Keith T. Bishop
Finders Keepers
Finders Keepers
Lighthouse Trail; Tuesday, November 13, 2012; Dawn
Nearly every weekday for the past year, Stuart and Gary drove into the canyon and ran both the Lighthouse and Capital Peak Trails. Being outdoor enthusiasts, their daily jaunts relieved their angst of perpetual unemployment. They always arrived well before dawn to minimize the number of mountain bikers they might encounter. Each loved to bike as well, but during their runs, nothing irritated them more than being brushed by an inconsiderate, out-of-control biker. Traveling the same course daily, they first ran the Lighthouse Trail, ascending nine hundred feet to the base of the tower, before heading back down the path and detouring onto the Capital Peak’s loop trail. At the end of the loop, they finished the last leg of the Lighthouse Trail. The entire morning run was just shy of nine miles from the trailhead.
The desperately needed rain from the night before left the trail sloppy. In no time, the runners’ legs were splattered with red mud. Running side-by-side and talking about the Monday Night Football game the previous night, they came upon a strange sight. Leaning against the shelter, just off the trail were two mountain bikes, both in shambles. They stopped to take a closer look and were puzzled.
Noticing the two helmets sitting on the bench, Gary walked over to further investigate. He picked up one of them and carefully examined it. “Damn, these are nice Bell helmets—the Sweep model. I’ll bet they cost near two hundred apiece!” He approached Stuart, who was looking at the extensive damage to the bikes.
“What the hell do ya think happened?” asked Stuart.
“I have no idea, but it sure seems strange,” responded Gary. They looked around and saw nothing but the two severely damaged mountain bikes and the two helmets sitting aimlessly on the bench next to a piece of gypsum.
“Damn, these bikes are expensive too! The derailleurs, brakes, crankshaft, wheels, everything’s basically shot, but I’ll bet these frames are worth at least a thousand each. I wonder why someone would leave ‘em here,” Gary pondered.
“Pro’bly just too damn lazy to carry ‘em down the trail. They’ll just buy new ones when they get home,” Stuart retorted. Again, they both scoped the landscape. It was only a few minutes past dawn, and no one else had yet appeared on the trail.
“Shit, we should take ‘em!” Gary proposed.
“I dunno, somethin’s just not right. Look at these bikes. Looks like somebody purposely destroyed ‘em for some reason. I sure don’t wanna take the blame for that,” replied Stuart.
“That’s two thousand dollars in frames, dude! Plus the helmets! I think we should grab ‘em now and just carry ‘em out,” Gary argued. “If we don’t see anyone, we’ll put ‘em in the back of my truck and book it on outta here. If we come across someone and they ask, we’ll just say we found ‘em, and we’re bringin’ ‘em back to the ranger station. Hell, I’m grabbin’ one!” He grabbed a helmet and then picked up one of the bikes. “C’mon man, let’s get this shit n’ go!” Gary shouted. Hesitantly Stuart followed suit, and they hurried down the path.
As luck would have it, they made it back to the truck without directly encountering anyone. A lone hiker was outside his car putting on his hiking boots, but he paid scant attention to the two men carrying the demolished bikes.
Stuart and Gary briskly swung the bikes into the back of the pickup, carried the helmets into the truck cabin, and were on their way out of the park. It had been only about thirty minutes since finding the bikes.
With the mountain bikes and helmets now gone, other than the motorhome sitting vacant and paid for with the ranger station until two o’clock Thursday afternoon, there was not a trace of Kenny’s or Lance’s existence, or of their demise.