Monday, May 20, 2013

Just Tote Up the Odds---Part 2 2011


Mysteries abound. Inexplicable moments in time and space that elicit the query, Just what exactly is going on here? As previously mentioned, I have a sizeable list of odd occurrences and unlikely meetings from my own experience and also have a fun book called Beyond Coincidence that’s chock-full of these peculiar stories. Reading them one after another only reinforces a feeling of conviction that the phenomenon of the “meaningful coincidence” is legitimate. Every one of us has a few tales that could be included in such a compilation. They’re so compelling when they happen, so strange….
 It so happens that I’m involved with quite a few “scientist-types”—intelligent, highly-rational, natural-born-skeptics—who instinctively distrust anything that smacks of superstition or the paranormal. Who desire some Scientific Proof, not conjecture and Unnamable Principles. I’ve tried to explore the concept of the meaningful coincidence with one of their tribe, on occasion, when such an event pertained to us both. (A smart, well-read person might have some original insights worth sharing; I’d be all ears.) But thus far I’ve unfailingly been rebuffed; none of these people will even discuss the matter.
Barb, an entomologist affiliated with the Smithsonian—has the PhD and more— was typical in her resolute refusal to entertain any notion that synchronicities could be more than a product of pure chance. Her arguments fell along these predictable lines: With so many things happening simultaneously in our complex world it’s no surprise that, every so often, all the cherries line up and you have one of those jackpot-moments. The odds may seem impossibly low but they really aren’t nearly as low as one would think. These things are nothing more than random flukes with no special meaning; to invest them with significance is misguided and naive. Solid reasoning that flat-out disregards something undeniably real.
Barb had taken The Firm Stance and, in this instance, her somewhat-patronizing manner irritated me so I pushed back with a brief summary of the ridiculous string of fortuitous events that guided me to those amazing places where I’ve lived and worked, the dream jobs—that many would say qualify me to claim a charmed life. (Admittedly, this wasn’t an ideal illustration; a couple of the more astonishing stories from my book would have served better.) But she just smiled and shook her head dismissively when I’d finished. “Nope. Un-uh. Pure chance.” The scientist-types—and, despite my tone, I by no means intend to use that label in a derogatory fashion—have dug in their heels. But I’m just as certain they’re wrong. C. G. Jüng would think so, too.                                                            
I believe Jüng was among our great 20th-century-minds, particularly in the sense of one who challenged the prevailing paradigms of his field by introducing radically new and creative ideas. His vast knowledge of history and mythology, combined with a profound understanding of the human psyche’s baffling depths, afforded new ways to view our inner world. I’m both inspired and cowed when considering his compassion and sheer energy; the remarkable scholarship, the synthesis of so much disparate information into a monumental body of work Jüng produced while endlessly treating patients, travelling, lecturing…working on manuscripts and writing many letters every day. And then retiring for part of each year to a stone tower (of his design) by the lakeshore at Bollingen where he continued working to the very end. He exulted in tending his stove, chopping firewood, and hauling buckets of hand-pumped water—living, in seclusion, the contemplative and intentionally-simple life of a modern Mage.
I have a copy of his delightful autobiography—Memories, Dreams, Reflections—which he finished shortly before his death. He recounts two highly-significant occurrences in 1898 that led to his, rather unexpectedly, choosing  psychology from among other fields of medicine in which to specialize. Rather than summarize his experiences, I’ll quote directly from the book (editing slightly for narrative flow):
