Dawn found me breaking camp. I started up my stove and made oatmeal and hot chocolate. My water situation had improved. I no longer had to spend four days hiking those loops as originally planned and could be more generous in my water usage. The island was a chilly place. I nursed my warm cup of hot chocolate and paced, then thought I’d be warmer hiking. After finishing breakfast I hit the trail. I found my starting place from the evening before and picked up the tracks. It was going to be another trail where all I could do was verify tracks as I hiked and watch for places where Mark might have left the trail. I was grateful that I got a good look at his tracks at his camping spot. They were eroded and faint, but were similar to the tracks I’d find on the trail. I thought I should be able to recognize them again now that I was pointed in the right direction. The tracks led down a rough dirt road and when the road forked I stopped to examine both roads. I found Mark’s footprints on the left fork, which made sense. It was the one heading north to Prisoners Harbor, the more remote trail that would lead to more wildlife opportunities.
About a quarter mile down the left fork, I was encouraged to see something that was almost certainly a sure sign I was following Mark’s footprints. The tracks suddenly stopped and I found sharp indentations in the shoulder of the road of a pack set firmly down and then close by the square indentations of tripod legs. I wondered what he had seen that caused the flurry of activity. His tracks continued forward in an odd pattern. The angles of his steps were suddenly different and I tried to picture what would have caused that to happen. Maybe he was sneaking up on something. The footprints angled forward, milled around, then stepped off the road and into the grass. I followed, knowing he had returned to his pack and continued down the road but the whole trail was worth investigating. I learned a little more with every action Mark had taken, and more patterns fell into place as I tracked. Whenever Mark left the trail there was a chance of finding him so I had to be certain to cover his entire trail. I wouldn’t go back to the road until I was certain I’d found all the sign I possibly could. Glancing around in the grasses, trying to find the next track, I saw a dirty, curled up piece of paper and picked it up; it was attached to a small spiral bound notepad. On it was scratched dates: #1-6 10-5 skunk, #7-8 10-5 scrub jay, #9-12 10-7… no note yet about an Island Fox. There were numbers in a column under f-stop and ASA but they didn’t mean anything to me. I read the column under distance with interest. He’d been very close to the skunk, which I knew was easy to do. The scrub jay was thirty feet away, so he must have had a good zoom lens. I wish he had found an Island Fox. I was curious how close to one he could get. The page had a good coating of dust and the ink was running a little from the damp. Placing the notepad in a pocket of my pack, I was thankful for this clue which confirmed that I was on the right track. I followed the tracks back to the road and returned to the place where Mark had left his pack. He continued down the road but I remained curious as to what picture he had taken. Had the trail been fresh and I had more time I might have figured it out, but after several days I didn’t expect to find any visible animal tracks.
When the trail turned off the road and headed north again I followed the tracks. The trail grew narrower and still narrower until it was just a parting of the grasses. Other plants bent over the trail and I noticed seeds scattering as I brushed them. I wondered what plant I was sowing. Wildflowers? Some weed from the mainland they were trying desperately to control? There sure was a lot of it and I hoped it was something native.
The trail followed the ridge bordering Eagle Canyon and I followed the shallow canyon ever closer to the sea. Walking along, the only person in a sea of dry grass and spent plants, the island felt remote. I knew just three miles behind me was a lab full of science teachers and college students, a hub of activity, but not a hint of the busyness reached out to this canyon. Only an occasional meadowlark and the sighing of the wind could be heard. Small brown birds flitted from plant to plant, but they never stood still long enough for me to get a good look at them. I found another place where a person had left the trail and then returned, but no sign of anything other than maybe a call of nature. Guess Mark felt alone out here too.
I found a new place where it looked like someone had left the trail, except after following the bent grasses I saw no indication the sign had been left by a person. As I parted the plants no familiar lines from a human footprint could be found, only sharp indentations, almost like a deer. Or a pig. A pig? Like a domestic pig? Or a javelina? This was interesting. I examined the tracks and decided the gait was too long to be javelina. What kind of animal made these tracks? I wished there was time to follow them, but then I remembered that I wasn’t supposed to be off trail at all. After returning to the trail I saw that the animal had crossed the trail; it hadn’t been on it and turned off. It was traveling cross-country. I’d have to remember that and research it when I got home.
