| Black Mountain Lady |
Jay
Dyck
Dyck
Diary of a Goatherder 14 February 1980
But early the next morning Judy showed up, unhurt. Apparently she had split when
she saw what was happening.
Ed French, the Game Warden, came out about one in the afternoon. He examined the
carcass, and looked at the tracks. He said he would talk to an old trapper in Boulevard
who knew lions, and maybe be back the next night, to wait for the killer.
Bob and I had dinner early. About seven-thirty I was walking down to the trailer. I
had my flashlight, but I walked in the dark. He is out here, I was thinking. He is on this
mountain, here in the dark, somewhere.
Suddenly I heard Judy bark, and again I felt the swelling flash of violence as the herd
began to mill. Then a kid began to scream. I was running by then. I snapped on the light
as the lion went sailing over the fence with a kid in its jaws for sure. I fired four shots as
he bounded away into the night, but from the sounds of the kid growing farther away, I
knew I had missed. This time it was one of Katy's, last night one of Dolly's.
Nothing for it now but to wait till daybreak.
But early the next morning Judy showed up, unhurt. Apparently she had split when
she saw what was happening.
Ed French, the Game Warden, came out about one in the afternoon. He examined the
carcass, and looked at the tracks. He said he would talk to an old trapper in Boulevard
who knew lions, and maybe be back the next night, to wait for the killer.
Bob and I had dinner early. About seven-thirty I was walking down to the trailer. I
had my flashlight, but I walked in the dark. He is out here, I was thinking. He is on this
mountain, here in the dark, somewhere.
Suddenly I heard Judy bark, and again I felt the swelling flash of violence as the herd
began to mill. Then a kid began to scream. I was running by then. I snapped on the light
as the lion went sailing over the fence with a kid in its jaws for sure. I fired four shots as
he bounded away into the night, but from the sounds of the kid growing farther away, I
knew I had missed. This time it was one of Katy's, last night one of Dolly's.
Nothing for it now but to wait till daybreak.
| Chapter Thirty COOL DEATH |
At the north end of Sorrento Valley was the next opportunity to reach the coast, the Carmel Valley
underpass. By the time Victor was eight or so, the sight of odd hippy chicks of every counter-cultural
description had become so common that Diana could easily have walked through such an exposure of sidewalks,
concrete bridge abutments, gas stations and traffic without being recognized as unusual. Diana though was more
likely to scamper across the freeway itself than to put herself or her child through the trap-like jeopardy that
she perceived the underpass as being.
Ditto the overpass at the next choice. Fourth Street Extension was only a chopped off memory by then. Its
replacement, Del Mar Heights Road, was as big as a freeway itself to the eyes of the boy and his ma, as glaring
and as scary. Vikor recalled how they would go to the severed end of Fourth Street Extension sometimes and
look westward, across the freeway, at the sunset or the new moon. So long as it remained a rural dead-end, it
remained as well an area with numerous convenient spots to roll out a bedroll from time to time.
Diana's survival techniques had advanced beyond those of her parents, Johnny Stream and Carol Gallagher.
This is another way of saying that her living standards dropped lower even than those desperate times when her
folks had stayed in this old shack, or the mine, or under the bridge with the creek rising on a rainy night of
miscalculations.
That was as bad as it got for Johnny and Carol, and Bob, and it was usually a lot better than that. Once it was
Carol and Diana only, it became ever so much better. The old red house on the hill became a regular part of the
comfort and society of the Black Mountain area in general.
No one there was rich, yet, but they had it figured how to live at a comfort level that may have been visually
jarring to outsiders, but was cozy for residents. Carol and Diana were included in all of this, from receiving boxes
of excess produce from old-timers in pickup trucks with time to kill and stories to tell, to barn dances, to rock
picking parties along the road to Del Mar Mesa. This would be a crew of gullible children, shepherded by one of
the old pickup drivers, working their way along the ridge road and tossing stones into the bed of the truck.
There were school buses, gossip, loose herds of cattle, boys with guns, dogs in heat and party lines.
There were single mothers, good wells, bad wells and road kills.
There were abandoned farmhouses, cars with flames painted on the sides, rock and roll, and beer and booze.
It was all of this that Vikor's ma had slipped away from, to become the cynical, uninvolved observer, the shy
refugee, and, at last, the eternal, loving enemy. Diana, moon woman.
She really was not missed when she left. It was more as if she had been forgotten. She simply faded into the
hills. In the dry climate of Southern California, the nights that she slept beneath any roof or shelter at all
became the rare ones. She slept where weariness overtook her. When she stashed her bedroll, she slept when
she reclaimed it. She knew where was every hidden, level spot in her range.
underpass. By the time Victor was eight or so, the sight of odd hippy chicks of every counter-cultural
description had become so common that Diana could easily have walked through such an exposure of sidewalks,
concrete bridge abutments, gas stations and traffic without being recognized as unusual. Diana though was more
likely to scamper across the freeway itself than to put herself or her child through the trap-like jeopardy that
she perceived the underpass as being.
