Schrödinger's Murderer

Schrödinger's Murderer | July 4, 2025

Teanaway, Summer 2025

I enjoy riding my horse in the outdoors. Being honest, I don't have much choice, since the luxury of having an indoor riding space would cost as much as my current mortgage. That's ok, though, because I have always valued having a horse that is as responsive and tractable in the great wide world as they are in the arena environment. Moreso, in fact: I expect her to sidepass, haunch turn, move forward calmly, maintain her gait, stay balanced and predictable no matter what's happening. These are basic expectations that I have worked hard on over the years. There will always be the need for continual improvement - on my and her part - but we're at the point of working into refinement, having moved on from the foundational work that brought us to this point. 

In the last few years, this balance and predictability has become even more valuable to me. The instability in my pelvis has gotten worse, and constantly reminds me that I am getting older as I progress through this life. A steady and dependable steed is becoming more and more important as I continue riding. My body can't twist or respond to a balking horse quite like it used. Thirteen - fourteen? - years ago, the pelvic joints twisted under immense strain as I tried hard to keep up in the first job of my actual career. Having graduated and successfully gotten a low-level, poverty-wage, project-based, yet full-time-AND-with-benefits, job in fisheries/wildlife, I was in no position to be picky about the type of work being offered to me. I took it without asking many questions. Unfortunately for my future self who now meditates on the interconnectedness of the ley lines of my past, present, and future life, that job entailed heaving thousands of pounds of commercial fishery netting through the boggy surf of the Columbia River mouth, ten hours a day, for months and months on end. Beach seining.... easy with a block and tackle and winch, but my employer didn't provide those. Paying minimum wage to a never-ending supply of eager-eyed biologists was probably a lot cheaper than investing in that equipment. So, we were faced with the unbelievably difficult task of hauling seine nets by hand. (Draft horses used to be responsible for these duties in ages past - there's murals in Astoria showing this.) My coworkers were all men, some 6' tall or more, compared to my 5'4" 120lbs. Although I was well-muscled and athletic, the physical duties of this job were still a major challenge, but one that I refused to allow myself to fail. When the boat delivered the net end, I grabbed on and heaved at those nets, throwing the end over my shoulder and using the torque generated by twisting my torso to slowly, slowly progress one laboring foot after the other up the beach. I still remember how my wadered boots dug into the sand. 

When the net was hauled up, we sorted through the contents and deposited the fish into buckets of varying sizes. Funny starry flounders, shining Chinooks, all manners of native and invasive fishes ended up being sorted, measured, itinerized in an effort to understand the efficacy of different sized net holes and soaking periods. After the accounting-for was over, we returned the fish to the river and then fed the end of the net back into our little boat, which backed away from the shoreline to reset the netting for another soaking period. This repeated itself as many times in a ten hour period as we could manage. On varying remote bars of the Columbia River, it was exhilarating and fun, surrounded by nature and the joys of physical work, roasting our lunches over beach fires as we reclined on the slope and waited for the boat to deliver the net back to the shoreline, ready for us to heave, heave, and heave some more. I was overworked and underpaid, but I was doing something amazing and I had finally embarked on my career. I was happy. They were wonderful days, and they were what ended up damaging my body for life. 

The constant torque of the net-hauling resulted in the rotation and dislocation of my SI joint, although I didn't realize that for many years later. The stilted gait, pain, and physical deformation in my spine/pelvis/shoulder were diagnosed by one doctor as scoliosis, and by another as a short leg. Nobody could explain to me why these chronic issues waited until my twenties to appear. The second diagnosis resulted in visiting specialists, paying for custom orthotics and shoes, and physical therapy, which strained my meager field biologist income to the max. Desperate for a solution, I pursed these things on my own dime. I had originally filed an L&I claim at the urging of my coworkers, but soon had to sign off that I was "fit for work" and had no lingering issues, because my field season was running out and I was told that I would not be hired for any subsequent seasons if this medical issue was still an ongoing problem. I didn't want to relinquish my fragile foothold in my career; there were literally thousands of other recent biology graduates ready to take my place at a moments notice. I also was operating on the advice of various doctors, each convinced that just a little more time, a little more physical therapy, and everything would be back to normal. So, the L&I documents were submitted, attesting that the problem was resolved. My signing-off informed the state that the issue was fixed and they had no ongoing duty to pay for treatment of an issue that their employment had caused. I continued to work. 