“During the summer holidays something happened that was destined to influence me profoundly. I was sitting in my room, studying my textbooks. In the adjoining room, with door ajar, my mother was knitting. That was our dining room where the round walnut table stood. It had come from the dowry of my grandmother and was about seventy years old. My mother sat, knitting, about a yard from the table. Suddenly there sounded a report like a pistol shot. I jumped up and rushed into the room. My mother, flabbergasted, was sitting in her armchair, the knitting fallen from her hands. She stammered, “W-w-what’s happened?” and stared at the table. Following her eyes, I saw what had happened: the table top had split from the rim to beyond the center and not along any joint; the split ran right through the solid wood. I was thunderstruck. How could such a thing happen? A table of solid walnut, seventy years old…how could it split on a summer day in the relatively high humidity characteristic of our climate? If it had stood next to a heated stove on a cold, dry winter day it might have been conceivable.”
Spiritualism was going through one of its periods of extreme popularity at the time. His mother was an active adherent; she held seances in their home and believed in any number of paranormal phenomena. She made a comment—vague, but loaded with innuendo—that the incident held some meaning and cast him a significant glance. Jüng was disturbed: “Against my will I was annoyed with myself for not finding anything to say.”
Barb  would likely scoff at their reactions. She’d have a ready argument about built-up tensions in the old wood; that there undoubtedly was a perfectly reasonable explanation. It was odd, yes, but certainly not some sort of supernatural occurrence. And Barb could well be right. To be fair and objective: this story is (so far as I know) unverified, and I’ve never seen a photograph of the broken table nor heard further commentary. The across-the-grain element is what makes it truly hard to fathom.
Jüng goes right on:
“Two weeks later I came home in the evening and found the household—my mother, sister, and the maid—in great agitation. An hour earlier there had been another deafening report. The noise had come from the direction of the sideboard, a heavy piece of furniture dating from the early nineteenth century. They had already looked it all over, but had found no trace of a split. I immediately began to examine it and the surrounding area, fruitlessly. Then I began on the interior. In the cupboard containing the bread basket I found a loaf and, beside it, the bread knife. Its blade had snapped off in several pieces. The handle lay in one corner of the rectangular basket, and in each of the other corners lay a piece of the blade. The knife had been used shortly before, at the four o’clock tea.” In concluding the account he writes that, once more, his mother shot him a loaded glance. Again, the young man was irritated by his inability to respond.
“The next day I took the shattered knife to one of the best cutlers in town. He examined it and shook his head, saying, ‘This knife is perfectly sound; there is no fault in the steel. Someone must have deliberately broken it piece by piece. It could be done by sticking the blade into the crack of a drawer and breaking off a piece at a time. But good steel can’t explode.’” Jüng knew otherwise: “The hypothesis that it was just a coincidence went much too far….So what was it?”
These events and later ones of a similar nature led to his formulating the concept of synchronicity; up to that time, no one had recognized that thematic or clustered coincidences might be related to the subconscious and fraught with personal meaning.
So. Another personal connection I feel with Carl Gustav Jüng is that I’ve had similar experiences which, because of their strange improbability and curious timing, also left me posing that same question: What is going on here? The two tales that follow, coincidentally, both revolve around things breaking spontaneously:

