Page 29 of Canyon of Deceit
While we maintained a strong pace, parched earth, loose gravel, and sharp rock became the norm. A sudden slip or heavy burst of wind could send one of us over the edge and to our death below. But I’d rather struggle with the familiarity of nature than the likes of Tom Chandler.
I gazed at the towering peaks holding up the sky and breathed in the crisp, earthy smell—purity and a blend of freshness. “I love the mountains.”
“You’re not afraid?”
“Depends on how you define fear. For me exploring new territory and revisiting special places is a type of respect, a mix of love and fear.” I swung another look at the sky. “Like how I feel about God.”
He scowled. “Must everything have a God-response?”
“Most of the time.”
“Am I going to hear about God the whole time we’re together?”
I wanted to stand bold in my faith but not chase him away from seeking a personal relationship with Him. “I’d rather show you faith in action.”
“Hmm. Okay. Deal. Ever have any doubts?”
“Sometimes.”
“I assumed you never backed off from your faith.”
“If a Christian ever tells you his or her faith never wavers, he’s lying.”
“Come to think of it, Sergio has mentioned his faith giving him a kick in the rear when life goes south.”
We hiked higher, and the wind blew a brisk chill. Desolation spread in all directions, but I valued the sights and sounds. Indications of a past summer fire caught my attention with charred black bark and the stubbled remains of trees. In the heat of summer, the wind rubbing the dry grasses together often caused a spark that burned acres of wood and shrub, causing damage to all things growing and wildlife. But nature needed fires to regrow plants, which provided wildlife’s food and increased the water supply.
“Have you explored the caves?” he said. “Just thinking about places for Chandler to hide.”
“The Apache nation revere them as sacred.”
“Meaning we can’t check them out?”
“I respect all Native Americans and avoiding the caves is an unwritten agreement. But if I think Alina’s in a cave, I’m heading in.”
A few minutes later, he pointed to a spindly soap tree yucca, which flourished in abundance. “Soap tree?”
“Right. Originally used by Native Americans to make soap. They took the fibers from the leaves to weave mats, baskets, and sandals. It can even be fed to cattle during a drought.”
“Thanks. I’m getting educated,” he said. “Uh, tell me if we come across any scat whose owners might not want me trespassing. What little scat I know is cat and bear.”
I laughed. “Sure thing.”
He pointed out different shrubs, and I had difficulty believing he didn’t have names for all of them. His ranch-life experience must not have been in the high desert. So I gave him the info—creosote, honey mesquite, sierra juniper, straw-colored broom snakeweed, side oats grama, wild rue, silverleaf nightshade with its poisonous berries, and alligator juniper, named for its bark’s resemblance to alligator skin. His questions kept me busy and my mind off the dangers ahead. Made the hiking easier, and we had miles to go before finding any traces of Chandler.
“Are your parents living?” Blane said. “The conversations on our three dates weren’t about your family.”
He’d not let me forget how I’d damaged his pride. “No.”
“Siblings?”
The question slapped me hard. “A sister, but she died a long time ago. I have a cousin who is a trusted friend.”
“Is that person a wilderness gal like you?”
I grinned while I shook my head. “She’s into piano, plays at a small church west of San Antonio.”
“Looks to me like nature is part of your family too. Good times and not so good, but you still love them.”
