. 

“Is it still there?” Jess inquired about the bird. “Because if it’s not…”

“There it is,” I said quietly, not to scare it off or get it angry at us. We were completely vulnerable. There was no where to run. We stepped cautiously toward the heron, over the long grass and onto the rocks poking through the water. Immediately, I thought this could be a good home for water snakes, but I kept this to myself.

The bird was still a good 30 feet away, but this time Jess had a better angle at it. She snapped a couple shots, moving closer and closer to it each time, before we saw that the bird was missing a foot. It couldn’t stand on two legs even if it wanted to. Poor bird.     

Pictures of how this may have happened flashed in my mind. Was it a bird fight? Did a bear catch it with a claw in mid-flight? Somewhere between these questions I lost interest. Sadly, I knew, that in a cold, vain world where malnourished clothing store mannequins shout to women from their store front windows, ”There is no room for physical imperfection,” that there was little hope for the acceptance of a one-footed bird. Not in this world.

 ”Are you ready?” I asked.

“Yeah, let’s go,” said Jess.

We clambered back up the slope, more difficult now. After spotting a park ranger truck creeping past overhead, a shot of adrenaline helped us pick up the pace. Once at the top, another set of steep stairs that ascended to the top of the dam waited for us. The ranger was no where in sight. We’d given him the slip. And the taste of forbidden fruit tasted so sweet. 

Huffing and puffing up the steps in the afternoon sun, I felt sad that Jess didn’t quite get the pictures she’d wanted. Then my mind drifted back to the bird, and I couldn’t help but wonder if it had been shunned by its circle of bird friends due to its missing foot. I doubt it. What does a bird know? Two feet or one, their tiny bird brains probably don’t even know the difference.

I turned to Jess, “So what do you want to do for lunch?”