This
is a sort of tribute I wrote for one of my oldest friends. I gave him a
slightly more personal version but had intended to read this one before the
gathering of many friends on his eightieth birthday. (Actually, Lorenzo was still tramping around New Zealand on that
day.) The opportunity didn’t arise that night so I’m posting this so that a few
who were absent might see it…and for those who haven’t heard of or met “Lucky
Lorenzo,” catch a glimpse of one of the all-time great characters—a one-man
show who hasn’t had a street address in forty-plus years…and is a master of the
art of Living Well, Within One’s Means.
Lorenzo! 25 April 2015
What the…?! 2015?…already?! How did that happen?
Incredible as it
seems, we met a little over 32 years
ago, on March 17th, 1983. There in Country Road Café, Frickel’s
place, where good things happened daily.
It’s a story I’ve
told perhaps more than any other—quite a number of times, as part of the larger
story of how I met Dario and Robert…then you…and ended up where I am today—but
most often the part about our rendezvous in that funky little hippie diner. It
gets told because it’s such a classic story of the purely serendipitous,
life-changing sort of event that happens only a time or three in anyone’s
life—if they’re lucky. (Like you and I are lucky….)
I could be wrong, but
would guess you don’t recall the details of that first meeting as clearly as I
do. You’ve heard me tell this quite a few times yourself and have never
corrected my memory of it or added details of your own. Here it is, one more
time. (This is one story that never needed embellishing.)
I’d shown up in Lone
Pine just six days before. On that day, I ran into Dario on the street right as
I got out of my truck to take a first look around town. (Remember, the two of
us had met a few weeks before down near Santa Barbara.) We chatted for a minute
before he took me across Main Street and introduced me to Frickel. I was hoping
to make a living as a window-cleaner and Robert—no surprise—took me up on my
offer to clean his storefront windows in exchange for lunch. So, literally within a few minutes of
arriving in a strange town, I had new friends and a (sort of a) job.
Just a few days later
(this was only my third or fourth time in Country Road) I was again earning my
lunch—this time by washing dishes in that little nook off the kitchen, next to
the dining counter. You came in and sat down, ordered something to eat, and
struck up a conversation with some guy. If I noticed you at all, it was because
there was clearly some raving madman talking in a loud and animated voice. I
was pretty focused on my dishwashing but suddenly heard, from the collective
lunchtime noise, the words, “I work for the Forest Service up in Bridgeport.
I’m the Wilderness Foreman.” However you put it, the other fella had obviously
just asked you what you did for a living. Those words leapt out of the ether
and my senses went on full alert. I listened in for a few more seconds while
mopping off my sweaty brow with a dishrag, stepped out the doorway (you were
only a few yards away) and stood there waiting for you to notice. You turned to
me, this scruffy kid of 24, and I stuck out my hand. “Hi! I’m Tim! You need to
hire me.”
That was all, and
(maybe) exactly what I said. All I needed
to say. You shifted on your stool, tilted your head back a little, and assessed
me for a few of seconds with a sober look, kind of peering down your nose. “Oh
yeah?” (with a slightly sarcastic edge). “Well, people who work for me have to be ‘wilderness fanatics.’
What can you do?” And I started
telling you that I was a climber, loved being in the mountains—don’t remember
specifically—but tried to convey that I wanted nothing more in the world than
to live and work in the Sierra backcountry. Which was absolutely true.
We talked for a few
minutes. A sort of interview, I suppose, as you asked the few questions that
would tell all that needed knowing. About the only thing I specifically recall
was your asking if I knew how to do “vegetative typing.” And I replied, just
slightly exaggerating, “As a matter of fact, I can do vegetative typing. Before I started climbing, I was really
into botany. I know the plants.” And it wasn’t until the next year that I realized:
within moments of meeting me, you were sizing me up as a candidate to finish up
the 5-year study, the campsite inventory of all the camps around the lakes in
the Hoover, that another volunteer had started a few years before. You knew
perfectly well that the gods had just thrown you another bone.
If we hadn’t met that
day, we would’ve shortly. You had just gotten back to the states after your
trip to Ecuador and were waiting out the few weeks before you started your
season up in Bridgeport, hanging out up at Robert and Gayle’s place up Tuttle
Creek way. I’d been traveling up and down 395, climbing and looking for work
and a place to “be.” Lone Pine was not only the warmest place around (that was that huge snow year and it was still
storming a lot) but I was getting some work and there was the café to hang out
at. So, one day I rented a post office box, walked over to the store, and told
Robert to welcome me: I was now an official resident of Lone Pine. He said,
“Great! How’d you like to live in my barn?” So we made an arrangement for me to
put in so many hours of work for rent. I drove up there to move into the back
room and found that you were staying in that little trailer just up the hill.
The nights that
followed were also really memorable. (Well, actually, I don’t remember much of
them—we were pouring liberally from your jug of cheap red wine.) What I do recall was you completely enchanting
me with your stories. I’d never met anyone remotely like yourself. I’d never
met a true “storyteller”—someone who communicated by way of tales, both short
and tall. You told one fantastic account after another: climbing 20,000+ foot
volcanoes, trekking around foreign countries every winter (in those days I
believe you chose your destination largely by where dollars would go farthest);
stories of a seemy past growing up in south Texas—complete with hanging out
with drug smugglers and prostitutes, tequila swilling…while you were still in
high school. Working for the Park Service and then the Forest Service as a
wilderness ranger…riding horses in the mountains, backpacking, chopping trees.
