Found
My friend Treacy was visiting from L.A. and we impulsively decided to go for a walk in the backcountry. It was hot and we had very little water with us, but we did not anticipate being gone very long, and I had tossed a bag of dried mangoes and a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches into my backpack to fuel and sweeten the journey. I thought it would be wonderful for Treacy to see the views from a high point, and I was remembering bike rides up to Cresta in the ancient days when I was, as it seems to me now, impossibly strong and fit. (On our wedding day, Monte and I pedaled with a hearty group of friends from our place to the top of Cresta and back; we could not have imagined such an important occasion taking place without a bike ride.)
Now, decades later, I chose to drive to a dirt road called Las Panochas as our starting point.After parking the car where it wouldn’t be in anyone’s way, we trudged up the first hill, then descended into a short stretch I always called the Renaissance Place because I could so easily picture poets and troubadours picnicking there beneath the oak grove along the creek. We climbed a bit further and walked down into a long canyon called, appropriately enough, Long Canyon, then out into the heat and dust for a steeper ascent on a narrow winding road, across a cattle guard or two, and steadily towards the top.It isn’t that long a walk, really, but the noonday sun was bright and intense, and the air was still and heavy, and bees and gnats buzzed around us whenever we paused, and the ground radiated with a palpable heat, and the meager water we had brought with us was nearly depleted. In fact, just as I was about to swig down the very last sip, the bottle slipped from my hand and we both stood and watched in dismay as the sad little trickle of liquid was absorbed into the parched earth. Treacy started talking about an old Twilight Zone episode where the single survivor of a nuclear holocaust comes upon a library of books, and running forward in joy and relief at the prospect of being able to read, he trips, and his eyeglasses shatter…and I suppose that tells you something about our frame of mind at this moment.
But we were fine. At every hesitation point, we opted to go a little bit further. It would be a shame to have walked this far and not stood at the top where you can see the ocean below whichever way you look. The coastal hills of summer were the tawny haunches of lions…bleached and brown and soft looking. From our vantage above them, Treacy could see that they are living things, and how they almost breathe. Beyond, there was Cojo, and Government Point, and further west, Pt. Conception, Vandenburg, Tranquillon. It was hazy; the world below seemed a dream of blue and white.
We began the walk back, blithely and incessantly talking, trying gamely to ignore the chalkiness in our mouths, surprised at how many uphill stretches there were in what we thought would be a nice, smooth descent. Somehow the road looked different.
“Do you remember this?” I asked, pointing to a house, or a gate, or a distinctive pile of rocks.
“I think so,” Treacy replied each time, trusting in my long experience in these parts and greatly overrating my orienteering skills. As for me, I was becoming increasingly certain of one thing only: this was not the way back to the car. And I wasn’t lost in a panicky way, but I certainly was thirsty.
We came upon the driveway to a house where someone might be home. There was a truck with a red kayak, and a dusty Honda, and a white trailer with a surfboard leaning against it. A big friendly dog came down to greet us. I called out, “Hello? Hello? Anyone home?”
A handsome fellow in shorts came out, a shovel in his hand.It was Phil.
“Cynthia?”
He looked at me with bemusement.
“I know it sounds crazy, but we’ve gotten a little turned around here,” I said, “and we could use some directions. And some water. Especially some water.”
Phil ushered us in and immediately filled up two tall glasses of ice water and handed them to us, no questions asked. He set out a tupperware container of cold bits of cantaloupe, honeydew, and watermelon. Then he refilled our glasses and urged us to sit down.We were indeed at the house of a friend.
We explained our course and our intent and wondered how we had gone awry. Phil showed us on the map exactly what we had done, and it was easily remedied with a few extra miles, but if we were willing to wait while he finished his gardening work, he’d be happy to drive us back to the car.
Who could refuse? We enjoyed a visit, catching up with one another’s lives, investigating the garden, patting the dog on the head. We felt hydrated, centered, rescued.Within the wildness of this place, there is intimacy, and against the vast backdrop of weather and sea, community. We need each other more here.
And we drove with Phil into the laze of the day, along the ridge where the shooting stars grow, past occasional houses of people we know, recalling the stories, and being the now. Found.