Part I

“Goodbye,” Elisa called. No one responded.
“I’ll be back in awhile,” she yelled. Nothing.
“Okay, I’m running away because NO ONE loves me here and I hope that you miss me once I’m gone,” she huffed and slammed the door leading into the garage.
A few seconds later, her father poked his head into the garage and smiled. “I will miss you WHILE you are gone. We can go out when you return, sweetheart. Maybe see a movie or something. Have fun. Be safe. Oh, and do you think you might get a little thirsty?” he asked, dangling a cool bottle of water he’d just taken from the refrigerator.
She smiled, walked back and accepted the gift, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I will,” she replied, and she wheeled her bike out of the garage for her weekly bike ride. Her father trusted in her to follow safety rules while biking. They gave her the freedom to explore the canyon trails each week knowing that it would develop in her a sense of self-reliance, the ability to handle your own problems.
Today was Sunday, and she loved to ride her mountain bike along the nearby trails. She called a friend, to see if she wanted to go along, but no, she declined. “It’s too hot,” she’d complained. “Let’s do something else.”
No, she didn’t want to do “something else”. She wanted to ride today, even though it was in the 90’s. So, today would be a solo trip along the trails. Seven miles of winding paths, covered with trees, passing over rocky creeks a dozen times, and maybe some wildlife along the way. Ah, it was such a fun thing to do each week, something she looked forward to.
She looked at her bike. It still had dirt and mud on it from last week’s ride. That’s what it looked like each week. Dirty. She didn’t mind. Some girls were proud to show off a clean bike, all sparkly and shiny, with clean black tires, and chrome that mirrored one’s face upon close inspection, and pink dangly stuff hanging from the handlebars. But not Elisa. A clean bike is not a used bike. She knew that, and was proud of what she did each week out on the trails.
First, let’s check the tires. She felt the tires, squeezing them with all her strength, and they felt inflated. She sat on her seat, and looked at the tires. Did they deflate or push out when she sat on them? Nope. They’re okay.
Secondly, let’s check the brakes. She turned the bike upside-down, spun the front tire, and squeezed the left brake. The tire stopped immediately. She spun the back tire, squeezed the right brake, and it too stopped. Good, the tires are fine.
Thirdly, let’s lube the chain. She grabbed the bottle from the shelf, called White Lightning, shook it up, and took off the lid. She turned the crank, and squeezed a stream of white liquid onto the chain, careful to put it onto the chain, and not onto the floor. After a few revolutions, she was done. Capping the lube, she continued spinning the crank, and ran the shifter through all of the gears. Down-shift, and again, and again, all the way, letting the lube spread evenly across the chain, and across the spinning wheels on the dereulers in the back, the parts that forced the chain into easier or harder gears.
Fourthly, she hopped on the bike to see if the seat post was adjusted correctly. Yes, it was straight, but it was too low. She pulled the lever, and raised it a bit, lining it up with the frame of the bike. She hopped aboard, rode around the driveway for a bit. There, perfect. She was now ready to ride.
She grabbed her helmet, checked to make sure that there weren’t any spiders or bugs there. I know, you might wonder how this could happen. Well, it did sit in the garage all week, and since spiders tend to go wherever they want, well, she didn’t want to get a “spider surprise” while riding down the trail. Or, a spider bite.
Then, she put on her gloves. They were fingerless, stopping at the first knuckle, and padded on the palms to provide for a more comfortable ride. And, if she fell, then they’d be the first thing that would hit the ground, since most crashes involved a person throwing down their hands to protect themselves as they hit the ground. She’d crashed hard before, several times, and her gloves had saved her hands from any damage.
There, almost ready. Now, for a little bit of leg-stretching. She spread her legs out, setting her feet far apart, bent over and touched the ground, holding the stretch for her hamstrings and lower back. Then, she stood upright, grabbed her foot, and bent it behind herself, stretching her thighs. Finally, she leaned against a wall, feet placed far behind her, and stretched her calves. All done. Time to ride.

Part II

“I will return in awhile, with a blanket of dirt and sweat coating my skin, and a smile on my face, from doing something fun, and challenging,” Elisa spoke to no one in particular. She knew what all children knew, that playing was fun. This was like a game to her. Yes, it is exercise, a lot of exercise, as the trail is almost four miles long, from the bottom to the top, and then another four back down again. But, the ride downhill was soooooo much fun. Words can barely describe the thrill of the ride, a roller coaster of turns and dips, swoops and thrills, ready to be ridden each week by anyone with a bike.
Off she rode along the sidewalk, past the houses of her friends and school-mates, and to the corner. She turned left, and headed downhill, going toward the trailhead. That’s where a trail officially starts. This one had a special sign. It said, “Mountain Lion Habitat”. Yes, that is right. The city issues a warning to all who ride their bikes, or who are atop their horses, or who walk their dogs. This trail has wildlife, and some of that wildlife just might eat you if you’re not careful.
She stopped, took a few breaths, and read the sign for the hundredth time. Was she scared? No. She had a bell on her bike that rattled the whole time she rode. It’s there to warn wildlife that you’re coming so that they don’t get surprised. Safety was important to her. She didn’t want to injure an animal. And, she didn’t want an animal to injure her.
She heard a light buzzing sound coming from far above her, and looked up at the sky. It was so blue, a color that reminded her of the blankets you often find wrapped around little baby boys, so soft and pretty. A jet zoomed silently by, miles above her. That wasn’t it. She looked, left, and right, carefully inspecting the blue panorama that spread above her, but she had no luck. A single engine airplane drifted by somewhere nearby, but she wasn’t able to find it.
Off to the left, a homeowner had planted roses, exhibiting a dozen varieties. Purples, reds, oranges, yellows, whites, burgundies, and more, reached their leafy hands up to the heavens, hoping to find the sun’s radiance that brought energy and growth. Insects found their way to these nectar-filled delights, finding the sweetness that made flight a thrill, as well as helping to pollinate nature’s works of beauty. She wanted to walk over and smell one, but knew that a long bike-ride awaited her.
Elisa hopped onto her bike, threaded her way through the narrow gate, and pedaled past the one and only trashcan along the trail. It was already full, from a Saturday of hikers and bikers, depositing their trash here instead of littering along the trail. Nothing angered her more than to find discarded water bottles and granola bar wrappers, carelessly tossed on the ground. On some rides, she’d bring an empty backpack just so that she could do her part to help keep this ride free of litter.
The first part of the ride was rather boring, as the trail was right next to a spillway, on the right. When the rains came, the water rolled down through Marshall Canyon, and it needed somewhere to go. Next to the mountains, they had lots of little creeks that carried the water downhill. But, once these creeks ran into the outskirts of humanity, the homes, the asphalt streets, the concrete sidewalks, well, it still needed somewhere to go. So, the city planners had built this spillway, to handle all of the downward flow of water, and move it safely through the various neighborhoods. A six-foot chain link fence separated her from this spillway, about ten feet deep and just as wide across. To the left were the back yards of houses. But, these weren’t ordinary back yards. They were on the side of a hill, so the owners often terraced their space, providing steps down to the bottom, with several levels of grass, or plants, in between. Children didn’t play back there. Dogs didn’t run out their energy there. It was solely for aesthetic purposes, designed to look pretty and win awards in gardening magazines.
At the end of the concrete spillway, she had to cross the “Sands of Time”. Okay, not really those sands, but a sandy spot where the canyon had sent down its boulders and rocks. All of the large pieces had been reduced to fine grains of sand, like one might find in a riverbed or at the beach. This was a very difficult spot for bikers, as their tires tended to get bogged down in the deep sand. And the heavier the rider, the deeper he or she sank. Elisa was quite light, so she traveled across the top of the sand without too much effort.
Once out of the sand, it was a hard-dirt trail for most of the ride. Finally, the ride had begun. She was happy. To her right and left were trees. Lots of trees. Tall strong oaks, with giant knot holes, hollowed out over time, and empty. Sometimes she’d stop to look inside one, to see what lived there. Using a little flashlight to shine in there, she’d see pill bugs, or rollie-pollies, walking about on fourteen legs. And spiders, nestled silently, eight legs grabbing the silky threads that lined its lair, waiting for something to eat to wander into its sticky home. Farther up, there were eucalyptus trees, dropping their shards of bark beneath their towering heights, thin as paper, and crunchy under the rolling rubber tires. Sycamores, dropping their pointy leaves along the trail, a collector‘s delight. And, elm trees, so massive, providing a home for birds, squirrels, and bugs alike.
“I love these trees,” she spoke to herself, as she meandered her way among them, along the trail.

