by Laura Crum
Living in the brush meant living with wild animals-a joy and a trial. I was vexed with the deer's habit of preferring rosebuds to all other vegetation, and I wept over the two little hens; still, there was nothing like the sight of a gray fox sky-lined on the ridge, staring down at me with that peculiar intense stillness in its eyes. Or the time a coyote had parked itself under an oak and watched me ride my horse for half an hour. Or the day I had seen two Cooper's hawks mating in the top of a Monterey pine at dawn.
On and on it went, with every day full of these interactions, bright and sad, this endless dialogue with nature. I watched the sunlight on the shining wild grass, saw a red tree squirrel pick its way from oak top to oak top, following a highway I would never know. Plumber's ears moved forward and back, forward and back, as he walked along the trail.
Now the ground was growing steeper; we entered a grove of redwoods, the terrain instantly and dramatically different. Deep shade under the trees, a chill in the air, ferns clustered on the bank above the trail. It was quiet here, almost hushed, compared to the life and motion of the brush country.
Plumber walked; I let my gaze drift. An occasional shaft of sunlight slanted through the shadows under the trees. The air had a rich, loamy smell. The trail wound through the forest, leading upward. I knew where we were, and where we were headed. Upward, ever upward, toward the ridge.
I could see light through the trees; in a minute we emerged from the forest into more open country. Grass and brush, scattered clumps of madrone and oak. We were fairly high now-a tapestry of hills, like a cloth tossed down into folds, lay on all sides of us.
Rolling, gentle hills, the golden-eyed California Coast Range. Not steep and severe and dramatic, not intense as the Sierra Nevada Mountains were. No, this country was different, these brushy, brambly curves a complete contrast to the sharp silver granite edges of the mountain range where I'd spent my last vacation.
The Sierra Nevada-the range of light. I thought nostalgically of green meadows full of wildflowers and clear mountain lakes. The wind riffled through a clump of pampas grass by the trail with a paper-like rustling, and Plumber cocked a watchful ear.
Everywhere the brush country crowded around me, nearby slopes golden and olive and brown, more distant ridges fading to a misty gray-blue. The trail picked its way through a thick stand of ceanothus, arching over us like a tunnel. This wild lilac would have been a blaze of blue-violet, sweet-scented bloom in March; now, in early June, it was just a tall green shrubbery.
On we went, and up. The trail grew narrower, found its way through a grove of madrones, their graceful red-barked trunks like a curving, sinuous group of young dancers. Ahead was an opening, a small meadow crowning a hill.
I rode on, aiming for the high spot. Big vistas opened up where I could see through gaps in the trees that fringed the trail. Hills, rolling and tumbling away to the blue half moon of the Monterey Bay, visible now in the distance. In a minute I was on the crest, looking out over the coastline as a Spanish conqueror might have done.
These hills would not have been so very different then, I reflected, had such a one come here on horseback. These trees, obscuring and revealing that blue curve of water, these fields of dried grass flashing silver and gold in the breeze ... all this would be the same. But to the invading army they would have appeared unknown and challenging, rather than friendly and familiar. How the hell are we going to get from here to there, they probably thought.
Good question, when you're on horseback in uncharted country. This little meadow was the destination I'd had in mind. Off to my right I could see a trail disappearing into a clump of oaks, a trail I knew would take me back home. I'd ridden this loop many times before. But off to my left was another trail, one I'd never explored. Today, I decided, is the day.
The new trail was steep, and it headed rapidly downhill through heavily forested country that blocked out all views. Plumber picked his way cautiously, bracing himself against the slope. I leaned back and concentrated on avoiding long poison oak vines that reached out across the trail. No use itching for the next two weeks.
Down and down we went, descending the other side of the ridge. I knew roughly where we were, but I had no idea where this trail was headed.
We bottomed out in a little valley, which had obviously at one time been a farm. I could see the remains of a homestead at the upper end, and most of the open ground was planted in apple trees. Neglected now, with brambles growing between them, the trees still survived, twisted and old and wild. Small green apples adorned the branches; I made a mental note to come back here in the fall.
