Idol pursuits, p.14
Idol Pursuits, page 14
One hundred miles north of Los Angeles, on a remote plain dominated by a singular alkali wetland, the turnoff she had been looking for came into view. As expected, the GPS dispensed its timely advice. She didn’t really need the help, though. Since leaving the main thoroughfare, she’d encountered no landmark more prominent than this T in the road. The soothing automated voice from her phone mitigated the loneliness, however. Its steady presence her one companion.
The unpaved course she maneuvered onto ran straight as an arrow across the flat plain towards the towering mountains to the west. Heather flipped the sunshade to shield her eyes from the blazing rays of the afternoon sun. Steadily, the track climbed ever upwards. Its initially smooth gradient gave way to washboard ripples in coarse-grained soil. The beaten Ford Ranger she had purchased earlier that year repeatedly vibrated in protest. She eased off the accelerator to alleviate the jarring discomfort.
At the next fork, she intentionally chose the rougher-looking path. Here, the curves grew numerous and tightened, the surface increasingly pockmarked by deep pits and hollows. She winced as her truck shuddered violently from repeated blows to its chassis. Had the impacts caused damage? Did that matter anymore? Heather shifted down a gear. Sizable boulders slowed her pace even further, necessitating precise maneuvers to avoid dropping off the shoulder into a crevasse. That so many hindering rocks remained in place suggested the path was rarely maintained or traveled.
Eventually, she encountered a wide clearing marked by a small, decaying sign that had been partially toppled. There was enough space for two vehicles. Overkill under the circumstances. Heather parked, walked to the placard, and rubbed dirt off its face. The letters carved into its splintered wood read, ‘Trestle 8 mi.’ From her vantage point, she could only see a few yards down a hiking trail obscured by brush.
Out of habit, Heather reached into the truck for a water bottle. She debated leaving it behind. Why carry unnecessary weight? Food too. On second thought, why not just leave the keys? And that bothersome phone? Travel light. Right? One last time, before hitting the trail, she surveyed the unbroken valley below, the one she had just traversed. It sat silent.
Empty.
Heather had learned of her destination while reading about historical sites lost to time. The abandoned railroad trestle sat deep in the heart of Muddle Creek Gorge. The place intrigued her. Its backstory seemed appropriate. The structure represented the last testament to one entrepreneur’s indomitable spirit of ambition over sensibility. It was all that remained of a failed railroad project intended to connect California’s coast near Santa Maria with the Great Central Valley. Heather could relate to J. D. Hermanson’s dashed dream despite having poured his heart and treasure into the undertaking. How could anything else matter after disappointment like that?
The hiking trail was exposed to bright sunshine most of the way. Heather estimated it would take another two hours for the sun to sink behind the mountain range. The grade upward was gradual, designed to accommodate a working mainline. Rails had rusted from disuse but still appeared solid. Ties were splintered and dry from constant exposure to the elements. Heather frequently encountered plant growth along the right-of-way, some heavy enough to force short detours, yet none tall enough to provide shade from the relentless sun. Her only respite from the searing rays came from an occasional short tunnel carved into the mountains.
Halfway through the journey, she discovered a trio of old passenger rail cars abandoned on a siding. The windows had been shattered by vandals. Graffiti covered every exposed surface inside and out. A talented artist had once taken the time to paint a lovely landscape featuring a cowboy sleeping against a mesquite tree along one whole length of the middle car. Later taggers, however, had scrawled their unwelcome additions over it, significantly diminishing the mural’s impact. Heather identified with the flagrant disrespect shown to the original artist.
After seemingly hours of uphill climbing, Heather began to regret not bringing water. What harm would it have been to remain as comfortable as possible, for as long as possible? Eventually, the sun disappeared from view behind the mountain peak. The air around her instantly felt cooler. She figured the sky would remain bright long enough to finish her trip. The darkening gloom in the distance suggested fair weather would not hold much longer. A chill breeze picked up, tickling her skin with a slight electrical charge.
