Search Party
The sun was beaming off the hood of the truck when he pulled into the gravel lot. You never know how busy these types of places are going to be. Darrell was leaning into the steering wheel and squinting for a parking space, mouthing the words on the signs and trying to make sense of their commands. Lodge guest parking only. No parking at any time. 2-hour parking all day except Wednesdays and Saturdays. The baby started to agitate in the backseat, and Darrell needed to take a leak and I was dying to stretch out my calves. He'd driven 11 hours yesterday up to Big Sur and another hour this morning just to get into the park, all in the name of a family vacation.
He was going to have to make another lap of the lot. He couldn’t tell if the hikers were coming or going, with them leaning against their Subaru’s, rummaging through their trunks. Were they putting on their shoes or taking them off? He couldn’t tell. A pack of younger boys in army fatigues sat in the hitch of a minivan, the weight causing its lip to nearly touch the dirt. Darrell smiled and nodded, a nod that one does when you see fatigues on the street. They sat like stone. He took their disregard of his respects in stride. Any other way would be un-American.
A behemoth of a man in a red, surf T-shirt caught us by surprise, quite frankly because he walked directly in front of our car, and Darrell only missed him by a nickel. The word MAUI stretched across his chest wide and he cradled a baseball cap in his arms like a kitten.
Another man, stockier and shorter, slammed his fist into the hood of our car.
“Don’t fucking look at me like that,” he spat. The vein in his forehead popped like a cobra.
The man grabbed ahold of Maui and shielded him, or at least a portion of him, and assisted him out of traffic. I gripped Darrell’s flannel and told him to drive.
“What’s this guy talking about? What look? Get out of the street, why don’t ya?” he muttered quietly, his window slightly cracked.
We did the loop two more times and found a spot along the fence, on the opposite end of where we ran into Mr. Tough Guy. The lot was exceptionally crowded. A wedding, perhaps, but these people certainly weren’t dressed for the occasion. And their faces!
“Are all these kids hung-over?” Darrell said, in jest, pointing to two young men sitting on the curb by the lodge, arms folded atop their knees, heads down.
We unloaded the car and got the baby on his back. His dad had started taking him to Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park when he was just a sprout. It opened a piece of his heart for the outdoors that eventually blossomed into an annual hobby of roughing it. He would stay in no lodge. Just a tent for his family and a hammock for himself, please.
The Partington Cove trailhead picked up about a quarter-mile down Canyon Trail, gradually gaining elevation into a redwood forest. He’d been talking about snapping a picture of him and the baby in the same spot as his father did, so he could put the pictures side by side on the mantel. I wished for a cigarette and told my legs to get to it.
And then you just started seeing them. White squares. Everywhere. On the trail bulletin, the picnic tables, the trash cans, the light post, like strategic confetti.
Missing: Joseph OwaKama. Last seen March 21st, wearing a blue t-shirt, black athletic shorts, and baseball cap.
But Darrell wasn’t reading the description. He was staring at the picture of a boy in his early 20's, smiling straight into the camera. The black and white print job accentuated a mop of curly dark hair and a small rash of acne on his chin. He reached up and touched the boy’s hair with his fingers.
He was quiet for most of the hike, and I had to remind him of the picture he wanted. When we got back to the parking lot, he took the baby to the lodge to change him and I snuck a quick cigarette behind the truck. I listened to erupting sobs as the news spread. He said the big man in the Maui shirt was in there crying hysterically, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him.