But the problem was not resolved. I had no way of predicting the magnitude of what I was agreeing to at the time. I didn't - couldn't - possess the foresight that was required to understand the liability I had relinquished, and the physical implications that would persist for decades after that decision. It took over five years of continuing to search for the answer before one was found. I had since moved on from that job and into progressively higher level ones, progressing further into my career. The SI joint remained dislocated that entire time, a constant reminder of the sacrifice I made for this competitive career field. When I finally found a physical therapist who specialized in the pelvis, he did a basic first assessment and announced, "Your SI joint is dislocated!" No short leg, no scoliosis. Essentially, I had been living with a chronically dislocated joint. I still remember him telling me about how leveraging the SI joint is a move used by MMA fighters to force their opponent into a tap out, such is the pain it causes. The good thing was that the original tap-out attempt happened years ago - my job had inflicted the initial torque, but I hadn't quit. I persisted. So, the manipulation to reset the joint was nothing. A few forced leg rotations later, and the curved spine, the uneven shoulders, the pain... it was gone. 

But it reemerged again soon after, as the soft tissues and ligaments which had been stretched for half a decade failed to hold the proper alignment. I had a temporary solution, and when the alignment slips too much, there are self-performed techniques that I can use to restore it, if only for a little while, until the jostling of a horse under my seat twists my bones and disrupts the balance once again. The issue comes and goes, but it's with me for life. It's a physical reminder of the payment, the little test, that my career exacted from me early on. 

Lately, I haven't been riding out as much as usual. Not because of old injuries incurred from dedication to a profession that chew ups professionals and spits them out again, but for a much different reason: where I live tends to attract murderers. 

In the time that my husband and I have lived next to the Teanaway, there have been two murderers whose respective manhunts have come within a half-mile our house, and definitively encompassed significant parts of the nearby Teanaway Community Forest. It averages out to one murderer-manhunt every three years, actually. The thick and lush vegetation of the overstocked ponderosa, growing over steep and unforgiving terrain, provides a great environment for conditioning horses. It's also perfect for individuals to hide from law enforcement after having committed such crimes as murdering children, strangers, and the elderly. 

As I write, an ongoing manhunt encompasses the Teanaway. I'm only aware of the details that have been released to the public, and I don't go out of my way to read more than I have to. There are too many other horrific things to be aware of in the world without needing to invite more of them into my head. A few weeks ago when I went riding, multiple Sheriff's department trucks and offroad vehicles were parked at the usually-empty trailhead that frequent. I approached them and asked if it was safe to ride in the area, and was given an equivocal answer: there was no reason to think this particular trail was more dangerous than any others. The deputies explained that it was coincidental that they selected this trailhead for patrol on the same day I decided to ride. But, it was still part of the active manhunt area, so there's still a chance of the criminal's presence: he could be nearby, or he might not be. Nobody knows. Schrödinger's murderer, if you will. The likelihood of encountering him was unknowable, but low, the logic of my brain informed me. I decided to ride that day, knowing that there were quite a few officers in the surrounding area. 

But the following weekend, driven by the hot sunny weather to get away from my property and ride out again, I returned to my favorite trailhead, and encountered an empty parking lot. What would in typical times be a delightful environment of natural serenity instead seemed oppressively silent. In the heat of midday, crickets hummed from the dry grasses beyond the gravel parking area. Where last week the deputies had staged their search party, only heatwaves pulsed over the rocky ground. Even my horse, Vella, seemed quieter than usual. She stood still next to the trailer and just looked into the distance, not even eating from her haynet. The whole scene had an air of anticipation as I, too, looked uneasily into the trees where the trail meandered through the shade and out of sight. 