Skirting the apple orchard, I picked up the trail, or a trail, on the far side, headed uphill. It looked reasonably well made and as though it were traveled some. I followed it. It took me up and over another ridge, and then followed a canyon deeper into the hills. Then, once again, upward through dusty open fields and clumps of scrub.
Here it was warmer, and Plumber was getting tired. He plugged on up the hills like the little trooper he was, but his neck was wet with sweat; I stopped often to let him rest.
Time to head back, I thought. The question was how.
I wasn't exactly sure where I was, though I could guess the general area. I had hoped that this trail would eventually take me in the direction of home, but it had not, and now I wasn't sure that it would. It led on inexorably inland, east, and I lived more or less due north.
On the other hand, I was bound to end up somewhere, I reassured myself. There just wasn't enough open land in this part of the world to get really lost in. Sooner or later I was sure to pitch out on a street or road, which I would no doubt recognize. The big question was when and where.
My horse was tired and I had no desire to end up on a major thoroughfare and have to follow it home. Even though Plumber was relatively unbothered by cars, the mixture of horses, traffic, and pavement is not a good one. Automobiles are just too big and heavy and plain-old lethal, especially driven by ignorant yahoos who think it's funny to spook a horse. And pavement is slippery and too damn hard to take a fall on. No, I didn't want to ride home along a road.
So just where the hell were we? The trail was going downhill again, plunging abruptly into a very deep redwood-filled gorge. Down and down we went, steep switchback after switchback, descending through the trees, toward what?
I could go back, I thought. I could always retrace my steps and go home. But that would be a long ride, and defeating as well. I wanted to see where we would come out.
So far the trail had been good, which was a relief. One of my worst nightmares is having a trail peter out in rough country. Usually by the time you realize the thing is truly impassible, you've struggled through some pretty tricky stuff, so retracing your steps is also scary. Not to mention, turning around can be damn near impossible. I was always very leery of this situation, and apt to turn back if trails begin to look too much like deer paths. But this one was still clear and apparently well-traveled. I saw the occasional hoofprint in the dust and now and then a pile of dried manure. Horses came this way, then. It was a passable trail.
But just where did it go? I was getting quite interested in the answer to this question. So, I was sure, was Plumber. If he could have spoken, I knew he would have said, "So, are you lost, or what?"
Well, I wasn't. I just didn't exactly, specifically know where I was, that was all. I still knew which way home was, and I knew that if I kept going in the current direction, I was bound to strike a road in the reasonably near future. That was good enough.
We'd reached the floor of the canyon-an awesome place. Redwoods towered up around us, somber dark pillars in a dim cathedral. Not a ray of sunlight penetrated down here. Far, far above, lacy green branches wove a tapestry with the blue of the sky. The walls of the canyon rose abruptly and vertically on each side; a little creek ran down the middle.
It was quiet, mysteriously quiet. Even though I knew this hushed silence was the nature of a forest, it could still give me the creep
s. I always had the feeling someone was hiding, watching me. I infinitely preferred open grassland, or the lively scrub.
On we went, following the little creek through the dark canyon. I kept expecting to stumble on an old bootlegger's still, circa 1920, or for that matter, one of Joaquin Murieta's outlaw camps. The place had that kind of feeling. Hidden.
Finally the trail found a rift in the canyon wall, on the opposite side from the direction we came in, and began to climb. It was terribly steep.
Plumber literally scrambled to clamber upward, trying to find traction. I leaned forward over his withers, clinging to his mane, trying to put my weight where it was easiest for him to carry. I let him trot up each rise, and then breathe for several minutes on the switchbacks. Even so, his flanks were heaving. If this goes on much longer, I thought, I'll have to get off and lead him.
One more scramble and we topped out. Our trail T-ed into a trail that ran in both directions along a ridge, lit with late-afternoon sunshine. So which way to go?
I stood still for a few minutes and let Plumber catch his air, then chose the left-hand and more downhill direction. I thought civilization might be closer that way. And downhill was better than uphill. Always go downhill when lost. I wasn't lost, I assured myself, just confused. And Plumber was certainly tired. Downhill was better for him.
