Oh, the Irony, Part III

Through an adrenaline blur:

The helicopter blocks the head of the vertiginous trail to the river as it rotates slowly, silhouetted in sun above the south-slope stumps.  I am alone on the ground. The pilot is spinning into view, brightly lit in the bubble, but he's looking to the south/right, chattering into the headset, grim-faced behind aviator shades. I don't know if he sees me run for the north ledge to his left and leap off, recalling too late just how high that is. I twist around in midair, spreadeagled, graceless--and hit the edge hard, scrabbling in sandals and shorts, (is the pilot laughing?) then bounce and slide off bramble and rock to the switchback a dozen feet below.  I stagger upright, gasping in the sudden silence, then sprint the twisting, half-mile descent to the swimming hole, dodging boulders and scree, hopping roots of ancient madrone and Ponderosa Pine. I shriek a ragged warning every time I careen around a bend, in case the women are headed back up--

Chopper! Fucking CAMP!---

As trees give way to riverbank I can see several manicurists--I hadn't yet learned names--lolling on a sunny expanse of flat granite above the water. I stop at its edge. Even through blind animal panic, I can't help but notice the lithe beauty arranged before me, and wonder again at the numbers of rock-climbers, surfers, snowboarders and so on who comprised so much of that workforce.* Everyone else is swimming, and the rush of rapids that begin just downstream means they haven't heard a thing--

You made it! 

It's Spirit, peering up from the water, bobbing just below my feet.  She slicks back her hair, then she's pulling herself out fast and coming towards me, Omigod, what's happened to you?

My legs and heaving chest are covered in a sweat-sheen of blood. I drip dark dollops onto the rock.

Her voice induces sunbathers to spring up and swimmers to clamber out, eyes wide, some hands flying reflexively toward mouths, then they're grabbing and easing me down to a towel on warm granite as I splutter between breaths about pilots and radios and We Gotta Get Outta Here--

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Hours later, the full moon limns the forest and mountains with silver as I sway slowly in place by the bonfire, surrounded by dancing and drumming.  I've taken a lot of kidding in the meantime, as the story of my wholly unnecessary mid-day heroics spreads among the guests.  A be-dreaded twenty-something drummer/grandson of a master grower named Resin Nate takes a break and hands me a Sherlock packed full of White Widow. I accept it with bandaged hands, and he lights it for me. Stay away from the hash, man, he grins. Stick to weed. 

I hold the smoke in, nodding my thanks, return the pipe--and give him the finger. He laughs, takes his hit, hands it back--

Isis, Spirit, everyone, really--readily forgave my glaring, city-boy naivete, because it was pretty clear I truly believed we were in danger, and I cut myself up lovely trying to warn them. Got a lot of hugs for that, which frankly hurt, but definitely eased the sting of foolishness:

It was not CAMP, Isis assured me again in the bathroom as she cleaned my wounds, smells of soap and iodine and tea tree oil wafting around me. It was the power company. They have to inspect the lines, and they do it by air, especially through this terrain. 

She applied tape to a gauze pad and smoothed it over a butterfly-sutured gash on my ribs. And they love growers...'cause we pay huge power bills--on time.   

But if it was them, after all? I asked, wincing.  Won't they send somebody?

No.  No chance. CAMP doesn't care about us--they're ordered to ignore licensed grows. So even with the indoor plants--I'll show you those tomorrow--we're way under the limit. We're simply too small for them to bother.**

Unable to drum and too sore to dance, I wait instead for natural crescendos to build in the rhythm, then simply howl along with everyone else through the peak.  This gets me to the midnight meal, which kills. After the berries and cream, and a bit of wine, I crash with Isis, next to the dying fire.

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The moon has dropped below the treeline; the stars fade into grey.  We lie on the double hammock, dozing in and out. I listen to her breath, to the mountain wind, to the strangely slow, pensive tapping of unseen pileated woodpeckers--

Did the minister ever show? I murmur at some point. I'm not sure if I'm speaking or dreaming.   But then Isis sighs, and sits up. 

No. I didn't know what to tell you, it was all rumors and crazy talk...

She climbs out of the hammock, and gracefully dons fleece as I'm rocked back and forth. I'm not alert enough to pick up on it yet. A few minutes later she wakes me again, coffees in hand, and a look on her face that says Pay Attention.

I swing my feet to the ground and accept a mug. Thus anchored, I take a sip. Okay. Tell me.

You've come down for nothing. I'm sorry. There can be no interview.

Well, he's being prosecuted, his lawyer probably nixed it.  But this trip is hardly for nothing--

She smiles faintly. Thank you, but--oh Gurn--he was coming, he really wanted to talk to you--but three nights ago--the night you left Oregon, he was robbed and murdered--

I'm surely awake now--

--and word is the church was specifically targeted--by someone they knew well.

Next: A Last Bit of Irony and My Training Begins in Earnest
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*I finally figured this out, years later: since the mid-1990s, working the Emerald Triangle harvest for two months could secure enough funds to surf and ski the rest of the year. Modern market realities dictate that, except for a very select few, this life is no longer possible.

**Astute readers will have noticed the last entry's link to the wiki on CAMP contained all data necessary to conclude I was just ignorant and paranoid.