Chapter 1

 

     I’ve heard all the stories.  

     

     Hard to pick a favorite.  And, in fact, I can’t be sure myself. Perhaps, as one legend says, we were once people, and we retained our crimson color as a reminder we all share the same blood. Never thought to ask the elders or even my mother. 

     

     Truthfully, I was never much interested in these sorts of questions.  Let the debate continue in the underbrush below among the ferns and pines.  We’re here and will always be here.  That’s all that matters. 

     

     And Matriarchs such as myself ensure it will always be so.

     

     To human eyes - and even my own - the forest appears unchanging.  Yes, it’s true, during my lifetime, tribes of men have always been among us.  They’ve left scars on my kind as they scuttle beneath us, canvassing the fallen to sculpt their canoes and shelter.  Huddled along the coast and tucked inside the valleys, they mostly keep to themselves and their gods.      

     

     But the pulse of the grove is quickening now.

 

     This wave is more intense than earlier ones, its volume louder. The rising din of sound along the valley floor has escalated into a cacophony impossible to ignore.  The woodland is nervous, sensing a shift in its precious equilibrium.  The larger creatures retreat deeper into the forest to wait out the intrusion, glancing upwards at me as they pass.  

     

     I remind myself my ancestors have endured catastrophes of every kind.  Broken earth, rising seas, raging fires, endless pantheons of unrecorded disasters, lost long ago in the mists of time.

     

     So here we are again.  A new threat crests the horizon.  

     

     I just need to be strong. 

     

     And I will be.

 

Chapter 2

 

     “Well, we’re a long way from Bryn Mawr now, aren’t we?” I muttered, dodging mud puddles as we approached the grandstand.  

 

     Why did I even bother?  My lace-up Edwardian boots were already caked with coastal silt, as they had unceasingly been for these past four years.  Grasping the sides of my bell-shaped skirt, I lifted the hem above the muck.  Four - four! - dreary, interminable years of wearing the same old boots.  Oh, you want some new ones?  No problem.  Just make an expedition over to the Eureka Woolworths, only a skull-rattling carriage or Model T ride away down a cratered, half washed-out cowpath.  Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll have your size. 

 

     “C’mon Ruthie, chin up.  Look, it’s stopped raining.”  

 

     The townspeople tolerated me, but they loved my husband.  When “Sunny” Charles Wescott announced his mayoral candidacy last year, his election was as sealed as a letter already sent.  I may have poo-pooed his “Tomorrow Starts Today” campaign slogan as trite, but his constituents proved me wrong.  The loggers and fisherman of this backcountry northern California town are hardy frontier folk.  Whether justifiable by the circumstances or not, they demand unshakeable optimism from their leaders.  A trait which also comes in handy when coping with the grumblings of your displaced Philadelphia wife.

 

     “Here we are, right in front.”  Charles spread a wool blanket across the damp wooden bench for us to sit on.  A sea of parasols and derby hats, the gallery bleachers were nearly full.  What passes for the aristocracy of just-past-turn-of-the-century Arcata was present and reporting for duty.  Wives in their finest home-stitched dresses flitted about, trailed by dusty, hungry-looking husbands.  A splash of high society, right here in the wilds of Humboldt County.  

 

     In these situations, I usually rely on a stiff gin and tonic to reel in my ever-popular cynical propensities.  But alas, not today.  At previous college graduations I’ve attended, spirits were always in abundant supply. But then again, this was my first commencement celebrated west of the Continental Divide. 

 

     Charles was giving me that look of his.  You’re the mayor’s wife!  Go talk to people!  Alright, alright.  Time to turn on “sociable” Ruth.

 

     “Good morning Margaret and congratulations to Rebecca.  She looks radiant today!”  

 

     The perennially buoyant disposition of Margaret Manion, proprietor of Humboldt Bakery, rivaled even that of my husband.  Cringing,  I awaited an overenthusiastic response to my insincere flattery.  I was not to be disappointed.

 

     “Why thank you so much Ruth!  It’s always been a dream of hers to teach.  And isn’t this wonderful for our little town!  Having our own teacher’s school here, can you imagine?  And congratulations to your Dorothy as well.  Top of the class, I believe, no?  What will she do next?”

