The Aurykon Chronicles Books 1 to 5

By Ron B. Saunders

The Aurykon Chronicles, Books 1 to 5, is a contemporary American tale about a northern Californian teenager, Mack Thomas. He undertakes a fantastic five-year journey that transforms, imperils, and matures him.

Through conversations with Pappy, his wise old grandfather and mentor, Mack discovers the truth about the causes of danger in the world—government corruption, banking fraud, excessive military intervention, insurmountable debt, eroding freedom and democracy, corruption of our monetary systems, failing social programs, and a frightening rise of tyranny. He learns why it will all inevitably collapse in the worst geopolitical and macroeconomic conflagration in human history.

Mack struggles with his grandfather’s dystopian predictions about the fate of America. Despite Pappy’s logic, he thinks the old guy is crazy. Financial collapse and severe depression? The end of democracy and personal liberty? The rise of totalitarianism? The fall of the Empire? Nuclear war?

Surely not.

This is a speculative fiction story in which Mack secretly raises an orphaned infant alien, Aurykon, in Mendocino County wilderness. This inter-dimensional being proves to be a challenging handful for a naive, young, single parent. You see, after five years in Mack’s care, Aurykon matures to a super-intelligent, super-powerful, and super-large individual. He stands twenty feet tall, is bulletproof, breathes fire, and has a forty-foot wingspan. Yes, Aurykon is a magnificent, golden-tinged dragon ... and he’s not yet fully grown.

Mack and Aurykon are inseparable best friends. That’s fortunate, for when they cross to an alternate dimension to return the dragon to his original home, the planet Shukra, the humans there have driven geopolitical and macroeconomic affairs to the brink of catastrophe—a most dangerous place. Mack witnesses and nearly succumbs to the inevitable consequences of the same human greed and profligacy that plague Earth. Pappy’s predictions prove plausible.

Fear not, during his travels Mack encounters Princess Bibianna. Although this royal beauty is supposedly unobtainable, she ultimately makes all his troubles worthwhile.

The Aurykon Chronicles weaves elements of factual circumstances with a genre mix of science fiction, fantasy, mystery, and coming-of-age. The tale’s underlying premise (political and economic irresponsibility of governments and elite individuals) enlightens new adult readers while entertaining them with a rollercoaster hero’s journey. The story is a series of five novella-sized “Books,” each being a phase of Mack and Aurykon’s awesome tale of discovery:
Book 1: California Dragon
Book 2: Mendocino Mayhem
Book 3: Minaurian Exploits
Book 4: Desperate Measures
Book 5: The Gauld War

Through this exciting compilation, you discover the dark truth about the real world, while joining Mack and his dragon pal on a fantastic intergalactic voyage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ron B. Saunders
• Release date: Jun 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9780995972216

Ron B. Saunders

A tragedy struck the world in 2008, causing severe harm to the way we live and imperiling our future. In the aftermath of the financial crisis, Ron B. Saunders began an intensive study of the history, trends, and causes of this unprecedented economic event. The entire world rushed to a precipice that threatened to plunge financial, banking, and major industries into devastating bankruptcy and ruin. Without the massive intervention of governments and central banks, in particular the U.S. Federal Reserve, our lives would traumatically change for decades to come. But they did not fix the problem, they only delayed the inevitable crushing consequences.His research unveiled a stark reality—the truth about deep-rooted corruption, greed, and deceit practiced at the highest levels of Western governments, corporations, and elite families. The root causes of the near-collapse were not corrected through responsible legislation and regulation. A decade later, the conditions for an unavoidable correction that impacts every human on the planet have inflated to the point of bursting. It is a mere matter of time before we witness the most impactful economic, political, and social crisis in history, transforming our lives in ways few will survive unscathed.Ron wrote The Aurykon Chronicles to unveil this truth in the guise of an epic fantasy—a tale of discovery and forewarning. He lives in British Columbia, Canada. Follow him on Facebook at The Aurykon Chronicles.

Book preview

My Thanks

Writing a novel requiring extensive research is an exhaustive, time-consuming journey—one persistently tempting abandonment. Friends, strangers, teachers, fellow writers, and subject-matter experts materialized to kick stones off the path and cheer me on to a distant, ethereal finish. Without their gracious and generous support, I would be up the proverbial creek. They are my heroes, most of whom remain unsung.

Specialists shared invaluable information in the diverse areas of botany; bicycle design; karate; fly-fishing; BMX racing; economic, banking, and monetary systems; American political science; medical practices; human and animal physiology; gold trading and mining; teen dialogue; California school operation and policy; Constitution matters; federal and local law enforcement; weapons and gun legislation; marijuana; wildlife management; aeronautical and aviation considerations; and the Spanish language. Their insight enriched this manuscript beyond my expectations.

Many advance readers sweat through drafts and suggested countless corrections and helpful improvements. I cannot thank them enough.

I traveled Ukiah and Mendocino County, California, scouting for story locations. The residents of this scenic and exciting region impressed me with their courtesy, hospitality, and generosity. They facilitated my queries and offered imaginative insight. I honor these good folks and am grateful for their support. I am thankful for the excellent tour of the Ukiah High School, hosted by staff and teachers who shared their special campus and perceptive ideas. Go UHS Wildcats!

I thank my dear wife, Diane, who stuck with me, tolerated me, encouraged me, and kept her faith in me. That’s love. Unconditional love.

To My Grandchildren

For Mack and Izzy, who found someone lost decades ago. They discovered him, without knowing the precious nature of this foundling. Laughing and playing, they revealed the forgotten one. I did not realize this person was missing. Memories of how treasured and magical he is had faded, until my grandkids led him back.

You see, they found the little boy in me, suppressed and abandoned through years of social conditioning and proper adult behavior. Never the less, he lives, my little boy. They confirmed he does—coaxing him out with offers of inventive games and wide-eyed exploration. Dragons, pirates, heroes, and princesses were again as real as they were so long ago.

Through them, I realized this story was possible. Could children give you anything more special?

Foreword

The Aurykon Chronicles is a satire of how the world, specifically the United States, is run (controlled) today, and where this state of affairs may ultimately lead. It has all the elements of a thriller, interwoven with the actions of Mack, a young man coming of age, as he receives enlightenment—at first skeptically—and later as epiphany, when he begins to recognize the great truths his grandfather, Pappy, has revealed to him. Not to mention that at the same time, he secretly raises an infant alien dragon named Aurykon, in a California forest.

Often a more profound knowledge, in an engaging setting to boot, can be revealed to the reader via fiction, as opposed to a nonfiction historical work. But this can only fully take place if the author has done the work necessary to first understand, then clearly communicate core pearls of wisdom to the intended audience.

This I believe the author, Ron Saunders, has been able—in full measure—to accomplish. In The Aurykon Chronicles, he has produced a powerful storyline, full of surprises, that moves at a good clip, keeping the reader engaged from the opening scenes, through its powerful finale. If, while immersed in this fine work, you start feeling as though you’re reading chapter and verse from what may, in the near future, come to be—well then, perhaps you really are!

