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by Kimberly Heggen August 1999 to January 2000
Well, here we go again. I had no intentions of starting another serial so
soon, but Jim appeared to me in a dream...
This takes place immediately following “Strong Enough To Be Your
Friend” but will be a story in its own right. It’ll make more sense
if you read that one first.
The song lyrics quoted in this piece are from the song “The History
In Your Eyes” by Randy Stonehill. I’ve used them without permission,
but I don’t think he’d mind too much.
We’ll get to hear things from Jim’s POV this time. No major spoilers
for episodes. Probably a PG rating.
Summary: While trying to return his life to normalcy, Jim feels the drive
to test himself to the breaking point.
This is for all those who wrote and said that they wanted a bit of an epilogue
to “Strong Enough”. It started off innocently enough as a brief
epilogue, but got away from me fairly quickly.
It’s also for inkling, self-confessed JimBabe (and geographic neighbor,
relatively speaking) who regularly eggs me on. And it’s for Ruby: thanks
for your totally honest feedback that never fails to challenge me, and for
your warped sense of humor.
Thanks, as always, to Shycat for housing my stories! You’re the greatest!
I can’t say what you want to hear
Reality and awareness return to me slowly, in snatches. First, my brain begins
to process signals from my body: the all-over muscle aches, the cramp in
my neck, the just-right softness of the bed. I notice that my mouth tastes
foul and my eyes feel gritty, and I stink.
I open one eye, and squint at my bedside clock. 12:04 p.m. Why am I asleep
in the middle of the day? And why do I feel like I’ve just climbed a
small mountain?
Shaking my head, I roll over on to my other side, and freeze as my eyes catch
sight of the softly breathing figure scrunched way over on the far edge of
the bed.
Okay, third question. What’s Sandburg doing sleeping on my bed?
Um, actually, that would be “in”, technically, not “on”;
he’s partially burrowed under the blankets, but he’s as close to
the edge as he can possibly get. And he looks worse than I feel. What happened?
And then, the memories come crashing back, rolling into my consciousness
like relentless waves onto a deserted beach.
I’m sleeping in the daytime because it’s the first time I’ve
been allowed to sleep in three days. That must be why I feel so rotten, too;
it’ll probably take more than a few hours of good sleep to get rid of
the effects.
I seem to recall getting a little strange toward the end, and I’ve got
the uncomfortable feeling that I may have tried to do something dangerous...
something involving the balcony. What did I do, pick up Sandburg and dangle
him over the edge? I shake my head to dispel the half-memory. That must be
why the kid is here; he must have thought he needed to keep an eye on me.
Or maybe he just passed out where he fell; he must have been nearly as tired
as I was.
His heart rate sounds slow and steady, and he looks as if he’ll be out
for a while. Moving stealthily, I reach down and pull the comforter up around
his shoulders against the chill air of the loft. I’ll die of embarrassment
if he wakes and catches me fussing over him; but he looks cold, and my protective
instinct seems to be stronger than my desire to keep up my gruff front.
Satisfied that he looks comfortable, I roll over and revel in the luxury
of sinking back into sleep.
************************************************************************
When I wake next, Sandburg’s gone. The bed is still faintly warm where
he was lying, so I don’t think he’s been gone all that long. I
smell coffee, and I hear comfortable domestic sounds coming from the kitchen.
I roll slowly to a sitting position and stretch my neck and back carefully,
assessing my body for residua of the ordeal of the last few days. I’m
still a little stiff, but it could be worse. My senses are still damped down
to the same level as everyone else’s; you can be damn sure I’m
not going to try any stupid stunts with them without Blair at my side to
watch for trouble.
Leaving the warm cocoon of bedding with a faint sense of regret, I slip into
my bathrobe and pad quietly down the stairs. I stop halfway down, looking
down into the kitchen. Blair’s facing away from me, stirring something
with a wire whisk. As I watch, he sets the bowl down on the counter and
half-walks, half-slides on his stockinged feet towards the refrigerator,
doing a little spin as he opens the fridge door and takes out the milk.
A faint smile appears on my face: as usual, the kid’s motions are touched
with what seems to be more than mortal grace. Oh, I can move as silently
as a cat when I need to, in spite of my size, but that’s from training.
Blair seems to do it instinctively, and it amazes me that the hellish weekend
we’ve just been through hasn’t brought him back to the earth where
the rest of us cloddish humans dwell.
I resume my descent of the stairs, this time purposefully making more noise.
Blair looks up a second later, and his face breaks into one of those
sun-coming-up smiles that the kid does so well. The expression almost hides
the residual fatigue around his eyes.
“Jim! You’re up!” He sets the milk down next to the bowl
he’s been stirring and watches as I enter the kitchen.
“You have a keen sense of the obvious, Chief.” I reach into the
cupboard for a mug and pour myself a cup of coffee. Ah, he made the good
stuff.
He ignores my sarcasm. “How do you feel?” he asks casually, studying
my face. “Are you sure you should be up? I mean, you should sleep as
long as you need to.”
“I feel fine. A bit tired, that’s all,” I shrug. “What
are you fixing?”
“French toast. I though breakfast food would still sound good, even
though it’s so late.” He returns to his bowl of batter and his
whisk.
I ease into one of the dining room chairs with my coffee in front of me,
and contemplate the sunlight streaming in through the windows. Another nice
day. Yes, even in Cascade we do finally get summer; problem is, it seems
to be only about three weeks long. What a shame to sleep away a nice day
like this, or spend it on useful errands like doctor visits or updates to
one’s boss.
Mentally, I chide myself for such irresponsible thoughts. Both Dr. Philpott
and Simon undoubtedly are curious as to how I’m doing. Simon... wait
a minute, wasn’t he here most of last night? When did he leave?
“Hey, Chief, wasn’t Simon here last night?”
“He left a while ago.” I can hear the hiss and crackle of the oil
as Blair slaps the French toast into the pan. “I think he crashed out
down here on the couch for a couple of hours, but he was gone when I came...
downstairs.”
Something in the way he trails off makes me look over at him, just in time
to see him duck his face back behind that ever-present curtain of hair. Ah,
he’s a tiny bit embarrassed. Undoubtedly, I wasn’t supposed to
know that he’d stayed upstairs to watch over me.
I need to thank him for that. And it goes deeper: he worked pretty hard the
last few days, all in the name of getting me cured from this little seizure
problem. Let’s hope it’s cured, anyway.
“Thanks for keeping an eye on me, Chief,” I say, quietly and
matter-of-factly. “I know you would have been more comfortable down
here in your own bed.”
That brings a sudden abashed grin to his face. “Jim, I was so tired
by then, I could have slept on the kitchen floor and it wouldn’t have
mattered. It was no trouble.”
He comes over to the table with a plate of heavenly-smelling French toast.
“Dig in. There’s more where this came from.”
“Smells great.” I observe. “Looks great. I can’t believe
how hungry I am.” I then proceed to drown my breakfast in maple syrup,
and we both shut up and concentrate on the food.
After a goodly interval of quiet, companionable munching, my brain picks
up where my train of thought derailed earlier. The sun is shining, and it’s
still relatively early in the afternoon. I wonder...
“Chief, do you have classes today?”
He shakes his head. “It’s a University holiday, Founder’s
Day. I don’t have classes until Wednesday.”
“Want to get away tonight and go camping? Maybe do a little fishing?
You’d have to drive, but...”
A slow smile spreads across his face. “Jim, sometimes I think you really
are psychic.”
“I take it that’s a yes?” Now, he hardly looks tired at all.
Delighted, surprised, but not tired.
“More than a yes. How long will it take you to get ready?”
**********************************************************************
I can see the history in your eyes
By four o’clock, we’re packed up and on the road. The spot I have
in mind is about a two-hour drive, so that should give us plenty of time
to set up camp before dark.
I’m always amazed at how flexible and spontaneous Sandburg is. I like
to have things planned out, settled, arranged ahead of time, at least as
far as my personal life is concerned. Obviously police work isn’t that
way; I have to take the events as they come at me.
But he’s not like that. He’s game for everything, on a moment’s
notice. All-night stakeout? A last-minute undercover assignment that’ll
make Simon’s hair turn grey? A trip to the mountains? Whatever comes
up, he approaches it as an adventure and not just a monkey wrench in his
plans.
I wish I could do that. But then again, I actually show up on time for my
appointments, and he has a somewhat more relaxed attitude toward such things.
The truck hits another rut in the road, jouncing the contents. Us, that is.
With a phenomenal effort, I bite back the admonition on my lips. The kid’s
a good and careful driver, but he’s not used to driving something as
big and lumbering as my truck. He doesn’t need my backseat driving to
distract him.
He’s exercised the driver’s privilege of choosing the radio station;
thankfully, the one he’s chosen plays a mixture of old and new, with
only the occasional strange alternative song. If I’m lucky, we’ll
get out of radio range before anything else like that comes on again.
And why would a bunch a male musicians call themselves the “Bare
Naked Ladies”, anyway? Maybe I didn’t hear that one right.
We come to a fork in the Forest Service road, and Blair pulls the pickup
to a halt. “Which way now?” he asks, peering into the dimness under
the trees.
I study the road markers, pulling up a long-ago memory. “The left. Road
3554.”
He stares at me. “Jim, are you sure? That road goes straight up, man.”
I look at him with poorly concealed amusement. “It’s not that steep,
Chief. The truck’ll do fine.”
“Yeah, but I thought we were going to go fishing. Are you telling me
there’s a good trout stream up there?” he asks, dubiously studying
the road.
“We can go fishing tomorrow morning. There’s something better up
there.”
“What?”
I smile in what I hope is an enigmatic manner. “Just be patient,
Junior.”
He shrugs, his easy-going and adventurous nature asserting itself once again.
“Hey, it’s your celebration, man. And your truck.” He pulls
off onto the left-hand road.
The new road is a little one-lane dirt affair, well-rutted by decades of
logging trucks. This hill hasn’t been logged in my lifetime, though,
so it’s started to make a recovery. The trees aren’t very big yet,
but at least there are trees.
We bounce around the cab with each bump of the road, as we wind slowly up
the hill. Sandburg grips the steering wheel so hard it looks like his arms
are going to pop out of their sockets with the next pothole. Watching his
obvious nervousness at driving under these conditions, I have to stifle a
smile.
We finally reach the top, with one last bounce that feels like it's knocking
the fillings out of my molars. As we come round the last bend in the road,
I'm careful to watch Blair's face for his reaction.
I'm not disappointed. His jaw drops. "A lookout tower! Jim, this is so totally
cool!"
