Page 66 of Nothing Less than Magic
He locks eyes with me, his eyes sadder than I’ve ever seen them. “Because once you go, you won’t come back.”
“Of course I will. San Francisco is only two hours away. It’s even closer to Davis. We can meet in the middle for coffee.”
He turns away, but it’s only for a moment. Just enough time so that I won’t see the desolation there, the utter anguish. But I already have.
“Knox, what’s going on here?”
“Let’s go for a walk,” he says out of the blue. Or perhaps it’s a way to buy time so he can continue to try to persuade me to stay.
“I have to get on the road. It’s getting late.”
“It won’t take long. I want to show you something.”
I know it’s a ploy, a stall tactic. It doesn’t matter, because I’m already second-guessing myself for leaving, anyway. It’s been so good for me here. Not only have Lolly and I made progress, but I’ve made so many friends in the last two weeks. And Knox. Not one day has gone by since I got here that it wasn’t Knox instead of Austin.
“Let’s go then.”
He takes my hand, and the next thing I know, we’re getting in his truck.
“Hey, what happened to a walk? This looks a lot like driving, Hart.”
He grins. “We have to drive to get to the place where we walk. You’ll see. I promise it’ll be worth it.”
Soon, we’re driving up a steep grade, and I’m starting to question whether this is a good idea.
“Where is this place?” I ask as my ears pop.
“Not much farther. Trust me.”
We pass a sign that says GHOSTMINEHISTORICSTATEPARK, and Knox parks in a small gravel lot in front of the visitor center, a chalet-style wooden building with lush gardens. I hop out of his truck and read the historical marker at the tip of the parking lot.
“Ghost Mine State Historic Park was one of the oldest, deepest and richest gold mines in California,” the placard reads. “In operation for more than a century, miners here extracted more than seven million ounces of gold before the mine was shuttered in 1950. The park features many of the mine’s original buildings, three hundred miles of abandoned mine shafts, and fifteen miles of trails.”
The park is both beautiful and creepy, if a place can be both. I can sense death here. Both the miners, like the Ramsey family for whom the town was named Ghost, and the near genocide of the native Americans who lived here before the Forty-Niners came to reap their fortunes.
The other creepy thing about the park is that it’s empty. Not a soul to see, a ghost town, if you will.
“Is this what you wanted to show me?” I shield my eyes with my hand and look out into the distance.
“Nope. It’s up there.” He points to a trailhead, then takes my hand.
I try to stop to read another marker, but he pulls me along. “You can read it later.”
“What’s the hurry?” I ask, then remember that I still have the two-hour drive to San Francisco. I’m already contemplating pushing the drive until tomorrow, but even if I left at the crack of dawn, it would be cutting it too close for my flight to Albuquerque.
“The light’s just right,” he says. “If we don’t hurry, we’ll miss it.”
I try to match his long strides by speed-walking. What I don’t account for is my shoes. They’re slip-on loafers, and under regular circumstances are plenty sensible enough. But between the rugged terrain and the thistle, I’d be better off in hiking boots. Faster.
And then there is the small issue that I’ve never been terribly fit, catching only sporadic workouts in hotel gyms or walks from my condo to my office on the streets of San Francisco. Laughably, the route is flat as a pancake, not what you would expect from a city known for its hills. This is all to say that I’m winded.
“Can we slow down just a little bit?”
Knox stops, and I find a boulder to lean against to catch my breath.
“How much farther?”
“Not much, probably about a mile.”