 

     “Well, we’ll see.  She’s talked about going down to San Francisco” I lied. My heart skipped at the very idea.  Dorothy in an apartment on Market or Van Ness meant her mother would need to visit at least two or three times per year.  The theater, the shopping -

 

     Margaret interrupted my delusional reveries.

 

     “That WOULD be exciting, wouldn’t it, but my goodness, it’s so very far!  Rebecca’s teaching  at a new school opening in Eureka. And Elizabeth Mead’s heading down to Fortuna.  I can’t believe how much this area has grown since I was a child. They won’t be able to call us the Lost Coast much longer!”

 

     She laughed at her own joke as I turned away, duty fulfilled.  Keep it together Ruth.  A dozen two-story buildings in the whole town and a four-cabin teachers’ school and suddenly we were the Upper West Side?  Here’s a thought.  Maybe pave downtown Arcata first before declaring the arrival of the 20th century in Humboldt County?

 

     Glancing at the program, I found Dorothy’s name, first on the list..  

 

     Ms. Dorothy Wescott - daughter of Charles and Ruth.  Magna cum Laude.

 

     Peering out from the bleachers, I searched for my daughter.  There she was, clustered with her fellow graduates just off-stage.  My hand wave was either unnoticed or ignored as they chattered amongst themselves.  Almost certainly the latter.  It was possible, just possible, she might still be a teensy bit annoyed after I had poked her yet again at breakfast over her lack of marital prospects. 

 

     “But mother, I’m only twenty!”

 

     “Exactly, my dear, exactly!”

 

     I turned my attention back to the stage and sighed.  The inaugural graduation of the Humboldt State Teachers College was set to begin. Imagine an elegant picnic masquerading as an Astor soiree.  The more the organizers tried to make the grounds feel like the College Green at Penn, the less it did.  Even so, I had to admire their industriousness.  Monkeypod chickweed and  June-blooming wildflowers lined the outdoor stage. Electric lights draped the platform above the buzzing graduates.  Fluffy red, white and blue bunting brightened the stage.  And where was it?  Ah, there it is.  The “Class of 1914” flag I had stitched together over the past few weeks swathed the speaker’s podium. A nice touch if I don’t say so myself. 

 

     But flags and flowers couldn’t compete with the main attraction directly behind the stage.  California’s first official teacher’s college north of Petaluma resided within a thick forest of ancient redwoods.  Towering over our gathering, the giants guaranteed our ceremonies would begin in a misty, chilling shade despite the noonday sun.  When I was a little girl, I traveled to Switzerland and marveled at the vertigo-inducing ascent of the Alps.  Impossibly steep, the mountains shot straight up like skyscrapers from Zurich’s flat valley floor.  Now here, on the other side of the world, a colossal fortress of wood instead of ice sealed us off from the outside world.  

 

     As the school president approached the podium, I realized immediately my prayers for an efficient ceremony were to go unanswered.   In that practiced way that husbands and wives secretly trash others during public events, I whispered conspiratorially into Charles’s ear.

 

     “How is it possible there are ten speakers but only fifteen graduates?”

 

     Speaker number seven on the docket checked his notes and playfully appeased me, whispering back, “You’re right, the dean must think we’re in Boston or New Haven.  Just sit back and relax.”

 

     As the morning dragged on, I shuddered as the mountain cold, layer-by-layer, ruthlessly penetrated my sable fur coat.  By the third speech, no amount of feet-stamping or husband-burrowing was helping anymore. I marveled at Dorothy’s grace as she braved the chill from the stage.  Fully exposed to the icy Pacific wind, she sat there radiant, smiling as if she was sunning herself in an Adirondack chair on a July Cape May beach. 

 

     “Be good, do good and you shall have your reward!”  Polite clapping whisked the Dean and his platitudes offstage as he yielded to Charles for his turn at the podium.  As the mayor bounded up the slick grandstand steps two-at-a-time, I steeled myself for at least a half hour soliloquy.  After thanking his “eternally patient” wife, Charles settled into one of his stump speeches I’d heard countless times.  Free to wander now, my mind drifted.

