Graphic the Valley by Peter Brown Hoffmeister

formed the first few layers. Then he turned to the medical student. He said, “From here you want to keep that hand up. The thumb still. Make sure nothing wiggles. You want to add from here?”
    “Yes,” she said. She wound wraps. Pressed gently, then wound more wraps. “Does that hurt?”
    “No,” I said.
    “Good.” She added more layers.
    The orthopedist said, “And that should do it. Come back here and get this thing off in six to eight weeks, all right? They can call for a cast saw if they don’t have one.”
    “All right,” I said.
    He smiled. Patted the new plaster. “You take care now.”
    • • •
    I called Lucy on a borrowed cell phone. I explained what had happened.
    “A mountain lion?” she said.
    “Yes, it came down off a boulder. I thought it was going to kill me. Then it didn’t.”
    She said, “And you killed it with your fist?”
    “Yes,” I said. “Down its throat.”
    Lucy whistled into the receiver.
    “I know. I know. It sounds so crazy.”
    “Are you okay?” she said. Her voice was different over the phone. Not as strong.
    “Yes,” I said. “They gave me something for the pain.”
    “Good,” she said. “I’ll come pick you up.”
    • • •
    When Lucy arrived, she put both hands on the cast. Kissed me. She said, “I’m glad you’re okay.”
    “Me too,” I said.
    The blond medical student came out to the road. She had two cups of pills in her hand. “These are anti-inflammatories,” she said. “Every six hours. And these are for pain.” She handed both cups to me. “Every four hours. Don’t overdo it, and keep up with the pain.”
    I said, “Thank you.” I was thinking about the tent. About before. I looked at Lucy to see if she knew, but Lucy was looking at my cast, picking at the edge, then touching the ends of my swollen fingers. The medical student walked back to the tent.
    • • •
    In the car, Lucy said, “We’re going to have successive days of wedding feasts. My father wants it.”
    I said, “Is that the tradition?”
    “No,” she said. “The old tradition is that you come into my house and live with me. There’s an exchange of gifts. Whenever we have our first baby, we’re officially married.” Lucy laughed. “That would be the old way.”
    “Does your father know?” I asked.
    “No,” she said. “No way.”
    “Does anyone know?”
    She shook her head no again. “They’re too busy with some Park Service deal.”
    I said, “What Park Service deal?”
    “I don’t know,” she said. “It doesn’t matter to me.”
    “But it might matter,” I said.
    “Well, my father said he needs me in on it. Says that my support is ‘essential.’ So I’ll know more about it soon. And I’m sure it’s good.”

CHAPTER 5
    The thunderclouds come, white stacks pushing black underneath, the Valley shadowed as Tenaya watches from the top of Yosemite Falls. The storm twitches electricity, ready to draw lightning. But the clouds open. Water pours down. And the frogs come up. They hop into the thatched homes, squeeze between the sticks, underneath the walls, dropping from the roofs. The frogs are in the acorn flour, the dried meat, the woodpiles. The frogs live and die everywhere in the Valley that summer and fall. The smell of their dying is in the water and the air, on the people’s skin. When men kiss women, they kiss with the smell of dead frogs
.
    Then winter comes and the soldiers increase in number, soldiers of the 36th Wisconsin. Major Savage leads them up from Mariposa, and Vow-Ches-Ter is with them
.
    Savage gives the order: “Wait for the first, big, spring storm before we march in. That way there will be no retreat over the mountains. No retreat to the Tuolumnes or the Monos. The Yosemiti will be trapped by the wet snow.”
    He is coming to the Valley in March. The newspapers will later report that it is in the month of May, but it is March. 1851
.
    I saw the press release on a signboard in the Yosemite Village three weeks