Part III

Elisa had to be careful not to crash into anyone while she rode, but she couldn’t help staring at the beauty around her, to the left, to the right, and above her. Trees formed a canopy, a shelter for riders from the sun and the rain. She loved that about this ride. It was like riding through a tunnel, but with greens, and browns, and yellows, all around her.
“I wonder what creatures live in that tree,” she asked herself, riding along the trail.
“What is that?” she asked. A few yards up the trail. Over there. She could see something on the trail, a dark object, standing, unmoving, in the middle of the dusty trail. Closer she got, pedaling toward it slowly. Then, off to the left it scurried, hopping on its front feet, then back feet, then front feet, until it reached a tree. And, it magically climbed up about six feet, circling around the tree. It stopped, and stood there, hanging upside down like it was attached with Velcro. It eyed her as she rode past, offering a chattering cry of defiance, daring her to try to catch it. Ha! As if she could catch it. She’d seen dogs trying to catch squirrels, and never succeeding. She knew that she stood no chance, with its fluffy, flinching tail to provide it balance, its sharp claws to help it climb straight up tree trunks, and its beautiful gray coat to help it blend in among the gray oak trees.
“Hello, squirrel, and goodbye, squirrel,” she called as she pedaled past the noisy critter. She left it alone, to find more food, and to play a game of “Chase” with others of its kind, much more capable of catching than she.
“Will I see another deer?” she wondered. The last three rides, afternoon rides as the sun was preparing to set, but not yet ready, she’d come across a deer. She wanted to see one again. On one ride, she’d even stopped, to watch it eat for a few minutes. She knew how to be quiet, to keep from scaring away the wildlife. Shhhh! No talking. No quick movements. A young doe stood off to the left of the trail, near this part of the creek, eating a leafy snack. It looked at her with interest, but not fear, as she stood next to her bike, feet firmly planted on the ground. On her face was a smile, as she enjoyed getting this close to nature, to the animals that lived and slept outside, under the stars.
One of the safety things her father had taught her was to NEVER approach a deer. “They are wild animals, and they have no idea what our intentions would be” he’d warned her. And, they would either bolt in fear, or rear up in self-preservation, and attack. So, she remained calm, and distant, watching the doe chew on leaves.
After a few moments, a couple approached, walking along the trail, talking loudly about things that mattered to them. They had no idea that a deer stood a few feet of the trail, and that it really had no interest in their personal problems or concerns. She saw the deer’s ears go up in alarm at their approach, and her small tail and hind quarters wiggle in alarm. The deer looked to the left and to the right, wanting a way of escape from these noisome travelers. The calm that she’d seen in this deer at her approach had turned into fear at the approach of these two talkative adults. Off the deer bounded, up the other side of the hill, and away from the danger it sensed in these outlandish two-legged creatures.
Disappointed that her moment of silent observance had ended, she hopped onto her bike and rode off up the trail.
That had been a week ago, and she recalled the happiness she felt upon seeing the deer. And, she strongly hoped that one might be out eating its midday snack today. Hoped.
A lizard darted off the trail, just ahead of the bike tire, fearing death by the rubber tread. It ran with her as she rode, just out of reach of the front tire, as if playing a mad game of chance. She turned the handlebars to the left, careful to avoid the four-legged wanderer. “I’m sorry, lizard. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Too late, though, as it pushed its way up a pile of leaves, feet spinning as it sought the safety of a decaying pile off of the trail. She watched it scramble in panic to her side.
Farther up, two birds sat on the trail, eating tiny morsels. At her approach, one flew off to the right, while the other hopped up the trail for a few moments, then flew off into the bushes. Safe.
“Hello, birdies,” she called as she rode past them, sorry for disturbing their late afternoon meal.
This was turning into a great ride. She wished that her friend had come along, for she longed for human company. She enjoyed the shared moments, like these, with little critters scurrying away at her approach, and a friend to smile and laugh with her. She liked her friend, but rarely saw her, as they now lived on opposite sides of the valley, she on one end, and her friend on the other.  

Part IV

Elisa knew to keep her head up and her senses tuned to safety. Look. Listen. Be alert. Sure, it was fun to gaze to the left and right of the trail as she rode. There were always noises off in the bushes to pique her interest. And, there were often critters along the trail, lizards, beetles, frogs, and salamanders. But, traveling toward her oblivious to the little crawlers would be tires, and metal frames, and riders with helmets and gloves, intent on experiencing the thrill of speed. She did NOT want to meet them while riding in the middle of the trail, as she was doing now.
She heard them before she saw them. Brakes screeched, as she nearly collided with a rider coming around a curve. He’d been riding at a fast speed, in the middle of the trail, and barely saw her at the last second, yanking on his brakes.
“On the right. On the right,” she called, letting them know where she would be, moving out of their way. One, two, three, four, five riders almost plowed into her, and into each other, as they sped downhill, with barely a bike’s space in between. That wasn’t safe. She knew it. She’d been taught to leave several bike lengths in between you and another rider, so that if they stopped you wouldn’t run into them. Apparently, these young men, in their excitement and happiness, chose to disregard that little bit of biking wisdom, and almost paid the price. Helmets on. Bike gloves on. Brain off. Ha! She smiled at the near mishap, and waited on the side of the trail to let them go by.
“That was close,” she said to the first one. “This wasn’t such a good place to meet, I think.” She wanted to add something about being more careful, but she kept her tongue knowing that accidents were always a possibility while riding.
The secret to survival is to respond quickly, and decisively, when danger presented itself. Don’t close your eyes and hope it will go away.
Well, the danger was averted, and she was safe, so it was okay. This was not by luck or chance, but by quick, decisive thinking. “Bye-bye,” she called as they rode off, and she remounted her bike, riding up the trail again.
She heard a slight buzzing on her right, and saw a green dragonfly fly by. She loved how the sunlight sparkled on their wings, greens, blues, and purples throwing back light. Wishing she had one as a pet, she imagined where she could keep it. In the extra aquarium? In the garage? No. Forget it. Dragonflies were meant to fly among the oaks, out in the wild, seeking unwary insects to invite over for dinner. For dinner. Plus, they pinch little fingers that try to hold them captive.
Onward she rode, past more oaks, with vines hanging down from lofty branches. Each tree was surrounded by an assortment of small shrubbery. And, often a thicket of vines had wound its way up the trunk, and along the branches, seeking ever upward in its sun-seeking reach. She knew better than to grab these vines, as some of them were poisonous. She could see the poison oak, scattered among the trees, along the ground, and had frequently gotten a tiny patch on her skin. It wasn’t pleasant. Once, she had grabbed a vine, hung from it and swung back and forth, eventually pulling it down from a branch that was twenty feet overhead. It was fun, acting the part of Tarzan, but she had paid the price, as the oil had covered her gloves, and she’d touched her hips with these gloves. Two days later, the itching and bubbly, disgusting rash had told her that it was a mistake. Days of itching, lotion application, and displeasure followed, and she swore to never again grab a vine while on a ride along this trail.
Never again.
A shadow passed her on the ground, causing her to look up. There. An orange and black butterfly floated by, perching itself on a leaf. “Is that a monarch?” she asked. No, she realized that it wasn’t. It had a different coloration, with mostly orange wings, and a band of black spreading across from its body to the edge of the wing, along the middle. It’s not a monarch, or a viceroy, the mimic that benefits from looking like the distasteful monarch. Birds and lizards who sample the monarch’s delights soon realize that the monarch tastes terrible, and they avoid others that look like it in the future. The viceroy actually tastes good, but mimics the colors of the monarch in order to fool hungry predators. Well, this butterfly was neither of these. She swore she would find out once she got home.
Off it zig-zagged, the elusive dance that butterflies performed in order to confuse hungry predators.
“On the right,” she called again, as five more bikers exploded down the trail. A mixed group of guys and girls, they sped by safely on her left. She politely moved to the edge of the trail, in the grass, and continued pedaling. Giving way to downhill riders is a common courtesy, and she always followed it. The first one called out, “There are four behind me,” providing a warning, another common safety act. Warning approaching walkers or riders how many are in your biking group is another common courtesy on the trail.
The final rider called out, “I’m the last one” and on she pedaled, up the hill. It wasn’t much of a conversation, but the words mattered.
“That was a polite group,” she thought, as she made her way up the hill, by herself, yet not alone. There were critters all about, and she was still hoping to see a deer.
Hoping.

