Kagel Canyon Chronicles

This story was told to me by a neighbor's eldest son. He's an odd boy. Moved away a couple of summers ago and I haven't seen him since. There's a remote park nestled up in the hills not far from where I grew up at. It's not very big. Not much larger than a football field. It's full of ancient oak trees who heavy branches blot out the sunlight. In the mornings you might catch sight of a deer, or one of the neighbors walking their dogs, but for the most part it's basically forgotten by the world. No one goes in that park after dark. Most people don't have any reason to do so. There's only a dimly lit streetlight and the rest is dark. Like dark, dark. Rattlesnakes nest under the dead leaves and coyotes pass through like phantoms. Of course, this makes it the perfect place for partying with your friends, away from parental eyes when you're a teenager.  For most of the summer a few of my buddies and I bundled together in a car on Saturday nights, driv

Darkness comes early to our sleepy neck of the woods. Sunshine dapples through ancient oak trees as squirrels give chase through the myriad of branches. Peacocks strut and preen, their honking cries indicating the liminal times of the day, namely sunrise and sunset. The creek behind our house, run-off from the unattended graveyards a little further on up the hill, provides a steady stream of white noise. It's an oasis from the bustle of the 21st century. A place where the neighbors always say hello and you know every car that travels down the hidden streets. We look out for each other in the canyon. It's always been the way here. Even from when the first cabin was built. Of course back then it was a hideout for bandits and bootleggers, until it became a weekend vacation spot for the then newly glittering Hollywood crowd. There's a vibe to this canyon. A feeling that is hard to shake. Most likely because it's old. The hills are old. The trees are old. The roots run deep.