Page 14 of On Tap for the Bear
I deliberately avoid thinking about how his eyes are brown with flecks of gold, or how his voice has this low, steady quality that makes you want to lean closer.
By four o'clock, I'm standing outside the ranger station. I don't remember deciding to come here.
The station is a small wooden building at the edge of town, right where the maintained roads give way to forest service trails. There's a truck parked outside with Forestry Service markings, and through the window I can see a woman bent over a desk covered in maps.
I push through the door, and she looks up with a professional smile that reaches her eyes.
"Hi! Can I help you?" She's younger than I expected, maybe early thirties, with the kind of outdoorsy confidence that comes from actually spending time in nature rather than just writing about it.
"I hope so. I'm Quinn Samuelson—I'm a food writer doing a piece on Redwood Rise. I was hoping to get some background on the area, the ecology, what makes this place special."
"Oh, absolutely." She stands, extending her hand. "Anabeth Cole. I'm the wildlife biologist for this region. Let me grab you some brochures, and I can give you the overview."
Anabeth. The name rings a bell, and then I remember—Cilla mentioned her. Anabeth who came to study the local wildlife and ended up staying.
She pulls out maps and pamphlets, spreading them across a small conference table. "So, Redwood Rise sits at a really unique ecological convergence point. You've got old-growth redwoods, of course, but also coastal prairie, riparian zones, and these really interesting microhabitats created by the topography."
I make notes as she talks, genuinely interested despite myself. She's a good teacher, making complex ecology accessible without being condescending.
"The wildlife patterns here are fascinating too," she continues. "Migration routes, breeding behaviors—things that shouldn't necessarily make sense based on typical models, but they work because of the local conditions."
"What kind of local conditions?"
"Well, the water quality is exceptional—mineral content, pH balance. The soil composition is unusual too. And then there's the electromagnetic field variations."
I lean forward, pen poised. "Electromagnetic fields?"
"Yeah, it's actually pretty cool. There are these natural variations in the earth's magnetic field—some people call them ley lines, though that's more folklore than science. But whatever you call them, the local wildlife definitely responds to them. We track animal behavior against the field strength, and there are clear correlations."
My journalist instincts perk up. "Ley lines. Eli mentioned those."
Her expression changes, becomes more guarded. "Eli talks about them in terms of brewing. Lots of old-school brewers believe in that kind of thing—biodynamic fermentation, lunar cycles, earth energy. It's part superstition, part practice."
"But you're saying there's actual science behind it?"
"I'm saying there are measurable electromagnetic variations that correspond with observable changes in animal behavior."She meets my eyes. "Whether you want to call that ley lines or just geology is up to you."
She's choosing her words carefully, and there's tension in her shoulders that wasn't there a moment ago. But before I can push, she glances at her watch.
"I actually need to head out for an evening survey. But if you want to know more, you should talk to Eli. Or Calder—he's got a more... philosophical take on the whole thing. They can probably give you better quotes for your article than I can."
"Thanks. I appreciate your time."
"No problem." She walks me to the door, then pauses. "Quinn? If you're going to be writing about Redwood Rise, just... keep an open mind, okay? This town is special. Don't try to fit it into boxes it doesn't belong in."
The words are casual, but her tone isn't.
I drive back to Main Street, park, and sit in my car staring at the Bear Claw Tavern.
It's just after five. The dinner crowd will be starting soon. I could go back to the Pinecrest, work on my notes, maybe try to eat one of those muffins that tasted like nothing this morning.
Instead, I find myself walking across the street and pushing through the tavern door for the second time today.
The late afternoon light slants through the windows, turning everything golden. There are more people than at lunch—couples at tables, a group of what looks like locals at the bar, soft classic rock playing from speakers I can't see. It feels lived-in, comfortable, like the kind of place where everybody knows your name.
Eli's behind the bar, pouring an amber liquid into a pint glass. He looks up as I walk in, and I watch his expression change—surprise, then pleasure, then warmth I can't quite define.
"Hey," he says, setting down the glass. "Didn't expect to see you again so soon."