 

     Not a good thing. Not at all.  I was counting on, no, I needed some extra-engrossing distractions to make it through this.  For years, ever since we got here, I’d sought sanctuary in mental diversions and detours.  Head down, stay busy.  Write those letters, volunteer for that First Methodist Christmas committee.  And at night, a bracing nip from the brandy closet to shut the door tight.

 

     Otherwise, they came.  The real cause of my shuddering.  I forced myself to look up, past the stage and classrooms, into the dark, looming forest above. 

 

     Despite four years of official Humboldt County residence, I’d clung to town, never setting foot in the surrounding wilderness. Over cigars, Charles never tired of the incredulous response from his sycophants when he’d exaggerate that although I was a dues-paying (if inactive) member of the Women's Federation to Save the Redwoods, I’d never actually touched one.

 

     Arcata chatter proposed various explanations for my bizarre behavior.  The leading theory?  “Princess from Philadelphia Afraid to Soil Her Parisian Dress.”  Or, the scandalous hypothesis “Socialite Allergic to Fresh Air.”  Others conjured up more nefarious reasons why I chose to self-imprison myself within the city limits.  “She’s a medium,” they whispered. “Sees trolls and goblins in the woods.”

 

     Trolls and goblins would have been a welcome substitute for the true source of my cowardice. 

 

     Yet, here I was.  In violation of my own edict, far from home, huddling to stay warm on the precipice of town. Only steps away from that which I dread most.

 

     We’re all experts in something.  Maybe you collect stamps or can discern Roman pottery from Phoenician.  My specialty?  Well, from where I stand, it’s rather unique.  Full disclosure, I hold no proper credentials, no official certifications and it won’t appear as an achievement on my obituary.  You’ll just have to take me at my word.

 

     It’s Fear. See, I know all about Fear.  True Fear.  I’m not talking about your everyday spider phobias or nightmares of bottomless quarries filled with black stagnant water (although you should definitely steer clear of quarries).  Or those brushes with the supernatural delivered by charlatan spiritualists who trick the dead into rapping their knuckles on command underneath the table.

 

     No, I’m a self-taught, learned authority in True Fear.  Who knows, maybe you are too.  Perhaps you’ve dabbled in its shadows, confident you’ve seen the worst it has to offer.  God knows, I hold no exclusive patents or proprietary trademarks in this realm.

 

     But I can share this tip. Here’s your litmus test, how you know for certain True Fear has paid you a visit.  Drum roll…What’s True Fear?  It’s the absence of Hope.  It’s arrived when you know  what will happen next - and there’s not a damned thing you can do about it.  Your fate is certain.  There’s no bargaining, no clever barrister to get you off on a technicality.  You signed the contract, your soul belongs to Him. 

 

     Of course, everyday, conventional bouts of Fear fall short of this bar. The ending isn’t forsworn.  The tarantula startles you, but might not bite. The water is cold but you know how to swim. Despite the dire circumstances, in these cases, a flicker of faith endures.  I can fix this, I know I can. Just give me a minute to think, there’s always a way. 

 

     Not always.  With monstrous forests such as the one surrounding me now, there’s no solution.  There’s no bartering.   I don’t just suppose, I know its essence.  Nature doesn’t take sides, they say.  It’s indifferent.  Yeah, right.  This wilderness and I understand each other.  No quarter is asked for and none is given.  For you, the forest is many things.  A playground.  A postcard.  For me, it’s a murderous No Man’s Land, minus the barbed wire.  To leave the safety of the trenches and enter its territory means annihilation.

 

     Why?  Ask Her, not me.  For Her own reasons, the entity chose to reveal herself to me long ago.  My whole life I’ve wrestled with the consequences of our decades-old encounter.  And naturally, along the way, I’ve certainly had my midnight moments of doubt.  Fueled by Tanqueray, I’ve faced the unpleasant truth that history is full of crackpots who were magically privy to whisperings of God or the Devil that only they alone could hear.  How narcissistic, how stupid, for me to believe I’m somehow special, that I’m the Chosen One.  And it works, for a while.  But my attempts at denial always fade with each sunrise.  Call me crazy.  What happened, happened.

