Wild Penance

6

Before going home that evening, I decided to get in the exercise I had missed earlier that day. I drove past the small tent that had been set up for a command center on the east side of the gorge bridge and saw a sheriff’s deputy sitting on a folding chair, outside its entrance, reading a magazine. He looked up and waved as I drove past. I proceeded slowly across the bridge, my eyes drawn to the center viewing balcony from which I had seen the man on the cross descend that morning. The bridge was deserted, and the canyon below lay in shadow. Once across, I drove into the west rim rest area and took the roundabout road to the back edge of the circle. I parked my car near the trailhead and got out. I looked back at the five-hundred-foot-long silver steel structure that spanned this fracture in the earth’s crust-where a vein of a river had worked its way through sheer rock and carved a deep and jagged crack in the high desert mesa. To the east, the rugged blue Sangre de Cristo Mountains stood guard over the Taos Valley. The sky was cloudless; amber light from the late day sun flooded the miles of lonely sage and piñon flats between here and the mountains.

Because no one was around, I didn’t even bother to go in the restroom to change. Instead, I opened the rear hatch of my Jeep and sat on the back deck to remove my boots, then quickly slipped off my jeans and pulled on the running pants that I kept in my backpack. I laced up my running shoes and set out on the trail. I couldn’t help myself-I kept looking back at the bridge, as if I needed to be sure that another travesty wasn’t about to take place. Almost no traffic. A car passed over from east to west. A few minutes later, a car headed east. The next two times I looked, nothing. I started to relax my vigilance and focus on the run. I breathed deeply, the smell of sage and sun-baked earth rising to my nostrils as I ran the long portion of the loop that crossed open, flat ground. I felt the day’s grip on me loosening as I jogged at a steady tempo, the rhythm of my footsteps reminding me of Momma Anna’s drumming.

Where the trail turned and circled back, it skimmed along the canyon rim, then dipped below the edge onto a fifty-yard stretch of narrow path bordered by a sharp precipice. I slowed to a brisk walk, intending to savor the shady hues of the rock face on the opposite side of the canyon. But the dark walls of the gorge seemed sinister to me now. I tried to shake the feeling, and I stopped to look down at the Rio Grande rushing beneath me, hoping to experience the feeling of awe and inspiration that usually accompanied this view. But the memory of the cross with its naked passenger being carried off in the rushing water flashed across my memory screen, and I no longer wanted to look at the river. Instead, I suddenly longed to go home to the comfort of my little cabin, and I felt as if I couldn’t get there soon enough. I picked up my pace again and headed up the path to the boulders above, then pushed hard as I chugged the last quarter mile of the loop.

As I neared the end of my route, the sinking sun had turned the mountains pink and the light softened to a rosy glow. The temperature was dropping, and I felt the chill air against my arms. I slowed to walk the last hundred yards to cool down. When I came over the rise just before the trailhead, I spotted three guys in the parking lot, two of them going through my Jeep and the third standing nearby, looking in the opposite direction, toward the bridge. I stopped, my mouth falling open like the doors of my violated vehicle. Without thinking, I yelled, “Hey!”

They froze for an instant, all three of them turning to look at me like startled antelope.

And then I charged.

They took off.

My long hair, still damp with sweat, was flying into my face, my open mouth. I pumped my legs harder, ignoring the ache, the fatigue. The lookout darted across the asphalt, up the curb, and around the left side of the restroom building and disappeared behind it, presumably toward a getaway vehicle on the opposite side of the roundabout. But the two who had been bent over searching through my Jeep got a slower start, and as I closed on them, they both broke to the right, toward the gorge, where a row of concrete picnic shelters overlooking the view lined the loop road. The lone man was gone, out of sight now-I’d never get him. But these two were in range, and I knew I could overtake them if I just kept running.

I had surprised them when I gave chase-maybe they hadn’t expected that of a woman. As I ran, I chided myself for having yelled at them and blown my opportunity for a stealthy approach. They soon realized they were headed for a dead end and the lead man started to correct course, cutting left and back through the center of the roundabout, making down the right side of the restroom structure.

The second man followed suit, but he was starting to slow, and I pushed myself and maneuvered to close the gap. His thin jacket flapped around the sides of his arms as it blew open. He nearly tripped over the curb that divided the road from the center grounds, then struggled with his footing, recovered, and went on. But it slowed him down. I could almost touch him now; I was just two yards behind him, and I could smell the stink of fear blowing off of him as the cold air hit his sweating body.

As I closed in behind him, I heard a little whine in his breathing, a high-pitched plea from his lungs for rest. He cut to the left, passing behind the restroom building, and I was right on his heels.

Suddenly, a fast-moving black shadow flew from behind the back wall and delivered a breath-propelling blow to my abdomen that sent me reeling backward. The air from my lungs rushed on before me in a spray of fine white mist. Whhhoooossshhhhh.

I hit the ground, the impact jarring my spine, my brain disconnecting as suddenly as a downed power line. I couldn’t move for a minute; all communication between mind and body had been interrupted. Then I began to reconnect… and wish I hadn’t. Oh, my back! It hurt the worst-that and my head, which must have hit hard. But I was okay. I sat up. Nothing broken. I was still slightly stunned as the cloud slowly cleared in my head, my senses gradually reengaging. I sat for a few seconds, looking around me, reading out my body’s messages. I was all right.

I took my time getting up and heard two car doors slam near the highway, ka-thunk! Then the roar of an engine as the car sped off to the west, toward Tres Piedras. I started back to my Jeep. Its doors were still yawing open from the robbery I had interrupted just minutes before. I saw my bag on the ground where the thieves had ditched it. I picked it up and went through it. Everything was still there-my wallet, credit cards, even the small amount of cash inside. I looked in the car. My handgun was still locked in the glove box, undisturbed. The standard car stereo and BLM radio remained intact on the dash. I looked in the floor of the backseat. My shotgun and rifle rested in place. I checked the rear cargo area. My backpack had been rifled through, but nothing was missing. Nothing of value had been taken.

Confused, I stopped looking through the cargo area and straightened, the backpack still dangling from my hand. I scanned in every direction, studying the panorama around me for answers. The pink light had fled across the mesa and left a soft mauve blanket over the desert. A solitary truck rumbled across the gorge bridge, its rear lights creating a neon reflection along the silver railing of the structure that stretched out like a fiber-optic red tail. And way out in the lap of the big mountain that shelters Taos from the blistering cold northern winds that sweep down the spine of the Rockies, tiny lights twinkled on as night overtook day. Suddenly I felt a stab of white-hot burning in my chest as I realized what was gone.

My book! They had stolen my book!