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| How much is that poster of the wolf?" I asked the ranger behind the
sales counter at Chiricahua National Monument Visitors Center. I was embarking on a week alone in the wilderness to search for the Mother. Although I had lost nearly all hope of meeting her again, I refused to relegate my childhood experience of her to mere fantasy. "Luce, you're imagining things again," my mom had said. "There are no wolves in these mountains, honey." But hadn't I gazed into the animal's eyes and touched its fur? The Mother's breast had been so soft, her voice so clear, her laughter so distinct. Nothing in all the intervening years had equaled the joy I felt when the Mother dropped down with that pile of snow. As crazy as it seemed, at age twenty-seven I was intent on resurrecting my childhood belief that if I were to have a close encounter with a wolf, the Mother might reappear. "It's not a wolf-it's a coyote," said the ranger. "A coyote?" I stared at the reddish-gray fur that sprouted into dark gray, the cream-colored ruff, the yellow eyes. The coyote looked exactly like the wolf I had played with when I was five years old. Certainly, the beast in this picture seemed larger and grayer than the countless coyotes I had seen in the Arizona desert. My mind danced with images of the wolf and of making angels in the snow. "It's five dollars." The ranger said. "Did you want it?" "Huh?" "Do you want the poster?" "Oh yes, I do. How much is it?" The ranger rolled her eyes. "Five dollars." I fumbled through my fanny pack and pulled a five-dollar bill from my wallet. With the rolled-up poster tucked under my arm, I walked briskly to my Honda Civic and headed for Turkey Creek campground. I was on spring break from the University of Arizona where I was studying for a master's degree in counseling. Over the previous few months I'd been searching for the reason my mind felt like a wasteland of useless thoughts, my heart dry and withered. Not that I wasn't successful, or even joyous at times. But after college I'd floundered around a bit, starting and stopping two graduate programs; then I joined the Peace Corps in Peru. Now, although I was doing well in the counseling department, sometimes I'd wake up crying, groping after a fading dream. Other times I'd burst into tears for no apparent reason. As much as I probed my mind for the cause of this despair, it seemed to have no logical point of origin. I wondered if it had been triggered by memories of my mother's divorce, or of my own broken relationships. Perhaps so, I concluded, secretly yearning for a more enduring love and for another precious meeting with the Mother. After that winter in Pine Hills when I was five years old, I'd often fashioned snow figures after her, weaving long hair out of masses of dead pine needles. I'd clasp my arms about her prickly neck and press my cheek against her icy chest, imagining my breath warming her to life. Then I'd hold her invisible hand, and we'd play and dance. One spring day I thought I caught a glimpse of her disappearing behind a manzanita bush. I scrambled through the underbrush, pursuing her, white robes flashing like a deer's tail through the pines. But I found nothing-only the wind rustling the oaks' tender leaves. On other occasions I felt her, hovering and warm, floating behind me down the narrow trail to the cabin. I would creep on soft feet, fearing that if I turned to look she would fade into the breeze. Then unable to withstand the suspense, I would peek over my shoulder, eyes half closed. If she had been there, she'd invariably vanished, leaving only the smell of roses. Once when I was nine and strolling alone through the fog on sand hardened by the receding tide, I was sure she was there, perched on a distant rock, looking out to the sea. I raced toward her. But when I got there, all I found was a handful of seagulls bunched together, their white breasts blending into the mist. I scurried around the rock, scattering birds, searching for footprints. At last I found one, sinking into the sand under the receding waves. Now I continued driving along the winding dirt road as it followed a gentle ravine up to the base of the Chiricahua peaks. Turkey Creek campground, at an altitude of 6,000 feet, was nestled in the gully at the end of the road, where the creek bed narrowed and climbed more steeply. With nighttime temperatures still in the low thirties, the site would surely be free of other overnighters. No one crashing through the bushes, talking loudly on the trails, or playing boom boxes. The perfect setting for encountering a wolf-or a coyote, as the case might be. I pulled into a turnout, unloaded my pack, gave my car a little pat, and hoisted my camping equipment onto my back. To find the trailhead, I slid down the steep rise from the road into the campground, located a log that crossed the creek, and took a path that rose into the wilderness. Breathing in the scent of ponderosa, Chiricahua pine, and piñon, I hiked for about a mile and a half to a hidden spot just off the trail. Rocks were in place from someone else's campfire circle-evidence that I wasn't the first person drawn to this little