by Jan Chaffin
- Disclaimer: The views expressed are mine alone and do not necessarily reflect the views of my employers.
Chapter Fourteen – Full Swing
I survived the July 4th Big Weekend and the week after without incident. My July schedule granted me a reprieve from opening duties. Two out of three shifts were shared from 3-11pm and one was an overlapping 12-8 mid shift with no paperwork at all! I was working with someone all month at campground. I peeked ahead to the tentative August schedule and saw I had one day at day use but otherwise more of the comfortable same. Summer was here, it was hot and we were busy but I wasn’t bearing much of the brunt of it.
So far, my bosses had not contacted me further and everything seemed to be moving smoothly along. While ever-ready for repercussions, it seemed staff members were otherwise occupied, at least for now. But between this and my other customer service jobs this summer, I was challenged to keep my cool sometimes. By the end of my convenience store shift, I was ready for a hermitage. The festive summer crowds enjoying the weather and time off occasionally rubbed me the wrong way as I plugged along at three part time jobs. Oh well. Nothing lasts forever. Including my too-easy park schedule.
When I rechecked the August and September schedules a little later, I noticed I was going to be opening at the day use kiosk by myself and, in September, closing many nights at campground… by myself… Sigh. That wasn’t how they told us it would be, but I guess if I can’t cut it, I’ll know by then.
Chapter Fifteen – Dark Interlude
During the slower evenings at campground, I indulged in some research on the Trailside Killer (David Carpenter). In the 1980s, he committed a spree of murders in Bay Area State Parks including Henry Cowell. Since I often ran right by the site of one of his murders, I became fascinated with the crime details. I personally remembered the fear he caused and a close friend who served as Sheriff’s aide during his arrest actually talked with him. I learned, as the oldest inmate on Death Row, he is still fighting a death sentence at tax payers’ expense.
I was considering writing a short story based on the Cowell murder or perhaps trying to do an article revisiting the crimes from more recent crime-profiling perspectives. I think I was mainly trying to assess the source of the Cowell mystique-what contributed to the phenomenological richness of the area.
Chapter Sixteen – A Sense of Place
Some places just seem to have more presence, more place-ness than others. Followers of various faiths often make pilgrimages to Places of Power within their iconologies. Today I was running to the Buckeye Trail. For weeks I studied maps and made failed attempts to find a connector trail across the San Lorenzo River at Big Rock Hole. First, I ran past Cathedral Redwoods towards the Rincon Trail parking lot and the steep twisty transverse down to Big Rock Hole beach. I was determined not to climb back up that relentless pitch but the nude beachcombers at river’s edge dissuaded further explorations. I didn’t want to invade their space and also didn’t want them to know I was lost.
My next try was from the opposite side of the river. I ran a loop from Eagle Creek to Rincon to Ridge Trail and the Observation Deck, then down Powdermill Road to the start of Buckeye Trail. Out of time and steam before my shift, I postponed the big adventure until I had more of both.
Today was the day! I headed straight from my car to Powdermill Road, past the mountain lion warning sign to the Buckeye Trailhead. The trail book promised an otherworldly experience. I didn’t hope for that much, just a chance to find a way across the river.
Yet, the trail offered a verdant lushness unlike any other area of Henry Cowell. I could see the trail coil down across the canyon. Listening to the bird calls reverberate through the canyon, I felt transported. Without having been to the tropics, I imagined this is what the rainforest might feel like. I felt invigorated by the sights and sounds and newness and adventure. I also noticed how very steeply the trail was descending. In sections, I needed to scramble over fallen trees and down slippery eroding dirt hills with exposed tree roots for purchase. Suddenly, rounding a curve, I heard the roar of rushing water. Within a few more turns, I spotted the river and soon the trail opened onto several sandy flat beaches.
I stood mesmerized by the view, feeling like some lost explorer discovering Shangrila. No one was anywhere near. In the middle of summer, in a busy State Park, I felt transported to an isolated, remote tropical island. Tempted to swim, I looked at my watch and changed my mind, realizing I still had a grueling climb back out of the canyon before my shift. I scanned the far banks of the river but didn’t spot a connector trail. The river was broached by a little island in the middle. I ran up and down the beach a bit looking for any signs of a trail but decided it was time to go. Another day I’d try again.
The climb out was indeed arduous. I was trembling with fatigue when I arrived back at the kiosk just in time for my shift, but I was smiling ear to ear.
I spent the evening thinking about the allure of Henry Cowell Redwoods. How it is so much more than a State Park, a bunch of adobes and ranchos, a powdermill, a murder site or even the home of the save the redwoods movement. Its sense of place exceeds every explanation. I thought of my struggles with trails, camp rules and closing shifts. My inadequacies understanding Cowell’s identity have been due in part to its vastness. In some sense, this place is beyond determination. Again I’m reminded it’s not about me at all.