Past the seven-mile mark, Heather encountered another tunnel. This one, though, was completely dark. Could it be that long? She took a deep breath and treaded into shadow, undaunted by the intimidating environment but hoping to quickly see light at the far end. It wasn’t long before she learned the truth. The tunnel had entirely collapsed, blocking further progress.
Now anxious, Heather returned to the entrance. She was relieved to find a well-established utility trail carved into the mountainside. The detour took a long and winding path around the shoulder of the peak, making it clear why a tunnel had been desired in the first place. Heather fretted at the length of the divergence until it turned back towards the direction of the railroad. In due course, she entered the mouth of a steep gorge at the bottom of which a small stream trickled far below. This had to be Muddle Creek, she reasoned. The sky continued to darken with the setting sun. As Heather turned one final corner, her final destination came into view.
The magnificent rail line emerged from the far end of the blocked tunnel, emptying on top of the trestle’s massive timber pilings. Curving gently hundreds of feet over the gorge, the impressive wooden structure stood 15 or more stories above the ground at its tallest point. The quality engineering required to rise above this inhospitable environment was awe-inspiring. Heather almost felt ashamed at deriving so much pleasure from the view.
The dense redwood beams that formed the trestle’s skeleton appeared weather-beaten but held firm under her footsteps. The walkways on either side, however, fared less well. Their inferior materials proved no match for the gorge’s harsh elements. Several cross beams designed to support the metal pedestrian grating looked ready to fall away at any moment. Heather stuck to the railbed, where the sturdiest engineering methods had been employed.
Upon reaching the bridge’s center, she sat on one of the rusty rails. Before her, the walkway structure had collapsed entirely, its remnants dangling in the wind like branches from a dead tree. At last, nothing remained between her and the creek bed below but many yards of open air. Heather watched the shallow water trickle through the rocky channel. Occasionally, small pools formed in deeper pockets, but most of the watercourse appeared shallow or entirely dry. She concluded that the forces necessary to carve this path only manifested during wetter seasons.
Heather swung her legs back and forth over the edge of the trestle like the little girl she no longer was. She peered into the gorge with an unfocused gaze for untold minutes, her back turned to the broader valley beyond. The pale rays of the sun were long gone. The terminal light of day glimmered in the western sky. Clouds rolled over the mountain ridge, sending a deathly cold breeze howling through the canyon. The redwood timbers hummed like a shrill horn. Their oil-treated pungency filled the air. Unseen animals emerged from hidden lairs to scurry over rocks, sending pebbles over the edge, crashing to their fate on the dark, unyielding boulders below.
Heather shuffled the letters she had written to family members, bandmates, and close friends, along with an open message to fans. She found a deep splinter in the redwood beam near where she sat and tucked them into the crack. There they’d stay until someone found them, she surmised.
The time had come. There was no use delaying the inevitable any longer. Heather stood, feet balanced precariously across one rail. It wouldn’t take much to lose equilibrium now. She took a deep breath to clear her mind.
All you have to do is lean forward, Heather. One inch will do.
Lose your balance. Ease your pain.
Just enough to shift momentum.
You can do it.
That’s all.
It’s easy.
C’mon.
Just…..
one….
tiny…
inch.
13
SPIRITUS MUNDI
“Did you hear that?” Steve asked, his voice barely audible in the suddenly thick chapel air.
Sun-hee had. She immediately stopped playing. The interrupted Chopin chords echoed through the vaulted arches of the chapel. Steve looked up towards the balcony, but the dimmed light of the two remaining candle nubs barely illuminated the edge of the piano, let alone the back of the church one story up. “What was that?” she whispered.
Steve stood frozen, not daring to even attempt an answer. “It sounded like a door slam or something.” He, too, whispered, but something in his voice suggested disbelief in that explanation.
A moment later, Erin approached. She looked pale and frazzled. Eyes wide as coasters. “Where’s Mindy?”