sanctuary. At night, it would serve as my base camp; during the day, I would explore the woods. A streamlet lent moisture to the dryness of the high desert. Mossy green patches lined the bed where little fish darted about, catching invisible delectables. My gaze wandered through the veil of translucent green, meandered up crevices separating pine bark wedges, glided across limbs. Yet still my mind pestered me. How can I feel discontent amid all this beauty? My stomach rumbled as I unpacked, pitched my tent, and collected dry wood. I heated water over my propane camp stove to make instant split-pea soup and a pile of noodles. I plopped down under one of the ponderosas and rested my back against the trunk. While I ate, my mind drifted back to making angels in the snow with the Mother. I had difficulty remembering some of her features, but not her eyes, alive as they were with starlight, or her smile, bright like the midsummer sun. The love I felt in her presence rounded me out, leaving none of the rough edges that seemed to come with temporal love. It was strange that my mom had given no credence to this experience, since she'd always delighted in my creations of poinsettia-leaf sleds for Santa's elves and other acts of fantasy. But my stories of the wolf and the woman in white drew only frowns and a stinging silence. Even my godmother, who used to lead me into the "fairy woods" down the hill from her cabin, said there were no wolves in this part of the country, and certainly no woman in white. When my dad visited, I saw a twinkle in his eye as I told the story, but he said nothing. Life was often barren after that. School teachers wore blank faces. I wrote letters of the alphabet upside down and had difficulty adding numbers. When asked about school on a particular day, I would say that I'd romped through eucalyptus leaves behind the amphitheater, or kicked the ball farther than anyone could catch it. Sitting under the ponderosa, I finished my noodles. The last twinkle of the sun's light through the pine needles brought a chill to the air. Only a hint of pink and pastel orange remained as twilight's afterglow. I moved swiftly to prepare for night. After storing my food in a net and hanging it from a tree, I put on more layers of clothes, slipped into my down parka, then relaxed by the fire. No moon. No wind. Not even a breeze. No sounds, except for the occasional crackling of firewood and the gurgling of the creek. "When you hold your hands like this, I will always come." What had the Mother really meant? Picking up a thin stick, I poked it in the fire, pulled it out, and watched it burn. Then I stood up, waving the burning twig in a circular motion around the fire. "I will always come," I chanted. I held the stick up toward the Milky Way and waved it in a circle, drawing a halo around the entire sea of stars, imagining the mass of dotted white to be the Mother. Oh, Mother, please let me find you again. I stepped slowly around the fire circle and sang, "Mother Mary comes to me. There will be an answer. Let it be . . ." Around and around I turned, my fire-stick swirling, sending ghosts of light streaking through the sky like comets. Tossing the burning stick into the circle of rocks, I raised my arms overhead. Beneath the blackest sky dotted with 10 billion stars, I danced until I fell to the ground, arms spread out, palms open to receive their light. The ground seemed to move under me as I gazed at the vast expanse of sky. A mild breeze caressed my face, sending chills throughout my body. When the freezing temperatures became too cold to bear, I dragged myself into my sleeping bag. Like a ship's bell ringing an alarm, a sound startled me awake- whippoorwill, whippoorwill! Again I heard the urgent cry. I unzipped the door of my tent to peer out. The waning moon cast an eerie light over the campsite, sending shivers down the back of my neck. If I were smart, I would pack up first thing in the morning. But I'm not really here to leave at the earliest sign of discomfort, am I? I had learned that birds can be messengers. On the banks of New Mexico's Chama River a lone warbler had once come to my tent before dawn, well before its usual waking hour. Like the rippling arpeggio of a flute, the bird's tune permeated the predawn silence. I knew it had called me out of the cozy nest of my sleeping bag to walk the mile and a half to Christ in the Desert Monastery. Red sand cliffs on the opposite side of the river dwarfed the small Benedictine chapel. The full moon's light floated on the water, casting its glow onto nature's cathedral of sheer rock. I arrived at the sanctuary just before the monks began their early morning chanting. Resting on the steps facing the river, I listened to the droning of men's voices echo through the chapel. But the whippoorwill's cry was different. It seemed to portend danger. I lay back down, pulled the mummy bag's hood over the top of my head, and gazed at the silhouettes of trees dancing on the tent. I awoke at first light, and rather than make a fire to warm up, I went straight to boiling water for tea on the camp stove, intent on escaping any impending danger as quickly as possible. With one hand holding the hot