Rape [part 2] Son of a Sheriff. © Dakini Verona 2010

Rape [part 2] Son of a Sheriff. © Dakini Verona 2010

I sure wish that I could say that I shot the son of the sheriff, the way Clapton sang about shooting the sheriff. But it never happened, only in my wildest dreams and fantasies. As I was saying.. I was alone in the dark streets of Sarasota, Florida [rape part 1]. I was 14 years old.

Eric Clapton sang I Shot the Sheriff

My rage had subsided as quickly as it rose. I was blindly walking now, trying to figure out how I would get home. I couldn’t call my parents. No. That would never work, to admit I had been wrong. So I continued to walk and hoped a solution would rise from the dark.

I heard the car pulling up behind me, it was one of those large muscle types of cars. The kind that had a trunk so big you could easily sneak in 4 kids to the drive-in theatre. The kind that you could find 6 rambunctious boys hooting it up on a Saturday night.  In retrospect, the kind that you should never get into, even when you know the occupants.

Autobiographical Statement - C 1994 Dakini Verona

My Autobiographical Statement

The year was 1994. I had just graduated from California State University, Long Beach, with a degree in psychology. My plan was to continue on to graduate school and earn a master’s degree in family counseling. Well, as they say “best laid plans”. I never did get that advanced degree in psychology, I ended up getting it in business and it was not until 2009 that I was able to reach that goal.

However, as a part of my original plan, I applied to Antioch University in Marian Del Rey, California. As a part of the admission package I had to prepare an autobiographical statement. What follows is the “watered-down-unemotional and politically correct” account of my life. Like I said, although I was accepted at Antioch, I did not attend. Life got in the way. 

Auburn Trail Part II: LOST © 2010 Dakini Verona

Auburn Trail Part II © 2010 Dakini Verona

LOST!

I lost some time again and “woke up” in Sacramento. I don’t remember much about how I got there. I don’t remember the ride. I looked around as saw the hills had turned brown from thirst. It was hot. Hot and humid. Typical Sacramento.

This time the lapse in memory was not drug related, but caused by yet one more trauma. I tried to push away the visuals which were playing back in my mind, stuck in a loop. Flash backs of the narrow escape from that creep-a-zoid predator. I could still smell the pungent odor of his sweat and blood, yet I was almost 100 miles away.  I thought back on what had just happened.

I wondered what I must have looked like to standers by on that street in Berkeley: a frantic figure, running down the avenue with a bloodied knife in one hand and her worldly possessions in another.  Didn’t they recognize that shrill sound as a scream? I’m sure they must have heard it. But, no one came to my aid. They just turned away, back to their tiny worlds with their tiny problems. They did not want to get involved. There were no heroes in the streets.  Not then. Not now.

I brought myself back to reality. I was on the side of the road, with my thumb out, looking for another ride. A car stopped and I approached cautiously.

I felt safe once I saw the occupants of the hippie mobile. I accepted the ride. I mentioned that I was in search of an adventure in the wilderness and was trying to get to the trail I had heard about. These people were heading east, past Sacramento. They said they knew of a cabin which was open for anyone to stay in, outside of a town called Auburn. They said that they could give me a ride. I was set. Or so I thought.

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Auburn Trail Part I © 2010

Auburn Trail Part I © 2010

Somewhere in my travels, I came across a tale of the hiking trails which were reported run along the rim of the mountain range from Mexico all the way north, to Canada and beyond. I don’t quite remember the official name of the trail, nor even if there was one, but I will call it The Auburn Trail, because I was able to access the trail from Auburn. Auburn was a sleepy town nestled in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range outside of Sacramento, California. Being the thrill seeker that I was, naturally, I was drawn to this new potential new adventure.

I had mentioned to my parents during my trip home for their anniversary that I was thinking of buying a horse and riding across the entire country. As you can imagine, their response was less than favorable or supportive. I am sure they thought it was just one more pipe dream. I even broached them with the concept of loaning me $100 to do so. Now, granted, I had no idea where I would buy a horse for $100 or how I would manage to feed the horse or even take care of myself on this trip. But you see, such is the beauty of naivety. You have all these great ideas, but no worries about the consequences of acting on them. Well, back to my story about The Auburn Trail.

As I try to remember the series of events leading up to this monumental adventure I find myself struggling to fit all the pieces together. The details are really vague… as I sit here, almost 40 years later. However, I will try to recall what I can. To be honest, I am not sure I could have recanted the story in its full details even as they unfolded. Such is the curse of living a life where you spend most of your time dazed and confused, if you get what I mean.

Anyway, I decided to hitchhike to get as close as I could to the trail and determined that Sacramento was my destination. According to the maps, it was the gateway to Auburn. My experiences on the road had taught me that it was always best to start with the larger city to seek information. Small towns just were not that friendly. After all, I wasn’t in Woodstock anymore.

The journey was not uneventful, as you may have already guessed, or it would not be noteworthy. It started with my on the sidewalk in Berkeley with my pack and bedroll at my feet and my thumb raised high to oncoming traffic. I was always lucky to have a great sense of direction, so I knew which way led out of town. I never had to wait long when hitch hiking, I guess it was because I was, as my dad used to say “easy on the eyes”.

A rather non-descript sedan that looked like it belonged in the suburbs, pulled over to the curb. It was not the typical ride I had grown accustomed to, not a hippie-mobile.  It was getting late and in spite of my apprehension, I left my post on the familiar sidewalk of Telegraph Avenue to approach the driver. The middle aged businessman looked like all the others that were driving home after a boring day in the office. My instincts warned me to wait for a ride that had a better vibe, but he assured me he was safe. Famous last words.

I got in the car, and kept my knap-sack and bedroll close at my feet, should the need of a quick escape be necessary. I sure am glad my instincts also told me to reach down and feel the comfort of the hilt of my hunting knife which was wedged between the top of my right knee high leather riding boot and jean leg.

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