Steve pointed towards the pews as Mindy sat up from her resting spot in the second row. Without prompting, she, too, surveyed the back balcony.
“Um, you guys. I think we should go,” said Erin.
“Did you see something?” asked Sun-hee.
“Like now.”
Nobody argued. Sun-hee closed the piano’s fallboard and gathered her music sheets. Steve snatched the remaining candles, and soon, the quartet stepped into the now sunless and chill night air. The comforting sound of the door latch snapping shut behind them eased their anxieties for a second. Still, that momentary feeling of relief quickly vanished into a disquieting angst.
During the walk home, Sun-hee struggled with her emotions. It was not so much the sound nor anything she saw that bothered her. In a heartbeat, the peaceful atmosphere inside the chapel had been replaced by a pervasive dread. Everyone present had experienced something unusual; that much was clear. What exactly remained a mystery to all.
Back at The Hovel, the four huddled in a tight circle, deriving small pleasure from sipped mugs of hot chocolate spiked with peppermint schnapps. Nobody spoke about the incident, nor did anyone wish to stay alone.
One by one, they dozed in their chairs. At some point during the night, Sun-hee woke with a troubling question. Where’s Heather?
* * *
He loaded a single cartridge of dove-shot into the open barrel of his Bay State 12-gauge shotgun, then closed it with a snap. The remaining 10 shells were securely tucked into his vest’s front loops.
Despite the site’s isolation, the hunter locked his truck up tight. Past experience taught him to be wary. Taking a deep breath of clean air, which he always found relaxing, he trod off the trail into the open countryside. Knee-high grasses covered the foothills. He beelined to a series of gullies lined with sagebrush, creosote bushes, and thistle, knowing his prey would likely be found there. His familiarity with the area made it possible to navigate in the dark. From the cloudbank gathering towards the west, that seemed likelier than before.
There were two main reasons the hunter spent so much time chasing ground-nesters. Besides the thrill of the sport itself (quail can be pretty challenging despite their small size), there was the satisfaction of spending time alone in the great outdoors. Neither of these excuses drew him here at this moment, though. The current trip was therapeutic in nature. Or more like an escape if he was being honest.
In the months since his girlfriend’s latest failed attempt to give up drinking, they had argued constantly. Initially, the confrontations were intense but respectful. As the weeks wore on without any sign of improvement, civility broke down. Accusations flung between them like poisoned daggers.
Earlier that afternoon, they had reached a breaking point. He nearly exploded when his girlfriend accused him of insensitivity to her plight. How could she not understand the constant sacrifices he made? Her accusation was unbearable. He raged. Sensing the dangerous trajectory of their discourse and hoping to avoid a repeat of past regrettable actions, he fled to the one place that could soothe his anger. Packing a shotgun and camping equipment, he departed for his beloved uplands.
California Quail is an often overlooked and underappreciated gamebird, but the hunter preferred them to any other type. The mid-sized fowl were a fun challenge, and his success rate at finding them was high. Their deliciousness didn’t hurt, either.
By sheer coincidence, this was the first anniversary since Mack passed. That memory pained him. Good bird dogs were hard to find. After losing his Weimaraner to old age, the hunter had no desire to start training a new one. To manage without a dog, he taught himself to think like quail. Familiar with their preferred habitat, he knew what they liked to eat and understood the meaning of their vocalizations. He could predict how they’d react to specific approaches and guessed more often than not in what direction they’d flush depending on the terrain.
Deep in the brush, he listened for the telltale signs of his prey’s presence. This distinct three-syllable call sounded like they were singing “Chi-ca-go” repeatedly. He knew quail frequented the area. They always did. It was foolproof. Despite many requests for information from friends, the hunter never revealed the location of his favorite spot. It wasn’t out of a deep-seated need for secrecy; he simply didn’t want it to become overhunted, thus losing value.