cup and the other untying the food net, I spilled the tea and had to boil more water. Newly sliced apples for steaming slipped out of my grip like sardines, tumbling to the dirt before I could catch them. I wish I knew exactly what that whippoorwill was trying to warn me about. One thing's for sure-I'm not going to wait around to find out. With the last spoonful of cinnamon-spiced apples still in my mouth, I threw my water filter in the day pack, just in case I'd be stuck in the woods. After checking the pack to make sure it contained everything I'd need for a three-hour hike, I flung it on my back and headed east up the trail into the mountains. My breath caught in my throat as I hiked at a fast clip. Even so, I didn't slow down until the sun had lit up the tops of the hills behind me. The rising desert sun warmed the air so quickly that I was soon peeling off my parka, turtleneck, and long underwear, and rolling them into the day pack. I enjoyed the freedom of movement I felt in only my lightweight T-shirt and jeans. Like a deer turning its head this way and that for signs of a predator, I sniffed, watched, and listened. After some time, I sat on a rock, feeling foolish. The Chiricahua Mountains were full of sites for settling down and contemplating the Mother. Too many, perhaps. Without a compass or contour map, I could easily get lost after roaming off the trail for any distance. At that moment, a crow cawed. I leapt off the rock and made tracks up the hill in its direction, thinking maybe its call was a sign. Minutes later, when I saw the black bird soaring swiftly into the canyon, I shook my head. I should have brought a map. I'll just stick to my original plan of staying close to the trail. The murmuring of a stream lured me into the scrub oak underbrush and beyond, where a gentle waterfall emptied into a sandy pool. Dry mosses hung from the branches of piñon pines like vines in a jungle forest. A few ponderosas and Apache pines towered above the small meadow where the stream cascaded over polished rocks. It looked like the perfect place to sit and wait for the Mother. Although holding my hands in prayer position seemed natural in my younger years when the Mother showed me how, it felt contrived at this stage of my life. In my Italian Renaissance art class I had seen scores of images of human beings in prayer-Mary praying to the angel who announced Jesus' conception, angels supplicating before the baby in the manger, art patrons petitioning the holy beings whose portraits they had consigned. Always, they were crying, imploring, adoring, expressing beatific attitudes. But pressing my hands together and calling aloud to God had not been part of my upbringing. Hence as an adult I felt self-conscious just thinking about following the Mother's instructions. I bent over the little pond, dipped my fingers into the clear water. It was just deep enough for a refreshing plunge and relief from the midday heat. Large insects with long, spindly legs skated across the surface, casting darting shadows on the sand below. Little fish with tails like flashing whips scurried beneath the shiny rocks. Snap! A twig broke in the bushes behind me. Is it my imagination? I bolted upright and immediately felt a familiar tingling run up and down the back of my neck. In recent years I'd had two encounters with pick-pockets-one while on a bus in Boston and another while traveling by train in Italy-and each time, moments before, I'd felt someone watching me. Although I held onto my purse tightly, in both instances there was a spit second when I let go and the thief seized my wallet. Again I heard a rustling in the bushes. Whatever it is, it's big. No lizard or bird would make that much noise. I inched downstream to a spot where I could cross over easily if I had to. There I remained poised, mentally plotting my move. Once more, dry leaves crackled. I edged down the bank of the stream, poking at rocks with my boot. Another rustle. I swirled my head around. Just behind the oaks that lined the clearing, a man thrust his bushy head through the leaves and crashed forward. I leapt over the stream, bolted like a deer into the woods. Although athletic, I was no match for this large man. Instinct drove me to scurry first in one direction, then in another, like a rabbit darting away from a huge dog. I dashed under bushes too difficult for the man to negotiate easily, then instead of going forward into a gully, I backtracked noiselessly into a soft patch of grasses. Never once did I look behind; I only listened. Hearing my pursuer thrash down the hill through the underbrush, I headed into a ponderosa grove, where a fallen tree leaning against a sturdy one with low branches provided an opportunity for me to scale the trunk. Adrenaline gave me the force to scramble up it like a cat. There I perched, leaning into the bark to muffle my rapid breathing. The man had slowed his pace, even stopping on occasion-probably to listen. Now the sounds of bushes scraping and twigs crackling receded toward the gully, whereupon I rested my cheek against the tree and heaved a sigh into the fresh breeze. Then I sucked in hard, holding my breath. He's circled back! He plowed through