Eventually the trail met another road and Mark had turned west towards Prisoners Harbor. I was just looking forward to a quick hike along the top of the cliffs and down to the pier when another trail departure caught my eye. I looked to the left to see if the grasses on the other side were bent, like they had been before. No animal had crossed the trail this time, but the change was abrupt and the grasses had been trampled in haste. I continued down the trail looking for signs of Mark’s footprints, but couldn’t find any. If Mark had left the trail at this point he hadn’t come back, so I followed the trampled vegetation in the direction of Eagle Canyon. I studied the footprints beneath the plants. The soil underneath felt much softer than the soil on the road. I discovered a man’s footprints sunk deep into the loamy earth. Suddenly a large form appeared under the vegetation and at first I feared that it was Mark. My heart sank as I thought of him laying out here for days, but as I rushed closer I saw that it was a backpack. On closer examination I noticed the tripod strapped to the pack underneath the tent. I stood gazing over the wide-open land before me. It went on a short way and then dropped off into the canyon and down to the ocean. Where the canyon met the ocean, the walls became steep and treacherous. I followed the bent plants, no need to examine each track. Only one thing could have left this much of a trail, a photographer with a subject in his sights. When I did examine the footprints I could tell Mark was crouched. More weight was placed on the front of his foot. His tracks led to the edge of the cliffs overlooking Eagle Canyon and then slowly picked their way closer and closer to the edge. The soil turned to rock, eroded, crumbly rock. Dangerously crumbly rock.
“Mark! Mark Mireau!” I called out, hoping he could hear me, but there was no response. I examined the rock where the footprints had disappeared, no sign of passage at first and then the distinct look of a rock misplaced. A rock that has stood in one place for a long time is usually the same color and texture as those surrounding it. Break off a piece of it, though, and the rock beneath can be very different. That is what I saw, the difference between a rock that had sat there for eons and one that had moved recently. No seagull or fox had jarred that rock loose. I crept closer to the edge. More rocks had been torn loose; most of them had fallen off the cliff to the bottom. I prayed Mark wasn’t with them. It was a long drop to the bottom. Nobody would have survived that fall. I looked around for a bush or a tree to tie my rope to and found a scraggly manzanita bush firmly anchored close to where I’d last seen sign. I unzipped the bottom compartment of my pack and pulled out the rope I’d stashed there with my one change of clothes. I tied it firmly to the bush, hoping the roots went deep, and then wrapped the rope around me for a body rappel. I was taking this slow, though. I didn’t want to jar rocks loose that could fall on someone and I didn’t want to harm any nests that the seabirds had built. They weren’t nesting this late in the season but I was still cautious. I walked down the cliff letting out a little rope as I went along.
“Mark! Mark Mireau!” I called as I descended, but all I could hear was pounding surf.
I didn’t want to go down too far because I had to climb up again to get back to my pack. When I’d descended as far as I was comfortable I walked the cliff side to side, calling out Mark’s name. I didn’t know if anybody would be able to hear above the noise of the ocean, but I called anyway.
“Hey!” I heard faintly above the ocean’s roar. I looked around frantically. Where did it come from? “Hey! Over here!” A man’s voice! I couldn’t see anybody. Where was he? A rock hit the cliff near me and I headed in that direction. I didn’t trust the rock so I used the rope to support myself. “Over here!” I heard closer. Then I saw him. Just a man, on a ledge, up Eagle Canyon, out of sight of the trail and the ocean. Only seagulls knew he was there. I worked my way over, letting out more rope to give me distance.
He was terribly sunburned and his arm hung in front of him in such a way that I knew he’d broken something.
“Oh,” he said as I climbed onto his ledge, “I was hoping for a rescue but God sent an angel.”