He pulls the truck to a stop, about ten yards from the tower, and we climb
out. Up on this hill, it's still a couple of hours before sunset, and the
view is astonishingly beautiful. In every direction, we're surrounded by
sharp green hills, their perfection marred here and there by a clear-cut.
The tower itself stands on the highest point, and to my relief appears to
be in pretty good shape.
With the advent of weather satellites, fast-flying helicopters, and other
technology, the Forest Service has come to be less dependent on these old
fire lookout towers, and a few of them have been made available for use by
campers. I should have called to reserve this place, but I decided to take
a chance that its sheer remoteness would cause it to be available on a weeknight.
Since there are no other vehicles here, maybe we've gotten lucky. Even if
some backpacker has the place staked out, it's worth coming up here just
for the view.
Not to mention the chance to witness a speechless Sandburg.
"Come on, Chief," I wave to him. "Let's climb up and see if anyone's beat
us up here." I head for the ladder, and he follows me... still amazingly
silent.
It's a long climb, and I can hear Blair puffing behind me as we reach the
top. Of course, neither of us thought to bring any of our gear with us, so
we'll be making this climb a couple more times. At least we won't have to
haul the tent up.
I emerge into a medium-sized wooden room, and turn back to give Blair a hand
up. I can't help but break into a smile as he steps up next to me.
"Pretty cool, huh, Chief? Our own tree fort for the night." The structure
is roofed, but there's a wraparound open window on all four sides.
He laughs, a clean healthy sound. "Really? We get to stay up here tonight?"
"That's the good news, Sandburg."
He looks up at me suspiciously. "What's the bad news?"
"Do you see any of our gear up here?”
************************************************************************
We were young, and the world seemed bright
It actually only takes about fifteen minutes to get our sleeping bags, camp
stove and other miscellaneous gear up the ladder and into the lookout. I
make two trips; in deference to Blair’s dislike of heights I insist
that he stick with just getting his lightweight sleeping bag and backpack
up.
He protests weakly. “Jim, you’ve been sick. I can handle it.”
“Blair, I’ve been sitting around on my ass for the last week and
a half. This feels good.”
And that’s the truth. It does feel good to be in control again., to
feel my body responding as it should. And in a more subtle way, I guess I
like being in charge of things again. During that whole sleep deprivation
affair, I had to sit back and let Blair and Simon run the show. That’s
not easy for me to do.
So, I’ll probably order Sandburg around for a while until I get my
control-freak tendencies back down to normal. At least he usually puts up
with it with good grace.
I fuss around with bedding and baggage, while he unpacks the stove and the
small cooler that we brought. “Hey, Chief, what’s for dinner?”
I tease. “Spaghetti-Os?”
“We can do better than that, Jim,” he answers, looking in the bag
of food he had packed hurriedly this afternoon. “Well... not much
better.” He fishes out a couple of packages of Top Ramen, holding them
disdainfully by the edges. “Sorry. I was in a hurry when I threw all
of this together. I guess I was afraid you’d change your mind and want
to stay home after all.”
I lay back on my sleeping bag, studying the rafters of the beautiful old
structure through half-closed lids. “Doesn’t matter. Anything will
taste good out here.”
“I brought some leftover chicken, too. We can add that.” He rummages
further in the bag, and begins to chuckle. “And you’ll be happy
to know, Jim that I brought most of the junk food left from our little
experiment. You can actually have donuts for breakfast, and I promise not
to give you a hard time about it.” “Great.”
“On one condition,” he cautions, his face suddenly growing serious.
“Conditions, Sandburg? You shouldn’t lay out conditions to a man
who just might decide to throw you out the window in the night,” I quip,
and immediately regret it. Oops.
I’m still not exactly sure what happened early this morning out on the
balcony, but from the look on Blair’s face, I think that was a little
too close to home.
“I’m serious, Jim,” he says quietly. “You need to promise
me that we’ll spend some time tonight trying to get your senses back
up and running again. You’re rusty, you’ll need some practice.”
I feel curiously reluctant to deal with the whole issue, yet I can see the
sense of what he’s saying. “Okay, but no weird mystical shit, Chief.
Just a trial run, right?”
“Right. Now, where’s the matches?”
Despite Blair’s opinions about Top Ramen, the dinner we throw together
is surprisingly good. By the time we finish eating the rapidly cooling noodles,
the sun is starting to go down. I pick up my bowl and move to sit on the
wide windowsill, where I can gaze out at the twilight, but Blair stays seated
on his sleeping bag. Finally, when it’s almost dark, he calls to me.
“Come on, Jim. Quit stalling, man.” The humor is back in his voice.
Reluctantly, I leave my perch and come to sit cross-legged on my own sleeping
bag, facing him. “Go easy on me, Chief. I’m out of practice
here.”
“You’ll do fine. Let’s start with sound. Close your eyes...
listen to the sound of my voice, filter everything out...” Low and quiet,
his voice takes on that calm quality that helps me concentrate.
“Good. Now, think about this hill we’re on. Imagine a giant circle,
with the radius being the limit of your hearing. I want you to make that
circle bigger until it covers the whole hill.”
I try to comply, visualizing the scenario he describes. “Okay.”
“What do you hear? Animals, the wind, what?”
Still with eyes closed, I scan the silence. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Not a thing, Chief. Sorry.”
“Well, it’s pretty quiet up here. Let’s try smell instead.
Keep your eyes closed.” I can hear rustling sounds as he digs around,
probably in the bag of provisions. “Okay. Got it. I’m holding the
tin box of teabags in my hand. Tell me which flavors I brought.”
From where I’m seated, I can catch a whiff of sweetness, of fruitiness...
but that’s it. I can’t sort out the individual components., or
even identify them. But maybe I can guess.
“Chamomile?” That’s an easy one, he always brings that. Damn,
I shouldn’t be cheating like this.
“Great, Jim! Keep going!”
“Ummm... I smell... mint?”
Now I can sense the disappointment he’s feeling. “No, no mint.
We were out.”
I open my eyes. “Sorry, Chief. I really can’t tell. The chamomile
was just a guess.”
He sighs. “I think you’re trying too hard, that you’re blocked
somehow from having to keep your senses under such tight control when you
were sick.”
I study his face in the faint light. “So what do you suggest?”
He shakes his head. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “Maybe
get you into more of a trance or something. If you’re holding yourself
back, you need to relax control.”
“I could always get drunk,” I offer, half-kidding.
He laughs at that, even if it does sound a little forced. “Keep that
thought, Jim. We just might have to do that.”
************************************************************************
Long after Sandburg crawls into his sleeping bag and murmurs a sleepy,
“Goodnight, Jim,” I lie awake watching the stars through the broad
windows. There’s a light wind blowing through our shelter, but I hear
no other sound.
After our failed attempts at getting my senses to function properly again,
Blair had wanted to try some other tests. Undaunted by my reluctance, he’d
suggested we check out sight and touch and see if we could get somewhere
with those. With persistence just this side of annoying, he’d continued
to bug me until I finally categorically refused, saying that I was still
far too tired. Blair had look disappointed, but then had smiled at me.
“Okay, Jim,” he’d finally said, compassion rather than reproach
shading his voice. “Get some rest, man. We’ll work on it some more
tomorrow.”
Now, I stare into the darkness, thinking... the darkness which has now become
as impenetrable for me as for any ordinary man.
Ordinary. The word hits me as if I’d been kicked in the belly. Is that
what I’m so afraid of? To be just plain Jim Ellison again, just a good
cop with fast reflexes and a receding hairline? To no longer be a Sentinel,
a man apart, a chosen one?
Once, at the beginning of this whole Sentinel affair, and early in my partnership
with Sandburg, I had been able to reassure myself that my talents were
incidental, optional, not really a part of who I was. I’d been a good
cop before Blair came along to help me master my fickle senses; surely I’d
still be a good cop without that extra edge. It became a matter of personal
pride to me to keep telling myself this piece of fiction.
Yet deep inside, in some dark corner of my mind... I know that I can never
go back to the way I used to be. If we can’t get my senses functioning
again, I will mourn the loss as I would the loss of a leg, or my right arm.
Is Blair right? Am I just blocked somehow, due to fatigue, stress, and the
crushing needs of the last few days? Or is it something deeper than that?
It’s a metaphysical thought worthy of a Sandburg, but... have I somehow
been found wanting? Judged to be a poor custodian of the talents granted
to me? Or worse, an unappreciative lout who didn’t want these abilities
in the first place and doesn’t deserve them?
I roll over on my side and look at my sleeping partner. Never, in all the
time we’ve worked together, has Blair ever expressed a word of envy
regarding my Sentinel skills. Admiration, excitement... sometimes even pride.
Never bitterness or jealousy, that I possess what he’s spent half his
life trying to learn about. He’s always seemed content in his role as
watchdog, teacher and guide. Always Tonto, never the Lone Ranger.
I remember his words when we met, when he first worked to convince me that
I could become a better cop if I only learned to control my senses. I remember
his passion as he spoke of me as having “organic surveillance
equipment”. How, he must have wondered, could anyone want to reject
this... gift?
Only now, as I face the possibility of returning to the way I once was, do
I begin to finally understand what he meant.
With an effort, I order my mind to abandon this self-defeating train of thought.
Through half-slitted eyes I watch Blair sleep, watch his chest rise and fall,
hear the light snoring. There’s just enough light from the moon to make
out the outlines of his face, smooth and unlined in sleep. It’s a
deceptively innocent face that I know hides a complex and stubborn individual,
one who is going to mercilessly goad me along until I succeed at regaining
my abilities.
Or until I come to terms with my failure.
Oddly, it’s a comforting thought in a fatalistic sort of way. Still
lying on my side, I scoot a little closer to him, for no real reason other
than to be nearer to that bright-burning soul. Maybe a little bit of his
optimism... no, his faith, will rub off on me before morning.
************************************************************************
I half-expect Blair to start in with the sensory-testing rah-rah routine
during breakfast, but he’s rather quiet. Actually, subdued would be
a better term. I consider asking why, then decide to leave it alone. Maybe
he didn’t sleep well, or maybe he’s just thinking this problem
through.
After a breakfast of instant oatmeal and coffee (and a few donuts that needed
a good home), I bring up a different issue: our plans for the day.
“What do you think, Chief? Want to stay up here and do some hiking?
Or just goof off? Or pack up and go find somewhere to fish?”
He looks me at me squarely, blue eyes going dark with unspoken concerns,
and sighs.
