by Dawn Mattox
The old truck shuddered with each bone-jarring shove of my shoulder before the door gave way. First a crack, then a small wedge, and finally daylight and powdered snow spilled in as the door broke free from its icy grip. More powder loosened and slid down the hill with a whoosh and a thump and a cracking noise on the brush beneath the vertical truck. I looked down through the wedge. No earth below—only a smile of daylight for a footstool, grinning like a hungry animal waiting for its breakfast. I swallowed, guessing that the nearest branch was a full body length away, with no certainty that it would hold my weight.
I looked back at Kenny, who gave me a wordless nod and set the baby on the seat.
“I’ll send help. I promise.” Rolling onto my stomach, I slid feet first across the seat and out the door. Halfway out, I tucked the bundle under one arm. “I love you,” I said to Kenny, and slid free from the truck.
The branch I aimed for bent beneath our weight and gave way. The baby howled, and smaller branches slapped my face as we fell through, hitting the ground and tumbling down the hill. When we finally stopped, I was looking up, staring at the tailpipe of the truck.
“Don’t fall. Don’t fall.” Turning to the baby. “Shhh. Hey—you’re okay, right? Shhh-shhh.” There was nothing to do but follow Kenny’s directions; cutting across the bottom of the hill and then the long climb back to the road on hands and knees, emerging above the truck and far up the road.
I sat on the road, gasping, sweating, scared. How could I be so exhausted before starting this impossible journey? The road home beckoned.
The first fingers of sunlight slanted down, poking between the trees, followed by another whoosh and whump that signaled a reminder that I had a predator on my heels. There was no turning back. The way home was blocked in every way.
Hitching the baby higher in my arms, I turned to face the mountains, and then took the first step up the road that carved its way through the heart of the forest.
CHAPTER 27
I walked and sang to comfort myself. Mostly I sang Christian rock—not to drown out external chaos but to lift me and strengthen me from the inside. Today cried out for sturdier, more traditional music, like “A Closer Walk with Thee,” and “Blessed Assurance.” The tunes began as a wordless hum and faded to a whisper. Today my songs were muffled beneath the weight of responsibility, and yet somehow infused me with the courage to take another step.
I felt the presence of Kenny walking with me, and occasionally I felt the presence of my dad. “Keep going, little fox! Toughen up, baby girl!” They seemed to whisper in my ear above the rush and bluster of the icy wind. I was trying to be a good daughter but found myself doubting the wisdom of my surrogate father. It was crazy to think that I could cross the Sierra Nevadas with a newborn infant at the onset of winter, just miles from where the Donner Party had once faced the same elements—and ended up snowbound and cannibalizing one another to stay alive. It was ludicrous when I thought about it.
And the Donner party had guns and horses, oxen and a wagon. I have . . . I took a breath and took a step.
A resounding boom echoed up the slopes, and my thoughts froze in their tracks, sweat turning to ice as I turned to look back, shivering. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. I couldn’t see it, but I had heard it, signaling a new level of danger.
Fear mingled with billowing plumes of air as I struggled to catch my breath, my eyes darting about like a rabbit that senses the presence of a predator it cannot see. There was no choice, no grand decision, just a turning back to the road before me and taking another step. And another. And another.
Precious rays of sunlight were stolen by new waves of clouds that flew overhead on the wings of the wind. The sky steadily darkened as the wind dropped, kicking and tossing the fallen snow high into the air, then falling back to earth in swirling whirlwinds that shadow danced across the road. Icy crystals built up, sticking to the jacket I had pulled it over my nose, now white and crisp as a surgeon’s mask. I cursed the storm and welcomed it, stumbling on as my feet broke through the top crust, sinking into the powder. Every step felt like two.
To stop was to die. The baby had not moved or cried since leaving Kenny, and I shuddered to think I might be carrying a corpse. The thought strengthened my determination, yet I dared not open her blanket for fear of losing heat—or finding none. Better not to know.