Part V

Elisa arrived at the golf course, and took a break. It skirted the trail, and gave riders a minute to ride on a concrete pathway, though watching for flying golf balls was a good idea. She’d never been hit by one, but had heard quite a few crashing into the dense foliage to her right, or bouncing along the fairway to her left. It would hurt to get plunked by one of these little spheres.
Off her bike, she sat on the ground for a few moments. Her water bottle held relief from the dehydrating heat. Her parched throat appreciated the refreshment. She drank a few swallows, then returned it to its holder behind her seat, knowing that she would need more of it on the trail since she was only halfway up the trail. Several miles of climbing still lay ahead of her and she’d surely want something to drink later.
Off to the left, a trio of golfers, wearing mismatched shorts and polo shirts, were preparing to tee off. Three fathers, or husbands, or friends, laughing and enjoying the sunshine and exercise. They drove carts from hole to hole, walking short distances to hit the golf ball before re-entering the cart to move to the next hole. Their conversation muffled by the distance, Elisa wondered what they talked about, and turned her attention elsewhere as she rested.
A spider joined her, tiny, but with fangs, climbing up her leg. She brushed it off her shorts and stood up. She wasn’t afraid of spiders, or snakes, or dogs, or much of anything. But, she didn’t want another spider bite. Two weeks ago, she’d had four bites, two on each leg. They itched, like mosquito bites. But, unlike mosquito bites that go away in a day, the itching on her legs lasted for a week. She’d probably disturbed and squashed two spiders while organizing a cabinet full of pots and pans, and they’d retaliated by sinking their fangs into her thighs. Ah, something to remember them by.
Back onto her bike she went and continued her ride. “Bye-bye spider,” she called as she left the golf course and returned to the trail.
The trail was primarily a slight uphill rise, but there were short stretches of steep climbs, where the climb was a strain on the leg muscles. She always tried to make it up these without stopping, playing a game in which you try to beat the hill. You win by making it to the top. She won most of the time.
One steep part was always slick, as the water run-off from the nearby golf course made part of the trail a slippery clay mess. And, it was made worse as the water tore away the soil that lay beside the roots of a nearby tree, leaving an almost impossible obstacle to ride over. They were so slick. She almost made it up this part, but failed just at the last second, as her tire spun on the slick root, and she had to set her feet on the ground to keep from falling over.
“I lost to a root. A root,” she said, annoyed. “Grrr!” She had it in the perfect gear, and gave it all she could, but sometimes you just can’t win.
Onward she rode, getting warmer and warmer in the rising heat.
She stopped beside a creek, dismounting, and knelt at its edge. As hot as it was, she had planned for such a stop, bringing a wash rag. The water flowed by slowly, making its way downhill. Somewhere up above, it had once been snow, and still retained its iciness. Ahhh! She dipped the rag into the water, squeezed cool drops onto her head, and then onto her shoulders and back. Shivers traveled up her spine and across her arms as her body expressed its appreciation for this dousing. This would keep her cool on the ride. It’s a secret to avoiding overheating she’d learned from her dad.
Onward she rode, enjoying the climb, getting closer and closer to the end of the trail. Still, she didn’t see any deer.
Through the tunnel she went with a loud “HELLOOOOO,” as she cascaded through one end and out the other. Between the stumps, along the straightaway, and around the tree. Careful at this spot, for she’d ridden with a friend once who had crashed here. It was slick, as a creek went right across the trail, a small one, but dangerous to riders who didn’t beware.
She heard voices up ahead, at the horse corrals. Who was there? What were they doing? She paused a moment to catch her breath, and noticed that a girl her age was learning to ride a horse. She decided to go watch, and made her way up the trail to the riding station. She’d passed by many times, but today she wanted to see what it was like. She’d never ridden a horse before, and she wanted to know how it was done.
In the center of the ring was a lady with long blond hair, maybe twenty or twenty-one years old. She wore blue jeans, a white button-up shirt, and boots, the kind with which you ride horses. “Good job,” she’d say to the little girl who sat atop the horse. “Back straight. Knees bent. Good.”
Perched atop a horse was a ten year-old girl learning to ride a horse. Now, when the word “ride” is used, what might come to your mind is how to sit in a saddle, or how to place your feet in the stirrups. But, no. This is not what the word means. Underneath your saddle is a living, thinking, very large creature who doesn’t understand our words. What it understands is where we touch it and how much pressure we apply to that area. So, learning to “ride” a horse means learning how to communicate with that horse so that it does what you want it to do.
Short black hair dangled behind a riding helmet, the kind you might use to ride a bike, or a skateboard, or a horse. Safety was important to this little girl, and her parents, and her instructor. A fall from this height might damage the brain, and so, each young rider was required to wear a protective helmet just in case.
She trotted slowly around the edge of the arena. “Eyes up.” Simple directions were given, and repeated, so that the rider might improve her riding stance. “Hands forward. Elbows bent. Good.”
She’d ride around the arena, stop the horse with a pull of both hands, and then back up three steps by leaning back and pulling hard on the reins. The horse knew the difference between the command to Stop and the command to Back Up, but the girl sitting atop had to learn how to strongly communicate which one was needed at the time.
Elisa envied that girl, wishing that it was she who was sitting atop the horse. Maybe she would tell her father about it tonight. And, maybe he’d see the excitement in her eyes. She was a good girl. She did her homework. She helped around the house. She kept her room clean. Well, sort of...


