Homage to Campito

CAMPITO’S LONG WALK HAS COME TO AN END. Sometime in the late fall or early winter of 2021 he departed for somewhat greener pastures, leaving those of us who knew him with an unfillable hole in our hearts. With no effort on his part whatsoever, that cranky old mustang made the world a better place. He was probably thirty-one when his time ran out—pretty remarkable, for a horse that lived so rough. 

            The Wild-Horse-of-the-Whites’ celebrity had been on the rise for some time—to the point that an increasing number of visitors made the long trek, not just to see gnarled old trees or to bag another 14er, but with high hopes of spotting a legendary equine solitaire. Some of these people learned about Campito by chance through postings on MyFaceSpace; others through vague rumors about an enigmatic four-legged loner with a weird, Hispanic-sounding (maybe Italian?) name. On the other hand, plenty of Eastside “locals”—including hunters and hikers who’d seen Campito dozens of times over the years—didn’t so much as know the old horse had a name. But anyone who knew anything at all about the mysterious dark-bay mustang wondered how he came to be in the Whites in the first place. Where did he came from? And why would a horse be roaming around in the mountains all by his lonesome? Where does he go when the snow flies?

            Campito touched everyone who ever laid eyes on him. He was a living symbol of things we admire…things we maybe aspire to. He represented certain intangibles that people of all cultures hold in high esteem. For one, he embodied the archetype of the loner-hero: those rare beings who carry everything they need with them, on the inside. For those of us who loved Campito, there was little reason to try and analyze such notions—it was all about a particular feeling you had whenever you saw him. A good feeling, with a smidgen of sorrow in the background. For him. And Campito? He was living smack dab in the now and the here. He really only cared about one thing: eating.

            For the longest time, Campito wouldn’t let humans get within fifty yards of him. Once you crossed that invisible line, he’d start to amble off. If you persisted in trying to get closer, he’d eventually become annoyed and take flight. His unequivocal Seeya!s were often preceded by a spirited head toss and bodacious, rodeo style heels-over-head bucking maneuver. Without fail, though, Campito would stop…turn his head…and shoot you that look. The expression he wore at these times was not unfriendly; it had an inquisitive, almost affable air about it that made you say to yourself, “Secretly, I think the old guy really wants to be petted.” And, secretly, you’d stand there in a reverie wishing you were the one person Campito would bestow that honor upon.

            Starting maybe five or six years ago, something inside him shifted and Campito became much less reserved. It came as a shock at first: you’d be driving along and there he was, loitering right by the road. He’d move off if you so much as started to get out of your rig but if you stayed put you could roll down your window and have a little tête-à-tête. Like Mr. Ed, Campito didn’t have much to say. Nonetheless, there’d be some sort of conversation going on between the two of you, yessirree. And then—who knows why?—he began letting people get out of their vehicles and approach. Closer. And closer still…until you’d find yourself standing right in front of a genuine living legend, eyeball to eyeball. For Campito’s long-time admirers, after years of admiring him from a considerable distance, this was an indescribable thrill. You couldn’t help but feel that he’d finally decided to let us all in.

            One bonus feature of these unprecedented, intimate encounters: we were finally able to get a clear photo of that curious white mark on Campito’s neck. For those who don’t know about this: that barcode-like tattoo on his neck was a “freezemark.” Freeze-marks are made using a special adjustable branding-iron dipped in super-cold liquid nitrogen. The process is painless and, after the frostbit bits heal, the hair grows back white. The result is an identifying mark that can tell you several things. First off, that the bearer is a captured wild horse that has been formally registered and, if male, gelded. Using a close-up photo of Campito’s unique freezemark and a key available online, in 2018 we were at long last able to ascertain his age (foaled, 1991) and learn from whence he came (some remote corner of northeast California). 

The circumstances and events that led to Campito’s living on his own high in the windy White Mountains have always been something of a mystery. Conflicting versions of his story, each bearing grains of truth, helped create an enduring legend. One universal thread running through these tales is Campito’s being a runaway packhorse. By one account, he escaped during a recreational pack outing. After making his way out of the Sierra backcountry he crossed Owens Valley, trudged up one of the White’s interminable west-side ridgelines, and thus reached the promised land. By another telling, Campito escaped during the off season from a local outfitter’s ranch in Chalfant Valley. 

The first of these two origin-story variants, unbeatable for sheer romance, is more or less what I heard back in 2004, shortly after my tenure at Crooked Creek Station began. I loved the almost biblical overtones. This account conjures images of Campito on some moonless night, caught in the headlight beams of oncoming semis as he makes a mad dash across Highway 395, hurdling barb-wire fences, freedom-bound.  

The other version was told to me in 2012 by Stan Overholt, the Forest Service ranger (now retired) who patrolled White Mountain Road for over twenty years. It made much more sense but lacked some of the gutsy drama.

Neither of these accounts are accurate but the second one comes fairly close.

Years ago I realized that there had to be someone out there who actually knew the story. Like all who were acquainted with Campito, I’ve wanted to find out more about his past (who wouldn’t?) but gradually came to the conclusion that part of me didn’t really want to hear the “true” story. I’m guessing that many feel the same way. But with Campito’s departure I found myself craving something to help fill the hollowed-out place he left behind. Just recently, with the help of an old friend, I was able to make contact with two people who knew Campito’s story first hand. One of them—a long-time Eastern Sierra packer/outfitter—was, albeit briefly, Campito’s legal owner. These two individuals were able to lay some of our questions to rest. But their memories of what happened thirty years ago—dates, locations, and peripheral events—are in many cases hazy or lost to the sands of time. Alas, many details of Campito’s odyssey will never be known with any certainty. Maybe it’s better that way.

As for Campito’s homeland: Throughout the 1990s, Campito’s one-time owner would on occasion travel to Modoc County where he’d purchase, at $125 a head, untamed mustangs taken from Devil’s Garden Plateau Wild Horse Territory and held for adoption. Devil’s Garden Plateau—rugged, high desert sagebrush-steppe underlain by lava flows—lies in Modoc National Forest, just north of the sleepy town of Alturas. 

Now, many people have commented on Campito’s regal beauty and fine confirmation…his overall gleaming-coat fat-and-sassiness. (Compared to the scrawny, scruffy individuals that make up your typical mustang herd, Campito looked like a genuine show horse.) It so happens that the Devil’s Garden WHT is known for the quality of its animals. According to a Forest Service website, “Wild horses have been present on the Devil's Garden Plateau since shortly after the first pioneers arrived. Many of the early horses escaped from settlers or were released when their usefulness as domestic animals ended…. Local ranchers and native tribal members turned horses out to graze and then gathered them as needed.” It goes on to say that “Devil’s Garden Horses contributed to the liberation of Europe in WW I.” If so, these would have been US Cavalry “remounts,” animals that came out of federal horse- and mule-breeding programs. Such programs, established shortly after the Civil War ended, provided stock for military use until 1948. After WW I, the Remount Services sold off surplus animals to farmers and ranchers at bargain prices. More importantly, in nearly every state the Remount Services stationed one or more stallions that farmers and ranchers could breed with their own mares for a nominal fee. Significantly, this program—intended to create a ready future supply of up-to-military-standards riding horses—resulted in an overall improvement in the quality of horseflesh throughout the country. Campito’s size and confirmation closely match that of military horses in the WW I era. (How it came about that US Cavalry remount blood got into the Devil’s Garden herd is no doubt a fascinating story.)  

            Only weeks after his arrival, our hero (who’d been christened “Shaq”) escaped from a corral/stock pen located just outside Bishop. He was probably four years old at the time. Here’s a juicy tidbit we can now add to the dark horse’s legend: he stole away, in the dead of night, by leaping over the corral’s eight-foot-tall fence. When the day dawned, signs of his return to Earth were found on the freedom-side of said enclosure. Just opposite, on the captivity side, were patches of churned-up soil and pawed holes. From these marks we can surmise that the individual who made them was…not happy; they were the farewell note left by a large animal who was pissed off, fed up, and generally disgusted with the current state of affairs; who had been stomping around in a horsey hissy fit for some time before deciding, I’m gonna do it! This all took place just a couple of miles from White Mountain Research Center and the runaway mustang may have sauntered right past the station’s entrance not long after his ballsy break-out. 

Clearly, Campito did not want to work for the man. 

            The former owner, along with a friend connected with the pack station (the other person I spoke with) were in the process of breaking Campito when he self-liberated. Former Owner had already ridden him, bareback, and reports that Campito was a gentle, intelligent animal showing much promise. Along with the other adopted mustangs from Modoc County, Campito’s was being broke as a saddlehorse for use by pack station wranglers until he proved trustworthy enough to be ridden by paying customers—not as a mere beast of burden. (Pack stations generally employ mules as pack animals.)

Following his audacious break out, Campito wandered aimlessly back and forth along the base of the Whites for a solid month. Apparently, he spent some of that time around Warm Springs, at the foot of Black Mountain. Repeated attempts were made to capture the escapee. In the end, Campito made his way up Silver Canyon, perhaps sensing that this was his path to liberty and autonomy. (“He was on a mission,” as Former Owner put it.) They tracked him as far as the top of Silver Canyon before losing his trail. At that point, the pursuit was called off. The Forest Service was notified by letter that a horse was loose in the Whites but no action was taken on their part to remedy the situation. Moreover, no further attempts were ever made to try and catch him. Thank goodness. These events took place in 1995 or possibly 1996. 

For a quarter century, Campito graced us with his presence. He had a surprisingly limited range, alternating between three favorite spots—Campito Meadow, Big Prospector Meadow, and Sagehen flat. When Campito made it to the top of Silver Canyon and hit the crest, finding water would have been a priority. He may have smelled it on the breeze and headed north. Once he found liquid sustenance, he was capital-h Home. At that time, there were flowing springs in each of his favorite retreats. Typically, Campito would spend several days in one spot before heeding some instinctive urge to move on. He seldom dallied when switching locales, heading straight from one sagey pasture to another on well-worn paths—barefoot, whistling a happy tune, and munching as he went along. Summer after summer…living the good life. 