In 1979 I purchased—as a present for my family—a cardboard box containing one dozen glass mugs. Though imported from France they weren’t too pricey and became quite popular. (Cafés used them and you still see one from time to time….) These mugs were made of clear Pyrex glass; a simple but elegant design that I really liked—straight-sided, easy-to-clean and very durable. You could drop one (maybe not on the sidewalk, but onto kitchen linoleum) and it wouldn’t break. My family used them continuously and I ended up with a couple that served me well for many years.
The event in question happened shortly before I moved to the Owens Valley in 1983. My brother must have been home on a break from college at the time because all four of us were in the family room that evening, watching television.
Suddenly there “sounded a report” from the kitchen; nothing like a pistol shot but definitely some sort of minor explosion. I was first on-scene. We all looked around but I was first to open a cupboard door above the counter with shelves that held bowls and other kitchenware, including some spare glasses and mugs. And it took a moment before I realized that one of those French Pyrex mugs had exploded. Since it was made of tempered glass, it had shattered into scores—maybe hundreds—of tiny, roughly cubic, pieces that were strewn all across the shelf. We were all stunned and amazed.
This would be Barb’s take: Pyrex glass is made under very high pressure so it can withstand great temperature variants. The mug may have had a slight nick in it that compromised its integrity and all that internal pressure caused it to “blow up.” It could happen at any time…a ticking time-bomb.
You’re probably right again, Barb. In fact, tempered glass is known to explode spontaneously—usually (but not always) in, or just out of hot ovens. But why did it sit around all that time waiting for my whole family to be gathered together a few yards away before it committed mug-suicide? It could’ve gone off at three a.m. and we wouldn’t have even heard it. “Pure chance,” she’d reply. Well…maybe so.
The other incident also involved glass. And, similarly, I was there to witness it. From an entry that I wrote in the guest-log of a house I was caretaking at the time:
“A most curious incident: a month or so ago before I went to Ventura I was reading on the couch one morning about seven a.m. When I first started staying here a couple years ago I found, while exploring the floor cabinet beneath the swamp cooler, the lens of a magnifying glass—4” wide, ½” thick; the kind Granny uses to read fine print—but the plastic handle had broken and was gone. So there was just the glass lens (a beautiful object in itself…) which I recognized as a valuable aid in viewing rock specimens and wildflowers. So I moved it onto the bar and it’s lived there under the clock for the last two years and was often employed to check out some delicate little thing (at least by me). Nobody moved it away while I was gone all summer. SO: That morning while I was cozy and reading on the couch with Mount Whitney a glance away I heard a very soft sound. A little ‘tink!’ or, maybe, ‘knnck!’ followed by an also-tiny, soft ‘thud’ on the carpet. I got up to investigate and found that the lens had just spontaneously shattered. Basically, it broke in half but with one other little chunk from near the edge and some minute shards which forced me to get out the vacuum. It was such an odd sound in the morning silence. I’m sure there’s a rational explanation but, since so many of these strange things happen to me, I LOVE the fact that the lens sat there for so long and waited into daylight hours so I was in the utterly silent room with it before it popped open like a seedpod—a strangely pleasant sound I’ve never heard nor will likely ever hear again—and half of it plopped onto the floor.”
Note the common theme that all these events were witnessed. They could have occurred when no one was around. Barb would say of my questioning the significance of all these very curious events, “Nope. Just good, old-fashioned, 100% pure chance.”
You’re wrong, Barb. You…are…wrong.
Contrary to the sound of my claims, there’s no doubt some rational explanation for all these events. I’m not a “true believer.” By nature, I too am a card-carrying skeptic. In the case of these anecdotes, the timing is what I find equally odd. Jüng’s stories, as famous as they are, were apparently unverified. As for my two: spontaneously-shattering glass is a known phenomenon, not nearly as strange as it appears on the surface. At issue here is the implacable resistance certain people have to acknowledging that there are things—even in our modern world—that aren’t just out of reach of the scientific method, but are the product of influences that we don’t understand or even have names for. Which is not to say we can’t sense their reality. What bothers me is that the scientist-types don’t even recognize that they’re following their own beliefs with something very like religious zeal. They don’t perceive that they’ve elevated Science to something anathema to their way of explaining reality: a veritable religion.
Evidence of this can be seen constantly in the way that science treats the True Mysteries; by completely taking for granted compellingly-unexplainable (but every-day) phenomena. Life “just happened.” DNA is thought of as—and I’ve actually heard it called—“just another molecule.” (Except it’s the only one that self-replicates….)                  Back to Jüng: when he came to America in 1924-25 he visited the Pueblo Indians of Taos and spoke at length with their chief and found their encounter extremely moving: “As I sat with Ochwiay Biano on the roof, the blazing sun rising higher and higher, he said, pointing to the sun, ’Is not he who moves there our father? How can anyone say different? How can there be another god? Nothing can be without the sun.’ His excitement, which was already perceptible, mounted still higher; he struggled for words, and exclaimed at last, ‘What would a man do alone in the mountains? He cannot even build his fire without him.’
“I asked him whether he did not think the sun might be a fiery ball shaped by an invisible god. My question did not even arouse astonishment, let alone anger. Obviously it touched nothing within him; he did not even think my question stupid. It merely left him cold. I had the feeling that I had come upon an insurmountable wall. His only reply was, ‘The sun is God. Everyone can see that.’”
This is a charming and poignant account but it also personifies a type of unquestioning certitude also common in our more modern, science-influenced view of an accepted “reality.” In the western world (or at least in America), whether or not it’s admitted, we seem to believe that “the unknown” is a nut soon to be cracked. “The Unknowable”—barely recognized, never spoken of—is virtually taboo. Life is just some random fluke; an accident. DNA is “just another molecule.” Everyone can see that.
I think it would behoove us to cultivate a greater sense of something the Pueblos, (and so many other “unsophisticated” cultures throughout time) never lost sight of: the sacred and, ultimately, utterly mysterious nature of our world. It matters little if you think a star is a ball of burning gases or a god. It’s a truly astounding thing. One of them, old Sol, gave us the miracle of life. Maybe worth reflecting on, next time you witness a sunrise. Whether or not it’s splendid….
                                                                                                            26 Mar 2011, 20 May 2013


