Between Will and Surrender

by Margaret Duarte

  “So, why doesn’t he speak?”

  “Maybe silence is part of his path to wisdom.”

  I chanced a glance at Joshua’s reflection in the mirror. He didn’t appear to be following our conversation, but then again, I had no way of knowing what Joshua was and wasn’t absorbing. He seemed occupied with the off-the-grid world unfolding around him, his eyes orbiting back and forth, his hands stroking Gabriel’s fur.

  The road was slippery due to a recent shower. When the Jeep’s tires hit potholes, muddy water shot up and landed with splats on the windshield. My Jeep was being put to the test, as I would be soon. Where the road ends, mine continues.

  I turned to Dr. Mendez. “Did you live like this?”

  “Yes, and I loved every minute until I reached my teens. Then I wanted to experience the so-called real world. I thought I was missing out on something important.”

  “Were you?”

  “In a way, yes. In a way, no. I am lucky. I had the opportunity to experience both worlds and the opportunity to compare.”

  “And?”

  “I realized that happiness comes from within and travels with you no matter where you live. Inside, I carry what I learned here as a child, which provides me with a place I can go when I am laid low by life’s complications and questions.”

  My face burned as something deep-felt surfaced. What was it about his words that bothered me? “In our fast-paced world, we do fine until we hit a snag.” I said. “Then, when we stop to think and ask questions about the purpose and meaning of life, we have no place to find the answers.”

  “We have our churches,” the doctor said.

  “But for many, church only happens one day a week and, even then, is harried and full of deadlines. People get up early, feed the family, get dressed in their Sunday best, and before they know it, are snapping at one another on the way to their spiritual experience.”

  “What a picture you paint.”

  My heart pounded as though I were jogging instead of driving down the muddy, pot-holed road. “My question is, where’s the time for meditation and reflection?”

  “Good point. I suppose something can be said for life close to nature, which provides the spiritual connect we often seek in churches, temples, and mosques.”

  “No electricity, no cell service. A little too rugged for me.”

  “You cannot have it both ways.”

  “I like my cozy home and my big tub.”

  “Which you have missed how much in the past week?”

  “I haven’t had time.”

  The doctor shifted his weight and stared out the window.

  Once again, I caught Joshua’s reflection in the rearview mirror. How I longed to hear him chatter and laugh like other children. “Everything okay back there, Joshua?”

  Dr. Mendez turned and glanced behind him. “His smile cannot get any wider without leaving his face.”

  As we pulled into the ranch, I spotted Ben standing next to his mud-splattered pickup. I waved through the Jeep’s now equally muddy windshield. He waved back and headed our way.

  Dr. Mendez stepped out of the Jeep and, to my surprise, gave Ben a bear hug as if reacquainting himself with a long lost friend. The doctor was a good five inches shorter and maybe ten years older, but otherwise the two men were built alike—compact and rock-solid.

  “Doc and I go way back,” Ben told me.

  Dr. Mendez put his hand on Joshua’s shoulder, drawing him into the conversation. “Marjorie and my little friend here are responsible for my return home.”

  Ben knelt in front of the child. “Last time we met, you were about so high,” he said, raising his hand three feet off the ground. “I’ve picked out a horse for you. Want to meet him?”

  Joshua peered toward the stables and nodded.

  “Is that your cat?” Ben asked.

  Joshua turned to me, and his eyes locked onto mine.

  “Gabriel hitch-hiked his way into our lives,” I said. “And he’s become quite attached to Joshua.”

  “Then come on, sport,” Ben said. “Let’s go find a nest for your little friend.” Over his shoulder, he instructed Dr. Mendez and me to transfer our gear to Pete. “He’s the cowboy loading up the mules and will be your guide.”

  Pete looked like one of the bad guys straight out of the old Westerns my dad and I used to watch on TV. His hat, neither black nor white, was a dusty, sweaty brown. More bone than muscle, he had hollows below his cheeks and around his eyes. He looked tired and underfed, the kind of man I’d make room for if I met him on the street and would fear if I met him alone after dark.

  No friendly smile of greeting from our prospective guide. Occupied with his task, he ignored us altogether.

  Great. We’ve got Perfect Pete for a guide.