In his final years, along with other behavioral changes, Campito took to spending time in brand new haunts. He began to frequent spring-fed meadows on the west side of County Line Hill and hung around Golden Siren Mine—places that he’d formerly shunned. Oddly, there any number of choice spots you’d think Campito would have naturally been drawn to that he never, ever set hoof on. For instance: even in the driest years, not once did he venture down into Crooked Creek. What's more, in the course of our unrelenting drought, almost all his once-dependable water sources disappeared completely or were gone by mid-summer. Where Campito went to slake his thirst in dry times is a lingering mystery. The Cave Fork of Crooked Creek (just downslope from Sagehen Flat, one of his usual hangouts) is crawling with springs that never stop flowing. But there’s no indication that Campito ever visited any of them. It may be that the old guy, like crusty bachelors the world over, was simply set in his ways—familiar, unvarying routine lending some sense of security to a comfortless, solitary life.

            Here’s a heartwarming story: Campito had a special friend—an ancient packhorse called “Bob” (who was well into his thirties and still alive the last I heard). This story was relayed to me several years ago by two Deep Springs College cowboys. When the event in question took place, the two future graduates of Yale or Harvard or Stanford were out fixing fence. Bob, who’d packed the tools and rolls of wire, was snoozing nearby. Campito suddenly appeared and walked right up to Bob. The two immediately launched into a distinctive equine routine: with necks crossed, they’d toss their heads and exchange little lippy nips—love-bites, as it were; literal horseplay. The cowboys assured me that this was not the pair’s first liaison. The two horses were more than casual acquaintances—they were old buddies. Well then.

One final item. In answer to the question, Where did Campito go in the winter? the answer is: Nowhere. It may sound implausible, but Campito never went down the mountain. There are no indications whatsoever that he ever headed downslope when the snow came. (Believe me, we’ve asked around and searched for sign.) On the other hand, there were a number of reported Campito-sightings during the months of long, cold nights—always, at his customary stomping grounds. He grew his thick winter coat and got by. Even during those years where snow was all the way down to the valley floors, he somehow got by. He knew all the habitually windblown places where the ground was exposed or was able to paw through shallow snow like a reindeer. Yes, it’s truly hard to grasp. But then, Campito was a card-carrying survivor. Visualize him standing alone at eleven-thousand feet on a frigid February night. In a raging blizzard, ass to the wind, just taking it…patiently waiting out the storm. Talk about fortitude.

The Wild Horse of the Whites.

It’s hard to believe he’s actually gone. Several of Campito’s long-time admirers have told me that his passing affected them deeply; far more than they’d anticipated. I would echo that sentiment. We all knew this day was coming and had been dreading it for years now. For me, it’s not so much sorrow—what you experience at the death of a family member or friend or beloved pet—but of mourning something lost that can never be replaced; not an individual—something inexpressible. Campito was old. It was his time. No—it’s what was carried off with him that we grieve over.

One thing I’d like to underscore is that Campito was more than a runaway mustang with a colorful back-story. He was most definitely not the equine version of Joe Sixpack. No, our guy was special. Even those with little or no experience being around livestock could feel this. Solitary feral horses are few and far between but not unheard of—four-legged nonconformists who somehow overcome their deep-rooted herd instincts (generally as a matter of circumstance, not choice). Campito was one of these Lone Travelers. Seeing him up close, you’d tap into a certain above-the-fray, cagey aloofness that Campito gave off in spades. When you’d see him off in the distance: there was something about the way you felt as soon as you spotted that tiny little black speck, a mile away in a sea of grey-green sagebrush. That barely visible speck would instantly transform the austere high-desert landscape, turning it into a symbolic tableau that captured perfectly a sense of isolation. Of what alone means. 

Taken together, all these human projections gradually turned Campito into a sort of totem animal: an otherworldly creature who embodied the quintessence of the high White Mountains’ Spartan purity. He was, in a sense, the red-blooded-air-breathing counterpart to the bristlecone pine. I can say this much: with Campito gone, something is missing that was there before. But in the end, it was just knowing he was out there. Free. Living life…on his terms. That was his gift. 

 

         In the cage there is food.

         Not much, but there is food.

         Outside are only great stretches of freedom.

 

                                                                     Nicanor Parra

 

 

                 ©2023 Tim Forsell                                                              26 Feb 2023         

Piute Log...Dead Baby Bird Lessons 1996

 First trip in to Piute…arrived the previous day and starting to get moved back in.

16 Jun (Sun)     Worked in the cabin all through the a.m., getting things put back in their proper places. Swept ten thousand mouse turds out of the bottom compartment of the tall cabinet and got stored foodstuffs squared away. ◦◦◦◦◦ Walked up the Kirkwood trail in the afternoon. Good to take a walk, check out snow conditions, see the early flowers. Took my cruise axe. Had to wade across the upper log crossing [fallen log “bridge” somewhat upriver from the cabin used during spring flood]. Normally, the entire log is high & dry but at present is under 3–4” of water. I took care. That is, tried to avoid a tragic, premature death. ◦◦◦◦◦ Another fine day for a stroll in the woods. Sweated not too profusely. Rocked the trail as I rolled along, clearing many fallen branches. Whacked out a few small trees, some that the snowpack had flattened. (J.D. called these “snowdowns.”) Walked as far as 79 Camp [named for a sheepherder carving from 1879 on a tree in the camp]. Beyond there it was more snow than trail so I turned back. Found a dead bird by the trail—a Stellar’s jay chick that had apparently fallen from its nest. ◦◦◦◦◦ Now, here’s a classic example of how my brain works when I dash into the nearest phone booth and come out transformed into scientist-mode. I’ll treat this as a psychological profile written in third-person rather than recount yet another nature drama. ◦◦◦◦◦ Ranger Tim spots fledgling bird still in pinfeathers and down laying motionless beside the trail. In rapid succession: Did it fall out or got booted out of the crib by aggressive sibling? (It happens….) Notes pinfeathers and general black downiness with bluish highlights. Stellar’s jay. Maybe ten days old. No movement. Is it dead? RT lifts it up by one wingtip. It is dead and already stiff. Several ants are crawling around in the throat region. No visible holes into the body cavity, no maggots—Freshly dead. RT feels neither sorrow  nor remorse—just a purely clinical, scientific interest. Here is a good, clean specimen I can learn things from. He notes the oversize horny bill, yellow in color at this stage of development, extremely broad at its base. Unlike in adult birds, the outer edges of the bill protrude from the sides of the head sort of like a wrap-around visor. As configured, when an adult arrives back at the nest with worm or moth, bills—thrown open in an instant—reveal several giant gaping holes that virtually eclipse the nestlings. ◦◦◦◦◦ Further examination: RT, on hands and knees, grabs a twig and wedges it between the mandibles, prying them apart with his fingers and spreading them to their full 180° gape. Amazed by what he saw, noting Bright yellow interior studded with tiny, semi-rigid white spines—reminiscent of those on a cat’s tongue but sparser, all pointing downward from the funnel’s mouth—a dark hole leading directly to the stomach. The gulping motions, as soon as contact is made with the worm/moth, sends the nestling’s latest protein packet delivery down the hatch quickly and irretrievably. After a pause, thinks: The violence of a nestling’s devouring its meal is not altogether unlike a piranha’s. ◦◦◦◦◦ The tongue was a wonder RT was not quite prepared for. He had no idea that, at the end of the tongue, there was a rigid structure—Amazing! Like fingernail material but black—shaped like an arrowhead, complete with reflexed spurs at the trailing edge. He poked at it with the twig. Clearly, designed to get into pinecones and pry out seeds; shell all sorts of pods; dislodge beetle larvae from bark crevices, et cet. An amazingly versatile and durable utensil. ◦◦◦◦◦ As RT gazed down the maw of this unfinished jay he saw one more thing to lend perspective: minute, glistening white “spines” clustered around the rim of the bill. At first, RT took them for some other means of hooking into a meal but the white objects were in two spots only and asymmetrically arranged. RT realizes: Blowfly eggs. Two females had already located this ideal place to deposit their eggs. Tomorrow the eggs will be maggots. By then, ants will likely have made it into the body cavity and begun the process of paring the chick down to thin bones, carting off tiny chunks to their own nest—probably tote off the maggots, too, as long as they’re small enough to handle. The Great Wheel of Life rolled on before RT’s mind’s eye. He maybe felt a bit of instinctive revulsion upon recognizing the fly eggs but grokked his lesson well. It was a good one: a reminder that we all—all living things—move quickly through some version of same biological re-cycle process, reduced ultimately to large organic molecules. In many ways, it is a beautiful thing. As essential as life itself. RT offered up his usual silent expression of gratitude. Thank you! More feeling than words.  ◦◦◦◦◦ Back home at sunset. Skipped my river bath again—too windy; water too cold.

 

     Copied on the first page of this volume of the Piute Log:

“Experiencing the present purely is being emptied and hollow; you catch grace as a man fills his cup under a waterfall.”