—David H. Smith

David H. Smith is a Resource Sector Analyst, Ghost Writer, and serious student of history and the martial arts. His work can be found at The Morgan Report, Money Metals, and elsewhere on the Internet. Along with David Morgan, he co-authored the book Second Chance: How to Make and Keep Big Money from the Coming Gold and Silver Shock-Wave

Preface

The Aurykon Chronicles is an American story about contemporary problems in the United States. You might ask why a non-American author cares about U.S. political, social, and economic challenges. There are a few good reasons. I have many American friends, business associates, and kin for whom I have much esteem and love. They are good people, with strong family values, commendable work ethic, and worthy ambitions. I wish for them to be safe in their homeland, although it is clear that a tsunami of difficult change is washing over their country. As their neighbor, I offer my reflections of their circumstances with great respect. No disregard for We the People of this grand country is intended. I merely make an observation that portrays the suspicions and fears of many, both American and otherwise.

The United States is the most powerful nation in history. American foreign policy touches, reaches into, and intervenes in every corner of the globe. Although this presence is often benevolent, a dark, secret agenda also prevails, which influences the lives and fortunes of the entire human race. The economy and financial systems of the U. S., which I present a case for being in the initial stages of major collapse, are systemically interconnected and predominant throughout our planet. Events happening over the next few years in America will have worldwide impact. Therefore, as a global citizen, I claim the right to make my observations. People the world over now watch the United States with keen interest. Our collective destiny hinges on the fate of this incredible nation.

Baffled by the freakish nature of the 2008 financial crisis, I became obsessed with discovering the underlying causes. After consuming scores of related books and thousands of pages of economic, financial, and political analysis, I emerged much wiser regarding the egregious nature of governments, central banks, investment banks, and commodity trading.

The truth is appalling. Worse, it is hidden from the average person, who is stuck with the consequences. The criminal transgressions, reckless monetary policy, and insane legislation that precipitated the financial crisis were not subsequently addressed, merely papered over with counterfeit money and near-zero interest rates at the expense of taxpayers, retirement funds, and future generations. Unfortunately, personal liberty is also a casualty, suppressed by a disturbing trend of rising global totalitarianism.

Young Americans carry a daunting burden, one foisted on them by previous generations. I hope some will read this tale and heed its forewarning. Knowledge and foresight are necessities when preparing for an arduous future.

Mendocino County and the City of Ukiah are marvelous, magical places. I envy those who make this diverse region their home. What fun it was to use this idyllic locale as scenes in the story. But, some locations, streets, and businesses are fictional. Low Gap Road is real, but don’t look for the Jackson property or the little lake within it. Although the terrain description is accurate, Jackson and his acreage do not exist. Neither do the Thomas and Woodward family residences although they are typical of many Ukiah homes. Cranky Hank’s Cycleworx, Sensei Matsumura’s dojo, and The Mendo County Patriot are fabrications and do not infer a likeness to any local businesses. Ukiah High School and Mendocino College are real institutions, which I was delighted to borrow as settings. Both are excellent learning organizations, staffed by exceptional people. However, the characters in the story who populate these academies are inventions of my imagination. They do not portray the actual students, teachers, and administrators who attend and staff these schools. I depict local law enforcement agencies with what I hope readers regard as respectful treatment. I am not so kind to federal agencies, which my research determines are becoming problematic to the founding values expressed in the Constitution and Bill of Rights. The Rusty Bowl is a BMX track on the eastern outskirts of Ukiah. The organizers gave me a fabulous appreciation of this amazing sport. Their unceasing volunteer dedication to young BMX riders has established the Rusty Bowl as a special place of family gathering, personal achievement, and community solidarity.

Quotations appear throughout the manuscript. I like quotes. They compel us to reflect on the beliefs and wisdom of others, often of those who observed human behavior in bygone eras. They are snippets of history, glimpses of our nature, and gems of wisdom. Quotations, however, are time and again misquoted, misattributed, or spurious. The Internet has innumerable websites that do not ensure the quotes they offer are accurate. The quotations in this book are verified and sourced. A few cannot be sourced with absolute confidence and are therefore accredited as widely attributed. However, should you determine that any quote is not accurate or is copyright protected, please inform HIGH ShELF BOOKS at the address provided in the front matter. We will endeavor to make adjustments in future editions.

Ron B. Saunders, June 2017

The Aurykon Chronicles

Book 1: California Dragon

"We the People of the United States, in Order to form a

more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic

Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote

the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty

to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish

this Constitution for the United States of America."

—preamble to the Constitution, ratified June 21, 1788

1: Maiden Voyage

"The voyage of discovery is not in seeking new

landscapes, but in having new eyes."

—Marcel Proust, French novelist

"Stop bitching! Aurykon yelled over the raging wind. Have fun, man!"

Mack shuddered. It’s freezing up here! He stuffed his hands in his armpits searching for warmth.

Yeah, but it doesn’t bother me. I’ve got body armor.

I’m glad I wore my BMX helmet. I should’ve packed my biking gloves. My fingers are turning blue!

Aurykon glanced back. You’re breaking my heart, buddy.

Some friend you are! Mack chuckled. I’ll remember that when your scaly butt needs a wipe.

Like, that’s gonna happen!

Hey, when you were little I did a lot of wiping. Back then your butt was a tenth of the size it is now.

They laughed. Joking broke the tension. Altitude, cold, and darkness made Mack jumpy. He placed immense trust in his dragon friend. This first flight riding Aurykon, he had never experienced such thrilling danger.

Are the pedal clips working okay? Aurykon asked.

Awesome! They’re not restrictive, and I can wear the same boots I wear biking. Do they bother you?

The dragon shook his head. They feel strange, but I’ll adjust. Is your safety harness secure?

Mack tugged the lanyard carabiners connected to the waist buckles on his harness. It’s solid. I think it’ll work okay.

As he spoke, the sun peeked over the Mayacamas Mountains, a range east of the Ukiah Valley—fifteen miles behind. Their flight path extended westward toward the Pacific Ocean. They soared over low coastal mountains swathed in dense forests of mixed evergreens and oaks. Thin shafts of sunlight illuminated the awakening vista. The peaks below came alive, capped with treetops tinged golden by morning radiance.

The sun’s reach stole across the ocean, revealing dark-blue sea contrasting the soft azure of the new dawn sky. A low-hanging fog obscured the distant horizon. A vast ocean panorama outstretched ahead, the shoreline now seventeen miles away.

Oh, my God, Mack said. This is totally awesome! We can see forever.

Yeah, I knew you’d like it. I love this view.

Mack pointed northwest. Look! You can see the lights of Albion and Mendocino. Further up you can make out Fort Bragg. That’s, like, thirty miles away. Unreal!

Wanna go higher? Maybe we can see San Francisco.

