The Lunch Was Not 1989

The Lunch Was Not

            Once again, so-called “play-time” had left me more exhausted than work: I’d just returned from a three-day trip to visit a ranger-friend and do some rockclimbing with her at Lover’s Leap. This, right on the heels of my illicit week-long patrol into northern Yosemite where I successfully posed as a Park Ranger while the Piute cabin—my backcountry station and true home—was being used for some sort of political junket hosted by our Forest Supervisor. I was more than ready to pack up my stuff, load it all on old Valiente’s back, and head into the woods for a long stay…get back into a steady routine of working hard, eating well, and relaxing by the big meadow’s edge as the sun goes down (at least on those days when I finish work while it’s still up).

The evening before riding in again, back at the barn after finishing my shopping and laundry, I walked over to the girls’ barracks where there was allegedly some sort of Mexican-food potluck happening. I stumbled over in the dark to chat with Noreen and Marilyn but found a huge party in progress; the sort of thing you can expect when the seasonal men’s and women’s barracks are a stone’s-throw apart. Not my thing, as a rule, so I turned to leave…then turned around again and walked right into a room full of mostly college-age kids, music blaring. Fortunately, my two friends were seated together on a sofa near the door so I squeezed right in between them. People I barely knew were yacking it up, beers in hand. John Hawk—supervisor of my boss-slash-friend, Lorenzo—was in a dark corner of the kitchen, talking with a young woman on our Resource Crew. Kate, who’d until recently worked for the Park Service in Yosemite, was reputedly a competent packer; Lorenzo told me he hoped to hire her next season to be on the Wilderness Crew. So, overhearing John—a swarthy, somewhat bumbling bureaucrat-in-the-making—say, “I hear you might be coming over to our side next year,” I got up and threaded my way over, wanting to get the skinny…maybe do some ‘missionary work’ on behalf of our Wilderness. But Kate wandered off before saying anything one way or another and I was stuck with John (not my favorite person) to talk shop. He lamented that his boss, Bill—our Recreation Officer—had just dumped this scene on him: next week a bunch of people from two Reno TV stations were Bridgeport-bound to do news clips on the 25^th anniversary of the 1964 Wilderness Act. They were all riding—and having their film gear packed—into the mountains for a day and he had to organize this dog & pony show. John casually commented that they wanted to interview a real-live wilderness ranger and he’d been wondering who he could get. With dreadful naiveté I said, “Well, good luck with that—I’m going back into Piute.”

            Next morning was a typical, mad rush of last-minute details. In the office, talking with three people at once, I grabbed Lorenzo as he was leaving the mailroom and said, “Need t’ talk about when you’ll be coming in with my resupply.” A bit later we had a moment and he laughed, “Problem solved: you’ll be doing it yourself! Ride out of Piute on Tuesday; Wednesday, you’re going to be interviewed for TV. You’ll be the star!”

            Saw it in a flash: His boss, trying to be nice for a change (instead of his usual, notoriously-brusque self), was just offering a chance for me to volunteer before making Lorenzo do the dirty-work of commandeering. “Oh…I get it. I talked with John at that party last night and was too stupid to see what he was hinting at. Gawd, I’m an idiot!” Hick accent: “But Tim don’ wanna be no TV star! What if he sez, ‘ah ain’t gonna do it?’”

            Grinning—enjoying this: “You cannot refuse.”

            ”What if I say, ‘I’m just not gonna show up’? Will they fire me?”

            “You cannot refuse. You will be a TV star.” He looked like a mirthful, leering pirate-out-of-costume. Nothing unusual there…that’s the essence of Lorenzo’s persona.

            I smiled, conceding defeat. “Okaaay…I’ll do it. At least this way I won’t have to worry about you losing my grocery list again. Besides, I can flub it so bad they can’t use the footage. I’ll j-j-j-just act r-r-r-real n-n-n-nervous. Or maybe blank out for a few seconds—‘Hey, uh, having a little seizure! Not to worry; just give me a minute!’”

            We had a laugh after my pantomime. I’d have to come back to town after only three nights at the cabin…ride out Tuesday, do the gig, ride back in on Thursday. Then (hopefully) stay back for a goodly while. Anyway, it was an opportunity for adventure; might have some fun, even, and perhaps they’d take us out to dinner when it was over.

            So I dutifully rode out on Tuesday—a late-summer day with hints of autumn in the shadows and light. Ran into a solo backpacker halfway out and had a most pleasant conversation; after we’d talked awhile the fellow said he was a Forest Service ‘Rec’ Officer (like John Hawk’s boss) over on the west slope and former wilderness ranger out in Montana. I asked about his stint as a ranger and he told of their two backcountry stations; one a long day-ride into and, the other one, two days. This sounded wonderful until he added that all the campsites were trashed by stock-users and you couldn’t travel off-trail because of impenetrable brush. He just ended up reaffirming what I’ve known all along: my chosen turf is exceptional and Tim is one lucky dog. While we chatted, one hand was resting on my saddlehorn. Feeling a fly land on the back of my right thumb, I unconsciously swiped at the thing…but it was actually what we call a ‘meat bee’—a type of wasp—and as my hand grazed it the varmint zapped me, which felt like a tiny, red-hot needle-prick. “Oh, hey! A wasp just stung me!” As we wound down our talk my thumb started burning but it wasn’t too bad. During these dry years there’s been an outbreak every summer and nobody recalls them being so abundant or so surly. Plus, people seemed to be having unusually severe reactions; folks who weren’t normally allergic to bee stings were having near-anaphylactic responses. Meat-bees are half-sized yellowjackets that buzz around your head while you’re eating that baloney sandwich—very unsettling—as they try to snatch a bite of cold-cut. You can shoo them off without concern but do not make contact (like I did…). Made it to the pack station without a problem; even though my thumb burned and itched it wasn’t terribly troublesome…

            …but that night I woke in my camper from deep sleep to find myself rubbing it furiously. It’d been itching insistently for hours but now the whole right hand was on fire. I’m usually well-disciplined about ‘not scratching’ but those sort of inhibitions don’t apply, apparently, in sleep-land. But it was too late now so I just went at it and the rubbing provided a most exquisite relief but as soon as I stopped, flames mounted, and it was true agony. I’d never experienced anything quite like this; tossed and turned for awhile but there was little chance of sleep so put on my clothes and walked to the men’s barracks trailer, a hundred yards away, by the light of a luminous Milky Way. Orion was well up; in early September, probably around three a.m. Blinking under a harsh light above the sink, still half-asleep, I ran cold tap water over it and studied my face in the mirror. The back of my hand and thumb were swollen and bright red. When numbness masked burning I stumbled back and crawled into my sleeping bag. Laid there awhile, tossing about, and listened to big semis whine past on nearby Highway 395. Finally drifted off and, blessedly, slept hard till dawn. My right arm was outside the bag and I’d given myself a stern subconscious admonishment: DO NOT SCRATCH!

