Finding the Lost Coast
A gizzard-frying shriek reverberated from every cobwebbed corner in Molly’s house. Morgan held her breath: that was somebody getting killed, all right.
She squinted out the window, up to where she knew the road had to be. The moonless night was deep black: all she could see was a lone cherry tree branch drooping into the light spilling from the kitchen window where she stood. Her stomach sliced and wrenched, and she swallowed her heart back into place.
The gritty dishrag was easy to drape on top of the faucet so it could dry and maybe lose that musty smell. Adjusting it into perfect balance used up about 30 seconds. Okay, she was here to take care of Molly’s cabin and the animals, and obviously that shriek came from an animal since there weren’t any people around here closer than a mile. Molly’s cinnamon fluff ball dog Skipper was lunging at the door with teeth bared, ready for action, but she thought it would be simpler to leave her here.
She clenched the cold black flashlight in her fist as a club, and the fireplace poker in her other hand was her spear. Running up the rocky path to the road, she wondered about the bear that Molly saw breaking a branch from the apple tree.
The curled-up animal beside the road glowed white in the beam of the flashlight, like a sleeping unicorn. She tiptoed up as if afraid to wake it, and saw the littlest baby goat lying stone still with one leg trailing crookedly up the bank. The ghostly bulk of mama was hanging back in the shadows, so Morgan decided to back off and let her see to her kid.
All twelve chickens tuck-tucked around the coop as she squatted to latch the tiny door at the bottom; she counted them twice. When she returned across the road to the snow-white kid, it was unwinding its tangle of legs and tottering off after mama, who milled her way inside the goat shed with her wiser companions. Scared and playing dead, pretty smart little goat. What scared it?
A dizzy wave of adrenalin washed through her. She aimed her flashlight at her hand, and saw it bouncing as if it were holding a jackhammer. Home to bed, she’d think about it there. She jammed shut the damp-swollen door to the goat shed and scanned through the woods, her tiny shaft of light dancing over empty branches, empty road. Walking up the quarter mile of gravel back to her own cabin, she wondered again about Molly’s bear. Bears don’t eat goats, do they? It must have been a bobcat. Or a fox. But she didn’t see even a scratch on the kid’s pale hide, so maybe it was that bear.
In the cabin she was safe at last in her own little nest, gratefully snuggling into the fuzzy old flannel sheets. Halfway down the slide into sleep, falling into a dream of chicken feathers, she was jerked awake by the sound of barking. Oh no, that was Skipper. Was she still in Molly’s kitchen or had she found her way outside? Nothing Morgan could do about it now. She pulled the covers up over her ears to shut out the noise.
Next morning, she stepped out her cabin door and felt the first outdoor breath of the day sparkling in her lungs: more oxygen in the air up here, because of all the trees breathing it out.
She hesitated on the rickety wooden steps, as she dreaded finding what she was going to search for. What would she do with a bear in a tree anyway? Ignoring it was not an option, since Skipper was still barking. If it were a bear, Skipper’d had it treed all night. Poor little thing, she’d keep at it until she dropped from exhaustion and maybe the bear would jump down to eat her. Morgan wished she knew whether the bears around here were the vegetarian kind.
As she trudged across the meadow, Morgan wiped a fresh swath of diamonds off the grass with each step. She looked at the herringbone pattern of her footsteps leading back to the cabin. Maybe she should go back, light the fire, make some tea and think it through a little more. She didn’t mind housesitting for the week for Molly; she enjoyed it. Throw in the chickens and goats, that’s country life. But a bear? Who ever signed up to bear-sit?
She raked her hand through her hair. A few mixed-gold strands tangled in her fingers, and she scattered them to the grass, imagining a mouse using it as a nest. Maybe she should go back to the city to glide through her days as an ivory-tower psychology professor in a serene North Berkeley house.