“What I want, Jim, is to get you to work some more on whatever is blocking
you.” He shakes his head. “But I don’t think this is the time
or place for it.”
I feel a sharp pang of guilt for my oft-expressed reluctance to participate
in Blair’s investigations of my talents. “Chief, I’m sorry
about last night, about giving up so easily. I was tired. If you want, we
could try again.”
“No.” To my surprise, he again shakes his head. “I’m
not sure why, but I get the strongest feeling that I’m supposed to leave
this alone for a while. Until you’re... until we’re ready.”
I raise one eyebrow at him quizzically. “You’re passing up an
opportunity to study your prize beetle? Chief, did you sneak off and go looking
for magic mushrooms last night?”
Now he laughs, and gives me a little push. “I’m serious, man. I
did some thinking last night...”
“Oh, that was thinking? I thought that was snoring!” I can’t
resist teasing him a little.
He ignores me. “...and I just get getting this feeling that, well, that
we’re being tested, somehow.” His face grows more serious.
“That’s weird, Chief,” I say after a pause. “I don’t
think I want to know any more,” I conclude, ruefully.
He shrugs vaguely, and smiles. “As for your original question,
though...”
“Yeah?”
“I think there’s a mongo big trout down there with my name on it,
Ellison.”
********************************************************************
The good weather holds, and so we enjoy a relaxing day of fishing, splashing
about, and laughing. We don’t catch much, just a few little rainbow
trout that we release, but that hardly seems to matter. Blair seems to have
shaken off his pensiveness of this morning, and even my dark musings of last
night have faded. For now, we are not a cop and a grad student, or even a
Sentinel and his guide, just two ordinary guys out to enjoy the sweetness
of a stolen day off. We’re just friends, savoring life’s richness
after a reprieve.
We break for a lunch of cold sandwiches and beer, sitting on a rock in the
sun. Sandburg takes off his dorky fishing hat and his shirt, and lays back
basking in the warm rays dressed only in khaki shorts.
“You’re going to get burned there, paleface,” I warn.
He waves the comment away. “Look who’s talking. The reason you
catch more fish than I do is that they think you’re a relative.
Haven’t you heard the phrase, fish-belly wh—aaauuugghhh!”
That last is the sound that Sandburg makes as I pour a full beer-can of cold
river water onto his chest. He sits up, spluttering and laughing, and charges
me with mock ferocity.
“Jim, you jerk! I only brought the one pair of shorts!”
I dodge him easily, and trap his struggling arms. He can’t fight me
effectively when he’s laughing, and he knows it.
“Repeat after me,” I snicker. “’James Ellison has the
physique of a Greek God’, or you’ll be in the river and we’ll
see if the fish think you’re a relative.”
“How about, ‘James Ellison is as strong as an ox, and twice as
smart’?” he counters shamelessly, looking up at me with laughing
eyes.
“All right, the river it is, then.” I scoop him up into a
fireman’s carry, and hold him over the rushing water.
“Jim, noooo! Don’t drop me! That water’s cold! And there’s
rocks!!”
I let him get good and hysterical, then I swing him down to stand on his
feet again.
“Gotcha.” I favor him with a grin.
********************************************************************
By the time we pack up and head for home, the shadows are growing long and
it’s starting to get chilly. Blair’s teeth are chattering; he splashed
around so much in the afternoon that he never really did dry off completely.
But the blue lips and shivers do nothing to erase his good mood as we climb
into the cab of the truck.
“What a great day,” he sighs. “We need to do this sort of
thing more often, you know?”
I reach behind the seat and haul out the car blanket, which I toss at him.
“Here. I’m getting cold just looking at you.”
“Thanks.” He accepts it and wraps it around him. The warmth seems
to settle him somewhat, as he’s relatively quiet for the first few miles.
When he speaks again, it’s in a more serious tone.
“So now what?” he asks softly. “What do we do tomorrow? I’ve
got an afternoon class, but... ” he trails off.
“But I should take care of some things,” I agree reluctantly.
“All right. If you’ll play chauffeur in the morning, I can go see
the neurologist, and go down to the station to talk to Simon. I can always
get a ride home from there if necessary.”
He nods in agreement, and returns to looking out of his window. He’s
thinking; I can almost hear the mental wheels turning.
Against my better judgement, I have to ask. “Any more... feelings?”
Not very specific there, Ellison.
But he’s perceptive enough to know what I’m referring to. “No,
not really. Just... that sense that I’m not supposed to push on this.
I need to let you recover in your own way, in your own time.”
“Not push?” Despite the weighty topic, I can’t resist the
comment. “First time for everything, I guess.” I reach across and
cuff him lightly on the side of the face, to soften the remark.
He grins in return. “Don’t get used to it, Jim. When your senses
come back... let’s just say we’ve got some catching up to do in
the area of testing.”
His laughter drowns out my not-too-convincing groan.
********************************************
I can see the history in your eyes
The weather shifts overnight, and by morning we’re back to sea-grey
skies and a cool breeze. No rain, but yesterday’s frolics in sun and
water seem only like an unreal memory. Both of us sport some degree of sunburn
from our foolish behavior by the river, but Blair seems oblivious to it.
The noticeable redness of his nose and cheeks serves to make him look even
younger than usual, like a college freshman home from a raucous spring break
in Florida.
“Wha’ timisyerappoin’ment?” Sandburg mumbles around a
bagel as he putters around the kitchen.
“Want to try that again, Chief?” I ask him, even though I know
perfectly well what he said.
He chews and swallows with exaggerated effort, not an easy task since he’s
clearly trying not to laugh. “I said, what time is your appointment?
Clean out your ears, Jim!”
As soon as the words leave his mouth, his face falls. “Hey, I’m
sorry, man. I keep forgetting...”
I force a smile. “It’s okay, Chief. You didn’t mean
anything.”
He nods and returns to his cupboard rummage, finally emerging with a packet
of something unidentified. Whatever it is, he pours some of it into a cup
and puts the kettle on.
“Any signs of your senses working at all? I mean, since you woke up?”
he asks finally.
“Nothing’s changed, Sandburg,” I answer, a bit more abruptly
than I actually intended. “Dr. Philpott is expecting us at nine, so
finish playing with your medicine-man herbs and let’s get a move-on.”
I head upstairs to look for some socks; as I climb up I can hear Blair muttering
something about grumpy Sentinels.
A few minutes later, I climb resignedly into the passenger seat of his car.
How long will it be before I’m allowed to drive again, I wonder?
Blair pops his door open and slides in, balancing a plastic Starbuck’s
travel mug of whatever foul brew he was concocting in the kitchen. Placing
it precariously on the dashboard while he buckles in, he motions at it with
his chin. “For the sunburn,” he explains obscurely. “It needs
to brew, then cool.”
Herbal tea for sunburn? That’s a new one for me. I’ll have to watch
him and see if it does any good, since my own neck is chafing uncomfortable
against the shoulder belt. I saw where he was keeping the stuff; maybe I
can sneak a mug of it later.
Sandburg retrieves his mug, and drives us to the neurology office without
incident. Since this is a regular weekday, there’s several other patients
in the waiting room. I check in and we settle down to wait for my name to
be called.
After a few minutes of fidgeting, Blair gets up and heads for the restroom.
“Shouldn’t have had that second cup of coffee,” he quips.
He leaves the Starbuck’s mug behind, on the floor next to his chair.
Impulsively, I reach down and pick it up, giving the contents a sniff through
the small drinking hole. Hmmm... medicinal and bitter-smelling, but none
of Sandburg’s home remedies ever smell or taste very good. Experimentally,
I take a swig of the warm liquid...
...and nearly choke. It’s like drinking turpentine. I cough and splutter,
earning curious stares from the other patients in the waiting room. When
I look up, Blair is standing at my elbow, looking puzzled.
“Sandburg, what the hell is in that stuff?” I whisper at him as
he sits back down. “It tastes like something that escaped from the
lab!”
“Oh, no, Jim, you drank it?” He begins to laugh helplessly.
“You’re not supposed to drink it. It’s slippery elm and witch
hazel, plus some other stuff. You’re supposed to let it cool, then pat
it on your sunburn.”
I fix him with a cold stare. “You’re enjoying this a little too
much, Chief. What do I need to do, give you a supply of ‘Mr. Yuk’
stickers to paste on all your deadly remedies?”
He begins to laugh again, and whatever comeback he may have had is lost when
the medical assistant calls me back. Blair starts to get up, but I motion
him back down.
“Why don’t you stay here, laughing boy. This won’t take
long.”
For a second he looks like he’s going to protest, then he shrugs
philosophically and turns his attention to an old copy of Smithsonian.
I wait in the exam room another fifteen minutes or so, fidgeting nervously
after changing into the silly blue exam gown. Judging from the rather pathetic
little collection of magazines in the wall rack, Dr. Philpott’s patients
seem to be predominantly female. No Sports Illustrated, no Field and Stream.
The best I can do is National Geographic, and I don’t need to read that...
I live with the walking, talking, bodily incarnation. So I sit and stare
idly at the walls.
Finally the door opens. The good doctor smiles warmly at the site of me as
she steps in and closes the door.
“Jim! Oh, it’s good to see you. How... how are you feeling?”
I shrug. “Fine, I guess. No more seizures, anyway.”
She frowns. “So, what did you end up doing?”
“The sleep deprivation thing. It seems to have worked.” Rapidly,
I give her a synopsis of the events of the weekend; by the time I get to
the end, she’s nodding excitedly.
“That’s fantastic! And you haven’t had even a hint of seizure
activity since?” She grabs the ophthalmoscope and shines it into my
eyes, making me see spots. I resist the temptation to bat it away, though
I haven’t got a clue what she could be looking for in my eyes.
“No. None at all, even when I try to provoke an attack.”
She hangs up the instrument and draws back, her face unreadable. “And
your senses? Have you been able to go back to using them?”
I sigh and look slightly away. “No. I haven’t been able to make
them work. Blair says that I’m blocked somehow. He doesn’t actually
seem all that worried about it.”
“He surely knows more about that subject than I do.” She pauses
for a moment, and I can feel her eyes searching my face. “So, do you
want to go back to work?”
I start involuntarily. “Can I?” I ask carefully.
She smiles again. “I don’t see why not. I’d recommend desk
duty for a week, mind you, but if you continue to feel well, I’ll release
you back for full duties.”
I can feel a dopey smile growing on my face. “Hey, that’s great!”
Then I remember something... something that I’ve been trying diligently
to forget.
“What about the whole driving issue?” I hold my breath, waiting
for the answer.
