That went about as sideways as it possibly could have.
I have class in less than an hour, but screw that. I can’t move. I can barely think. All I can do is replay the last few minutes. The last few days. And count all the ways I’ve fucked up.
I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know if I should. If Stella hates me now, maybe that’s the best thing for her.
But the thought of her hating me makes my insides feel like a crushed soda can.
I look up at her house. I don’t know where she went, but she left to get away from me. That much is clear. And that’s not fair. This is her home. Her sanctuary. The fact that it’s the place where I feel safest and most at home is only because of what she has built here.
I need to give her space.
I draw my phone from my pocket and type out a quick text.
Me: If anyone should leave, it’s me. This is your house. Give me 10 minutes and I’ll be gone for the rest of the day.
I hit send and move quickly.
I don’t want to talk to anyone. Not any of my roommates. Not my parents. Not Bear. I head upstairs, change into cargo shorts and an UnderArmor shirt. I pull on my hiking boots and throw a few things into my Osprey day pack.
I fill my Camelbak bladder, toss a few protein bars into my pack, and leave without encountering a soul.
My gas tank is full, so I head straight for I-49.
Once I’m out of the traffic around Lafayette Parish, I set my cruise control and let my thoughts unspool.
Wolf Rock Caveis the only known land cave in Louisiana—at least the only one that the U.S. Forestry Service hasn’t blown up. And the branch of Kisatchie National Forest where it’s located, just south of Fort Polk, is only a two-hour drive from Lafayette. I turn off Highway 10 and take the two-and-a-half miles of forestry service road to the landmark’s parking lot.
It’s empty, thank God.
Not that I’d expect many adventurers on a Monday at noon.
But I’m grateful for the solitude. I haven’t been to this spot since high school, and yet it seems like the only place I could possibly reach right now and find some peace.
I grab my backpack, lock the Jeep, and head down the trail. The hike is short and the uphill climb easy. The cool dampness of the forest combined with the rush of water along Bundick’s Creek is a balm to my shredded nerves.
What’s open to the public at Wolf Cave is barely a cave at all. Two rocky overhangs and a cavity that Maisy could scarcely stand up straight in. The caverns that once housed Archaic peoples who lived almost five thousand years ago are now blocked off.
Nomadic tribes sought shelter in them for a couple of thousand years, but some Forestry Service bureaucrat decided they’re too dangerous for us modern folk.
It would be heaven to bust my way through the FS barricade, turn on my headlamp, and travel back in time. But for now, the rocky overhang and tiny cave will have to do.
I breathe deeper as the double overhang comes into view. It’s like Mama Earth is welcoming me home. I slow my pace as I approach, listening to the crunch of sandstone and chert under my boots, right or wrong, feeling more reverence here than I did yesterday at church.
When I reach the mouth of the cave, I crouch down, crawl into its cool shadow, lean my back against the craggy rock wall, and heave a mammoth sigh.
I tip my head back and study the underside of the overhang. Thirty million years ago, all of this—not just the cave, not just Kisatchie Forest, but swaths of land spanning parts of what’s now central Mississippi, Louisiana, and Texas—was shoreline.
If I were a horse or a black bear or another early mammal arriving here on the Oligocene scene, I’d have an ocean view from this very spot.
Not too shabby. The dinosaurs were long gone. Early man,homo habilisor one of his upright cousins, wouldn’t show up for another eighteen million years or so. But that would have been all the way in Africa. And it would be a good million or two more before humans made their way into North America and all the way down to this cave.
And started fucking things up for everyone.
I reach up and touch the cold stone. Maybe I’m being a little harsh.
The good hunting-gathering folks of the Archaic period probably still did all right when it came to finding a mate. There would have been plenty of white-tailed deer around here. Just like there is now. You speared one with your buddies, brought it back, and made sure the female who smelled like the sweet olive that grew down by the creek got a juicy cut. And some of the pelt for her footwear.
And, later, when she saw that you’d die before you let her starve or drown, she’d welcome you to her bedroll, and you’d make her yip like a coyote under your touch.