I was completely enthralled, not perceiving that you’d caught me in your web of
spun yarns and were grooming me for the future of my dreams.
I took two things
away from those magical nights sitting around a drippy candle in that little
trailer at the foot of Lone Pine Peak. One: the stunning realization that
someone could actually live like you
were living—doing exactly what you wanted to, under your own terms…traveling;
not having a real home but being “at home” wherever you were. And, two: that I could live that way, as well. It was a
revelation; what had been a vague notion, an ideal (that was surely just a
fantasy) was actually a choice I
could make…a course I could set for myself. And I wasn’t the first person, nor
the last, that you passed on this knowledge to in the form of your living
example.
You were just about
to turn 48 at that time. I recall being shocked—you seemed so much younger.
There were only a few strands of grey in your wild hair and beard. You had a
deep tan from your southern sojourn…were a big, strapping, mountain-man with
sparkly eyes and a snaggle-toothed grin who could find a little of the absurd
in all things. You drove a beat-up old Ford truck called “the Green Toad” that
your mechanic friend in June Lake kept running for years. Every so often you’d
buy used tires—one at a time—to replace almost completely bald ones…were always
adding oil. Years later, when we both lived up at The Great Space, I could tell
you were coming up the road when still two miles away: a huge plume of dust
trailing behind this god-awful rattle. Toward the end, I think the Toad’s bed
was held on by only a couple of rusty bolts. You couldn’t care less, so long as
it ran. And if ever there was a testament to your vaunted luck, it was the
Green Toad—the truck that refused to die with you behind the wheel. (It took
some stranger you didn’t even know to finally do the toad in.)
That was another of
the most important things you taught me: a concept of Luck that was separate
from its usual connotations of chance and the vagaries of fortune. Luck, to
you, was a gift of the gods. Some people had it—others didn’t. You never said
so explicitly, but it seemed like you believed that Luck was something one
could invite into their life by living in a particular fashion…not holding onto
anything too tightly. Perhaps your best-known aphorism: It’s better to be lucky than rich or good lookin’. Your
minimalist’s code: Travel light and keep
it simple. (I almost wrote “words of wisdom” but you’d be quick to pounce
on that: Wisdom is a humbug; there’s no
such thing!)
Another of your most
striking attributes is a shocking lack of materialism. A lousy consumer, you
just flat-out never gave a rat’s ass about “stuff.” I’m pretty certain you
could still cram all your worldly possessions into the back of whatever beater
you happen to be driving at the time. I suppose you still have the couple of
old army surplus dufflebags you stuff clothes into. (Clothes being another
thing you apparently never spend a dime on.) And, wherever you go, included in
that small pile will be the old juggling equipment and your ice axe.
After we first met
you let me know there was no way you could hire me; money was tight and I had
no experience or even a college degree. Then, one day that July I walked into
Country Road and Frickel told me you’d called. Because of flooding caused by
the huge runoff the previous winter there’d been lots of trail damage and FEMA
had passed out money to various Forests. I phoned back and you explained that
you had $6000 to hire two contract workers to fix trails in the Hoover, had one
guy lined up already. Said I needed to fill out an application, pronto, and…you told me what to bid. “Its for ten
weeks. Both of you have to bid for it: bid $3000—if you bid more than that, you
won’t get it.” I recall laughing and saying, “Uhh…I thought it was ‘against the
law’ to tell government contractors what to bid.” You probably just cackled.
The job was to start August 1st.
I filled out and sent my app. You called the store again and asked where it
was—you hadn’t received it. My heart sank. “But I sent the thing!” And I’m a bit
cloudy on this: it seems unlikely that the application was actually “lost” but
you didn’t have it and it was too late for me to send another. You later told
me that you “filled one out” on my behalf, then “name requested” me. Whatever—I
got hired. Drove up to Bridgeport, met you and Big Jim out at Wheeler Guard
Station, and started my grand adventure. Our very first day on the job you sent
us back to this place called “Piute Cabin” where a ranger—the infamous Jimmy
D.—would teach us how to do trailwork. We both had huge packs—mine easily weighed 60 pounds, with a tent, ten days
worth of food, and all the backpacking gear. Then you gave us both a fire
shovel, a Pulaski, a doublebit axe, and loppers—another 15 pounds—to carry in.
Also, a note to our host that began, “Dear Jim—please work the piss outa these
two guys.” (I still have it.) We got to the cabin and found that there was a
huge stash of all the tools we’d just carried in. A sort of hazing; when I
later called you out on it you just laughed.
That 11 mile hike was the most
brutal thing I’d ever done to that point in my life. But, when we finally
reached the cabin, I knew—with a certainty never felt before—that I’d finally
found my true home. It took five years but I eventually inherited the job, spending
the next 17 summers at Piute in that wonderful old log cabin with the horses
and my cats and the sweet silence. My dream life, in one of the most beautiful scenes imaginable.