She coughs slightly. “Uh, Jim, I wasn’t entirely honest with you
about what I said to the DMV.”
My heart sinks. “Meaning?”
“Meaning... I know you by now, Jim. You’re upright, trustworthy.
I figured that if I told you that your license had been yanked, I could trust
you to not drive until we got this whole thing straightened out.” She
smiles at me again. “I never notified the DMV, Jim. You’re cleared
to start driving again.”
**********************************************
As we drive over to the station, Blair grins while I relate the story to
him. “Hey, man, that is so cool. I’m really glad. But you’re
still not driving my car.”
Entering the bullpen, seeing everyone’s faces... it’s a rush, no
doubt about it. There’s one painful moment when I spot Rafe, wearing
a sling on his right arm and clearly on desk duty. But his smile is as warm
and welcoming as everyone else’s, with no hint of blame.
We don’t really walk into Simon’s office, we sort of explode
triumphantly into it. First he looks annoyed, then he looks extremely glad...
then he looks annoyed again. Perversely, he takes out his frustrations on
Blair.
“Sandburg, can’t you get him to knock?”
My partner shrugs, a bemused smile on his face, but seems unable to think
of an answer for this one. Simon turns to me. “Ellison, where the hell
have you been? I let you rest Monday, but I tried calling you all day yesterday!
Where were you?” His eyes dart from my face to Sandburg’s, no doubt
taking in the sunburn evidence.
Blair pipes up. “Fishing, of course. It’s really very relaxing,
Simon. You should try it more –”
“Never mind.” Simon takes off his glasses and rubs one hand over
his face. “Jim, how are you feeling? What did the doctor say?”
I hand him the note that she wrote for me. “She says you’re getting
your detective back. Desk duty for a week, then full speed ahead.”
He puts his glasses back on and studies the note... but he doesn’t look
as happy as I thought he would. Automatically, I reach out to listen for
his heart beat, and there it is, markedly elevated.
“What’s wrong, Simon?” I ask, trying to keep the apprehension
out of my voice.
He sighs and puts the note down on his desk. “Jim, I can’t put
you back out on the streets yet. Not even on desk duty.”
“What? Why not? I thought I was on medical leave only until we got this
seizure thing straightened out!”
“Technically... “ Simon picks up a pen and toys with it.
“Technically you’re on administrative leave, pending completion
of the I.A. investigation.”
Now it’s Sandburg’s turn to jump in. “What! Jim didn’t
do anything illegal, Simon! What’s going on?”
Simon ignores the kid and addresses me. “I’m sorry, Jim. I tried
to downplay the whole thing, but I.A, got wind of it. In their eyes, you
ignored a medical condition that was impairing your ability to function safely.
They were unhappy enough about that, but when Rafe had to be hospitalized
too... well, it didn’t look good.”
“Simon, when did this all hit the fan? And why didn’t you tell
me?” Now I’m almost whispering.
“Last week. Dammit, Jim, I was afraid to tell you. You were feeling
low enough.”
“Why hasn’t I.A. interviewed me?”
“They will, now that you’re feeling better. I wanted to keep them
off your back until I was sure you were going to get better.”
“Crap.” I turn away for a moment, trying to calm myself down. No
sense getting mad at Simon. He’s right; I would have made the same choices
if I were in his shoes.
“Jim... I’ll have to ask for your gun and badge, at least until
you have that interview with I.A.” Simon’s voice is filled with
reluctance.
“Yeah, okay,” I answer him listlessly as I hand him the items in
question. “When do they want to see me?”
“Tomorrow morning, eight o’clock.”
***************************************
I fume silently during the trip home, staring out the passenger window. A
couple of times I can hear Blair open his mouth and take a deep breath, obviously
in preparation for making some comment... but he breaks off each time.
Considering my current mental state, that’s probably a wise move on
his part.
Even after we get home, I maintain my wall of silence, flinging myself onto
the couch and flicking the buttons on the remote to turn the TV to... anything.
Any mindless babble. I want distraction, not talk. I don’t want to think,
I don’t want to “process” any of this; I especially don’t
want to talk about any of what Simon said to me this morning.
I finally settle for CNN. Maybe hearing about other people’s trouble
will make mine seem more trivial.
Sandburg slumps around the loft for a little while, making a show of gathering
things up and looking at the clock... all the while casting these glances
at me that I can feel even when I’m not looking at him. Finally, he
clears his throat.
“Jim... I need to go. I’ve got a lecture to give at one, and I
need some prep time.”
“So go.” And let me be pissed off by myself.
“Do you think you’re going to be okay?” His voice is soft
and soothing, the tone pitched low. It’s a reasonable question, based
on Simon’s unexpected revelation regarding the I.A. investigation.
I’ve got nothing to get angry about; he’s just concerned about
me.
“Sandburg, get off my case! I’m not in the mood for one of your...
your new-age soul-searching therapy sessions!” I find myself shouting.
“I’m as good as suspended, I’m being investigated for
incompetence, and talking about it isn’t gonna change any of that!”
I put one hand on my forehead, ostensibly to massage away an ache... but
really to block that piercing blue gaze. “Just... just go away and let
me deal with this, Chief. This isn’t a Sentinel thing; it’s a cop
thing.”
I hear a sharp intake of breath from his direction. Then his voice, now harsh
and strained. “Fine. Have a good wallow in self-pity, Jim. I’ll
see you tonight.”
I guess that I can push even Sandburg too far, if I try hard enough.
**********************************************************
I put my newly-restored transportation freedom to good use. A quick trip
to the grocery store nets me a couple of six-packs. Cheap American beer,
rather than one of the local microbrews or chewy imported stouts that
Blair’s always trying to get me interested in.
The act of sliding into my truck and positioning myself behind the driver’s
seat once again gives me a quick flash of pleasure, but I quickly stifle
the feeling. Why ruin a perfectly good bad mood? Having acquired the necessary
supplies for a good sulk, I return home and take up my favorite position
for brooding: the balcony.
When Sandburg comes home, several hours later, I’m still there. Despite
my good intentions of getting plowed, I’m only on my second beer at
that point.
He steps out onto the balcony and closes the door. “Hey.” His voice
is back to normal. “Is this a private party?”
I grimace, and gesture with my half-empty bottle. “There’s more
in the fridge if you want.”
Instead of going inside, he sits down in the other chair and stares off into
space for a few minutes. When he speaks, it catches me by surprise. “Sorry
about running out on you like that earlier.”
You’re sorry? You, who were just trying to help? No, you did the
right thing, Chief... you left before you got your head bitten off any more.
My mouth isn’t as eloquent as my subconscious. “S’okay,
Chief. Sorry I was being an asshole.” I take another swig of the thin,
sour beer. “I guess... if you still want me to talk about things...
I mean, it wouldn’t kill me.”
“Nah. You’re right... it’s a fairly straightforward problem,
and one that I can’t really help you with very much.” Now he turns
to look at me, his eyes serious. “Jim, don’t be so paranoid. It’s
not like you did anything shady or illegal. You did exercise some poor judgement,
but you weren’t thinking straight at the time.” He reaches over,
rests a hand lightly on my arm. “It’s just a formality. They’ll
yell a bit, then send you back out to work.”
“I suppose,” I concede grudgingly. “I just tend to think that
paranoia is a good idea where Internal Affairs is concerned.”
We sit there for a while, looking out at the city. Gradually, my irritation
and apprehension ease, to be replaced almost insidiously by a cheerful fatalism.
Possibly, it’s the effects of the beer; more likely, it’s merely
Sandburg the Sounding Board.
Eventually, Blair clears his throat. “I had something I wanted to bounce
off of you,” he says quietly.
“What?”
“Do you... well, would you like to get away this weekend?”
I shrug. “Maybe. We just got back, though, Chief. What did you have
in mind?” The poor guys; now he thinks he’s got to scrap his weekend
plans just to keep an eye on me. I just might let him.
He drops his gaze again. “There’s a friend I was hoping to go visit,
down in Oregon. I’d told him last week that I wouldn’t be able
to make it, because... well, because we were going to be a little busy.”
In other words, he knew he’d be nursemaiding me. “Chief, you should
go visit your friend. You don’t need to drag me along. I’ll be
okay.”
He shakes his head. “No, I think you should come with me. I just get
the strongest feeling it would be good for both of us.” He grins
disarmingly. “Besides, I’m almost broke, and I don’t want
to drive that far by myself.”
“Ah ha, the truth comes out.” I take another sip of beer.
“Who’s the friend? One of your old girlfriends?”
“No, nothing like that.” As he shakes his head, he looks back over
at me, and I see sadness in the blue eyes. “His name is Dan Moore. We
were good friends in college. He’s a teacher now, high school
English.”
I say nothing, waiting for the rest of the story to unfold.
“Dan got married right after graduation, and he and Misty moved to Oregon
for Dan’s teaching job. They bought a nice little house out in the country,
and had a baby girl.” He swallows... and somehow, I know what’s
coming next, even before he says it.
“A year ago, Misty and the little girl were killed in a horrible accident.
A head-on collision with a drunk driver. Dan... was devastated. I talked
to him on the phone, but I couldn’t get away to be with him. This weekend
is the anniversary of the accident. He called... asked if I could come visit,
keep him from being alone.”
The piercingly sad tale raises a lump in my throat. I feel like a prize jerk.
Here I am, complaining about a little career setback... and my friend is
trying to figure out how to help both me and someone who needs it far more
than I. Now that he mentions it, I vaguely remember him telling me about
his friend’s tragedy.
“Chief... wouldn’t he rather just see you?”
“No... he just wants company. In a way, I think it would help to have
you there. You’ll give him an excuse to not break down.”
I mull his words over, and they do make some sense to me. Someone who’s
hurting needs to stay busy, to have a routine to cling to, and I suppose
having a couple of hungry bachelor houseguests would qualify. Maybe it would
be easier for this poor guy to have a total stranger in his house; there
are times when the touch of a close friend is too intimate, too acute a reminder
of past sadnesses shared. Once you’ve taken off your mask for someone,
it’s hard to force it back on again.
Maybe that’s why I run from Sandburg every time I should be running
toward him.
“Check with him first... but tentatively, I’d be glad to come along.
Just make sure he’s got room. And, Chief?”
“What?”
“Leave the algae shakes at home.” Then again, the smell might shock
poor Dan out of his grief.
*****************************************************
Mournful children
“Chief, you didn’t say this guy lived on top of Mt. Hood,”
I grouse, looking at my watch and also sneaking a glance at the rear-view
mirror. There’s an exceptional sunset behind us, shades of bright pink
and orange. “He’s going to get worried about us soon.”
