. . . I survived a plane crash and didn't tell anyone, not until several years later when, revisiting the crash site in the Hillcrest neighborhood of San Diego, I ran into my mother, who happened to be crossing over Highway 163 on a rickety pedestrian footbridge. I said, quite casually, "Did I ever tell you about the time I was in a plane crash?" I didn't want to make a big deal out of it.
As I climbed the wall of a steep canyon the pine trees became thicker and crowded out the daylight. I was blind and had to trust my hands to lead me through the forest. The closer I got to the crash site, the more vividly my memories of that day came rushing back to me: the sensation of free falling, the sight of the ground fast approaching, the moment when I realized I was going to die. Prickly needles, darkness, forest animals howling. "If there are wolves in this wilderness," I said, "God, please protect me." Then footsteps, grunting, warm breath on my face, and the sound of an animal swallowing.
The gray hound dog seemed friendly enough, but I wasn't taking any chances. "Good dog," I said, backing away slowly and smiling. "Rood rog," the dog said. It was like he was mocking me, half barking, half speaking. All around my feet forest creatures squirmed. At first I thought they were worms, but when I realized they were miniature fawns I was delighted. I reached for my camera, which was a shrunken rodent head, and I pressed the closed eyelids like buttons, but the eyeballs were sunken, so the camera didn't work.
I never found the crash site, but on my way back down the canyon I came across a shrine commemorating the tragedy, a curio cabinet filled with porcelain saucers and topped with two Japanese Barbie dolls dressed in Native American clothing. I picked up one of the dolls, intending to take her home as a souvenir, then I put her back on the shrine exactly like I found her, sitting with her legs dangling down, sacred like she wanted to be.