            Woke up to a raw, wintry-ish day; the wind had come up as I’d slept off those last hours. My hand was all hot-and-bothered; tried to ignore it and drove to town for breakfast with Lorenzo, who’d just returned from his days-off. He still had no real idea what was going on and apparently nobody else did, either. He explained that Toiyabe Forest had recently hired a new Public Affairs Officer, a woman who was formerly a member of Senator Harry Reid’s staff, and who’d coordinated today’s trip. Lorenzo somehow knew she was anti-Wilderness and, because of her bias, was deliberately putting little energy into this show. (The upcoming Nevada Wilderness Bill is a big issue in that state—Nevadans have traditionally seen their public lands as a God-given commodity to be exploited and view Wilderness as a job-killer, tying-up valuable natural resources.) Plus, she’d been working with a politician who was markedly conservative, which is code for ‘anti-conservation.’ So we were in the dark as to the day’s agenda. Walking out of the café I asked, “Well…what are we doing now?”

            “Not really sure but there’s no hurry; we’ll meet them at Virginia Lakes trailhead about ten o’clock. We’ll need seven head; let’s take Pokey, Pal, JD, Zeke, Nugget… Charlie Brown—worthless!—and, uh…Bruno. All the saddles and tack. Brian can drive the truck and four-horse trailer and we’ll take the Gutless Pig. John’ll show up in his own truck. Tom Roberts is renting horses to all the dudes; he’s gonna ride with ‘em and get interviewed, too, since he owns a pack station. So let’s get the truck and head over to the Okay Corral.” (The FS corral at the old ranger station outside town where our stock are kept; Lorenzo has nicknames for everything.)

            “Well, this is gonna be a long day, I can tell. We better go over to the store and get something for lunch.”

            “Nah—don’t worry…they’re providing lunch. They’ll spring for it.”

            “Are you sure? I saw a little piece of paper Bill wrote up and it said something about five bucks for lunch.”

            “No…they’ll pick up the tab. Trust me. They always do with gigs like this.”

            “Lorenzo—haven’t you heard? There’s no such thing as a free lunch!”

            We wasted a good hour at the Okay Corral: barely managed to catch that half-wild, worthless mule and very slowly shifted saddles and gear from tackroom to truck. We were mostly standing around in patchy sunlight by our old barn, out of the wind, along with dozens of flies (equally indolent) who were perched on the wooden wall. I vaguely sensed that us humans were waiting for something but never could tell what it was or why. After a flurry of remembering almost-forgotten things we finally climbed into our trucks and rolled away. It was going to be a nasty day up at Virginia Lakes.

            I was in the Gutless Pig (our absurdly underpowered stock truck) with Lorenzo driving, holding my hand gently in my lap and occasionally appraising it with great interest from various angles. The whole thing was swollen now; fingers, too. Lorenzo glanced over. “Uh…by the way, what’s up with that, buckaroo? While we were eating I couldn’t help but notice you’ve got a sore paw there.”

“Yeah,” holding it up for his inspection, “Nice, hunh? I got stung by a meat bee on my ride out yesterday…itches like hell. I’m gonna try and go easy on it today.”

The stock truck overheated (as usual) going up Conway Grade but we got to the trailhead without having to stop and let it cool down. The wind, blowing dust-devils down Virginia Lakes Road, was clearly screaming up on the Sierra crest. This is typically a windy area, without much cover once you leave a thick forest of mature Lodgepole Pine that ends not much beyond the parking lot (which is at just under ten-thousand feet). A truly odious day to be out and about. We sat in the truck and waited.

            Brian—our young rookie-ranger—and John Hawk both showed up right behind us. We got the seven stooges unloaded and started sorting a pile of tack. I tried saddling a couple of horses but my fingers had swollen too much; I couldn’t do-up buckles or thread latigos through cinch-rings so left the rest to Lorenzo and John (Brian hadn’t learned how yet…) and sat in a truck out of the gale. Out of sorts, I nursed my sick baby until we locked up our vehicles and led the boys down a narrow fire road lined with golden, vehemently-quaking aspens into the back of a campground where the folks from Reno were waiting. Lorenzo was already there yacking it up with everyone—his forté. It was already eleven.

As we walked: “John—where exactly are we going, anyway? Nobody’s said….”

            “We’re all gonna meet up over at ‘Lunch Meadow.’ Know where that is? I don’t.”

            “Sure—it’s over the divide and halfway down all those switchbacks; a flat spot just below ‘the waterfall,’ where Tom’s packers always stop with their dudes; at least for a break. Has a great view right across the head of Green Creek at Summit Lake and down on Hoover Lakes; less than three miles from here. That sounds like a good place. But it’s gonna be howling going over the top. These people won’t like it very much.”

            “Well, that’s where we’ll stop for lunch, but they wanna continue to Summit Lake if we have time.”

            “Summit?! We won’t get back ‘til dark, John!”

            “No—they say they’re hoping to be back at their rigs by three o’clock.”

            “Right! Good luck with that! I doubt we’ll make it beyond the meadow.”

            “They told me the camera was only coming out once. I dunno…we’ll see.”

            And there’s the crew from Reno: a half dozen or so folks, all in western garb; some looking normal but two dressed like cowboy-parodies. These had to be the newsmen who’d be doing the interviews. Everyone was milling around, schmoozing, and there were vehicles and horses parked all around. Right when I came up to one circle Lorenzo said under his breath, “Hit the road!” I was going to introduce myself to a couple of these people and see what this show was all about. Lorenzo, weaving through the crowd, passed by me and said again, “You and Brian: GO!” I didn’t really know what the sudden rush was but figured he wanted us to get a lead on the horses so I grabbed my prop—a shovel—and the two of us started off.