And I have you to thank for that—a thing I’ll eternally be grateful for. You
were responsible for providing the means to live out my finest years. You
recognized in me a “willing participant” and furnished so many opportunities to
learn from my own screw-ups. Government workers in supervisory roles are no
longer permitted to practice old-school “sink-or-swim” teaching-methods but you
knew it was the best way to handle the likes of me. I worked with you for nine
summers and we had a load of mighty fine times in those mountains. And we
shared more than our share of incredible debacles, too. (Not to mention the odd
fiasco, farce, or near-disaster….)
You were definitely a mentor to me.
Not just in matters wilderness and worldly, but about the girls. When we met,
I’d only had a couple of lovers and was totally naïve when it came to women in
general. You—a peculiar blend of romantic spirit and misanthrope—taught me
loads of highly valuable information about “those poor little things.” You
introduced me to your extremely useful metaphor based on “the Cinderella
Handbook,” the secret manual all women are issued at birth, that tells them how
to behave and defines their peculiar set of needs. (And, of course, there’s the
“John Wayne Handbook” for us guys.) Things finally started making sense in the
battle of the sexes. For all your dim views on relationships, we all know you
love women and would have a hard time living without them—no matter what you’d
say to the contrary.
The storytelling! There was one
amazing session I’ll never forget. It was early in the summer of 1987; you and
Martin and I spent that day driving to Reno on various errands—picking up grain
and other supplies—and got home late, having skipped dinner. We were sitting on
that fine big porch of that house at the old ranger station we were quartered
in that year, drinking wine, and you got on a real roll. I don’t know what
catalyzed it, but we heard new versions of a number of your classics, told
better than ever before. I had a tape deck then with a built-in recorder so I
got up, went in the house, slipped in a cassette, and set the thing just inside
the door. When the first tape ran out and my machine clicked off you heard the
sound, recognized what it was, but said nothing and carried on—if anything, in
even rarer form. I ended up with two 90-minute tapes of priceless Lorenzo. A
bunch of your finest: Mexican whorehouses…the priest who inadvertently smuggled
drugs for your gang…the gun that misfired…and another that didn’t. That one
about that schoolteacher in San Francisco you were (very briefly) dating,
featuring the dancing lunatic who laid a couple of hits of acid on you
two—“Blue Owlsleys!”—and why you never saw that
girl again.
I later began transcribing those
tapes but gave up on it. I’d always hoped to write about you some day…try to
capture some of the stories; but it was transcribing those tapes that made me
realize it’d be impossible to capture “the Lorenzo Show” with mere words. For
one thing, I’d have to use several different fonts and various styles of
italics…type sizes up to about 72 points, with heavy abuse of the exclamation
point. But, beyond that, the written word couldn’t capture all your dancing
around and gesticulating, the pantomimes, the panoply of characters and their voices: the stuff of
your art. As it is, you’ve entertained us all for decades. A lot of laughter at
human folly in general, and the sheer absurdity of it all. What a great gift
you have!
All the characters
and expressions—“Lorenzoisms,” I call them—that are indelibly etched in my
consciousness:
There’s the one and only Mazy van Whitsuntide…Dr.
Vogler and his magic stick…Lefty, Clyde, Cloid, Ragnar, Fredly, and Schmedly.
Grunt-burgers…fries saturated with
Marfac® axle-lube. (For years, not realizing it was a real thing, I thought it
was “Marfax.)
He “squealed like a pig stuck under
a gate,” was so scared he “shook like a dog shitting peach-pits,” or did
something that landed him on somebody’s “fecal roster.”
Politicians engaged in
rampant motherfuckerism. Those scurrilous knaves!
All the completely unexpected things
that have left you “stunned with
disbelief.”
Those lusty, knavish
wenches that we love so dear, with all their “meller-drammers.” (Poor little
things….) José Papas, who is a regular kinda guy (boring). The various dufuses
and old dotards with their “geezer rip-offs.” (e.g., Senior discounts.)
The fish squeezers
and owl hooters—field biologists we used to work with—plus those “itinerant
agricultural workers” most folks refer to as cowboys. Dog-and-pony-shows
heading back to “Club Piute” for a little R&R at the taxpayers expense.
Over-built trails “you could wheel your grandmother down in her wheel-chair.”
The incomparable
marksmanship of the Blind-Pig Shooting Team. The terrible tragedy of what
befell that busload of nuns and orphans. The mysterious sound of M’bouzhou’s
drum.
Biff! Pow! Thud!
Yikes!
Blah bla blah!
So this is just to salute a
fellow sojourner, a card-carrying lunatic, a laughing knave, and one long-time
member of the brotherhood of the mountains. You are a living legend (have been
for a long time now) and are much-loved for being the absolutely unique man
that you are. Lucky to be alive, that’s for sure. Lucky in so many ways…and rich in experience. You’ve inspired a few of us to
join you on the trail-less-traveled. I consider you one of my very dearest
friends. Thanks so much for all you’ve given me—have given us all. It’s been
way more than you’ll ever know. Happy birthday, Lorenzo!
Love always,
T i m
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