Screaming into the woods

A good time was had by all. (By “good,” I mean “real, not fake – definitely authentic and of superior quality.” In this context, “good” is not meant to imply “perfect, idyllic, completely desirable, painless or stress-free.”) (By “all,” I obviously mean, “most.”)

Clearly, the goodest (real, authentic, quality) part of the 2010 Hart reunion experience took place Saturday after lunch when a rather large beast – maybe 1200 pounds or so of muscle and iron – made off with my youngest daughter, dashing across the meadow and into the woods. Her screams dramatically interrupted my conversation with Dave about his experiences living in Ukraine, and I had to leave him rather impolitely in hasty pursuit, although I had little hope of catching up with the creature – it was very, very fast. I had the fleeting thought of detouring to get the car, but quickly threw out that idea – a dirt-bike would have been a better option on the forest trail, but I didn't have time to learn how to ride one. So I ran. And ran. And ran. (Okay, an observer would probably describe it more accurately as waddling or, at best, lumbering, but its my story, eh.), It was gratifying to hear some of the men coming behind me – with pitchforks and torches I think: the support of family is a wonderful thing when terror strikes, even in broad daylight.

The thing made no effort to hide its tracks, so it was easy to follow. Lori's screams in the distance were like an infusion of etheric adrenalin and I ran/lumbered/waddled on. Then came the sudden realization: the screams had stopped. That could be a good thing (“good” in this context meaning “highly desirable,” “hoped for,” and signaling a positive outcome, void of fear and pain), or it could be a bad thing – visions of emergency rooms, signed casts, and worse came to mind. (How about this Deseret News headline: “Most of Local Teen Still Missing After Reunion Abduction.”) Under such circumstances one thinks many silly thoughts about what lies ahead, harkening back to the most foolish of Hollywood depictions. Will there be blood? Broken bones? Or a deus ex machina hero sheltering a distressed damsel from a vanquished foe?

There was none of that. Just a slightly worn and disheveled daughter sauntering back down the trail. She and her abductor had parted company with the help of a loosened grip and a little gravity. Lori had been unceremoniously dumped by the side of the trail and left with a minor case of forest “road rash.” A local rancher caught the riderless horse a few minutes later. The pitchforks went back in the shed and the torches were extinguished.

Next time... who knows, eh, but the pattern is set (Remember “Night of the Earwigs” in 2006?) so it will surely be “good”!