Little Black Notebook

Marking a tree with a vertical line for each person that traveled down that trail, I wondered why no one has returned. No one has noticed the shoelace left behind, the cigar put out on the stump, or the half-eaten sandwich left on the picnic table.

Taking a break from the binoculars, I grabbed a package of pistachios. They were delicious—so much better than the freeze dried “Turkey Fettuccini” that I choked down the first night or the “Cajun Chicken and Rice” of the second. I looked back at the tree with the marks and wondered if this had not been the same tree that I had climbed when I was a little girl. That tree had meant everything to me. I had imagined what it would be like to be a bird, twittering and chirping little songs. I wanted to soar into the sky—to fly.

I picked up the binoculars.

“Oh, my!”

I carved two more vertical lines in the tree. Two little girls just wandered down that trail.

“That’s it, I have to save them.”

I closed the knife and clipped it on my belt. I hooked the binoculars on the outside of the backpack and heaved it on.

“Everything looked the same,” I thought, “everything, except the tree”. Twenty-six vertical lines. Twenty-six separate mysteries. And I am next.

I made my way down the embankment via an old logger’s trail. “Ouch,” I muttered. A vine had caught me. A thorn dug into my jeans. I ripped it out and rubbed my thigh. Then, the trail gave way to erosion. I slid all the way down to the river’s edge.

“Mercy,” I screamed as my bare feet touched the icy cold water. It was pain and relief all at once. With pants legs rolled up to my knees and boots laced onto the frame of the pack, I inched my way across, thankful that the river was low for this time of the year. The rocks looked so beautiful beneath the water. Light glinted and shimmered as the flow of water changed the angle of the refracted sunlight and I found myself thinking back on the last few days.

Loaded in four vans, gear tightly packed, a co-ed group of eager geology students, four interns and one brave professor had headed north. The Geology Department had unexpectedly received a benefactor grant of $20,000.00 in order to fund an educational expedition named in my honor. We traveled the twisty roads, with sudden shifts left, right, then left again to a hypnotic rhythm. We finally made it to our excursion site, set up camp, cooked supper on our own backpacking stoves, and shared a campfire, ghost stories and s’mores. Eventually, it was lights out and we snuggled into our coffin shaped sleeping bags. Except for a sliver of moonlight, it was pitch black.

“Elise,” one of the students started to say. Then, my friend Cathy said, “Shhh, don't wake her, she is dreaming”. I woke up to laughter, and the twinkle in their eyes told me all I needed to know.

After breakfast, we had gathered for a quick hike over to an outcrop of rock where the relic of a professor was showing us calcite and dolomite depositions. Catching a flicker of light, I had looked over to the embankment across the river just as an elderly man with scraggly gray hair and a slight hunch, hobbled along the trail. He sat down for a few minutes, lit up a cigar. Then, he put it out on the stump.

I quickly wrote down what I saw in my little black notebook and made my way back to camp. I got out my binoculars to look again. “Hmm, no sign of the old man,” I thought. But a mother was hurrying her little girl at the picnic table where she left part of a sandwich behind. I carved vertical lines into the base of the tree to keep track of the one-way travelers.

Back on site, everyone was looking at their rock samples and conducting scratch tests, looking for clues to determine the type and age of the rocks. I wondered if a geologist could make a real living playing with the elements.

The fall colors were glorious: reds and yellows of maple trees and deep burgundy of dogwoods. Little gusts of wind sent leaves aloft and my hair flew in my face. We filled the afternoon with excursion hikes to various outcrops of rocks. The angles of striations gave clues as to the age and showed us just what can happen over time with enough pressure and the heat of the earth. It was hard to believe that the striations which were nearly vertical had once been layers of sediment.

Tall tales from a visiting park ranger and supper preparations filled our evening. Eventually we had tucked into our sleeping bags to drift off to sleep. I heard, what I thought was the sound of chapel bells, then silence.

For once, I awoke feeling rested. Coolness crept through the autumn air, leaving a slight chill in its wake. I snuggled a little longer. Second by second, the sounds of camp tuned up. We had one more hike, with full gear—a true geologists’ excursion. Picking up my binoculars, I looked back across the embankment. Curiously, there were little twinkling lights that shone through the shadowy portions where the trail waned off.

“Oh, my!”

I had quickly pulled out my knife and carved two more vertical lines in the tree. Two little girls had just wandered down the trail. “Where did they come from?” “That’s it, I have to save them.” I quickly closed the knife and clipped it on my belt. I hooked the binoculars to the outside of the pack and heaved it on. “Everything looked the same,” I thought, “everything, except the tree. Twenty-six vertical lines. Twenty-six separate mysteries. And I am next.”

