In Self Defense
Susan R. Sloan
One
The day was nothing short of perfect for a hike into the Olympic Mountains -- blue skies, lofty clouds, and temperatures hovering in the low seventies. It was rare for the Pacific Northwest to be enjoying such weather in the middle of June, which was normally a rainy month around the region, but no one was complaining.
Clare Durant breathed in the fresh mountain air and smiled at the unspoiled beauty of the trail she and her family were very carefully descending -- so unspoiled, in fact, that she guessed not many had followed it recently. The sun was shining, her latest tests had come back negative, and all was right with the world.
“Taking this trail turned out to be a good idea after all,” she said happily.
She was just about to add that the whole day had been a good idea when, suddenly, her feet lost contact with the ground. One minute she was picking her way down the narrow path, with her children in front of her, her husband behind her, and not a care in the world, and the next minute she was tumbling head over heels off the side of the mountain, straight toward a ravine some twenty-five hundred feet below, gaining speed with every millisecond, trying to catch her breath, and screaming at the top of her lungs -- a scream of such terror that the birds flying lazy patterns overhead veered off sharply and disappeared.
There was no doubt in Clare’s mind that she was going to die, right then, right there, in the middle of nowhere, her body smashed beyond all recognition, maybe not even recoverable, and considering everything that she had been through over the past few months, the irony did not escape her. She closed her eyes and began to pray that it would be quick and not too painful, and that Richard would have the good sense not to let the children watch.
And then, just as she was coming to terms with her imminent demise, a sharp jerk pulled her up short, halting her momentum. She opened her eyes. By some miracle, her windbreaker had caught on a jagged outcropping of rock and broken her fall. She gasped in relief, but then realized that it was only a temporary reprieve, because the thin nylon was already beginning to tear under her weight.
There was no time to think, only to act. Clare threw her right arm up over the rock, digging her fingers deep into the ragged foliage surrounding it, and hung there, battered and bleeding, and clinging to that rock with every ounce of her will because it was all that was keeping her from plummeting down the rest of the mountain to certain death. And the only thought in her head was -- why? Why now, when life was finally good again, and her tests showed that the awful toxin was no longer eating its way through her system?
***
A hike in the Olympics was not the kind of outing that Richard Durant would typically opt for on Father’s Day, or on any Sunday, for that matter -- a round of golf or a lazy afternoon out on Lake Washington with a friend in a boat being far more to his liking. But to his wife’s surprise, he had suggested it.
“Why not?” he said, giving her one of his dazzling smiles. “Father’s Day is just the excuse. We have something far more important to celebrate, haven’t we?”
The children were delighted, of course, but their joy didn’t have much to do with test results. They knew their mom had been sick for a while, but then the doctor made her well again, and that was all there was to that. No, it was the idea of actually spending a whole day with their father that excited them.
So, on Sunday morning, they were up, almost before dawn, dressing in jeans and T-shirts, putting on sturdy shoes and windbreakers, and stowing their lunches in rugged backpacks. They took an early ferry from Seattle across Puget Sound, marveling at the white-capped mountains that were behind them and the white-capped mountains that were in front of them. They drove over the Hood Canal Bridge, which swung open to let boats pass through, curious as to why the water would be choppy on the one side while smooth on the other. They sang songs and played word games to pass the time, and pulled into the Olympic National Park shortly after ten o’clock.
To anyone bothering to notice, the parents were an interesting contrast physically, Clare being somewhat shorter than average, with that rare combination of naturally blonde hair and brown eyes, while Richard was somewhat taller than average, with dark curly hair and piercing blue eyes.
The two children, on the other hand, twelve-year-old Julie and ten-year-old Peter, had both inherited the same attributes of each -- their mother’s hair and creamy complexion, and their father’s eyes and height.
“Are you twins?” was the question they usually heard when they were out among people who didn’t know them.
“No way,” they would both reply, wrinkling up their noses in mock distaste, because, for the most part, they liked each other.
The Durants hiked up to Hurricane Ridge, on a road that was paved for part of the way to make it easier for tourists, and reached their destination just in time for lunch. They gasped appreciatively with the rest of the gathering crowd at the breathtaking vista of snowcapped Canadian Rockies poking out of British Columbia, and the crown jewel -- the city of Victoria, glimmering across the Strait of Juan de Fuca. They munched on their ham and cheese sandwiches, their potato salad, their corn chips, their seedless red grapes, and their chocolate cupcakes, and drank their sodas at one of the picnic tables scattered around the area. And they chatted with other families who had also chosen to spend Father’s Day in the mountains.
They looked, in fact, very much like any other happy family