  Undeterred by Pete’s appearance and off-putting behavior, Dr. Mendez introduced himself and handed over his gear. I followed suit and listened with growing admiration as the doctor bonded with this intense man.

  “Two more travelers’ll be joining us tomorrow,” Pete said, “plus another guide, but with the Doc’s help leading the mules, I can handle the first leg of the tour on my own.”

  Two more travelers? Why hadn’t Ben mentioned it? Did Pete need the extra money? If so, I would have chipped in more. This wasn’t part of my plan, as just about everything else that had occurred since my arrival in Carmel Valley. For the sake of my peace of mind, I let it go.

  We were about to become part of the Los Padres National Forest, 1.75 million acres of tranquil paradise and five hundred miles of riding trails, yet I felt excitement rather than fear. Was my Native American blood strong enough to identify with the surroundings in some way, or did the call come from outside? How would nature speak to me? How would I respond?

  Dr. Mendez broke into my thoughts with an order to saddle our mounts. We walked to the old barn where the horses were stalled. Joshua stood next to a horse not much bigger than a pony, stroking its neck and forehead. The cat made do in a saddlebag on the horse’s side. Most cats would be meowing, or at least clawing their way to freedom, but not Gabriel. He seemed perfectly content where he was.

  Ben led me to the palomino I’d ridden before. I stroked her neck. “Hello, Blondie. So, we meet again.”

  Dr. Mendez approached a horse similar to Ben’s paint. “I see Beauty is still alive and kicking.”

  “She’s old,” Ben said, “but still a great trail horse. Figured you’d enjoy riding her for old time’s sake. Go ahead and saddle up.”

  I stood by, hands in pockets, until Ben took notice.

  “I’ll get what you need and show you how it’s done,” he said.

  When he returned, he handed me a blanket. I spread it over Blondie’s back as I’d seen Dr. Mendez do with Beauty.

  Ben hoisted the saddle over the blanket with a warning. “Blondie expands her belly during cinching. Then, when you think you’ve got the belt good and tight, she deflates it, leaving the girth loose.” Ben poked the horse’s belly and quickly tightened the belt. “Keep this in mind, or you and the saddle might slide off.”

  I swung into the saddle and caught up the reins. Then I reacquainted myself with Blondie as Ben made final adjustments to my stirrups. “Pete’s been guiding around here for years and is one of the best. Loves the earth and protects it. He’s a bit fussy for a cowboy, but you’ll like him once you get past his porcupine exterior.”

  No chance of that. “Thanks for arranging this, Ben.”

  He smiled and waved me on. “Better get going. Pete’s waiting.”

  “Later,” Dr. Mendez said, lifting his hand in farewell.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  NO SOONER HAD WE JOINED HIM than Pete began his orientation in a stern, no-nonsense voice. It was obvious that he took his job seriously and that his mission was to keep us safe. But was he capable of showing us a good time as well?

  “If we get rain, the trails’ll be slippery an’ the streams’ll
overflow, which’ll make it hard to get around. I don’t expect any trouble, but we’ll be in the wilderness, so keep an eye out.” He directed his talk to Joshua and me, likely aware that Dr. Mendez was already familiar with the terrain. I listened to every word, not forgetting for a minute my greenhorn status. I didn’t want to cause any trouble, especially since Ben had arranged this trip at my request, during the off-season.

  “We’re not go’n far today,” Pete said. “First camp’s six miles from here, only a few hours ride, but the spot’ll be secluded enough for you to get the feel of things. You can set up the tents, and I’ll cook us up a nice meal.”

  Pete, as outfitter and pathfinder, headed the line. Joshua rode behind him and I followed. Dr. Mendez brought up the rear, leading the two packhorses, his duty until tomorrow. “When the trail’s wide enough,” Pete said, “you can ride side-by-side, but on the narrow trails, I want you to ride single file like you’re do’n now.” He turned and looked at me. “Get what I’m saying?”

  I nodded. Killjoy.

  As time went on, our guide became quite entertaining and, to my surprise, friendly as well. “Check out them rock formations. Pretty awesome, huh? Like they’ve been painted by hand, with all them greens and golds and shadows. Them mountains hold the secrets of time.”

