The boat docked as scheduled at four o’clock and so I walked with Rusty back down the pier. We sat on a bench on the wharf while all the day hikers boarded.
“On the way back, while you are enjoying fancy seafood in Ventura, think of me out here eating bland spaghetti from a pouch.”
“I refuse to feel sorry for you. You chose this.”
“I know. I’ll call as soon as I have a few bars on my cell phone. Don’t forget, if you get bored, there are wedding pictures to be delivered to the people who live in town.”
The last of the passengers had boarded the boat so Rusty gave me a warm hug and a deep kiss then reluctantly followed them down the ladder. I sat on the pier and watched the boat as it headed out to sea. When it was a little speck in the distance I walked the beach and then hiked to the top of the cliff to sit and watch the ocean. It was going to be a lonely week. I followed the trail a short distance watching the surrounding brush for game trails. I understood how Island Foxes could easily survive out here. Mice and other small animals flourished running beneath the tops of the waving grass and small foxes would thrive on this ample food supply. Birds flitted over the grasslands and, although I never saw one, I continued to hear meadowlarks. As the sun began setting I walked back to the campground, made dinner and went to bed as soon as it got dark. I pictured Rusty driving back through the orange groves then dejectedly walking into a dark house. It was a depressing thought, so I turned over and stopped thinking.
Although I awoke with the sun there was no need to start rushing as the boat wouldn’t leave Ventura until nine. It also wasn’t expected to dock at the pier until well after ten, eleven if they followed a pod of dolphins through the channel again. That left me plenty of time to eat breakfast, break camp and have my pack down at the pier by the time the boat came. After breakfast I cleaned up and paced the camp, ready to be on my way to Prisoners Harbor. I wanted to hit the trail and had three miles to hike with no idea of how hard it was going to be. I couldn’t hike it quickly because I needed to watch for signs of Mark, so I found myself getting antsy by the time the boat arrived. I’d spent time hiking to the cliff tops again and had also circled the buildings that were fenced off from the tourists. It left me wondering who had lived there and what their lives had been like out on an island with no game to hunt. They must have farmed, I thought, but how would they have brought farm equipment over from the mainland?
When the boat arrived, another load of day hikers disembarked. I knew Rusty was at work but found myself watching the faces anyway. After all the tourists had gotten off they began checking bags for returning campers. The crew stowed them away so I made sure they were aware I would be getting off at Prisoners Harbor. I didn’t want my gear buried beneath all the packs returning to Ventura.
I watched the sandy beach of Scorpion Canyon recede as the boat found deeper water and then saw the cliffs and points go by one after another until we pulled into Prisoners Harbor. I waited for the hikers to disembark and then waited while my pack was offloaded. I took the map out of a zippered pocket and got my bearings, then headed south down a dusty Jeep trail towards the central valley. I was glad I wore my hiking boots because the road was rocky. I watched for footprints and although there were some I had no idea what Mark’s footprints were like so I watched for men’s footprints and footprints leaving the road. I also watched for odd prints in the dirt that didn’t make sense. And, since tracking was a habit ingrained into me, I also watched for fox tracks. It was a slow hike watching the whole width of the road for so many things. I did see a man’s footprints and studied them, trying to pick up any clues that I could about them. The rocky road didn’t help at all. I caught part of a print here, another there. I wanted to study this man’s prints because it was definitely one man, traveling alone as Mark would have done.
I imagined the central valley to be green, since the map showed wooded areas and grasslands. I thought I wouldn’t see another person until I met Mark, so what I encountered in the central valley came as a complete surprise. There was a field station there with a laboratory, dorms and students coming and going in Jeeps and conducting studies on the weather, the flora and fauna. They had odd equipment coupled with an eager determination to learn. And they had seen Mark! He had camped nearby a week ago. When I located the camp, though, there was no tent, no pack, no photography equipment and Mark was gone. However, I did manage to find footprints that matched the footprints on the road. There was a flattened area that could have been left from his tent but there was no sign of Mark. I circled the camp looking for footprints leading away from it when I noticed a young woman watching me with interest.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m looking for a man who camped here a week ago and has been missing for the last five days. His family is worried, so I came out here to see if I could track him down. So that’s what I’m doing. I’m tracking.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to just ask around? If you track Mark you’ll run around in circles for a week. He was looking for animals to photograph, and he did take some pictures, but then he went home.”
“Are you sure he left for home? He didn’t go to Campo del Norte?”
“Mark didn’t have time and it would have taken him all day to get there. He was supposed to catch a boat out of Prisoners Harbor and it’s six miles to Campo del Norte. It would have taken him all day to get there. Going there would have added at least two more days to his trip and I know he didn’t have that much time to spare.”
“But he didn’t take the road back to Prisoners Harbor. I would have seen the tracks going in both directions if he had taken the road.”
“There’s another way back. He could have taken the road, but if he was looking for wildlife he probably took the trail. It’s longer but he’d be more likely to find animals to photograph by taking the trail.”
“Did you talk to him much?”
“Yeah, he was interested in our studies and some of the kids had heard of him, so it was like having a celebrity in house. So we all tried to talk to him.”
I abandoned my tracking and got out the map instead.
“So, you think he took this trail?” I asked.
“Or the road. He left pretty early. Only a few of us saw him leave. He said he’d be back though.”
“When?”
“He didn’t say. Not for a while. I doubt I’ll still be here when he comes back.”
