The Tenth Insight

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About the Book

Millions have experienced the nine insights of The Celestine Prophecy and glimpsed the emerging world view that it describes. Inspired by this book, individuals across the world have opened up to the experience of guiding coincidences in their lives, and to a new sense of personal dignity and mission. Now, a new insight is emerging . . .

The Tenth Insight

The Tenth Insight will take you on a journey into other dimensions . . . to memories of past experiences and other countries . . . to the moment before our conception and the birth vision we all experience . . . to the passage of death and the life review we must all face . . . to the self-imposed isolation of hell, where fearful souls resist awakening . . . and the love-filled Afterlife dimension where the knowledge of human destiny is guarded and held. And, back on Earth, you will see the fear of the future that is endangering Earth’s spiritual renaissance, and you will struggle to overcome this fear by exploring the nature of intuition, synchronicity and visualization.

As you grasp The Tenth Insight your memories will expand to include an understanding of the long expanse of human history and the special mission we all share to bring humanity to answer, as never before, the unspoken questions that loom over all of human experience and in every human heart: Why are we here? What are we to do? Where are we going?

Again, with words that resonate with our deepest intuitions and illuminate both the world outside us and within us, James Redfield offers us all a unique, revelatory and ultimately joyful vision of human spirituality. One that could change your life – and perhaps the world.

About the Author

JAMES REDFIELD is the author of a number of critically acclaimed books, including The Tenth Insight, The Secret of Shambhala, The Celestine Vision and, of course The Sunday Times bestseller, The Celestine Prophecy, which also spent more than three years on the New York Times bestseller list. This remarkable book was also the world’s No.1 bestselling work of fiction for two consecutive years. James Redfield lives in Alabama.

Also by James Redfield

The Celestine Prophecy

The Celestine Prophecy: An Experiential Guide

The Celestine Prophecy: A Pocket Guide to the Nine Insights

The Tenth Insight: An Experiential Guide

The Tenth Insight: A Pocket Guide

The Celestine Vision

The Secret of Shambhala

TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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THE TENTH INSIGHT
A BANTAM BOOK: 9780553504187
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781448126460

Originally published in Great Britain by Bantam Press,
a division of Transworld Publishers

Bantam Press edition published 1996
Bantam edition published 1996

The right of James Redfield to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Contact the author at www.celestinevision.com

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Addresses for Random House Group Ltd companies outside the UK can be found at:
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The Random House Group Ltd Reg. No. 954009.

For my wife and inspiration
Salle Merrill Redfield

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

MY HEARTFELT THANKS to everyone who had a part in this book, particularly Joann Davis at Warner Books, for her ongoing guidance, and Albert Gaulden for his sage counsel. And certainly, my friends in the Blue Ridge Mountains, who keep the fires of a safe haven burning.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

LIKE THE CELESTINE PROPHECY, this sequel is an adventure parable, an attempt to illustrate the ongoing spiritual transformation that is occurring in our time. My hope with both books has been to communicate what I would call a consensus picture, a lived portrait, of the new perceptions, feelings, and phenomena that are coming to define life as we enter the third millennium.

Our greatest mistake, in my opinion, is to think that human spirituality is somehow already understood and established. If history tells us anything, it is that human culture and knowledge are constantly evolving. Only individual opinions are fixed and dogmatic. Truth is more dynamic than that, and the great joy of life is in letting go, in finding our own special truth that is ours to tell, and then watching the synchronistic way this truth evolves and takes a clearer form, just when it’s needed to impact someone’s life.

Together we are going somewhere, each generation building upon the accomplishments of the previous one, destined for an end we can only dimly remember. We’re all in the process of awakening and opening up to who we really are, and what we came here to do, which is often a very difficult task. Yet I firmly believe that if we always integrate the best of the traditions we find before us and keep the process in mind, each challenge along the way, each interpersonal irritation can be overcome with a sense of destiny and miracle.