We hit a pothole, and Sandburg bounces around like a piece of popcorn. Maybe
I should tie some weights to his ankles for ballast. “Oh, come on, Jim.
We haven’t come that far, and we’re almost there.” He consults
the map. “Okay, this looks like Estacada. The next little town should
be Faraday, and then we turn off at Rawlins Road. I promise, it’s not
that much further.”
“It’s pretty country, anyway,” I observe a few minutes later.
And it is. Ahead of us stretch rolling hills, growing gradually steeper and
more impressive until I can see the conical peaks of Mt. Hood to the northeast
and another peak whose name I don’t remember, off to the southeast.
We’re currently passing through acres of Christmas tree farms and
blackberries, now loaded with purple fruit.
My mind drifts back to the I.A. interview yesterday morning. They’d
questioned me in detail about the events surrounding Rafe’s injury,
had seemed incredulous when I described my “spontaneous” recovery
from the seizures, and had insisted on being allowed to contact my doctor
for further information. Then they’d told me that I remained on
administrative leave and that I’d be appraised of their decision as
soon as possible.
“I’m hoping we can talk Dan into a hike tomorrow. The last time
I was here, about two years ago, we managed to get away and do some
exploring.” He points out his window. “Check it out, Jim! A
porcupine!”
I glance over to the shoulder. Sure enough, a large prickly mass is lumbering
hurriedly along the side of the road. “Didn’t know they came that
big.” I’m glad Blair spotted the creature; he’d have done
some serious damage to the tires if I had hit him.
Finally, after only one false turn, we pull into a gravel driveway that winds
among the fir trees. It leads us to a medium-sized A-frame house, barely
visible in the twilight.
Blair hops out almost before the truck stops moving, and runs to the house.
The front door opens as he nears it, and I can see a tallish, thin young
man step out onto the front walk. Blair hurries to him and hugs him
enthusiastically. I follow at a more dignified pace, shouldering my bag.
“Hey, man, I can’t believe it!” Blair is laughing, stepping
back to look at his friend. “How are you, Dan? It has been way too
long!”
In the yellowish glow of the porch light, I watch Dan Moore’s face grow
more peaceful before my eyes. “Better, now, Blair.” He has a soft,
intense voice. “Better. Thanks for coming.”
“No problem, Dan.” Those two lock eyes for a moment, then Blair
laughs again and turns to me with a wave of introduction. “Dan, this
is Jim Ellison. Jim, Dan Moore, who knew me when I was a bratty sixteen-year-old
college freshman.”
Dan shakes my hand. “Good to meet you, Jim, and welcome. Blair’s
told me a lot about you.”
“Some of it may even be true,” I quip.
He smiles, but I can see the lines of old pain that hide behind the expression.
Yes, this man is even more in need of my roommate’s healing touch than
I think I have ever been. “Go grab your stuff, Blair,” he says
quietly, “and I’ll show you guys around.”
**********************************************
After a dinner of homemade pizza, Dan gets out some maps of the area. Brushing
the dinner dishes aside, he spreads them out on the table. “I thought
we could do some hiking tomorrow,” he says hesitantly. “That is,
if you guys would like. We’ve got some pretty amazing views around
here.” While his mannerisms and personality are totally different, I
notice that his voice sounds a lot like Blair’s... at least to my
currently-ordinary hearing.
Blair leans forward to study one of the maps. “Hey, that sounds great,
Dan. Did you have any particular place in mind?”
“Oh, anyplace,” Dan answers, waving a hand dismissively.
“I’ve been on most of these trails at one time or another.”
He, too, peers closely at the maps. “You guys up to a little elevation
gain? Some of these hills get pretty steep. Or we can just hike along one
of the rivers... there’s a nice one that follows the Clackamas for a
while.”
Blair shoots me a look... one that I would have found unreadable when our
association first began, but which I now interpret as mild concern. He’s
wondering if I’m up to this, physically, after last week.
Some strenuous physical activity sounds good, though. After all, it was my
brain misfiring, not my muscles. And just maybe, I need to prove to myself
that my body is my own again.
“A bit of a climb sounds great,” I assure them. “I’d
like to get up high and look around.”
Dan nods. “Okay, that gives us a couple of choices. There’s Olallie
Butte, over here; it’s one of the highest points in these parts. But
it’s a long drive, and a long climb,, and the lake - -” he traces
a round blue area with his fingers, “is a big tourist camping spot.
The road tends to get clogged with campers.”
“Okay, scratch that one,” I agree. “What else?”
He reaches for a different map. “We can go to Fish Creek Mountain.
It’s not quite as high, but it’s a lot more remote. And the actual
trail’s pretty short, since there are logging roads that go close to
the top. We’d still have more than a thousand feet of gain to do on
foot.”
Now Blair laughs, pushing the hair out of his eyes. “I remember being
back in Vermont, visiting some friends once. We’d go for a drive, and
they’d point out the window and say, ‘Oh, there’s the Green
Mountains. There’s the White Mountains.’ And I’d be asking,
‘Where?’ They don’t really have mountains there, just hills.
I kept trying to describe the Cascades to them.”
“Well, Fish Creek Mountain’s just above five thousand feet. So,
I guess you could call it whatever you want,” smiles Dan. He looks at
his watch. “I’ll throw together some sandwiches for us. Let’s
make an early start; it’ll take about an hour and a half to get
there.”
*************************************
I can see the history in your eyes
It’s late. I wake up thirsty, probably from the salty pizza, and head
to the kitchen in search of a drink of water. Thankfully, even with my senses
not acting right, my night vision is still good enough to let me pad noiselessly
down the hall without turning on a light.
Pausing in the kitchen with my glass of cold water, I realize I hear murmuring
voices from the darkened living room. Blair and Dan must be up late, talking.
I guess they haven’t had the chance to catch up for a while. They’re
going to both be pretty groggy in the morning if they don’t get to bed
soon.
Then, as I half-listen, I begin to hear quiet sobs interspersed with the
low-pitched conversation. Someone is weeping, with the barely audible, choked-off
noises of a man crying and trying desperately to stop.
I stand stock-still in the kitchen, torn between embarrassment and concern,
and cursing my uncooperative sensory abilities. Surely, it must be Dan making
those heart-rending sounds, with Blair trying to comfort him. I should leave
them alone and go back to bed.
But their voices are so eerily close in pitch and timbre... could that be
Blair crying in there, over some nameless heartbreak that he’s never
told me about? Do I really have any right to disturb them?
Do I have any right not to?
I close my eyes and listen, still indecisive... then I feel the unmistakably
disorienting sensation of my enhanced hearing rushing back. For a few seconds,
I hear the voices in the other room clearly.
Clearly enough to know, without a doubt, that it is Blair’s friend Dan
who is crying, grieving for his lost family and his own misery. I can now
hear Blair’s soft, comforting words as he whispers in his friend’s
ear. I can even hear the rustle of Blair’s flannel shirt, and the sound
of his finger’s stroking Dan on the back. For a few seconds, everything
is back the way I remembered: my hearing, my sight, and all of the others.
Then, as if I’ve just entered a dark tunnel, it’s all gone again.
I stand in the kitchen, blinking.
After a few moments, I make my way back to my bed. But sleep eludes me, as
I lie awake trying to understand what has just happened.
Am I going to be whole again?
And, more insidious... do I want to be?
*********************************************
The day dawns clear and sunny; ironically enough, so do Dan and Blair.
Dan’s late-night talk with my partner has evidently done him some good.
He looks a bit tired, but he’s smiling and the lines of tension are
gone. Blair looks peaceful and relaxed.
After we eat a hasty breakfast and pile into Dan’s Jeep, we endure the
long bouncy ride to the trailhead. We pass several burbling creeks, low at
this time of year but still clear and cold. On either side of us, the land
alternates between heavily forested stretches and the inevitable clear-cuts.
As we pass from one zone to another, the temperature changes abruptly. I
comment on this to Dan.
He nods, and shouts to be heard over the driving noise. “There can be
an enormous temperature gradient between the unlogged areas and the clear-cuts.
On a hot day, like this, the clear-cut areas will be fifteen to twenty degrees
hotter. You can really get cooked, hiking in those areas.”
We spot wheeling red-tailed hawks, searching for their four-legged dinners.
Jays, crows and ravens scold us for invading their territory. And various
furry ground-dwelling creatures scurry into the woods at our not-so-subtle
approach.
As we pass the Forest Service ranger station, I notice the large colorful
“Fire Danger” sign. The indicator has been placed all the way over
to the red zone, indicating that the fire potential is at its highest.
I point at the sign. “I guess it’s been a dry summer.”
“Fairly dry,” agrees Dan. “But we’re only a few weeks
away from the rain, I think.”
Finally we arrive at the trailhead. There’s nothing like a formal parking
area, just a wide spot in the road and a metal gate barring further vehicle
traffic. No other cars are parked here, but it’s only nine-thirty.
We pile out of the jeep and grab our daypacks, and set out on the well-marked
trail with the morning sun warming us as we walk.
Dan takes the lead, setting a brisk but comfortable pace up the increasingly
steep trail, and points out various items of interest to us as we hike.
It’s clear that he’s intimately familiar with the area; he describes
the animals and plants with obvious affection.
He directs our attention to a delicately curved black-veined fern.
“That’s the maidenhair fern, or adiantum. Misty... loved that plant.
It grows wild all over the place here, but we... I have some out front as
well.” He clears his throat. “There’s some red huckleberry
Tbushes, but the berries won’t be ripe for a few more weeks. We’ll
probably find blackberries at the top, though.”
Blair fingers the fern as we pass by it. “Most of this looks pretty
much like our woods back home, but there’s a few plants here I don’t
recognize.”
Dan laughs. “Despite what my neighbors would have you believe, it’s
not quite as wet down here as it is for you poor sodden people up in Cascade.
And these mountains have real seasons... snow in the winter and a fair amount
of sun in the summer.” He points at a shrub with glossy green leaves.
“That’s manzanita. It only grows at elevation, so you won’t
find it just anywhere.”
The morning passes slowly, pleasantly. I let Blair and Dan carry most of
the conversation, while I concentrate on inhaling the fresh, warm scents
of late summer and on the gradual feeling of lazy well-being that begins
to permeate my body as it responds unhesitatingly to my commands. It’s
rather nice to be able to listen to Blair talk to someone else for a change,
someone who hasn’t heard any of his new stories and has probably forgotten
most of the old ones. Don’t get me wrong... I usually enjoy Sandburg’s
chatter, but it’s a relief to be allowed to be silent.
