“There was a bear in La Cañada,” she said. “It came down and got into somebody’s pool.”

“That’s why we don’t have a pool,” I said.

“We’re close to the mountains. Why don’t we get a bear?” Sarah sipped from the glass of juice Meg put in front of her.

“Be careful what you wish for,” Meg said.

We fell into an awkward silence.

“Maybe a mountain lion on your birthday,” I said.

“That would be nice,” Sarah said.

I put a plate of pancakes on the table. “Screw school,” I said.

“What?” Meg said.

“We’re going for a hike up the mountain this morning,” I said.

Meg handed me a glass of juice. “Zach.”

“What?”

“You teach today.”

“I have a sudden cold.” I faked a cough. “I wouldn’t want to get the kiddies sick.” I looked at Sarah. “You look a little feverish.”

“Skip school?”

“You don’t want to pass it on, do you?”

“Mom, will you go?” Sarah asked.

“You two have a good time.”

Meg gave me a look I could not read.

Our established trail was less than half a mile from our back door. It was not much used, partly because it was hidden and not well known, but also because it was not maintained and could be steep and rough in patches. The trail was a trial, my poet wife said just before swearing off the path for good. Had we not grown up with the trail, had we not come to know it so intimately, I doubt we would have used it. As it was, we viewed it as more or less ours, something the two of us shared. The route became indistinct enough in several spots that if unfamiliar, a bit of orienteering was required. For us, it was just a walk in the park. We were on a track that saw little enough human traffic that we occasionally came upon bear or cougar scat or other signs, though we had never seen either. Still, we were sure to make plenty of noise as we traveled.

I walked uphill behind my daughter. I studied her gait, her big feet landing deliberately, one foot firmly planted before the second moved. Patches of fog hung in the trees above us. As when she was much younger, Sarah wondered aloud whether we could climb into the fog and clear it away like cobwebs.

About a mile into the hike we came upon a pile of scat. We knelt beside it and gave it a look. There was plenty of hair in it.

“Too big for a coyote,” Sarah said.

I nodded. “Whatever it was tried to cover it.”

“A cat?” she asked.

“I think so.”

Sarah looked around.

I touched the shit with my finger. It was still warm.

“Yuck,” Sarah said.

“It’s only shit,” I said.

Sarah laughed.