I saddled up, locked my SUV and horse trailer, and mounted. Vella and I set off through the trees. The stillness she exhibited earlier, a sign of tension in horses, gave way into jolting movement. She was feeding off my anxiety, and I could feel her body's tension beneath my seat. Her head swiveled first left, then right, then left again, staring at things beyond the edge of the trail. I worried about what she was looking at, what was drawing her attention with such intensity. In turn, I, too, peered back and forth, trying to detect any lurking shapes in the shadows of the trees. The bear bell that I tie to the saddle on such outings (mainly to warn deer and elk of our presence) bounced erratically, clanging rather than cheerfully jingling. 

I thought about my talk with the deputies the previous weekend. They had assured me that riding here was fine, there was no greater risk here than anywhere else. I had no reason to believe that had changed over the last seven days. But that logic began to pale as we got further away from the trailhead. 

Beyond my thoughts about what we might encounter, Vella's tense jerky motions made me even more anxious, as I felt the instability of my pelvis shifting my seat bones. I was losing my balance and no longer able to sit squarely in the saddle, unable to keep my spine straight as my hips dis-aligned. Once that balance goes away, it's a matter of ungracefully clinging on until I can dismount, reset my hips, and calm my horse.

I stopped riding with stirrups almost a year ago, as holding weight in my feet beneath a shifting horse causes my pelvis to mis-align almost instantly. I now ride with a special saddle I imported from Germany right before Trump's tariffs hit. The saddle is dressage-inspired with a deep seat, but has a soft tree and no stirrups. It could be considered a hybrid between a dressage saddle and a bareback pad. It's been perfect for my purposes - it strongly resembles a standard dressage saddle in both appearance and structure, rather than the shapeless blob of so many bareback pads, but also forces me to maintain my balance in my seat. There is no option to weight my stirrups with my feet and twist my pelvis. As such, the saddle has been a lifesaver for maintaining my confidence and allowing me to continue riding much as I always have. 

And, that is where the steady collection of my horse comes into account. More than ever, I rely on Vella to maintain the stable foundation needed to keep me balanced. I have a good seat and can handle occasional fluctuations and upsets, but a constant bouncy, inverted frame over steep and rocky terrain is highly unpleasant. The thing with horses is that you cannot force a frame. The Olympics - with the supposedly most elite riders in the world - are living proof that you can force a horse into a certain carriage but you cannot force relaxation or proper movements into these animals. Real collection - elevated back, symmetrically swinging legs, gracefully arched neck with alert head - comes only from a place of internal calmness and relaxation. We can learn much from horses. 

That steady foundation was not present today, so with none of that calm relaxation, my horse and I continued on the trail until we broke through the forest and into a meadow that sweeps up to a distant treeline. The meadow, an open grassland a quarter-mile long, is normally a place that calms the senses, but as the grasses swayed peacefully in the breeze, I felt nothing but tension. The ride was becoming bouncier and bouncier. Vella would occasionally balk at shapes in the shadows, before quickly lurching forward again. Her head was like a radar, pointed into the distance, ears straight up and nose thrust toward on high alert, feeding into my worry that she was looking at someone moving in the trees at the edge of the meadow. My mind whispered suggestions that unseen eyes were watching us from the woods. All the while, the clanging of the bear bell lended to an eerie atmosphere, the cacophony sounding like a warning against the quiet of the midday heat. 

We eventually hit the treeline at the end of the meadow. The trail at that point moves up a steep incline with almost 200 feet of elevation gain in a relatively short amount of trail. This terminates at an old, overgrown ridgeline logging road, which could be used by a determined person to help them along their way into the Enchantments. As Vella and I moved on, we quickly gained elevation on the brushy trail. The tension in Vella's back resulted in her using her front legs to uncomfortably drag us up the slope, rather than powerfully pushing with her hind end, so I clung on with my legs rather than balanced with my seat. Throughout this chaotic progression, I was constantly switching between scanning the trees and looking as far up the trail as I could see, worried that I would see an armed man up ahead.  The bell clanged all the while, stoking fears that it was acting as an unwise attractant for us rather than a deterrent for wildlife.