We hadn't gone fifty feet when I heard a distinct rustling in the brush ahead. Plumber heard it, too. He stopped, ears pricked sharply forward. Leaves crackled in a clump of greasewood to the left of the trail. Let it not be pigs, I prayed.
Wild pigs lived in these woods; I'd often seen signs of their digging and rooting. But I had never run into the actual animals, which was a good thing. Most horses are instinctively and majorly frightened of pigs; why, I don't know. But I had no reason to believe Plumber was an exception to the rule. Lad, the otherwise docile and well-behaved horse I'd owned as a teenager, had nearly killed me once when I tried to ride him through a pig farm. I could still remember the ungovernable fear that had sent him rearing straight up in the air and almost over backwards. I distinctly hoped I was not going to get a repeat of this.
Plumber's body stiffened; he raised his head. I could hear a stick breaking in the brush where the animal was. Maybe thirty feet away. "It's just deer," I said out loud, in a voice meant to be calm. "Just deer, that's all."
More crackling-Plumber grew tenser. I shortened my reins, took a good grip on the saddle horn with one hand, and bumped him gently with my legs to remind him I was there and in charge. Plumber snorted. The brush rustled.
I stared; the horse stared. A branch of greasewood dipped; I saw motion, and what I thought was a hair coat. Tan, not black. Not pigs, then. But somehow I didn't think it was a deer. All four of our eyes, equine and human, were locked on the moving brush. And a cat stepped out on the trail. A big cat.
For a second, all my senses reeled. Not a bobcat. Too tall-the ears were rounded, the tail long and thin. The same brownish-gold, though. A cougar.
My God.
The mountain lion was about the size of a golden retriever dog. He stood in the trail and looked at us calmly, perhaps a little arrogantly, the tip of his tail twitching slightly. The horse and I were frozen.
For my part, I wasn't sure if I was more scared or thrilled. I'd always wanted to see a mountain lion in the wild. But I couldn't help remembering all the disconcerting stories that had been in the news recently.
The lady jogger killed by a couger up near Auburn, the young male hiker who had been chased by a cat here in Santa Cruz County-the animal had followed him all the way to a major road. My neighbor believed a cougar had taken his dog, and not too long ago I'd been called out to treat a horse that had been jumped by a big cat. The bloody, gaping bracelets around his neck came back to me in an instant.
I'd been told that cougars had chased horsemen before; I'd certainly been followed by coyotes when I was on horseback. There was no certainty that this wild animal would not attack us.
On the other hand, we were pretty big as a twosome. And I was man, master of technology, the creature who had dominated the world. Don't forget that, Gail.
One second more I stared at the big cat, memorizing the sight of that lithe and powerful form, the stare of the greenish-yellow eyes. Then I unbuckled and pulled my belt from around my waist, whirled it around my head, and kicking Plumber in the ribs, yelled at the cat, "Go on!"
Plumber started; he didn't exactly step forward, but he moved. The cougar flashed us a quick glance and leapt rapidly up into the brush and disappeared. Just like that.
But ... I pondered the trail ahead. Did I really want to ride between those two banks, knowing the cougar was up there somewhere? No.
I turned Plumber, and looking over my shoulder, began walking back the way we had come. Well, jogging. Plumber jigged and pranced with agitation, not happy at all about the big predator behind him. I didn't blame him. Keeping a firm hold on the reins, I let him stretch out in the long trot, still looking back over my shoulder.
Nothing. The woods were empty and quiet. Too empty and quiet. Suddenly I'd had enough of solitude and this ramble through the hills. I was ready to see some people again.
Trouble was, none were in sight. We topped one hill, then another. More woods. Then some open ground. Then I spotted a downed barbed wire fence on one side of the trail. It was flat on its side, but this had once been a pasture.
Another rise, dropping down into brush. The trail was wider, almost a dirt road. Up we went, yet again, through walls of greasewood, ceanothus, madrone, Scotch broom. Over the crest, a sharp bend in the way, and suddenly I saw a house.