                                                                                                —Annie Dillard

 

 

                 ©2023 Tim Forsell                                                                   6 Jan 2023                     

Piute Log...Take That, Greenhead! 1996

 30 Jun (Sun)     ◦◦◦◦◦ Walked out to catch the horses. Walking past the sandpiper nest I noted that the egg-sitter didn’t take flight. (With spotted sandpipers, ♂s do most of the nest sitting.) Figgered he/she was out getting a bite to eat. Grabbed my guys—easy as of late; with all the good Piute hay at their feet, they just stand there looking at me vacantly as the halter goes on—and stopped on the way back to check the nest. Again, no adult to be seen. Only two eggs left. The nest had been abandoned. I was momentarily overcome by that old “sinking feeling”—in this case, a sweeping sense of pervasive small-scale tragedy and loss. I was really looking forward to watching those ‘piperlings grow up right here in my front yard where I could keep an eye on them. But, assuming both adults are still alive, I expect they’d try to raise another brood. It’s not too late to start over. ◦◦◦◦◦ Saddling Red, got to see something new and totally unexpected. Got a real kick out of this one—horses do the darndest things!—but, as anecdote, it probably falls in the category of “youda-hadda-been-there”: those events where you have to be there in person to fully appreciate whatever it is. ◦◦◦◦◦ Those jumbo-sized “greenhead” horseflies (aka Darth Vaderflies) are bad right now. They drive the equines bananas. During peak greenhead season, the poor things never rest easy while the sun’s up—tails always swishing, muscles twitching…heads toss and dip continually in a futile effort to oust the tiny monsters from their chests, legs, flanks. I feel sorry for them. ◦◦◦◦◦  So I’m at the hitchrail cinching up Red’s saddle, finishing up the latigo. A big ol’ nasty ol’ greenhead lights on Red’s near shoulder, a foot from my face. Red’s head whips around—like lightning!—and he snaps the thing up with some deft lip action. I watch as he stands there placidly munching away on his tormentor, with obvious relish, then swallowing with a pronounced Gulp! By the look on his face (I swear, there was a hint of smugness in there) he seemed to enjoy his little treat. Revenge is sweet…. 

            ©2023 Tim Forsell                                                                  2 Jan 2023                     

Scarecrow at the Bat...Part II 1995

  

THE DAY OF THE BIG GAME (the morning after my encounter with Scarecrow) got off to a dramatic start. I was camped in my all-time favorite spot—well off the road and midway between the springs. Half an hour before sunrise, the sound of pounding hooves and braying burros roused me from a deep sleep. Wha…? Coming this way! More asleep than awake, I leapt out of my camper just in time to see three feral burros trotting up the road at a fast clip, a large white husky dog at their heels. I’d seen this uncut alpha male cruising around without adult supervision for the last couple of days; no sign of any ‘owner.’ Big White was joyously herding his catch, pushing them straight toward the crowded encampment up ahead. A fourth burro, hanging fifty yards behind, followed in hopes of eventually reuniting with his cohorts. Only in Saline Valley! I stood there laughing out loud, imagining tents being dragged down and outdoor kitchens leveled in the ensuing mayhem. Up the road they went—donkeys hee-hawwing, dogs barking; sleepy murmurs from the rudely awakened. Big White, doing his level best, whistling a happy tune. 

            Before the sun was up I was soaking with another big group, most of them the same bunch as yesterday. Today’s pool-gossip had it that Wizard overfilled his tank (again). Which was a shame, partly because it’s obvious to all that Walt’s softballing days are numbered. The old renegade no longer jogs off his hangovers in the morning and, these days, just walking around he looks shaky. So this was going to be ‘his’ game—the Misfits, his team, going for an unprecedented third win in a row.

            After a good long soak, my stomach said it was time for a new pursuit. On my way back to camp, I heard this melodious female voice sing out, “I have too many pancakes!”—a veritable siren’s call, coming from a little trailer set back off the road aways among the creosote. I wheeled ninety degrees mid-stride and headed toward breakfast. Seated by a window, Tom had witnessed my complete and utter lack of hesitation. As I approached he called out in his distinctive husky voice (lingering traces of a New York upbringing), “Well, you don’t put up much of an argument!” I’d had his wife Cherie’s fine sourdough griddle cakes a couple of times before; this was no time for dithering. Plus, I’m crazy about her. Tom and Cherie have become two of my favorite Saline Valley friends. Even though we met shortly after I first came out in 1990, for some unknown reason we didn’t start spending time together—quality time—until last winter. Since then our friendship has blossomed and now, lucky me, I get invited for meals. They live way up north in Lassen County, in a little town near Susanville. Every year around this time Cherie and Tom take their two kids (Beth, ten; Ben, eight) out of school for two weeks and head for Saline. Enough time for full immersion, no pun intended. The kids were doing schoolwork when I climbed into the trailer. (Judging by their scrunched-up faces, it must have been math.)

Beyond Upper Spring the road continues north for a couple miles before it enters a broad wash and turns into a four-wheel track that crosses over Steele Pass—the ”back way” to Eureka Valley. Earlier this week, Tom drove a truck-load of friends and family to the pass. Eight of us were wedged in his pickup’s open bed for the bone-jarring but incredibly scenic ride, most of it rock and gravel and deep sand interspersed with short passages of actual road, dodging boulders and crossing countless gullies at a crawl. After a group picnic at the pass Tom and I set off on a short hike, just the two of us. For the first time we had a chance to really talk—to talk about things that matter. Along the way, I had a chance to express my admiration for Tom’s somehow juggling everything he’s got going, keeping the boat afloat. His going-on-fourteen-years marriage, for one; being a homeowner; raising two first-rate kids. Owning and operating a landscape architecture business with a friend-partner, and all that that entails (keeping up with an endless stream of bills and loan payments; business acquisitions; running two crews; dealing with difficult and demanding clients…nonstop hassles, in a word). 

One story he shared was very moving. 

            Every other weekend, Tom takes care of his father, Carl, a widower in his seventies with Alzheimer’s. Tom has one sister. When their dad realized what was coming, he begged his kids not to put him in one of those dismal Senior Care Facilities—to let him stay in his own home. (He had the financial wherewithal.) They promised. So Carl still lives at home, under full-time care. Tom and the sister take turns giving the live-in nurse some much-needed time off. Carl has reached that stage where he still remembers his children—some of the time—but no longer recognizes the grandkids. Knows where he is, gets around the house just fine on his own, but all doors leading to the outside world now have special demented-old-person-proof locks to prevent escapes. Carl is often “mixed up.” He wanders the house searching for his dear departed wife. Gets frustrated, gets angry and belligerent. So there it is: after putting in long hours at his job all week, being both daddy and husband on the side, every other week Tom makes the three-plus hour drive to Placerville (twice!) and spends Saturday and Sunday caring for a father who often doesn’t even recognize him. It’s been a full-on ordeal, from having to geezer-proof the house to continually seeking new help. He told me about one nightmare scenario involving a thieving nurse; how they had to hire a lawyer and install hidden cameras to catch her in the act. The nurse ended up being arrested, tried, and jailed but things she’d stolen—his mom’s jewelry and other sentimental valuables—were gone forever. I said, “Tom, how long can you keep this up? I know he’s your dad and all but he doesn’t even know who you are!” A two word reply: “I promised.” 

There it is: Tom has a home and family, manages a growing business, helps raise two kids, and takes care of a failing parent for much of his so-called free time. In short, my friend is one of those unsung working-class heroes—people who have the fortitude, and somehow muster enough energy, to keep their intricate worlds from busting apart at the seams. Near as I can tell, this one goes through life with a smile; with a cheerful acceptance of circumstance. Not many people can pull it all off with Tom’s capability and aplomb. As it happens, I don’t know many people with such complicated lives. I’m thirty-six; most of my friends are (like me) single, nomadic, more or less uncommitted climber/skier/ranger-types. Tom doesn’t come across right off as being all that impressive. He’s a regular-looking joe—semi-swarthy, bushy brown hair, unruly beard; average height and build. But you quickly discover that he’s just an exceptionally nice person. Smart. All-around solid citizen. He’d be a great boss—is one of those people that everybody likes. I enjoy just being around him. And his charming wife and their kids. 

            As for his partner: Cherie is thirty-five to Tom’s forty-four. Simply put, Cherie is one of the most attractive, most alluring, fascinatingest women I’ve been fortunate enough to spend time with. I make an effort to conceal my near-infatuation when she’s around, which I know must sound silly and juvenile. But that’s the point—this is just the sort of boyish-boorish, gooey sentiment the poor woman is routinely subjected to. Tom told me on our walk the other day that random unattached males approach his better half with earnest declarations and devotions. Men she barely knows or has just met tell her she’s the most gorgeous creature they’ve ever laid eyes on, that they’re in love, et cetera. (Tom, parodying some poor slob: “You should leave your husband and come away with me.”) My Saline pal Bead-maker Keith is similarly afflicted. I was pondering this Cherie Phenomenon the other day, wondering why I feel such a strong pull, and later told Keith, “I’m drawn to all beautiful things, things that are complex, things that are mysterious, and attractive women in general. She fills the bill all ‘round.” 

Cherie is tall and willowy—maybe five-foot-ten—with clean, simple features and the most stunning green-green eyes. Slender neck, elegant hands. She carries herself with self-possessed grace. (In her teens she’d modeled for a time but realized modeling professionally wasn’t for her and wisely gave it up before it had a chance to ruin her life.) She’s more girl-next-door-beautiful than Hollywood-beautiful—right down to those dainty freckles on her nose and cheekbones that absolutely slay me. More than once I’ve heard comparisons to Mariel Hemingway. 

The essence of Cherie’s beneath-the-skin appeal is a bit harder to pin down but I’ll give it a try. The woman radiates feminine charisma. Sensuous but nurturing…a balanced blend of sexy and maternal. Steady. Even-tempered. There’s also a quiet knowingness about Cherie, something you find in people who listen more than they talk and listen well. She’s not overtly flirtatious—not that I’ve witnessed, anyway—but somehow just reels you in. Us men, that is. I laugh at myself and all the other fools and wonder how Tom handles stray dogs falling in love-lust with his girl. It must be tedious. Me: being a guy, I don’t have the foggiest idea what it would be like to live in Cherie’s skin. (Or any other woman’s skin, for that matter.) She wields herself with flair…and knows her power, oh dear me yes! From what I’ve seen so far, Cherie seems to be an exceptionally kind, giving person. Whatever vanity there is she keeps under wraps. In addition to rearing two fine children, she helps Tom keep that boat afloat and tends the hearth fires at home. Cherie also has a licensed massage business on the side.