Feeling a sense of urgency, I left my tree, my group and my safety. But, not to go would be to leave my sanity—I would always wonder: “Could I have made a difference in the lives of these mysterious hikers on a one-way journey?”

Donning my hiking boots once again, I looked up, the face of the embankment on this side of the river. It was a lot steeper than the other. “Oh well, mind over matter,” I kept telling myself. I inched up sideways towards a tree that was growing horizontal at the top.

The East Rim Overlook was closer than I realized. It would be an excellent place to rest. By this time, I was out of breath, hot and sweaty from the weight of the pack. Carefully, I slid down to the base of the tree and stretched my right leg out so that my foot was close to the ground. Then, I made a terrible mistake. I looked down—down the steep embankment. Everything was swimming. The tree was shaking and what had seemed like a soft musical melody from the river below, now roared in my ears.

I leapt off the trunk and landed softly, onto the ground. I slung the backpack from my shoulders onto the bench to rest for a while. The river roar quieted down, and the world seemed more at peace. The scent of pine filled the air and sunrays filtered through the luscious leaves. A warm, peaceful feeling crept over me. It was then, in that moment, that I spied a little black notebook in the edge of the woods. Quickly, I jumped up and retrieved it. “Could this be a clue,” I wondered? My thoughts drifted in waves as I began to open the cover; then I heard giggles.

Walking east, I followed a path to meadows of pied daisies and blue violets. Other signs of spring sang of new birth. Yet, I felt like milk frozen in a pail. I thought about my last moments at the tomb and a cold fear ran through my veins. The heat of life left his body so quickly. “It was just one moment, and then he was gone. Gone. GONE.”

“Oh,” I said aloud, I do not usually remember my dreams. But this time I did. I was slumped over a corpse. He had a gentle, peaceful face, and I could feel wetness where tears had landed upon his shoulder. I could feel soft leather pressed in my hand as my fingertips traced the engraved lettering. I looked down; it was the little black notebook. Perhaps I had been dreaming, but this little black notebook was real. I began to open it; then I heard giggles.

I got up and slung the backpack on my shoulders.

“There they are!” I said and waved. I could not believe my eyes. “Girls, come here.” I yelled out, but they must not have heard me.

Walking to the trail head, I stepped onto the path leaving fear behind me. I only had two thoughts, getting the little girls and going back for help. My class was just on the other embankment, and I am sure that they were already looking for me. Occasionally, I called out “little girls,” but there was no response. Each time, I picked up my pace a little. I saw them run down the path and around the corner. I could hear them giggling. I started to jog. The backpack made cadence to the rhythm of my feet. I reached up and wiped the perspiration off my forehead. I turned the corner and stopped moving—gasping for a breath of air. There was a tremendous light, an illumination so brilliant that I looked away. I was ready to get out of there, but my world disappeared.

I could not see the overlook, or my tree across the river, or the camp site. And worse, I could not utter a sound. Not a scream. Not a Word. NOTHING.

I ran as fast as I could, down a pebbled road. Breathless, I slowed my cantor to a trot, and then a walk. I walked until I limped. The road seemed endless. Every step brought with it amazing changes. The woods were replaced by desert, then a mountaintop. The sky moved through surreal tints of pink, red, and blue; then to a violet with foggy underfoot blankets hugging the morning meadows. I could feel the temporal change, as if I were rewinding a silent film. As I walked past a beach, there were scantily clad people, and then others wearing slick one-piece suits that looked like they had been painted on with a brush. I found my voice and called out. No one responded. It was as if I were a ghost.

I continued down the road, looking for a clue how to get home. Bikinis changed to square cut bottoms and cloth that covered every square inch of cleavage. Suits morphed into pajama like striped prison garb. Women wore ruffles and held parasols. It was like looking through a one-way mirror as I rode the pendulum of time.

Beautiful hills beckoned me to take a rest. I stepped off the pebbled road, hesitantly at first, then fully onto the dewy grass. I looked around; no one was present—just mother earth. There were no little girls, nor sounds of giggles. There was no old man; there was no mother and child running nearby—only daisies, violets, lady smocks and meadowlands. The crisp clean air filled my lungs. I released tension and expelled fear. My body felt light enough to float. I felt the little black notebook, it was a warm, comforting fit in my hand; as if to say: “You are home.” I gazed down at a knobby knuckled, feeble hand holding the leather bound little black notebook. I finally opened the cover to to see a love note from each of the years we had been married. A tear rolled down my cheek as one by one, I traveled back in time.