“Not quite,” I answered. “Looks like you could use a doctor but I’m afraid I’m not a doctor either. All I can do is help you up off this crag. I’m not here with a team of professionals. Your parents tried to get a real search going, but had no luck at it. I promised your mom I’d come look for you, so here I am. She didn’t actually know she was talking to a tracker when she told me you were missing. Can you climb?”
“If I could climb I wouldn’t be stuck here,” he answered.
“If you had tried to climb this rock you’d have ended up down there,” I pointed out. “It crumbles too easily. But you can trust this rope. Think you can climb up the rope?”
“No, my left arm is useless. I’ve been who knows how many days without food and water.”
“Okay, hold on, I’ll be right back.” I started up the rope but he stopped me.
“You’re not leaving me here, are you?”
“Right now I’m just going to my pack for food and water. We’ll decide whether I’m staying or going after you decide if you’re climbing or staying. If you are climbing I’m staying to do my best to help you. If you’re staying I’m hiking back out for help. I can hike to Prisoners Harbor, or I can hike back to the field station and see what they can do. Looks like either way it’s going to be a wait for you if I take off. But… food and water first. I’ll be right back.”
I climbed the twenty or so feet up to the cliff top and found my pack again. I strapped it on, then lowered myself back down the cliff, this time hitting the ledge more accurately. When I got down to solid footing again I carefully wriggled out of the pack because there wasn’t much space on the ledge with the two of us there. I started opening the top compartment of my pack and suddenly the pack came alive! There were scratching noises and frantic scrambling, and once the zipper was opened a foot or so a black and white blur climbed swiftly out the top and up my front! I gave a startled cry and jumped back, slamming into the rock behind me. The skunk jumped from my shoulder onto the rocks, scrambled upwards, knocking small rocks down in his fright as he scuttled over the edge to safety. Mark laughed out loud, then quickly stopped when the movement caused him pain. I sniffed the inside of my pack and decided it was safe. I handed Mark a water bottle.
“I was right, you are an angel. What’s a kid like you doing out here anyway?”
“I’m not a kid. I’m a tracker and I was looking for you because you needed to be found.” I handed him the Ziploc bag of trail mix and then pulled out my little one burner camp stove. I pumped it up and tried lighting it but the wind blew out the match. I tried again shielding the match from the wind. This time the flame caught and the little stove came to life. I heated enough water for backpacker food and hot chocolate then held up several packets for his inspection.
“Beef stroganoff,” he said.
“What is it with guys and beef stroganoff?” I asked. “Whenever I rescue a guy who has been without food for a while they choose beef stroganoff.”
“You do this often?”
“Yes and no, not like this. I do find people fairly regularly. It’s what I do best. I volunteer my tracking skills with the search and rescue operations in Joshua Hills. Your mom didn’t know that when she talked to me about you. In fact she still doesn’t know. You should have seen the look on her face when I told her I was going to come look for you. I hope she isn’t too worried.”
“Worrying is what she does best,” Mark informed me.
I poured boiling water into the pouch and then into the cup of hot chocolate mix.
“Sorry , I only have one fork. I thought I’d be out here a week so I cut back on weight. Water was more important than silverware. Tell me what kind of shape your arm is in. What do you think is wrong with it?”
“It’s not my arm. It’s something in my shoulder. I hit this rock good and hard when I fell but I count my blessings that I did hit it and that I bounced in this direction. If I’d have fallen the other way I’d be a goner.”
“Think you can climb up the rope if I help? Do you know what a belay is?”
“It’s a rock climbing term but I don’t know what it is.”
“It’s a way for a rock climber to help another climber ascend a rock face safely. Basically, I tie myself to that tree up there and make myself an anchor. I’ll find a nice stable place where I can brace myself in real good and wrap the rope around my body to provide friction. The friction will make your weight easier for me to bear in case of a fall. Ideally, if you fall, it will only be the length of the tightened rope. Then you get your bearings on the rock and try again. My job is to either give you slack to climb or tighten the rope to keep the fall minimal.”