I don’t mean to minimize the formidable problems still facing humanity, only to suggest that each of us in our own way is involved in the solution. If we stay aware and acknowledge the great mystery that is this life, we will see that we have been perfectly placed, in exactly the right position … to make all the difference in the world.

Spring, 1996

… I looked, and behold,
a door was opened in heaven:
and the first voice which I heard was as … a trumpet
talking with me; which said, Come up hither, and I will show you
things which must be hereafter. And immediately
I was in the spirit: and, behold, a throne was set in heaven.…
and there was a rainbow round about the throne,
in sight like unto an emerald. And round about the throne
were four and twenty seats: and upon the seats I saw four
and twenty elders sitting, clothed in white raiment.…
And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first
heaven and the first earth were passed away.…

REVELATION

CONTENTS

Cover

About the Book

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Author’s Note

Epigraph

IMAGING THE PATH

REVIEWING THE JOURNEY

OVERCOMING THE FEAR

REMEMBERING

OPENING TO THE KNOWLEDGE

A HISTORY OF AWAKENING

AN INNER HELL

FORGIVING

REMEMBERING THE FUTURE

HOLDING THE VISION

About the Author

Also by James Redfield

IMAGING THE PATH

I WALKED OUT to the edge of the granite overhang and looked northward at the scene below. Stretching across my view was a large Appalachian valley of striking beauty, perhaps six or seven miles long and five miles wide. Along the length of the valley ran a winding stream that coursed through stretches of open meadowland and thick, colorful forests—old forests, with trees standing hundreds of feet high.

I glanced down at the crude map in my hand. Everything in the valley coincided with the drawing exactly: the steep ridge on which I was standing, the road leading down, the description of the landscape and the stream, the rolling foothills beyond. This had to be the place Charlene had sketched on the note found in her office. Why had she done that? And why had she disappeared?

Over a month had now passed since Charlene had last contacted her associates at the research firm where she worked, and by the time Frank Sims, her officemate, had thought to call me, he had become clearly alarmed.

“She often goes off on her own tangents,” he had said. “But she’s never disappeared for this long before, and never when she had meetings already set with long-term clients. Something’s not right.”

“How did you know to call me?” I asked.

He responded by describing part of a letter, found in Charlene’s office, that I had written to her months earlier chronicling my experiences in Peru. With it, he told me, was a scribbled note that contained my name and telephone number.

“I’m calling everyone I know who is associated with her,” he added. “So far, no one seems to know a thing. Judging from the letter, you’re a friend of Charlene’s. I was hoping you had heard from her.”

“Sorry,” I told him. “I haven’t talked to her in four months.”

Even as I had said the words, I couldn’t believe it had been that long. Soon after receiving my letter, Charlene had telephoned and left a long message on my answering machine, voicing her excitement about the Insights and commenting on the speed with which knowledge of them seemed to be spreading. I remembered listening to Charlene’s message several times, but I had put off calling her back—telling myself that I would call later, maybe tomorrow or the day after, when I felt ready to talk. I knew at the time that speaking with her would put me in the position of having to recall and explain the details of the Manuscript, and I told myself I needed more time to think, to digest what had occurred.

The truth, of course, was that parts of the prophecy still eluded me. Certainly I had retained the ability to connect with a spiritual energy within, a great comfort to me considering that everything had fallen through with Marjorie, and I was now spending large amounts of time alone. And I was more aware than ever of intuitive thoughts and dreams and the luminosity of a room or landscape. Yet, at the same time, the sporadic nature of the coincidences had become a problem.

I would fill up with energy, for instance, discerning the question foremost in my life, and would usually perceive a clear hunch about what to do or where to go to pursue the answer—yet, after acting accordingly, too often nothing of importance would occur. I would find no message, no coincidence.

This was especially true when the intuition was to seek out someone I already knew to some extent, an old acquaintance perhaps, or someone with whom I worked routinely. Occasionally this person and I would find some new point of interest, but just as frequently, my initiative, in spite of my best efforts to send energy, would be completely rebuked, or worse, would begin with excitement only to warp out of control and finally die in a flurry of unexpected irritations and emotions.