That evening, though, it was difficult to concentrate on the task. Another look at the clouds gathering over the headlands near the Muddle Creek Gorge suggested his spontaneous expedition had been ill-advised. The guilt he felt at leaving his girlfriend in such a vulnerable state tore at him. Quail seemed inconsequential in comparison to the troubles at home. Yet, there he was. Might as well make the journey worthwhile and maybe bag a good meal.
A moment later, in the failing light, not 25 feet ahead, he spotted a covey scurrying for cover beneath a large bush. Behind the foliage lay an open gulley lined with short, dry grass on either side. The terrain was favorable, provided the prey fled in that direction, as he sensed they would.
Stepping carefully, the hunter approached. Mack usually would have taken over at this point. At 20 feet away, the covey bolted from cover and fled for their lives. Five yards out, the group split in two. One ran down the gulley while the other took flight. The hunter picked the largest flyer out. Despite scant illumination, he had a clear shot, well within range, but then stopped. He lowered the shotgun, unable to explain what had come over him.
Never had he hesitated before. With his prey now long gone, the hunter questioned his well-being. He felt healthy enough, but something wasn’t right, and he couldn’t put a finger on it. Suddenly, the idea of hunting, an activity he always loved, seemed irrelevant. The idea of returning home empty-handed, having spent time and gasoline to reach this exact spot, was slightly less revolting than the thought of staying there a moment longer. Rather than camp for the night, as he initially intended, the hunter began the long voyage home in the dark.
14
CHASING WATERFALLS
A knock on the bedroom door woke her. Grace listened to the four chapel intruders. She normally would have dismissed their concerns as a misguided intervention. Heather was a grown woman, capable of making decisions and going where she pleased. But something about Sun-hee’s observation gnawed at her. Grace, too, had gone to bed sensing something off-kilter about the evening, though unable to articulate what exactly. But with the others sharing their intuitions, action had to be taken. She called an emergency meeting.
Despite the hour, Magnus and Cesar also received word and arrived at 2:00 a.m. They found the six Made in Heaven members and Steve clustered around Grace’s laptop at the dining room table. Eight sets of eyes watched her actions on the monitor. Occasionally, shouts of advice interrupted rounds of nervous pacing.
Each attempt to contact Heather resulted in the same recorded message. ‘The subscriber you have dialed is not available.’
“Her phone is too far from a cell tower,” explained Steve. “That’s why we’re getting that.”
“Where could she be?” asked Grace.
“She never came back from her hike,” said Mindy.
“I asked about it at breakfast this morning, but she didn’t respond,” said Erin.
“This is so unlike her,” noted June.
“If this is another one of your crazy stunts, Magnus, I swear I’m going to knock you all the way to Pittsburgh with my bare fists,” said Grace.
“I assure you there’ll be no need for that,” he responded grimly.
“We should file a missing person report,” suggested Vanessa.
“I know her phone has monitoring software on it,” said Grace. “Normally, the geolocation feature is off, but with a password, I might be able to activate it. Does anyone have any ideas?”
They tried all the obvious ones, like ‘12345’, her birthday, or even simply ‘password,’ but Heather was too smart for that nonsense. They posited other suggestions, but none worked. Into the night, they fretted.
* * *
Hearing a voice in that isolated place wasn’t startling. In fact, it was comforting. Instead of plummeting headlong towards the rocky creek below, Heather found herself balancing in tenuous equilibrium on the lip of the railroad trestle.
The woman’s voice, Heather guessed in her mid-to-late 30s, sounded strange yet familiar at once. Her question lingered in Heather’s mind, though. “Is this how you repay them?” the woman had asked in Korean.
Without looking back, Heather responded, “What do you mean?”
“Punish those who love you; reward those who don’t?”
“I never looked at it that way.”
“How long have you been thinking about this?”
Heather never questioned how the woman could know so much about her or why she was even there in the first place. “It’s not what it seems. I just came for the view,” she responded.