I feel much love for this family, both individually and as family-unit and think of them as a prime example of the kind of deep fulfillment domestic life can provide—all the hard effort that goes into making things work; the continuous giving-up-of-self. (Selflessness being one of my lofty ideals but, thus far, little more than aspiration.)

 

HIGH NOON: GAME TIME! CARS AND TRUCKS and vans had been rolling down the road to Lower Springs all morning long, raising clouds of dust that hung in the air for ages. A few late arrivals, showing up in the nick of time. (These being day-tripping Owens Valley residents.) Five little aeroplanes were now neatly lined up alongside the Chicken Strip. I strolled down around eleven to find at least fifty rigs in the “parking lot.” The parking area and ball field, located on the west side of the road just beyond the outhouse, is a windswept flat littered with spiky little clods of crumbly rock—bits and pieces of the off-white mineral deposited by an eons’ worth of hot spring runoff. (The ball field has considerably less loose material than surrounding areas and zero plants, evidence that it’s been groomed through the years.) The crucial lines had been measured out and chalked in. Someone had gotten the bases and home plate out of storage and attached them to the desert floor. But there were no bleachers, backstop, or outfield fence for home run balls to sail over: just a diverse assortment of folding chairs along with several shade canopies. Beer coolers served as extra seating. Many people. People standing…milling about. Vehicles everywhere—double and triple parked, wherever they fit. Dogs various wandered around looking for ground-scores and trouble. 

As per tradition, Misfit fans occupy territory to the right of home plate. Skins fans (a visibly older crowd) take the left side. Steadfast members of the Lower Springs team were marked by actual uniforms, albeit a motley assortment of custom-made        T-shirts and jerseys from games past; red on white being the one unifying theme. The Skins also field a loose-knit squad of cheerleaders. Well…perhaps ‘squad’ isn’t the word…more like ‘freelancers.’ And most definitely not based on any sort of standard cheerleader model. Last year’s star was a woman, forty-something, both plump and well endowed, whose costume consisted of black lace panties and this all-strap-no-fabric nonutilitarian bra thingey (also black) under a scarlet see-through negligee—leaving, ahem, everything to the imagination. Meandering through the crowd like a virgin whore, she handed out home-made cookies from a makeshift tray slung below her neck. Zeroing in on seated male fans, she would demurely bend over them from the waist, pink-tipped breasts looming just above her tray, and purr, “Would you like a gingersnap?” (I took two.) Today, she was dressed a bit more conservatively in a standard cheerleader outfit. This year’s standout, also in her forties and equally immodest, was decked out in high heels, red fishnet body stocking, and white nurse’s coat with big Red Cross symbol on the back. Cherry-red lipstick. I should note that these two were typical examples of the sort of ladies we all see naked here on a daily basis—middle class women with mom-bodies, comfortable in their skin. But on this day, in those outfits…well, male heads were seen to swivel. There was some surreptitious sideways gawking from behind sunglasses going on, you betcha. Such is the outsized effect of lingerie on the male libido. It’s a mystery.

            It was time to get this game underway but players were still just standing around. By now everybody knew that Tom and Cherie’s daughter, Beth, was to play America the Beautiful on her saxophone (at ten, she’s not quite ready to tackle the national anthem’s tricky high notes) but mom hadn’t shown up yet so we held off a bit longer. Then a dog fight broke out in left field: somebody’s red chow rashly decided to take on Big White. The chow, clear underdog, slunk off tail-between-legs after some guy, maybe the dog’s owner, ran over and dumped water on them. Still no Cherie so the lineups were announced—with the aid of a cardboard-and-duct-tape megaphone that worked as well as any store-bought version. Beth, who hadn’t seemed all that nervous earlier, now looked completely petrified. I’d staked claim to a spot just a few yards from home plate and observed all this from my little folding chair. Beth, standing rigidly on the sidelines holding her alto sax, had that telltale glassy-eyed stare. The long wait had finally gotten to her. Uh-oh…. Just then Scarecrow scuffled over with a can of Coke in one hand and low-slung beach chair in the other, plunked the chair down not five feet to my right and shouted, “Play ball!” He was still wearing yesterday’s yellow T-shirt and spanking new Levis but now sported a preposterous floppy-brimmed sunhat that was a good two feet across. (I’d never seen anything quite like it….even for a scarecrow, it was a pretty zany look.) He cupped his hands around his mouth and again yelled, “Play ball!” The person seated between us picked up and left, leaving the space empty.

Cherie still hadn’t arrived so Tom finally steered his daughter out onto the field. With downcast, glazed-over eyes, she radiated crowd-terror. The crowd, hands over hearts and hats off, stood up in anticipation. Everyone present felt for the child and silently urged her on: You can do it! And Beth rallied. It took her a few bars to get in swing but, after honking a few of the first notes, she played America almost flawlessly (though she did rush the last few bars to hasten her escape). As Beth played, Big White and yet another dog-on-the-loose came and stood six feet in front of her, baying in accompaniment—a priceless moment of pure, unadulterated Americana. Howling with laughter, the crowd went wild as gushing papa led blushing daughter off the field. Beth looked dazed but relieved and happy. We all were. Scarecrow, smoke and drink in hand, hollered “Play ball!” Still more time passed; no one was taking charge. By now others were yelling Play ball! Everybody was keen to get this game going. Conditions were ideal: high sixties; no wind, no clouds—picture perfect midwinter desert-weather. If anything, without any breeze or shade it actually felt a tad on the hot side of just right, especially with the intense sunlight being reflected off ground nearly as white as snow. 

Finally, the game got underway. Lower Springs batted first with Wizard pitching for the Misfits. He looked bad. People were whispering about his condition. It’s said that Babe Ruth pitched hung over on a regular basis but he was half Wizard’s age. 

For the Misfits, the game got off to a disastrous start. Wizard actually put on a respectable showing; most of his pitches came down fairly close to the plate. (All that horseshoe-tossing muscle memory….) The Skins’ hitting was commendable while the Misfits’ fielding was, well, pathetic. There had been no practice to speak of unless you count a few players tossing balls back and forth in their camps; not so much as a ten-minute warm-up. From the outset, even short throws went way off-mark. A Skins player would smash one, take off running, and you’d see Walt slowly turn and track the ball as it sailed deep into the outfield. This happened over and over. Easy catches were bobbled and dropped. Throws to second—off by a mile. Runners advanced in unison. Skins fans cheered. Players high-fived one another as runners came in. The Wizard looked positively dejected with a grim smile—more like a grimace—plastered on his face. (It all must have been a blur.) When the top of the first finally came to an end it was 12–0. Upper Spring fans looked stunned, the players deflated.

            Things did get better. As things often do. In softball games of this caliber, a twelve run lead is by no means insurmountable. Over the next few innings the Misfits played well and slowly began to catch up. Chili Bob pitched his token inning. Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised by how well he pitched—almost as good as Wizard. (He may have been a top-notch player in his day.) Bottom of the second: Walt stepped up for his only at-bat and popped up a feeble blooper that almost literally landed in the pitcher’s glove. No kidding—the guy barely moved. And the Wizard was done for the day. Maybe done, period. Chili at least got on base with a limp dribbler down the third base line; a virtual-bunt, it gave him time enough to beat the pitcher’s throw to first. After their token showings, both captains retired to the sidelines and their cold beverages.        The crowd cheered each and every hit. More bad throws. Catches—bungled. Grounders would without warning ricochet off tiny rocks, leaving the surprised fielder’s mitt empty. One spectacular side-retiring double play caused half the gathering to go wild while the other half went dead silent. Timeouts were called twice when dogs wandered onto the field hoping to join the action. After hits and between innings, a group of talented string musicians from a big encampment up above would leap up and launch into bluegrassy riffs while the cheerleaders bopped around, brandishing their mangy-looking pompoms. My face was locked in a perma-grin. You know: the kind of grin where, when you finally stop grinning, your face hurts.

            Before the game started, Beth and her little friend Katy—a precocious six-year-old—came over and plopped down next to me, on my left, the pair hip-to-hip on Beth’s saxophone case. To my right sat Scarecrow, with the unfilled gap between us. I got up several times to wander around and greet friends. Once, I returned to find that the girls had moved Beth’s saxophone case into the space between my chair and Scarecrow’s and the three of them were conversing. I overheard much of their talk—a bizarre, bantering exchange that consisted largely of Scarecrow being sternly lectured by a pair of grade schoolers regarding his personal habits. And Scarecrow defending himself. 

            Some back-story will maybe help make sense of what followed. Maybe.

Despite the age difference, Beth and Katy act like the best of pals. They see each other just once a year and, with children being in short order here at the springs, have become fast friends out of necessity. Mild mannered Beth has her mother’s sweet disposition. Katy, on the other hand, is what used to be (maybe still is) known as a terror. I’ve “known” her and her single-mom mother, Carol, since the girl was two. Even as a toddler Katy was willful and assertive; a child who always made her presence known and got what she wanted. She’s adorable-cute in the pixyish blond sense; a high-spirited little girl who runs around shrieking with laughter. She’s also calculating and controlling to a degree that belies her tender age. At times, her manipulativeness has an almost sinister quality. I’ve seen Katy in action quite a few times now—she’ll resort, as needed and in turn, to all the customary American-style techniques and devices children of a certain age deploy—cajolery, whimpering, assorted crying styles with adjustable volume. And, as a last resort, there’s always the full-blown tantrum (which never fails but is a big commitment of time and energy). On frequent occasions I’ve seen this mother-daughter team going through the motions. Doing the negotiation dance. And, time and again, have watched Carol fold. Honestly, I’m not judging Carol’s mothering skills—battling a willful child singlehandedly is a losing proposition. Not to mention that Carol is on vacation, trying to relax and regroup. Things may be different at home. In any event, her daughter is a certified handful. 