He looked at me skeptically and I didn’t blame him. I was skeptical about it myself, that’s why I wanted to talk him through it.
He looked me over, all hundred and twelve pounds of me.
“You’re going to keep me from falling?”
“Got a better plan? If I hike out for help it’s going to mean another night on this rock. I can leave you with food, water and a sleeping bag. It’s up to you. Another night or a slightly risky climb.”
He weighed his options as he hungrily gulped down his beef stroganoff and drank hot chocolate. I imagined it got pretty cold on that rock at night.
“No,” he said, “I can’t risk it. One slip and you could be worse off than me.”
“I won’t fall, no matter what you do. I’ll be tied to the tree. You’ll be tied to the rope. I can manage the rope. All you have to do is climb.”
He thought some more.
“I’ll give it a try,” he finally said.
“With only one good hand?” I asked.
“There are plenty of handholds and footholds. I just need to test them to be sure they are stable. I can hold the rope for balance.”
After Mark finished eating, I packed the stove, cup and trash away, then made sure everything was secure. I fashioned a harness at the end of the rope for Mark then climbed back up the rope. I untied it from the tree then took up some of the slack. I tied the rope around my waist, anchored it once again on the tree, and found a place where the rocks were deeply imbedded in the cliff. I sat down and put my feet against the rocks. I positioned the rope to come up smoothly between my feet, around my back and back down through my feet again.
“Pull hard on the rope!” I yelled over the cliff. “Let’s test this a little first!” I took up the slack in the rope. No pull, he couldn’t hear me. Okay, hmm, I pulled up the slack tight and gave three hard tugs. I thought he might take that as a signal I was ready. I felt the rope go slack and gradually pulled up the rope, always making sure I had a firm grip. I wished I could see Mark as he climbed, but the rock close to the cliff was very flaky and it would be just as flaky for him. I hoped he was testing each hold on the rock before trusting it. When the rope went slack I pulled until it tightened up again and slowly, ever so slowly Mark made his way up the cliff face. Slack, tighten, slack, tighten, wait, wait, slack. The rope gave a sudden hard pull and every muscle in my body reacted on instinct. I tightened my knees and leaned back, holding onto the rope tightly with both hands. A yowl of pain echoed off the rocks. I held tight, feeling the tension in my shoulders, my hands, my knees, the tightness of the rope around my back. Come on Mark! I thought. We’re proving this works but it’s time to get on with it! I felt the rope move about but the slack was painfully slow in coming. The climb went even slower after his fall. Maybe he was more cautious. Maybe he was in pain. Sometimes it took him a while to search out a way up, but I just waited while he searched and finally the rope loosened a bit and I pulled it up some more. I imagined the jagged rocks at the bottom of the cliff and my determination set in and my patience grew. At last I saw the top of his head appear, then he crawled over the top of the overhang and onto firm ground guarding his injured shoulder and only grasping with the uninjured side.
“I never want to do that again as long as I live,” he gasped. He sat down on the ground, clearly exhausted by the climb.
I was starting to untie the rope from the bush when I remembered my pack. I wasn’t leaving my pack behind. That was a gift from Rusty.
“I need the rope one more time,” I said.
He struggled out of the harness and handed it over.
“What are you doing?” Mark exclaimed.
“We left my pack down there. My husband gave it to me. I’m not leaving it behind. I’ll be right back.” I rappelled back down, tied the end of the rope to the pack and then climbed back up. I pulled my pack up the cliff and with a sigh of relief brought it up to where I could untie it and carry it back to the bush. Then I untied the rope and stuffed it back in my pack.
“You sure must like that pack a lot to go over a cliff for it,” Mark observed.
“Yeah, it’s got lots of memories in it. Rusty gave it to me for my twenty-fifth birthday. I’ve used it many times since then. It’s seen a lot of rescues. If we are going to catch that boat we need to hurry. What time does it leave Prisoners Harbor?”
“Three-thirty.”