Such failure had not soured me on the process, but I had realized something was missing when it came to living the Insights long-term. In Peru, I had been proceeding on momentum, often acting spontaneously with a kind of faith born out of desperation. When I arrived back home, though, dealing again with my normal environment, often surrounded by outright skeptics, I seemed to lose the keen expectation, or firm belief, that my hunches were really going to lead somewhere. Apparently there was some vital part of the knowledge I had forgotten … or perhaps not yet discovered.

“I’m just not sure what to do next,” Charlene’s associate had pressed. “She has a sister, I think, somewhere in New York. You don’t know how to contact her, do you? Or anyone else who might know where she is?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I don’t. Charlene and I are actually rekindling an old friendship. I don’t remember any relatives and I don’t know who her friends are now.”

“Well, I think I’m going to file a police report, unless you have a better idea.”

“No, I think that would be wise. Are there any other leads?”

“Only a drawing of some kind; could be the description of a place. It’s hard to tell.”

Later he had faxed me the entire note he had found in Charlene’s office, including the crude sketch of intersecting lines and numbers with vague marks in the margins. And as I had sat in my study, comparing the drawing to the road numbers in an Atlas of the South, I had found what I suspected to be the actual location. Afterward I had experienced a vivid image of Charlene in my mind, the same image I had perceived in Peru when told of the existence of a Tenth Insight. Was her disappearance somehow connected to the Manuscript?

A wisp of wind touched my face and I again studied the view below. Far to the left, at the western edge of the valley, I could make out a row of rooftops. That had to be the town Charlene had indicated on the map. Stuffing the paper into my vest pocket, I made my way back to the road and climbed into the Pathfinder.

THE TOWN ITSELF was small—population two thousand, according to the sign beside the first and only stoplight. Most of the commercial buildings lined just one street running along the edge of the stream. I drove through the light, spotted a motel near the entrance to the National Forest, and pulled into a parking space facing an adjacent restaurant and pub. Several people were entering the restaurant, including a tall man with a dark complexion and jet-black hair, carrying a large pack. He glanced back at me and we momentarily made eye contact.

I got out and locked the car, then decided, on a hunch, to walk through the restaurant before checking into the motel. Inside, the tables were near empty—just a few hikers at the bar and some of the people who had entered ahead of me. Most were oblivious to my gaze, but as I continued to survey the room, I again met eyes with the tall man I had seen before; he was walking toward the rear of the room. He smiled faintly, held the eye contact another second, then walked out a back exit.

I followed him through the exit. He was standing twenty feet away, bending over his pack. He was dressed in jeans, a western shirt and boots, and appeared to be about fifty years old. Behind him, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows among the tall trees and grass, and, fifty yards away, the stream flowed by, beginning its journey into the valley.

He smiled halfheartedly and looked up at me. “Another pilgrim?” he asked.

“I’m looking for a friend,” I said. “I had a hunch that you could help me.”

He nodded, studying the outlines of my body very carefully. Walking closer, he introduced himself as David Lone Eagle, explaining, as though it was something I might need to know, that he was a direct descendant of the Native Americans who originally inhabited this valley. I noticed for the first time a thin scar on his face that ran from the edge of his left eyebrow all the way to his chin, just missing his eye.

“You want some coffee?” he asked. “They’re good at Perrier in the saloon there, but lousy at coffee.” He nodded toward an area near the stream where a small tent stood among three large poplars. Dozens of people were walking in the area, some of them along a path that crossed a bridge and led into the National Forest. Everything appeared safe.

“Sure,” I replied. “That would be good.”

At the campsite he lit a small butane camp stove, then filled a boiler with water and set it on the burner.

“What’s your friend’s name?” he finally asked.

“Charlene Billings.”