 

Part VI

After watching the girl turn in a circle by pulling on one rein, Elisa decided to leave the horse rider and continue her own ride, on a bike. She took a few swigs of water from her bottle, letting each mouthful swirl around before gulping them down into her belly. “That hit the spot,” she spoke aloud, as she replaced the bottle in its holder, just behind the seat post.
At this point, she had a choice. “Which path should I take?” she pondered. The one to the left with lots of dips, down and up, twisting and turning, and crossing a creek five times? Or, the one to go right, with a long steady climb, easier and more direct. She chose to go up the right side, ten minutes of steady climbing with no break, no rest, no flats to catch your breath, no downhills to rest tired muscles.
Once she reached the top of this climb, she was exhausted, and rode over to a shady spot to rest. Her breath came in large gulps, her heart beating ever so fast. Slow, deep breaths helped her relax, and slowed her laboring chest. Within a minute, she was calm, and could focus on what surrounded her. Off in the distance, she could see the light brown trails zig-zagging up the side of the mountain. Lots of trails, for hikers, or bikers. A black crow cawed in a nearby tree, calling to its mate, or just saying hello to the other birds in the area. A light breeze rustled the tree above her, moving leaf against leaf, with the friction creating a sonnet for her enjoyment. Greens, red, browns, and yellows dominated the landscape.
Her eyes settled on the trail that she’d just climbed aboard her bike. Trees formed a canopy overhead, so that the rider, or walker, was protected from the sun, and the rain. It was well worn, about three feet wide, and she wondered who had first walked that route. And, who followed that hiker, adding their feet to the path, crushing grass, and making a dirt trail along the way for others to follow. How long ago? Was it here before the nearby homes, or did their inhabitants make the trail? It was like the old question about the chicken and the egg, but with a twist. Which came first, the houses or the trails?
The next leg of the ride was a five-minute exposed climb, with no trees to provide shade in the hot, hot afternoon. This is where the sweat truly pours down the face, as the skin tries to fight the drying effects of the sun’s rays. Off she rode, exposed, and wanting to get farther up the path.
Then, the jump. Yes, a short downhill ride and a jump from a tree root. If you built up your speed, you could catch some air on this part of the ride as you flew down into the leaf-covered part of the trail. A quick peek, to make sure that no horses or walkers were in the path. Then pedal as fast as you can go. Coast for two seconds. One. Two. Get ready to pull up on the handlebars and fling your body skyward. JUMP! “Woohoo!” she yelled. It was a little reward for making the climb, one she was happy to make.
Two minutes later, she reached the end of the trail. Well, it’s not exactly the “end”, as the Marshall Canyon Trail meets up with another trail, and keeps going for mile after mile after mile. But, this is where she ended her ride, at the “Poison Ivy” sign. She dropped her bike on its side, took off her helmet and gloves, and sat in the shade, catching her breath and letting her heart slow down to normal. Normal for her was about seventy beats per minute, at rest. But her active heart rate could get above one-hundred twenty, and sometimes higher, as it raced to push oxygenated blood into her muscles. They needed oxygen, and that was the only way to do it. Breathe deeper and faster, allowing more oxygen to infiltrate the lung’s blood vessels. And then out to the body it went, just as fast as it could go.
She’d just traveled 3.7 miles uphill. It took almost an hour to get to this point, with the slow uphill riding, and the frequent stops to catch her breath. The ride downhill would take less than twenty minutes, as her speed would increase from four miles per hour to about eighteen miles per hour. It would be a tremendous roller-coaster ride, and she couldn’t wait for it to begin. This was why she rode up here. This was why she braved the heat. This was why she dared to ride the trail alone today.
 

Part VII

He was worried. It was almost dark. It was that time of the day when the sun dipped behind the distant treetops, past the houses that lined the horizon, and was setting somewhere beyond in the Pacific Ocean. Dusk, when mosquitoes where about, streetlights were turning on all over the city, and the headlamps of newer cars automatically came on.
Where was his daughter?
He closed his laptop and walked to the living room. He tried watching television, clicking from channel to channel, stopping long enough to hear a few words, then on to the next show. News. Drama. A cartoon. Baseball. Comedy. Weather. “Where is Elisa?” he grumped, as he hit the power button and went out to the garage.
“Elisa?” he called, as he opened the door, but saw only darkness. This was the third time he’d come out here, thinking that he heard her, only to be disappointed again. He looked on the shelf that held the biking tools and supplies. Her helmet was gone, as were her gloves. She never stayed out this long. He remembered their last conversation, and her comments about “running away.” No way, he thought, as he also remembered the smile, the kiss on the cheek, the water bottle, and the talk of going to a movie. She couldn’t have run away in anger. Could she?
Upstairs he went, to her bedroom. He knocked, hoping to hear her voice say “Come in, Daddy,” or the pitter-patter of her steps as she walked across to open the door. Nothing. He turned the knob, walked in, and looked toward her bed. Maybe she’d be asleep on top of the covers, tired from her bike ride, a frequent occurrence on hot afternoons. It was empty.
He took his cell phone out of his pocket and called her cell phone. “Ring-ring, ring-ring.” It was coming from her backpack, sitting on the floor next to her desk. He hung up.
Glancing about, he noticed just how neat she kept her room. The bed was made. The book shelves were neat. Her desk top was empty, except for one thing, her diary. He walked over to it, intending to read the last few entries to see if she was okay, or mad, or sad, or scared. Placing his hand on the pink cover, he hesitated. This was HER journal. It was private. What would she think if he invaded HER privacy. He removed his hand from the journal and decided to wait.
He walked downstairs, and sat on the couch, the very place that they both often sat, blanket over their feet, popcorn in a bowl, and laughing at the silly movies they’d rented. Where was she? His mind played through all the grim possibilities. She could’ve gotten a flat tire, and is now walking the bike home. No, she would’ve been home already. Okay, she could’ve taken the wrong trail, and gotten lost, going farther and farther from her home, the wrong way. Maybe. Or, she could’ve been attacked by a mountain lion, or a pack of coyotes. No! He tried NOT to think of other possibilities, but he failed. She could’ve been kidnapped by a deranged lunatic, and be scared for her life. “Stop!” he told himself, and he got up to walk around.
Leaning against the wall, he looked into the photo of two girls, best friends, holding their biking helmets and smiling, with a beautiful mountain in the background. “That’s it,” he shouted. She could’ve returned from biking and gone to her friend’s house. That’s what happened. Yes. He ran upstairs, got her cell phone, and re-dialed the last person she’d called. It was her best friend.
“Hey, girlfriend. What’s up? How was your ride?”
“Hello, this isn’t Elisa. This is her father. Do you happen to know where she is right now?” he asked, hoping to end his night’s worries.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Good,” he breathed, happy to hear the magical word. That word had never sounded so good. Wheh! “Could you put her on the phone, please?”
“I’m sorry. She’s not here. She’s out riding her bike on the trail. She wanted me to go with her, but I had too much homework to do. And, it was way too hot,” she said in that sing-song happy voice that children often use.
“Did she say anything about going somewhere afterwards?” he asked, sounding disappointed, which he was.
“Ummm, no. I don’t think so. Shouldn’t she be back by now?” she asked, sounding a bit confused.
“Yes, she should be home by now. Look, if she shows up at your house, would you please have her call me. It’s getting dark and I’m very worried about her.”
“Okay. Will do. Bye,” she answered, and hung up the phone.
Setting his daughter’s phone down, he knew what he must do. He walked down the hall, and opened the door to the garage.