 

     What’s the proverbial silver lining you ask? Well, I did come up with one. Yes, I know, it’s a stretch. Ready? Here it is (deep breath).

 

     At least I know.

 

     So, I guess that’s something.  Clarity.  Lucidity. While the rest of the world meanders inside its bubble, caring about baseball games and stock tickers, I’ve been granted a peek over the horizon.  A modern-day Elijah, the unwanted recipient of an unreturnable gift.

 

     “Here we go.”  I welcomed Charles' interruption.  His elbow nudged my silver chatelaine purse as he motioned towards the stage.  I hadn’t even realized he was back.  With the speaker’s exhortations finally over (and quickly forgotten), the soon-to-be teachers were nervously lining up for their degrees.   

 

     Swaying, I tightly clutched his arm.  “My dear, what’s the trouble?” he inquired.  “Do we need to leave?”

 

     Breathe, just breathe.  Reflexively, I called upon the techniques I’ve used since I was a child to push down the panic.  First, orient yourself.  You’re here, at Dorothy’s graduation.  Next, tighten your stomach against the upcoming waves of nausea.  Here it comes, keep it down!  Ignore that gagging sensation in your throat. Finally, lie to yourself that everything is fine, just fine.

 

     Charles instantly recognized my predicament.  Familiar with my wifely hysterics and fragile constitution, he started to escort me from the stands, but I demurred.  “No, no, I’m staying.  I’ll be fine.”

 

     Heads were starting to turn, but a reassuring nod from Charles returned everyone’s attention back to the stage.  A box of scrolls appeared at the base of the podium and the Dean finally got to the part of the program we were all waiting for. 

 

     “Dorothy Wescott!” the master of ceremonies bellowed.  I thought I’d be more emotional, but my reservoir was empty.  “Congratulations Ms. Wescott.”

 

     Dorothy accepted her diploma, curtsied briefly and assumed the podium for her valedictorian remarks.  Happily distracted once again, I tried to squelch my irritation again at her hat choice.  A straw boater for this occasion?  Much too masculine for this type of ceremony.  And to not even include a goose feather?  But, as you might guess, my unsolicited opinion over buttered toast this morning only served to guarantee the straw boater victory.

 

     Her voice, young and clear, cut through the air and commanded our attention. 

 

     “Our pursuits of gold and status are not just materialistic trappings.  They’re actual traps.  They keep us small.  And so we all must choose.  A fearful life focused on what we might lose.  Or, find the courage to break our self-imposed chains for a cause more noble than ourselves.”  

 

      My goodness.  Apparently the Socialist party has been busy on campus.

 

     Her closing line received the most enthusiastic applause. 

 

     “Everyone inside for refreshments.” 

 

     En masse, the grandstand crowd stood up and emptied the bleachers in seconds, beelining for the sponge cakes and pastry tarts.  Had none of these people eaten breakfast?

 

     Parasol overhead, head down, I made my own getaway as well.  But not in search of buttery croissants or hot coffee.  My goal wasn’t food, it was shelter.  Get inside, indoors, away from the gaze, beyond the reach of the leviathans' shadows. 

 

     I can’t outrun an inescapable past.  Neither can you.  But if I had the chance to put some ground, any ground at all, between myself and this infinite wilderness, for the love of Jesus, move out of my way!   

 

Chapter 3

 

     There she is.

 

     Charles and I found Dorothy in the corner of a classroom, her back towards the potbelly wood stove. Her simple cotton skirt clustered around her ankles, an ugly faddish trend I prayed would pass quickly.  A gray tunic jacket - a little too military for my taste - hugged her petite figure perfectly.

  

     True to form, Dorothy was busy regaling an adoring crowd. Heir to her father’s exquisite charm, she was doing what all exceptional conversationalists do - reminding the other party of their own witty brilliance.  A sincere nod here, a “tell me more!” there, and even her shyest classmates would step into her welcoming light to retell the mouse in the cupboard story yet again. 

