Kelly, his daughter Ajila, and two young llamas were heading north through the hot central valley of California. Kelly had made this trip many times before, but this time was different. Here he was with his daughter, whom he hadn’t seen for a year, and they were sharing the van with two strange animals. How do you communicate with a daughter turned teenager? With llamas?
At first Levi and Tumbleweed stood up, but as they became accustomed to the rolling motion of the vehicle, they sat down between the built-in bed and the sink. The window shades in back were pulled down so the llamas wouldn’t be distracted by things outside the window. Neither had ever traveled before.
Ajila went back and scratched their necks. Levi stretched his neck toward her as she rubbed.
The llamas were making humming sounds with an inquisitive tone. It was easy to translate those to something like, “What’s going on here?” It was harder to interpret the hums that were more of a monotone. Kelly knew that llamas are social animals who use sounds and body language to communicate. Understanding them was going to be like learning a new language. Ajila imitated the sounds.
In the hazy heat, a traffic tie-up forced them to stop. Cars and trucks were parked as far ahead as they could see. The llamas stood up, pulled at the velcro on the curtains and sniffed Ajila’s guitar case. Kelly talked to the other motorists. There was a chemical spill a few miles north of them, and the freeway had already been closed for twenty-four hours. A trucker said that the road was expected to be open again in a couple of hours.
Kelly pulled the van into the shade of a large truck, and they waited. Ajila pulled out some playing cards, and she and Kelly played desultory hands of gin rummy.
Tumbleweed was foaming at the mouth. Was it from the worming medicine Sally had given him by mouth that morning? Kelly hoped so. He thought so. But still he felt like a new father, not sure what to do. Maybe the llamas would like to go for a walk, but their first lesson in loading into a vehicle had been that morning. He’d better keep the llamas in the van.
He pulled up handfuls of tall grass–not yet dried by the summer sun–from a field nearby. Ajila offered it to the llamas, who seemed happy to munch. Tumbleweed’s foam disappeared, and Kelly’s anxiety along with it. He and Ajila continued to pick grass. What else to do, anyway? They made a nice pile of grass on the floor of the van.
The llamas ate, and soon Levi followed a natural inclination. Luckily, llamas’ droppings are much like deer’s, little pellets, easy to clean up. Tumbleweed sniffed where Levi had gone, and he began to follow suit. Kelly grabbed a shoe box and tried to catch the cascade of pellets. At that moment, car engines around them started up. Kelly threw the shoe box down, Ajila jumped in the van, and they began moving north again.
Alone at Juniper Ridge, I was looking down our long dirt driveway every few minutes. Would there be one llama, or two? How would Ajila have changed? She had spent most summers with us since she was two. I loved the first look at her, seeing what letters, phone calls, and even snapshots couldn’t convey.
