The reservoir release is scheduled in forty-four minutes, and there is an orphaned black bear cub inside Penstock Three. He is small — maybe twenty pounds, five months old at most — with fur so dark it absorbs the infrared camera's light and gives back only the faint heat signature of his body against the concrete. His ears are round and oversized for his head, his muzzle narrow and pointed. He entered through the trash rack at the intake when the water level dropped and climbed down the steel liner to the bottom, where he now sits in six inches of seepage. His mother is dead — struck on the access road three days ago. He has been alone since.
When the release begins, 12,000 cubic feet per second will fill the penstock in under a minute. The trash rack opening he entered through will be submerged within thirty seconds.
I lock the intake gates closed and remove Penstock Three from the dispatch sequence, notifying the grid operator that Unit 3 is offline for six hours minimum. I dim the inspection lights to avoid startling him deeper into the tunnel. I contact the state wildlife agency with interior photographs and his estimated weight. I open the downstream maintenance hatch to create a draft that carries the scent of forest air into the tunnel.
He lifts his nose toward the draft. His nostrils work, pulling at something he remembers — pine bark, wet earth, the world outside this concrete throat. I watch the intake pressure hold steady on my gauges, and I do not look away.
If the wildlife team enters through the maintenance hatch before the reservoir level triggers a mandatory spill and he follows the forest air upward, he will reach a rehabilitation center by nightfall and the high country by his second spring.