Thirty-Six

When Donna and I drove into the parking lot at the Armstrong Redwoods Visitor Center. Dan was waiting for us, leaning against his Subaru. I parked my Toyota in a nearby slot and Donna pulled her state truck in next to my car. Dan had already collected park brochures from the visitor center. I introduced them. Then we opened a brochure and spread it out on the hood of the Subaru, map side up.

I briefed Dan. “Brian picked a lock and got out of the house where they were keeping him. He took off sometime yesterday afternoon, no idea when, so he’s been in the woods all night. We think maybe he’s headed west into the park. If that’s the case, at some point he’ll connect with Fife Creek.”

Dan studied the map. “I see what you’re thinking. He could follow the creek down into the park, then take the fire road or the trail. But if he’s on the trail, he could go either way.”

“It’s likely he’d go south,” I said. “That’s the way to the visitor center. In fact, the trailhead’s right over there.”

As I spoke, two hikers came out of the visitor center and started toward the trailhead. Surely if Brian was on the trail and he met any hikers, they’d help him. I just hoped I was right, that he was heading for the park, and that he wasn’t lying hurt—or dead—at the bottom of a hill. Just in case, I jogged over to the hikers and told them we were looking for a missing man, showing them ­Brian’s photo. Then I returned to the car.

“If he went northeast,” Dan said, “he could get close to the road here.”

He pointed at the map, a location marked Pond Farm Pottery. According to a note on the other side of the brochure, the pottery had been used by ceramic artist Marguerite Wildenhain, who moved to the area after World War II and lived and worked at the farm until her death in 1985. Now the property was part of the Austin Creek reserve.

“Agreed.” I tapped the map. “All right, let’s go up to this parking area and I’ll start hiking the East Ridge Trail. You go up to the pottery and access the trail there. Donna’s going to the fire road.”

“According to the map,” Donna said, “there’s a locked gate across the entrance to that fire road. I’ll find a ranger so I can get access.”

The visitor center was staffed by a volunteer, but there was a ranger’s office across the road. Donna walked over there. While she was gone, I unlocked the trunk of my car. Dan, too, had brought hiking gear. We put on our boots and checked the contents of our packs. I slathered on a layer of sunscreen and put on my hat. I tied a bright red bandanna around my neck, and then put on my binoculars.

Donna returned to the parking lot, accompanied by two state park rangers. They introduced themselves. The woman was Lori Ellis, the man Tom Balsinger.

“I’ll start up East Ridge Trail from here,” Ranger Ellis said. “One of you can head north on East Ridge where it intersects with the Waterfall Trail. Tom here will help Agent Doyle check the fire road.”

“Agreed.” We traded cell phone numbers and made sure everyone had plenty of water, replenishing our bottles from a faucet and taking extra water, just in case any of us found Brian. Ranger Ellis set out for the trailhead just beyond the visitor center. The rest of us got into our vehicles. We left the parking lot and drove past the entry kiosk, heading up Armstrong Woods Road.

The valley floor was cool and dark. Fife Creek meandered alongside the road. Here and there I saw people walking on one of the hiking trails. Tall first-growth redwoods were interspersed with other trees—tanbark oaks, California bay laurels, and big-leaf maples—all of them filtering the sunlight and the August heat. Under the forest canopy, the ground was covered with moss, redwood orchid, lichen and mushrooms. A side road led to the Colonel Armstrong Tree, a massive old first-growth redwood named for the man who had preserved these redwoods from logging. We drove another half mile up the road, to an area with picnic tables and a rest room.

Here the road forked. Dan, Donna and the ranger continued up the road, bearing left and heading uphill. Donna and the ranger were headed for the gate leading to the fire road. Dan’s destination, the Pond Farm Pottery, was beyond that.

I took the right fork of the road, which led to a parking area, another rest room, the park volunteer office and a maintenance facility. I got out, locked my bag in my trunk, and tucked my cell phone in my pocket. Then I shouldered the pack and set out.

The Waterfall Trail was a short and easy hike. I crossed a bridge over Fife Creek and headed up the trail. When I reached the T-junction where East Ridge Trail went north and south, I stopped and took my water bottle from my pack. I took a drink. Then I cupped my hands around my mouth and called my brother’s name, hoping, just hoping, that Brian would hear me.

No response.

I put the bottle into the pack and started walking north toward my eventual destination, the junction where the trail intersected with the fire road and Fife Creek. The trail undulated through forested hills. I climbed and then descended, and climbed again. I was glad of the shade provided by the canopy of trees, because the afternoon was hot. I felt sweat trickling between my shoulder blades.

At the top of another hill, I stopped and drank some water. In the distance I glimpsed a mountain. I consulted the map and identified this as McCray Mountain. It was on private property, just west of the park boundary and north of the Fife Creek headwaters. Then I raised my binoculars to my eyes and scanned the trees, searching the dappled shade of the forest for movement. I saw a scrub jay flitting from branch to branch in a tree, and behind me I heard the rat-tat-tat of a woodpecker.

