Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-14

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Kyle noticed a part-time opening at his company and a light bulb flipped on over his head. Arguing this would be a great way to get me out of the house and help dip my toes back in the workforce, he encouraged me to apply. Translation: he figured this job would keep me out of trouble in Lake Arrowhead. But the catch was, you had to pass a typing test to be an admin. I practiced for a week. They actually place a box over the keyboard so you can’t see your hands while you’re taking the test. That evening, he inquired how it went and I answered confidently: “I did great, probably like a B or B minus.” I was wrong. Needless to say, I didn’t get the job offer and Kyle grumbled that I might’ve “flunked the test on purpose”.

The rugged terrain folded sharply beyond the plateau at Foresta, having been carved to a V by the river over millennia, and in places, ancient glaciers.

Her knees were starting to wobble with fatigue, compelling Lyndy to rest when she didn’t want to. Bending into a squat position, balancing on her toes, she squeezed at the joint by her thigh muscles, hoping to ease the spasms and increase circulation.

Mostly the soreness was concentrated in her knees. But reaching up with her right arm, she pinched on her bad shoulder. It felt tender to the touch. She tried, but couldn’t raise it past 90 degrees to her core, or the aching became unbearable.

Age was catching up to her. Having a baby weighing her down wasn’t helping the situation. Meantime, The Spitfire’s heart continued pounding, but some of that was fear. A good kind of primal fear, making one more aware of their surroundings.

Beneath the sounds of her own huffing, and Mari’s whimpering, Lyndy could hear distant cars traveling the road in the canyon bottom. In addition, she perceived a thunderous roar from the rush of spring meltwater. The sound of that river in her ears was welcome, encouraging her.

With a jolt of knee pain, she pushed off rising to standing position. She wanted to keep moving, and so commenced weaving her way through the tangle of oak branches.

The slopes were lined in layers of exposed granite. The boulders here weren’t smooth like in the valley, but had a rough texture not conducive to climbing. In between boulders, where one could skirt past, the ground was composed of scree or coated in a slippery layer of deadfall leaves, bark and moss—all at an angle of 45 degrees or greater. In the tightest of sections, she lowered herself using opposition, placing her feet firmly on one rock while bracing her back on the other side. She’d taken several fresh falls and her hands had new scrapes to show.

Another discouraging problem: the sun had dipped below the horizon 30 minutes prior, meaning she only had ten or so minutes of workable light.

Lyndy assumed they would find the wreck, split up and send someone to the lower road. At least one man from above, and likely two from below, to close in on her. But the driving distance was substantial. Without studying a topo map, they wouldn’t be able to judge precisely where she’d emerge—she was counting on that. And the slow bushwhacking meant it would be harder for those in pursuit as well.

Mari’s diaper was beginning to stink. She had one spare jammed in a pocket, but she was saving it for when they bedded down. She possessed no formula. No water. No baby bottle.

Would she be getting an award? Mother of the year? Surely not. She felt like a fox on the run again. The hunters, she prayed, were inexperienced.

---

10 minutes later …

Crickets were chirping.

Battered and exhausted, Lyndy arrived upon the narrow, flat strip of El Portal Road, as a line of motorcycles buzzed past. She could see their red taillights vanishing into the trees, smell their exhaust. But they hadn’t spotted her, or if they witnessed anything, it would’ve been two eyes reflecting. That’s how dark it was.

She quivered in fear, thinking each low sound was an approaching auto, or each twig snap someone sneaking around in the undergrowth. The river did thunder here, which was good. But she needed a hiding spot, at least until moonrise. With a crescent moon she might be able to carry on. But rest seemed vital.

She worked her way upslope, bushwhacking west along the canyon wall. The going was difficult and slow. She prayed for a solution, as twilight faded and she began to stumble. She scrambled between layers of rock, sliding back a step with each two of progress. When a small stone let loose and went tumbling, she froze, fearing somehow the invisible chasers would spot her. Then she saw the cleft in the rock.