 


Part VIII

Elisa loved riding downhill. Ahead of her lay three and a half miles of pure joy. Twenty minutes of fun. Most of it was downhill, and all of it was full of twists and turns, around trees and over their roots, past big boulders and small pebbles, through streams and over slippery rocks.
In one stretch of a minute or so, she would go cross the stream five times. Powering her way down the short hill, she’d splash through the water, then ride up the other side and try to catch some air. Five times. She loved this part, and often tried NOT to pedal as she made her way downward.
In another stretch, the path was full of dips and curves. This was where she pushed herself to the limit, going as fast as she could. Pedal, pedal, faster. There were blind corners, where you couldn’t see the trail ahead of you. There were several little jumps, ones she’d taken so many times before. She tried to peer through the trees around each curve, to make sure that there weren’t any horses on the trail, or bikes coming up the path, or walkers with their dogs.
Little kids often wandered along the path ahead of their parents, and she’d round a corner to find them in the middle of the path. In the middle. Her ringing bell often served as a warning, but the parent would yell their child’s name once they saw her bike, and the child would turn around to see what their parent wanted. They’d turn their back to her, look at their parents, then turn back around in fear as they saw the concern on their parents’ face, heard fmear in their voice. This wasn’t safe, but the parents never seemed to figure out that they were creating a more of a problem instead of solving it by getting their child to step to the side of the trail.
She’d encountered horses too, and scared them and their riders. That wasn’t such a safe thing as horses might stamp sideways in panic, into the brush, or rear up, causing their rider to fall. Often, she’d come across a group of five or six riders, young teenage girls, out on a ride with an instructor. She’d stop her bike, move to the side of the path, and wait for them to proceed by her. This was the rule of the trail. Horses have the right of way, then hikers, then bikers. Bikers had to yield to everyone. Share and enjoy the trail is what the signs stated. Share.
Elisa didn’t see the deer until the last second. Her eyes were focused downward, as she was trying to avoid the larger rocks in the path. She was barreling down the trail, feeling the cool breeze on her face, and turning her wheel this way and that way, finding the path of least resistance. In the distance, the sun was setting, and she knew that she should be returning home soon. Sometimes she rode at night, with a light attached to her handlebars, aimed at the trail ahead of her. And, she’d wear a headlamp, attached to her helmet, to light he path, or trees, or wherever her head turned. But, not tonight. She didn’t expect to be out late.
She rounded a corner, pedaling fast to gain more speed, and her focus was on her bike, and the pedals, and NOT on the trail. Not on the deer. She swerved to the left, hoping to go around it quickly, but the deer was startled too. It didn’t hear her coming. It didn’t expect to be hit by a bike. It panicked, as deer often do. As Elisa turned her wheel to the left, it bolted, jumping to the left of the trail, hoping to make it up the hill.
Elisa thought she was going to hit it full on, but turned her handlebars just in time, pulling to the right. But, the sudden change of direction threw her bike into chaos, and she realized that she was going to go over the edge of the trail and into the ravine. It happened so quickly that she never had time to apply the brakes.
Trees raced past her and she felt the branches tearing at her skin. Vines tried to grab her as she flew down the hill. The last thing she remembered before blacking out was a mighty oak tree racing toward her, reaching out with its mighty limbs and wrapping itself around her in a mighty hug that squeezed the breath out of her lungs in its painful embrace.
 

Part IX

His bike was in the garage. It was a Specialized full-suspension Rockhopper. The components were high-end Shimano parts, not the cheap stuff they put on WalMart bikes. This one cost over one thousand dollars, and it was well worth the money he spent. Rides were exhilarating, as the bike rolled over rocks and sticks and small ruts with ease, the front and rear shocks smoothing out the trail. And jumps were a blast, as the bike would spring up as if on a trampoline, and landing softly, bearing his weight with ease like a four-wheel drive Jeep.
But his thoughts weren’t on his wheels or frame or suspension or components at the moment. They were on Elisa, his daughter, who had not returned from her ride yet. He pressed the garage door opener, and walked over to his bike. Sitting beside it on a shelf was his night-riding gear, a helmet light and a handle-bar light. He attached both, knowing that he would need them. He kicked off his shoes and put his trail-riding ones onto his feet, as well as his fingerless gloves. Taking a deep breath, he mounted his bike and rode down the driveway.
The trail was a familiar site to him, as he’d been riding it for years, since before his daughter was born. He knew each turn and rise, each creek and root, riding here with his buddies on Sunday afternoons so many times. What he didn’t know is where his daughter was.
When he got to the trailhead, he looked toward the sign that marked the beginning of the trail. In bold letters it warned: Mountain Lion Habitat. He tried not to think about this as he pedaled onto the trail.
While passing the spillway, he thought he heard something. Stopping and looking inside, he saw water slowly draining down the concrete. “Elisa?” No response. He kept going.
Through the sand, where he’d often seen deer, he pedaled, all the while looking around to the left and right. He passed the eucalyptus trees that bordered this part of the trail, looking for a sign of his daughter, or her bike. If she went off the trail, then there should be smashed bushes or grass. Maybe. But it was getting dark, and the bright greens had turned gray, as light left this side of the planet. “Elisa?” he called. Nothing. Just the chirping of crickets and croaking of frogs.
Over the first creek crossing he went, and the second, and the third. Still no sign of his daughter. He’d call out her name, “Elisa?” But each time he was met with silence. Often he’d hear something in the trees above his head, and look to see a squirrel skittering along a limb, dropping whatever it had in its hands. Leaves would fall, or twigs, and he’d stop and listen for further movement. Is that his daughter? “Elisa?” he’d call. Nothing.
Along the golf course, looking for golfers, or other riders, to ask for help. No one. The trail was empty. At the horse stables, he paused. Maybe she rode up there. Uncertainty bothered him, as he was used to making a decision, and going with it. But, if he left the trail and looked among the horse trailers and corrals, maybe his daughter would ride by on the trail and he’d miss her. He decided to check this later. And, to make it worse, he had two choices in front of him, as the trail formed a Y. Did she take the path to the left, or the right? Which way? He decided to go to the right, and call her name as he rode, knowing that both paths paralleled each other and led to the same spot.
He was frustrated, expecting to find her with a flat tire. Hoping to find her with a flat tire, or something easy to fix. But, no. No sign of her. He switched on his lights, as the sun had already set behind him, leaving the trail in the final moments of dusk, a gray difficult-to-see world.
He kept searching for her, riding tirelessly, until he reached the Poison Ivy sign, his typical stopping point. But, did she stop here and turn around? Or, did she keep going, trying to add another mile or two to her ride? There were too many possibilities, too many options. His head grew dizzy just thinking of them. What to do? What to do? He’d just spent forty minutes looking for her, and couldn’t find her. He needed help.
Taking out his cell phone, he dialed 911.
“Nine-one-one. Is this an emergency?”
“Yes,” he choked out, tears beginning to run down his face. “My daughter has disappeared.”
“Okay. When was the last time you saw her?” the operator asked.
He explained about the afternoon bike rides, and that she frequently took this trail, and that he just rode up the trail, and that he couldn’t find her. “Okay, you need to return home now, and we’ll get a search and rescue team organized right away, sir. Don’t worry. She’s probably just at a friend’s house, safe and sound.”
He hung up, knowing in his heart that she wasn’t at a friend’s house, and that she wasn’t “safe and sound,” and that time was very, very important. He called one more person, his best friend.
“Hey, buddy. How’s it going?” he heard in the receiver.
“Terrible. Elisa went on a bike ride hours ago and hasn’t returned. I rode the trail looking for her, but…” his voice trailed off.
There was a moment of silence, and then he heard, “I will be at your house in ten minutes,” followed by a click. Taking a deep breath, he wiped away the tears and turned his Rockhopper around, tearing down the trail as fast as he could go.