© 2013 Tim Forsell

All rights reserved.
                                                                                                         
                                                                                                 

Thursday, May 9, 2013

Tribute to Mugs 1992


 Heading west toward Sonora Pass, a few miles after it leaves 395, Highway 108 climbs through a winding river gorge. But before starting up the real grade it briefly levels-out and passes a Forest Service campground. Within this camp a footbridge spans the river. It provides access by trail to what was, for sixteen summers, my baileywick: the Upper West Walker watershed (now part of Hoover Wilderness). Just a few hundred yards farther up the highway is Leavitt Meadows Pack Station, an outfitter/guide service. Day rides. Owned and operated by Bart Cranney, “the pack station” was where my horses, by arrangement, stayed when they weren’t in the backcountry. Over the years, I spent a lot of time there packing for trips to my ranger-cabin in Upper Piute Meadows. It was a charming place.
So I got to know all the folks who lived and worked at Cranney’s; they were both associates and friends. A few were truly amazing people, like characters out of some western novel. None more than Dr. Will Grishaw, a retired General Practitioner from Yuba City, who was known to all but his oldest friends and family as, simply, “Doc.” He was part-owner along with Bart and lived in a little shack from late May until the place was boarded-up come October. A small, lean man with craggy features, he helped out around the place; packed, fixed trails, and was never seen wearing anything but his beat-up Stetson, Wrangler jeans and a blue-pinstriped railroad shirt—always filthy. You’d never guess he was a doctor.
He’s featured in many of my ranger-stories and deserves at least a little introduction. Doc was a complex, unique person; a flawed jewel with many facets. Among them: Stanford-educated mule-packer, horseshoer, cook, trail-builder, musician, singer, song-writer, squaredance-hollerer, family man, ranger-mentor and certified anachronism. He could be a real joy—Doc had a vast store of knowledge about a surprising array of subjects, firm opinions about everything, and hundreds of fascinating stories that he told with flair in his own style. He could be so charming and funny and entertaining; was a great host, and some of my very most cherished memories are of sitting around the little fire in his backcountry camp with old friends after we’d finished a pot of Doc-stew and the instruments came out. But he had a dark side—was terribly moody—and on his bad days was grumpy, sour, condescending, dismissive or just a royal pain-in-the-ass. As with any true friend, you accept those bad parts and love the good. I respected Doc tremendously but had to learn how to deal with his truly irksome ways. The love part came easy.  
           