No, no, we’re high enough! I don’t know if I’m shaking because of the cold or because I’m freaked out.

Yeah, just kidding. How high do you think we are?

Mack leaned forward and peered over Aurykon’s shoulder. The drop sent a sharp chill up his spine. We just passed Clow Ridge. The peak is twenty-five hundred feet above sea level, and we’re much higher! Wait a second.

He unzipped a jacket pocket and pulled out his cell phone. Oh, God. Don’t drop it. He selected an altimeter app. His mouth dropped.

Aury! Our altitude is four thousand five hundred feet! Look! We’re approaching Anderson Valley. The valley floor is only two hundred fifty feet. Here comes Whipple Ridge. Once we pass it, we’ll be over the valley, more than four thousand feet high! No wonder I’m so frigging cold! Buddy, you gotta lose elevation. This is scary!

Mack switched to a camera app and snapped a picture of the view with the dragon’s neck spines and horned head in the foreground. He returned the phone to his pocket and gazed south at the Bay Area. The dragon rider twisted around and scanned the southeast horizon. Are they watching us?

He tapped Aurykon’s shoulder. Besides, radar systems in Oakland or Sacramento Air Traffic Control might spot us at this height. You have enough metal in you—they could pick you up. This is too risky!

"I gotcha, man. This is a perfect place to give you your birthday present.

"What, you went to Walmart and bought me something? Not likely."

It’s not that kind of gift. Mine is better than the junk you humans collect. I’m giving you an experience.

Now I’m worried. Mack squinted an eye. What experience? A dragon flight isn’t enough?

Ever wonder what free-fall feels like?

The teenager’s heart raced. No! And I don’t want to know!

Happy Birthday, nineteen-year-old!

No, Aury! No, no, no! I swear I’ll crap my pants. Don’t do this! Please!

Anderson Valley sprawled below as they crossed over the ridge. At this early hour, only a few vehicles traveled Highway 128, their headlights visible in the lingering darkness of the valley floor. To the south, the street lamps of the small towns of Philo and Boonville glimmered.

You need to suck in close, Aurykon said, or the air drag will make me unstable. We don’t wanna spin or tumble.

"What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand? Mack sensed his heart pound. Stop screwing around! This is my first time!"

Awww, my little virgin. I’ll be gentle. Love ya, bro. Hang on!

Aurykon folded his forty-foot wingspan tight to his body, keeping the tips extended like rocket fins. They plunged like a Drop of Doom ride at Six Flags. He stretched his legs back, aligned with his long tail, and pressed his arms to his sides.

Mack clutched two dorsal spines extending from the base of his friend’s neck. He huddled tight to the dragon’s shoulders. They accelerated toward the valley floor. The wind screamed past, and he screamed back, Aaaaaaaah!

The college freshman remembered studying terminal velocity in high school. A skydiver reaches three hundred feet per second fast. We’ve got ten seconds before we hit the ground like a bug smacking a windshield!

He could sense the muscles in Aurykon’s back making small, quick adjustments to the wingtips. They plummeted toward the forest below the ridge. He panicked.

Aury! Pull up! Please!

The dragon extended his wings and curved their course from vertical to horizontal. The inertial forces resulting from deceleration and direction shift squeezed Mack into the dragon’s back and neck. They leveled out over the tops of Douglas firs and coast redwoods, speeding like a fighter jet. Their wake buffeted the big trees, and the woodlands blurred below.

Aurykon hollered to his rider, You still there, buddy?

"Yeah! Fricking unbelievable. The coolest birthday present ever!"

Wanna do it again?

Not now! I gotta go home and change my shorts. Besides, it’s getting light. We gotta get you under cover.

The forest gave way to a large vineyard, one of many dispersed throughout the valley. They zoomed above a field of groomed vines teeming with lime-green, spring foliage. As Aurykon soared over the vineyard, his turbulence pummeled the plants and sent leaves swirling in a trailing vortex.

We’re too close to civilization, Mack said. We can’t take a chance on someone seeing you in daylight. If they discover you, you’re gonna end up dissected in some government science lab. Head back into the hills. Vámonos, amigo!

Mack’s warning came too late. Straight ahead, two men were busy at the end of a row, facing away from the oncoming speedsters. The workers examined a broken irrigation line. They stood in thick mud, the ground soaked by an overnight leak. Aurykon streaked over, blasting a loud wake that walloped them into the vines. They dropped to the sloppy ground. In the few seconds they took to scramble up and gawk wide-eyed, the dragon and rider were hundreds of yards away, vanishing into dark mountain shadows.

The teenager glanced back. Ah, heck! That was my dad! He’s working in the valley today. His truck’s in the parking lot.

Aurykon laughed. You better hope he didn’t see you.

No human sightings, Aury! We gotta disappear. Head east into the canyon. Nobody will be up there this early. Time to go home.

Okay, man. There should be nice updrafts to push us over the ridge.

Aurykon veered in the direction of the rising sun and followed interconnecting valleys into a forest-shrouded wilderness spreading over hundreds of square miles of Mendocino County. They glided up and over the ridge, soaring into the dawn’s rosy glow. The young dragon minimized his flying effort by catching updrafts arising from sunlight heating the forest canopy.

Mack relaxed and fell silent, basking in light and warmth, overwhelmed by his first dragon flight. Awesome! Why can’t I be happy?

Thanks for my birthday present, he said. It’s the best ever. I’m sorry I was such a wuss. I should have known you aced dive-bombing by now.

No problem, man. I wanted to give you something to remember me.

Are you sad?

I’m torn up, Aurykon replied. I wanna stay with you in California.

We both know you can’t. Mack’s voice cracked. You’re too big and ugly. It’s dangerous for you here. I’m gonna miss you so bad.

The teenager swallowed hard. This is so unfair! I’ll never see him again.

He remembered being fourteen when life was simple and boring. Back then, he dreamt of an extraordinary existence, one with meaning and adventure. Everything changed with the arrival of Chandra, altering his destiny beyond imagination. The mysterious apparition plunged him into daunting challenges requiring violation of the trust of those he loved.

Despite unimaginable odds, he made good on his commitment. But the falsehoods, deceit, and lies thrust him face-to-face with his dark side. I met my part of the bargain, but now I wish I could ditch our contract. What’s one more broken promise after everything I’ve done?

2: What’s the Matter with Mack?

"Never raise your hand to your children;

it leaves your midsection unprotected."

—Robert Orben, American comedy writer

Four years earlier ...

Josh Thomas drove north on State Street, the main thoroughfare of the city of Ukiah—the seat of Mendocino County. His white, late-model crew cab pickup carried a matching canopy top, which secured the tools of his trade. The sides of the truck displayed his consulting business logo—a stylized cluster of grape berries and vines encircling the company name, Somewhereness Viticulture. He smiled and thought of his home and family, now moments away.

