Page 2 of Mountain Man's Forgiveness
I swing my body around instinctively and see a blur of navy blue through the binocular lenses. Terror claws at me, a guttural scream emitting from my throat, and I take off at a dead run.
Four Days Ago
The only undergrad invited on our field trip bounces with excitement.
“I can’t believe we might see a golden-cheeked warbler!” The exuberance on Julia’s face matches my own.
As a researcher, I’ve been on migratory bird field trips many times during my twenty-six years, but I have yet to see the subject of my master’s thesis. An endangered species, the golden-cheeked warbler only breeds in the Texas Hill Country, nesting in the woodlands of juniper-oak. That’s why I chose Cobalt Ridge University to earn my Ph.D. in Ecology and Conservation Biology.
By monitoring endangered species, I will be able to collaborate with municipalities and ranches to help balance wildlife preservation with the economic needs of the community. My ultimate goal is to work for a conservation group that protects the migratory habitat along the Central Flyway, one of four main paths that birds fly in North America.
Professor Davis signals silently at Julia, who shrugs her shoulders and clamps her hand over her mouth in apology. Today, the undergrad’s red curls are pulled through the back of a baseball cap, same as my long, brown braid. She’s short whereas I’m tall, and we couldn’t be more opposite. But we’ve become fast friends despite our six-year age difference.
There are six Cobalt Ridge students taking field notes: two students working toward their masters in conservation biology, three Ph.D. candidates specializing in ecology and conservation, and Julia, who was invited because of her volunteer work with wildlife rehabilitation.
All of us are interested in conservation and have already been at this a few hours, cataloging birds near a known water source. Although we’re studying the migratory paths of several species, my main interest is the warbler. Dr. Davis explained that while they are likely in the area, it’s still early in the season. They’ll be in the area through July, so it may take many trips out here before we spot one.
The university partners with multiple agencies, like the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service and the National Park Service, to monitor wildlife. Today we’re on a section of land deep in the Hill Country known as the Cobalt Ridge Preserve, where the hills rise in layered blues at dawn, and the air hums with cicadas by midday. It’s one of the few places left untouched by development, a patchwork of juniper-oak woodland that still shelters endangered species.
Still quiet, Julia starts waving her arms frantically, one arm pointing to a cluster of thorny juniper branches. Professor Davis turns and aims her binoculars in the same direction, so we all follow suit.
She whispers, “I see it. Find the cluster of branches toward the top that form an X. It’s sitting at the center.”
We all spend the next several minutes silently trying to find what they see. Julia and the professor put their binoculars down at exactly the same time, excitement crossing their faces. It must have flown off.
Professor Davis smiles widely. “They’re here.” And although I’m excited for both of them, bitter disappointment floods through me at not being able to see the rare bird for myself.
Disappoint filling me, I listen to them describe its bold white belly and brilliant yellow-gold patches on each side of its face. After they finish, I force down the envy for thirty seconds before letting it go. Simply knowing that the regal bird is in the area sends a course of excitement through me.
The group spends the rest of the day surveying shaded areas, checking specific nesting sites for the birds on our list. We check water sources and microhabitats, finding several birds on our list, but we don’t see the golden-cheeked warbler again.
Now
I run as fast and as far as my feet can take me, my hiking boots pounding the forest floor, the rustling of dry leaves underfoot. The large man is shouting behind me, but I can’t hear what he’s saying over the pounding of my heart. I jump over a fallen log no taller than my shin and keep going, outstretched tree branches scratching at my arms and face as I run in a zig-zag pattern to confuse the man.
A metallic taste fills my mouth as my own ragged breathing echoes in my ears. Adrenaline fueling my run, I attempt to dodge a chunk of limestone on the forest floor and trip over my feet. Binoculars flying in the air, my canteen wraps around my neck. I try to stand up and keep going, but the man is already within 10 feet of me, and my hands and knees are scraped up.
This is it right here. The moment my mom spent years warning me about is happening right now.
So, I decide I will not go down without a fight. I stand up and charge the huge human like a tiny little Chihuahua taking on a bear. Don’t show fear, Eva. I charge the guy who just stands there staring at me like I’ve lost my mind.
My shoulder hits right in the center of his chest as my knee comes up, aiming for his groin. My knee misses as he turns his hips, holding me away with one hand as I swing and scratch and bite at the air.
“I am not going to hurt you. Stop.” His voice is low and commanding.
I don’t stop.
“I’m going to back away, and you’ll see that you’re safe. If you keep running in the direction you are, you’re going to get completely lost, and we’ll have to send a search team out to find you.”
The behemoth backs away, his hands in the air, before stopping and removing the Swiss Army knife from his pocket.He lays it on the ground in a show of trust as I fight for breath, my lungs burning, throat raw.
“My name is Aiden Blackshear, and I live out here.” He maintains eye contact. “I’m a firefighter. I should have identified myself the second I saw you, but I didn’t want to scare you.”
The sheer panic begins fading from my limbs, and my heartbeat starts to slow. My hands still trembling, I say nothing as I watch his body movements. I don’t get a bad feeling about him, but you never know.
“Okay. If you look to your right, you’ll see neon orange flagging tape tied around the tree branch. That is my trail marker. It lets me know where I am and how to get back to my cabin.”
Still, I say nothing.