“And you’re sure it was this man?” I asked, wanting to make sure we were talking about the same person.
“Yeah, the larger picture doesn’t look much like him. Mark was friendlier looking, more like the snapshot when I talked to him. I have a poster at home with one of his photos on it. Where’d you get his picture from?”
“His mom.”
“You actually talked to Mark Mireau’s mom?”
“Umm, yeah, she’s my neighbor.”
“That is so cool! Wait till I tell the other kids I talked to Mark’s mom’s neighbor. They are going to be so jealous.”
I folded the map and began setting up my tent in a different area in order to preserve all of Mark’s tracks. My tent was halfway set up when I heard a scratching noise and turned to see a black and white visitor trying to open my pack. It was a skunk! I rarely saw skunks back home and wished the camera wasn’t in my pack. After setting up the tent, I started wondering how I’d cook dinner as my stove and food were also in the pack. I decided as long as the skunk considered me friendly it was probably safe to get closer so I approached cautiously. The skunk didn’t even seem to care. I put my hand on top of the pack and shook it gently thinking the skunk would jump off. Any normal critter would have run away in fright, but the skunk didn’t budge, so I unzipped a pocket and removed the camera. The skunk immediately investigated the open pocket of my pack. I smiled as I zoomed in on my backpack with the skunk furiously fishing around in the pocket for goodies. I took a few pictures of my friendly guest but still couldn’t cook dinner. If I opened up the main compartment he’d have a feast.
“Shoo!” I said, waving my hands around. “Go check out some other camper.” But I was the only camper there and the skunk wasn’t budging. “Come on, buddy, move it. I want my dinner!”
What can you do with an animal that won’t be intimidated? I couldn’t pick it up or chase it away and I couldn’t hurt it. Finally I just picked up the pack and dumped the skunk off. It stamped its feet with indignation and followed the pack like a puppy dog after a treat. I propped the pack up on my leg while I fished around for the stove, water and backpacker food. When I set the packet of food down next to the stove the skunk tackled it and tried to open the packet but I was able to quickly and cautiously retrieve it. After heating just enough water to cook the meal, I poured the hot water into the pouch and then carried it around while the lasagna cooked. If I had set the pouch down the skunk would have had my dinner in no time. I then realized my fork was still in the pack so I had to hold the pouch with one hand and manipulate the zipper with the other, all the while fending off a fearless skunk. This was getting ridiculous. I held the pouch in my mouth, trying not to burn my face, while I opened the pack up again and found my fork. It was like a circus act. Let’s see how many things Cassidy can do at one time! Victoriously pulling out the fork I looked up and in the dusky shadows of the brush I saw an Island Fox. Yes! I thought. This might be my only chance. So, holding the pouch of food still in my mouth I pulled out the camera and quickly snapped a picture. Then I stalked closer, closer. I took another picture and stalked a little closer. This time I slowly knelt down and zoomed in on it. The fox seemed to be watching the skunk and waiting for his own chance at my pack. Sitting down on the ground, I opened the pouch and began eating the contents while still watching the fox. It was small, even for a fox, and was mostly salt and pepper gray with some tan points on it. It looked at my dinner hungrily. Sorry, boy, a rule’s a rule. Do not feed the animals. I wondered, if I sat with my dinner, maybe he’d stick around, like the skunk did, but when I sat I ended up with the skunk in my lap. What was wrong with the animals in this place? When I stood to get rid of the skunk the fox dashed away into the trees and vanished.
I paced the camp eating my lasagna noodle dinner from the pouch while keeping a step or two away from my black and white friend. I wished I could get a picture of him while he was climbing on me and then the answer came to me. I looked the camera over and figured out how to use the timer. I counted the number of seconds it would take me to set the timer, find the best place to sit and finally get attacked by the skunk. I figured fifteen seconds ought to do it. I set my pack on its back, set the camera timer, placed the camera on my pack, dashed to a spot about ten feet away from the camera and sat down on the ground. Within a few seconds the skunk was playfully climbing up my leg and trying once again to get into the pouch of lasagna. I was holding the pouch out of his reach when the camera shutter clicked. I could only hope that I’d been sitting in a good spot for the picture. After finishing my dinner, I packed up my trash and closed up all the zippers on my pack with paperclips. I circled Mark’s camp again and found some footprints leading away from it. He had come and gone from camp a lot. Heading in the direction of the trail back to Prisoners Harbor I weaved back and forth looking for footprints. I finally picked up some faint ones that I thought were his so I remembered the spot. I’d start out there first thing in the morning.
As the sun began setting I picked up my cell phone hoping for a signal, but didn’t get one. I pictured what I thought Rusty might be doing. He’d be working or eating dinner, but I also hoped he’d be delivering our wedding pictures to Kelly and Rhonda.
When the skunk decided the food was gone and he wasn’t going to get any, he chattered at me a little longer and then wandered away. I went into my tent and lay in my sleeping bag thinking. At least this trip seemed easier than I thought it would be. Getting some information about Mark’s whereabouts had helped tremendously. I wouldn’t get to hike all those loops, and I wouldn’t see as much of the island as I had wanted, but it was necessary to follow where Mark had gone. Tomorrow I’d hike the longer trail back to Prisoners Harbor and… and then what? What if I didn’t find Mark? I’d backtrack to make sure and then study the map again. It’s all I could do on my own.