Yesterday was hot and windy, with persistent gusts and clouds of dust; a kind of weather that sets me on edge. I’d planned to ride right back into Piute after my supply-run but at noon was still feeling beat and just didn’t relish the thought of having to hold onto my hat for hours, inhaling quantities of powdered trail. Like lots of people, an unrelenting wind makes me short-tempered…and riding Redtop into this wind-storm would provide plenty of opportunities for testing my patience. (A quivering branch or dust-swirl can turn into a foul demon visible to his equine eyes alone.) So I opted to use up the rest of this day resting behind a locked gate in nearby Cloudburst Group Camp, the entire place to myself. I let myself in with the Forest Service standard Yale key, parked in my favorite spot, ate lunch, took a three-hour “nap” and read an entire issue of some old Sports Illustrated I’d retrieved earlier from a trashcan at the warehouse.
            In the evening, well-rested, I made a fire of mahogany wood and barbequed a fat New York steak from the local butcher shop over fine, hot coals and ate it with a can of pinto beans; a real western-style dinner. I saved a big chunk and had it for breakfast, cut up into little bites and scrambled with three eggs. I was trying to get an early start in case the wind came back up and got to the pack station at seven—a rare occurrence, for me. There was still frost in the grass. The lovely grove of golden aspens, not quaking.
Doc was busy feeding hay and I was surprised to see his wife, reading a book on the sunny little porch of the Waldorf (Doc’s tiny shack out behind the far hitch-rails). But Liz comes for a visit every fall. A long-time gradeschool teacher in Yuba City, about sixty. She’s very pleasant; a slight, quite attractive woman who can come across as being a little scatterbrained. (She’s not.) The two seem to get along fine but there’s not a trace of any affection between them—only a rather formal, icy politeness; his doing, no doubt. Their mutual interests are few and now, with the three fine kids all grown-up and gone, they apparently have little interaction. He once told me that he “gave” Liz their house and all his savings—ostensibly to protect her just in case he was sued for malpractice—and added that she “kindly lets me stay there in the winter.”(Such a Doc-like thing to say….) He often appears to not be listening when she talks and sometimes cuts her off mid-sentence as if he didn’t even notice she was there. Liz doesn’t react or seem offended by this shocking rudeness; has clearly resigned herself to how he is.
            I’d caught-up my horses and was saddling them when Doc stopped to chat. The new cook, Cindy, was done for the season and gone but for some reason her two dogs were still there. One is a tiny black & white terrier-mix of some kind, with an ugly pug-face like a bulldog; he’d be an imposing and intimidating dog except he weighs about nine pounds. On the other hand, Kane is a gigantic, black Great Dane who wears a dirty red bandanna around his neck. He’d be most imposing if not for always behaving like a goofy, rollicking pup. Both were happily running all around, getting in the way. Doc was one of his average selves but seemed distracted; perhaps a little out-of-sorts from having the wife visit. (He barely tolerates anything that alters his routines.) We talked about how much longer I’d be able to keep my horses at the pack station and Doc took five minutes to explain what I understood perfectly after about fifty seconds. One of his more exasperating qualities: he’ll explain a simple situation in minute detail, examining each aspect and possibility, then restate it all with virtually the exact same wording as if you were an idiot. With studied verbal adroitness, whenever you try to change the subject or move on he quickly cuts you off. It drives everybody crazy. Doc.
            But finally I muscled myself back into the conversation. “Cindy’s gone isn’t she? So…how is it, having these dogs under-foot?” Doc looked at me questioningly so I explained, “I mean, Mugs doesn’t mind? He’s not threatened by Dane?”
            Looking me straight in the eye, he frowned his hollow-cheeked, old-man-frown with his front teeth showing a little and, in a flat tone tinged with disgust, said “Mugs is dead,” and just walked away. My jaw dropped and I whispered, “Mugs is dead?” and almost blurted out, “How…?!” but then realized he wouldn’t answer and refrained. In a state of shock, I started packing my load while Doc continued to charge around the yard attending to his morning chores. I felt hollow and heart-sick.
            A minute later Liz walked over and I asked, “What happened?!” I could hardly believe it was true, didn’t want to. Not that dog! She dropped her voice even though Doc wasn’t in sight and said, “We don’t know! Will was in the backcountry a few days ago and ran into Bart on his way out with a string and told him, ‘Mugs is dead. I don’t wanna talk about it,’ so we have no idea. He’s been terribly upset. Mugs has been such a good companion—they were inseparable. He won’t say a thing and we don’t dare ask. He won’t let us!” And this last, in an almost anguished whisper: “Did you ask him?
“No, no…he told me and just walked off. I knew better than to say anything.” And looked away, just beginning to comprehend. Doc….
            “He was kicked by a mule or hit by a car or something. We have no idea…don’t even know when or where it happened.”
            “I can’t believe it! I’m terribly sorry, Liz. Mugsy is…was…my favorite dog.”
            So this is a tribute to Mugs, one of the all-time greats, with more character and canine-charisma than any I’ve known.

