For some reason I thought it was a good idea to attend a Sunday late meeting in San Juan Bautista, then immediately drive home to the Central Valley so I could attend school in the morning. Also I thought it a good idea to take the twisted back roads across Panoche Pass in the dead of night instead of Pacheco Pass highway. Perhaps it wasn't the dumbest idea because Pacheco Pass killed so many drivers it was supposedly haunted. Anyway, I was familiar with Panoche Road, having crossed several times in daylight: some sections were so narrow there wasn't even room for a guard rail against the sheer mountain drop—but it rewarded attentive driving with just the right drip of adrenaline—and the gentle farmland on approach was the most pastoral landscape I'd ever seen.
The weekend had been both stimulating and draining. I was tired. Before reaching the mountains, I hit a patch of gravel I hadn't remembered on a particular curve. After much correcting and overcorrecting my little station wagon teetered on the edge of the road—then landed upside-down in a ditch. I hung inverted in the seat belt for a moment, turned off the lights (the engine had already stopped), heaved a sigh, unbuckled, and fell in an undignified heap on the headliner. The driver door wouldn't budge. I opened the passenger door and extracted myself.
I blundered out of the ditch and took stock. The only significant injury was to my dignity. The car did not catch fire. The only sound was the exhaust ticking as it cooled. I mean, the only sound. There was nothing else, not even crickets. Next I noticed how dark it was. It was overcast. No stars or moon. No reflected light from cities. This was in the middle of nowhere, and before I started carrying emergency kit—so I had no flashlight. I mentally traced the route and knew I had passed a house with a light on some ways back, but couldn't remember how far.
After my eyes adjusted, I was just able to make out the wavy horizon between sky and rolling hills on either side of me. I was in a long valley. I could not see the edges of the road. Nonetheless I must go, because nobody else was out driving that late. The only way I could tell I was on the road was by the texture of asphalt and gravel under my feet. I corrected course whenever I detected the edge. I walked and walked. I could only hear my own breathing and footsteps.
At some point I stumbled at the edge of the road and there was a deep "murF?" immediately next to me. I froze. Was it that close? Was there a fence between the animal and me? I couldn't see a fence. As I stood there, a few more spoke up. Moo? Snort. Mrooo? MOOOO! I considered my folding knife but left it in my pocket. I had to assume there was a fence. Then the cattle on the other side of the road woke up, and they started questioning. Apparently this was turning into a tense situation not only for me but everyone, because the alarm spread.
Soon the hills were bawling with what sounded like thousands of beasts (though was probably only hundreds). It was awesome in both senses of the word. I stopped worrying about being trampled or gored and just listened. They eventually calmed down, though it took longer than the ramp up. When they mostly settled down I resumed walking. And walking.
Eventually I made it to the farm house, which turned out to be set back far from the road and I couldn't find the driveway—so I negotiated the dark field, trying not to trample crops. When I got to the house and knocked, I was greeted by a shotgun barrel, then a curious man's face, and a concerned woman's face. I outlined my situation and asked to use their phone. They agreed.
At rescue we measured the distance. I had walked seven miles through The Valley of the Moos.
1981
By Val Delane
This work is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND