Finally I was able to escape the ridiculously exorbitant life I was forced to lead. I ran like hell from Southern California, the land of excess and narcissism.
No man there would even give a woman like me, thirty-something, pale skinned, and who in a singles ad might describe herself as “voluptuous” or “Reubenesque” a second glance, and even friends were hard to come by. Those I did have made little effort to see me outside of situations in which they were obligated to participate, and being an animal conservationist, these were few and far between.
I was a Midwestern, corn-fed girl to the bone, and nothing and no one would ever squeeze that completely out of me. I was proud of it. I had to admit that I did have an edge when it came to the respect of my Californian colleagues-my straight-forward, no-hint-of-an-accent accent aided me in presenting myself as of superior intelligence when compared to the vapid, ill-pronounced SoCal slur in which a full sentence could be so irresponsibly annunciated that you might believe it was one very long word. The flippant upswing in tone at the end of each sentence made it sound as if every one was a question, further dumbing down what was once the language of British Monarchs. The ridiculous imitations of the valley girl accents in so many bad eighties sitcoms really aren’t that far off.
So it was with great joy that I accepted a job with the division of wildlife in Southeast Ohio, on the northern edge of Appalachia. There’s a nice change of pace for ya-moving from decidedly one of the most exorbitantly expensive counties in the U.S. to one of the poorest. Leaving the land of movie stars and perfect tans for that of hillbillies. I couldn’t have been happier.
I started my journey late on a Saturday evening at the end of August after putting the final touches on my tiny apartment near the Wood Canyon nature reserve where I had spent my days studying Mountain Lions and Coyotes, watching the effects of suburban sprawl encroaching on their territory. There had been an increase in attacks on humans recently and I was sent to figure out why. It seemed so obvious to me the first day I explored the dry canyon, watching the brown brush rolling up the mountains to either side of me, multi-million dollar homes studding each peak like the facets of a spinal column as the hills rolled towards Laguna beach and the massive intimidating Pacific. The constant whoosh of traffic on the stark concrete overpasses and flyovers blocked out integral parts of what should have been a beautiful, scenic place. I was bored out of my mind by the end of my first day traversing the so-called wilderness. All I had to do was turn a corner from the main entrance of the reserve to find any of the trappings of modern life. You could actually see the gaudy neon of the movie theaters at dusk inside the canyon.
I drove gratefully eastward into the dusk in a rented moving van, a trailer hitched to the back with my pretty little car perched atop it, smiling mechanically at me from the side mirrors. My two feline companions kept me awake the first few hours on the road with their incessant whining and occasional bouts of foaming at the mouth, an indicator of nervous nausea. I turned up the ill-equipped stereo to help drown them out, while still talking to soothe them. I made it to Needles the first night, a border town leading into Arizona, and stopped at a cheap motel. After paying and getting my key from the clerk, I began what would be an every night routine until reaching our final destination. I first grabbed Pennzoil, my petite female cat, an orange tabby with random splotches of black covering her face and body, and tossed her into my rented room. As I closed the door, her acid green eyes flashed me a look of disdain as her pupils tightened to resemble those of a reptile. Dude was next, a massive, lanky black panther of a cat-the one whose high-pitched voice most commonly required the radio to be turned up on car trips. I often joked that I had neutered him too young, never allowing his voice to drop in accordance with his increasing size.
I grabbed their amenities, food, water, and litter box, as well as a duffel full of toiletries and travel clothes set aside for myself from those packed in boxes for the road. I plopped on the bed back in the room after setting everything up for the cats and slipping on an oversized t-shirt, allowing the Dude and Penzi to slink around the room to familiarize themselves before turning out the light.
After showering in the morning, I reloaded the van in reverse order. The cats always knew what was up when I started loading, and inevitably I would have to drag them by the scruff from under the bed, behind a dresser or out of the top shelf of the closet. I gassed up the van and continued my eastern trek, sliding into thin traffic on Interstate forty as it wove through the desert.
I made it to Albequerque that night, crossed the Texas panhandle and Oklahoma the next day accompanied by a massive cell of thunderstorms that seemed to stretch on forever but rarely crossed the freeway to quench the dried-up land, and stopped in Arkansas at one in the morning. The next day I passed on through Arkansas, cut a corner of Missouri and made it just into Kentucky, and the day after I landed at my final destination, a large chunk of heavily-wooded land with a small, cozy cottage nestled in its center just outside the small university town of Athens, Ohio.
It was dusk as I leaned over the steering wheel and squinted to see any sign of a drive or address indicating that I had arrived home, and after a few miles past the turn onto the narrow, rolling dirt road I caught a glimpse of the tidy white mailbox with its studiously affixed single red reflector. I turned onto the narrow driveway after confirming the address, wildflowers threatening to encroach onto it from either side amidst the tall grasses and weeds. Massive oaks and elms leaned in over the roadway, creating a tunnel. The trees seemed to be leaning down to check out the newcomer on their land as the breeze swayed them this way and that. A woodchuck skittered into the underbrush at the sound of my engine, and with my windows open I was sure I could hear the crashing of a larger animal, most likely a common white-tailed deer, tearing away from the cacophony down the steep ridge in flight mode.
The only pictures I had ever seen of my new home were from the realty website, and as the drive rolled along I had started to wonder if I had misread the address on the mailbox-it seemed forever before the tiny cottage rolled into my view. The clean white trim around the bay window and neat flagstone sidewalk triggered the memory of a conversation I’d had with my realtor when first showing interest in the property.
“So why are the owners selling?” I asked wisely.
Suzie, the realtor, stammered trying to come up with the answer she thought I’d be comfortable with.
“Well, they are getting on in years, and, uh, you know such a large amount of property can be rather difficult to maintain-“
“The property is almost completely wooded-from the looks of it, all you would need is a push-mower and some hedge trimmers to keep it up!” I interrupted, hearing the tell-tale quaver of a quickly fabricated excuse in her voice as I looked at the pictures of my new house on the monitor. By the looks of the topographical maps I was sent by my new employers, the four-acre property butted up against the state wildlife area I would be in charge of surveying, and no doubt there would be less-than-savory critters wandering into the small yard on occasion. I had a feeling that this was what she was avoiding.
I used my best you-can-tell-me-anything tone as I continued. I had a knack for getting what I wanted out of people with my soothing, low singers voice.
“Suz, be honest with me-there’s something else, isn’t there?”
“Uh, well, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but there is a bit of an animal problem”
“Hey, I’ve told you what I do, right? I think I can handle a few critters.”
“Okay, there have been a few incidences with wolves.”
“Wolves? You sure you don’t mean coyotes? There hasn’t been a wolf in that area since the early nineteen hundreds.” I said skeptically.
“Oh, okay, maybe it was. All I know is the wife saw a really big one one night and it was the last straw.”
“Hence the price?” I smiled on the other end of the line. “Well, you don’t need to worry about me-ten years of studying canine behavior and my trusty sniper rifle will see to that.” Not that I’d be picking off wildlife as it wandered through my territory, but I’d always seen reason in keeping myself protected, especially in my career.
Years of experience as a veterinary technician had honed my reaction to the signs of an aggressive dog’s demeanor, and I had wrestled my share of ninety-eight pound Rottweilers. Coyotes as a rule didn’t get over fifty pounds, and that was pushing it. I was a big, strong woman, and no dog could have me.
