Under Surveillance
For the sixth time since leaving the Solstice Canyon parking lot, the hiker stopped in his tracks. First, there were the two “SMILE, this area is being monitored” signs guarding the fenced-in ruins of the Keller cabin and the “Tropical Terrace”, the ill-fated mansion renowned architect Paul Williams built in 1952 for Fred and Florence Roberts, which burned down a short thirty years later. Then, higher up the canyon, the two consecutive creek crossings guarded by “STOP, Not a designated trail” postings, paired with “Federal Property, No person shall disturb, destroy, remove, gather, deface, or injure any property of the National Park System“. And then higher up still, on a hot, exposed section of trail climbing through dense and dry chaparral, the intersection with a use trail, blocked by the no nonsense “CLOSED, NOT A TRAIL” and “PRIVATE PROPERTY, No Trespassing” warnings. Keeping in mind the five thousand dollar fine and/or six month jail sentence advertised somewhere below, the hiker, at every sign, suppressed an instinct for exploration, and pressed on when finally, with the promised ocean views lying just beyond a ridge a mere two hundred yards away, with no sign posted, no warning, no threat, a large coiled rattlesnake sat in the middle of the trail, silently surveilling the hiker’s every move.
There was no room on either side to circumvent the reptile, nowhere to go but back and that wasn’t going to happen, the effort to get this far forbade the hiker from contemplating turning around this close to the goal. A sort of staring contest began in which neither party wished to be the aggressor, the bully; a stare down meant to reassure rather than intimidate. The snake’s tail, though erect hadn’t made a sound yet. The hiker, once the initial adrenaline rush subsided, heard only the cicadas’ mating calls and a whisper as the mild ocean breeze floated through an oak tree that shaded the trail. He thought about his luck, first for not stepping on the snake, and second for not being forced to wait under the grueling early afternoon sun. He was thirsty but he didn’t dare take his eyes off the diamond-shaped head from which a forked-tongue spurted out rhythmically. He did, however, feel for his smartphone, thinking he might as well record the moment, or at least snap a picture, a proof of his wilderness encounter with a dangerous killer, a cool dinner story. But the killer was camera shy apparently. By the time the hiker had tapped and swiped the camera into action the rattler had all but slithered away into the dense underbrush.
The trail dead-ended at a junction with a firebreak-slash-dirt service road with sweeping views of the Malibu coastline. There, the hiker saw the back of yet another sign, which he glanced at as he walked by, “TRAIL” it read, with an arrow pointing at the blue sky. He kept walking.
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