A Quiet Getaway

By Jerry E. Cornwell

I work at a famous restaurant in the French Quarter. One year Mardi Gras and the Superbowl shared the same week. Commuting to my building was a nightmare of traffic, parking, then struggling through the sea of inebriated bodies crowding the streets. For two weeks I baked sixteen hours each day preferring to sleep on flour bags in the storeroom of my kitchen. Management promised me a vacation once business slowed down.

My executive chef called me to his office. “Spring numbers are up almost twenty percent from last year. Great work. We’re giving your crew bonuses; they should be posted today. Don’t blab it around or some of the crews will get snitty. I want you to take some time off before Essence Festival and Fourth of July. I have a comped suite in Vegas; it’s yours if you want it.”

“Thank you, Chef. That sounds great but two weeks of gambling and parties sounds like trading one sack race for another. My wife wants to go camping where she grew up. We haven’t seen her family for years. We can save a little money and have some quiet time.”

Once past Santa Fe, the modern world was replaced by adobe hovels, battered trailers and Indian casinos. Broken farm equipment lined each driveway. The highway followed a clear river lined with basalt boulders into a deep canyon of rust and burgundy banded cliffs. Slow moving campers, truckers and fishermen crowded the narrow lanes, the roadside littered with newly fallen landslides. Our lane widened and climbed steeply away from the river. We topped a final ridge confronted by a vast plateau holding extinct volcanoes, lava domes and cinder cones. A lunar landscape, broken open by a ragged gorge cracking north imprisoning the river. 

A vast tableland stretched to each horizon, surrounded by a chain of mountains like a pie crust. A small village lay against the mountains. We bought groceries and filled up.

Paty said, “I’m so thrilled to be home again. Get everything you need now. This is where we jump off the map.” We crossed undulating lava flows west toward inactive volcanoes and distant blue mountains. We gassed up again at a lonely crossroads where the gas attendant kicked our tires.

“Yer rubber looks good just hold tight and don’t hit the holes or sharp rocks.”

The road to the campground shook us silly. Washboard ruts for ten miles. Paty’s sister Naomi, and her two dogs were waiting at the campsite. I pitched our tent and opened a cold beer. At dusk four elk wandered into the lake while we ate dinner.

The next morning our hike into the Cruces basin took less than an hour. A meadow carpeted in wildflowers, grasses and berries stretched to a forested slope on the far side. Three small rivulets flowed from each side of the extinct volcano meeting at a beaver dam. We headed for the largest trickle barely a hands breadth between small pools. Tiny trout camouflaged in the golden pebbles. We spread a blanket for a picnic. The air was filled with bees, flies, butterflies and mosquitos. The dogs ran wild chasing each other through the creek and abundant flowers. Our blanket overlooked a tub sized pool beneath a tree, too small for swimming but perfect for overheated dogs. We ate sliced apples, cheese and chocolate energy bars while drinking wine from a flask. Drowsing after lunch we noticed a tiny trout struggling on the far bank. It splashed furiously fighting for deeper water held in the branches above the water. A snake grasped the fish. 

“Don’t you dare go near that fish.” Naomi said.

“I was thinking to set it free. It’s such a small snake. There’s no way he can eat it.”

“That snake is small, but that little guy is a pygmy rattlesnake genuinely excited right now.”

The snake pulled the fish further into his nest of branches and shadows. Only the trout’s slow writhing revealed their location in the wet twigs. The rattlesnake was invisible, perfectly concealed in the light and shadow. The trout became paralyzed, and his iridescence drained until it was silver and still. The snake’s blunt head re-fastened and pulled the entire fish deeper into his secret place. We decided to move further away to a large pine tree and set camp.

Naomi stopped to point out a pile of bear scat, “I hope we don’t run into whoever left us that pile. The basin has too many deer, and bears thrive on spring fawns.”

“Do the bears bother people?” I asked.

“Not very often. My job as a wildlife biologist is to monitor data. We have cameras on the trails. A massive forest fire twenty years ago consumed the caldera. The basin was devastated. Old growth tree stands and deadfall were burnt completely away. Only Diablo Canyon was spared, saved by the dripping canyon walls and springs. Some wildlife escaped but it took years for the elk herds and predators to return. Hydrologists believe a reservoir of water exists in the ancient volcanic channels. Glaciers left these moraines and rock piles; somewhere beneath is a dark lake. Downstream we’ll see the springs emerging from the canyon walls.”

We were soon dozing. But I felt alive with the energy of a fisherman. Leaving the sisters I headed to the beaver dam. Naomi’s favorite dog, Boo followed me through the butterflies and wildflowers.

 The creek picked up speed once past the tangled logs of the beaver lodge. I watched the current disappear into the canyon. I edged along the wet cliffs holding branches for balance, careful to not soak my new boots.

The creek forced past boulders and fallen trees, cascading through emerald grottos. I climbed a large boulder and saw a vast canyon. Down the gorge the current plunged through the air, foaming from one deep pool to another. Boo ran from bank to bank, nose to the ground. I forgot about fishing and wanted a swimming hole. 

