In this powerful and immersive story, Lloyd Lofthouse draws on his background as a former Marine and educator to explore resilience, memory, and the bond between a child and the natural world. Set against a changing Sierra landscape,

 

The Wind is My Friend follows a young girl navigating responsibility, loss, and courage — guided by both the land and the lessons she carries within her. Lloyd writes from California, where themes of climate, wilderness, and endurance often shape his work.

Ten-year-old Sofia-Alba Soto was already sweating as she climbed the narrow game trail into the hills behind the house on the 14,500-acre Lonely Valley Ranch, where she lived with her mother.

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Several gallons of water weighed down her father’s tired, faded Marine Corps backpack. In one hand, she carried a stiff metal rake, in the other a Hula Hoe, using them upside-down like walking sticks to steady herself.

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It was a Saturday in June, just after school had ended, and she was on the first day of her annual summer quest to keep the wild Madrone she’d inherited from her daddy healthy and safe from drought and wildfires. She’d started walking at dawn, a half-hour before sunrise. She would enter fifth grade in August.

It wasn’t easy being ten years old and feeling like the only adult in what was left of her family.

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“One more step,” she whispered.

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Daddy used to say, “Sia, all great journeys start with one step followed by another.”

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“Just focus on the next step. Before you know it, you’ll reach your destination.”

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Distracted, she stumbled, nearly losing her balance. If she fell with all that weight on her back, she might not get up again. The backpack called Phil had waited on a kitchen chair the night before so she could slip into it without kneeling. She could walk with it. Standing up from the ground would be another matter.

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She paused and glanced back at the house, nearly a mile behind her, nestled in the valley below. Three miles remained before she would reach her dad’s special Madrone.

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She’d started hiking these hills when she was three. Back then, she rode in a toddler backpack. Dad was strong.

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When he died, everything changed.

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Since then, her mother moved around the house quietly, as if unsure where she belonged. Sofia-Alba missed the sound of her laughter.

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“Don’t stop,” she told herself, turning away from the house.

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The morning air was still cool, but her body burned from the climb. She passed through a forest where many Ponderosa pine and Douglas fir trees were dead or dying.

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“It wasn’t always like this, Sia,” Dad had said on their last hike together. “Hotter weather and drought are changing these hills.”

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She adjusted Phil on her shoulders and kept climbing.

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When she was six, she’d asked why he named the backpack Phil.

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“Because it’s spelled FILBE,” he said. “So I called it Phil for short.”

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She’d named her own pink backpack Pinkey.

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They’d been on their way to Madrone that day, too.

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The tree stood high near the crest of a hill, with Mount Whitney filling the horizon. Her father once promised they would climb that mountain together when she turned ten.

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When she reached the right ridge, she left the trail and climbed the steeper slope beyond it. This was the hardest part. Three steps. Stop. Breathe. Three more steps.

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At the crest, she saw Madrone.

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Over a hundred feet tall. Coppery-red bark peeling in soft curls. Standing alone, rooted deep.

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The wind moved through its evergreen leaves.

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She slid off Phil and let it drop with a thud. Freed from the weight, she felt almost light enough to float.

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She settled against the trunk and closed her eyes.

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“Love you, Sia,” she imagined the wind saying.

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“Chores come first.”

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She smiled through tears.

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From her pocket, she withdrew a small plastic container holding a portion of his ashes. When her father came home from Iraq the last time, he came home in an urn that now sat on their mantel.

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She walked around the tree, scattering a pinch at a time.

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“I miss you, Dad,” she whispered.

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Then she began her work.

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She cleared brush beneath the shade line and cut back saplings. Her father had installed perforated pipes around the roots so water could reach deep underground. She uncovered the capped risers and poured a gallon into each opening.

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She would return next Saturday with more.

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She didn’t want to risk the tree’s life to chance.

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After finishing, she rested in the shade, ate her energy bars, and closed her eyes for a short while, listening to the wind.

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When she rose and climbed back to the crest, she stopped.

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A dark plume of smoke rose between her and home. A wall of fire moved quickly through the dry forest below. The wind was blowing away from her, toward the flames.

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“What do I do?” she whispered.

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The wind rustled Madrone’s leaves.

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“Walk perpendicular to the wind,” she imagined him saying. “Fire moves with it. Keep your distance. Pay attention. The wind is our friend.”

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“I love you, Dad,” she whispered.

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She looked toward Mount Whitney.

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There was only one way to go.

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Toward the mountains.

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Her father had taught her to be ready for anything.

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To be continued...