A Caged Bird and the Sky

I’ve been in prison for forty-eight years. The world outside has changed in ways I can only imagine, but inside, my reality is frozen in time. I am here, behind these cold bars and razor-topped fences, not just because of the charges of kidnapping and murder, but because of the memory that haunts me—the memory of losing the woman I loved, stolen from my arms by something no one believes exists.

My name is Robin. My sister’s name is Sparrow. We were born to parents who saw the world differently than most. My father was an art professor; my mother, a graduate student. They were children of the sixties, hippies who believed in peace, love, and living close to the land. When I was young, we moved to a sprawling farm in northern California, a place owned by a family friend who’d inherited over five hundred acres of wild, untamed beauty.

We weren’t alone. About twenty other families lived on the property with us, housed in campers, buses, tents, and the scattered outbuildings. Our community survived on what we grew, sharing everything from food to stories. We didn’t eat meat or use animal products—we made clothes and goods from hemp, which we cultivated alongside a few other plants not native to the state. The police visited often, searching for runaways or investigating rumors that we were growing or smoking pot. They never found anything, and life went on.

When I was eleven, everything changed. One September morning, the police arrived with a bus and took all the children to school. Until then, we’d been taught at home, surrounded by people who understood us. Now, we were outsiders—hippie kids thrown into classrooms with red-blooded Americans who seemed to worship the war in Vietnam and everything we stood against. They mocked our clothes, our hair, even our lunches, which were nothing but fruits and vegetables. My hair was long, reaching the middle of my back. One day, older boys pinned me down and hacked it off with pocket knives, laughing as I cried.

I had a thousand reasons to run away from school, but one reason to stay. Her name was Sky. She was everything to me—the only person who made me feel like I belonged. Her father was a car dealer and a city councilman, and he hated me with a passion. But that didn’t stop us. We spent time together at school, hung out after classes, and sometimes, when the night was quiet, I’d sneak her out of her house so we could lie in the park, watching the stars and talking about dreams. I’d always return her before dawn, careful not to get caught.

After graduation, our time together was running out. I had to register for the draft, and Sky’s parents were sending her to a university on the East Coast, desperate to separate her from me and everything they considered dangerous about California. Before we parted, Sky and I decided to escape for a few days, driving north into the mountains to camp and savor our last moments together.

Sky drove a Volkswagen Thing—a car so ugly it was almost charming. But it could go anywhere, and that’s all we cared about. The first night in the woods was perfect. We made a fire, stayed up late watching the stars, and fell asleep in each other’s arms, surrounded by the gentle hush of nature.

The next morning, we rebuilt the fire and lounged around the camp, soaking in the peace. I sketched pictures of Sky, hoping the drawings would comfort me during the long separation ahead. I’d inherited my parents’ talent for art, and I poured my heart into every line.

That night, I woke to the sound of nuts falling on the tent and the calls of a nightbird, loud and unfamiliar. I asked Sky if she’d heard it, but she hadn’t. The next day, we spent more time at camp, and I drew more pictures. We took a stroll through the woods, leaving our camp for a few hours. When we returned, our food was gone. I figured an animal had raided us, and I was uneasy—worried about bears.

That night, the woods erupted with noise. Coyotes howled from the ridge, owls hooted, and those strange nightbirds called even louder than before. Nuts rained down, hitting everything except the tent. The next day, we walked to a small mountain lake we’d seen earlier. As we strolled down the dirt road, I heard something pacing us in the woods. Fear gnawed at me. Was it Sky’s father, furious and looking for revenge? Had he found us and brought someone to hurt me?

We hurried back to camp, and though it was late, we decided to leave. We were nearly to the car when I heard a growl—deep, guttural, and so powerful I felt it in my bones. The ground shook with pounding footsteps, and through the trees, we saw it: a giant, ape-like creature barreling straight at us, teeth bared, arms outstretched.

It moved with terrifying speed, switching from all fours to two feet, gaining momentum as it crashed through the underbrush. I threw my arms around Sky, desperate to protect her, but the beast swept me aside like I was nothing. I slammed into a tree, pain exploding in my ribs. The creature snatched Sky up in its massive arms and kept running, not even slowing down.

Dazed and hurting, I scrambled to my feet and chased after them. Sky’s screams echoed through the woods, growing fainter with every step. I ran as fast as I could, but the distance between us grew until her cries faded into silence. I followed a game trail, searching for any sign of her, but found nothing. Eventually, I reached a stream at the bottom of a gorge, lost and alone.

Night fell, and I huddled against a cliff, terrified and ashamed. Rocks tumbled from above, logs crashed down, and even a tree fell nearby. I was paralyzed, unable to fight or flee, haunted by the knowledge that I’d failed to protect the person I loved most.

At first light, I staggered down the stream, desperate for help. Eventually, I stumbled onto a road and collapsed at the edge of traffic. A police officer found me, shaking me awake. I tried to explain what had happened, but my story sounded insane.

It took hours for the police to find our camp. Everything was in disarray, and there was no sign of Sky. I spent the night in jail. The next morning, I was taken back to the campsite. Sky’s father was there, seething with rage. The police had found my drawings of Sky, and he beat me in front of everyone, blaming me for her disappearance.

The police searched for days, using horses and dogs, but they never found Sky. I drew a sketch of the creature that had taken her, hoping someone would believe me. But back then, no one knew about Bigfoot, and anyone who did was considered crazy.

After a week in jail, I was charged with kidnapping and murder. My trial came swiftly. My public defender was related to the sheriff, and I knew I stood no chance. I asked to defend myself, a decision that sealed my fate. Without a lawyer, I couldn’t appeal the verdict. I was found guilty and sent to a mental hospital, where I spent two years sedated and forgotten.

After that, I was transferred to federal prison, where I’ve been ever since.

The years blurred together. My family visited sometimes, and for a while, Sky’s parents came, begging me to tell them what I’d done with their daughter. I told them the same story, over and over, until they stopped coming. I understood their pain—no closure, no answers, only the endless torment of not knowing.

In prison, I kept busy with my art. I drew portraits of Sky for other inmates, tattooing her image on their arms and backs. It was my way of keeping her memory alive, of holding onto the only part of her I had left.

Sometimes, I dream of that day in the woods. I see the beast’s eyes, wild and ancient, and I hear Sky’s screams echoing through the trees. I wonder if she suffered, if she’s still out there somewhere, lost in the wilds of California. I wonder if anyone will ever believe my story.

The world outside moves on. Technology advances, wars begin and end, people are born and die. But inside, I am a caged bird, mourning my Sky. I walk these concrete halls, surrounded by high fences and razor wire, haunted by the memory of the girl who was taken from me by something no one believes exists.

I don’t know how many more years I’ll survive in here. My body grows older, my spirit weaker. But every day, I remember her—the way her hair caught the sunlight, the sound of her laughter, the warmth of her hand in mine. I remember the nights we spent watching the stars, dreaming of a future that was stolen from us.

If you’re reading this, keep us in your prayers. Pray for Sky, wherever she is. Pray for me, that I might find peace. And pray that someday, someone will listen to my story and see the truth in my eyes.

Because I am Robin, the caged bird. And I am still mourning my Sky.