Zen Monk's Daughter

It was late July--just after the monsoon season had begun in the Sierra Madre Occidental--and I was clinging to a dangerously narrow trail in Barrancas del Cobre (Copper Canyon), not one hundred yards from Basaseachic Falls, tracking down a freedom fugitive who was almost certainly on the path ahead of me, possibly heading my way.  I had been sent down from Paso del Norte to hook up with a BookForce squad out of Creel, which had pursued the fugitive down the Chihuahua-Pacific railroad line to Divisadero near the "Three Canyons" overlook.  From there the marshals had split up, and I was sent out on a flanking maneuver meant to confront the fugitive head-on.

I stopped for a break, removing my Mark4 visor in order to wipe the perspiration from my forehead with a red-checkered bandana.  I rubbed my hands on denim-clad thighs to dry my sweaty palms.  Nervous about the upcoming confrontation I took several deep breaths of fresh canyon air, surveying the magnificent mountain scenery in this section of Chihuahua State that had once belonged to the country of Mexico.  Years ago, when the Dempublicans were still in the control of the U.S. government there had been a bill in congress designating Copper Canyon the newest National Park, but once the Coprolites ascended to power all pretense of environmental stewardship flew out the window.  Regions already designated national parks were serially removed from the registry, and all areas of the country were reopened to resource production and urban development.  Within a decade the U.S. began a prolonged period of imperialistic expansion, referred to in history texts as "Manifest Destiny Four," and the U.S. Gruntrines conquered vast regions of our neighboring country to the south.

I moved forward cautiously on the trail, stepping off of it after traveling just twenty feet to climb a small rock promontory.  From there, through an opening in the tree canopy, I could see all the way to the spot where the Basaseachic River dropped precipitously over the cliff edge, the water plunging straight down for 800 feet.  That's when I got a look at him, a sleight man dressed in a camouflaged khaki uniform.  From this distance I saw that he was dark-complected, but couldn't discern the details of his face.  He had paused on the trail just this side of the river, and he swiveled his head left and right, aware, perhaps, of an imminent confrontation.

I wasn't sure I could get close enough to apprehend him without incident.  The sheer face of the cliff wall to my right represented true peril, and I imagined engaging in a physical struggle that would send both of us plunging to our deaths.  I wondered if I could stay where I was, wait for him to come to me, jump him as soon as he passed.  But what if he was wary enough to detect me, and armed to prevent capture?  I could set the Mark4 on "stun," hit him with just enough juice to knock him off his feet.  I would have to put it on the lowest setting, though, because this guy was small--maybe just over a hundred pounds.

I removed the Mark4, turned the control dial to calibrate the power, then raised it back to my head.  As I did, though, the sun glinted off the transparent alumina visor, reflecting a beam of light directly up the trail.  I held my breath as I looked to see if he had seen it.  He had.  My only hope now was to run at full speed to catch him.  As I did I noticed that he wasn't running away.  Instead he seemed to be hooking something around the trunk of the large pine tree behind him.  When I had closed within fifty feet of the fugitive I realized he had attached a static line to the tree and was in the process of jumping from the cliff.  I could only watch in horror as he launched himself out into space.

Looking over the edge I watched the topside of the orange parachute as it floated swiftly downward.  I sincerely worried for the guy's safety because the terrain at ground level was incredibly rocky, and the pool that received the water from the falls churned violently.  Just then a gust of wind rose up-canyon, carrying the chute toward a grove of tall trees.  A moment later the parachutist was snagged in the crown of what looked to be an ancient sycamore.  I could see him hanging limply, like a rag doll.  From here I wasn't sure if it was an illusion, but only the flimsiest bit of the chute's orange fabric seemed caught on a branch.  If it came loose the fugitive would almost certainly fall to his death.

It took me nearly half an hour to wend my way down the steep mountain path to the land below, and when I reached the tree from which the parachutist hung I wasn't sure what I could do to rescue him.  He was a good fifty feet above me, and there seemed no safe way for me to scale the massive tree and shimmy out on the limb to where the chute was snared.  While I stood craning my neck looking up, another gust of wind swept through, billowing the chute like the mainsail on a boat, lifting the material away from the snag.  It didn't fill up sufficiently to completely break the fugitive's fall, but it slowed him down enough for me to circle underneath in an attempt to catch his limp body.  I couldn't have been more surprised when he ended up gently cradled in my outstretched arms.

The biggest surprise was yet to come, though, as I realized that the sleight fugitive who lay in my arms was really a beautiful young woman.