The steep trail ended and we crashed upwards through some downed branches and onto the logging road. I halted Vella and we stood, motionless. The noise of our ascent immediately dissipated into the hot air, and nothing but the crickets could be droning in the heat. Vella was still on high alert, and she stared up the logging road before us. Her stillness paired with her intensity in the surrounding silence fueled my unease. Things felt wrong, off. 

The logical part of my brain knew that this location was no more risky than any other in the area. If you looked at our location on a map, the woods before us would stretch, nearly unimpeded except for some highways, into the Okanogan-Wenatchee National Forest and all the way up into Canada. There is a lot of land out there and the chances of encountering a wanted murderer on this trail ride was highly unlikely... but not zero. Law enforcement's manhunt and public safety warnings covered a large geographic area, including my house, and advised caution but didn't restrict access to any particular location. That can't be done when the danger isn't isolated. One location is just as safe, or dangerous, as the next. 

As I sat atop my horse, tensed in stillness as we both listened to the silent forest, I tried to think critically about the situation. The likelihood of running into the murderer had to be lower than the likelihood of not running into him, but I didn't have any conception of what those odds were. I had no data or information to base that decision on, except for the knowledge that a rogue killer was on the loose somewhere in thousands and thousands of acres of forest. He was just as likely to be encountered on my way back to the trailhead, as he was to be hiding behind the next curve of the trail. I had not way of telling where he might be. What I did know is that if I were to encounter him, it would be unspeakably bad. Even the suggestion of his presence had been enough to throw off the entire balance of this outing. I couldn't remember exactly why I wanted to go riding in this location, when I knew that it was part of the manhunt area. It may have been because it was my familiar, favorite trail, and just a week ago I had been assured there was no more risk here than anywhere else in the surrounding area. Or maybe it was because I wanted to prove to myself that I could make the difficult choice to persist in my plans, even when uncertainty loomed around me.

How does one make a choice in a situation where the odds are unknowable? Or where the effects of one of the outcomes would have a disproportionately large impact, but there is no way to gauge the probability of its happening? It's even harder to weigh your choice when your critical thinking is impaired - by worry about earning a paycheck, progressing your career, or running into a murderer. We can't live our lives in fear, but we also need to make logical and sane choices.

I decided to turn around. The day was already off, and I didn't want to succumb to the sunk cost fallacy by prolonging the unenjoyable outing. Vella crashed back through the brush with a lot more forward enthusiasm than she had coming in. She was just as looky as before, disconcerting me by staring into the trees around us, but I was at least reassured by the fact that the trailhead awaited us a mile or two away. 

We got to the steepest section of trail, and I chose to dismount. If going up on an unbalanced horse is hard, coming down a steep slope is terrifying. I swung my legs over and slid off her back, grabbing the reins and leading the way down the hill back to the meadow. I was highly aware of my unsteady gait, a combination of nerves and the fact that my left hip was jutting out further than my right, as well as the fact that I had a nervous horse two feet behind me on the wrong end of a slope. 

At the time, I was focused on getting safely down the hill, remounting, and getting out of there. I wasn't thinking about anything beyond where to place my feet. But looking back at that afternoon with the wider perspective of hindsight, the curious convergence of various themes is what interests me. Life is not a series of disconnected episodes, it's a book with chapters interwoven with the same life-long themes. The need to make rational decisions with little information to fall back on. The importance of balance in mind and body as I progress through life. The question of how one weighs the invisible cost of ambition, and identifying the gray line of when persistence crosses over into recklessness. When you encounter a fork in the trail of life, but can't see beyond the immediate curve of each separate path, how do you know which one to choose? 

That afternoon, Schrödinger's murderer did and did not watch as I led my horse down the hill and back to the trailhead.