Why ferry the logs across the bay when they could be loaded on a truck and driven over the Bay Bridge? Annabel asked herself. She didn't voice the question, however. Instead, she introduced herself to the burly Good Samaritan beside her. "I'm Annabel Lowell."
"Herman Simmons is my name. Pleased to meet you, Miz Lowell." He was still glancing suspiciously at her from time to time. "Those are, uh, mighty bright overalls you got on."
"It's a fire suit. I'm a smoke-jumper for the Forest Service."
For a moment, Herman was quiet. Then he grunted, "Uh-huh."
He doesn't have a clue what I'm talking about, Annabel told herself. He didn't seem mentally challenged, but she supposed it was possible. Still, if he would take her to Oakland, she didn't much care.
"You don't mind taking me all the way to Oakland, do you?" she asked.
"No, ma'am. You from there?"
"San Francisco."
"Oh. Well, I reckon you can catch the ferry in Oakland, right enough."
"Or call a cab."
Herman said "Uh-huh" again, the same as before.
After a few minutes of silence, Annabel risked saying, "I didn't know there was any logging going on in the park."
"In the canyon, you mean? Yeah, we been workin' it for a while. This really ain't as good country for timber as up north a ways, though, so I don't 'spect we'll be here long."
"What company are you with?" Annabel felt a little guilty pumping him for information this way. He was helping her, and she might have to turn around and testify against him and his fellow workers if they were charged with illegal logging.
"Amalgamated Timber," Herman replied.
Annabel had never heard of the company. It was probably a pretty small outfit, she supposed, especially considering that it engaged in illicit deals like this one. She supposed she could look the other way about the company's activities, but that would go against the grain for her. It was the job of the Forest Service to help protect the environment.
The wagon continued to rock along. The crude road twisted and turned and finally swung northwest as it left the Diablos and headed toward Oakland. Progress was slow, and around midday, Herman said, "I got some sandwiches in a bag under the seat. I'd be happy to share 'em with you, ma'am."
Just the mention of food made Annabel aware of how long it had been since she had eaten. Suddenly ravenously hungry, she reached under the seat and found the bag of sandwiches. "Thank you, Herman," she said. "Are you sure you don't need all of them yourself?"
"No, ma'am, you go right ahead."
"All right . . . on the condition that you stop calling me ma'am. My name is Annabel."
"Well, uh . . . all right . . . Annabel." He was blushing furiously.
Annabel smiled and took out one of the sandwiches, thick slabs of roast beef between slices of what appeared to be homemade bread. She ate eagerly.
She kept expecting the wagon to reach a highway, but the only roads they crossed were dirt paths much like the one they were following. Tilting her head back, Annabel looked up at the blue sky overhead, searching for airplanes. Now that she thought about it, she hadn't seen a plane all day.
"Herman," she said, "why don't you use a truck to haul these logs?"
"A truck?" he repeated with a frown, then a second later said, "Oh, you mean one o' them newfangled gasoline things. Why, they won't get up in the mountains where we're workin', and besides, they ain't nowhere near as dependable as a good team of mules."
Newfangled gasoline things? Poor old Herman really had spent too much time back in the woods, Annabel thought.
But yet, she asked herself, worry beginning to tickle at the back of her brain, where were the roads? Where were the airplanes? And the power lines and the cell phone towers and all the other reminders of modern life?
What had happened while she was waiting out the forest fire in that cave?
By mid-afternoon, the wagon had reached another road that, while still dirt, was wider and harder-packed. As she and Herman rolled on toward Oakland, Annabel saw several other wagons and a few men on horseback. She still had not seen any sort of motorized vehicle.
A tiny clamor began to sound inside her head. Something was very, very wrong. She had either lost her mind, or . . . or . . . She didn't know what to think.
She looked for the haze of pollution that often hung over Oakland, but the sky was clear as she peered toward the west, toward the ocean. They passed several large farms, a grove of redwood trees, and quite a few clusters of oaks. Nestled in the trees were large, Mediterranean-style villas, most of which appeared to be quite new. Some of them even looked slightly familiar to Annabel. She was beginning to feel dizzy.