Ditto the overpass at the next choice. Fourth Street Extension was only a chopped off memory by then. Its
replacement, Del Mar Heights Road, was as big as a freeway itself to the eyes of the boy and his ma, as glaring
and as scary. Vikor recalled how they would go to the severed end of Fourth Street Extension sometimes and
look westward, across the freeway, at the sunset or the new moon. So long as it remained a rural dead-end, it
remained as well an area with numerous convenient spots to roll out a bedroll from time to time.
Diana's survival techniques had advanced beyond those of her parents, Johnny Stream and Carol Gallagher.
This is another way of saying that her living standards dropped lower even than those desperate times when her
folks had stayed in this old shack, or the mine, or under the bridge with the creek rising on a rainy night of
miscalculations.
That was as bad as it got for Johnny and Carol, and Bob, and it was usually a lot better than that. Once it was
Carol and Diana only, it became ever so much better. The old red house on the hill became a regular part of the
comfort and society of the Black Mountain area in general.
No one there was rich, yet, but they had it figured how to live at a comfort level that may have been visually
jarring to outsiders, but was cozy for residents. Carol and Diana were included in all of this, from receiving boxes
of excess produce from old-timers in pickup trucks with time to kill and stories to tell, to barn dances, to rock
picking parties along the road to Del Mar Mesa. This would be a crew of gullible children, shepherded by one of
the old pickup drivers, working their way along the ridge road and tossing stones into the bed of the truck.
There were school buses, gossip, loose herds of cattle, boys with guns, dogs in heat and party lines.
There were single mothers, good wells, bad wells and road kills.
There were abandoned farmhouses, cars with flames painted on the sides, rock and roll, and beer and booze.
It was all of this that Vikor's ma had slipped away from, to become the cynical, uninvolved observer, the shy
refugee, and, at last, the eternal, loving enemy. Diana, moon woman.
She really was not missed when she left. It was more as if she had been forgotten. She simply faded into the
hills. In the dry climate of Southern California, the nights that she slept beneath any roof or shelter at all
became the rare ones. She slept where weariness overtook her. When she stashed her bedroll, she slept when
she reclaimed it. She knew where was every hidden, level spot in her range.
| * * * |
Tawngness spiraled from the eastern edge of the clearing to the west, realigning herself with the shifting
currents of air. She could smell the hay fragrance of the wet yellow grass. She could smell the cool death.
As she circled the clearing, she came upon the old, skirt of worn leather, and the ragged shirt that Diana had
shed, to bathe, and to don the white gown.
The gown itself was naught but a sodden lump of dirty, white cotton lying in the cold mud near the body.
Tawngness sniffed at the old clothes.
She recognized Diana. Not by name, certainly, but she knew her well enough. Yes, here was her bow and
arrows laid carefully by the shirt and skirt. This was the young huntress for whom Tawngness had already the
respect reserved for a sister deer slayer. Tawngness had scavenged the kills of Diana more than once.
How sad that those would be no more. She approached the body with soft respect.
Years later, hikers would discover the arrows and the bow. Quiver, clothing, even the bowstring itself and the
fletching on the shafts were long gone, gnawed to nothing by rats and rot over the years of rain and sun. Only the
fiberglass bow and arrows, and the rusty hunting heads remained. The hikers thought nothing of it. One of them
took the booty home as a prize. There was nothing else.
Tawngness had dragged the body, that wet-moon evening years earlier. Down slope, down into the canyon that
grew from the draw, down to a place of steep, pinnacled sandstone. There she had eaten it.
So there was the answer for Vikor. There was the answer to questions about connections. Cat One, Andrea
Clare, Agnes, Tawngness, Diana, Vikor… Cat One. Simple.
Nothing is that simple.
currents of air. She could smell the hay fragrance of the wet yellow grass. She could smell the cool death.
As she circled the clearing, she came upon the old, skirt of worn leather, and the ragged shirt that Diana had
shed, to bathe, and to don the white gown.
The gown itself was naught but a sodden lump of dirty, white cotton lying in the cold mud near the body.
Tawngness sniffed at the old clothes.
She recognized Diana. Not by name, certainly, but she knew her well enough. Yes, here was her bow and
arrows laid carefully by the shirt and skirt. This was the young huntress for whom Tawngness had already the
respect reserved for a sister deer slayer. Tawngness had scavenged the kills of Diana more than once.
How sad that those would be no more. She approached the body with soft respect.
Years later, hikers would discover the arrows and the bow. Quiver, clothing, even the bowstring itself and the
fletching on the shafts were long gone, gnawed to nothing by rats and rot over the years of rain and sun. Only the
fiberglass bow and arrows, and the rusty hunting heads remained. The hikers thought nothing of it. One of them
took the booty home as a prize. There was nothing else.
Tawngness had dragged the body, that wet-moon evening years earlier. Down slope, down into the canyon that
grew from the draw, down to a place of steep, pinnacled sandstone. There she had eaten it.
So there was the answer for Vikor. There was the answer to questions about connections. Cat One, Andrea
Clare, Agnes, Tawngness, Diana, Vikor… Cat One. Simple.
Nothing is that simple.