 

Part X

It was dark. Elisa looked up to see the trunk of a tree, and farther away, leaves swaying with the wind. And past that, the night sky, with stars twinkling in the distance. The Big Dipper, just over there, and the North Star, over there. She saw both. No clouds in the sky to impede her view. She lay still, trying to collect her thoughts. Her mind was a bit confused, and she tried to focus on the distant stars. Where am I? Why am I looking at the stars? There was something else, at the back of her mind. What was it? Elisa tried to remember. What was it that she forgot? She closed her eyes, and tried to concentrate. Think. Think.
She couldn’t remember, so she focused on what was nearby. What she could feel. Something hard, and cold, under her shoulders, and back, and legs. I must be lying on the ground. She tried to sit up, but got dizzy so she lay back down. She reached up to wipe away the tickling sensation from her nose and discovered that it was grass. Why was there grass on her face? Her head ached, and she reached up to touch the top of her head, but found something in the way. What? She moved her fingers around, touching here and there, wondering just what was pressing against her scalp. She tried to push it off, but something dug into her chin when she tried that. It’s a bike helmet. Why is there a bike helmet on my head? Oh, I was biking. She thought about biking for a moment, the trail, the trees, the grass. Oh, no. I crashed. And, there was a deer. It all came back suddenly, and she got scared. She was lying on the ground, under a big oak tree, having crashed in spectacular fashion.
The deer? She had wanted to see a doe or buck, or maybe a fawn on this ride, but not like this. There it was, in the middle of the path, and she almost hit it. Or, did she hit it? Her mind wasn’t sure. She tried moving her legs, but found that they too hurt. Her chest hurt. Her hip hurt. What do I do now?
“Dad?” she whispered through cracked lips. She tried licking her lips, but found the dried blood hardened. She tried to swallow, but her parched mouth had nothing for her dry throat. “Dad?” she called again, this time a bit louder. “Dad, where are you?” she asked. Nothing. Silence. She was alone, and scared.
She moved her eyes to the left and right. She could see the outline of bushes and grass up to her left, and down to her right. She was on the side of a ravine. She needed to get back to the trail, and go home. It was dark, and her father would be worried. It was okay to ride the trail at night, as long as she was with her father. And, as long as they had their night-riding gear, lights. But, she didn’t have that. It was dark, and her father was nowhere nearby. He had warned her about the nocturnal animals. Orb weavers came out of hiding and built their webs to catch the evening’s flying insects. Owls, perched on clutter-free branches, hunted small mammals at night. Coyotes, eager for a meal, hunted in pairs, or in packs, looking for weak or dying critters to eat. And mountain lions, well, she didn’t even want to think about that for right now. What if one was watching her right now?
“I want to go home,” Elisa spoke, starting to cry. She pushed herself up on her elbows, and felt a bit dizzy. She waited for a minute until the world stopped spinning. Then, she sat up, pulling her feet toward her. She looked at her legs, but couldn’t make out much in the dark. There was a vine wrapped around her ankle, filled with thorns. It had dug into her calf in several places, leaving behind dried blood. She struggled to remove the vine, losing a shoe in the process, but the vine eventually found its way free of her leg, and she stood up.
She fell over almost immediately, landing with a crash among the grass and weeds. “What is wrong?” she asked. Her head was spinning, and the ground seemed to rumble and shake beneath her. What water used to be in her stomach came out, as she threw up. She cried for a moment, as her stomach wrenched free all of its contents, leaving her exhausted and miserable. “Dad,” she whimpered, as tears ran down her face.
After a few minutes, she felt her breathing return to normal and calm return to her mind. Something was choking her, and she reached under her chin to tug it away. It was stuck. Something was pressing against her chin and throat. She felt around her neck, and followed it with her fingers up to her ear. My helmet. She reached under her chin and unlatched her helmet, letting it fall where it was, landing at the base of the tree where she used to lay. She felt much better, moving her lower jaw in a circle. Feeling an itch in her scalp, she reached up with her fingernails, and found a globby mess of tangled hair, and something thick, like syrup. Blood.
Her right eye seemed a bit tender, and her vision somewhat limited. She felt the bump, just above her brow, and wondered how it got there. Her helmet was there to protect her, but still she must’ve hit something. What? Maybe the tree? A branch? The ground?
She needed to get to the trail. It was up the hill, so she crawled up, trying to make her way toward what she assumed was the trail. She put one knee in front of the other, crawling with all of her strength. She’d grab hold of a clump of grass, but it would tear out of the earth, sending her reeling backwards. She’d try again, digging her fingers into the soil. Trying, but having little success. After a few moments, she gave up, realizing that she didn’t have the strength to fight the fines and bushes and grass. She couldn’t go up the hill. So, she changed direction. She would try downhill. She knew that water always led downhill, and there were creeks in many of the ravines along this trail. If she could find a creek, then she could follow it down the valley where it was sure to cross the very trail that she had biked up.
She crawled and felt something sticky on her ear. A spider web. In panic, she swiped across her face, and felt the rest of the web give way in her grasp. It was on her ear, and her chin. Where was the spider? Was it on her face? Or, on her shirt? Was it big? Would it sense her presence, and fear for its life, and bite her? She knew that spiders used their poison for two reasons: to subdue a prey, or to defend themselves against a predator. Did this spider think that she was a predator? She ran her hand across her stomach, and shoulders, and arms, hoping to dislodge any unwelcome eight-legged stowaways. Nothing. Hopefully it was on the ground.
She kept going, down the ravine, falling over hidden logs and landing with her hands splayed out in front of her. “Ouch,” she’d yell each time, followed by a few more tears. A branch poked her in the ribs, tearing a hole in her shirt just to the left of her belly button. Her knees hurt, as she crawled across rocks and twigs. Another spider’s web tickled her nose. Another hidden branch pulled her down to the ground. Her struggle to find the trail was turning into a nightmare, a painful nightmare.
Elisa found herself kneeling in six inches of water. She had finally found the creek. Now, to follow it downhill, and find the trail. Soaked and shivering, she had hope. She had a plan, a plan to get back to the trail and find her way back home, to her father and to safety. If she was to do it, then she must do it standing up, walking. She raised herself to her feet, holding on to a nearby tree for support, and focused her eyes ahead of her. The sky above her would send what light it could so that she might see. The creek would provide the route of her escape. But it was up to her to will her legs to move, to take one step after another. Elisa bravely took one step, and then another, sloshing through the creek, hoping to find her way home.

 

Part XI

Flashing blue and red lights greeted him as he turned the corner onto his street. His heartbeat quickened. Two black and white squad cars were parked in his driveway, lights letting everyone in the neighborhood know that they were around. And, at odd angles in front of his house and his neighbors’ homes, were half a dozen trucks, cars, and one motorcycle. Vehicles he recognized.
He had just made a twenty-minute ride in fifteen minutes. His legs burned. His chest was heaving. He was exhausted. But, seeing his friends gave him an energy boost, so he sprinted the last hundred feet to his driveway atop his bike.
“Now listen carefully, everyone. Search and rescue is a serious task. We don’t want to have to rescue any of you, so here are several safety requirements. Number one, travel in pairs, with flashlights and extra batteries. Call in to my phone on the hour, every hour, until your legs give out. And then, get up, and keep walking, and looking. Elisa is OUR girl, OUR daughter, and we WILL find her.”
A loud cheer went up from those on the lawn. His best friend was there, standing on an upturned wooden box, talking to the others in his front yard. His neighbors were there. His closest buddies were there. And now he was there. Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes as he saw the help that had arrived in such short time.
“Now, be sure to take lots of water. You will get hot, and need something to drink. It may be dark, but exercise will make you wish you had water. And, when you find Elisa, she’ll probably want something to drink too. Here he is, folks. Give me a minute.”
His best friend walked over to him and gave him a big hand-shake. “Hello, my friend.”
Setting down the bike in the driveway, he asked, “What? When? How did you get this organized so fast?”
“Shhhh! Don’t worry,” his best friend spoke seriously. “What was Elisa wearing? What is the color of her helmet? Her biking clothes?”
Looking around at all the anxious faces, worried eyes, but all of them ready to go out on the trail, he felt overwhelmed. “Okay. She has a red helmet, but it might not be on her head. She might have taken it off. I think that she was wearing a pink shirt, or purple, with a monkey on it. And her shorts. I don’t know what color they are. Her shoes are hoes, brown, with pink laces, her biking shoes. She’s probably just tired and lost, so if you find her…” He couldn’t continue, words choking him as he tried to speak.
“WHEN you find her,” his friend took over, “Call me immediately on my cell phone. I will call all other search teams and tell them to return here. Only I can make that call. Got it? Keep looking unless I tell you to stop. Okay, I need a team to go up to the horse corrals, and search them thoroughly. Every trailer. Inside. In front. Behind. On top. Underneath, if you can. There are probably 100 places to hide up there. Check everything. Then, check the whole place again.” He wrote down the volunteers, two neighbors.
“Now, I need a team to drive up to the top of this street, then turn right, and go to the end of that street. Get out, find the trail, and search from that point uphill. Keep going until you get to the poison ivy sign. Then, call me, and tell me which direction you’re going from there. Okay, you two. Thanks.” Two more names on the list.
“I need a team to start at the bottom of the trail, at the trailhead, and work your way up the trail. Okay, you two.” He wrote down their names.
Elisa’s father was amazed at how his friend organized the search and rescue teams. He watched as each team was assigned a different route, given instructions, and was sent off. They were told how to walk, then stop, call her name, and listen for five seconds, all the while looking around at every blade of grass along the edge of the trail. Is one bent over? Any broken tree limbs? Look for signs of human activity. Then move twenty feet up the trail, and repeat. Why hadn’t he thought of that earlier?
“You stay here, and call me if she returns to the house. Got it?” his friend demanded.
“I want to help you look for…” he started, but was cut off.
“No, you need to stay here at your house,” an officer spoke. “We need a photo of your daughter, and description, to send to all officers. Right now. And, we need to know her friend’s names and addresses. Right now. We need to make some visits, starting with each neighbor on this street and the next. Right now.”
He was needed here. He knew it, but it hurt as he watched his friends head off in their trucks, or afoot, flashlights beaming broadly across the grass and sidewalks of his neighborhood. They were heading out to find her, his baby girl, and bring her home, while he was stuck here, waiting. He wanted to go out, but they wouldn’t let him. Would they find her?
He hoped that they would find her, soon, and alive.
“Please, please,” he whispered. “Find my girl. Find my girl.”
 