“I don’t think we’ll make it.”
“Me too,” he admitted, “but if we camp there we’ll make the boat for sure tomorrow.”
I led him back to his pack and he looked at all the gear forlornly.
“We’ll have to leave it here,” he said. “There’s no way I can carry that to Prisoners Harbor.”
“It’s only a mile or so, I’ll come back for it in the morning. We can’t get a ride to the mainland until the boat leaves in the afternoon. I can run back for it tomorrow. How much does it weigh?”
“Too much for you. With all that camera gear I barely had space for food.”
“You’ll need your tent and sleeping bag tonight,” I said.
After sorting through our combined supplies I repacked what we needed with the essentials for one night. Tents, sleeping bags, the stove, dinner packets and breakfast packets. I didn’t push the oatmeal for breakfast. We had plenty of food so backpacker food would be the fare for mornings too. After we got the essentials I added photography gear until I was left wondering if I’d manage to carry it all. Mark attached his camera to his tripod and carried it propped on his good shoulder.
“I feel the same way about this old camera as you do about your pack. It fell with me over the cliff and it stays with me in all my travels. I may have better cameras but it will take a lot for me to replace this one.”
“Did you get a picture of the Island Fox?” I asked.
“I don’t know. You never know about photos until you develop them. Sometimes I think I took the perfect photo only to find out it is scrap paper. And sometimes I take a picture I think will be useless and it turns out to be everybody’s favorite.”
“I have a picture that is both. It’s of a moose in Minnesota. It’s a lousy picture but it will always be a favorite of mine because it shows just how close I got to the moose. When you visit your parents stop by and I’ll show it to you.”
“You’re really Mom and Dad’s neighbor?”
“Yeah, it’s a really funny story how we met.”
We enjoyed talking as we walked. I told him how we met Hazel and Wally while he shared what it was like to be raised by them. I told him about growing up on a quarter horse ranch and he seemed fascinated with the life of a ranch kid. He asked me about search and rescue, so I traded stories with him. Seems like every search reminded him of a photography expedition, and his expeditions reminded me of search stories. I found there were a few searches I still couldn’t talk about. I still couldn’t admit I’d killed a man even after several months; even if it was the right thing to do, even if not doing it would have harmed many more. I still couldn’t talk about it. It was like a tarnish on my life. Like most people, he couldn’t believe I’d done so many things in such a short time.
“Some of the things that happened to me are still hard for my husband to recall. If he seems distant at times, when we are telling these stories, it’s just because some of the memories are hard for him to handle. He’s been through so much with me.”
“He’s invested a lot. So he feels a lot,” Mark observed, wisely.
As we were walking along we saw a movement off the road. I froze, hoping it was a fox, but the movement seemed too big, noisy and clumsy for a fox. An animal always meant a stalking opportunity to me so I automatically went into stalking mode.
“I’d go after it if I had the energy,” Mark said, “but I just can’t. I need a rest.”
“Do you mind if I try? You can stay here. I like to see how close I can get and I’m curious what it is.”
“Sure, but you won’t get a good picture with that little camera.”
“It’s okay, it’s the experience I like more than the pictures.”
I took off my pack and stuck the camera in my pocket, then set off into the grass, my eyes set on the rounded form rooting around in the brush. I crouched low and approached from behind. It was busy looking for something. When the animal raised its head I froze. It was a pig. What were pigs doing loose on the island? It turned its head back toward the ground and I advanced slowly. It looked at me with beady eyes then went back to rooting around. I stepped closer, closer. I knelt down in the grass making myself a smaller profile. Then I advanced in a low crouch. I thought this probably looked rather odd to Mark but, surely, he was used to stalking animals if he was a nature photographer. I got my camera ready and then made a noise that I used to call birds out of the brush, “fsk, fsk, fsk, fsk, fsk,” I said rapidly and then repeated the call. The pig glanced up and I pressed the shutter release. I waited while it looked me over and then took a few steps away. I remained still for as long as it was wary. It contemplated its next destination and began trotting away. I followed, still in a crouch, then gave up the hunt. I turned to make my way back to Mark and he stood there, camera in hand.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he said apologetically, “I’ve never seen anybody move like that. Where did you learn to do that?”
