I went for a run late yesterday afternoon. It was 5:15 pm, and the rain had stopped. I wanted to run where I could let the dog loose, so I went to the woods, even though I knew it would be dark soon. I pulled into the empty trailhead. There was one other car, parked with fogged windows. I started up the hill, sloshing around puddles, my dog up ahead. It was bright out because the clouds had cleared, and the streams were rushing with new water. I drank in the solitude.
In about 15 minutes I had made it to the top of the hill. Fog had erased my customary view of the mountain in the East. Turning my eyes forward again I saw an enormous fire-bellied newt progressing across the trail -- instinctively I leaped over it.
Following the curving ridgeline I noted mansions perched on the cliffs, some with lights on, others looking cavernous as dusk loomed. My dog suddenly stiffened in front of me to warn of a figure approaching. Automatically I moved to give it a wide berth. It was an emaciated woman in a puffy parka vest and parachute pants. Hi, I said. Her eyes avoided me. As I passed her I could hear her arm bones clicking against each other as she marched toward some phantom purpose.
Jarred, I quickened my pace, then shot a glance over my shoulder to make sure she hadn't rematerialized behind me. My dog and I were alone again. He gamboled happily ahead, attacking a puddle with his paws. My thoughts began to whir gently as they do when I run, resolving and dissipating like steam from my body.
Several miles went by easily and when I reached my traditional turn-around I decided to continue another mile and a half to a stone bridge I hadn't been to in months. This trail was almost flat, dotted with cow pies, and very wooded. The sky above had begun to show strips of pink -- clouds were catching the sunset's last colors.
To my left there was a shallow ravine, and something down there caught my eye, so I stopped. Someone had built a small army of stick figures along the stream banks. I couldn't help thinking of the Blair Witch Project and I darted off. Suddenly, there was another newt in front of me -- bigger than the last one, with giant padded fingers that slowly touched ground one at a time as he moved across the trail. Why do they always cross the trail? I wondered. I ran around it.
The stone bridge wasn't far ahead, yet it was taking longer than I'd hoped to get there. An owl hooted. Branches scritched. The tree canopy closed in, which meant we were nearing our destination. I noted fresh horse tracks, trying to calculate if they were by a trotting horse or one who was walking slowly. I decided they were too close together to mean it was moving fast. Then my dog's collar jangled as he put on the brakes.
There at the stone bridge a horse and rider stood. The horse's tail flicked, but his eyes avoided me. A figure atop the horse was heavily wrapped in blankets and a balaclava.
With casual movements to camouflage my fear, I turned back on the trail and hoped the rider would not follow. I heard nothing but my footsteps. After a minute I looked back. It was too dark to see all the way to the bridge. No one was behind me.
Now I was focused. It was dark. I was running on a trail that was far from the road and completely abandoned. I calculated how long it would take to get back to my original turn-around, which was back on the open ridgeline trail.
Despite the hooting owl and the enclosing tunnel vision, I once again succumbed to the rhythm of the run and before I knew it I was back on the ridge trail. At least this was less scary. The sky was turning a dark indigo, with a bright horizon along the hills reflecting from the city lights beyond. I could still see where my feet fell as I jogged uphill. I wondered what I'd do if some crazy bush-dweller jumped out at me. Was it better to recklessly dive down the ravine, or run up and over the other hill toward the equally solitary road?
I passed a cow gate. My dog waited for me to hold it open for him, as he always does -- even though he easily can go under. Only a few more hills to go before I reached the top. The last dip would briefly take me under a thick weaving of oaks before I could again see the faraway mansions on their rickety scaffolds. I was entering this deep darkness when a shuffling, erect shadow came into sight. My heart pumped an extra cycle. It was the skeleton woman. She said nothing as I passed her.
I had reached the top of the ridge. I untied my dog leash from my waist, figuring it could serve as some sort of weapon. I ran with abandon. Every noise made me go faster. The trail began to descend. I blindly found footing among the rocks and roots. Just in time, I remembered a long patch of slimy mud that I would have to walk down. A twist of my heel told me I'd arrived. Carefully placing one foot ahead of another, I nervously whistled for my dog, who had disappeared around the next bend. He popped his head back into view, as if to say Hurry up!
Finally the slime ended. In the daylight it would have only taken me five more minutes to reach my car. I stepped onto gravel and heard a strange sound to my right. I peered into the foliage and gasped. A smooth and grayish-orange appendage emerged. Branches cracked. Then, I heard what I can only describe as a roar -- if a newt could roar. Making a sound like a backwards burp, an angry, bus-sized fire-bellied newt pushed his torso onto the trail. His fleshy hands made alternating circles five feet in the air as his limbs lifted and then met the ground, launching his gravity-challenged body toward me. I was running backwards in the dark, downhill, on the mud. Where was my dog? The newt roared again. My heel caught on a root and I fell, scrabbling backwards. Do newts have teeth? I wondered. Are they herbivores?
A vice grip closed on my hair and I screamed. It was my dog. Seizing my ponytail in his teeth, he pulled me backwards onto another patch of slime. I had a horrifying mental image of a similarly sized California native, the banana slug. Could that explain the slick ground? There was no time to explore the thought -- my dog and I were picking up speed, sliding down the steep trail. The rain began to fall. Good timing. A stream burst through the eroded bank and roiled behind us, then picked us up like two leaves in its path. I screamed as if on an amusement park log ride. An instant later, it was all over. I lay, twisted among the debris, at the trailhead.
My dog looked expectantly at me. Well, aren't you going to open up the car? he asked with his eyes. I pulled myself to my feet, fumbled in my pocket, found the fob and pushed the keyless entry button. Looking left and right I ran to the car, opened up the back for him to jump in, and tried to simultaneously slam his door shut while opening mine. What if there's someone in my car, waiting? I thought even as I sat in the driver's seat. I closed the door and hit the lock all doors button. My dog would have barked if we weren't alone, I realized. Relief. I turned on the overhead light to take a look at my slime-spattered face.
I turned off the light and the view outside came back into focus. There was that same car, still parked. And what was next to it? A bony figure in a parka, just standing there. Turning the key I jammed the shift into drive, hit the headlights and spun the wheel back toward the home.
It's six o'clock in the evening as I write this. Yep. I think it's too late for a run in the woods.