This dawn wildlife safari was not entirely impulsive, she argued with her internal committee. She had the rudiments of a plan. Morgan clutched the grayed nylon leash in her pocket. She’d just go up and put the leash on Skipper and lead her away, saving face all round and letting the bear go about its business. Bear business, according to the grapevine, had included drinking milk out of Molly’s back porch refrigerator and doing the sardine-can opening trick on Jason’s 4-Runner when he was dumb enough to leave a pepperoni pizza in the back seat. Molly said this bear liked to lounge in madrone trees. Kind of a goofy, lazy bear. Just cared about food, as far as anybody knew. No rumors about a cub, which could cause a problem. Morgan was pretty sure she could get Skipper away without standing between the bear and the dog.
Ah, malarkey. Morgan knew she didn’t have a clue about what she was doing. Well, she could at least check it out. She automatically stepped over the spot in the road where the ants’ supply line ran. Many a day she would hunker down to watch them carry grass seed twice their size. They weren’t up yet this morning.
Following the sound of Skipper’s bark, she was surprised at how much darker it was under the trees. It looked downright eerie, the forest evaporating as the dawn mist lifted off the trees. No matter that it was too dim in here to see very clearly; who could miss anything as big as a bear? Morgan scanned the branches intently for a looming black hulk.
She almost tripped over the little dog, who had stopped barking. Morgan stopped short to look at Skipper, puzzled, and felt the hair on the back of her neck dance. She was being watched. She followed Skipper’s line of sight up over her own right shoulder, and the golden inscrutable gaze of a mountain lion seized her. Oddly calm, Morgan thought that the lion had a much squarer face than that of a house cat. Her six feet of feline grace draped so seamlessly around the tawny madrone branch that she appeared to have grown from the tree.
In the silence, a vibration filled the air as if a soundless gong had been struck when the cat’s eyes locked on hers. Morgan didn’t know if she received a benediction or last rites. She noticed that the blood pounding in her ears slowed down. Everything slowed down. The lion did not move a muscle; she stared with gleaming otherworldly eyes. Not even her tail twitched, which Morgan took as a good sign. This was the moment of a lifetime, to meet a mountain lion face to face at dawn in the forest.
The vibration of the silent gong broke up like a crackling radio signal into warning voices. There are rules about encounters with mountain lions. Run! Don’t move! Stare back! Drop your eyes, don’t challenge!
The voices were tinny and pointless. She and the lion looked deeper into each other’s eyes and came to an understanding. The huge cat had tired of the noise, and if it was all the same to them, she would rather they cleared out of her space. Morgan inched her hand down smoothly to clip the leash on Skipper. She angled slowly off the way she’d come, without turning her back until she’d gone many steps. The lion rested regally content on her branch. Morgan realized the sleek animal wasn’t hungry. If she had been, she would have long since pounced and eaten Skipper, which, given the hours of shrill barking the carnivore had endured, she had had every right to do.
Morgan’s footsteps in the flattened grass leading back to the cabin were still there, but they didn’t fit anymore. Her stride had lengthened. She put Skipper inside her cabin for temporary safekeeping, with a pat and a handful of dog treats. When Morgan turned down the hill to Molly’s chicken house, she glimpsed the lion gliding into the trees at the bottom of the ravine. Well, maybe she’d better wait to let the chickens out.
Morgan decided to go on a good long prowl up the ridge. She found the place where she played a game: sneaking up over the rise to see if the same majestic vista still reigned, rank upon mysterious rank of mixed conifer ridges marching to the sea. Had they paved paradise and put up a parking lot? Not today. She stretched out on her granite slab in the sun, feeling slinky.
A wisp of cloud trailing across the diffident morning sun caused her to button her shirt. The granite felt cold, so Morgan stood up, her feeling of exaltation evaporating. Then her eyes drifted to the open arms of a madrone tree; warm, flesh colored branches curved toward her in welcome. She picked her way toward it through the fallen twigs. Stretching her arms around its trunk, she rested her cheek on the silky bark and stroked its curves and muscles. She imagined the powerful body of the mountain lion purring under her hands.