“I’ve always stalked animals. From the time I was old enough to notice them I snuck up on anything that moved.”
“You should see yourself stalking. Does it feel as natural to you as it looks to someone watching you?”
“Yeah, it does,” I admitted.
“If I could move like that, I could get much better photos than I do now.”
“I just assumed you stalked animals.”
“I can’t stalk like you. My stalking is more like a quiet walk, hiding behind trees. You don’t require trees. You can stalk an animal anywhere like that and it still doesn’t notice you.”
“They notice me. You just have to convince them that you aren’t a threat. You could learn to do it. Practice on the deer near your parent’s house. That’s what I do. They come to my yard sometimes to graze.”
We followed the road along the ridge overlooking the ocean and then Prisoners Harbor came into view below. No sign of the boat. We were stuck for the night and most of the next day. I found a flat spot and set up both tents. Mark tried to help but his shoulder pained him to move. My tent was no problem. I could set it up with my eyes closed. His tent had different poles with different configurations and I wrestled with it. When I finished it wasn’t a pretty sight, but it would stand for the night. I tracked around camp finding more skunk tracks. There were tourist tracks everywhere. I caught Mark with the camera again.
Before the sun set I started up the stove and prepared two more pouches of backpacker food. This time Mark chose chicken with rice. I wished I had some fruits and vegetables but the closest thing was the trail mix with dried fruit in it. I handed him the bag, knowing he needed all the nutrients he could get. As I sat cross legged in front of the stove heating water for hot chocolate I heard the sound from Mark’s shutter over and over.
“Do you take pictures of everything?” I asked.
“No, just things that work well as subjects. If you want me to stop I will. You just seem at peace in this setting and it shows in everything you do. You were even comfortable climbing up and down the cliff. I seldom meet someone so at home away from home. Besides, it isn’t often you get a set of pictures to remind you of your rescues.”
“Then can I take one of you? It’s the people that I remember from my rescues. The calls all run together. Three miles tracking, six miles, three days of tracking, they all run together but I remember each person. Lee, the Downs child; Kelly, the ranger who’d been missing a week and had been shot and dumped over a cliff; Trevor, the boy I was trapped in a mine with for three days; Thomas, the boy scout who gets lost whenever he goes to the mountains; Jake and Douglas, who led me into a trap where their boss shot me; Garrett, the boy with cancer who took a spill on a dirt bike. It’s always the people I remember.”
“Sure,” he said thoughtfully, “you can take my picture.” He stood and found a spot that would work as a background then adjusted all the settings on his camera for the lighting and shutter speed. He focused it and showed me the button to push, then sat down with his back to the tents and the stove still heating water in front of him. I aimed and pressed the button. Then I took one with my own camera.
As we were sitting quietly, taking turns with the cup of hot chocolate, he looked at me and said, “I still don’t know your name.”
“I’m Cassidy,” I responded.
“I’ve never met a Cassidy before.”
“My dad is an old west buff. He named me after Butch Cassidy. I’m glad he didn’t name me Butch. My sister is named after Jesse James.”
“I was named Mark because my mom thought it went with Mireau. Not too original but it’ll do. It’s getting dark. You don’t know how good that sleeping bag is going to feel after all those cold nights on that cliff.”
“Yeah I do, I’ve spent many nights out in the open. I bet you froze. When we get to Ventura you’re going straight to the hospital. I’ll call an ambulance to come meet us at the harbor.”
As we turned in I warned him, “I’ll take off at first light to go retrieve your pack. I’ll be gone for a few hours. Help yourself to what food there is.”
“Okay.”
We were in our separate tents, laying in the dark trying to get to sleep when I heard from the other tent, “Cassidy? Why’d you really come all the way out here?”
“I told you. You needed finding.”
A long pause. “Thanks.”