the chaparral, close enough for me to catch a glimpse of him. He was tall, about thirty-five years old, and dressed in a torn camouflage shirt, matching pants, and army boots. His long brownish hair formed dreadlocks that swung as he growled. A moment later he disappeared into the thickets, whereupon the sound of rustling brush came from below, then farther off again. He must be checking behind every shrub for signs of his prey. I took measured sips of air as the rumblings of his hunt faded into the distance. Like a monkey clinging to its mother, I hugged the tree in a full-body hold while my breathing slowly returned to normal. Finally, I took a deep breath, sighed, and began singing softly, like a small child, "We are climbing Jacob's ladder . . . We are climbing higher, higher . . ." Soon I was feeling calmer and safe enough to relax my grip on the tree. All the while, images of the chase replayed in my mind. I could have been killed. The whippoorwill and the crow must have been warning me not to continue this senseless search. I wondered if I should simply return home to Tucson, but my heart told me not to give up. I think I'd rather die than live without the Mother's love. I held back tears of ambivalence and swung my feet, mindlessly banging them against the tree trunk. I'll rest here for just a while longer. When I finally climbed down, I didn't quite know where I was and didn't want to take chances. Logically, my next move would have been to either go back uphill to the trail I'd be on or head for the gully and follow it westward. Instead, I decided to take several detours to avoid leading the bushman to my base camp. First, I would forge my way east; then I would climb the mountain in hopes of picking up the trail. Around midafternoon, with the path still nowhere in sight, I crouched under a Gambel oak, ravenously hungry. I fumbled through my pack for the sesame butter sandwich and package of blue corn chips I had tossed in before leaving the campground. There were two apples as well, which I decided to save for later. After gulping down the sandwich and chips, I resumed my search, using the tallest peak as my navigation point. Higher and higher I climbed, picking my way around bushes and occasional Douglas firs, and pausing occasionally to sip precious drops of water, all the while scanning the terrain for evidence of a trail. It's got to be here somewhere. Beads of sweat poured down my face and neck. My mouth was parched, but since the landscape all about me was bone dry I knew I had to conserve the little water that was left. Pangs of worry shot through my chest. It was late afternoon, and the thought of spending the night without a tent or sleeping bag raised goose bumps down my arms and legs. Nor did I relish the idea of missing dinner. But I knew how foolish it would be to plow through the brush at night without even the moon to light my way. On previous treks excitement would course through my bloodstream whenever I contemplated being forced, unprepared, to survive in the wilderness. Not now, however. Not with a crazed man on the prowl. The sun was only inches from the horizon when I spotted a small cave among a cluster of nearby boulders. Set above a gentle slope, the indentation in the rock was shallow and rectangular-just large enough for my body. The hour after sunset provided enough light for me to settle in. Swiftly, I collected piles of dry wood, then formed a fire circle with the many rocks scattered among the grasses. I looked and listened before deciding to make a fire. Convinced that I was temporarily safe, I laid dry twigs and pine needles against a large piece of wood, pulled waterproof matches from my pack, and lit one, setting it against the kindling. Even if he sees smoke, he won't have time to reach me. It's getting too dark. He'll never find his way. Gently, I coaxed the tiny flame with my breath, adding longer lengths of wood as it grew. My intention was to amass a pile of hot coals to keep me warm through the night, since it would be much colder here than at base camp. Guessing from the firs and occasional aspens that I was at an elevation of about 8,000 feet, I rummaged around in my pack for the survival blanket I always carried with me but never before had to use. The advertisement on the tiny package claimed the paper-thin, metallic-looking space-age material would prevent hypothermia. The fire crackled softly and burned low enough so as not to attract attention. A diffuse band of pastel orange and rose lined the ridges and flat horizon of the desert below. My hideaway looked out onto a panoramic view of the basin-and-range features, revealing islands of mountains that dotted the Sonoran Desert. To envision the white sand covered by an ocean millions, perhaps billions, of years ago took only a small stretch of the imagination. I was a tiny speck in infinite time, part of a boundless whole. The vast expanse of mountains, sky, and desert reminded me of the purpose of my visit. At this point, however, I had only enough strength to lift my arms, place my palms together, and sing a dronelike "Please come" before my body slumped over. The world around me blotted itself out as I surrendered to