 

     But it wasn’t only her wordplay that drew others near.  Dorothy’s undeniable beauty made any subject fascinating for both men and women alike.  Long, dark lashes framed her soulful, amber eyes. Bolstered with a touch of powdered rouge, her flawless porcelain skin seemed to glow from within, the kind of skin that always seems to catch the light just right.  Sophisticated, but balanced with a come-talk-to-me touch, even a jaded mother could see Dorothy was at the peak of her youthful bloom and glowed with the intensity of a newborn star.

 

     The other freshly-minted teachers leaned in close to hear the punch line.

 

     “So my grandfather said to the preacher, "Parson, that was an excellent sermon, but it was not very original." The preacher said “I beg your pardon sir, but it most certainly was.”  Grandpa Wescott kept on chewing his ol’ corncob pipe and replied, “Well, I’ve got a book at home that contains each and every word of your little speech.”  And wouldn’t you know it, the very next day he gifted the preacher a dictionary.””

 

     I joined the group in laughter.  She was a true bon vivant.  An effortless hostess.  If I’m honest with myself, the Wescott move from the East Coast was good for Dorothy.  From the first time Charles mentioned it, I had fiercely resisted the idea.  You want us to move to San Francisco? The city that was leveled by an earthquake back in ‘06, only seven years?  And then only a year later you want me to trek 300 miles up the California coast and pitch a tent at some timber town at the edge of the world?

 

     Yes and yes.  

 

     I floundered, but Dorothy flourished.  All the Philadelphia trappings I thought she would miss were joyously eclipsed by the “wonders” of California.  Where I saw squalor and deprivation, Dorothy saw only adventure.  So what if our San Francisco home on the outskirts of the Embarcadero only occasionally enjoyed electricity and hot water?  Who cares about those pesky earthquake aftershocks that toss us from our beds?

 

     Not Dorothy.  “Mother, California is the modern frontier!  The new center of the universe.”  Every morning she’d raise the curtains I’d drawn closed and begin the day with some version of “Can you believe our good fortune?” or “We’re so lucky to be here!”

 

     Things got worse.  To my utter despair, after a year in San Francisco, Charles was hired as legal counsel for the largest saw mill in Humboldt County.  My tearful bluff to flee back East was called and the Wescotts headed off to the hinterlands.  Impossibly, Dorothy was even more excited about this endeavor and began packing immediately.  My bleak jokes (“Maybe we’ll run into the Donner party on the way up”) were dismissed with a wave of her hand.  If anything, my surliness only fortified her pioneer spirit.

 

     So off we went, rattling up Highway 101 in our Model T roadster.  Charles taught Dorothy how to drive and she quickly mastered the one lever clutch.  Their shared enthusiasm for the adventure only deepened my depression.  Reduced to cowering in the rear rumble seat, my misery thickened with each passing mile.  

 

     During the time we lived in San Francisco, I was besieged with breathless accounts of the North Coast’s indescribable beauty.  “Oh, the redwoods are so magnificent!” or, “The Eel River teems with salmon!  So many you can’t even see the bottom.”  Everyone, it seemed, had been or planned to go.

 

     But, tellingly, not one person - not one - lamented, “Oh, I wish I could trade places with you.”

 

     As we prattled our way north, old Muir himself couldn’t have prepared me for the sights ahead. The brown Petaluma hills turned green, then surrendered to a prehistoric forest as majestic and forbidding as Darwin’s Patagonia or London’s Yukon.  Inches from the road, an endless wall of titanic coastal redwoods stood guard in a perfect, dress-right-dress row.  Their canopy blanketed the heavens, blocking out the sun for miles at a time. Peering out from the back of the jalopy, I could only glimpse shadows beyond their frontage, then darkness beyond.  These forests were not the tame sugar maple and river birch woodlands of my childhood Delaware County.  This was another universe, another dimension.  An American wilderness of Mount Olympus proportions, on a scale above all imitators.

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     And I was trapped, hostage to events beyond my control. Not that I’m counting, but I’d already served four years of my sentence.

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     With no parole in sight.

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