An overnight road trip had taken him to Clear Lake on the far side of the Mayacamas Mountains where he advised vineyard clients. Although springtime, the weather was reminiscent of August—sweltering, sunny, and no breeze to cool one’s labors. Josh was a man seeking a friendly face, a familiar chair, and a cold beer.

He veered left at the Mendocino County Courthouse onto West Standley Street and soon arrived at the city outskirts where he turned south toward home. His driveway appeared on the right. Finally.

The Thomas property abutted the Mendocino Range, a coastal mountain region nestled between the Pacific Ocean and the western edge of the Ukiah Valley. Fir trees followed the gravel lane like tall sentinels piloting him to a quaint, ranch-style home. The driveway ceased at an attached carport. A covered veranda spanned the breadth of the house, sheltering the front entrance. Once beyond the trees, Josh glanced to the right, taking in his private two-acre vineyard—the viticulturist’s idea of a perfect yard. Ally, his wife, had parked her minivan in the carport, and he pulled in behind it.

After inspecting his jet-black hair in the rearview mirror, he stepped from the truck and stretched his arms and legs. The tall, lanky man picked up an overnight bag and strode to the front porch. He heard his two children, Mack and Belle, playing in the backyard. He opened the door and called out, He’s baaaack!

Hi babe, Ally said. I’m making supper.

Josh dropped his bag on the foyer tile, then continued down a central hallway and entered the kitchen. As his wife came into view, a sense of well-being and constancy enveloped him. He was home.

She rinsed a pot in the sink and watched the backyard through a large, open window. Wearing khaki shorts and a yellow camisole blouse with spaghetti straps, Ally looked much younger than her forty years. Her long brunette hair cascaded over her slender shoulders. As Josh approached, she glanced at him, revealing her bright, hazel eyes.

His smile stretched ear-to-ear. How’s the sexiest mama in the whole world?

She giggled and raised an eyebrow. As sexy as ever. And how’s the most handsome stud-muffin in the whole world?

Oh, as studly as ever.

He stood behind her, caressed her tummy, and pecked her bare shoulder. She leaned back into his hug and turned her head. They lingered in a kiss.

I missed you, Ally said, it’s good to have you home. How was your trip?

Super. I got everything done I hoped to. No problems.

The parents watched their children through the window. Mack towered above his eleven-year-old sister. The boy took after his father, also above-average height and slim—too skinny according to his mother. He positioned his feet apart—the left pointing forward, the right back and angled outward. He lunged and thrust his right hand toward Belle’s face. The base of his open palm stopped just short of her nose. Seeming to relish the drama of her brother’s actions, she swept back her shoulder-length dark-brown hair and mimicked his stance.

Ally whispered, Mack’s teaching her karate moves.

Josh sighed. Oh, Lordy. I don’t think the planet is ready for Belle knowing a martial art.

He’s so patient with her, even though she rags on him.

Yeah, she has a mind of her own. But he would be a super teacher. He’s methodical and a perfectionist. Sensei Matsumura once told me Mack is advanced for his age. The kid is so mild-mannered. It surprises me how committed he is.

Ally nodded. Karate has been good for him. He idolizes his sensei.

Josh pointed to his son. He’s such a beanpole—but, he’s tough. I think he could clean my clock.

She laughed. He could. But he would tell you that’s not why he practices karate. He isn’t interested in fighting. I often have to prod him to take part in the tournaments. He just likes the structure and discipline of it.

They watched Mack demonstrate a high kick over his sister’s head.

I agree it’s good for him, Josh said, but he sure spends a lot of time on it.

Ally paused a moment before responding. He’s not like the boys I knew in school.

Yeah, and you knew quite a few.

She broke from their embrace and pushed him away. I had no more boyfriends than you had girlfriends! She dug her fists into her hips, a gesture her husband and children long since understood signified the family matriarch was not to be dissed, disobeyed, or given cause for disgruntlement.

He wished he could take back his remark. Honey, I’m kidding. Come here. He reached out seeking a hug.

She wagged a finger. "I’m worried about him! And I don’t understand why. You don’t see it."

Okay, okay. Look, I love our kids. And Mack—I’m so proud of him. He searched her eyes. But, the boy is, ah heck, I don’t get it.

Tell me! What’s bugging you? He’s our son. Tell me how you feel!

God. He shook his head. You’d think he’s everything we’d want in a son. He’s a good teenager—responsible, trustworthy, polite. But I can’t get close to him. He’s always distant, like he’s just visiting us.

A big tear tumbled down her cheek and soaked into the corner of her mouth. Josh cuddled her.

Yes, Ally blubbered. Sometimes I think he’s not permanent. I don’t worry the way other parents worry about their kids. I worry we’ll lose him.

Nah. Josh clasped her shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. Every teenager has trouble relating to their parents. I thought mine were from another planet.

I didn’t. Mom is an angel, and Dad is a saint.

Ah, c’mon. Pappy is a crusty, opinionated, old codger. He bit his lower lip and wondered if his brain connected to his mouth.

No he isn’t! She twisted and pushed away. Mack adores him. Never put doubts in his mind about his grandfather!

I’m sorry. You know I wouldn’t.

She glared and returned her fists to the hips. Josh recognized her fuse burned short.

Her lips quivered. Then what’s bothering you!

"I dunno … it seems he’s passionate about only a few things and has zero interest in anything else."

What do you mean?

Well, his BMX racing for instance. He’s nuts about it—ever since he could hustle his skinny little butt around the Rusty Bowl track on a strider bike. Still is, even now he’s almost fifteen.

Ally nodded and wiped a tear. He was always so cute pedaling his heart out. Although I have to admit, now he’s grown up, I get scared watching the races with so many big kids going like hell, flying off the hills in a pack.

Nah, he can handle it. His pack skills are awesome. Wait until you see him at the race next weekend. He coaxed her into a hug and rocked her side to side.

Then BMX racing led to mountain biking up Low Gap Road, she said pointing west. Now that scares me.

Yeah, well, his bikes are his life. They consume him.

She shook her head. I’m pleased he stays active. But I worry when he rides up to Jackson’s property and then travels deep into the forest on skinny little trails—full of rocks, cliffs, and fallen trees. It frightens me.

Okay, but that doesn’t bother me much. He has a proper helmet and carries his cell phone. Mack is happy in the mountains and forest and has no fear on single-track trails. I understand where you’re coming from, but, I think we need to give him some rope.

Ally rubbed her neck. But if he’s injured and in a valley, his phone may not have coverage.

Good luck trying to tie him down. His life revolves around karate, bikes, and fishing. Ever since Pappy taught him how to cast a line, the kid’s been crazy about it—to the exclusion of other activities.

Like what?

Well, like team sports.

Team sports?

Josh passed a hand through his wavy hair. Yeah, I bumped into Coach Hansen at the irrigation store last week. He said he tried to recruit Mack into the basketball program, you know, him being so tall. The boy had no interest. Then, he asked him to consider track and field. Again, no interest. Football? No. Baseball? No. I’m not sure that’s normal for a kid this capable.