He paused and looked at me, and as we gazed at each other, I saw a clear image in my mind’s eye of him in another time. He was younger and dressed in buckskins, sitting in front of a large fire. Streaks of war paint adorned his face. Around him was a circle of people, mostly Native Americans, but including two whites, a woman and a very large man. The discussion was heated. Some in the group wanted war; others desired reconciliation. He broke in, ridiculing the ones considering peace. How could they be so naive, he told them, after so much treachery?

The white woman seemed to understand but pleaded with him to hear her out. War could be avoided, she maintained, and the valley protected fairly, if the spiritual medicine was great enough. He rebuked her argument totally, then, chiding the group, he mounted his horse and rode away. Most of the others followed.

“Your instincts are good,” David said, snapping me from my vision. He was spreading a homespun blanket between us, offering me a seat. “I know of her.” He looked at me questioningly.

“I’m concerned,” I said. “No one has heard from her and I just want to make sure she’s okay. And we need to talk.”

“About the Tenth Insight?” he asked, smiling.

“How did you know that?”

“Just a guess. Many of the people coming to this valley aren’t just here because of the beauty of the National Forest. They’re here to talk about the Insights. They think the Tenth is somewhere out there. A few even claim to know what it says.”

He turned away and put a tea ball filled with coffee into the steaming water. Something about his tone of voice made me think he was testing me, trying to check out whether I was who I claimed.

“Where is Charlene?” I asked.

He pointed a finger toward the east. “In the Forest. I’ve never met your friend, but I overheard her being introduced in the restaurant one night, and I’ve seen her a few times since. Several days ago I saw her again; she was hiking into the valley alone, and judging from the way she was packed, I’d say she’s probably still out there.”

I looked in that direction. From this perspective, the valley looked enormous, stretching forever into the distance.

“Where do you think she was going?” I asked.

He stared at me for a moment. “Probably toward the Sipsey Canyon. That’s where one of the openings is found.” He was studying my reaction.

“The openings?”

He smiled cryptically. “That’s right, the dimensional openings.”

I leaned over toward him, remembering my experience at the Celestine Ruins. “Who knows about all this?”

“Very few people. So far it’s all rumor, bits and pieces of information, intuition. Not a soul has seen a manuscript. Most of the people who come here looking for the Tenth feel they’re being synchronistically led, and they’re genuinely trying to live the Nine Insights, even though they complain that the coincidences guide them along for a while and then just stop.” He chuckled lightly. “But that’s where we all are, right? The Tenth Insight is about understanding this whole awareness—the perception of mysterious coincidences, the growing spiritual consciousness on Earth, the Ninth Insight disappearances—all from the higher perspective of the other dimension, so that we can understand why this transformation is happening and participate more fully.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

He looked at me with piercing eyes, suddenly angry. “I know!”

For another moment his face remained serious, then his expression warmed again. He reached over and poured the coffee into two cups and handed one to me.

“My ancestors have lived near this valley for thousands of years,” he continued. “They believed this forest was a sacred site midway between the upper world and the middle world here on Earth. My people would fast and enter the valley on their vision quests, looking for their specific gifts, their medicine, the path they should walk in this life.

“My grandfather told me about a shaman who came from a faraway tribe and taught our people to search for what he called a state of purification. The shaman taught them to leave from this very spot, bearing only a knife, and to walk until the animals provided a sign, and then to follow until they reached what they called the sacred opening into the upper world. If they were worthy, if they had cleared the lower emotions, he told them, they might even be allowed to enter the opening, and to meet directly with the ancestors, where they could remember not just their own vision but the vision of the whole world.

“Of course, all that ended when the white man came. My grandfather couldn’t remember how to do it, and neither can I. We’re having to figure it out, like everyone else.”

“You’re here looking for the Tenth, aren’t you?” I asked.

“Of course … of course! But all I seem to be doing is this penance of forgiveness.” His voice became sharp again, and he suddenly seemed to be talking more to himself than to me. “Every time I try to move forward, a part of me can’t get past the resentment, the rage, at what happened to my people. And it’s not getting any better. How could it happen that our land was stolen, our way of life overrun, destroyed? Why would that be allowed?”

“I wish it hadn’t happened,” I said.

