So it was almost noon.

And if I had stayed back at Patrick’s Point Park, set on its peaceful forested promontory, and let the family drive on north with- out me, as I almost decided to do, none of what was going to happen to me would have—

In contrast to the great redwoods we had just driven through, Southbank Road felt dank, dilapidated. Temporary rather than eternal. Our view of the widening estuary was blocked off by messy islands and by overflow basins ringed with sediment. On our inland side, shaded banks held third-growth redwoods, gashes of blue clay, a border of salal, cucumber-vine, horsetail, sword fern, as well as intermittent signs of landslides and closures. At our eye level, clusters of roots projected out over the road, their mud-gray fingers pointing, whispering a warning: “Lady, better stop now. You aren’t quite ready. Wise up. Go home. If you do start, it will be so difficult, so challenging, so worthwhile, it will consume the better part of the rest of your life. It’s all down there at the end of Southbank Road.”

Although a part of me heard the foreboding premonition, I could only read the words on three old signs, set at intervals along the edge of the road:

—Dad’s Camp: Mouth of the Klamath, Trailer Park on the Beach Camping...
—Dad’s Camp: World’s Finest Salmon Fishing, Shorecasting...
—Dad’s...

Then, as we paused to look at the great view spread out below, I read the fourth sign, wired to an open, chainlink gate:

—Dad’s: Toll Road, All Cars Subject to Toll beyond this Sign,
Permission to Pass Revocable at any Time.

Always curious, and by now curious about one word repeated on all four signs, I asked my first fateful question: “Dad? Have any idea who Dad is?”

“No, can’t recall,” muttered J., his handsome profile showing disinterest. And his tall torso, pressed against the steering wheel of our white Ford pickup, showing a body-English intent on the fishing ahead, not on some word repeated on four battered old signs.

I continued to wonder. Was Dad a name from the past? A corporate title? An absentee landlord? Or a real live Dad?

A year later, I would regret not asking again on that first day. By the time I did ask, it was too late. He was dead.