            We’d only gone a hundred yards when Lorenzo rode up on us. “Brian: go back and help John with the packing. Make certain he doesn’t try to load any of the camera gear on Charlie Brown; that worthless mule’d be sure and find some way to destroy it.”

            Just after we left I’d given Brian my shovel. Grinning and shaking his head, he handed it back. He was a nice kid—twenty-two-year-old blond surfer from Southern California—new to ‘the life’ and a bit overwhelmed by this day’s particular variety of chaos. As he turned to go back I saw Lorenzo stopped on the trail but at least one other horse and rider coming through the dense stand of Lodgepole Pine and thought, The riders are leaving first and Lorenzo wants me to streak on over so we can meet at the meadow to schmooze it up before the real stuff begins…I hope they brought my lunch, and took off in earnest up the dusty trail, Forest Service cap clamped onto my head. (I’d already adjusted the headband to its hurricane-setting.) A half mile on, just before getting to an old miner’s cabin, I jumped off the busy trail to go cross-country via this sort-of-a-shortcut to the upper basin that bypassed a popular lake—or, more to the point—fishermen and campers there that would slow me down. I got slightly ‘lost’ for a few minutes (It’d been a few years since last taking this route….) Once back on track, I stopped behind a willow thicket. With this heavy exertion at ten-thousand feet I was sweating too hard and took off my jacket. My hand had started throbbing; it felt on fire and was definitely more swollen. When I got back on the trail where it crossed the outlet of Big Frog Lake I dipped it for a minute. Ahhhh. Looking at the dusty trail: some fairly fresh horse prints, a bit windblown already but not very old. Thought briefly  there was a chance they’d gotten in front of me because my shortcut wasn’t shorter—it just avoided that popular lake. It really didn’t seem like they’d come through yet—No, they’re still behind me—so I strode on vigorously but relaxed inside, stopping when I’d cross one of the numerous little snowmelt-brooks to numb my hand in icy water.

            Marched to the foot of switchbacks leading a last quarter-mile or so up to what we call ‘Virginia-Green Divide,’ a massive ridge that separates the Virginia Creek and Green Creek watersheds. No one had come up on me yet which wasn’t a surprise since I’d been walking faster than a walking horse. The wind kicked into a higher gear after I started up those switchbacks and left the last Whitebark Pines’ meager shelter behind. One tremendous blast snatched my hat, dropping it into a clump of the stunted trees a hundred feet below. (After retrieval I carried it in hand until well-over the ridgetop.)

            It was just as blustery up there as I’d known it would be; had seen it that way more than once. The exposed divide is pancake-flat, open to sweeping bird’s-eye vistas of two beautiful basins dotted by a dozen lakes; the bulk of Dunderberg Peak to the northeast and a bit of Mono Lake peeking out from the stark ridge of Black Mountain. Popping over the top: there was that spectacular view due west across Summit Lake, right through the pass at its far end, with still-snowy peaks in Yosemite Park rimming Return Creek’s glacier-carved canyon. Summit Lake looked half-covered with frothy whitecaps and I was being rocked by a fifty-mile-per-hour tempest. Glad to not be carrying a load on my back, I held onto the shovel with a firmer grip to keep it from, literally, being ripped out of my hand. Paused for just a moment and looked back over, expecting the people on horseback to finally be in view but…nary a soul in sight. Maybe they’re just about to come out of the trees. Or maybe the riders didn’t leave before the packstock after all…. This made me a bit uneasy but I wasn’t about to linger (try standing around in a steady fifty-mile ‘breeze’ sometime) and immediately decided to just hump it down to Lunch Meadow and wait there, out of this insane gale.

Jogged across a hundred yards of scoured shale and, as soon as I’d dropped over the other side, felt the wind ease off. Recalling some little bluffs down near the meadow that I could hide behind and actually relax in relative calm, headed down more switchbacks, including the stretch through raw talus we (rangers and packers) call ‘the waterfall,’ where meltwater from a perpetual snowfield up above cascades over blocky steps—beside, across or straight down the rocky trail—all summer long. This half-mile of steep switchbacks lay above the little pocket of lush meadow on a natural bench where we were slated to convene for…lunch! It was already after noon.

            Met backpackers on their way up; three husky guys. The leader wore cherry-red shorts with an absurdly broad-brimmed Panama hat slung over his ears. What’s holding that thing down? He hailed me: “Hey, ranger! Is it, uh, this windy over the pass?”

            What a ridiculous outfit! Smirking, I tried (unsuccessfully, I’m afraid) to contain my amazement at his equally ridiculous question. (What they say—“There are no stupid questions”—is patently untrue; I’ve fielded loads of them.) I grinned at him, nodding slowly, and replied, “Un-huh,” with blatant sarcasm. The weather and my affliction were clearly taking their toll on this ranger’s mood.

“Well, is it this windy at the trailhead?” His buddies had caught up and were listening attentively.

“It’s this windy everywhere! Probably all over the whole region. See those clouds to the north? The weird stacked ones? They’re called ‘lenticular clouds’ and when you see those guys you know that the jet stream has dropped. There’s a low pressure system over us now that’s sucking it down. So it’s like this everywhere today but especially up high and this place is almost always windy, anyway—it’s like a funnel. See how carved-up-looking those Whitebark Pines are? But it won’t be this bad once you get down lower and into some trees. Where’re you guys coming from?”

“We’ve been over in The Park for almost a week but spent last night down at those Hoover Lakes. Then—jeez!—middle of the night, it just started ripping!” They were having a good time in spite it and, once we got talking, turned out to be very pleasant; congenial and funny and we had some good laughs there in the wind. They kept inadvertently glancing at my hand. The same guy told me it was their last full day out; they didn’t really want to go much farther and wondered how it would be camping at Big Frog Lake—first one over the divide. “Got some big ol’ frogs there, hunh?”

“Wise guy…it just happens to be the biggest of three very large puddles. There’s not much in the way of cover, only a few scrawny little pines. It’ll be okay but I’m guessing it’s gonna keep blowing like this and there’s no wood to burn around any of these lakes. Too windy for a fire, anyway. Where’re you all headed after you get out?”

“We’re travelling. But our next stop is Reno. Eat pizza. Drink beer. Gamble.”