Taking it easy and stopping frequently to admire the view, we arrive at the
top of the peak about two hours later. Just before the trail ends, there’s
an impressive expanse of small grey boulders along one side of the hill:
a typical Cascades lava flow. The well-maintained trail cuts through the
lava flow, but it’s close quarters; I scrape a knee slightly and Blair
gets the elbow of his blue plaid flannel shirt snagged on a rocky projection.
As soon as we emerge from the lava flow, my leg muscles realize that we’re
no longer climbing... just as my eyes widen at the three hundred and sixty
degree panorama that lies spread before us.
Dan grins at us. “Pretty impressive for a short morning’s hike,
isn’t it?”
Neither of us bothers to answer. From our vantage point, we can see row after
row of tree-covered hills, sadly patchworked with clearcuts. The Clackamas
river and its tributary streams are clearly visible down below, snaking through
the rugged terrain. Overhead, the hawks continue to soar about, studying
the ground below them.
And before us, to the north, Mt. Hood rises to a gleaming snow-covered point,
dominating the landscape. It’s not as tall as Mt. Rainier, of course...
but seen from this perspective, I can understand why the Portlanders’
favorite peak is so often photographed. Its symmetry and form pleases the
eye, somehow, in a restful and balanced sort of way. Not at all like the
exciting peaks of the jagged Rockies.
Blair told me once that the first time he saw the Rockies, as a little kid,
he got so worked up by the view that he hyperventilated and almost fell out
of the car. Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me very much.
**********************************************
We delve into our daypacks, and spread our resulting picnic lunch out on
one of the larger rocks. The sandwiches, chips and cookies taste wonderful
after our moderate exertion.
After lunch, Blair stretches out on his stomach on a patch of scruffy meadow.
“Sun, exercise, food... adds up to a nap, don’t you think?”
He grins at me disarmingly.
“I hope you put sunscreen on this morning, Chief. Otherwise, you’re
going to get broiled.”
He ignores me, and rests his head on his folded arms.
Dan stands up. “I’m going to go back down the trail a little ways.
I think I spotted some blackberries that looked ripe, and I think I’ll
fill up a few of these empty sandwich bags. I make a mean berry cobbler when
I’m in the mood.”
“Do you want any help?” I offer. I’d really rather stay here,
but...
Smiling, he shakes his head. “I’m kind of picky. Most people pick
the berries when they’re still too green. Stay here, and make sure Blair
doesn’t roll off a cliff or anything.” He makes his way silently
down the path, leaving me alone with a lightly snoring Sandburg.
I lean back against a conveniently placed rock, enjoying the feel of its
warmth on my back, and allow my eyes to half-close. A few flies buzz by to
annoy me, but other than the drone of their wings and Blair’s noisy
exhalations I hear nothing. Pure silence, pure peace.
In a way, I’ve missed this. In the years since my senses became active
again, I’ve become accustomed to being the victim of every little sound,
every loud or soft annoying noise. At various times, I’ve been disturbed
by insects in the walls, conversations downstairs, ominous clicks and whirrs
coming from under the hood of Blair’s car as something goes wrong deep
in its nameless workings.
Then, of course, there’s smell, my other bugaboo. I can close my eyes
against things I don’t want to see, close my mouth against things I
don’t want to taste, keep my hands to myself so as to avoid touching
something unpleasant... but odors have always crept in to assail me unawares.
I remember the time Blair was over at a girlfriend’s house, and her
jealous male cat sprayed his sneakers. He barely noticed, but the smell drove
me crazy for weeks until it finally faded. For a while, I came to associate
Blair’s approach with the sour and pervasive smell of cat pee.
Here and now, all I can detect are the smells that any ordinary person might
notice: warm earth, the green sharpness of the trees, the remains of our
lunch. If I really use my imagination, I can catch a whiff of the blackberries
that Dan is picking back down the hill, even though I can’t see or hear
him: heavy purple fruit, sweetly ripening in the sun.
Lulled by the normalcy of it all, I slide into a dozing state: not quite
awake, but alert enough to be aware of any approaching dangers such as
Sandburgian pranks or stinging flies. I return to my half-dream of the ripe
blackberries, just waiting to become part of a cobbler to feed the three
of us...
...and I jolt abruptly upright when I hear the yelp of pain. Not quite a
scream, more of a startled stifled exclamation... accompanied by the clatter
of small stones sliding over one another.
I’m up on my feet before I know it. “Did you hear that?” I
shout at Sandburg. “That sounded like Dan.”
Sandburg rolls over and sits up, knuckling at his eyes. “What?”
I don’t stick around to watch him figure it out. He’ll follow me;
it’s not like there are very many places to hide up here. We’re
on top, so everything else is down. I start off down the trail, following
the mental path of that short, choked-off yelp.
Path? It’s a road, a freeway, an open tunnel that slices through the
intervening space. For with a rush of pure exhilaration, I realize that my
enhanced senses are operating again at full blast. My vision seems limitless,
turning the mountainside into a detailed visual map; my hearing detects every
snapping twig and warbling bird.
I half-run, half-slide down the trail at a pace that would make a mountain
goat proud. Behind me, I hear thudding footsteps and muffled curses as Blair
follows me. When I stop abruptly, at the bank of blackberry bushes, he collides
with me and almost knocks me over. Momentum equals mass times velocity, remember,
and I’ve stopped moving. We both windmill our arms for a few seconds
before we recover.
“What’s (puff) going on (puff), Jim? Where’s (puff) Dan?”
I squat down on the rocks at the edge of the trail, and lean out carefully.
It’s not a sharp drop, but it is a fairly steep slope down to a creek
bed far below.
But just a few yards down on a large boulder sits Dan, staring ruefully at
his plastic bag of berries... clearly visible to me as they lie scattered
down the slope.
Dan grins weakly up at us. “So much for pie.”
*************************************************
With no small difficulty, Blair and I manage to get Dan (sans berries) back
up onto the trail. His arms and hands are scratched and bleeding, and he’s
clearly favoring one ankle, but he seems otherwise intact.
I wait until he’s safely seated on a rock before questioning him.
“What happened?”
He shakes his head, then hisses with pain as Blair starts to tug off his
right hiking boot. “I was stupid. I was picking, and didn’t realize
how close I was to the edge. I leaned out to get a nice big clump of
blackberries, just out of reach.” Blair gives a final tug, and the boot
comes free. Dan blanches and turns away, gritting his teeth. “I lost
my balance,” he says finally, “and fell right through the
bushes.”
Blair brushes one hand gently over his friend’s bleeding arms, carefully
knocking loose a few imbedded thorns. “Dan, you were supposed to pick
the berries, not let them pick you.”
“I guess I’m lucky I didn’t fall too far. I got the wind knocked
out of me, though, and didn’t really get out much of a yell. How’d
you find me so quick?”
I can see Blair looking at me over his friend’s head, his face asking
the question that his mouth can’t. I change the subject. “Let’s
have a look at that ankle.”
I lift the appendage in question, cupping his heel in my hand. There’s
no bruising – yet – but the outer aspect of the ankle joint is
swollen and tender. Checking the range of motion, I find that the up-and-down
part still works a little, but any side-to-side motion brings a moan of pain.
“Dan, did you land with your foot collapsing under you?”
He nods. “I think so.”
“You’ve sprained one of your ligaments... pretty badly, I think.
If you’re lucky, you haven’t broken anything.”
Dan looks sourly at his ankle. “If I’m lucky... well, this is going
to be fun getting down. I’m glad I wasn’t alone.”
I leave Dan to Blair’s ministrations while I go back up to the top and
search our packs for something to wrap his ankle up in. If we’d been
on a several-day expedition, I would have brought a first-aid kit, but I
didn’t really think about it for an easy day hike. I paw through the
empty food wrappers and pop cans, but find nothing more helpful than one
of Blair’s ponytail holders. Well, we’ll just have to get creative.
With an evil grin, I head back down the trail to where the other two are
waiting. “Hey, Chief, how would you like to sacrifice your flannel shirt
to a good cause? It’s halfway to rags already.”
Blair looks like he’s going to object, but then shuts up and shrugs
out of the faded blue flannel and hands it to me. Dan looks on miserably
as I tear it up into wide strips with the aid of a pocketknife.
“I’m sorry, Blair,” he apologizes. “I’ll get you
a new one.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Blair reaches down and holds Dan’s
foot steady while I wrap the ankle tightly with a figure-eight wrap. I then
replace his thick hiking sock over the bandage.
“I think that’ll do it, but there’s no way we’re going
to be able to get your boot back on. Your ankle’s swelling up like a
balloon as it is.” I straighten up and get the kinks out. “Tell
me if your toes start feeling numb, and we’ll loosen that bandage.”
I turn to Blair. “Go on back up and gather up the rest of our stuff.”
He raises an eyebrow at me. “It’s still early. Shouldn’t we
let Dan rest a bit before we go down?”
“Not a chance. He’s going to feel worse before he feels better.”
*****************************************************************
We make a pitiful little procession as we make our stumbling way down the
trail. There’s never enough room to walk three abreast, so Blair and
I each take turns helping Dan while the other carries all the packs. It’s
hard work. Dan is able to put a little weight on his bad foot, which helps
him with his balance, but he’s obviously in a great deal of pain. I
mentally kick myself for not bringing any ibuprofen.
After about twenty minutes, we encounter two young women coming up the trail,
one leading a basset hound on a leash. They step aside to let us by.
“What happened? You guys take a spill?” asks the blonde one leading
– or being led by – the dog.
“Something like that,” I grunt. “We’ll be okay.”
The other woman, shorter and with dark hair, is looking concerned. “Twisted
ankle? Looks like it hurts.”
Blair, of course, smiles at them both. Thankfully, it’s his turn to
help Dan, so he can’t break away to go flirting... so he contents himself
with small talk. “Nice dog.”
The dark-haired one ignores him. “I’ve got some Advil in my first-aid
kit, if that would help. You guys are welcome to it.”
Suddenly, I feel boorish. They’re just trying to help. “Thanks.
I’m sure that Dan could use it.” She hands me a couple of orange
pills, then they turn to go as the basset hound tugs on the leash..
“There’s a nice spot at the top for a picnic,” Blair calls
out as they disappear up the trail. “Watch out for the blackberry
bushes.”
****************************************************************
Foot by painful foot, we creep our way back down the mountain. We encounter
other hikers, laden with day packs and water bottles, obviously heading for
the top. All are friendly, and properly concerned when they see our hobbling
casualty. Everyone offers to help in some way, with surprises me a little.