He looked at the ground and chuckled lowly again. “I believe that. But still, there is a rage that comes when I think of this valley being misused.

“You see this scar,” he added, pointing to his face. “I could have avoided the fight where this happened. Texas cowboys with too much to drink. I could have walked away but for this anger burning within me.”

“Isn’t most of this valley now protected in the National Forest?” I asked.

“Only about half of it, north of the stream, but the politicians always threaten to sell it or allow development.”

“What about the other half? Who owns that?”

“For a long time, this area was owned mostly by individuals, but now there’s a foreign-registered corporation trying to buy it up. We don’t know who is behind it, but some of the owners have been offered huge amounts to sell.”

He looked away momentarily, then said, “My problem is that I want the past three centuries to have happened differently. I resent the fact that Europeans began to settle on this continent with no regard for the people who were already here. It was criminal. I want it to have happened differently, as though I could somehow change the past. Our way of life was important. We were learning the value of remembering. This was the great message the Europeans could have received from my people if they had stopped to listen.”

As he talked, my mind drifted into another daydream. Two people—another Native American and the same white woman—were talking on the banks of a small stream. Behind them was a thick forest. After a while, other Native Americans crowded around to hear their conversation.

“We can heal this!” the woman was saying.

“I’m afraid we don’t know enough yet,” the Native American replied, his face expressing great regard for the woman. “Most of the other chiefs have already left.”

“Why not? Think of the discussions we’ve had. You yourself said if there was enough faith, we could heal this.”

“Yes,” he replied. “But faith is a certainty that comes from knowing how things should be. The ancestors know, but not enough of us here have reached that knowing.”

“But maybe we can reach this knowledge now,” the woman pleaded. “We have to try!”

My thoughts were interrupted by the sight of several young Forest Service officers, who were approaching an older man on the bridge. He had neatly cut gray hair and wore dress slacks and a starched shirt. As he moved, he seemed to limp slightly.

“Do you see the man with the officers?” David asked.

“Yeah,” I replied. “What about him?”

“I’ve seen him around here for the past two weeks. His first name is Feyman, I think. I don’t know his last name.” David leaned toward me, sounding for the first time as if he trusted me completely. “Listen, something very strange is going on. For several weeks the Forest Service seems to have been counting the hikers who go into the forest. They’ve never done that before, and yesterday someone told me they have completely closed off the far eastern end of the wilderness. There are places in that area that are ten miles from the nearest highway. Do you know how few people ever venture out that far? Some of us have begun to hear strange noises in that direction.”

“What kind of noises?”

“A dissonance of some kind. Most people can’t hear it.”

Suddenly he was up on his feet, quickly taking down his tent.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I can’t stay here,” he replied. “I’ve got to get into the valley.”

After a moment he interrupted his work and looked at me again. “Listen,” he said. “There’s something you have to know. That man Feyman. I saw your friend with him several times.”

“What were they doing?”

“Just talking, but I’m telling you there’s something wrong here.” He began packing again.

I watched him in silence for a moment. I had no idea what to think about this situation, but I sensed that he was right about Charlene being somewhere out in the valley. “Let me get my equipment,” I said. “I’d like to go with you.”

“No,” he said quickly. “Each person must experience the valley alone. I can’t help you now. It’s my own vision I must find.” His face looked pained.

“Can you tell me exactly where this canyon is?”

“Just follow the stream for about two miles. You’ll come to another small creek that enters the stream from the north. Follow this creek for another mile. It will lead you right through the mouth of the Sipsey Canyon.”

I nodded and turned to walk away, but he grabbed my arm.

“Look,” he said. “You can find your friend if you raise your energy to another level. There are specific locations in the valley that can help you.”

“The dimensional openings?” I asked.

“Yes. There you can discover the perspective of the Tenth Insight, but to find these places you must understand the true nature of your intuitions, and how to maintain these mental images. Also watch the animals and you’ll begin to remember what you are doing here in this valley … why we’re all here together. But be very careful. Don’t let them see you enter the forest.” He thought for a moment. “There’s someone else out there, a friend of mine, Curtis Webber. If you see Curtis, tell him that you’ve talked to me and that I will find him.”