“Hmm. I’ll tell you what: If I were you…there’s a load of good, cheap motels in Reno…soft beds and hot showers…those other ‘amenities’ of which you speak. You’ve been out for almost a week? Well, that’s what I’d do but this is my job; I’m not on vacation. When it blows like this I just wanna be in my cabin putting logs in the stove.” Had us a last laugh before I checked their wilderness permit and waved them on.

“Watch out up ahead—there’s a TV crew following me. They’re gonna interview me for a bit on the news tonight about the 25^th anniversary of the Wilderness Act and I’m gonna be the star, down there in that little meadow you just walked past.”

“Hey, we’ll watch it tonight on the TV in our cheap motel room. I think you convinced us to move on. Have fun! Could lead to bigger-and-better things!”

Headed down the last bit, passing two more backpackers. Once on the bench I walked through a tiny grove of pines—real trees, these—that encircled half this cute little meadow; crossed it in seconds, and immediately disappeared into a natural enclosure (where I’d taken refuge on other windy days) hemmed in by little walls of slaty rock. Emptied my pack and plopped down on it, leaning back against one wall—ahhh!—with sun full on my body but off my face. I was reclined in near-perfect comfort (in calm air, at last) and, with a turn of my head, could plainly see if anybody came over the top of the waterfall. Held my throbbing hand up against shaded, cool rock to wait and watch and wish I were eating lunch. It’s that time of year where, after a summer of hard labor, ribs normally not visible are protruding…always hungry.

Half an hour or so later I was really wondering what was going on. Heard voices and stood up: forty yards away were several people on the trail, hikers mostly obscured behind those pines, but one looked dressed in green. That’s gotta be Brian.…finally! Hope he’s got my lunch. He’d arrived first and had run into some backpackers. I walked over through the tangle of Whitebarks but, once at the trail, no one was in sight. Must not’ve been him after all…looked like whoever it was had on our green pants, though. Went back to my spot and tried to remain calm. On any other day I would’ve headed back long before this to find out what was up but, with my hand’s condition beginning to feel serious, opted to wait instead and hope the swelling would start to go down; if they ever showed up I’d talk Lorenzo out of his saddlehorse and ride back.

Then it was pushing two o’clock. I was constantly glancing up towards the divide, having new doubts: They should’ve shown up by now. SOMEBODY should’ve. And: What if they WERE actually in front of me—hurried past me while I was lost, shortcutting? And: No, no…the three backpackers would’ve seen ‘em. No, wait! Those guys might not’ve gotten to the Summit Lake trail-junction before the horses came through. I was certain the pack animals would be well behind the riders. Where were they? The trail was nothing but stones; tracks didn’t show. Finally, after waiting almost forty-five minutes, knew I had to walk back up to the pass—something was obviously wrong.

So I humped it back up the switchbacks and, below the top of the waterfall, was  coming up on two backpackers. They were a couple of sections above me yet but, when one spotted me, he yelled down, “Are you looking for another ranger?!”

“Yeah! Sort of! Did you see people on horseback with him?!” We were shouting but I couldn’t hear their reply over the sound of wind roaring past my ears. It sounded like an affirmative. “Did they say where they were going?!”

“East Lake!”

“East Lake!”Hunh? That one was below Hoover Lakes, farther down Green Creek. Why…? and I just took off running back downhill. I’m doomed. Doomed! How’d they get in front of me?! Lunch was over long ago and they’re probably done with the interview and everyone’s wondering where the ranger went. You…are…screwwwed!

I ran full-tilt down switchbacks I’d already walked down and climbed up, past Lunch Meadow and down many more switchbacks; ignored my throbbing hand and tried to make sense of it all while keeping an eye on the stony trail.

A half-mile below Lunch Meadow I almost ran into Brian as he came around a corner, heading up the trail. He was soaked with sweat. “Tim!! Where’ve you been?! I’ve been looking all over for you!”

“What are you doing here, Brian?! Where’s everyone else?!”

“They’re back at Frog Lakes! Tim! They only went a mile or so and stopped at the lakes—everybody was wondering where you were and they wanted to interview me instead! I don’t know anything! So I said I’d go look for you and they told me, ‘Well, better start running,’ and I ran all the way to the far end of Summit Lake and you weren’t there and I was all confused. Tim! Where’ve you been?!”

“Who? Me? Hah! I’ve been ‘waiting’ for everybody behind some rocks at the edge of Lunch Meadow, out of this little breeze.”

“I must’ve just missed you; talked to a couple of backpackers there who said you were up ahead so I kept going and…”

“Yeah—I saw those two. We didn’t even say hello; they wouldn’t’ve known I’d stopped. Saw you talking to ‘em but by the time I made it over you were all gone.”

“So what are you doing down here?! I’ve run for miles—my legs are fried!” He was all worked up, thinking maybe we were both going to be sacked.

“Relax, Brian. There’s no hurry now; it’s all over”—his face fell—“and we’re not gonna get fired. Lorenzo told me to blast over here; figured he wanted me to get in front of the horses, get there first and have time to schmooze with the news-guys before the actual interview. He sent us off first because he knows that somebody actually leaving helps get things rolling. Nobody was taking charge back there and they would’ve stood around gabbing all day. Waited at Lunch Meadow for, jeez, at least forty-five minutes ‘cuz my hand’s all messed up”—held it out and Brian’s jaw dropped; it now looked like a blown-up, pink dish glove—“and when I finally knew something had to’ve gone wrong I started back up to the divide. There were some backpackers up ahead who yelled down to me that they’d seen you. They were a couple of switchbacks above me and I couldn’t hear over the wind but when I asked if they’d seen people on horses with you, thought they said ‘yes,’ and that you were headed for East Lake! That had me totally confused! Couldn’t figure out how or why, but then it sounded like you were all ahead of me and had gone on to Summit Lake. But why would they’ve said East Lake?”

“There was a string of mules from the pack station that passed through earlier—they were booking!—and they must’ve thought you meant them. What happened to your hand?! Oh my gawd!”

“Oh, great! What a comedy of errors! I somehow missed seeing ‘em when I was hiding behind that little rock wall and couldn’t hear them ‘cuz of this hurricane. It’s really almost funny! No, it is funny! Haw haw haw! The gods must’ve been bored today and needed something to cheer ‘em up. Oh, well! All over now! Let’s head back—will you carry my shovel?—and try to get to the trailhead before they drive off without us. Good lord! ‘Wilderness rangers—lost again!’ Hey! I did just what I was told to do….”