Familiar with the ways of nature, I was sure I could survive if not for the heavy burden in my arms. The responsibility weighed me down as much as the effort. Snow quenched my thirst, but my stomach growled for food to fuel my dwindling energy. My legs ached, my back ached, my head ached. God knew, my heart ached too. Blowing powder felt like needles, pricking and stinging, burning the skin around my eyes—not so with my fingers and toes, which were already numb.
My bones cried out. My voice cried out. When my body was too weary to take another step, the promise of safety kept me moving. Somewhere ahead is a person and a phone. Visions of saving Kenny and Paige, a roaring fire, and a hot meal kept me plodding along, one shaky step after another, until the last one that launched me face down into the snow. Muscles burning, legs throbbing, I rolled over and stretched out like a snow angel, when I saw it—a shadow among shadows gliding along the ridge.
There were only three things I feared in the mountains—from smallest to largest: black widows, rattlesnakes, and mountain lions. Black widows predictably hid in dark places. Rattlers usually gave warning. But now, bogged down in the snow, spent, I felt like a rib eye steak being eyed by a hungry lion. Today, at least, I was too tired and too angry to be afraid—or perhaps, I had nothing left to lose. Either way, I wasn’t going down without a fight or at least without having the last word.
“Hey, Lord. Here I am.” I breathed a hasty prayer before rolling the silent bundle off my chest and onto a drift. Standing tall, I removed my coat and surveyed the hill. Moments later, a flash of gold crouched down. Pure adrenaline, possibly the most ancient and powerful drug in human history, coursed through my body like a hotshot. My body became a living arsenal.
Holding tight to one sleeve, I slung the coat like David’s sling that took down Goliath, whipping it about in wild gyrations and screaming a warning in a performance that would have made my mother proud.
“Fuck you!” I screamed. “You can’t have me! Get out of here! Go on—git. You come near me I will beat the crap out of you. You hear? I. Will. Eat. You!”
Where did that come from? I had no idea. But I liked to imagine it was the Holy Spirit, if God sanctions such language. The big cat hesitated, studied me a little longer; ears up, head shifting side to side, and then retreated.
I could have slept. It was the post-adrenaline crash. I could have lain down and taken the Big One right then and there—if not for fear of being back on the takeout menu for the Road Kill Café. The cat wasn’t likely to permanently abandon such a promising meal.
A reassuring squall came from within the bundle, and this time I tunneled through the blanket and peeked inside to a red, wrinkled howling face and a smell that only a mother could love. “Oh, baby, you stink. I’m sorry. We’re almost there. If your mom’s not dead . . . I’ll kill her myself.”
Who is that stranger talking in my head?
A different person seemed to inhabit my body. Where was the compassionate advocate that rescued people for a living? What happened to the woman who esteemed the noble salmon that ran upriver to die in the name of self-sacrifice? Had she died in the truck with Kenny? Had she been consumed by rage toward Paige, Travis, and Chance? Irrational as it seemed, the blame fell on them. Gone was my sense of Christian forgiveness. Maybe it had chilled along with my fingers and toes. I had no answers—only anger, resentment, and bitterness to power me up the hill. Which it did, with the wind shrieking curses as I went. I guessed self-sacrifice implied that you had something left to give . . . and I was running on fumes. My emotional fumes were probably as foul in the nostrils of God as the smell that exuded from the baby’s blanket. What a pair w
e made, this child and I.
With that thought, I picked up the child, bundled her in Kenny’s coat, and took another step. And then another. Sometime during the day, the wind had died down, and the snow showers stopped. Clouds broke just enough for the sun to slice through with a blinding light that alternated with dark shadows, painting the forest in stark shades of black and white. Tree boughs seemed to hold their breath beneath their burden of fresh snow.
It was late afternoon when we finally crested yet another bend in the road to emerge above Little Grass Valley Lake. This had been the first major snow of the season, and the storm left a silvery strand of slush that blended into the sparkling blue water. The scene was worthy of a postcard, but today its beauty eluded me.
Hope blossomed with arrival at the lake. Only a couple miles to the south lay the tiny mountain community of La Porte. Thirty miles and a couple of snow-capped peaks north lay the larger town of Quincy.