He smiled faintly and returned to folding his tent.

I wanted to ask what he meant about intuition and watching the animals, but he avoided eye contact and stayed focused on his work.

“Thanks,” I said.

He waved slightly with one hand.

I QUIETLY SHUT the motel door and eased out into the moonlight. The cool air and the tension sent a shiver through my body. Why, I thought, was I doing this? There was no proof that Charlene was still out in this valley or that David’s suspicions were correct. Yet my gut told me that indeed something was wrong. For several hours I had mulled over calling the local sheriff. But what would I have said? That my friend was missing and she had been seen entering the forest of her own free will, but was perhaps in trouble, all based on a vague note found hundreds of miles away? Searching this wilderness would take hundreds of people, and I knew they would never mount such an effort without something more substantial.

I paused and looked at the three-quarters moon rising above the trees. My plan was to cross the stream well east of the rangers’ station and then to proceed along the main path into the valley. I was counting on the moon to light my way, but not to be this bright. Visibility was at least a hundred yards.

I made my way past the edge of the pub to the area where David had camped. The site was completely clean. He had even spread leaves and pine straw to remove any sign of his presence. To cross where I had planned, I would have to walk about forty yards in plain sight of the rangers’ station, which I could now see clearly. Through the station’s side window, two officers were busy in conversation. One rose from his seat and picked up a telephone.

Crouching low, I pulled my pack up on my shoulders and walked out onto the sandy flood wash that bordered the stream, and finally into the water itself, sloshing through mounds of smooth river stone and stepping over several decayed logs. A symphony of tree frogs and crickets erupted around me. I glanced at the rangers again: both were still talking, oblivious to my stealth. At its deepest point, the moderately swift water reached my upper thigh, but in seconds I had moved across the thirty feet of current and into a stand of small pines.

I carefully moved forward until I found the hiking path leading into the valley. Toward the east, the path disappeared into the darkness, and as I stared in that direction, more doubts entered my mind. What was this mysterious noise that so worried David? What might I stumble upon in the darkness out there?

I shook off the fear. I knew I had to go on, but as a compromise, I walked only a half mile into the forest before making my way well off the path into a heavily wooded area to raise the tent and spend the rest of the night, glad to take off my wet boots and let them dry. It would be smarter to proceed in the daylight.

The next morning I awoke at dawn thinking about David’s cryptic remark about maintaining my intuitions, and as I lay in my sleeping bag, I reviewed my own understanding of the Seventh Insight, particularly the awareness that the experience of synchronicity follows a certain structure. According to this Insight, each of us, once we work to clear our past dramas, can identify certain questions that define our particular life situation, questions related to our careers, relationships, where we should live, how we should proceed on our path. Then, if we remain aware, gut feelings, hunches, and intuitions will provide impressions of where to go, what to do, with whom we should speak, in order to pursue an answer.

After that, of course, a coincidence was supposed to occur, revealing the reason we were urged to follow such a course and providing new information that pertained in some way to our question, leading us forward in our lives. How would maintaining the intuition help?

Easing out of my sleeping bag, I pulled the tent flaps apart and checked outside. Sensing nothing unusual, I climbed out into the crisp fall air and walked back to the stream, where I washed my face in the cool water. Afterward I packed up and headed east again, nibbling on a granola bar and keeping myself hidden as much as possible in the tall trees that bordered the stream. After traveling perhaps three miles, a perceptible wave of fear and nervousness passed through my body and I immediately felt fatigued, so I sat down and leaned against a tree, attempting to focus on my surroundings and gain inner energy. The sky was cloudless and the morning sun danced through the trees and along the ground around me. I noticed a small green plant with yellow blossoms about ten feet away and focused on its beauty. Already draped in full sunlight, it seemed brighter suddenly, its leaves a richer green. A rush of fragrance reached my awareness, along with the musty smell of leaves and black soil.