I mean… these are almost certain to be mostly city people out for a
day trip, not hardcore backpackers who understand the need to aid one another
in the wilderness.
But they are definitely city people. One young man even pulls out his cell
phone and offers to call help for us. I keep a straight face while I gently
brush his offer away, and after they walk off I focus my newly-restored hearing
on him. Sure enough, his wife or girlfriend is having a good laugh at his
expense, asking him if he thought that Sprint was building cell-service towers
out here.
As we walk, Dan grows increasingly more tired. Even though we take turns
helping him, hobbling is hard work and his exhaustion is becoming apparent.
Estimating that we will take about forty minutes more to reach the trailhead
at this rate, I call for a halt. We ease Dan down to sit on a log and prop
his injured ankle up on my pack.
“You know,” he says weakly, “I could go a bit faster, I think,
if had had something else to balance me… a stick or something. Do you
see anything?”
Eager to be helpful, as usual, Blair hops up and scrambles over the log to
root around in the underbrush to the side of the trail. “I wouldn’t
feel right cutting any green wood unless we really have to, but I bet I can
find something that would work as a hiking staff.”
Hmmm… now there’s a bit of a test for my vision. Find a stick of
the right size and shape, in the midst of all this other wood and organic
material. I pretend to be peering into the trees while I scan the area.
Absentmindedly, I let my senses of hearing and smell open up as well, enjoying
the rich scents of the forest in spite of our predicament.
But Sandburg Luck wins out over Sentinel senses; Blair comes bounding back
to the path clutching a stout stick almost as tall as himself. “Hey,
check it out, Dan. I think this will help a lot.”
Dan grunts in assent and climbs to his feet with the help of Sandburg and
the stick. I’m turning towards them, waiting to catch Dan if he falls,
when the wind shifts and begins to blow down from the top of the peak…
bringing with it the overwhelming smell of smoke. Wood smoke, not cigarette
smoke or even the pungent scent of a backpacker’s stove. Wood smoke,
rolling down from the top of a mountain in late summer, in the middle of
a fire danger zone.
Old habits die hard. “Do you smell that?” I shout at Sandburg,
running a few steps up the trail to the last hairpin turn. I need visibility,
and I need it now.
“Smell what?” comes the puzzled query from Dan.
Blair shouts at the same time. “Jim, what do you smell?” I can
hear the excitement in his voice. He knows my senses are back, even without
an overt disclosure from me.
I reach the hairpin turn, where I hope to have a better view of the top.
For good measure, I climb to the top of a boulder that rests, squat and squarish,
by the side of the trail. I steady myself against the trunk of a nearby tree
as I search for what I hope not to find.
My heart gives a painful lurch as my vision focuses on something impossibly
bright, impossibly menacing. Flames, already roaring from the treetops…
about halfway up the mountain, coming around from the west, and seeming to
grow before my eyes.
I slide off the rock and pound back down the path, nearly colliding with
Blair and Dan. “There’s a fire up there! Maybe halfway down from
the top, maybe a bit higher!”
Blair’s eyes widen, but he keeps his cool. “We’re close to
the bottom, Jim. We should be able to make it down in time.”
“But the other hikers…” Dan trails off, biting his lip.
“…Will die if we don’t do something. Blair, get Dan down off
the mountain, and get to the truck. He’ll need your help to get down
safely.” I toss the truck keys at him. “Get in the truck, and wait
for me. If the fire gets close, get out of there. Do you understand?”
I can see Blair starting to get that look of stubborn refusal on his face.
“Jim, I can make it down by myself, now that I have this.” Dan
points to the stick. “I’ll be okay, and I’ll probably run
into some more hikers anyway.”
I glance from one anxious face to the other, and make my decision.
“All right. Chief, give him the keys. Dan, be careful. See if you can
get someone to drive out and alert the ranger station. We’ll see you
at the bottom.”
With Blair at my heels, I turn and begin to run up the steep and rocky slope,
with the acrid odor of smoke growing ever stronger in my nostrils.
*************************************************
The rush up the mountain somehow seems to erase the pleasant memories of
this morning’s climb. We run silently, grimly, with our boots catching
precipitously on loose rocks and with the undergrowth catching at our clothes.
I know that every flexible tree branch I careen through must be slapping
Sandburg in the face, yet I hear no sound from him other than his labored
breathing. In a sense, we are evenly matched for this race: he is smaller
and fleeter, I have more pig-headed endurance.
It doesn’t take long for us to begin catching up with the hikers who’d
passed us earlier. Barely stopping, I shout out warnings about the fire and
tell each of them to turn around and head back. “Go as fast as you safely
can, but get down now.”
We must look sufficiently convincing in our wild-eyed state, as no one questions
us or gives us any backtalk. Every one of them turns around and begins scurrying
back down the trail. I can only hope that no one falls or get trampled.
As we approach the top, in the last stretch of forest before the lava flow,
we stop for a brief rest. Both of us are winded, sucking in great gulps of
air to fuel our spent bodies and racing hearts. Each breath I inhale carries
a stronger tang of smoke.
Blair is counting up hikers on his fingers. “Jim… I’m not
sure, but I think we’ve seen everyone except the first people. The two
women with the dog.” He’s still short of breath, gasping out the
words.
“They may be at the top by now,” I observe grimly. “We’ve
got to keep going.”
He nods. “We can do it.”
I take the lead as we return to the trail. I can now feel the heat of the
fire on my face, on my hands, and even hear the faint crackle of burning
branches. My heart sinks. What if the flames have spread all of the way around
the circumference of the hill? Even if there is a way through, the path itself
may be cut off, and having to cut through the underbrush will take precious
minutes.
We run past a few more switchbacks, and now even Blair can see the fire.
I can hear him gulp as the full raging extent of a mountain forest fire comes
into view.
I stop briefly, studying the heat patterns in the air. The path itself looks
hopeless, but there’s still a dense green area off to the left that
seems intact and untouched by the flames. I tug at Sandburg’s elbow
to get his attention.
“We’re going to have to go cross-country. If those hikers haven’t
panicked, if they’ve stayed up at the top in the open, I think we can
pull this off. Are you up to this, Chief?”
He gives me a brief, tight nod. “I’m not quitting now.”
“All right. Follow me.”
We head to the left and began crashing through the dense underground. It’s
tough going, especially for someone my size. I feel briefly disoriented…
between the heat of the fire and my green surroundings, I’m reminded
of my time in Peru. We shove our way relentlessly through the vegetation,
heedless of the stinging slaps of the branches.
It’s going to be close. The gap between the fire-involved areas is narrower
than I thought it was, and the surrounding air is now uncomfortably hot.
From some deep reserve of energy, I summon up the strength to go faster yet.
Seconds later, I break through into the open area of the lava flow.
I turn around to look for Sandburg, and he runs into me. With a thrill of
horror, I notice that his loose-fitting shirt is smoldering down the back
of one arm. My Sentinel eyes have a split second to see a flash of orange
flame glowing there as well, before I tackle him to the ground.
“Chief! You’re on fire!” Thankfully, we’re back on trail
at this point… hardly a soft landing, but the dusty gravelly ground
is more forgiving than the surrounding boulders. I roll him over and slap
at his arm, cursing. For good measure, I whip off my own shirt and wrap it
around the affected limb before helping him back up.
He seems dazed, and he’s shaking just a little with reaction. “You
okay, Chief? I hit you pretty hard.”
“I’m okay,” he answers. “Oh, geez… my arm! How bad
does it look, Jim?”
I remove my shirt from his arm, and carefully slide up the sleeve of
Blair’s own shirt while he leans against me, suddenly whey-faced.
“Hang on. Don’t go passing out on me here.”
The skin of his arm is reddened, and beginning to well up into painful-looking
white blisters, but there’s no charring of the skin. His habit of wearing
baggy, too-big clothing saved his skin this time, literally. “Doesn’t
look too bad… just going to hurt like hell.”
I can feel him shaking even more, so I ease him down until he’s sitting
with his back propped against one of the boulders. “Here. You need to
sit down.” He doesn’t even protest, just puts his head down between
his knees. Kneeling next to him there, I know what I’m going to have
to do… leave him here in the relative safety of the lava flow area while
I search the top of the peak for the missing hikers.
“Chief, I want you to stay here. I’m going to go on up to the
top.”
He raises his head, still pale and with his eyes dilating with fear as he
stares over my shoulder. “Jim… Jim, look behind you.”
I turn around, my motions heavy with dread… only to see an impenetrable
wall of burning forest below us, completely obliterating the view to the
south, and cutting off our escape route.
********************************************************************
“All right. Keep it together, Chief… we can’t start panicking
now.” I put my hand on his shoulder, give him a little shake.
“I’m still going to go up and look for those two women. They’ll
be safer here, where’s there’s less vegetation.
“You… sit here and get your breath back. Then look around, see
if you can find us a sheltered spot, with as much cover from these rocks
as possible and where there’s no vegetation. I’ll shout when I
get back… but for now, try to get out of reach of the fire.
“We’re going to have to just ride this out.”
*********************************************************************
As soon as he looks a little less pasty-faced I leave Blair and finish pounding
up the last bit of the trail. I can hear the howlings of a distressed basset
hound before I actually catch site of the two women and their terrified dog.
I’m none too soon in arriving. The top of the mountain is only protected
on one side by the lava flow; I can already feel the fire making its way
up the from the other side. In a few more minutes, our pleasant little picnic
site will be an inferno.
I don’t waste time in pleasantries. “We need to get you off of
here now! Come with me!”
Neither one seems disposed to argue. That’s one of the advantages of
looking like I do… people tend to do what I tell them to do in a crisis.
Except Sandburg, of course.
I hustle them, dog included, back down the trail. “Where are we
going?” the blond one shouts over her shoulder.
“Shelter. There’s an area up ahead where we’ll be relatively
safe,” I yell in return. “Just keep moving!”
In a few moments, we’re back down into the disorienting greyness of
the lava flow. Picking our way over the boulders necessitates a slower pace,
so I explain the rationale to the two hikers. “The fire need fuel to
spread. There’s nothing here but rock, and there’s a lot of it.
If we can find a good sheltered low spot, we should be okay. Just a little
cooked.”
I raise my cupped hands to my mouth to shout. “Sandburg! Where are
you?”
Off to my left, I hear an answer, somewhat muffled. “Over here, Jim!”
I track his voice, towing the women and their hound with me. Under other
circumstances, I might have found the dog funny. With its stubby legs, it
was having problems climbing over the rocks, and was requiring frequent
assistance. Briefly, I consider carrying it, but the animal must weigh sixty
pounds and would probably be even less in favor of the idea than myself.