So. I was trying to enjoy the game but kept being distracted by the twisted repartee taking place right next door. Scarecrow was drunk on arrival. (Slouched in his low-slung beach chair, he looked as if he were slowly melting.) He huffed one cigarette after another and sipped from his can of Coke which, I soon realized, was mostly if not all something 80-proof. The trio were just feet away but between the crowd noise and bursts of cheering I missed quite a bit of what was said. As for what transpired: the “discourse” seemed to largely consist of the girls badgering their quarry. Katy, like other little girls of her age and personality type, has a nasty mean-streak. She was definitely the instigator but Beth, four years her senior, fell in behind, acting as Katy’s willing foil. They took turns mocking poor Scarecrow. I got the impression that they’d both already spent some time around him—there were vague hints of familiarity. And that can of “Coke” certainly hadn’t fooled these two. (His combustible breath no doubt gave him away.) Katy would say, “Why do you drink so much? Why do you always smoke? You stink!” and Scarecrow would defend himself as if he were answering to an adult but in language one uses when speaking to a child. Smiling all the while, the girls made sure Scarecrow knew just what they thought of his bad habits and character flaws. Repeatedly, I heard the words “Drugs are bad!” It was obvious that a lot of their sermonizing stemmed from the anti-drug guidance children receive at school nowadays, starting early on. Kids Katy’s age—first-graders—might not be quite ready for this sort of counsel, I really don’t know, so perhaps all the drugs-are-bad talk was initiated by Beth and Katy just ran with it. (I should note that Katy’s mother smokes and enjoys her alcohol). Also—and this is pure surmise—it could be that part of what they’re getting at school, obliquely, is the notion that drug users are fair game for vilification. 

So this is how it went: “Why do you always drink and smoke? You take drugs!” Scarecrow would parry the attack, arguing that beer and tobacco weren’t really drugs. (“I’m not a doper!”) His tormentors just wouldn’t let it go. Beth: “All you do is smoke and drink!” Katy: “We don’t wanna sit by you any more! You smell bad!” Maybe so, but they remained hunched on Beth’s saxophone case right by his side. Back and forth it went. Scarecrow changed tack several times: would claim he didn’t have a drug problem then admit to being addicted. He’d concede that tobacco was unwholesome adding, “Just because I smoke don’t mean you have to. Don’t you ever start to smoke!” Next thing, he’d deny that he was doing anything wrong—taking it all on the chin. 

The girls were merciless and finally Scarecrow lost his cool. He got testy when Katy said, “We don’t want to sit by you! You’re disgusting! Why don’t you go away?” 

“I’ll move when I want to,” he retorted. Followed at once by [whiny, self-pitying tone] “Why are you being so mean to me?” A minute later all three were back to joking, laughing, saying silly things…all smiles. And despite their nonstop griping, neither made a move. They sat there, right at his shoulder, as if spellbound. 

Back in softball-world: 

The Skins’ lead narrowed as the game progressed. A couple of innings the team went down fast on easy fly balls. But the Misfits could never quite catch up. There was a succession of base hits with sub-par fielding. (In all fairness: when a grounder hit the outfield crumble there was no telling where it’d go.) But there were also some great catches and spot-on throws to home, umpires making their calls—“Yer out!” or ”Safe!”—and another double play. Real baseball. Lots of cheering. Some booing, always directed at the umpires. (“Throw out the bums!”) The game got close enough to give the Misfits forlorn hope but the Skins always managed to keep a two or three run cushion. When Walt first hit the sidelines, I heard someone ask how he was doing. “Not so good,” came the reply. Then, several innings later, I heard another person ask him the same question and this time the answer was, “The more beer I drink the better I feel!” 

            Meanwhile, the girls continued taunting Scarecrow. They took turns goading him, using the same lines over and over. Why this sadomasochistic performance kept plugging along in the exact same vein, without variation, was beyond my ken. Intervening would probably require at the least making eye contact with Scarecrow—something I simply couldn’t face. Thus far, I’d feigned not hearing what was going on. There were other people within earshot and none of them seemed to be paying the least attention. Maybe, like me, they were pretending not to hear. At any rate, Scarecrow’s masochism was really starting to get on my psyche’s nerves. Perhaps worse, though, was the way two innocent children had—I don’t know if ‘instinctively’ is the right word—tapped into the man’s warped pathology. And were enjoying themselves no end. What fun! (I’m no child psychologist but it occurs to me just now that what I was witnessing might have been the female version of little boys’ enjoyment of tormenting small animals.)

By the way, Scarecrow had indeed gone on his big supply run. After the game, I heard an account from someone who’d been part of what, to no one’s surprise, turned into a complete debacle. Shortly before departing, Scarecrow backed his beat-up Bronco over one man’s ice chest, rendering it inoperable. Scarecrow promised to get him a new one. He left with a long shopping list and a couple of hundred dollars for beer and wine and ice and tobacco plus additional gas money. (There were bets out on whether or not he’d return.) In the end, some folks got beer but no ice. Someone got ice and cigarettes but no beer. The ones who showed up late to pick up their orders got nothing and, apparently, were told some bold-faced lie about a lost wallet, later found. And the fellow whose ice chest was crushed got his beer and ice but no ice chest to put them in. Have to say it: those who’d given Scarecrow their hard-earned cash all knew there were risks involved…were aware that this dodgy character, Richard, was not one to be trusted. But, having calculated the odds, they all decided it was worth taking a gamble.

 

IT WAS NOW THE BOTTOM OF THE SEVENTH inning. The low winter sun moved across the sky and shadows lengthened without anyone noticing. The Misfits were still within reach of pulling off an upset. It could happen! Just maybe! Substitutions were made all through the game, on both sides, giving everybody who wanted to a chance to play. A couple of late subs for the Misfits—as it happened, both women—put up poor showings both at bat and in the field. (They weren’t the only female players and were by no means alone in the poor-showings department.) Wizard was standing just a few yards away from me at the time. Shaking his head in unambiguous disapproval as the teams exchanged sides, I heard him say to no one in particular but loud enough that anyone could hear, “We gotta get those girls outa there.” Old school.

            Katy and Beth were still hacking away at Scarecrow. He’d started to show some irritation at the hurtful remarks but would revert to joking and teasing in between attacks. At one point, Katy picked up her little day pack to get something out of it and, with no warning, Scarecrow reached over and snatched the pack from her hands. “Whaddya got in there? Got some candy in there?” Katy grabbed it back shouting, “Don’t touch my pack! You stink!” Her face was a picture of outraged indignation. I was on the edge of my seat, ready to tackle Scarecrow if he finally cracked. But no. Looking hangdog, he yielded and sank back in his chair, absorbing this last brutal rejection with a stricken look. Even then, the two girls didn’t move. Neither did Scarecrow. I desperately wished for some motherly intervention; for someone to end this. Did anybody just see that? Anybody besides me hear that? Hello! No one around us seemed remotely aware of what was going on. Weird gets weirder. Speaking of mothers: Cherie had finally shown up about the third inning (she’d been in camp with Ben, keeping watch until he finished his homework) but never came over. And where was Carol? I hadn’t seen her since the game started. I finally got up and walked away from the psycho-drama.

            The score remained close. With only a couple of innings to go, you could feel the competitive tension building to a crescendo. (Just like real baseball!) Then it was the bottom of the ninth—Misfits’ last turn at bat; do or…or go back in camp. I headed for my front row seat to catch the last action. And there was Scarecrow, standing at home plate with bottle of beer in one hand and a bat in the other, taking desultory one-armed practice swings. The guy who was actually next up walked over, holding his own bat. He was a large man, serious of demeanor, pumped up from all the pressure. For a moment he just stood there staring at Scarecrow. Then: “And what exactly do you think you’re doing?” Scarecrow replied cheerfully, “I’m gonna win the game for you guys!” The batter, someone I’d never seen before today, turned away and said, “Get the drunk outa here.” Scarecrow wavered and the big man said, louder and with a more menacing edge, “Get the drunk away!” Whoa. A couple of Misfits hustled Scarecrow over to the sidelines while the batter took his turn at the plate. And that was when I saw what I’d have to say is one of the more piteous things I’ve ever witnessed: the desert Scarecrow, Richard-somebody from Trona, standing alone with both beer and bat hanging limp—rebuffed by one and all, the crushing weight of it in his anguished face and bearing. The mighty Scarecrow had struck out. Wasted, wretched, he dropped his borrowed bat in the dirt. Turned. And walked away. I never saw him again.

            The side went down in a hurry, one-two-three, and the 1995 game was one for the books: Skins 27, Misfits 24. It turned out to be a good, close game—a classic. What was looking like a blowout early on actually got pretty exciting there at the end.

 

LATER THAT EVENING, BACK AT MY TRUCK, after a decidedly full day in Saline Valley. (Saline Valley: a place where ‘full’ days are the norm, even when nothing happens that you’ll be able to recall two days later.) I’d skipped all the post-game festivities and feastings in lieu of a long, peaceful soak up top in the volcano pool. Now, in a pensive mood, I sat in my camper’s open doorway with a near-full moon lighting up the night and thought about all the things I’d witnessed since those galloping burros woke me at dawn. That last look on Scarecrow’s face, in particular, was etched in my mind. 

A movement caught my eye: glancing down, there on the doormat, just beneath my feet, was a kangaroo rat—perfect little sleek creature of the desert with long, tuft-tipped tail and oversized jet-black eyes. A kangaroo rat, just going about its business. Which, at that moment, was making a living, harvesting supper crumbs I’d brushed off my cutting board an hour earlier. We were fairly well acquainted by this time and it showed little trepidation in my presence. Something about its cartoonishly large eyes, gleaming in the moonlight…. I searched those portals-to-another-place, looking for clues. Something in me shifted. 