It wasn’t what she’d hoped for—an abandoned mineshaft would’ve been ideal—but it was something. Ordinarily, she’d have poked into the crevice with caution, using a long stick to probe for any wild critters. Mainly it was serpents she feared.

There was no time for caution. She clawed at the ground with both hands, pulling rocks free like a dog trying desperately to burrow under a fence. On both knees she continued to scrape until she made an opening large enough for her and her baby Bjorn to crawl through without Mari being crushed. She could reach a forearm into the hole, knowing there was an air gap there. She had to continue to push through a tangle of roots.

A humbling experience for sure, especially for The Spitfire. She wormed her way in, kicking with her toes and bending her back. She pushed upward with her palms; in the same motion one uses in yoga class. Then Lyndy tucked her knees, so her whole body drew inside the cavity.

Once in the confined space, she flicked the lighter, hoping she’d not entered a raccoon’s den or worse, a porcupine!

The soft flame bathed the tiny cave in a flickering orange glow. The space was smaller than an average Labrador doghouse. At first, she saw only unremarkable rock in front of her face. A few dead bugs, but no mean looking spiders. On the lower half, where some knobby crystals formed a sharp edge, she observed a tuft of brown fur. Unmistakable which species left this piece of their hide behind—the previous tenant. How humiliating!

“Oh God, it finally happened,” lamented Lyndy, breathing heavy. “I’m a bear.”

It felt good to be secure, if even in a false sense. Mari was cranky and stinky. Lyndy unhooked her baby sling. She knew those men would be probing every inch of this canyon.

She cradled Mari in her arms, gazing into her eyes. “You’re hungry I know. Thirsty I assume.” Lyndy rubbed her palm across her face as she caught her breath.

She felt shameful. Bunching up her dress, she eased it over her head. The move was tricky, with the tight quarters and one shoulder that wouldn’t bend. She twisted her elbow to squirm out of the dress.

“I’m sorry I can’t do it,” Lyndy whispered, setting the dress aside. “I can’t do it Vanilla Bean. You know I can’t.”

The baby books and one twenty-something nurse, attempting to make her feel better, explained some women her age simply weren’t able to lactate. There was nothing to be ashamed of. Replaying this scene felt unbearable, when she was tired and the pregnancy had been so difficult. They called it geriatric for God’s sake.

Abruptly Lyndy balled up a fist, punching her own head. She did this repeatedly, in a rage until she couldn’t feel. Then, taking a breath, she clutched Mari against her chest with her eyes shut. Maribel kicked her legs in a baby protest, but Lyndy held firm.

---

Hours later …

That night, the air temperature in the canyon dipped to near freezing. The shelter of the bear den was a marginal refuge. She held Maribel close, through fits of shivering.

Sleep came in only brief doses, a few Zs at a time.

It was against her better judgement, but she couldn’t help it. Not knowing what time of night it was, she had an unstoppable urge to look out. Gently she set down Mari, wrapping her in her dress and snugging it around her neck. The baby girl was sleeping. Then sliding backwards, Lyndy emerged from her hiding place.

She gazed first at the clear mountain sky overhead. The milky way arched above in a heavenly fashion, bursting with twinkling stars.

Nature was calling in other ways. She needed to pee, but even that act she feared might reveal her whereabouts. Lyndy scrambled a little higher, to where an oak tree clung to the cliffs like a climber. Once there, she heaved her bare stomach over the largest branch and ascended into the canopy. From this vantage, she could look down over the cliffs, seeing part of the river gleaming and a bend in the road.

Something was off. An unnerving hum permeated the area, so faint she hadn’t noticed it at first. Like the sound of electricity, when one listens closely on a peaceful night. Lyndy strained with her heightened senses to locate the source, scooting higher along the branch. As she climbed higher, she could smell it.

At last, there it was in front of her eyes. She’d been looking too far away. At an angle of 30 degrees to the oak, attached to a pine bough, hung a classic acorn silhouette. The ball of energy was anxiety inducing, a beehive like ones in a Winnie the Pooh cartoon. The humming was from a few guards at the entrance, while thousands of others must be inside sleeping.

