Nature Noir: A Park Ranger's Patrol in the Sierra by Jordan Fisher Smith

Author:Jordan Fisher Smith [Smith, Jordan Fisher]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Mountains, Ecosystems & Habitats, Nature
ISBN: 9780618711956
Google: 5lKUqFdOnHsC
Amazon: 0618711953
Publisher: Mariner Books
Published: 2005-01-01T11:00:00+00:00

A few months later it was my turn to go to the bridge. It was early morning, and the sun rising over the mountains on the eastern skyline was painting the west wall of the North Fork canyon in gold and long shadows. I'd picked up some coffee from the pastry shop in town and I was carrying the paper cup from the Jeep into the ranger station when the dispatcher called my number.

"One seven nine, Northern."

"Northern, one seven nine," I answered into the microphone clipped to my epaulet.

"We have a report of a jumper at the Foresthill Bridge, can you respond?"

I pushed the mike button again. "I'm en route."

The quickest way to the bridge took me up out of the canyon and along the rim through Auburn. Siren yelping, I left the gas stations and fast-food joints at the north end of town and rolled down the long straightaway to the bridge. When I got there, I could see a red pickup parked in the opposite lane toward the far end of the span. I crossed the bridge going about eighty, made a quick U-turn, and pulled up behind it. The truck was blocking traffic, with the driver's door open. To my right, three people stood peering over the railing. One of them, a blond, muscular man in his thirties—a construction worker, or maybe a mill hand from Foresthill—left the railing to meet me.

"I reported it," he said as I got out of my Jeep. "We were coming across the bridge when we saw the truck. We saw him get out and step over the concrete wall, then up on the railing. Then he jumped off. He didn't even stop to think."

I peered into the abandoned truck. It had matted gray fake-fur seat covers. The keys were still in the ignition and the radio was on—a country station, playing a slow ballad with steel guitars. An open can of Budweiser, still dewy, sat in the drink holder by the gearshift.

The blond guy looked in over my shoulder. "When I got here just seconds after he jumped, the radio was playing like it is now. But it was a sad song, even sadder than this one—I think that's what made him do it right then."

"Could be," I said. "Some of those country songs are pretty sad." I got in to move the truck out of the way of the traffic now stacking up behind my Jeep. He had been shorter than I was. I moved the seat back and turned the key in the ignition. The interior smelled like beer, cigarettes, and the stale sweat of someone who no longer existed.

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