Part XII

Silence doesn’t exist in the woods. There are always sounds, loud sounds, everywhere. Anyone who talks about taking a “quiet walk in the woods” has not been in the woods at night. Chirping. Buzzing. Humming. Croaking. Falling twigs. Scurrying rodents. Fleeing critters. Noise, noise, noise. All around her was noise, and Elisa was scared.
She walked, but her feet kept getting stuck in the muddy winding and twisting of the creek. She’d found it by accident, after crawling down the hill on her hands and knees. She was wet, and cold, and miserable. She’d lost her left shoe to wrestling match with a vine, and keeping her sock as a consolation prize. Her right foot kept trying to rid itself of her shoe, but she curled her toes in defiance, trying to keep it on. Step after step, she moved farther down the ravine, hoping to get to the trail.
And it was so dark. She could see through the canopy above her, to the night sky. But, there were no lamps out here, no street-lights, nothing to chase away the uncertain shadows that were dancing before her eyes, nothing to scare away the fears that shoved their way into her mind. The “dark” outside of her house was very different from the “dark” out her in the woods. She couldn’t see the rocks that rammed themselves against her unprotected toe. She couldn’t see the tree roots that shook her balance and sent her teetering to the left or right. She couldn’t see the thorny vines that ensnared her legs time after time, threatening to keep her tied up for eternity. She couldn’t see the stinging nettles that punctured her skin, sending poisons through their hollow hairs, leaving behind a never-ending tingling and stinging sensation wherever they touched. Although her eyes were fully open, her pupils black widened circles, she couldn’t really see.
Yet, onward she marched, knowing that the only way to reach home, and her dad, was to push herself step after step. He’d often told her, “Be strong whenever you face a challenge. Solve your own problems. Push yourself to be the best that you can be.” This was one of those moments. She was alone and it was up to her to save herself.
After what seemed like an hour of endless battles with nature, she found the ground beneath her feet hard and dry. A few steps, and nothing. She stopped, knelt down, and touched it with her hands. Gone were the rocks. Gone were the roots. Gone were the vines. “Yes!” she shouted in whispered breath. She was on the trail. Finally!
A smile crept across her face, still hurting from the branches that tore their way across her delicate skin. She reached up and touched her cheek with her trembling fingers. Scratches could be felt, running from her ear to her chin, the damage inflicted on her as she pushed her way through the lower tree branches, the bushes, the wilderness.
She could see the light brown of the trail, using the distant starlight and the moon’s reflected sunlight. She breathed a long sigh, and walked slowly down the path. She still had a long way to go, but she was now on solid ground, safer ground, and she felt a bit of happiness enter her heart. Her mind wandered to the happier moments in her life. Being tickled by her dad, asking for it to stop, but then begging for more. Making a fort in the living room with the cushions from the couch and sheets from the linen closet. Dog kisses from her best friend’s dog. Climbing the tree in her front yard and watching cars go by, their drivers unaware that a spy was perched nearby, watching for punch-buggies. Watching a snake do its swivel dance across a dirt road while out hiking with her dad. Recess.
A distant sound erased her smile. “Hoot,” it cried. Followed by another. An owl was sending greetings to others in the area, letting them know that this was their territory, their kingdom, their fiefdom. Or, maybe they were just saying hello to the distant walker, her. Maybe.
She kept walking, careful to stay on the dirt. Off the trail was poison ivy. She couldn’t see it, but she knew that it was there, from the many time she’d ridden this trail in the daytime. “Leaves of three, let them be.” That was the rhyme her father had taught her, hoping to give her a clue as to which plants she could touch and which she should stay away from. As careful as she had been, though, she still got the annoying, itchy bumps on her skin every once in awhile. Several times a year, in fact. She hoped that she hadn’t crawled through any of it while she was in the ravine, or else there would be a price to pay in a few days.
Her foot tripped on a root, and she nearly fell. Anger swelled up inside of her, as her toe began to throb, sending messages to her brain that she should pay more attention to the trail. “Stupid toe,” she yelled as she sat on the ground and held her foot. Tears came again, from sadness at her predicament. “Why?” she cried. “Why did I have to crash?” Of course, she knew that there was no answer to this question, none that would satisfy. Sometimes bad things just happened. How we react to life’s frustrations determines our character, who we really are.
But, sometimes it felt good to cry, to stop for a moment, and to let the pain escape. So, she did. She let it out, there on the trail, sitting in the dirt. She had kept it in for so long, and it had built up within her until a ferocious storm had gathered. Lightning and thunder, heavy winds, trees swaying in the blast, and the landscape forever changed in its torrent. That storm built up within her chest, and it was released, there on the trail.
Once she felt the tension and frustration released, she stood up, whipped her face, and carefully made her way down the trail. She paid more attention to the trail, eyes darting left and right, looking for the shadows that held depressions and roots. Step after painful step, she felt herself getting closer to home. Soon I’ll be safe. Soon.
Then she heard a noise off to the right. Something moved in the bushes, among the trees. She froze. “Dad?” she called, hoping that he was coming up the trail. No reply.
She heard it again, a slow shifting sound, in the grass, or bushes, just a few feet off the trail. What was it? Probably just a squirrel. No, they aren’t active at night. They’re diurnal, active in the daytime. Maybe it was a bird. No, they don’t hunt insects at night. What is it?
Then she heard the sound she never wished to hear, a low yowl, sounding like a freight train coming into a station. She took a step backwards, and stumbled, falling down to the ground and landing hard on her butt. She yelped in pain, then got very quiet, as she realized that the noise in the bushes was the animal she’d been warned about on the sign, the biggest predator of these woods.
A mountain lion had found her, and she was very, very afraid.
 