Headed back over the hill, into the wind, slogging up the switchbacks one more time. At the divide I left Brian and ran all the way down. Not that there was any real hurry, but to burn off some serious frustration and slow down my spinning brain.

A quarter mile from the trailhead I came up on the long string and walked in a cloud of dust for a bit before John Hawk, riding drag, turned and saw me. He grinned  sheepishly and said, “Sorry, Tim.” Then I dropped back a bit to get out of the cloud and ambled in just behind the last pack-animal in the string, that worthless Charlie Brown.

I walked into the circle of vehicles just after everybody had dismounted and found them exchanging hands, congratulating one another, and caught a general feeling of mission-accomplished and good-times-had-by-all. I sat down on the Gutless Pig’s loading-ramp in powdered manure and dried mud and must’ve looked pretty beat because one of the camera crew saw me and offered his bottle of water which I drained, with thanks, and another handed me a warm Pepsi from his saddlebags which I also accepted happily. (The kindness of strangers….) But just sat there watching with elbow propped on my knee and grotesque mitt in the air as they all piled into their cars and vans, several of them grinning apologies before climbing in. Lorenzo came over and said, smiling sympathetically, “Hey, buckaroo! How’s it goin’ there?”

“Oh, fine.” Said it without irony or enthusiasm. Pause…. “My hand’s not good.”

“I see that.” He gazed off into the forest for several seconds and said, finally, “Oh, well….” Which pretty well summed up the whole deal; no apology was needed or expected. The Reno people drove off in one last swirling dust-cloud, leaving us FS folk and Tom Roberts (owner of Virginia Lakes Pack Station and old friend of ours) to take care of all the stock. Brian rolled in and wasted no time voicing what was foremost in his thoughts and mine: “Um…is there any lunch left? Would it be possible to, uh….”

John said, “There’s a couple of sandwiches in my saddlebags. I’m afraid they got kinda smashed.” And so, at three-thirty, I got my free lunch: a crumpled, soggy turkey sandwich, ‘with everything,’ on a French roll. While it had (so to speak) seen better days, it tasted mighty fine. I dined in the stock truck, out of the infernal wind; peeled the cellophane off with my teeth and ate left-handed. Lorenzo drove me to the hospital in Bridgeport where I was essentially told to eat two Benadryls and call in the morning.

That evening, Lorenzo and I went out for dinner—“Let’s go to town, Fersell, and get us a couple o’ grunt-burgers”(Lorenzo-speak for the common hamburger…)—and we had a chance to sort out the whole debacle. A debriefing, as it were.

“I wanted to get you out of there immediately so we could start to untangle everything and get that dog’n’pony show on the road. You hadn’t been gone two minutes, I swear, before John told me the news-guys had to be back at the trailhead by three o’clock so they could rush home to get their film edited for tonight’s show. We obviously weren’t gonna make it to the meadow, let alone—hah!—Summit Lake. I knew you were gone and I told John, ‘He’s gone. We’ll never see him again.’ We only got to Frog Lakes before everybody wanted to stop. They were all clutching their little cowboy hats and freaking out. Acting like we were in the Himalayas or somethin’. Greenhorns!”

“So what happened? Did they interview you instead?”

“Yeah, they interviewed me—blah bla blah!—and they did Tom Roberts, too; he was real nervous. Said to me, ‘Lorenzo, I’m really nervous! I’ve never done anything like this before,’ and I told him, ‘Tom, you’ll do fine. Just be yourself.’ He did great.”

“He looked great—really western. He’s a classic-looking packer with the wool vest and yoke shirt and his John Muir beard. Gen-u-ine dirt on his Wranglers. Not to mention those blue eyes that get him in so much trouble with the girls.”

“Yeah, he looked pret-ty western all right! Not like those drugstore-cowboys from Reno. They seemed to have no idea how absurd they looked in those shiny, new costumes. So they were gonna interview Brian instead of you but he managed to escape. Then these three backpackers walked up—one guy with this big, goofy hat. They got to be in the show, too. And they were priceless!…said all the right things. Nevadans hate Wilderness, y’know, so the news-guys were asking all these pointed questions: ‘Why do we need Wilderness? Why should Nevada have Wilderness?’ and those guys were candid, funny; weren’t self-conscious or nervous at all, and they answered the questions perfectly. ‘Of course you need Wilderness, you imbeciles!’ They were the stars.”

“I talked with those guys on the trail—yeah, they were perfect. We had a real nice talk. Did they mention running into me, by any chance?”

“Uhh…they did, actually. They said, ‘Tell that ranger we’re gonna go watch ourselves on TV tonight in our motel rooms in Reno!’ They thought that was funny.”

It’s okay.

I didn’t want to be a TV star, anyway. I didn’t…really.

Afterword…

Next morning in the office: Bill, the Rec Officer, walked in and asked me for money. “I was told my lunch was taken care of!” Well, it had been taken care of, all right—very poorly. I didn’t even get my pickle or little bag of Fritos. But he’d paid for the things out of pocket so I gave Bill his five bucks. And the ‘free lunch’ retains its mythic status. Perhaps one actually exists…somewhere.

                                                                                                             14 Sep 89, 22 Apr 13

© 2013 Tim Forsell

All rights reserved.

Skateboard-Man 1993

“I have travelled a good deal in Inyo County.” Amazingly, I’ve only read parts of Thoreau’s seminal book but have often thus paraphrased his humorously ironic line from Walden, which captures perfectly the contrast between my exhaustive exploration of the most remote parts of Eastern California and surprising dearth of far-flung travels. Despite having spent almost my entire life in the lower half of this state I’ve never been to Mexico. Nor Canada. In fact, during my fifty-four years, I’ve only left the USA one time: in 1993 my girlfriend, Elizabeth, went to Brazil on a small grant to learn Portuguese—a requirement for obtaining her Spanish Language degree—and studied for six months in Rio de Janiero at an institute for American students. She invited me to join her for the seven weeks before my seasonal ranger job commenced. Of course, I jumped at the opportunity. I wrote this story right after my return and the ten-thousand impressions were still alive and kicking. But, twenty years later I can still vividly smell the air, still see his strikingly handsome face looking down into mine….He must be dead by now and had no idea what a lasting gift he gave me, a stranger—a man he never even spoke to.