Okay, but at least he’s not parked on the couch rotting his brain with video games, or on the street corner selling dope!

Yes, yes, all right, he said, confused by their similar frustration. I’m just making an observation. Mack stays busy with his pastimes. He has no time for anything else in his life. Sure, they’re good hobbies and sports, but it bothers me he’s such a loner. He has two friends, but he’s not tight with them.

Josh paused, unsure how she would react next. He’s not close to us either! We hardly ever see him. He’s always alone, and seldom here. When he is here … he’s distant. Still alone.

Ally sighed and nodded. I asked him about that once. He said although he was alone, he wasn’t lonely. I guess he likes his solitude and seeks it when he bikes into the wilderness. He must find peace there. He hates confrontation, which may be why he shies away from team sports.

Mack challenged Belle to hit him. He brushed aside her attempt, slid his leg behind hers, tripping and pulling her to the ground. He stood over her and faked a punch to her throat. The precocious sister protested and kicked his kneecap. He limped in a circle, and the parents suppressed laughter.

At least his grades are good, Josh said. His freshman year was super. You don’t think he’s, you know ...

What?

A nerd?

No. He’s a gentle boy who marches to a different drummer. She paused as though uncertain. He’ll be fine. You’ll see.

Josh cleared his throat. Ever hear him talk about girls?

No, never.

Me neither. He doesn’t seem to take an interest. I mean, he’ll be fifteen in a month. I was at that age.

Oh, Josh, don’t worry. Mack’s a late bloomer, and painfully shy around girls. Do you remember the Laplace family who moved here from New Orleans years ago? They struggled to get reestablished after Katrina, so came to California.

Josh rubbed his chin. I recall meeting them at the municipal pool when Mack was taking swimming lessons. They had a girl his age—a cute little thing.

Yeah, well that ‘cute little thing’ is a lot sweeter now. Her name is Dixie. It’s actually Charlotte, but the kids at school call her Dixie because she’s from the Deep South and has picked up her mom’s drawl. Mack and I were going through the checkout at the supermarket last week and behind us were Mrs. Laplace and Dixie. I’m telling you—that girl is a knockout. She’s slim, built, and has gorgeous green eyes. She belongs on the cover of a teen magazine. Mack kept sneaking peeks at her. I thought I’d have to wipe the drool off his chin. Don’t worry. He’s tall, blue-eyed, and has wavy blond hair. Give him time. He’ll be a stud-muffin just like you.

Ally nestled her head on his chest and closed her eyes. They lingered for a quiet moment, and Josh observed the sparring match.

He gasped. Holy cow!

What? She straightened and leaned into the window.

Did you see that?

No! She strained forward. What?

He did a total back flip and landed on his feet!

No!

Mack crouched before his sister with feet planted and fists extended. She backed away, her mouth agape.

I swear! Josh said. She took a swipe at him, and he jumped. His feet spun right over his head, and he landed without a wobble!

He grabbed the window crank and opened it wider. Mack! Unreal, buddy. When did you learn that?

Hi, Dad!

Belle squealed, Daddy’s home!

The youngsters scurried to the back door. Their parents faced each other. He held her waist, and she slid her arms around his neck.

Ally searched Josh’s eyes and wrinkled her forehead. Something’s wrong with him.

3: The Rusty Bowl

"Continuous, unflagging effort, persistence,

and determination will win. Let not

the man be discouraged who has these."

—James Whitcomb Riley, American writer

Gobbi Street extends east from central Ukiah to the city limits and the Russian River. The road ends at the entrance to the Rusty Bowl bicycle motocross track, one of many hundreds of sanctioned BMX racing tracks throughout North America.

Since the age of three, Mack considered the Rusty Bowl his second home. Riding a toddler’s bike, the little boy became intimate with his first love—a serpentine, groomed-dirt course of ramps, hills, and high-bank turns. Soon graduating to a proper BMX bike, he kept Santa Claus busy most years, supplying larger and stronger bikes and custom parts. By his fourteenth birthday, he raced in the Class bike, Expert category, the highest amateur rank.

Once, he said to his mother, Someday, I’m gonna race Pro.

Ally was duty-bound to reply, No, you’re going to college.

On this weekend, cars, campers, and RVs overflowed the parking lot and crowded Gobbi Street. Their owners attended a state championship qualifier race—a big event for the Rusty Bowl organizers and local riders. Hundreds of BMX parents, siblings, and supporters lined the track perimeter. They took shelter from midafternoon sun under a sea of shade canopies. The gathering resembled a cross between a large flea market and a gypsy camp. Lawn chairs and portable tables, laden with coolers and picnic lunches, kept spectators rested and refreshed during two days of nonstop races.

Mack pushed his bike up a long, dirt incline leading to the top of the starting hill. He slowed to dust off his dark-green, gold-striped race pants. His school friend and fellow biking enthusiast, Jace Sanbourne, double-timed his bike from behind and pulled alongside.

Jace rapped Mack’s helmet with his knuckles. Yo, Mackie, nice job first round!

Yeah, man, I watched your second round, you were awesome.

Thanks. What gate do you have in the main?

Gate three.

Ha! I got one—the inside!

Mack nodded. Yeah, but today I’m feeling good coming outta the gate. During practice, I snapped Stenke twice.

Yeah, he’s in this race. He qualified out in the first round.

I know, I know. I gotta take him. Mack winced. I just need one more win. He’s fast, but I have home track advantage. I think I can pull him by the final straight.

Make sure, Jace said. Stenke needs this win too. You got three, so this one will max out your points going into the final. Don’t get squirrelly over the last tabletop.

No problemo. I got it dialed.

The two arrived on the hilltop at a staging location beside the starter’s booth—a small white shelter with half-height walls and wood corner posts supporting a sloped roof. Other racers and track officials milled about the area. A billowing valley oak towered above, shading the booth and competitors.

The previous race, still underway, entered the last turn and approached the finish. The crowd cheered in a rising crescendo of Pedal! Pedal! Pedal! In a conditioned response gained over many years of racing, Mack felt an adrenaline rush tense his body and spike his respiration.

Only four riders qualified for this main event fourteen-year-old Expert class race. The stager—a track official carrying a clipboard—ensured they entered their assigned starting gates. He pointed to them as he called their positions. Jace Sanbourne, gate one. Mack Thomas, number three. Derek Stenke, you’re five. Marty Perez, gate seven. Riders get positioned.

Mack turned to Jace. Hey, keep the inside to the turn.

The boys jostled into their gate lanes. Stenke, an out-of-town competitor, glared at Mack. Yo, Thomas, eat my dust.

How’ll that happen, Derek, he asked grinning, when all you’re gonna see is my butt?

The four laughed and hopped on their bikes. They rolled down a short concrete slope, divided and marked with gate numbers. They bumped their front tires into the starting gate—a stout, welded metal frame spanning the inclined surface. It mounted perpendicular to the ramp on hinges, permitting the gate to drop flat when triggered electronically. A long incline descended to the bottom of the hill and emptied into the first straight.