sleep. My chin fell to my chest, momentarily startling me awake. I forgot to make my bed. I hoisted myself up, stumbled down the hill, and groped around collecting pine needles for a sleeping pad. Settled at last inside my cave, I knew that hardly anything, including the bare rock for a mattress, could have prevented me from falling asleep. A piercing yip, yip, yip woke me in the middle of the night-the short, staccato notes of coyotes barking in unison. I imagined the intermittent silences to mean they were eating or dragging a small animal home. One lone coyote's drawn-out howl, high-pitched and unearthly, drew me into wildness, sucking me into a hole in space where mysteries disappeared into a velvety blackness. Now that I knew my childhood encounter might have been with a coyote and not a wolf, the eerie call sent a tingling rush of joy through my veins. Cold air crept through gaps the parka wasn't big enough to cover. Too tired to pile more wood on the dwindling coals, I rolled over stiffly, curled up under layers of space blanket and jacket, and drifted back to sleep. A symphony of birds from seemingly every branch of every tree mingled with the hazy world of slumber and the stark reality of my cave bed. With that, my mind meandered into wakefulness. I opened my eyes to the blackness that precedes dawn, when the faintest rays of the sun creep around the edge of the earth, warming the sky to a shady indigo. I was only slightly puzzled that I now lay fully stretched out on my back, toasty as a fledgling under its mother's wing. The birds' chorus infused my chamber of rock with celestial strains, as if from hosts of angels. Stretching my legs, I grazed my left knee against a lump. My hand probed from beneath the survival blanket and soon came upon a furry mass. "Eee!" I withdrew my hand like a gopher scooting down a hole, and yanked my parka back over my head. The creature shifted gently against my body. Oh my God. Slowly, I slid the jacket away from my face, peeked down beside me, and sucked in air. Coyotes! They let me touch them. There, nestled against me like pups with a mother dog, were three coyotes. The one curled against my left side was studying me through yellow eyes; the other two were wrapped together at my right side, still snoozing. I lay perfectly still, savoring the moment. Then I noticed that mingled with the smell of wild fur and dew on the ponderosas and firs was the scent of rose. Was I still in the same cave? I wondered. On top of the same mountain? The light cast a gentle glow all about us as one of the coyotes got up, stretched, and trotted toward a white form not more than fifteen feet away. The Mother! I stared in disbelief, fumbled to get out from under my covers, then crawled to my feet, shuffling toward what I feared was only an apparition. As I approached, I could see the Mother sitting cross-legged under a ponderosa on the knoll overlooking the valley, her robes shimmering in the soft light. My heart swelled with a sudden love, much as it had when I was a child. I tiptoed to within several feet of her, crouched down, and also sat cross-legged, afraid to move closer for fear she would disappear. Tears moistened my cheeks as I looked about me with wonder, not knowing if what I saw was real. Everything-the trees, the birds, the grasses-was crystal clear. One coyote lay in front of the Mother, prostrate at her feet, its nose on the ground. The other two sat patiently a few yards off. The Mother's long black wavy hair, together with the dark hue of her face that changed from chocolate to black to chocolate again, contrasted sharply with the thin white cloth draped around her head. When the first beams of sunlight flashed across the top of the mountain, the Mother stirred, beckoning me to come closer. My heart skipped beats and I hesitated, stepping gingerly toward her, all the while staring as if my gaze would fix her to that spot forever. Her hoarse, mellow laughter bubbled. She motioned for me to sit. I was bursting with so much love I could hardly breathe. As I settled to the ground before her, the coyotes sprang up, trotted forward, and thrust their noses into her lap, nuzzling their heads into the folds of her garments. She stroked them and kissed them between their eyes. One by one, they loped away into the woods. Then she reached over, pulled my head into her lap, and murmured, "My precious child," just as she had done nearly twenty-two years before. I buried my face into her belly, reveling in a joy that extended beyond the confines of time, beyond the moon, the stars, and the blackness of night. Silence pervaded, except for the birds that, having finished their tribute to dawn, were now chirping and fluttering about. Eventually, I slid my head out from under the Mother's forearm and sat up beside her, cupping my chin in my hand, staring with hazy eyes at the desert below. Seconds passed, maybe entire minutes, as images of the chase through the woods and the danger of spending days without water or food flashed through my mind. "Daughter, like a candle blown out by the wind, your life can come to an end at any moment. Your body's well-being is not in your hands, for everything happens in its own