            Anyone in Rio, of any age, would instantly spot me for a tourist. It wasn’t just my shaggy blond hair or little round glasses or my springy ranger-stride. I soon learned to change my walking style, stopped wearing socks and untucked my shirt. I tried to look world-weary, resisting my natural inclination to meet strangers’ eyes as an offer of a friendly gesture. Only occasionally would I allow myself to stand on streetcorners and openly gaze up at the tall buildings flanked by cliffs or watch frigatebirds sailing across the narrow strips of sky overhead. Still, even in this most-cosmopolitan of cities, something in the sharp glances from people on the street told how plainly I stood out.

            I’d come to Brazil to be with my girl, Elizabeth, and finally check out a foreign country. She was sharing an apartment in a swank establishment with three other Americans, all in their early twenties. (Me, an old man of thirty-four.) I was largely on my own; the girls, who’d been there for two months already, were in school together and studying hard. I did most of the shopping, cooked and kept house, and during the days would walk the streets or ride the bus just for unbeatable people-watching but spent a large part of my time on our gorgeous beach which was only minutes away. I learned enough Portuguese to buy things and order food in restaurants, say hello and thank-you, but never tried to engage with the culture; was never more than an observer. When we went out, Elizabeth was already fluent enough to talk with the locals. So I found myself, isolated and adrift, living in a city for the first time. And not just any city.

Ipanema is one of the poshest parts of Rio—an upper-class island surrounded by the Atlantic, those spectacular dome-shaped mountains of granite sheathed in jungle-green, and a big lagoon with Copacabana right next door. Several of the most affluent parts of town are bordered by the shabbiest favelas. As with other developing countries, for decades there’s been a steady migration of the poor and jobless from hinterlands to coastal cities. The jungle-covered mountainsides here (state-owned) are apparently settled without interference by any squatters who can muster a load of cheap bricks, a few sacks of cement, and some corrugated tin. These slums are small cities in their own right; thousands of little shacks mortared together and built on top of each other in terraces often accessible only by foot. The government must provide some services but I have no idea how the people manage to get water or where their waste goes. Not to mention electricity…but from one window of our apartment on RuaVisconde de Pirajá I would look out at night towards Corcovado and see the clearly-illuminated statue of Christ atop the broad band of mountains all black behind city glow except for discreet patches of dim lights, reaching upwards and revealing the contours of ridiculously steep slopes. Every day the people who lived beneath those twinkling lights came down from an entirely other world (where I could never, ever go) to try and make a living. There’s money down there and ways to get some of it…if only a little.

            Our apartment was on the top (eighth) floor of a building whose title consisted in part of the word edificia, with a portado to open the door for you at any hour. To one side of the entrance was a crowded post office; on the other a very chic women’s clothing boutique. Just beyond that, on both corners of the street, were big-time jewelry stores. Across the way was an exchange house where we converted travellers’ checks into Cruzieros. Brazil’s inflation-rate was skyrocketing at the time and we watched our dollars’ value grow in absurd leaps. (My share of the rent for those seven weeks came to $225. A local working at minimum-wage would need something like eight months to make that much money.) In the eyes of our friendly portado, who held the tall glass door open for me—and everyone else on the street—I was an obscenely rich tourist from the  wealthiest nation on Earth and was forced, from the moment I got off that jet and entered my new world, to assume an attitude towards the ever-present poverty. I’d looked forward to this confrontation: all my life I’d seen photographs in magazines and newspapers of starving, impoverished people…stared long into emaciated children’s haunted eyes on glossy paper or newsprint. I’ve avoided some dissipated panhandlers in Berkeley and the Bronx but had never yet seen almost-naked children sleeping on sidewalks or had a toothless crone who could barely walk tug insistently on my sleeve with a look never seen even in pictures. My imagination of what their lives are like had buffered the encounter but, like everyone else in this position, I had to spin a protective caccoon for insulation and face my trembling worldview. Options are few and painfully obvious: you can continuously dole out coins to the endless parade of hungry beggars, momentarily assuaging that Guilty American Conscience. You could join some sort of relief-mission, which would effectively be a meaningless (though noble) gesture. Or look the other way pretending not to see—the only real option. When faced with true poverty what you feel inside is always your own problem.

                                                           

            Walking toward Copacabana from our building it took maybe two minutes to reach the first intersection. The entire next block on one side was a City Park; I visited it only a couple of times but walked past almost daily. There were well-tended shrubs and flowerbeds (no grass) and plenty of wooden benches, a tall bronze statue of some military hero spattered with bird-lime plus a bone-dry water-fountain. Broad-crowned shade trees—that fill the older parks in Copacabana, making them so much more inviting—instead were just surrounding much of this one’s perimeter inside a tall fence of spike-topped iron bars. Ungated entrances at either end were each tended by terminally bored, uniformed guards (employed, I suspect, mostly to prevent peasants from moving in). There were always people with newspapers sitting on benches that were in shade, nannies pushing baby carriages or with their charges in hand. On Tuesdays a travelling farmers market filled that whole section of street and sidewalk on the park side and toward the corner at the far end was a temporary nursery: tall indoor shrubs in big pots, flowering plants for windowsills and tables in small ones, bunches of roses—very pleasing to stroll through. Street merchants, with their wares on little folding tables or spread out right on the sidewalk, sold candy and toiletries, used books and clothes, cheap kitchen utensils. (I bought a pair of finely-crafted leather sandals there—with rubber soles made of used tire tread—for the equivalent of $8.)

            Aside from days of rain or when the farmers market was happening, a sort of extended family lived on the corner of the park nearest our place. No telling how long they’d been there, but none of them likely ever went inside the park except at night when they could finally sneak into the thick bushes. But they were actually living on the broad, busy sidewalk of paved brick under shady trees, right on the corner.