Mack stood astride his bike and adjusted his full-face helmet—custom painted with blue pearlescent flames swooping back. He tugged his gloves and turned to his friend. Rubber side down, man. They leaned over and bumped fists.

Keep it clean, Jace said.

Mack took a long, slow breath, trying to calm his nerves. Time for the zone. He scanned the Rusty Bowl. The elevated vantage of the starting hill afforded a wide view of the one-thousand-foot course. I can ride it blindfolded.

Four dirt straight-aways lay parallel, connected by high-banked, paved hairpin turns. Each straight comprised varying combinations of groomed hills—rollers, doubles, triples, step-ups, and tabletops.

The crowd edged closer as though expecting an exciting race. Mack searched the spectators. At the far side of the track, Josh, Ally, and Belle stood near the finish line among scores of fellow BMX fans.

Belle jumped and hollered, Mackie! Kick butt, big brother!

Her mother shushed her with a quick tap on the shoulder.

Mack did not wave back, now concentrating on his pre-race headspace. He studied the gate. It became his center of the universe.

The announcer broadcast over loudspeakers, Oh yeah, yeah, gettin’ older, gettin’ faster! The fourteen-year-old Experts on the gate—Sanbourne, Thomas, Stenke, and Perez!

Sensei Matsumura’s words crept into Mack’s thoughts: The battle is won before it starts. Trust your training and practice. Your subconscious mind will drive your actions. Your power awaits your beckoning. Let it flow.

He glanced across the track once more and pondered the finish. I see myself there in twenty-nine and a half seconds—ahead of Stenke. Taking a deep breath, he prepared for his transformation into a high-performance, precision machine. Before long, something inside his core would take control, driving him through an aggressive series of actions that once over—he always struggled to recollect. Engaging the shoe cleats, he melded his body and bike into a single racing instrument.

The four riders stood on the pedals with straight legs and their upper bodies bent over the handlebars. Balancing with their front tires pushed against the gate’s expanded metal grating, they concentrated on the starting light post at the bottom of the ramp.

A pre-recorded announcement blared over loudspeakers: Okay riders, random start. Riders ready, watch the gate ... beep-beep-beep-beeeep! The light post zipped down—red-yellow-yellow-green—and the gate dropped. The racers lurched forward.

Here we go, gate is down! the announcer said. Stenke with a good pop! Thomas and Sanbourne looking for a way in on the inside!

The slope accelerated them to race speed and they jettisoned into the straight. Mack pounded his pedals as the racers approached the first hill, a roller. He flew over the top. Stay in the pack. Position for the corner.

The riders sped over a flat stretch and into a double—two close-spaced hills separated by a shallow dip. Mack knew the shortest path between the peaks was airborne and launched across the dip. Stay straight! The racers rocketed twenty feet, soaring through the air and making two-point landings on the backside of the second hill.

Stenke pulled ahead of the pack. Jace and Mack pedaled shoulder to shoulder. Perez shifted behind looking for an inside position.

A triple, three small hills in close sequence, followed. The riders flowed over and flew off the last rise into the first turn. Jace held the inside. Mack left him room, but cut in tight, minimizing distance. Stenke traveled the curve on Mack’s high side, and Perez followed. They leaned hard into the asphalt bank, Stenke ahead of Mack.

The loudspeaker boomed, There’s Stenke with the holeshot comin’ outta turn one!

The racers zoomed into the second straight and a double. Mack and Stenke shot off the first peak in unison, sailed over the next, and landed down the far side. Stenke stretched ahead by a wheel. Jace trailed Mack, with Perez tight on his tail.

Mack’s heart pounded and his vision narrowed to the upcoming hill. Pace yourself! He’ll take this turn then I take him on the straight!

The pack flew over two more doubles and entered the second turn airborne.

Thomas shopping for that first place spot going into turn two! said the man on the mic.

The riders veered into the steep bank with Stenke on the inside. Mack bore down on his pedals, pulling even with the leader. Boost it!

Into the curve, Perez tried to maneuver below Jace, causing him to lean too low. His back tire folded over and the bike skid sideways, clipping Jace’s spokes. Both riders tumbled, their bodies flailing into the bank. Perez’ handlebar snagged the asphalt, spinning the bike end over end like a propeller. Mack glimpsed it flying straight for him and braced for an inevitable impact and crash. I’m dead!

Time stopped. A whirlwind of rainbow colors exploded and churned around him—so brilliant he lost sight of his competitors and the surrounding track. He felt weightless as though suspended in a blinding haze. Scared stiff and unable to gasp a breath, he could see the catapulted bike inches away, frozen on a trajectory that would strike him broadside.

Although conscious and aware, he could not comprehend what was happening. Color. Silence. Warmth. Peace. So bright. What the heck?

He sensed steady movement, inching forward through the eerie illusion. The projectile bike remained stationary, not spinning. He drifted beyond it.

Boom! The rainbow cocoon vanished, and Mack shot ahead without loss of momentum or speed. He ducked as the front tire of the airborne bike grazed his shoulder. It slammed into the track and bounced over the berm.

Ohhh! the announcer cried. We lost two in the turn! Thomas and Stenke are bringin’ it back around!

The strange experience and near miss cost Mack microseconds of distraction, giving Stenke a bike-length lead. Derek’s tired. I have the pull in the final! They soared into the third straight, a sixty-yard combination of close hills called a rhythm section.

Here we go outta turn two! the man on the mic hollered. It’s still Stenke! Stenke and Thomas into the rhythm!

The two surviving racers powered into the first roller. Mack straightened his arms and legs. The tight sequence of small hills restricted pedaling. He let his momentum push him, extending and contracting his limbs—streaming the bike into dips and over peaks. This is my race. Mine! Don’t think. Just flow.

They launched off the last roller and flew into the corner. Mack had the inside. Stenke swerved low—crowding him. They drifted around the hairpin as though welded together. Mack summoned the conditioning of ten years of persistent BMX training and mountain biking. He drove the power of his thighs into the pedals. They emerged from the turn neck and neck.

In and out of the corner they go! the loudspeaker blared. Bringin’ it back to the line. Who’s got the horsepower?

The fourth straight began with a step-up, a low hill followed by a tall. They shot over both peaks and sped across the next, a double. The final hill, a tabletop, hurled them high in the air. The crowd roared as they rocketed over the flat peak. They landed and dashed toward the finish.

A track official leaned in as the bikes streaked over the chalk line. She pointed to Mack and then held her palms up—inches apart—showing the spectators the small margin of his victory. The cheering rose to a tumultuous din.

Beauty! the announcer said. Thomas takes the win!

Mack spun his bike off the course. Where’s Jace? He braked facing turn two and unlocked a cleat.

Perez sat on the bank. A kneeling paramedic massaged his ankle. Jace stood on the berm, brushing off his shoulder and nodding to another questioning paramedic. He glanced at his friend and thrust his fist high.