Simultaneously, from the trees far toward the north, I heard the call of several crows. The richness of the sound amazed me, but surprisingly I couldn’t distinguish their exact location. As I concentrated on listening, I became fully aware of dozens of individual sounds that made up the morning chorus: songbirds in the trees above me, a bumblebee among the wild daisies at the edge of the stream, the water gurgling around the rocks and fallen branches … and then something else, barely perceptible, a low, dissonant hum. I stood up and looked around. What was this noise?

I picked up my pack and proceeded east. Because of the crunching sound created by my footsteps on the fallen leaves, I had to stop and listen very intensely to still hear the hum. But it was there. Ahead the woods ended, and I entered a large meadow, colorful with wildflowers and thick, two-foot-tall sage grass that seemed to go on for half a mile. The breeze brushed the tops of the sage in currents. When I had almost reached the edge of the meadow, I noticed a patch of blackberry brambles growing beside a fallen tree. The bushes struck me as exceedingly beautiful, and I walked over to look at them more closely, imagining that they were full of berries.

As I did this, I experienced an acute feeling of déjà vu. The surroundings suddenly seemed very familiar, as though I had been here in this valley before, eaten berries before. How was that possible? I sat down on the trunk of the fallen tree. Presently, in the back of my mind rose a picture of a crystal-clear pool of water and several tiers of waterfalls in the background, a location that, as I imaged it, seemed equally familiar. Again I felt anxious.

Without warning, an animal of some kind ran noisily from the berry patch, startling me, and headed north for about twenty feet and then abruptly stopped. The creature was hidden in the tall sage, and I had no idea what it was, but I could follow its wake in the grass. After a few minutes it darted back a few feet to the south, remained motionless again for several seconds, then darted ten or twenty feet back again toward the north, only to stop again. I guessed it was a rabbit, although its movements seemed especially peculiar.

For five or six minutes I watched the area where the animal had last moved, then slowly walked that way. As I closed to about five feet, it suddenly sped away again toward the north. At one point, before it disappeared into the distance, I glimpsed the white tail and hind legs of a large rabbit.

I smiled and proceeded east again along the trail, coming finally to the end of the meadow, where I entered an area of thick woods. There I spotted a small creek, perhaps four feet wide, that entered the stream from the left. I knew this must be the landmark David had mentioned. I was to turn northward. Unfortunately there was no trail in that direction, and worse, the woods along the creek were a snarl of thick saplings and prickly briers. I couldn’t get through; I would have to backtrack into the meadow behind me until I could find a way around.

I made my way back into the grass and walked along the edge of the woods looking for a break in the dense undergrowth. To my surprise, I ran into the trail the rabbit had made in the sage and followed its path until I caught sight of the small creek again. Here the dense undergrowth receded partially, allowing me to push my way through into an area of larger, old-growth trees, where I could follow the creek due north.

After proceeding for what I judged to be about another mile, I could see a range of foothills rising in the distance on both sides of the creek. Walking farther, I realized that these hills were forming steep canyon walls and that up ahead was what looked to be the only entrance.

When I arrived, I sat down beside a large hickory and surveyed the scene. A hundred yards on both sides of the creek, the hills butted off in fifty-foot-high limestone bluffs, then bent outward into the distance, forming a huge bowl-like canyon perhaps two miles wide and at least four long. The first half mile was thinly wooded and covered with more sage. I thought about the hum and listened carefully for five or ten minutes, but it seemed to have ceased.

Finally I reached into my pack and pulled out a small butane stove and lit the burner, then filled a small pan with water from my canteen, emptied the contents of a package of freeze-dried vegetable stew into the water, and set the pan on the flame. For a few moments I watched as strands of steam twisted upward and disappeared into the breeze. In my reverie I again saw the pool and the waterfall in my mind’s eye, only this time I seemed to be there, walking up, as if to greet someone. I shook the picture from my head. What was happening? These images were growing more vivid. First David in another time; now these falls.