Well, to claim that what I saw in those lustrous liquid orbs encapsulated the sum total of human joy and travail would be, as Mark Twain put it, “laying it on a bit thick.” But it was rather like that…a minor epiphany, if you will (by definition, not possible to capture in words). In any event, an unorthodox softball game in the middle of the middle of nowhere had subtly amended my worldview vis-à-vis the hairless ape, tossing into the already vast swirl a number of startling and entirely unforeseen new takes on the human condition. Whatever I’d seen in those fathomless rodent eyes was clearly a figment of my expansive mental state—the emotional residue of a dazzling, unforgettable day. My cup was runneth-ing over and I had me some processing to attend to.

 

 

             ©2022  Tim Forsell                                                          23 Feb 1995, 20 Dec 2022

                                                                                                                        

           

Scarecrow at the Bat...Part 1 (of 2) 1995

 Ever heard of Saline Valley? No? No surprise there. Each western state has a few “middle of nowhere” places and Inyo County’s Saline Valley meets all the qualifications, particularly when you factor in hard-to-get-to-itiveness. So where exactly is it? you ask. Along the stretch of Highway 395 ‘twixt Lone Pine and Big Pine, the Sierra Nevada crest dominates the Owens Valley viewscape. Few tourists even know the name of that barren, treeless range to the east: the Inyo Mountains. Well, Saline Valley lies just the other side of the Inyos. Two roads lead there, both unpaved. One enters from the north, the other from the south, and one or the other (sometimes both) can be impassable during the winter due to snow. Both get washed out on occasion by localized flooding during severe thunderstorms. If that weren’t enough, each route is long, washboardy, and full of pointy rocks. Simply making it in to “Saline” is an adventure. So why go there? Part of the pull is its middle-of-nowhere appeal: no towns, no asphalt, no powerlines; nowhere to buy a quart of milk. The valley is surrounded on all sides by desolate desert mountain ranges but most prominently by the east face of the Inyos—a Himalayan-scale wall of rock that drops ten-thousand vertical feet from its crest to the valley floor in a mere seven horizontal miles. Still, Saline Valley’s biggest draw might be for those needing to get away from civilization in a big way and who also enjoy soaking their bones in hot mineral water. ◦◦◦◦◦ Way out in the center of the valley, smack-dab in the middle of the- middle-of-nowhere, is a patch of greenery marking the location of Saline Valley Hot Springs. In the 1960s, visitors started arriving and over time several soaking pools were built. A community of itinerant desert rats were drawn to the place and word spread. ◦◦◦◦◦ I began trekking out to Saline late in 1990, when it was still BLM land and people could legally stay for six months at a stretch. The long-term “residents” all settled at Lower Springs while other visitors tended to congregate half a mile farther up the road at Upper (aka Palm) Spring. At the time this story was written, I was a seasonally employed Forest Service wilderness ranger. Saline was a great place to winter during my time off—relatively warm, with free camping, unlimited hot water, and a fabulous cast of odd characters to hang out with. For over a decade, I’d spend several months in total camped at the springs each year. Then, late in 1994, just months before this story was written, the entire valley was handed over to the National Park Service and added to the new Death Valley NP. It took time but, gradually, things began to change. A ten-day stay limit was imposed, among other restrictions. All the old-timers left, completely altering the Lower Springs ambience. Other folks who’d come out each year for extended stays stopped coming. Also, the word was out (largely thanks to guidebooks and the internet) and there was a sudden influx of newcomers—people having little or no connection to the land or interest in Saline Valley’s history, culture, and customs. Sadly, a lot of the magic fizzled. For me, at least.  ◦◦◦◦◦ This story captures some of the spirit of the place, pre-Park Service. It was an absolutely unique scene. And if this Universal Blandification trend goes unchecked, there will never again be anything to match what I used to call “the best free spa on the planet.”

 

IT’S THE MAGICAL SUNRISE HOUR in Saline Valley. At the very crest of a low rise, steam lifts from the surface of a small natural pond brimming with hot mineral water, fresh from the underworld—The Source, locals call it, reverentially. Forty yards away is a concrete bathing pool in the shape of a hexagon that receives water from The Source via gravity and buried pipe. The pool, about ten feet across, is flanked by several non-native palm trees but otherwise is fully exposed to the world at large. From this prime vantage an array of dramatic vistas present themselves on all sides—open desert country backed by stark-naked mountains in a wide variety of colors and textures. No buildings, paved roads, powerlines or mountain-top antennas to be seen. No permanent man-made structures of any kind, in fact. And all this wide-open space is augmented by an intense quiet, at the moment marred only by a few low voices and the gentle rustling of palm fronds—this, a most pleasant counterpoint to the all-encompassing stillness. Nine or ten souls are having their morning soak, a daily ritual for all. Several chatted with their immediate neighbors while others (me, for one) absorbed the magnificent views in silence. The sun’s shadow line crept inexorably towards the pool, backing away from the now fully lit east face of the Inyo Mountains. Overhead: a sky made up of many blues imperceptibly grading into one another and completely devoid of cloud.

A lean, almost gaunt man with no towel walks up, inquiry written on his weathered face. I’d been observing the stranger’s approach, intrigued by his slow motion Charlie Chaplin-esque gait—a bit of full-body wobble, as if he were limping on both legs; an odd, irresolute quality to it. Even from a distance, there was something about this person that was…a bit off. Even in his walk. He was attired in a threadbare yellow T-shirt (untucked) and a pair of crisp, pristine Levis whose legs were several inches too long. The excess denim was accordianed over the tops of a pair of cheap, faux-Nike high-top basketball shoes like all the kids wear these days. His sneakers’ long laces—untied—were trailing through the fine-as-flour “moondust,” raising tiny dust clouds. Taking in this last, telling clue, I heard these words in my head: Not a good sign. Poolside, the stranger stood looking a little ill at ease, glancing around hesitantly, not meeting anyone’s eye. He reminded me of Ray Bolger (who played Scarecrow in Wizard of Oz). A craggier version; sadder eyed. Other things about him reminded me of the actor and scarecrows in general. I felt this sudden guarded interest tempered by wariness…remembered seeing this oddball out here before but couldn’t recall when or under what circumstances. Others were looking up, expectant, waiting for him to speak. 

Finally: “D’any of ya know where I can find the Wizard? They told me he was staying up here somewhere.” All talk ceased. A longish pause. Looks were exchanged. A man, someone I didn’t know, finally volunteered, “Uhh, yeah…that’s his trailer over there by those bushes. I don’t believe he’s up yet. You need something?”

“I wanted to see if I could buy some beer off ‘im.”

This was Presidents Day Weekend, mind you—weekend of the Big Game. Every last  opening between bushes was crammed with vehicles and tents and camping gear…holiday revelers galore. The sun was barely up yet there were close to a dozen people in the pool already. (Typically, at this hour there might be three or four.) Several of us spontaneously broke into nervous laughter. The very notion! ‘Buy’ some beer? From the Wizard?! The newcomer was taken aback by our reaction. But see: unwittingly, his query had hit us like some kind of lead-in line to a Saline Valley insider joke. People mostly leave the Wizard alone when he comes out. The idea of knocking on his trailer door—at this hour!—and asking for a favor, no less. Well, it just didn’t seem like something someone would do. Especially with that dog…lurking. The man who’d first spoken up said, chuckling still, “Well, that may take some doing. Don’t know if I’d head over there just yet if I were you—he may be ‘sleeping in.’ He had a big night. But if you do go over, make sure you give Satan a wide berth.” Someone else piped up, “Actually, he’s up. I saw him a minute ago.” The towel-less stranger thanked us and left. 

Not three minutes later he shambled back over, shoelaces flip-flapping in his wake. Those of us who’d laughed before laughed again: carrying a can of Bud in one hand and broken six-pack in the other, Scarecrow-man flashed us a wide victory grin with almost child-like glee. No teeth in that mouth, so far as I could tell. (Another bad sign….) He tipped his head way back for a long pull, Adam’s apple bobbing. Glug glug glug. Judging by the can’s tilt, two-thirds of it were down the hatch already.

He set his beers down, pulled a rumpled pack of cigarettes and lighter out of a back pocket, stripped, and slid into the crowded pool—the last open spot, the one where the low morning sun and its harsh glare blasts right in your face. Scarecrow-man’s wiry physique was unexpectedly athletic-looking, tanned and toned with well-defined muscles. His body was that of a thirty-year-old but the face part looked fifty; it was hard to gauge his age. Longish, curly brown hair with some gray. A four- or five-day growth of beard (more gray), hollow cheeks. Dark, deep-set eyes; deep furrows fanning from their corners—his overall appearance signifying a life of sorrow and disappointment, end result of a troubled childhood and subsequent string of bad decisions. Surely some jail time. Even that odd shuffling walk spoke of a rough life. 

As soon as he’d slipped in, Scarecrow lit up a Doral. After a minute, the guy he’d first spoken to asked, grinning, “Well, how’d you pull that off?!” 

“Oh, I just ‘borrowed’ it.” His voice had a soft edge, possibly a consequence of having no teeth. “I’m heading to Bishop today for more.”

At those words, several soakers perked right up. (Thinking: A town run! More beer! And ice!) Beer and ice, you understand, are precious commodities in Saline. Lots of folks, especially those who come out to party hearty on these long holiday weekends, fail to anticipate their actual needs and bring not near enough of either. Suddenly the stranger was being hit up with questions and offers. When are you leaving? Hasty arrangements and impetuous promises were made. Brand new friends expressed concern that Scarecrow not leave without their requests and cash—We’ll give you money for gas, of course!—and said they’d meet him down the road around nine. This guy would have enough gas money to drive to LA and back. Could you maybe take my cooler?

