That usually wouldn't have worried us, knowing exactly where they were, but they weren't responding to our texts, which they usually did.
The day neared dusk and Bryce wasn't responding. They said they wanted to go take pictures in the "canyon" as we call it: a trail that cuts through the mountainside near where we live. They had a new vintage film camera purchased at a garage sale and wanted to put it to the nature test.
The "canyon" is a weekly hike that Amy and I take and is only a few minutes from our house. There are homes that run along either side of the mountain about 100 feet above the trail. It starts off as a dirt trail that quickly turns into a paved trail weaving its way up the small canyon to a city park. It's lined with eucalyptus trees, wild blackberry brambles, and overgrown brush along the way. There's also a tree swing at the bottom of the canyon we constructed after the last one was cut down. Both our kids (and us) used to swing away on it when they were younger. On our hikes we've seen other hikers, runners, dog walkers, and sometimes deer, rabbits, squirrels, and coyotes.
The coyotes have never been an issue, but we've never hiked at dusk or at night. It can also feel a little creepy sometimes in the canyon, where in the past there have been homeless camps hidden in the brush and trees, and who knows what else.
"Stranger danger" is extremely rare, accounting for less than 1% of all reported missing children cases in the US. The vast majority of missing children and teens are runaways, or those taken by family members in custody disputes, or taken and/or hurt by other people they know (intimate partner violence). We live in a relatively safe and supportive community, but for those like Bryce who identify as LGBTQ+, they can be and are targeted with harassment, bullying, and worse.
Bryce still didn't answer our texts. We called multiple times. No answer. Their dot on the map didn't move.
"Should we go look for them?" I asked my wife Amy.
"Yes, I'll drive around," she said. "You walk up there."
Both our kids are teenagers, Bryce and their sibling Beatrice, and have been immersed in Kidpower safety skills since they were children. They understand to always be calm, confident, and award of their surroundings, to always move away from danger, and to defend themselves and fight back only if there is no other recourse.
I took our dog Jenny and headed to the canyon. Still no response from Bryce. Amy drove around the neighborhood, parked near the canyon trail, and walked in ahead of me. Nightfall was coming fast. Walking along the trail at dusk creeped me out. Jenny was all too happy to go for another walk, oblivious to her owners' trepidation.
Amy was maybe five minutes ahead of me on the trail. I checked in twice, but both times she hadn't found Bryce yet. It's a horrible feeling thinking that something happened to your child. Your heart rate speeds up. Your gut cramps. Disturbing images you don't want to imagine swarm your sanity and you move faster towards where you'd hoped they'd be -- to that static dot on the map app. I pulled Jenny along by her leash and she reluctantly sped up unable to stop at prime sniffing spots.
Amy called me, relieved. "They're fine. They're up here at the first small pond taking pictures and trying to catch frogs."
"Good God," I said. "Frogs? At least they're safe."
Amy and Bryce walked back to me and Jenny and then to the car, and I drove us all home in the early darkness. Bryce apologized that they didn't check their phone, but we still reiterated our safety rules and the fact that they should've checked in when it started getting dark.
We're light years from the days when Amy and I grew up staying out until dusk. No cell phones. No GPS. No way to check in. Just showing up on our doorsteps before it was completely dark.
We trust our kids to follow our safety rules, most of the time, and they're grateful we have them, most of the time. Your heart rate returns to normal. Your gut relaxes. And the disturbing images are banished by the sanity of being safe and sound.