I took another drink, then I stowed my water bottle in my pack and did some stretches. Despite the fact that I’d hiked with Dan only last week, the muscles in my legs were aching.

And I was tired. I hadn’t been getting enough sleep, what with my week-long search for Brian. Tension, worry, late nights, early mornings—all of these were taking their toll.

I’d felt an adrenaline burst earlier today, when I was sure Brian was being held prisoner at Tony Busto’s pot plantation. I was right, but now the euphoria had departed. Once again, I’d gotten close to the truth—and my brother—only to find that the prize was still elusive.

Now doubt crept in. Brian had gotten away from his captors, but my theory that he was hiking west into the park was just that, a theory. I had nothing to base it on. I was going with my gut. If it were me, that’s what I’d do. Would Brian do it?

Even if Brian was headed for the park, what if he was confused, unsure of his location? What if he’d headed in a different direction? What if he was more badly injured than I thought, having difficulty managing this terrain?

What if? What if? Stop it, Jeri, just keep walking.

I called out to Brian again. No response. I started down the hill. Then my cell phone rang, reminding me that, hills and forests notwithstanding, I was still close enough to civilization to get a signal. I stopped and hit the button to answer the call.

It was Dan. “I parked at Pond Farm Pottery. Now I’m headed south on the East Ridge Trail to where it meets up with the fire road. I’ve been calling out, hoping Brian might hear me. But I haven’t seen any hikers up here on this section.”

“Thanks. I’ve been calling out, too, but I haven’t heard anything. No hikers, either. I’ll check in with you later.” I disconnected and called Donna.

“I’m at the fire road, where it crosses the creek,” she said. “No sign of Brian, or any other hikers. Ranger Ellis checked in. She’s moving north and she hasn’t seen him on her section. She encountered some hikers heading south, and they hadn’t seen him either.”

“Thanks for the update,” I said. “Dan’s on the trail from Pond Farm, heading your way. I’m about halfway up my section of the trail.”

“Okay,” Donna said. “There’s an intermittent stream here, a little creek that feeds into Fife Creek, but it’s dry right now. I’m going to hike upstream here, at least for a ways, and see what I see. Then I’ll start down the trail to meet you.”

I tucked my cell phone in my pocket and continued down the hill, then up another. I called out to Brian over and over again, but the only sounds I heard were my own footsteps, and birds singing in the trees. A breeze came up, rustling the branches of the trees, a welcome respite to the heat. I lost all sense of time as I walked.

Finally I emerged from the forest. I was at the edge of a meadow that sloped downhill. From this vista point, I looked down into the densely forested canyon where I’d started this journey, thick with tall, majestic old-growth redwoods. A turkey vulture coasted overhead, riding the thermals.

I raised my binoculars and scanned the scene. My pulse quickened when I saw movement in the trees at the edge of the meadow. But it wasn’t human. A mule deer, a common sight here in these oak woodlands, stepped out of the trees, its black tail twitching, This one was a doe, and she was followed by a good-sized fawn whose spots were fading. The deer paused, then moved slowly across the meadow and disappeared into another stand of trees.

I turned, keeping my binoculars in front of my eyes, sweeping my gaze along the edge of the meadow. Down below I spotted Fife Creek and the fire road. I didn’t see Donna, though. I scanned uphill, looking for movement.

Nothing. But wait. I saw movement in the trees. It was another mule deer, this time a buck. He was young, his antlers small. He trotted out of the trees and stopped, poised for movement. It was as though something had startled him, something that was still in the forest.

I lowered the binoculars and set off walking down the slope, shouting Brian’s name. My voice galvanized the buck into flight. He took off, running toward the creek. I called out to Brian again. I waited. Called again. Then...

What was that? I thought I heard something. Again I shouted, “Brian!”

A human voice called in response, hoarse, unarticulated, but definitely human. At the spot where I’d seen the buck, a lone figure stumbled out of the trees into the meadow. I raised the binoculars and focused on the figure, impatient to see who it was.

Brian.

He had a week-old beard and his face was dirty, streaked with sweat, dust, the leaves and duff of the forest floor. His T-shirt and khaki hiking pants were filthy. Even at this distance I could see the effects of weariness, dehydration, lack of food, and the head injury. He moved toward me in a slow, shambling walk, stumbling but determined, putting one foot in front of the other.

I quickly untied the red bandanna, pulled it from my neck and tied it to one of my hiking poles. Then I lifted it high, waving it back and forth.

Had Brian seen me? Yes, he had. He raised his arms and waved back.

I started down the slope again, moving as fast as I could. When I reached Brian, I dropped the poles and threw my arms around him. I felt his arms encircle me, hugging me tightly, as though I was a life preserver.

Thank God, I thought. Thank God.

Then I laughed. “Hey, baby bro, you’re smelling a bit ripe.”

He chuckled. Then he said in a raspy, tired voice, “Hey, sis. I knew I could count on you to find me. And make some wise-ass remark.”