Sitting across the pool in a patch of shade cast by one of the palms I watched him settle back and start on his second beer and smoke. Saline Valley gets its fair share of hardcore drinker-smoker types. This one seemed cheerful enough and might turn out to be fairly harmless. But no—not the case. Nope. Scarecrow promptly raised the hackles of every single person in the pool by spouting some certifiably wacky notions.

Everything seemed fine; run of the mill pool talk—strangers searching for common ground and mutual interests, just being friendly. A woman seated near me, Barbara, was asked where she lived and what she did for a living. Barbara says she lives in Tehachapi; makes a long commute to Bakersfield where she has a cushy job working for Cal State University as the university’s OSHA coordinator. Pretty unobjectionable. But at the mention of OSHA, Scarecrow’s face went sneer-y and he rolled his eyes. Another person asked, “But what is it you actually do?” Barbara reeled off a few things—‘proper disposal of toxic wastes’ being one—and Scarecrow leapt in, claiming that the whole deal about said materials was a complete fantasy (my words); a government plot (his words). “There are no ‘toxic wastes.’ It’s ridiculous! What about Japan? We dropped those bombs on ‘em. That stuff is supposed to last millions of years but there’s people filling those cities again and they’re not sick!” (I later learned that Scarecrow hails from Trona—a mining town in the Mojave known for its smoke-belching chemical plants, broad-spectrum toxicity, and epidemic drug abuse.) Normally an outburst of this sort would initiate heated debate, but his claims were so preposterous and tendered with such vitriol that no one even attempted to reply. The mundane chatter of just moments before died on the vine. People turned instead to hushed one-on-one exchanges.

Conversation did pick up again. After Scarecrow’s outburst you could tell that everyone had written him off as some kind of nut-job. Just like that, he was shut out—an outcast, a pool-pariah. Then some other guy took pity and let Scarecrow back into the group banter by asking him a question; even called him by name: Richard. For some reason, this shocked me. Richard just didn’t seem to go with the persona. Richards are nice, normal, orderly, well-behaved people. He seemed more like a Ray or a Joe or even a Steve. Or that he’d go by some redneckish biker nickname. But not Richard.

A bit later, more discord. I saw the whole thing: Scarecrow Richard, now working on his third Budweiser and fifth Doral (four butts in a heap on the edge of the pool), began staring intently at a young man seated across from him. The young man and his girlfriend were taking turns sipping from a quart jar of apple juice. Out of the blue, no longer able to contain his revulsion, Scarecrow said to this kid, “I don’t see how you can drink that stuff!”—said this while shaking his head from side to side in obvious disgust. It was exactly the sort of thing some drunk, chip-on-his-shoulder cowboy in a dive bar does when they’re looking for a fight and absolutely anyone will do. In the face of this completely unprovoked insult, the young man kept his cool and responded in an even tone, “Apple juice is good,” adding, after a well-timed pause, “I can’t imagine drinking beer before breakfast.” To this, Scarecrow responded, “All I drink is beer. Been doing it for twenty years.” (Proof positive that beer is a healthy and nutritious breakfast food.) End of conversation. Wow. I probably wasn’t the only one in the tub thinking to myself, Is this guy saying he never drinks water? Literally, only beer? Well, aside from looking weather-worn and having no teeth, Scarecrow did appear to be pretty darn fit.

 

THERE ARE TWO BIG ANNUAL ‘EVENTS’ at Saline Valley Hot Springs: a Thanksgiving shindig and the Presidents Day Weekend softball game. Both, long traditions and the springs, never more crowded. Two hundred souls might show up for the time-honored November feast or midwinter baseball (also accompanied by feasting). The Big Game draws people from as far away as Alaska. Some come by plane, landing their little tail-dragger, single-prop Cessnas on a crude airstrip just west of Lower Springs known as the Chicken Strip (as in, We did two fly-bys, saw all those ruts and rocks, and chickened out). Any time a plane comes in for a landing, everybody stops what they’re doing to watch. 

Every third Monday in February it’s the Upper Spring “Misfits” versus the Lower Springs “Skins.” The intensity of this Skins-Misfits rivalry might come as a surprise if you don’t understand the circumstances. It’s like this: under unique circumstances, two transitory encampments have grown up around a pair of desert hot springs separated by half a mile of dusty dirt road; two distinct communities, apparently just far enough apart to have formed independent identities. 

And thus, a friendly sports rivalry was born. You see, both encampments have their own culture and ethos. This deserves a little explanation, for perspective.

Lower Springs has long been the place where those who stay for extended periods reside; some, as per BLM [Bureau of Land Management] rules, for the maximum allowed six months. These individuals are, in effect, migratory permanent residents living amid the screwbean mesquite and arrow weed thickets in an assortment of vintage trailers, campers-on-jacks, and decrepit RVs spread over maybe an acre—like a kind of low-rent retirement village. Some of their rigs are left here all year, moved to a sort of long-term storage lot at the camp’s fringes during the off season (that is, the hot months, when daytime temperatures become unbearable). Those who call Saline Valley home for half the year fall into these categories: retired, partially disabled, more or less unemployable, or none of the above. They include high-functioning alcoholics, half-crazies, quarter-crazies, libertarians, and other societal dropouts all shapes and sizes. A few seem to be completely normal. None of them are what you’d call young. There are a couple of couples. The core group forms the beating heart of a mutually supportive, mobile village. Many are close friends who’ve known each other for ages. But there are also plenty of transient visitors on close terms with the long-termer old-timers. 

In terms of amenities, Lower Springs is well-appointed: three hot soaks to choose from plus a sunken bathtub and two showers—all fed by the Lower Spring’s version of The Source. There’s also a lukewarm cool-pool fed by a separate spring. Picnic tables; a fire pit encircled by padded benches; lawn chairs; a dishwashing station with sink and drying rack. (Scrubbies and dish soap are supplied by visitors.) There’s even a small lending library of donated books and magazines in a crude cabinet whose plywood doors are kept shut at night lest roving burros consume the paperbacks (which—fun fact—they prefer over glossy magazines and hard-cover books). Adjacent to the fire pit is the magnificent cement-and-inlaid-rock Crystal Pool—a genuine work of art, built in the ‘70s, that easily holds a dozen people. A perpetually watered crabgrass lawn is bordered by native mesquite trees and introduced palms. The entire common area is virtually surrounded by arrow weed, an indigenous shrub. Occasional discreet trimming has transformed the arrow weed thickets into a hedge-like windbreak that makes being outside feasible during those not-infrequent violent wind storms. All this managed vegetation provides shade and shelter and lends the place a desert-cozy, welcoming vibe. A sizable dug-out pond at the lower end of the lawn is fed by cooled-down tub runoff. The pond is home to a couple of coots, a school of jumbo goldfish, and crawdads that subsist on pan-scrapings that go down the dishwashing sink’s drain. As for the human scene: there’s much socializing, in and out of the soaks—particularly at night—with guitars and other stringed instruments and singing ‘round the campfire on a regular basis. Music nights can be extraordinary, with talented players and singers creating magic in the desert. On occasion, some hero will bring in a load of firewood, albeit of the construction site scrap-wood variety. There’s no garbage service and no trash receptacles but you’ll never see garbage laying around—not even cigarette butts. The place is scrupulously kept clean and tended to by users. Pools are all drained and cleaned daily. 

I’ll mention just two of the long term residents, the ones who are indispensible to the smooth running of the place: Major Tom is camp host, whether official or semi-official I don’t know. He’s the one with the short-wave radio that allows contact with higher authorities in emergencies. Tom assists first-timers, shows them the ropes, answers questions, coordinates volunteer projects, and keeps the peace. Mammoth Bob lives in an old Bluebird Bus at the outskirts of the camping area. He mostly stays to himself, seldom comes over to soak, and doesn’t talk much when he does. A welder by trade, he has all the equipment in his camp and all the tools. If anyone has a vehicular problem or full-on breakdown, Mammoth Bob will fix it, even if it means a trip or two to civilization for parts. 

            In contrast, Upper Spring is much less developed, having few permanent structures. It tends to be occupied by people who stay for a weekend or a week (though some stay for a month or more). Campsites are situated among open, mixed “groves” of creosote and desert holly and burro bush encircling the even more sparsely vegetated white hillock known as The Mound, where The Source and soaking pools are situated. The sites themselves, set back some distance from the top of The Mound, are little more than parking spots with a fire-ring or two. Aside from a few bushes, they’re entirely in the open with uninterrupted 360° views of naked limestone or granite mountains, lava flows, and broad valley vistas to make up for lack of cover and shade. People who camp “up top” appreciate desert austerity. They prefer being surrounded by nature and exposure to the elements (e.g., wind and blowing dust) over the softer, more social scene “down below.” Visitors on average are younger…more physically active; like to take hikes and embark on day-long exploratory jaunts to go along with their pool-time. 

But note (and this is crucial): everyone who comes to Saline Valley recognizes and prizes a numinous, some would call it magical quality this place has—an amalgam of austere landscapes; spaciousness on a grand scale; the exotic sound of complete silence; the enchanting star-sparkled night skies unmarred by artificial light. Unmarred, that is, aside from occasional headlights snaking down the long grade from South Pass. This is a thing all Saliners partake of: the unique sensation that comes with gazing at those far-off headlights and instantaneously grokking how the weary, over-jangled travelers feel; how anxious they are to arrive but still two hours out; how ready they are just to be there. It adds one more layer to the feeling of hard-earned isolation that unites us all. Always bear this in mind—simply getting into or out of Saline Valley is an adventure unto itself and a big part of the Saline Experience. 