She squinted out the window, up to where she knew the road had to be. The moonless night was deep black: all she could see was a lone cherry tree branch drooping into the light spilling from the kitchen window where she stood. Her stomach sliced and wrenched, and she swallowed her heart back into place.
The gritty dishrag was easy to drape on top of the faucet so it could dry and maybe lose that musty smell. Adjusting it into perfect balance used up about 30 seconds. Okay, she was here to take care of Molly’s cabin and the animals, and obviously that shriek came from an animal since there weren’t any people around here closer than a mile. Molly’s cinnamon fluff ball dog Skipper was lunging at the door with teeth bared, ready for action, but she thought it would be simpler to leave her here.
She clenched the cold black flashlight in her fist as a club, and the fireplace poker in her other hand was her spear. Running up the rocky path to the road, she wondered about the bear that Molly saw breaking a branch from the apple tree.
The curled-up animal beside the road glowed white in the beam of the flashlight, like a sleeping unicorn. She tiptoed up as if afraid to wake it, and saw the littlest baby goat lying stone still with one leg trailing crookedly up the bank. The ghostly bulk of mama was hanging back in the shadows, so Morgan decided to back off and let her see to her kid.
All twelve chickens tuck-tucked around the coop as she squatted to latch the tiny door at the bottom; she counted them twice. When she returned across the road to the snow-white kid, it was unwinding its tangle of legs and tottering off after mama, who milled her way inside the goat shed with her wiser companions. Scared and playing dead, pretty smart little goat. What scared it?
A dizzy wave of adrenalin washed through her. She aimed her flashlight at her hand, and saw it bouncing as if it were holding a jackhammer. Home to bed, she’d think about it there. She jammed shut the damp-swollen door to the goat shed and scanned through the woods, her tiny shaft of light dancing over empty branches, empty road. Walking up the quarter mile of gravel back to her own cabin, she wondered again about Molly’s bear. Bears don’t eat goats, do they? It must have been a bobcat. Or a fox. But she didn’t see even a scratch on the kid’s pale hide, so maybe it was that bear.
In the cabin she was safe at last in her own little nest, gratefully snuggling into the fuzzy old flannel sheets. Halfway down the slide into sleep, falling into a dream of chicken feathers, she was jerked awake by the sound of barking. Oh no, that was Skipper. Was she still in Molly’s kitchen or had she found her way outside? Nothing Morgan could do about it now. She pulled the covers up over her ears to shut out the noise.
Next morning, she stepped out her cabin door and felt the first outdoor breath of the day sparkling in her lungs: more oxygen in the air up here, because of all the trees breathing it out.
She hesitated on the rickety wooden steps, as she dreaded finding what she was going to search for. What would she do with a bear in a tree anyway? Ignoring it was not an option, since Skipper was still barking. If it were a bear, Skipper’d had it treed all night. Poor little thing, she’d keep at it until she dropped from exhaustion and maybe the bear would jump down to eat her. Morgan wished she knew whether the bears around here were the vegetarian kind.
As she trudged across the meadow, Morgan wiped a fresh swath of diamonds off the grass with each step. She looked at the herringbone pattern of her footsteps leading back to the cabin. Maybe she should go back, light the fire, make some tea and think it through a little more. She didn’t mind housesitting for the week for Molly; she enjoyed it. Throw in the chickens and goats, that’s country life. But a bear? Who ever signed up to bear-sit?
She raked her hand through her hair. A few mixed-gold strands tangled in her fingers, and she scattered them to the grass, imagining a mouse using it as a nest. Maybe she should go back to the city to glide through her days as an ivory-tower psychology professor in a serene North Berkeley house.