Mack returned the gesture. He’ll be banging bars again!

His parents and sister hurried to him. Belle hugged him, and Ally kissed his cheek. Fans milled around, patting his shoulders.

That was unbelievable, Josh said. Your best race! Way to go, buddy. How the heck did you avoid the crash on the second?

Mack removed his helmet, revealing a beaming grin and a sweating forehead. He gazed back at the second turn and winced—baffled by the creepy incident which seemed to prevent a serious accident. What was that about?

He shook his head. I dunno, Dad. I thought I was dead meat.

Wearing blue jean short-shorts and a scanty tank top, the statuesque schoolgirl, Dixie Laplace, emerged from the crowd. She held her cell phone, video-recording his win. Watching his fans shower him with congratulations, she twisted a long auburn lock of hair around her finger. The corners of her mouth curled up in a tender smile, and her emerald-green eyes sparkled in the California sun.

4: Dojo Kun

"When you are content to be simply

yourself and don’t compare or

compete, everybody will respect you."

—Lao Tzu, Chinese philosopher

Later the following week, Mack placed his foot on the dojo entrance threshold. He paused before stepping further and thought it curious how he always notices this transition. Am I leaving the real world and entering the unreal? Or, is the outside world fake, and I’m coming back to the real? Why does walking through this door make me feel so different?

He raised his trailing foot off the gum-spotted concrete of the city sidewalk and stepped onto the spotless, polished terracotta tile of the dojo’s spacious foyer. Crossing through, he felt as though he traveled to an alternate time and place—a comfortable and ordered destination. His identity outside—an average American teenage boy—morphed on entering the dojo. He became a karateka, a student and practitioner of the noble and ancient martial art of karate.

Wishing not to disturb the silence, he held the latch and eased the door closed. A large bamboo fixture suspended from the high ceiling lit the windowless lobby with soft light. He slipped his backpack from his shoulders and placed it on the floor. Standing straight with hands to the sides, he bowed to the dojo interior. Why does this feel so good?

He turned and peeked through the open door of Sensei Matsumura’s office. How does he keep it so tidy? Having arrived earlier than his scheduled class time, he hoped to speak in private with his sensei. The teacher was not at his desk.

The foyer opened to a hallway into the studio interior. Towering beside the passage entryway was Mack’s talisman, an object of his fascination since he joined the dojo at the age of six. A Japanese dragon, hand-carved from teak, ascended from a floor pedestal and towered over him. The serpent body writhed up in a spiral, and then arched the fierce head down to a man’s eye level. The dragon’s front legs reached out as though it would embrace you with its three-fingered paws and menacing talons.

Mack ran his fingertips along the countless scales on the creature’s neck and touched the pointed tips of its pronged antlers. He felt the flared nostrils and bulging eyeballs. His hand followed a rippling tongue into the gaping mouth. He pressed his palm across a row of long wooden fangs. The sensation made him shiver. No wonder this thing scared the crap outta me when I was little!

He picked up his backpack and entered the hallway. Framed images and inscriptions covered the entire length of one side, in a hodgepodge gallery of karate memorabilia, trophies, and portraits. Track lighting drew attention to the most prominent pictures. He hung the pack on a peg on the opposite wall and removed his folded gi—the karate training uniform.

Next, he entered a cramped change room adjoining the hall. There, he removed his sneakers, tugged off his moto shorts, and unfolded his uniform. He slipped on the zubon and uwagi—the pants and jacket. As he held his brown obi—a thick cotton belt—in both hands, he let it drape down off his palms. This is a black belt. A black belt. He double-wrapped his brown belt around his waist, tied it in a knot at the front, and adjusted the overlap at the back. He then molded the knot and pulled the two loose ends down to ensure they were equal length. Mack stood before a tall mirror. His transformation made him smile.

Barefoot and back in the hallway, he faced the gallery wall and approached a page-sized inscription framed in aluminum. The Dojo Kun—translated as training hall rules—was a reminder to students of their commitment to karate ethics. He read the tenets of the creed under his breath:

"First, I strive for the perfection of my character.

First, I protect the way of truth.

First, I foster the spirit of effort.

First, I honor the principles of etiquette.

First, I guard against impetuous courage."

He stepped back and bowed, remembering every principle was first because each one is as important as the others are.

As he strolled to an arched portal, he browsed pictures of past karate classes, tournaments, and grainy portraits of revered and long-gone karate masters. Arriving at the training hall, he discovered Sensei Matsumura. Crossing through the archway, he bowed to a small, white-haired Asian man in the center of the glossy wood floor.

Matsumura glanced at Mack but did not acknowledge him. He concentrated on his kata—the karate practice drills. The little man dressed in a white gi and a black belt embroidered with many gold stripes. His body moved with long-rehearsed precision. Each footstep synchronized with quick arm and hand movements. The sensei finished by transitioning his final step into a graceful, deep bow. He stood upright for a moment with his eyes closed.

Matsumura turned to his student. Good evening, Mack. You are early.

Hai, Sensei. I wanted to talk to you.

Your classmates will arrive soon. What is on your mind?

I’d like to know how long before I’ll get my black belt. When will I qualify, and should I be doing more to make it happen?

The sensei’s eyes narrowed to dark pupils. He placed a hand on Mack’s shoulder. And why do you covet a black belt?

Mack opened his mouth but did not reply. He thought the answer seemed so obvious: Why wouldn’t I? Doesn’t every karateka want a black belt? But it occurred to him Sensei was setting him up for a refocusing.

Matsumura wagged his finger. A black belt is merely a step in your karate journey. It isn’t a goal of ultimate accomplishment. It’s a recognition of your preparation for the significant and challenging learning required of a karate master.

Hai, Sensei, I understand.

"The path followed by a black belt practitioner is an unending and life-long commitment. Your intent is not to acquire a black belt—it is to be one. I cannot tell you when it will happen. The answer to your question resides within you."

Hai, Sensei.

I mean no offense, but you remind me of a small child, just opening your eyes to the world, and unaware of the vastness of it. You must be patient and focused on perfecting your kata. The black belt will arrive when you prove your worth.

Hai, Sensei.

Just then, the front entrance opened. Two girls and four boys pushed their way into the foyer. They yelled and kidded each other, jarring the serenity of the dojo. The door slammed shut behind them.

Mack knew the drill. He bowed to Matsumura, stepped to the side of the hall and entered a utility room. He spun open the hot water faucet on a janitorial sink, pulled a stack of plastic buckets alongside, and then placed one under the steaming tap. To prepare for their class, he and his karateka peers would hand-wash the entire training hall floor—a ritual of respect intended to cleanse the dojo physically and spiritually.

5: Gone Fishing

"If people concentrated on the really important

things in life, there’d be a shortage of fishing poles."

