Wheat was cultivated from a harsh grass in the middle east over thousands of years. When I buy bread from a supermarket I don't normally think of the path it took to get to me; that's a long and distanced thing. We are as separated from nature as we are still intricately tied to it. Makes me think of green lawns, palm trees in big cement planter boxes, and bushes next to sidewalks. We still long to connect with nature, but on our terms now.

In the Castle Crags State Park there is a weed that resembles what wheat evolved from. Its thin stalk will grow to about the height of your calf. Encircled at the top by thin spines pointing up at a sharp angle. It's a sort of pale green and you'd definitely recognize it if I showed you a picture.

Here in the state park there are also plenty of hiking paths. The trails cross each other in the hills. The easiest hiking path circles around Echo Lake. Visitors can have a nice hour long walk, take a few pictures, then come back to their car parked in the gravel lot where logs thicker than your fist are notched, holed, and interlocked so they make not really a fence; more like a border, between the world where you can buy bread from a supermarket and the world where barely edible weeds grow wild.

One late summer day just off the path, with his back to Echo Lake, a middle aged man had pressed his palm against the bark of a tree. He wore a dark green flannel shirt and jeans. His hair was cut short. His eyes were red-shot, frantically tracing the harsh lines of the bark, seeking stability against the savage thoughts threatening to overwhelm him.

Behind him the sun was low against the far side of the lake. It brushed the tops of the forest causing the man's shadow to completely cover his hand. He imagined a cell in his body and considered how similar his was to the cells of the tree. He thought of the branches life took that had gone in two directions: one upon which his mother and father had been born; the other upon which this tree had grown.

Feeling a kinship, the man closed his eyes and imagined sinking into the tree. Calm, sturdy, strong.

"Well?!" came exasperatingly over his shoulder.

Clutching a last moment of peace before needing to come back to reality the man in the green shirt pressed his forehead fiercely to the rough and unyielding exterior.

"The fuck you want from me?" was shouted. Two sharp breaths filled the sudden quiet then, "Say something!"

The man in the green flannel turned and took a few steps toward the lake. In front of him was John Gilling.

For a man whose character was as ugly as road kill, Gilling was disappointingly average. Gilling had a medium build. He wore a black sleeveless t-shirt and dark fashionable blue jeans. His wavy hair was disheveled from being pressed against the floorboard of a trunk for eleven miles.

John stared up in wild frustration and anger. The ground beneath him was solid stone: a wide, flat, massive boulder that was flush with the forest ground and the still water, providing a gently sloping transition between land and lake.

John lay on his side where he'd been dropped minutes before. His legs were bound with duct tape across his ankles. His arms were held behind his back with tape wrapped around his wrists.

"You..." began the man in the green flannel at the same moment John yelled again for him to speak. Surprised, John drew back a moment then thrust his head forward, eyes bulging, in silent expectation.

The man in the green flannel cleared his throat slightly then pointed his finger at John violently as if the strength of his gesture could knock John backward. "You met a woman two days ago at the Red Crow. Her name is Maddie."

John paused in surprise then recognition rose to his face and he said with a crooked grin, "Yeah, I remember Maddie. What about her? You her dad or something?"

"She's my daughter, you monstrous piece of shit!" Yelled the man in the green flannel. He rushed toward John to kick and tear. As the sun dipped low his eyes were lit and the water of the lake grew colder.

For a time the muffled sounds of blows landing drifted across the lake joining the skittering of squirrels greeting each other. They dug claws into bark on their way back to their nests. A murder of crows sounded noisily somewhere in the distance: Families telling each other about their day all at the same time. Needing to be heard, not waiting to see if they had.

The man in the green flannel stumbled backward, breathing heavily, and let himself fall hard on his ass. He gave himself a moment to calm down and wipe spittle from his stubble then got to his feet. John coughed and groaned while cursing.

The man in the green flannel said, "It's sundown." Looking passed John he wiped the back of his hand across his nose. "The park is closed. The only things nearby are scavengers and mountain lions. It's going to get very cold and the wind across the lake is going to cut to your bones."

Locking eyes with John he said, "You're going to feel every second of your life leave you just like Maddie."

"Fuck you! Your daughter was a little slut! She was asking for it!" screamed John as he strained against his bonds.

Breathing heavily, both men stared at each other until after breaking eye contact the man in the green flannel looked up the trail that would take him back to his car. John pressed his head against the cold rock and stared into it gathering his thoughts.

"How is she?" John asked through a clenched jaw without taking his eyes from the smooth crevices of the stone.

"She's in the hospital, asshole! You almost killed her! She has a broken collar bone, bruised ribs, and is breathing through a fucking tube." Tears threatened to streak down the weathered complexion of the man in the green flannel. Neither said anything for a while.

Pushing against a carpet of nettles the man in the green flannel stood up, waved his hand in dismissal toward John, then walked up the hiking path, rounded a wide oak and was gone. He walked slowly, clenching and unclenching his fists... dragging his feet.