I almost felt like cheering. "We made it," I told Plumber.
Just an innocuous brown house off in the forest, not familiar to me, but it meant we were back in civilization. Sure enough. The dirt road went past the house, took another bend, and became paved. I could see a fenced pasture and more houses; I recognized the road in the distance.
Now I knew where I was. I'd ridden to Harkins Valley.
EIGHT
Harkins Valley wasn't all that far away from my house as the crow flies-obviously enough. It took me fifteen minutes to get here in my truck, mostly because of the route I had to follow to stay on pavement. But going cross country on horseback, I had simply ridden up and over the small range of hills that lay between the valley and my place, which was maybe five miles, if that, to the north.
Well, I thought, gazing around. Here I was. I'd emerged at the back of the Lushmeadows subdivision. I was now on familiar turf. I could see Mike O'Hara's place from where I stood; I started Plumber in that direction, following a trail that ran by the side of the road.
Lushmeadows had been built for horse people; these little bridle paths crisscrossed the whole housing tract. It wasn't a bad idea, and very convenient to me now, but I still found the place repulsive.
It was the basic sameness of everything that revolted me, I thought, looking at the houses. These houses had all been built by one man-the developer. They had no doubt been designed by an architectural firm, and though there was some variation, that in itself was repetitive. Here was a fake Tudor, here one with Greek pillars, here the ubiquitous Mediterranean-type with a tiled roof. Then a smaller, plainer ranch-style house (Mike O'Hara's), for those with less dollars, and back to the fake Tudor again. Yuck.
Even though many of the houses were so large and expensive that they qualified as mansions in my book, even though the parcels were a couple of acres at minimum (often much larger), and the land itself was beautiful, I thought the whole place was tacky.
What I wished for was a law that said a person could only build one house at a time-for him or herself. No more characterless spec houses, created only to make a profit. Sure, some houses would still be generic, others would be downright ugly. People have different tastes. But at least each house would reflect the views of an individual, if only in which particular architect he or she selected. It was the lack of quirkiness in these b
ig, dull, ostentatious houses that was so alarming. Houses like libraries, a friend of mine had once called them.
Mike O'Hara did not appear to be home. No car in the driveway; no sign of life. His bay gelding grazed in the pasture; Sonny looked fine. That was a good thing.
I rode on. Up ahead the street forked; I aimed for the big gate that was across the road from the Bishop Ranch. The houses were larger and more palatial along here, if such details as inappropriate colonnades and porticoes can make a spec house look palatial. This was prime territory. And just ahead was the extremely large and downright gaudy dwelling of Warren White, the developer-contractor who had created the Lushmeadows project.
I knew Warren; like everybody else out here he had horses, and I'd been called out to treat his Arabians once or twice. Kris had dated him for a while a few months ago as well, but that seemed to be over now. Still, as I passed his driveway I saw Warren and two other people out at the barn, talking, and one of them was Kris. They all looked my way.
I pulled Plumber up and waved, and Warren motioned me in. It was like him, I thought, to use an arrogantly curt hand gesture that seemed to leave no options other than to do as he asked. Though I had no doubt that Warren meant to be friendly, even his hospitality had didactic overtones.
Warren was rich. Not that being rich turns every man into a bossy little prince, but it sure seemed to have had that effect on this one. He was also blond, handsome in a superficial way, and single, and as one might expect, he considered himself God's gift to women. I couldn't imagine what Kris had ever seen in him.
Now, now, Gail, I chided myself as I walked my horse up the verge of the long concrete driveway, don't be so nasty. So you and Kris have different taste in men-so what? I hadn't liked Kris's ex-husband, Rick, either-another good-looking, wealthy, pompous ass, in my humble opinion. Well, maybe not so humble.
I passed the house-immense, rococo Mediterranean, painted an orangey pink with many palm trees around many porticos and colonnades, perhaps my least favorite house in the whole subdivision-and approached the little group standing by a white-board-fenced corral out at the barn. Kris, Warren, and a dark man I didn't know.