  Joshua sat in the middle of the saddle, heels down, chin up, adapting to his new mount with what appeared to be a deep understanding that demonstrated he’d ridden similar terrain many times before. I caught him peering at the bushy habitat alongside our path and wondered what he was looking for. That is, until a convey of quail exploded into rapid flight, with whirring wing beats and calling pit-pit-pit in alarm. His horse sidestepped and whinnied, but a gentle touch from Joshua distracted the horse from the perceived threat.

  After we’d ridden several hours, Pete pulled off the trail and motioned for us to follow. We dismounted in a flat clearing on a slight rise near a dense stand of trees; a campsite, according to Pete, located in a spot once used by Native Americans. We unsaddled and brushed our horses, after which Pete set up the camp kitchen and Dr. Mendez and Joshua pitched the tents like pros. I, on the other hand, proceeded to pound my finger instead of a tent stake and trip over one of the tent’s rope supports. When my male companions broke into laughter, I joined in. “Good thing I’ve got you strong, macho dudes to help me, or I’d be in big trouble.”

  A supply of logs had already been set up at the site, some positioned around the campfire ring for seating, so all Pete had to do was ignite sticks of kindling stacked tepee-style around a small pile of tinder to get a fire going. No portable potties, so I knew what I had to do, for once envying the men.

  As I headed out, Pete warned about poison oak and ticks. “Oh, and I’ve got somethin’ you might need.” With a broad smile, he handed me a roll of toilet paper and a shovel.

  I heard laughter as I made my way into the bushes, deciding there were limits to my love of the wilderness.

  Later, as we sat around the fire, lulled by the sounds of crackling flames, Pete suggested we scan the trees for birds.

  A pecking sound had Joshua pointing at a nearby oak.

  “It’s an Acorn Woodpecker,” Pete said.

  “How can you tell?” I asked. “I don’t see anything.”

  “By the sound,” was his reply. “And if ya get lucky enough to sight an Acorn Woodpecker up close, you’ll see it has a red crown and white forehead.”

  He went on to share comical stories about the bird’s habit of storing acorns in trees and poles.

  Next, we spotted what Pete described as a Western Scrub Jay perched low and in the open. It was blue and crestless, with a white throat and brown back. We listened to its harsh, nasal kweeah sound and deemed it an extremely noisy bird.

  “Prob’ly robbing acorns from the woodpeckers,” Pete said. And so it went, Joshua and I enthralled and the doctor listening politely, making few comments.

  Finally, Pete paused, only to continue in a voice meant to convey mystery and intrigue. “Now for the part ya won’t find in Audubon books.” His timing was perfect; it was getting dark, giving way to the sounds of crickets and croaking frogs. “The Red-Tailed Hawk is a large and magnificent bird, once revered by many Red Indian tribes. Its feathers were treasured and used in ceremonies, specially for healing.”

  Joshua and I strained forward, the perfect audience for the telling of magical tales with animals as teachers and healers.

  Pete spoke in a voice so low it rumbled, “The hawk teaches ya to look and see, specially for ways out of tough situations.”

  Then, right on cue, Dr. Mendez joined in, causing me to wonder—at least briefly—if he and Pete had rehearsed their lines in advance. “Messages of the spirit are close at hand but obscured by the obvious.”

  Silence followed, except for the pop and crackle of the fire and the steady hum of crickets.

  “If ya hear the ear-splittin’ cry of the hawk during a journey, beware,” Pete warned, his voice urgent, his eyes on mine. “Beware of a comin’ event that’ll knock ya off your feet.”

  Although he probably shared the same story on all of his tours, it felt like he had composed it especially for me. He was good, a storyteller, keeper of tomorrow, and he wasn’t done. “Or the hawk’s cry might be tellin’ ya to stand tall and show some grit when faced with an unexpected opportunity.”

  Although voiced in different words, his message so closely matched Ben’s that the beat of my heart kicked up a notch. A small hand gripped mine, and I tore my gaze from Pete’s. Joshua smiled, and I marveled at his sensitivity. Once again, he had perceived my discomfort.

  I glanced at Dr. Mendez, who had apparently noticed Joshua’s action. For a moment, he appeared thoughtful—probably thinking about the interconnectedness of all things as predicted by the holographic model. Then he raised his brows in see-what-I-mean? fashion.

  The fire crackled, an owl hooted, and for a while, no one spoke.

  “Anyone hungry?” Pete asked.

  “Yes,” we all said at once.