            Visitors tend to have strong camping preferences and often have a cherished campsite they’ll use when it’s available. As a rule, people favor one spring over. This partiality can be quite fervent; a few of the Upper Springers actually seem to have hard feelings—a low-level resentment directed toward what they see as a privileged few laying claim to the choicest Lower Springs sites, occupying them for months at a time. Also, some feel ill at ease around the pervasive drinking and smoking that goes on down below…the chronic cases who get smashed every night—these things, along with a cliquish chumminess among the long-termers. I’ve heard Upper Spring campers voice their antipathy a few times now, saying things like, “I’d never camp down there!” (Well, no one’s going to force you!) As for the Lower Springs folk: if they have any bad feelings regarding Upper Spring people as a whole, I’m not aware of it. Why would they?

Many of us enjoy soaking in all the pools—each has its distinguishing qualities and cherished features. We make our rounds up the road and down, taking advantage of early sun or better sunset views or to get some much-needed shade. And all the Lower Springs soaks are better when the wind blows. It so happens that there are a number of campsites along the road between the two springs. Some folks—I’m one of them—prefer camping in this middle zone expressly for overall ease of access. (Hot tip: having a bike makes this a snap.) Plus, there’s the added benefit of being away from the densely packed camping areas: less clamor, more privacy (no snoring neighbor twenty feet away...) and you get to enjoy the magnificent capital-Q Quiet.

To sum up, the two communities are another of Saline Valley’s notable features: villages separated by a mere half mile, each with its own quirky identity and rustic charms. Both are smoothly functioning anarchies—functioning anarchies being rare birds indeed. Some bright-eyed sociology post grad working toward a PhD could come stay for a spell and write their thesis, a case study demonstrating how neighboring modern-day tribes interface, far from the tumult of our “advanced” “civilization.” 

And, circling back to the annual softball game: in common with all sporting events, part of its gut-level appeal is rooted in a universal, Darwinian us-against-them competitiveness. The microcosmic Saline Valley rivalry is embodied by the teams’      respective honorary captains—both, long-time Saliners. Both of them passionate as    regards America’s Favorite Pastime. And both, incurable alcoholics.

            “Chili Bob” captains the Skins. He’s one of only a handful of people who live in Saline year-round. Chili ostensibly care takes one of the valley’s few private inholdings but seems to spend most of his time here at the springs. The first time we “met” was right at the start of my second or third visit. At the end of the long drive I was easing into Lower Springs and standing by the road was this old man who looked like a shriveled-up pirate. Easing past him in first gear, we locked eyes. He was staring at me with a malevolent scowl. I recall being thoroughly creeped-out at the time but later on realized that Chili just happened to be standing there, checking out a fresh arrival—likely thinking to himself, Oh! It’s somebody new!—and may have just been squinting in the glare as he peered through my windshield to see who it might be.

Chili is a Viet Nam vet subsisting on a medical disability. I have no idea if he saw combat or if his disability, whatever it might be, is war-related. He’s been a fixture in the valley since the early ‘80s. Wizened and leathery with an old-at-heart vibe and all-over tan, he could easily pass for seventy. I was quite shocked—more like disturbed—upon learning that he’s not yet fifty. Chili, it turns out, is a mild-mannered, unassuming drunkard who’s committing slow-motion suicide, surrounded by caring friends in a place with a healthful climate. People say he was almost done in by a particularly nasty divorce. And if he saw combat in Viet Nam, no telling what that did to him. But I really don’t know the man’s story. His standing facial expression is a sullen frown that may just reflect how he feels, physically. Someone who didn’t know better, seeing Chili Bob for the first time, might take him to be a malevolent, perhaps even evil person. But once you hear Chili speak or see him buzzed, laughing and smiling, you can see that he’s just one of those sorry cases—a beat-down and broken man, basically a gentle soul who’s had more of life’s hard knocks than he can take. To make life bearable, Chili smokes nonstop and drinks a case of the cheapest beer money can buy. Every day. That’s right—a case. Every day of the week, including Sundays. And, as if that weren’t enough, he transitions to wine-in-a-box at night. He must barely eat. Or sleep. I’ve seen his skeletal frame in the Crystal pool not long after sunrise with half a dozen folded-in-half empties by his side—fresh can in one hand, cigarette in the other, a sizable pile of butts in the ashtray at his elbow. Chili’s social life revolves around his Lower Springs friends. I have no idea how he ended up with the desert-handle but assume he can whip up a mean pot of chili. I’ve spoken to the man maybe twice. He seems to be well liked. People look after him. Everyone knows that Chili Bob is hastening toward his end; self-annihilation at a nice, relaxed pace befitting the surroundings. 

            In stark contrast, “The Wizard” is vital and outgoing at seventy-four. This distinctly unwizardlike character drinks as hard as Chili though not at such a steady pace (and doesn’t smoke), opting instead for a more typical nightly blitz, enduring morning-after hangovers as a matter of course. These he treats hair-of-dog fashion, rising early and carrying a few Buds over to the pool to take the edge off during his morning soak. Come evening, he augments the beer with E&J brandy. Casual visitors and greenhorn newcomers refer to him as The Wizard; informal acquaintances as just plain “Wizard.” Acquaintances of long standing (I find it difficult to imagine him having actual friends) use his Christian name—Walt. I  have no idea how or why he got his desert-handle but hear tell that he’s been coming to the springs for fifty years now—far longer than anyone in living memory. I don’t know the man’s last name, where he lives, or how he made a living but someone told me he used to breed Rottweilers. (I’d like to know: For profit or just for fun?) Rumor has it that he first came to Saline to procure the feral burros for dog food. This tale inspired gruesome mental imagery of a younger, pre-Wizard Walt arriving back home in some beat-up Ford truck, its bed loaded down with donkey corpses…legs poking up every which way…blood dripping from the tailgate…leathery shanks, rudely hacked off and tossed into a kennel full of howling Rottweilers. 

Wizard Walt started camping by The Source long before any pools were built or any of the palm trees were planted. He achieved lasting fame here in the valley and beyond by heading up construction of the beloved “wizard pool” back in the early ‘70s. Fifty yards to its west, the original soak—the “volcano pool”—is relatively crude in comparison (a free-form concrete-and-rock structure, its walls built up above ground). Walt’s masterpiece is flush with the ground and straight-of-line; a four-foot-deep sunken concrete pool in the shape of a geometric hexagon about ten feet across with an encircling flat “bench” two feet below the rim, the whole thing finished with smooth, easy-on-the-butt cement. It’s bordered by an oval concrete pad inlaid with smooth stones pulled from the adjoining wash, plus a bench of wooden planks atop cemented-rock “legs”—a boon when you’re putting your shoes back on. Everything about the wizard pool is carefully thought-out. It was built with close attention to aesthetics; is easy to drain and clean—a daily ritual taken on by congenitally helpful users—and is dearly loved by one and all for its elegance and situation, vista-wise (not to mention the healing hundred-and-whatever-degree Earthwater). Several scruffy palms provide oasis ambience and shade at certain hours. The net result is an enticing spa, free to all who come—in fact, one of the best “free” things ever.  Something money can’t buy.

So it is that the wizard of Saline turned into local celebrity: a near-mythical figure, seldom present, held in great esteem by people he’s never even met…people who are awed by the very name; who envision an enigmatic personage possessing vague, low-level supernatural powers. But Walt is neither sorcerer nor wise man. And those who picture a kindly paternal figure building the pool with a shovel and two bare hands will be sadly disappointed when they finally make Walt’s acquaintance: the legendary Wizard is a lanky, cantankerous, stubble-chinned old man with boozey eyes. During daylight hours and well into the night, Walt drinks many a can of Budweiser beer. After sundown, he gets into the brandy and gets loud. Up until just the last year or so you’d see him go off on his morning jog—an early run to shake the hangover. Drunk or half-sober, he still pitches a mean game of horseshoes. (I’ve watched him throw double-ringers in the clutch.) But this much can be said: Walt did in fact lead the crew that built a pool according to his plan and in keeping with the vision. More recently, Walt and a few helpers contrived a shower and dishwashing station near his namesake pool—all without pre-approval from or even the knowledge of BLM authorities. I can almost hear Walt’s gruff voice saying these words: “Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.” (It would be just like him.) He always camps in his spot right next to The Source, leaving it meticulously cleaned and raked before leaving. Dog poop—gone. No one but Wizard Walt ever camps there. No one would dare. It’s likely where he parked on his first visit, back when he’d be the sole person staying at either spring. He has a son who sometimes comes along. No idea if he’s still married—it seems unlikely but…you never know. He often brings his scary Rottweiler for companionship. Satan is forever left chained to the bumper of Walt’s little trailer to forestall the slaughter of innocent children and loose dogs. (I’ve never once seen that hell-dog not tied up.)  

So Walt, who’s been camping at his spot longer than most Saliners have been alive, captains the Misfits—as near as I can tell, not out of any sort of tribal fidelity. He just likes to play softball…takes pleasure in winning. As captains, both Chili Bob and Wizard Walt pitch for their respective teams. But the two of them only take token innings these days. Another tradition is Walt bringing with him the fixings for a big post-game barbeque: hotdogs, burgers, chicken…the works. “Food’s free. Bring your own beer,” he says in his brusque fashion. (These are his words.) He’s a tough old wrinkle-necked codger; a forceful personality, opinionated. I believe he’s also a military vet. An old-school sink-or-swim do-er who “don’t want to hear no bellyachin’.” The Saline Valley’s only wizard is a true individualist who’s always done what he damn-well pleased and “screw ‘em if they don’t like it.” (These, again, are things I can imagine him saying.) He’s probably led a very interesting life and was good at whatever it was he did. Does. 

TO BE CONTINUED...

 

 

             ©2022  Tim Forsell  (DRAFT)                                                        23 Feb 1995,15 Dec 2022