—Doug Larson, American newspaper

columnist and editor

A blistering sun chased Mack on a rigorous trek up Low Gap Road. He stopped and removed a water bottle from the cage on his bike frame, then gulped a thirst-quenching swallow. He wiped his sweaty brow and took in the dusty route he had traveled. It disappeared around a bend, concealed by big-leaf maple and shrubby California black oak trees overflowing the shoulder.

Low Gap Road spans the north side of Ukiah to the western city limits and then continues winding through coastal mountain woodlands. The pavement soon transitions to gravel and silt, and he now reached a point where the road diminished to a single lane, scarred by deep washout ruts eroded during spring rains.

He pulled his cell phone from the thigh pocket of his camo cargo shorts and checked the spinning digits of a stopwatch app. He had started the timer as the street exits Ukiah just past his school many miles to the east. A new world record! No wonder I’m sweating.

After biking the nineteen-hundred-foot elevation climb without a break, he rested in the shade of a grove of tall black oak trees. They stretched high above the road and mingled their gnarled branches with those of their kin reaching from the other side. The large, lobed leaves rose thirty feet, forming a sheltering crown in the shape of a giant beach umbrella. The canopy eclipsed the scorching sun and cooled the air, fragrant with the sweet scent of forest and meadow grasses.

Standing atop a ridge within the Mendocino Range, Mack felt isolated from the city, school, and traffic. He enjoyed the solitude—travelers are rare this far up Low Gap Road. Almost there. I love this place!

He turned his front wheel south. The roadside opened into a narrow, pebble-strewn driveway, barricaded by a single steel pasture gate secured with a heavy chain and padlock to a sturdy, wood latch-post. The remnants of faded green paint gave way to years of accumulating reddish-brown rust, corroding along the frame rails and crossbars like a creeping skin disease.

A large metal sign fastened to the gate warned passersby:

NO TRESPASSING

Violators will be Prosecuted

to the Full Extent of the Law

Bullet holes pierced the white notice, obscuring much of the black lettering. He shook his head. People pack guns up here. Some have no respect.

He dismounted and maneuvered his bike around the post, crowded by a bushy oak thicket. Spiny-toothed leaves scraped his bare legs and shorts, then snagged his backpack and the tubular fly rod case attached to it.

Inside the property, the abandoned driveway soon dwindled to a silt path disappearing into overgrown brush and lofty trees. Shafts of sunlight shone through fir and manzanita, like spotlights on a stage, alternating shadows with the bright greens of exposed branches and grass patches. He pushed his bike down the lane to the trailhead.

The owner of this property, Kent Jackson—a college friend of Mack’s father—was a business executive living in Houston. Jackson’s great-great-grandfather bought the land for reasons long since forgotten. Due to its remoteness, it passed down through generations without development. Jackson retained an interest in this distant Mendocino County tract and kept it through a sense of family obligation and the possibility that some day it might offer recreational value. He never found time to visit it and asked Josh to keep an eye on it and kick the damn pot growers off.

Since boyhood, Mack would hike with his father through the property, where Josh taught him about the wilderness and survival skills. Once old enough, he was happy to assume the watch-guard responsibility in return for Jackson’s permission to bike the acreage at will. The two hundred acre parcel stretched south of Low Gap Road into secluded mountain terrain. He engaged the pedal cleats and entered the underbrush-crowded path. Oh, yeah. It’s all downhill from here. The forest swallowed him.

Descending rapidly, he navigated a narrow pathway interweaving oak and fir trees. Mack called this trail section Tricky Track. It wound through constant tight turns and traverses as the elevation dropped a hundred yards. Fraught with boulders, roots, deadfall, and drop-offs, the path challenged his biking skill. He worked his brakes—fighting the steep grade. His speed increased with the declining terrain. Yes! Thank God Mom can’t see me.

He launched off an overhang and the forest spat him into the sunlight and an expansive meadow overflowing with pale-green Medusahead and tawny wild oat grass. Here comes The Freeway. Go! He raced two hundred yards down a skinny, straight trail that cut through the center of the grassy slope. His frequent past visits carved this path, the only evidence of human presence in an otherwise pristine wilderness setting. Now well below the old gate, the tree-blanketed mountain peaks and ridges surrounded and towered above him. As he reached the far side of the field, the forest again consumed him.

The trail led through dense brush and towering Douglas fir, interspersed with oak and red-bark madrone trees. Home-free trail. I love this part. The elevation declined on a gradual slope, and the path straightened out, making occasional wide turns around tree trunks and rock outcroppings. Enjoying the cool air and pungent scent of fir trees, he relaxed and thought about his approaching destination. Will I be lucky today?

The forest dwindled, giving way to an expanse of scruffy bushes and a cloudless sky. To his left, he passed a high bedrock bluff, which extended its craggy, gray face up three hundred feet at a near-vertical incline forming a pyramid-like peak. Willows and California wild grapevines obscured the lower section with a thick mass of flourishing tangle. The vines issued stubborn tendrils, searching for adhesion to the rough surface of the cliff. He followed the base of the edifice around a bend. The valley opened before him, revealing his journey’s end: a flat grassy patch rolling down to the shoreline of a stream-fed lake. It shimmered like a deep-blue jewel nestled in an ocean of green.

No breeze disturbed the dead calm crystal-clear water. The forest formed a dense perimeter around the lake, the exception being a spacious grass-covered area he rode into upon exiting the trail. He could never figure out why this swath remained open although he once discovered evidence someone cleared it in a bygone era. Decayed tree stumps buried in the surrounding bushes gave him this impression.

He settled his bike by the shore and stripped off his helmet, fingerless gloves, and backpack. His grandmother had sewn Velcro straps to the back of his pack, which he used to attach his fly rod case. He yanked his T-shirt over his head and hung it on the handlebars. Without fear of anyone overhearing, he spoke aloud, Let’s do this!

Mack removed his Ukiah High School ball cap, a small aluminum fly box, and reel pouch from his backpack. He tugged his hat on snug, then pulled polarized sunglasses from the pack’s zippered side pocket and slid them on. He withdrew his four-piece graphite rod from the metal case and assembled it, ensuring correct alignment of each ferrule.

The teenager scanned the water searching for caddisflies, mosquitoes, and mayflies skimming the mirror surface. Insects swirled in frenzied patterns in the sunlight. He knew the mayfly hatch peaked around his upcoming June birthday. Common reeds and California bulrushes lined much of the lake’s edge with a thick fringe of tall stems, long dark-green leaves, and wispy purple-brown flowers. The shore along the grassy area was clear of reeds, other than a few stragglers poking up through the silt and pebble shallows. A fish broke the stillness with a tight little arc, spreading concentric ripples across the silent water. A broad grin brightened his face. They’re hungry. They’ll be taking a dry fly today.

He removed his polished metal reel from its pouch and attached it to the rod reel seat. Thank you, Pappy! Such a cool present. He threaded thin lines, called a tippet and leader, through the guides of the nine-foot rod, and tied them to the heavier line wound on the reel. Opening his little fly box like