I turned south. “We made it.” Words broke the stillness with the clarity of a cup dropped on a tile floor. Words that hung in the air, only to be swallowed by a greater sound—the faint, distant sound of an engine, a baritone bellowing through the forest.
“Thank God.”
Maybe it was absurd, giving thanks while still trapped in the wilderness, but my circumstances were the result of my decisions, not God’s, and the sound that blessed my ears was like a miracle. It was a truck with chains, or perhaps a snow cat.
Rescue was on the way!
The Bible says the joy of the Lord is my strength, and it must have been so because I plunged on toward La Porte and the sound of safety. Even as despair had drained my energy, joy now fueled my steps. “We’re going to make it, little girl,” I exclaimed to the infant, laughing and jogging my way down the road. “We’re really going to make it.”
From out of the shrubs, a small rabbit bolted at the commotion, racing first to the left and then abruptly doubling back, darting to the right in a wild frenzy of flight. A small gray fox popped up from the shadows to give chase. It didn’t take long. Within seconds the shrill death cries that erupted from the rabbit were cut short, sharp as a knife, ending in silence. I froze, horrified. The fox rose from its kill, the rabbit dangling from his jaws, poinsettia-red blood dripping across the alabaster snow. The fox considered me with a piercing gaze. Then turning, he took the rabbit and trotted away into the forest.
The sound of the vehicle had reached the campground below. I paused to consider the dark-blue Jeep that rattled along to the sound of chains whirring and chattering until it pulled into the parking lot next to the lake and turned off its engine. The Jeep door swung open, and a pale, long-legged man got out, his skin and hair around his face as white as sunlit snow against his black clothing.
It was the fox and plight of the rabbit that caused me to reconsider and exercise caution when I might have run, waving my arms and shouting for joy. So I waited and watched.
Leaning back against the Jeep, the man pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, shook out a smoke, and threw the empty wrapper on the ground. Fishing around for a lighter, he lit up, drew deeply, and exhaled as he scanned the area from horizon to horizon, cigarette smoke mingling with his breath in the frigid air.
This was no nature lover or sportsman taking in the view. Neither was he a rescue worker driving a service vehicle. More than his casual disregard for the environment was his clothing. Black on black—cap, sunglasses, pants, and leather coat—he looked like every biker I had ever known. He couldn’t see me, but I was certain if he listened, he would hear the hammering of my heart.
Ducking down and moving back onto the trail, I turned, contemplating the possibility of making it to the town of Quincy. La Porte was no longer safe.
Baptist Camp. Maybe I can make it before dark.
It was highly unlikely that this guy, whoever he was, had ever heard of Baptist Camp.
Baptist Camp was a private retreat high up in the mountains, not far from where we were. Summer invited young people to the camp to meditate, hike, pray, and generally enjoy God’s creation. Winter ensured the return of the annual bear fest. Local residents laughed at the church administrators who continued to stock the camp with canned goods every fall, knowing that the bears would return to break down the doors, pop open the cans, and party hearty every winter.
CHAPTER 28
The sun dipped behind the mountains, slathering them in shades of gray that reflected my spirit. Deathly gray. Ash gray. Faded gray. Gunmetal gray.
Yeah, I feel like all that. And lead. Don’t forget: lead gray.
The steps in front of Baptist Camp required superhuman effort. Or die . . . It was so tempting to just collapse on the bottom step and die . . . or not.
I can do this, I thought, since the door is already open.
There was no need to break into the lodge. The bears hadn’t wasted any time. Snow fell weeks ago in the high country, and the bears had kindly opened the door for me, snapping the dead bolt, breaking the chain, and ripping a large chunk of the frame from the front door as if the sturdy structure were little more than a child’s playhouse. A couple of shuttered cabins stood off to one side of the building, chained and padlocked—as secure as Fort Knox. Behind the great house stood a solitary weary-looking outhouse that I doubted either owner had secured or bears cared to disturb.
The lodge was a humble weathered building with a steep shake roof and a wraparound deck that might have been quaint and picturesque if not for the damage. Working my way through the wreckage, careful not to impale myself on the jagged spears of wood that protruded from the door frame, I stepped inside.