Movement in the canyon caught my eye. I glanced at the creek and then beyond to a lone tree two hundred yards away which had already lost most of its leaves. It was now covered with what looked like large crows; several flew down to the ground. It came to me that these were the same crows I had heard earlier. As I watched, they suddenly all flew and dramatically circled above the tree. At the same moment, I could hear their cawing again, although, as before, the loudness of their cries didn’t match the distance; they sounded much closer.

Splashing water and hissing steam pulled my attention back to the camp stove. Boiling stew was overflowing onto the flame. I grabbed the pan with a towel, turning off the gas with the other hand. When the boiling subsided, I returned the pan to the burner and looked back at the tree in the distance. The crows were gone.

I hurriedly ate the stew, cleaned up, and packed the gear, then headed into the canyon. As soon as I passed the bluffs, I noticed the colors had amplified. The sage seemed amazingly golden, and I noticed, for the first time, that it was peppered with hundreds of wildflowers—white and yellow and orange. From the cliffs to the east, the breeze carried the scent of cedar and pine.

Although I continued to follow the creek running north, I kept my eye on the tall tree to my left where the crows had circled. When it was directly west of me, I noticed the creek was suddenly widening. I made my way through some willows and cattails and realized I had come to a small pool that fed not only the creek I was following but a second creek angling off farther to the southeast. At first I thought this pool was the one I had seen in my mind, but there were no waterfalls.

Ahead was another surprise: to the north of the pool, the creek had completely disappeared. Where was the water coming from? Then it dawned on me that the pool and the creek I had been following were all fed from an enormous underground spring surfacing at this location.

To my left, fifty feet away, I noticed a mild rise on which grew three sycamore trees, each more than two feet in diameter—a perfect place to think for a moment. I walked over and snuggled in among them, sitting down and leaning against the trunk of one of the trees. From this perspective, the two remaining trees were six or seven feet to my front, and I could look both to the left to see the crow tree and to the right to observe the spring. The question now was where to go from here. I could wander for days without seeing any sign of Charlene. And what about these images?

I closed my eyes and attempted to bring back the earlier picture of the pool and waterfalls, but as much as I struggled, I couldn’t remember the exact details. Finally I gave up and gazed out again at the grass and wildflowers and then at the two sycamores right in front of me. Their trunks were a scaly collage of dark gray and white bark, streaked with brushstrokes of tan and multiple shades of amber. As I focused on the beauty of the scene, these colors seemed to intensify and grow more iridescent. I took another deep breath and looked out again at the meadow and flowers. The crow tree seemed particularly illuminated.

I picked up my pack and walked toward the tree. Immediately the image of the pool and waterfalls flashed across my mind. This time I tried to remember the entire picture. The pool I saw was large, almost an acre, and the water flowing into it came in from the rear, cascading down a series of steep terraces. Two smaller falls dropped only about fifteen feet, but the last dropped over a long, thirty-foot bluff into the water below. Again, in the image that came to mind, I seemed to be walking up to the scene, meeting someone.

The sound of a vehicle to my left stopped me firmly in my tracks. I kneeled down behind several small bushes. From the forest on the left a gray Jeep moved across the meadow heading southeast. I knew that Forest Service policy prohibited private vehicles this far into the wilderness, so I expected to see a Forest Service insignia on the Jeep’s door. To my surprise it was unmarked. When it was directly in front of me, fifty yards away, the vehicle stopped. Through the foliage I could make out a lone figure inside; he was surveying the area with field glasses, so I lay flat and hid myself completely. Who was he?

The vehicle started up again and quickly vanished out of sight in the trees. I turned and sat down, listening again for the hum. Still nothing. I thought about returning to town, of finding another way to search for Charlene. But deep inside I knew there was no alternative. I shut my eyes, and thought again of David’s instruction to maintain my intuitions, and finally retrieved the full image of the pool and falls in my mind’s eye. As I got to my feet and headed again toward the crow tree, I tried to keep the details of the scene in the back of my mind.