            He originally belonged to Bart. Doc sort of adopted him during those years when he was staying back at his basecamp all summer long (tending the pasture there…a sort of B & B for their packers heading home from long spot-trips). Mugs was an Australian Shepherd; mostly black with white chest and belly, some brown on his chest and legs. About thirty-five pounds with classic shepherd form; fine head, dark brown eyes with much intelligence in them. He was very calm but with a placid, reserved eagerness. By my reckoning, the complete pinnacle of dog-ness: dignified and proud and solemn; only faintly subservient (though completely devoted) to Doc and Doc alone. I respected his decorum. Me: I’m more of a “cat person” and generally don’t care much for dogs’ typically submissive attachment to their owners. I’ve always respected the cat’s innate independence and aloofness and genuinely dislike some dogs’ fawning, eternal quest for approval and attention. I can't abide dogs who jump up on you, especially big ones. Droolers. Crotch-sniffers. Poop-eaters. Non-stop barkers. Mugs had none of these crude traits; was always dignified, with a charming lack of interest in anyone but his partner.
            But only this last summer did he finally stop barking at me when I’d show up; a sign of real acceptance. After the required, declarative yelp to announce my arrival he’d always run over to say hello with a friendly sniff, tail wagging. I’d pat his head (politely lowered) a few times: “Hey, Mugsy, hey! Whadda good dog!” He’d tolerate my silly ministrations good-naturedly for maybe five seconds, then trot over to Doc or a patch of shade and flop down—job well done—and pant with self-satisfied doggy-grin. Once, petting too exuberantly, I grabbed a handful of loose skin at the scruff of his neck. He
growled with bared-teeth and flipped his head with a little warning-nip. Excuse me! I’d violated a code of acceptable conduct, offending his dignity. I never did it again.
            Mugs and Doc were a perfect team. They were always together. They looked good together. Doc’s understated commands were instantly obeyed and the dog clearly knew some English. The subtlety of communication and harmoniousness of their partnership was a joy to behold. In early June I rode up on them at the head of Leavitt Meadows, right before the next-to-last ford, heading home after a long day. The river was running swift and high. Doc and I started across but Mugs was plainly not eager to swim so Doc said quietly, “C’mon, Mugs,” and waved him on. The shepherd ran fifty yards upriver and leapt in. We sat on our horses and watched, and I watched Doc as well: Mugs swam bravely in the stiff current—breathing hard, nose just out of the frigid water—and was swept by us at speed. Doc looked on with a squinty-eyed, smiling face; love written all over his softened features. Mugs beached a hundred yards below, gave a great shake, and ran back to join us on the far bank, full of joy. Doc chuckled silently and beamed.
            I have fond memories of Mugs from evenings spent in Doc’s basecamp. On these dinner-dates my black cat, Rip, would usually follow me down—an almost-mile-long walk from the cabin. He’d slink around in the shadows and often walk right past Mugs, who showed only mild curiosity. Rip didn’t fear this dog but never turned his back to him, either. Often it was just us four; often there were more. It didn’t matter; supper at Doc’s always consisted of his fabulous sourdough rolls cooked in front of the fire in a reflector-oven. And a pot of beans with whatever was handy tossed in: onions, raisins, spam, peanut-butter, olives, ham, jerky; even pineapple…in one of many “interesting” combinations. We’d eat by the dwindling little fire; then he’d add wood before putting on water for “Piute Tea” (Lapsang-souchong tea, whiskey, and a slice of lemon served in a Sierra Club cup). Mugs would sit at the edge of the firelight, calm but expectant.
            When we’d all had our fill it was Mugs’s turn; he got the leftover beans for his supper—usually there was plenty—with a double-handful of kibble. His feeding-ritual was always the same: Mugs, laid out facing the fire watching Doc ladle beans over his kibble, in eager anticipation but completely still (tail not even wagging). After setting the tin bowl down in front of Mugs—who was watching his face the entire time, never even glancing at the bowl—Doc would give a slight downward tip of his chin. Then the dog “fell-to” with gusto while the man stood watching, hands on hips in flickering firelight, nodding his head with a thin-lipped smile and absolutely adoring glow.

It wasn’t until the following summer that Bart told me: Mugs had been hit by a truck out on the Highway, right in front of the pack station. No one knows where Doc buried him.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

                                                                                                                        25 Sep 92, 9 May 13


© 2013 Tim Forsell

All rights reserved.