The room appeared to be a huge conference room—large, cold and bare—and probably doubled as a dining room from the looks of a couple of large hand trucks stacked with folding tables and dozens of folding metal chairs. My eyes swept the room. The furnishings were simple but elegant. A far corner showcased a sturdy wooden roll-top desk with an oversized leather-bound Bible on top. The opposite corner entertained a worn black piano, graced by an Aladdin kerosene lamp with a pale green shade with a ring of pink roses painted in a circlet around the middle. Standing next to the piano, reminding me of a whiskered and weathered miner with his thumbs in his jeans, was a tall, lanky-legged wood heater that had probably been around since the gold rush. And on the wall behind the heater, Thank you, Jesus, hung another antique: a pair of heavy-duty wooden cross-country skis.
The air had a bite; the sharp tang of fermented garbage emanating from where I guessed was the kitchen, back behind the wall with a door and a sliding panel to a service bar.
The only sound was my breathing—breaths that came out in frosty plumes that hung in the air, then slowly dissipated. Hours had passed since the baby had last moved. Her pitiful cries had leeched at my reserves and drained my strength. Later, her cries had dwindled to whimpers, and finally silence. Or perhaps I had blocked them out.
The Bible says there is a time to every season, and this sure as heck wasn’t the time or season for compassion and pity—emotional shackles that would have brought me to a halt. Perhaps I had abandoned compassion on the trail along with other emotional baggage, like fear and worry—the antitheses of faith and hope. They were all a waste of energy. It was rage and resentment that had fueled every step and kept the engine turning. Some people caught a second wind, and I was on my sixth or seventh.
If she is sleeping, there is no sense in waking her, I thought. If she is dead . . . well, I would think about that later.
If I die, we both die. Right now, I just needed to survive.
Setting one burden down, I picked up another. I needed wood. Within minutes I was at work, ripping pages from the Bible on top of the wooden desk and piling kindling from the shattered doorjamb into the wood stove. Staggering to the side of the porch, I found a woodpile, picked up an armload, and made the long trek back inside.
Next, the kitchen.
The kitchen was chaos—as if a gang of riotous looters had torn throu
gh the place, smashing cans and vandalizing everything in sight. Cupboard doors were ripped from their hinges, drawers pulled out, silverware, pots, and pans flung about the room. The bears had opened the pantry and squeezed cans of food between their huge paws, then punctured and gnawed them open with razor-sharp teeth, glutting and slobbering, leaving splashes of bright red spaghetti sauce and chunks of canned fruit tossed about as if creating a macabre form of art.
For all the mess, the bears hadn’t destroyed everything. The back door looked solid, the chain and padlock secure. There was still food and more: cans of milk and beans, boxes of institutional food, jars of peanut butter, condiments, and . . . matches.
After building a fire, I returned to the kitchen to find some towels and dishcloths, a couple of small pots, and a turkey baster. Milk went into one pot, and I filled the other with snow. I set them on the wood heater and hurried over to the silent bundle. Peeling back the layers of Kenny’s coat and my fleece blanket, I peered down at the silent infant burrowed deep within her sour-smelling cocoon.
“Baby? Hey there—are you still with me? Hey. Don’t be checking out on me . . . Don’t leave me alone. I . . . I need you,” I pleaded. The struggle was over for the moment. I lay down my weapons. I didn’t have to be strong. Warm tears slid across cold skin as I massaged her back with an aching heart. She was so small. So fragile. No movement, and then—a soft mewing, a weak nuzzle.
Who knew what possessed me. What force, other than God, could have moved me to lift my shirt and hold a dying child to my breast? It felt surreal, yet perfectly natural. Shock rippled through my body as her warm, soft skin touched mine—tiny fingers grabbing at my nipple, rosebud lips eagerly grasping the tip of the baster, then batting at the hard plastic fraud in frustration. I almost drowned her by squeezing the bulb too hard, and then . . . we had it. Rhythm. Hope. Rhythm and hope, she sucked and sucked.