            It was clearly more than a biological family—there were several small children, a couple of adolescent  boys and two girls in their teens, one of them very pregnant and the other with a months-old baby. The matron was an immense, always-busy woman stuffed into her faded sarong. There were no men in this clan; she was obviously the glue that held it together and seemed to do all the chores herself. Walking past them daily, at all hours with traffic flowing by ceaselessly, I tried to see as much as possible—the situation made me intensely curious about how they managed—but their hands were always out. Had I ever made the mistake of giving any one of them something I’d have been targeted forever after. But their world was laid out there on the sidewalk for anyone to see who cared to look:

            “Beds” were lined up lengthwise along the base of the iron fence: pieces of cloth laid over cardboard or weathered pieces of foam. Big metal cans for cooking and plastic buckets for clothes-washing stacked by the curb with various plastic bags and wooden fruit crates. On laundry days there  was a strong smell of bleach in the air; tattered clothes were hung on the fence to dry. Every evening the matron—always talking and harried—stirred a big square tin full of rice or beans cooking over a charcoal fire while kids played together with nothing but imagination. Midday, in the stifling humidity, they’d be sprawled on their cardboard pallets napping or the little kids and their dog would just curl up in the middle of the sidewalk. The teenage mother would be leaning against the wall in some shade, crooning and talking to the baby in her lap while she picked lice from its hair. They were always half-watching all us busy people stream by and when the likes of me walked by one open hand after another would shoot out. In the evening after the farmers market there’d be broken crates piled with smashed and over-ripe produce. They’d sit and talk in groups with others of their status or silently watch the endlessly-shifting drama wearing expressionless faces. There was a strong smell of urine following any rain. On a busiest streetcorner in one of the richest districts of Rio de Janeiro, this was Home….

            On weekends, fifty yards further up the sidewalk, an old man sat on an upended wooden box in amongst the potted shrubs of “the nursery.” He always wore a limp brown suit with clean white shirt and sat erectly with his arms pressed to his sides staring straight ahead across the sidewalk at the iron park fence. Just as I’d walk up to him his gaze would shift and he’d half look at me with his good eye—the other a grotesque, bluish mass bulging horribly from its socket—and his open hand would slowly come forward. I’d look into his face every time trying to not look at that eye. He wore the perpetual, abject frown of a bitter and defeated man. I could feel him holding tightly to his suffering vestiges of dignity; begging didn’t come naturally to him like it did to members of “the family.” But I never gave him more than my open face—again, if I’d ever given anyone money it would’ve been all over….

            There was only one of the local beggars who truly aroused my compassion; I called him “Skateboard-man.” The day after arriving I saw both him and “the family” for the first time while going out to lunch with my girl and new housemates. He was sitting on his skateboard talking animatedly with two fellow street-people near the corner of the park by the nursery. Stunned, I couldn’t resist staring that first time and even slowed down. Glancing up from his lively conversation, laughing, we briefly made solid eye contact. He had a very handsome, open face that radiated virile charm. I felt it instantly. His features were classically masculine; a broad smile, curly brown hair and short beard… sun-baked olive complexion. He wasn’t exactly a dwarf—his face and head were of normal adult proportions—but he wouldn’t have stood more than three feet tall even if he could stand on the tiny, shrivelled legs that were awkwardly folded under him in a tangle. Those useless appendages appeared to have stopped developing shortly after infancy. He wore only a rakish cap and cheap nylon shorts made to fit a child. His hairy chest bulged out with ribs protruding…two bony shoulders, much higher than the base of his neck…skinny arms covered by dense, dark hair… spidery fingers with ragged nails. He looked to be in his mid-thirties; it was hard to tell. As we walked past I turned and stared; I’d never seen anyone out in public, on their own, so grossly malformed. Still laughing, he turned from one man who was  standing astride a bicycle to face the other, maneuvering his board by pushing off the pavement with a foam-rubber sandal he “wore” on his hand. This man was calm, self-assured, and clearly had both a sense of humor and an air of intelligence. He was filthy.

            I saw him at least a dozen times, usually in the general area, often talking with people who appeared to be friends or at least acquaintences, often smoking a bummed cigarette. He had no backpack, no anything. Sometimes he was parked out of the way, gazing off vacantly with sad face. Twice I saw him “at work,” begging from drivers stopped at the busy intersection near our building and adjacent to the beach. Cripples of all stripes seemed to take turns on this particular grass-covered median strip. I watched him scoot down the line of idling cars that were waiting for the light to change, pause at each to look up at the driver’s window, and several times saw arms extend to offer bills (probably the almost worthless ones…) that he accepted with his vibrant smile and the ubiquitous Brazilian thumb-up gesture. Otherwise, I never saw him ask for handouts.  

So he intrigued me right from the start. Of course we never spoke but did look into each others’ faces a few times. Whenever our paths crossed I tried to see what was  shining so brightly from his twisted form. I felt…not pity, but compassion mixed with admiration. It’s doubtful that Skateboard-man could read or write and he’d never known any of the simple pleasures continuously taken for granted by those of us whose legs work. In a certain sense Skateboard-man might be as contented as me or anyone I know. He may or may not have had family but probably knew love; he obviously had friends, was strong inside, capable, and superbly fit for an unchosen niche. There could be a mathematician or poet or statesman latent inside him. Not to romanticize his life (which was filled with miseries) but he did get around—under his own power—and was a Free Man in some ways many might envy and that money can’t buy.

                                               

I last saw him two days before leaving Brazil. Elizabeth and I’d spent the day in the old City Center, a formerly-thriving place that’s an endless maze of narrow, cobbled streets lined with shabby houses and shops selling cheap merchandise. Wall-to-wall humanity. I was shocked by how very different it was from Ipanema, how much poorer, and it made me realize what a skewed view of the city I’d been harboring all along. We were on the long ride home, tired and sweating and hanging on as our bus careened around corners. The open windows served mostly to fan us with methanol-exhaust—so much a part of Rio’s aroma. This bus wasn’t very crowded and at one stop an oldish man, fairly drunk, got on and slumped into the empty seat in front of ours. He was pretty limp and muttered to himself quietly. After a bit he turned to earnestly look us both in the eye before speaking, at length, and with vehemence. We both looked away. He disembarked soon and lurched off. As the bus pulled back into  heavy traffic he was looking up and giving us a thumb-up, smiling broadly, like we were all best of friends. “Well…what was that all about?” Elizabeth replied that the gist of his speech had been, It sure is hot! A few blocks later the bus pulled hard to the curb. A bunch of people were waiting to get on and there with them was Skateboard-man.