This dawn wildlife safari was not entirely impulsive, she argued with her internal committee. She had the rudiments of a plan. Morgan clutched the grayed nylon leash in her pocket. She’d just go up and put the leash on Skipper and lead her away, saving face all round and letting the bear go about its business. Bear business, according to the grapevine, had included drinking milk out of Molly’s back porch refrigerator and doing the sardine-can opening trick on Jason’s 4-Runner when he was dumb enough to leave a pepperoni pizza in the back seat. Molly said this bear liked to lounge in madrone trees. Kind of a goofy, lazy bear. Just cared about food, as far as anybody knew. No rumors about a cub, which could cause a problem. Morgan was pretty sure she could get Skipper away without standing between the bear and the dog.
Ah, malarkey. Morgan knew she didn’t have a clue about what she was doing. Well, she could at least check it out. She automatically stepped over the spot in the road where the ants’ supply line ran. Many a day she would hunker down to watch them carry grass seed twice their size. They weren’t up yet this morning.
Following the sound of Skipper’s bark, she was surprised at how much darker it was under the trees. It looked downright eerie, the forest evaporating as the dawn mist lifted off the trees. No matter that it was too dim in here to see very clearly; who could miss anything as big as a bear? Morgan scanned the branches intently for a looming black hulk.
She almost tripped over the little dog, who had stopped barking. Morgan stopped short to look at Skipper, puzzled, and felt the hair on the back of her neck dance. She was being watched. She followed Skipper’s line of sight up over her own right shoulder, and the golden inscrutable gaze of a mountain lion seized her. Oddly calm, Morgan thought that the lion had a much squarer face than that of a house cat. Her six feet of feline grace draped so seamlessly around the tawny madrone branch that she appeared to have grown from the tree.
In the silence, a vibration filled the air as if a soundless gong had been struck when the cat’s eyes locked on hers. Morgan didn’t know if she received a benediction or last rites. She noticed that the blood pounding in her ears slowed down. Everything slowed down. The lion did not move a muscle; she stared with gleaming otherworldly eyes. Not even her tail twitched, which Morgan took as a good sign. This was the moment of a lifetime, to meet a mountain lion face to face at dawn in the forest.
The vibration of the silent gong broke up like a crackling radio signal into warning voices. There are rules about encounters with mountain lions. Run! Don’t move! Stare back! Drop your eyes, don’t challenge!
The voices were tinny and pointless. She and the lion looked deeper into each other’s eyes and came to an understanding. The huge cat had tired of the noise, and if it was all the same to them, she would rather they cleared out of her space. Morgan inched her hand down smoothly to clip the leash on Skipper. She angled slowly off the way she’d come, without turning her back until she’d gone many steps. The lion rested regally content on her branch. Morgan realized the sleek animal wasn’t hungry. If she had been, she would have long since pounced and eaten Skipper, which, given the hours of shrill barking the carnivore had endured, she had had every right to do.
Morgan’s footsteps in the flattened grass leading back to the cabin were still there, but they didn’t fit anymore. Her stride had lengthened. She put Skipper inside her cabin for temporary safekeeping, with a pat and a handful of dog treats. When Morgan turned down the hill to Molly’s chicken house, she glimpsed the lion gliding into the trees at the bottom of the ravine. Well, maybe she’d better wait to let the chickens out.
Morgan decided to go on a good long prowl up the ridge. She found the place where she played a game: sneaking up over the rise to see if the same majestic vista still reigned, rank upon mysterious rank of mixed conifer ridges marching to the sea. Had they paved paradise and put up a parking lot? Not today. She stretched out on her granite slab in the sun, feeling slinky.
A wisp of cloud trailing across the diffident morning sun caused her to button her shirt. The granite felt cold, so Morgan stood up, her feeling of exaltation evaporating. Then her eyes drifted to the open arms of a madrone tree; warm, flesh colored branches curved toward her in welcome. She picked her way toward it through the fallen twigs. Stretching her arms around its trunk, she rested her cheek on the silky bark and stroked its curves and muscles. She imagined the powerful body of the mountain lion purring under her hands.