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The Bystander  151 The Bystander  D igging my boots into the hill, I gather my strength and lunge for the next handhold, a clump of stems above me. A thorn plunges deep in my thumb, but I can’t let go. This is my only anchor. The bright blood welling up around it draws my attention to something other than the ache in my legs and the sound of my heart in my ears. Why in the world would they come all the way up here? The tangle of salmonberry is so thick in places that I can’t break through. I’ve had to crawl on my hands and knees to find a route under it. The thorns constantly grab at my hat and my pack and my skin. My clothes are so heavy with mud, every step is an effort. And now I’ve lost whatever remnant of a trail they left. I feel myself on that knife-edge between laughter and crying. Exhausted, I cast about for some excuse to give up the search and get out of here. Then, out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of red, tattered flagging tied to a branch upslope. That must be the way they came. I’ll bet they marked a path for a quick getaway when they were done. My thumb tastes like mud and iron as I suck off the blood and push forward, shielding my face from the brambles with every lunge. The higher I go I’m enveloped more and more in the mist that caps these Coast Range hilltops. The gray only adds to the chill and to the growing realization of how far I’ve come. And that nobody else knows exactly where I am. Not even me. The sound of an agitated pack of hunting dogs from the valley floor makes me realize I’m not alone. My presence is now known. I grimly hope that they don’t decide to come investigate this trespasser. That’s all I need. I have as much right to be here on public land as they do, but that would hardly matter. Those dogs probably came with them, and lay with their tongues hanging out as they watched. At the lip of the hill, it suddenly flattens out into a stand of mistcovered maples. My heart slows down just a fraction and I try to wipe 152  Gathering Moss the sweat from my eyes with a muddy hand. The salmonberries thin out and I can see more than few feet ahead of me again. I know instantly that this is the place. So these are the riches that drew them up that insufferable hill. They’d discovered the mother lode. Besides, it’s remote enough that they’d never get caught. It’s been a while since they were here and the place still shows the hand of violence. Once they finally got here, I guess it must have been easy pickings. It’s thick up here where the mist hangs on the hill all day. They must have filled the sacks they brought quicker than they expected, since the stand is only half stripped. They’d never guess there would be so much, and it’s heavy to carry. The woods across the stream seem to be untouched. The vine maples there are hung with sheets so thick the air itself looks green. There’s not a single spot that isn’t covered with mosses. I know what I’d see if I looked close. The amazing stuff that only these remote old stands still have—every one an old friend of mine. You don’t see these big feathers of Dendroalsia much any more, or the clumps of Antitrichia so thick you could sink your hand into them. Shining ropes of Neckera. And so much more. I wince when I think they probably didn’t even stop to look. At least art thieves know what they’re taking. The other side of the stand has been picked clean; like vultures, they left only the bare bones. I imagine them sticking their dirty hands deep into the mat and ripping it off in swaths the length of their arms. It gives me the shivers to think of that tearing, like a woman stripped naked before her attackers. Peeling back the moss from tree after tree, they cram them all into the burlap bags, light into dark. You’ve got to acknowledge...

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