We were sitting just three seats back from the front door. People generally enter  buses at the rear then pay their fare as they exit from the front. But public transportation is free for kids wearing school uniforms, the elderly, the halt and lame. They enter from the front and I was very curious how he’d manage getting on the bus but wasn’t able to see. A healthy young man climbed on holding the skateboard. A well-dressed elderly woman, sitting in the single seat just behind the door, looked down without a trace of any emotion in her face and got up to take another seat. A simian arm covered with black hair but skinny as a child’s grabbed the rail and Skateboard-man hoisted himself into the seat, looking up with a smile, and thanked the old woman, Obrigado! The young guy handed him his board (Obrigado!) and took a seat nearby. Our driver patiently looked on and others watched with mild interest; he was a colorful local fixture and no doubt—even in a jaded town that had seen it all—aroused curiosity, scooting along the sidewalks on his board (which, by the way, was the only one I saw while in Brazil). But this incident took place without any expression of emotion by participants or witnesses; instead I felt an aura of collective compassion for “one of our own.” It was very civil.

After we heaved back out into the traffic and hot, smoggy air I had ten minutes or so to study his face and attempt to fathom his character—my first opportunity, really. We’d picked him up in a pretty rough neighborhood where a big favela came sprawling down a mountainside, almost to the edge of this major thoroughfare. It finally dawned on me that he was truly mobile, could go almost anywhere in this huge city for free. It was late and he was headed back toward Ipanema (where I’d always seen him before) but, for a moment, thought he might actually live in the favela. Then I realized he couldn’t live up there because it’d be impossible to negotiate the steep lanes and stairways with his four-wheeled vehicle.

Like the rest of us on the bus he was clearly tired and hot and ready to get off. His right elbow was propped on the open window’s sill and his left hand held onto its frame so he wouldn’t fly out of the seat going around corners. He kept moving his arms and shifting his grip on the frame. His hands were gnarled and knobby; surprisingly delicate fingers had a pronounced backwards flare from years of pressing down from their tips in order to hitch himself around. Thick hair covered his entire upper body, shoulders, arms and even backs of fingers. With disproportionately long arms and strangely formed hands, along with the bony shoulders, I was struck by how much his body was built and looked like a chimpanzee’s. That dense hair—which could as easily be called “sparse fur”(with skin showing through)—heightened the impression. (He could’ve easily ended up in a sleazy circus freak-show, billed as “The Human Ape” or “Monkey-man.” Perhaps there’d been offers of such employment.)

When our bus had reached the western end of Copacabana I felt so enervated by the humidity and exhaust fumes I suggested to Elizabeth that we get off and walk home along the beach for the last mile to loosen our legs and lungs. She wanted to head straight back and get in some studying but said, “You go…”so I decided to get off at the first stop after the tunnel that separates Copacabana from Ipanema and started to make my way toward the exit, hanging onto the overhead handrail. Several other people had already done so and I fell in behind them.

Skateboard-man was the only beggar I’d even considered giving money to. He’d shown me it’s possible to live with class and find a degree of happiness even when you have absolutely nothing—not even a sound body. I so admired the cheery verve he applied in his quest to simply get by. But had I given him money I’d never want to see him again. Here was my chance. A perfect opportunity had presented itself; we’d never see each other again. Suddenly there were only seconds left to choose: should I offer this man—who’d affected me in unexpected measure—a small gesture of gratitude with the only currency I had to give? For some reason, I felt torn…shy, self-conscious.

Moving slowly toward the door I pulled out the money in my pocket while still hanging on and managed to peel off a bunch of bills without looking to check their denominations. Airbrakes squealed as the bus decelerated and pulled to the curb. We were filing toward the exit and then only one passenger was in front of me with a few more behind. I had my fare ready and, in the other hand, held a wad of bills that felt like lots of money—after all, similar pieces of paper still have significant value back in the USA—but this offering of some thousands of Cruzieros was likely going to set me back somewhere between fifty cents and three dollars.

I gave a fare-taker her due before starting down to the open exit’s landing, right behind the last guy in front of me. Skateboard-man was holding onto the window frame with one hand and his board with the other, staring vacantly at his lap. Hoping to do this unobtrusively, I stood in the doorway and held up my folded bills to catch his notice. I was completely rapt, intensely desiring something, but just as much wanted to be far away. His eyes focused and he looked up, slowly and dramatically, to meet the source of this unasked-for donation. Gazing at him from under the handrail, doubtless with a fairly intense look, I saw that rich smile spread its wings. He met my eye with a monumental expression, enigmatic yet familiar, that conveyed many things. It froze me. I may flatter myself in thinking he recognized me (to him, though, I might’ve been an interesting character…) but there was an unexpected, friendly intimacy coming from those lively eyes as he fixed on me—for a long, long moment—a look of utter gratitude. As if I were not just another doner to his cause but a bringer of special gifts. (Later, I told myself that it must have been the look bestowed on anyone who hands him money, the effortless face of his innate charisma; I’d seen it before.) But, under its surface, I felt empathy for our mutual plight as fellow travellers on The Long Road; the cash had only brought me to his attention. As he reached for it I saw a hint of humor in the wrinkles that fanned from his brown eyes—looking right into mine—and kindness about the corners of that exceptionally broad mouth. This may sound trite but what I felt above all the rest was something I can only think to call forgiveness; as if he felt compassion for my need to feel pity. But it took time to conceptualize these things…his face held so much.

 I jumped off the bus in a sort of fog and, dodging trucks and cars, somehow survived a sprint across many lanes of traffic. This helped me return to myself after the precipitous escape and, walking back to our apartment with heart still overflowing, I initiated a long process of trying to fill in blanks. This went on for years. But I never could tell if he’d done something to me or we’d done something to each other. The foremost question that remains: what was it that Skateboard-man saw in my face?

“But every man is more than just himself; he also represents the unique, the very special and always significant and remarkable point at which the world’s phenomena intersect, only once in this way and never again. That is why every man’s story is important, eternal, sacred; that is why every man, as long as he lives and fulfills the will of nature, is wondrous and worthy of every consideration. In each individual the spirit has become flesh, in each man the creation suffers, within each one a redeemer is nailed to the cross.”

               

                                      —Hermann Hesse, from the prologue to Demian

           

                                                                                                                    8 Jun 1993, 18 Feb 2013

© 2013 Tim Forsell

All rights reserved.