We almost fall on top of Blair. He’s found the perfect spot, a deep
U-shaped niche created by the proximity of several of the huge boulders.
We’re almost in the middle of the lava flow area, and there’s no
burnable matter to be seen anywhere.
Except, of course, for four adults and a dog.
Sandburg climbs out of the shelter, looking much more himself, and helps
me guide the two hikers down into the crevice. The dog resists a bit, but
the women pull and we push and eventually the stubborn beast cooperates.
The three of them crowd closely against the far wall of the niche, with the
whimpering basset in the middle. “Mona, hush,” scolds the blonde.
“We’ll be okay.”
I push Blair into the remaining space; he ends up sitting sideways against
the rocks half-facing the two women. With an audible grunt, I wedge my body
into the opening of our little roofless cave, where I can have some hope
of seeing what is happening to my surroundings. From here, I can see the
top of the hill if I crane my neck around just right… and it’s
obvious that we got out of there barely in time. The line of vegetation is
marked with a sheer wall of flame, whipped up by the rising wind. From time
to time, burning branches break loose to sail through the air. Some of those
fiery projectiles come a little too close for my liking; I wish we had something
we could put over our heads to protect us.
Behind me I hear a nervous giggle from the other woman, the darker-haired
one who’d given us the ibuprofen pills for Dan’s ankle. “Tina,
I think I’ve had enough of the great outdoors. Next time… next
time, can we just stay home and watch a National Geographic special?”
Blair speaks up, and I’m relieved to hear no trace of panic in his voice.
“Yes… but think of the story you’ll have to tell. How many
people do you know who have gotten to witness a forest fire up close?”
Tina makes a rude noise. “You think we can write a book now and be
famous?”
He keeps them chatting for a while, drawing them out, successfully distracting
them from our predicament. The basset settles down a bit as well, undoubtedly
comforted by the presence of so many people in such close quarters. Meanwhile,
I continue to stare out at the inferno, at our own little piece of Hell…
with an almost rapt fascination.
Carefully, I edge the sensitivity of my hearing up, bit by bit, and listen
to the fire. I hadn’t realize that fire made so much noise, or so many
different kinds of sounds. There are the great crashing sounds of falling
trees and branches, the white-noise crackle of the leaves and twigs succumbing
to the flames, the hiss and pop of the resinous wood. And underneath it all,
one thing I hadn’t counted on being able to hear… the sounds of
dying wildlife.
Tiny insects lose their brief lives in a second, their bodily juices vaporized
by the tremendous heat. I can hear frantic squeaks as terrified little creatures,
perhaps mice or chipmunks, run away from the leading edge of the flames.
If they are lucky, perhaps they will make it into the rocks to find hiding
places such as our own… but most will die, roasted instantly by the
superheated air. Birds, blessed with more mobility and speed, come winging
through the brush to settle amongst the boulders with squawks and cheeps
of distress, their tiny hearts beating so loud that I can almost feel the
pulse under my fingers.
And the smells, the odors of smoke and hot rocks and burnt fur and feathers,
the acrid tang of our own perspiration… these sensations surround me,
pervading my consciousness, until the tiny part that is Jim Ellison becomes
lost in a world of sounds, smells and visions of destruction.
************************************************************************
“Jim… hey, Jim! Snap out of it!”
The soft voice hisses in my ear, bringing me halfway back to an awareness
of myself. The familiar finger poking me in the ribs finishes the job, and
I shake my head briefly to clear my vision.
“You with me again?” Blair whispers at me. I nod slowly.
“Yeah… just listening to the fire.”
“I’ve been trying to get your attention for about ten minutes,
man. You were out of it.” He coughs into his hand, and I realize that
the air is a little smokier than it was when I began zoning out. “I
didn’t want our guests to start worrying, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m okay.” I rub my hand over my eyes. “How’s the
arm?”
I can’t see his face from where I am, but he hesitates before he answers.
“Hurts,” he says finally. “I sneaked a look at it a few minutes
ago. I’m going to have some interesting blisters. Hey, how does it look
out there?”
“Hot… but let me get a better look.” Eager to stretch my cramped
muscles, I wriggle out of the crevice and half-stand up. The few patches
of soil nearby are smoldering, and the rocks are all definitely a bit warm,
but there are no open flames anywhere near us. It’s hard to be sure,
but it looks as if the fire itself may be beginning to die down.
Can it be possible that we’ve survived this?
I crouch back down and worm my way back into the gap between the rocks.
“It’s looking better out there, I think,” I inform our little
group. “I think in another hour or so, we may be able to get out of
here.”
“Thank God,” says the blonde woman softly. “My husband must
be so worried.”
More exclamations of giddy relief follow, and the level of tension among
us drops rapidly. Blair pulls his water bottle out and shares it around,
along with some uneaten cookies from lunch, and the mood seems almost
celebratory. We talk, sharing backgrounds and stories. I learn that the two
women are best friends from college, than the little dark-haired one is a
marathoner (and single!), and that the dog is the childhood pet of the blonde
woman’s husband. Blair flirts shamelessly with them both, to my distinct
lack of surprise.
I make periodic checks on the smoldering terrain. Finally, I judge that we
can leave our shelter and think about making our way down.
“Come on,” I say simply. “Let’s go home.”
*******************************************************************
Wary of the creaking, half-burnt trees and the still-hot ground, we make
our painful way down the side of the mountain. For this, the dog proves to
be surprisingly useful. We let her go on ahead on the leash, and follow in
her footsteps.
“After all,” Blair points out, “she hasn’t got shoes.
She isn’t going to want to get a hotfoot.”
It’s hard to believe that this blackened moonscape below and around
us has anything to do with the late-summer paradise that we walked through
this morning. Here and there, we see a few relatively untouched patches,
but for the most part we are surrounded by total devastation. Mona stumbles
across more than one stiff little carcass, nosing these tiny victims with
innocent doggy curiosity. Blair picks up one of them, the remains of a chipmunk.
“Poor creature,” he says, stroking the fur and the stiffened limbs
softly. “There’s hardly a mark on it… must have died from
the smoke.” He lays it gently, almost reverently by the side of the
trail, and we continue on.
About halfway down, we finally encounter other people. Two heavily-equipped
Forest Service Rangers pick their way toward us, their faces lighting up
when they catch sight of our relatively unscathed selves. We stop, suddenly
feeling our weariness, and wait for them to reach us.
********************************************************************
I can’t say what you want to hear
“I like this line the best,” Blair is saying as I enter the bullpen,
fresh from my final Internal Affairs interview. “ ‘The bravery
of the out-of-town policeman seemed to know no bounds as he guided the hikers
to a safe refuge from the fury of the fire’s destructive forces.’
” He’s holding the newspaper in front of him, reading aloud to
Simon and the rest of the Major Crime team; they’re listening with obvious
delight. I sneak up behind him and tap him on the shoulder.
“Shouldn’t believe everything you read, Sandburg,” I point
out as he whirls around, a guilty expression on his face. “Besides,
you were there.”
“Hey, man, you were great. You saved all of us. What’s wrong with
a little good P.R?” He puts the paper down and follows me back to my
desk, amidst a few chuckles which I ignore. Simon comes over as well.
“How did it go, Jim?” he asks quietly.
“Well…” I search for the right words. “Like Sandburg
just said, a little good P.R. never seems to hurt. They’ve cleared me
of any intentional wrongdoing, anyway, and I can go back on duty at any time.
You should be getting a phone call from them soon.”
Simon nods and claps my shoulder silently as he heads for his office. Blair
perches on the corner of my desk, looking at me with those damned too-perceptive
eyes.
“You don’t seem very happy about the decision,” he observes
finally.
I toy absently with my stapler. “They’re… letting me off too
easily, Chief. I screwed up, and a good friend got hurt because of my stupid
pride. Then, just because I do the right thing in a crisis and keep my head,
suddenly I’m a hero and I.A. is apologizing to me.”
He sighs. “Jim… maybe they know what kind of man you are, what
kind of cop you are. You are your own worst enemy. What kind of official
reprimand could they give to you that could possibly sting more than the
words of your own conscience?”
I nod in response, still fiddling with the stapler, and decline to answer
him.
“Besides… the two incidents have nothing to do with each other,”
he goes on, his voice low and earnest. “Just because you made an error
in judgment a few weeks ago, doesn’t detract one bit from the bravery
you showed up there on that mountain. You’ve… been judged, in a
sense, and found worthy, by something outside of yourself.”
“Sandburg, what are you talking about?” Sometimes I think his brain
got cooked up there.
“Your senses, man,” he says, still under his breath. “When
you forgot about yourself, and started using your resources for the good
of others, started acting like the Sentinel that you are, your senses came
back… were given back to you.”
“Maybe,” I concede reluctantly. “You could just as easily
say that the distraction of Dan’s injury and the fire helped me get
past whatever mental block I had.”
Blair grins at me. “Hey… however you want to think about it.”
He slides off the desk and retrieves his coat off of its hook. “But
it’s time for lunch,” he says in a normal voice, “and I hear
there’s a new departmental regulation requiring heroes to pick up the
tab.”
Reflexively, he ducks, but not quickly enough to dodge the arm that I use
to trap in a careful headlock.
“Of course,” he adds, his voice slightly muffled against my shirt,
“the hero also gets to pick the restaurant.”
*******************************************************************
Author’s Notes
I had no idea it was going to take me six months to finish this
‘little’ epilogue. My apologies to all who were expecting my usual
more timely postings, and my thanks to all of you for the patience you showed
in reading my infrequent offerings.
The places that I mention in this story are real; thankfully, Fish Creek
Mountain has not been the victim of any fires that I have been aware of.
It’s now an easy drive from Portland and a great day hike. For almost
three years, after the flooding of February 1996 the main road to that part
of the Cascades was closed; I’m happy to say that it’s open again.
Our once-majestic forests are shrinking, both due to logging and the ravages
of fire. Please, take the opportunity to see and appreciate them while they
still exist… and work towards their continued survival. Groups such
as the Sierra Club and the Nature Conservancy can help you find ways to get
involved.
Oh… for those of you betting on whether or not I slipped myself into
this story, the two female hikers are inspired by two of my college friends.
Mona the Basset Hound is a real character as well, and enjoys hiking very
much if she can have the occasional lift over large objects in the trail
(being a beast of exceedingly low clearance). |
|
© 1999-2001 by Kimberly Heggen. All rights
reserved. |