Feeling the afternoon warmth quickly disappearing from the stone John twisted into a sitting position. His ribs ached from being kicked, but his fire was up. John looked around for something against which he could rub the duct tape to tear it apart. The bases of the nearby trees didn't have any boughs snapped near the trunk. Everything looked like it was kept pretty clean by the rangers. The smaller rocks didn't have any sharp or rough edges.

If he couldn't get his legs free he'd have to hop, but after dropping him here the man had removed John's shoes then thrown them far into the lake. John looked at the worn ground of the trail. Free of most random forest debris it'd still be painful and slow going if he was forced to hop barefoot back to the road. He remembered the gravel in the parking lot and groaned. John sank his head into his chest.

Out of the twilight a splash of dark green materialized into a man as it came back from the trail. It reached into its back pocket and took out a folding knife. The man in the green flannel shirt crouched over John a moment then bent to cut the tape across John's ankles.

"Can't let you die. 'snot right. No matter what you did, it's not the answer." He then reached behind John to cut away the tape over John's wrists.

John didn't say a word and remained sitting. The man in the green flannel stood up. The blade of his knife hung loosely in his hand.

"I'm not going to leave you here, but you sure as shit ain't coming back with me." The man in the green flannel kicked John hard in the chest throwing him backward into the lake with a splash. In the shallows John flailed and sucked in large gasps of air as his lungs struggled against the sudden chill. Large ripples disturbed the surface of the water, moving toward the deep.

Sputtering rage and vengeance, John crawled in the muck of the shore until he was on solid ground.

The man in the green flannel knelt in front of John and said, "From the main road it's nine miles to civilization in either direction and you're soaking wet. You're not going to die, John Gilling, but you're not going to enjoy it much either."

The man in the green flannel stood, turned, and stepped from John toward the trail. A guttural shriek tore from John's throat as he lunged and grabbed the man's boot.

Despite its accessibility and friendly information bulletin, this park, well, nature in general, honestly, is no stranger to violence. It's not personal, you see, when it's the birds, fish, cats, going at each other. It's eat or be eaten. Beautiful landscapes and the basic struggle to survive.

Up until maybe a hundred years ago Native Americans fished this lake and hunted deer here. Up a ways to the northeast there's a relatively flat area between two hills where they also grew vegetables and built shelter.

In 1967 this land was declared a state park. The trails were laid by rangers hauling chainsaws and sacks of concrete. It's a popular spot for nature photographers due to how easy it is to get to some really nice views overlooking the lake. Some photographers will risk a citation by staying long enough to shoot those gorgeous sunsets reflecting in the water just before disappearing behind the canopy.

The most popular spot has a small decline from forest edge to water. The ground is a huge boulder providing a solid base for camera equipment and safety from the ants for those wanting to picnic lakeside.

Presently two men keep company there. A man in a green flannel shirt sits with his back to a tree holding an arm tightly against a wide gash in his belly. The second man lies mostly still on the ground a short distance away; his eyes are open wide and sightless; an ever widening pool of blood grows from around his head as his mouth opens and closes like a gasping fish on land.

The man in the green flannel shirt sobs to himself. Through waves of blindness from immense pain he looks around in the growing darkness. The sky on the other side of the lake is washed with strokes of orange and red.

He looks at the trail and knows he would never make it back to his car. He looks at the ground around him, digs his fingers with his free hand into the dirt, pulls away in frustration, then pounds his fist against the tree trunk.

His tears finally come, but do not soften his weathered complexion. The man in the green flannel shirt cries for his family and for betraying them with his hotheadedness. Mostly he cries for himself. He knows he will die here.

He imagines a different life where he had taken another path: sitting next to Maddie by the side of her hospital bed. Holding her hand instead of holding his intestines. He searches the tree limbs for skittering squirrels. He listens to the crows quieting.

The wind eventually dries the streaks against his cheek. The man in the green flannel blinks awake not knowing how much time has passed. He looks again at the figure of John Gilling. Monster. Human.

Moving slowly and supporting himself with his one free hand, the father in the green flannel shirt rocks forward onto his knees. With the dying light he crawls toward John then lays down beside him.

August 30th, 1993 was a relatively uneventful night in Shasta county. At the Castle Crags State Park a hedgehog investigated a shoelace then meandered away. A fox took its time following a scent then was scared away by its own reflection in an open glassy eye.

Having left before sundown no hikers or vacationers were there to see the moon in rippled reflection in Echo Lake as the wind blew across the water.

The following morning a ranger found a car with an open trunk in the parking lot of the Echo Lake trail head. That night, at Barton Memorial Hospital, a broken and bruised woman cried herself to sleep. An empty chair sat next to her hospital bed.

The forest teems with life and movement. If you could float high in the air you would see the moon illuminating the tops of hundreds of trees. It's inspiring... Then you'd close your eyes to hear the wind pick up; whipping through the leaves and pine needles. You would have found it hard not to grin like a fool until you opened your eyes again to see the trees bent by the wind in wide sweeping gestures. A vast undulating field of pine: a hauntingly beautiful moment that would have filled you with awe and trepidation then left a deep impression of being both profoundly alone and deeply connected.