The canyon narrowed, the current darkened, turbulent against cliffs. Fractured walls held bald fallen trees. Springs trickled from every crack and fissure. The canyon and whitewater fell away like a broken ladder. 

A log-jam lay across the canyon, a dozen snarled old growth trees wedged into the crevasse. No obvious trail. Both sides of the canyon were vertical. I decided to walk across the smooth dead trees like an acrobat. I took my time, using the largest log for support and balance; its roots lay anchored in the far bank where a vague trail followed the cliff face dropping toward a pool. My legs were trembling above the waterfall; the air filled with atomized mist creating rainbows.

Mid-way across the log bridge, I heard Boo howling. He was somewhere beneath me behind the waterfall. I steadied against the log jam and kneeled to call him away from his quarry, hoping it wasn’t a porcupine. I bent down through the logs and saw a deep cave and Boo scrambling from boulder to boulder. My eyes adjusted to the dark recesses of the cave. I heard a low rumbling moan near Boo’s sharp cries. A blur of something sand-colored moving against the walls. Finally, I was able to focus and saw a large cougar swiping at an enraged dog. A tawny panther spun hissing and snarling while Boo jumped and parried deadly lunges. I deepened my voice hollering for Boo to break away. The mountain lion stopped scrambling and stared at me, then bounced toward my perch. I stood up as claws seized the log. A panther’s head appeared before me. I backed away slipping on the smooth log saved only by broken limbs. I backed toward the wall of the canyon. The panther was stuck in the opening, struggling to pull its body through the logs. Monstrous claws gouged the tree trunks; golden eyes fastened on me. I stumbled toward the cliff face, ripping my shirt on tangled branches. I skidded into an uprooted tree. Naomi’s fishing pole snapped in two. I was dazed and bleeding. The cougar was free and padding slowly toward me. I backed away scrambling over a rockslide. My boot slipped between two wedged rocks pinning my foot in a vise. The cougar lowered its head and advanced.

I cried out, “I’m leaving, I’m leaving. I’m leaving.” My boot refused to come loose. I pulled and twisted, desperate to free my leg, wrenching my heel with all my strength. The boot snapped free from the scissoring rocks. I lost my balance somersaulting headlong down the slope.        

I fought through the underbrush, tripping and falling through thistles and deadfall. My shirt snagged and tore away. My slashed shoulders were bleeding. The cougar patiently followed. I did not look away from the panther somehow knowing it would leap instantly and finish me. My right leg refused to stand. I limped backward toward a small pool. My useless leg sizzling in agonizing pain.

The moments and seconds took an eternity, but I made it into the creek. I collapsed to the deepest area beneath a rock and vines. The panther stopped at the creek bank hissing.

I folded my legs beneath me. Only my eyes remained above the chilly water. The cougar watched from the shore, its tail writhing. Four rings of fur dotted her chest. Enlarged nipples stood out. She hissed across the water. The bushes beside her opened and two spotted teenage cougars nuzzled close to her. She never took her eyes from me.

“Oh, Lordy, a whole family,”

I glanced at the branches behind me, she rumbled, readying to spring. Her tail thrashed the air. Her cubs mimicked her kneading the bank, miming her snarls with silent hisses. I pushed further back toward the meager safety of the water splashing into the pool. Three beautiful cougars watched me; I truly expected to die.

All three panthers glanced above my head distracted by a movement. An instant later a shadow passed above me and Boo splashed violently into the pool. He landed just in front of me snapping and roaring. I managed to grab his collar and hold on. He was baying, splashing water eager to defend me. A waterlogged branch floated next to us, I grabbed it and joined Boo’s frenzied water fight. The cougar family flinched in the spray of cold water. They turned and slipped away into the woven forest.

We stayed in the current until we were safe. I couldn’t stand up. A horrible pain in my right foot brought me to my knees with every step. I pulled off my boot, and a red cloud filled the water. A white shard of bone protruded from my heel. I started to crawl back up the canyon. Boo stayed alert circling me. Sharp bits of gravel gouged my knees and hands. I wrapped my flayed shirt into kneepads and climbed like a sloth to the meadow. Boo stayed beside me until the gals heard my whistles. Naomi hiked out of the basin and called her friends at Search and Rescue. They packed me out to a rustic jeep ambulance.

I had grown a healthy beard by morning inspired by inflamed hormones. I required surgery and metal plates, but I proudly left on crutches.

Last Thanksgiving while we shared one too many Sazeracs, my stepfather chided me with his habitual bravado. “That’s why I always fish with my .357 strapped to my leg. It takes care of everything from snakes to lions.”

I answered with my own pesky drawl, “Roy, I’m no Johnny Ringo and I have never been handy with guns. Bullets would not have helped. Those cats instilled a new confidence, a kind of mystical intuition and gave me the reflexes of a ninja. I think everybody surviving is the best outcome I could hope for. I can’t say I love cougars, but I can tolerate them if they stay out of my house.”