time. Fledglings break through their shells to come into the care of their mother. Through no fault of its own, one might tumble out of the nest before it is ready to fly. Another might later fall prey to a hawk or eagle. The others may live to raise their own families of birds. All will eventually die." I frowned, put my fingers to my mouth, and glanced off into the distance, struggling to understand. She stroked my head and smiled. "Child, the body is only temporary. You are born, grow up, study in school, get a job, raise a family, grow old, and die. Only the soul is permanent. For you to be truly free, the body mustn't be the primary object of concern. The man you saw yesterday might have hurt or killed you, but that wasn't to be your destiny. Even the clever way you escaped was not under your control, although you may think it was. These types of experiences come in order to teach us that there is something beyond the body, mind, and intellect. You sang 'Jacob's Ladder.' Why?" I whirled my head around to face her. "How did you know? It just came. It made me feel good." "It reminded you of the only aspect of yourself that never changes-the all-pervading soul, the source of true happiness. Last night you were content not having the comforts of your camp. You even felt joy in the absence of things that ordinarily bring you pleasure. Your only concern was about me and your immediate needs, not the past or the future. The animals sensed your love for them, so they came to keep you warm. They felt your connection to the source of all that is." The sun had burned away the morning chill. I removed my parka, pulled out the two apples, and offered one to the Mother. She chuckled, took a bite, and gave it back to me. "You'll go away again, won't you?" I asked. "I like what you tell me, but how can your words help me feel this love when you're not around?" "You will have to surmount a series of hurdles. Each one will remove another veil bringing you closer to me, to the mystery of the immortal nectar." I paused while chewing. "Immortal nectar? Is that something you drink while dying?" A burst of rippling laughter propelled the Mother's body off the ground. She looked at me with the smile of a thousand moons, and stroked me under the chin with her delicate fingers. "Daughter, dying is the same as being born; it is only a change. Your yearning to be near me will draw you further and further into yourself. Eventually, you will develop a burning desire to know the immortal nectar. Remain always in the present, as you did yesterday. I will guide you. Surely, you will succeed in reaching the goal." I pulled my knees up to my chest and clasped my arms around them. "I don't think I understand what the goal is," I replied. "While it is important to care for our bodies and develop our minds, we must be conscious of the fact that they are impermanent. For now, try to remember that attachment to them is the cause of great suffering." The Mother closed her eyes. I shut mine as well. When I opened them again, the sun was blazing directly overhead and I was alone. I lay back and looked up at the blue. Again I experienced that soft, fluffy feeling I'd had while sitting with the Mother in Pine Hills-that sense of floating on a gentle breeze. I moved slowly to my feet, took a few steps, hesitated, then turned, staring at the spot she had occupied under the tree. My knees folded, collapsing like a marionette's. Kneeling, I placed my palms together, bowed down, and touched my forehead to the earth, remaining there until it felt as if my head had melted into the ground. I longed to stay by the cave forever, but knew I had better continue looking for base camp. I finished off the last drops of water and was disheartened to find there was no more food-only the Mother's discarded apple. After returning to the cave, I began stuffing my belongings into the day pack when, not more than a few hundred yards down the hill, I spotted the trail. How did I miss it? Was I was so intent on finding shelter that I couldn't see what lay before me? I marched down the path, munching on the Mother's leftover apple, figuring it would give me enough energy for the two- or three-hour hike to base camp. The sun was dipping behind the mountain by the time I reached my campsite. To my surprise, the food net was missing from the tree, and the propane canister was nowhere to be found. Him again. Slowly, I stuffed my sleeping bag into its sack and packed up my gear, all the while feeling unusually detached from the bushman's plunder and wondering if this was similar to what the Mother had meant about not clinging to pain. Then I flashed onto her words of more than twenty years before, about the dangers of wild animals and the woods. My job, I decided, was both to see my body as temporary and to take whatever precautions were necessary to guarantee its safety, even if it meant staying on the trail. With a twinge of vigilance, I stood up, visually combed the area, and listened for signs of further invasion. Finding nothing, I hoisted the pack onto my back and strolled to the car, once again feeling weightless and brimming with love. |
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