Mom doesn’t leave for work until almost noon. It’s a long morning. But it’s good, because it means she won’t come home for lunch.
She’s barely out of the driveway when I’m out the back door. It’s a cold, foggy day, not the sun-and-fun weather I’d expected in Penticton. I’d checked the city out online before we moved here. Every site was all about the swimming, boating and beaches. There was no mention of the winter weather, which is cold, drizzly and dull.
I decide to look on the bright side. I can barely see the stop sign at the end of our street, but at least I’m out of the house and moving. I pedal as fast as the limited visibility allows, keeping my hands ready to grab the brakes. The pace and the feel of the cd in my pocket warm me, inside and out. I brought the cd along so I could match the handwriting, but having it with me feels like having a bit of her with me too.
Half an hour later I reach the road heading to the viewpoint. I see a trail veering off along the hillside and wonder if it’s the same one the cache is on. It could be a shortcut, but I’m not sure. I decide not to risk it. I don’t like being on the road, since Mom could cruise by—but what are the chances? And the fog might make it hard for me to see, but it’s doing the same to everyone. I’m good.
And I am good. Another fifteen minutes of hard uphill pedaling, and I’m in the parking lot. There’s no view of the lake today, but I’m not here for that. Minutes later I’m closing in on the cache. The straight trunks of the pine trees are spooky in the fog. Some are almost like the silhouettes of people. The only sound is my tires, crunching on the gravel path. When I get to the spot where I think the stump should be, I stop and look around. I can hear another sound now: steady dripping. The fog has condensed into water drops that fall from the pines like rain.
I get off my bike and stand there, straining to see the stump, uncertain about leaving the trail. It might be tough to find my way back. Then, like it was meant to be, a gust of wind parts the fog. And there’s the stump. I bolt for it, and seconds later I’ve got the cache box in my hands. I pry open the lid, grab the logbook and start reading. The last entry in the book is Mom’s, noting the date and our first names. I scan back from there.
The cache has been found quite a few times, mostly by families. They write about how they’re having a great vacation and where they’re from. Other entries are only a date and initials. I go all the way back to the first entry, written last April. This shows that the Wandering Woods family started the cache, and that’s it. Nothing special catches my eye.
I comb through the logbook again, more slowly. This time I zero in on an entry from last October. It’s the single letter F. It looks familiar. I pull out the cd, and sure enough, the F in Famous is identical. All right! But my moment of elation is short. So what if that’s her initial? I still don’t know her name. And if she cached the cd last October, she could be long gone.
I toss the logbook back into the box and snap the lid shut. I put the box back in the stump and cover it with the chunk of wood. What a waste of time. I turn to go to the trail and don’t see it. Great. I get to be lost now too? My stomach rumbles. I’m lost and hungry.
I know the trail is downhill from where I am. I look at the dead grass at my feet and can see some stalks that are trampled. It’s all in the details. I follow the path of trampled grass, and my feet find the trail again.
I peer through the fog, back the way I came, then peer the other way. It makes sense that the trail would lead down to the road by the lake. I decide to take the trail down the hill. It’s bound to be a faster way back.
It isn’t. For starters, I can’t ride. It’s not only that the trail is narrow and steep. It’s also that I can’t see more than two feet ahead of me. If I don’t keep my eyes glued to the ground, I risk losing the path altogether. When I do look up, my eyes strain to penetrate the silent wall of white. The fog coats my eyeballs. They sting, and the water and the cold make my nose run. I’m dripping like the trees. If this fog were music, what would it be? I’ve never heard music that looks like this.
When I come to a fork in the trail, I consider turning back. But that means dragging my bike uphill, and it feels like failure. I stand there thinking I should have brought the gps. I decide that since the path to the left seems to go down, I should take it.
And then a sound comes out of the fog. It is so strange and piercing, all thought ceases. The hair on the back of my neck rises, and midnight blue ripples around me. I feel a million miles from anywhere and anyone, utterly alone. The sound repeats, and my brain comes back online. I realize the eerie, fluting call is made by a loon. I only know the sound from tv, but it’s unmistakable. It’s one of the musical bird calls that give me color. The loon calls again, and the midnight blue is a relief after the no-color of fog. I tilt my head, trying to pinpoint the loon’s location. It must be close by. And it must be on the lake.
The calls stop as suddenly as they started, but they’ve guided me to go to the right. The trail is steeper and rougher than ever, and it’s hard to hold on to my bouncing, bucking bike. But within minutes I’ve found the road. I’m so relieved I shout, “Yes!”
My voice sounds unnaturally loud, almost as startling as the loon. A glance at my watch shows I’ve been gone three hours. I’m going to have to hurry to make it home before Mom stops in on her dinner break.
I do make it. I throw my wet clothes in the wash and park my butt on the couch mere seconds before she comes through the door.
“What a day,” she says.
“Bad?” I ask.
“One fender bender after another. It’s this fog.” She sighs and runs a hand through her hair. “I’ve only got time for a quick bite. Did you eat?”
“Not yet.”
“Want to help me heat up some leftovers?” she asks.
“Sure.” And that’s it. We heat up meatloaf and vegetables, scarf it down, and then she’s gone again. When I watch her leave, I notice my sopping sneakers by the back door. Mom didn’t catch that evidence of my jailbreak. After I stick the shoes on a heat vent, I’m out of things to do.
TV? No. Video game? No. My girl’s CD? Yeah.
I sit back with my eyes closed, watching her colors go by. Then I grab my guitar and strum along with her, watching our colors merge. They don’t harmonize as well as I’d like. I’m not sure if it’s because she’s so much better, or because I’m trying too hard. But what if we could play together? In person. Wow. That would be epic.
I have to find her. But how? All I know is her name starts with the letter F. It would help if I knew what she looked like. I’ll bet she’s got red hair. Not carrot red, but that dark brown red. Auburn. Yeah, she’s got auburn hair. I’ve seen that color in the music. And her hair is long and wavy. No, maybe short and spiky. Not short and spiky. It’s long, for sure. But maybe it’s black? It could be black. Whatever it is, it’s thick and soft.
Her skin is perfect. Smooth and light brown. I’m not sure if it’s light brown because she’s tanned or because it just is. And her body? It’s perfect too. She’s tall, but not as tall as me. And she’s slender, but not skinny. When I get close to her she smells like…
Jeez. No way does she smell like barf. I get off the couch and take my sneakers off the vent. That pretty much ruined my fantasy. It’s time to get back to the facts.
Famous. Could that mean she is famous? I doubt it. I’d recognize most famous voices, at least if they’re current. I spend the next few hours listening to female indie singers online. My search isn’t methodical. I listen to almost a hundred singers, and none of them are her. A few have a similar sound, but they don’t sing the cd songs. And none of them have names that start with F.