4 Small Rivers

Yesterday was a very odd day. I was supposed to head out on a long, international flight, connecting in New York’s JFK. Journey was to start with a flight from SFO shortly after noon. Sweetie drove me to airport. Bright sunshine, no problems, no line for check in, good coffee at airport, life is good. I got the nearly-proctological security check (I’d expected that, given the combination of a/ first class, b/ ticket bought in the end only 24 hours ahead of take off, c/ destination city) and arrived at the gate to hear that the flight was expected to be cancelled, because of snow and wind at JFK. Unfazed, settle in to work. But, in fact the plane did take off, on time … made it nearly to the Nevada-Utah border before turning back to SFO because JFK was closing.

It was 3 pm or so when, back at SFO, it became clear that I could no longer reach my far-away destination on time, by any route and at any price. So, I headed home to Marin, where Sweetie met me at the Airporter bus and suggested that, since the weather was gorgeous and the day had been ridiculously frustrating, we should go for a short walk in the Tennessee Valley nearby, part of the gorgeous Golden Gate 'National Recreation Area'. Great idea. 10 minutes later, we’re parked and walking toward the Pacific Ocean.

Beauty around: dozen of California quail (I’ll post a picture later); mist tinges the hilltops. We’re only a few hundred yards from the Ocean, it’s glistening in the distance, I think we can hear it even, when we come across two girls-young ladies beside the trail. One is sitting on the ground, white-as-a-sheet, with her head in her hands; the other standing looking worried. It turns out that Sarah, the girl on the ground, has been bitten by an unknown bug … probably a spider … and seems to be undergoing an allergic reaction. We’re a mile or two from paved road in open space; the sun is dipping behind the hills.

I dial 911 on my mobile, hand the phone to Heather, the standing girl, and we pick Sarah up, put her arms around our shoulders, our arms around hers, and start frog-marching along the trail toward the park entrance. As it happens, we've got both bottled water and adrenaline in our car. Listening to Heather on my phone, it seems Sarah was bitten a half hour earlier; as we march on, we ask Sarah questions. I imagine they bothered Sarah but we wanted her to stay as conscious as possible. I’m glad she was slender – she'd said she weighed 128 pounds – because she became quite a dead weight, and as we climbed the one modest hill I had to put my arm behind her to push her uphill. Her lips were fading to blue; her head was lolling forward. A cyclist rode past and turned back to ask if we needed help: Sarah guzzled water from his camel pack. Thanks to you, whoever you were!

About 20 minutes into the forced-march-with-Sarah, we’re greeted with an ambulance and a fire truck and we get to hand Sarah over to professionals, and walk on. I don’t think of ourselves as having done anything heroic, just decent. However, it’s odd to ponder the odd sequence that led us to be on hand. On any normal Tuesday, I would have been at the office; instead, I went to the airport, took a flight, that was cancelled, … the frustration of a wasted day led us to take a hike … And so it was that a far-away snowstorm brought us to Sarah’s aid. I hope she's well.