Lyndy exhaled relief. She inched back, using gravity to slide lower to the ground. Then came a yellow flash, like a beacon.

She froze with fear. Beneath her, The Spitfire witnessed two flashlights searching—the big Maglite variety. They hadn’t given up. The distance, hard to judge, might be a range of twenty-five yards—if she were lucky. She clung to the tree, flattening her back to help her blend in.

Listening carefully, she could hear them talking to one another. Saying things like, “In there, under that bush. Poke in with the hiking stick.” The cones of light shifted, occasionally scanning over the slopes with the menace of searchlights in a war zone.

Her heart started thumping and eyes started watering. She really needed a miracle. She prayed Mari wouldn’t start with her crying.

As delicately as she could, Lyndy backed off the tree branch. She crept down slope, trying not to rustle leaves or make even the faintest noise, working back to the crevice. She squirmed into the cave. Right on cue, the baby started gurgling. Lyndy brought Maribel to her chest. She closed her eyes, pressing the baby’s ear onto her heart. If ever there were a time for the primal bond, it was now. She needed to achieve the equivalent of baby nirvana.

---

Santa Barbara, CA

Lyndy Life Observation: Mr. Chan used to say, as a rule anyone who utters the phrase in a confrontation: “Hey buddy, you’re messing with the wrong guy!”, is almost a hundred percent of the time, unequivocally not the “wrong guy”.

The aggressor with a mostly balding head, ironically had a bushy chin-strap beard. This dense beard was his distinguishing trait. He stomped closer to her stool, continuing to go on about his brother being wrongfully imprisoned.

Her ears were ringing, in part from the tequila shots, and in part from her boisterous surroundings.

Lyndy held her purse closely tucked between her thighs, a habit she’d developed from many years in bars. She felt for the taser with her fingertips. Once she touched its rough plastic texture, her fingers moved until she sensed the button to arm it.

With her other hand, she reached out, downing another shot.

“Sir, you need to calm the F down,” scolded the bartender. He’d been threatening to call the police.

Lyndy stacked the pictures neatly, shoving them back in the envelope.

“Look man, you need to understand,” Lyndy began. “People have been making claims in the name of Lyndy Martinez for decades. It doesn’t mean I had anything to do with it. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to have a legacy as a certified badass. But I couldn’t have done one-tenth of the things attributed to me. Fact is, over the years, I’ve lost track of what’s real and what’s not. I have memories of things that probably never happened.”

“Don’t give me that bull,” countered the man, grabbing onto her arm. “You know what you did Spitfire.”

Lyndy cringed, as the fellow had the grip of an iron worker. But rather than go along, with her left she pressed the nose of the taser into his ribs and squeezed the trigger.

It made a loud BRZZZT sound, jerking the biker backward, as if he’d been shocked by a set of defibrillator panels. He seemed more aggravated than anything. After a brief respite and a shrugging of his shoulder muscles, his strength returned as did his hot mouth.

Lyndy backed off the stool, but kept the taser out and pointed at the attacker. A bystander stood up, clutching the biker’s jacket. “Hey man, cool it,” he said. 

“Take it outside,” another fellow remarked.

The angry man continued to stare at her, with malice in his eyes.

“I warned you. Leave me be,” argued Lyndy. “I don’t know or care who you are. I’m sorry yer dad went to prison. It wasn’t my fault. I’m too old and I’m not in the mood. Nowadays I just wanna be left alone.”

One of the bartenders was on the phone and security arrived with astonishing speed.

But Lyndy felt someone reach around from behind, grabbing her hips and yanking her backwards. Tensing up, she could barely fight them.

“It’s me,” whispered the voice of Fred Simmons.

Pivoting her frame, her eyes fell upon a figure with a shawl covering their face, who was propped in the back corner. Once she’d seen that Lyndy was being pulled away, the ghost like figure turned the corner and hobbled down the street. By the way the person moved, in a mechanical fashion, she knew it was Gillian Lovelace. Or was it her real name?