Part XIII

Shannon and Jose loved Elisa as if she were their own daughter. They swore they’d look for her all night, but they hadn’t found her. Hours and hours of looking, shining the flashlight here and there, into the darkness, past that tree, around that bush, into that creek bed. They looked and looked, walking the trail from one end to the other, then back down again. Then repeat, up the trail, and back down, slowly, carefully. Each time, they’d check in with the others by cell phone, to see if anyone had found Elisa. The answer was always no.
Jeff and Scott searched every trailer and stable in the horse area. Then, they checked them again. Jeff found a ladder and checked on top of each while Scott walked into and around every one of them. No Elisa. No bike. No luck. She was gone.
Clark and Maritza started at the top of the trail and searched farther up, mile after mile, walking, looking, calling, waiting to hear a response, but getting none. It was so frustrating, so disappointing. He thought of the critters that lived in the wild, especially rattlesnakes, who don’t like to be disturbed. Sure, they bite humans only as a last resort, but they do bite humans. And, if you don’t get the antivenin quickly, you could die, especially if you were a little girl. This thought pushed him to keep looking, but eventually weariness and lack of success ate away at him.
Julie and Spiros shook every bush they came across, using a stick to poke and prod everywhere. No Elisa. Where was she? All they could think about was coyotes. Coyotes hunted in pairs, and sometimes in packs. And, they were carnivores. They ate meat, normally small critters, but sometimes they ate fruit and insects when meat wasn’t available, or carrion, or, injured prey. If Elisa was injured, then they might eat her. “Elisa?” they called even louder. They had to find her. Had to.
Krystal and Mark spent the night calling until their voices were hoarse. They went through two sets of batteries, their flashlights growing dim in the darkness. “Elisa?” they called. “Where are you?” They hoped for an answer, hour after hour, but felt their hope growing dim with each moment of silence that greeted their calls.
Back at the house, Elisa’s father waited for the phone call, the phone call that would let him know that his daughter was okay. But, it never came. Weary teams wandered back into his garage, and into the house, downcast and refusing to look him in the eye. They knew that their failure couldn’t be helped. It was the fault of the darkness. If they just had more light, then everything would be okay. He knew this, and by three a.m., was sending teams home, to sleep, and return when the sun reappeared in the morning sky.
“Go home, and we’ll look for her tomorrow,” he’d tell his friends. Each set off in their vehicles until it was only he and his best buddy left, sitting at the table, looking at each other. Just the two of them. Two friends. Two red-eyed, weary, worried friends.
“Remember when she was born, and you laughed when you saw her? She was such a fat little wiggler back then, and loud. So loud. Her cry nearly woke up the entire hospital.”
“I do,” he replied.
“Remember her first steps. You recorded her all the time back then, video camera stuck to your eye, capturing every moment forever. I watched that video so many times.”
“Yes,” he laughed, remembering such good times.
“Do you remember her first word?”
“Yes,” he answered softly. “Da. Me. I was her first word.”
“Remember her first day at school, and that cute little dress, and what she said to you when you kissed her goodbye and told her to be a good little girl?”
He smiled at the memory. “I am NOT a little girl. I am a BIG girl,” she had warned.
“Remember her first bike, that little red three-wheeler, and how much she loved that, until you got that two-wheeler for her? And then she rode it everywhere, up the street, on sidewalks, on the trail…”
Tears came to his eyes, as he thought of her bike, and the trail, and how much he missed her right now. Oh, he missed her so very much. So very much.
He stood up, cleared his eyes of the tears, and said with certainty, “She’s out there. She’s scared. And she needs me. I can’t sit here waiting like this. I am going back out again, and I will find her.”
“No, my friend. WE will find her.” And, off the two of them walked with flashlights in hand, out of the house, down the street, and to the trail.
 

Part XIV

“Don’t run,” she told herself. She wasn’t prey. Mountain lions hunt smaller critters, and smaller critters flee when they are scared. They panic and try to get away, but they don’t. If I run, then I’d be viewed as prey, and mountain lions can jump twenty feet in one bound. One jump. One leap. I’d be caught. “Don’t run,” she whispered.
Sitting on the ground, feet splayed in front of her, hands at her side, she couldn’t see the mountain lion. But, she could hear its heavy breathing. It was so close. She squinted her eyes, hoping to find its ears in the darkness, to see exactly where it was. But, no. It was too dark.
She knew that humans were not the normal food for mountain lions. They stalked and killed deer, or fox, or raccoons, or rabbits, or squirrels. But those teeth were made for grasping, for puncturing, for slicing. And, a hungry cat might hunt bigger prey when the normal prey wasn’t around. Or, if it was just hungry and you happened to be sitting there in front of it on the ground. She was injured, bleeding, and had surely told the cat this already. It had great eyesight, and had a nose designed for finding wounded or dying critters.
If this predator attacked her, then she was sure to die. She had no weapons. And it had plenty, 30 sharp teeth, and lots of long, curving claws. She had to be the aggressor. That was the only way to respond to a mountain lion attack. She stood up, lifted her hands over her head so as to appear larger than normal. The cat, with its impressive vision would see this, and pause. She talked loudly, and firmly to the cat, “I am NOT prey. You don’t want to eat me. Go away.” She repeated this several times, waving her arms, and puffing up her chest with air. Then, she growled at the cat, baring her little girl teeth. She felt silly, but knew that this is what her dad had told her to do if she ever found herself confronted by an angry or hungry mountain lion.
Then, she heard another sound, the rustle of bushes, something gliding past them. It grew more and more distant, as the mountain lion decided that Elisa was not easy prey and wandered off to find something less dangerous to eat. She lowered her arms, and breathed a long sigh, knowing that she had survived. She survived. No one had to come save her, no knight in shining armor, no galloping prince, no hero. She did it herself, just a little girl chasing away an adult mountain lion. She smiled, proud of herself for remaining calm, proud of herself for thinking, and acting, and turned to walk down the path towards home.
After awhile, she noticed that the canopy of trees was gone above her. She could now see much of the sky. Her feet rested on sand, and she knew that she was in the flat area at the beginning of the trail where the water had formed a wide creek bed, often a pond, during the rainy season. She was near home.
Through the sand she marched, her shoeless foot hurting with each step, causing her to limp. “Keep going,” she told herself. “You are almost home.”
She climbed up out of the sandy creek bed, and back onto the trail. To her left was the fence that ran along the water spillway, with homes behind a large wall. Up to her right were homes and sloping back yards. Lights were on as strangers tapped on computer keyboards, or watched “Dancing with the Stars,” or talked on the cell phones, or read about dragons or wizards or pirates or damsels in distress. She smiled as she realized that she had been a damsel in distress. But, very different from so many of those books she’d read, she did not wait for a prince to come save her. Nope. She had saved herself. She was missing a shoe, and her helmet, and her bike. She had bumps all over her, and scratches, and cuts. But, she was alive. She was alive.
Nearing the end of the trail, where she had begun this journey so many hours ago, she stopped walking for a moment to think. Standing near the trailhead, she wondered what she would say to her father, how she would explain what had happened, what he might feel about her riding the trail alone. Would she get in trouble? Probably. He would scold her for being out after dark, or for losing her bike, or for biking the trail alone.
That was when she saw a dark figure turn the corner and enter the trail. Was this the mountain lion? Or a coyote? Or a bear? Had she made it this far only to be attacked so close to home?
It was a man, and he had a flashlight in his hand. Wait, there were two flashlights, swinging back and forth. A beam went across her body, then swung back, stopping at her feet, then working its way up her legs to her hips, and then to her stomach, before stopping on her face. For a moment, she was blinded, as the brightness overwhelmed her pupils, sending white ghosts of pain into her head. And then, darkness, as one flashlight fell to the ground, turning itself off, and the person who had once held it cried out, “Elisa?”
She ran the last few steps and threw herself into his arms. She’d hungered for this moment while crawling through thorns and stinging nettle, while trudging through a soggy creek and tripping on vines, and while tumbling down the dusty trail, step after painful step. One word erased every pain, soothed every moment of fear, and calmed her tortured heart.
“Dad.”

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 18.12.2010

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