Another
kind of synchronicity includes related events that take place over time, in
stages as it were. Again, the events may have significance only to the
person(s) involved; whatever they consist of might seem inconsequential and
trivial or even silly to others. Such is most definitely the case with this
fundamentally ridiculous story.
Phase One: For the better part of a
month I’d been camping at the hot springs in Saline Valley. In those years I
spent much of each winter at this remote oasis near Death Valley, a place that
provides the basic needs of an itinerant community of nomadic types—like
unemployed rangers—during the non-summer months. It was New Years Eve day,
1994. I’d thoroughly enjoyed my previous
Saline New Years celebrations (which might involve well over a hundred people)
but this year the group of friends I’d been camping with wanted to avoid the
crowds that come just for the festivities. They decided to leave the valley and
I elected to follow them out, resupply in town, and then head back to the
springs for more. Some other folks who wanted to skip the revelry as well
decided do the same and we invited them to join us in a convoy to make sure
everyone made it safely over the snow-covered pass. We all made it over the icy
pass but, due to our late start, ended up making camp nearby on a Joshua
tree-covered plain.
It was not only cold—the “camp” was a wide pullout
at 6000 feet elevation—but very windy so we parked our rigs in a tight circle.
There was a fire ring so I built a little fire (we had some wood with us) and
had our own improvised celebration. A dozen souls gamely huddled around the
struggling fire, everyone wearing heavy coats and warm hats. There were several
drums, one saxophone and—yes—alcohol was consumed. Despite the harsh conditions
we actually created a rather festive, celebratory ambiance. The drumming and
wild wind lent our impromptu celebration a sort of pagan lunacy…a wintry
madness. Somebody had firecrackers and set a few off.
Then I did a thing that seemed innocent enough at
the time but which, nonetheless, resulted in the birth of a minor legend. In
Saline Valley, where people are often known only by first names, the long-time
visitors end up with epithets bestowed on them by others. I was “Ranger Tim” to
most folks but, for some time after this episode, a few people took to calling
me “Mad Bomber.” (This included some who were not among the few eye-witnesses
who returned to the springs afterward.)
Once the fire was laid, I attempted to get the wood
to catch but my disposable Bic ran out of fuel. Somebody handed me another lighter
and without thinking I slipped the empty one into a pocket.
After the firecrackers, I was apparently feeling a
little of the pagan zaniness and did something that, in retrospect, was
downright foolhardy. I found the dead Bic in my coat pocket and, without deliberation,
flipped it into the fire. This was a total whim intended, I suppose, to “spice
things up.” Having performed this experiment on a previous occasion (to see
what would happen) I knew that the lighter wouldn’t explode in a ball of flame,
spewing molten plastic and shrapnel. All of us were huddled close to the fire.
I made some show of tossing the thing into the pit but not everyone saw
this—including, ahem, a mother
holding her infant. Those that did, however, scattered.
Part of this deal was that I felt lucky right at that moment so I didn’t even bother to move away, knowing I
was safe from harm. I realize this doesn’t make much sense but this is a
“thing” with me: an feeling of complete immunity from disaster at very specific
times…a certainty that I can pull something off and have nothing to fear. (This
non-rational sensation was a consequence of years of solo rock-climbing—an
activity that relies in part on an intuitive certitude as regards positive
outcomes, e.g., not falling and dying.) My companions, however, weren’t aware
that they were perfectly safe.
As designated fire-tender I was seated right next
to the flames in a low-slung folding camp chair. The fire-pit was surrounded by
piled stones. Some seconds after my impetuous act, there was a POP! (not even close to being as loud as
the firecrackers) and a shower of glowing coals. The lighter flew out of the
pit, landing a few yards away. I hadn’t moved a muscle and no hot coals landed
in my lap. No one was burned, no hair was singed. Some people “got” the weird
devil-may-care humor of it and laughed—no harm done!—but a few thought I’d been
stupid and reckless. The woman with the infant, who I hardly knew, was
genuinely incensed. It wasn’t until later that I found out just how incensed. I heard about it from
others and ended up apologizing to the mother, who took the opportunity to give
me a real dressing-down. But the story got spread far and wide and gathered
some momentum, no doubt getting embellished along the way. In part, it was
intended as a rebuke for my having done something that people thought so out of
character for a ranger. Others, those who knew me, felt I’d been irresponsible
and could easily have injured someone. But I should point out that at the
remote desert outpost of Saline Valley hot springs there’s a sort of loose-knit
transient community. And within every small community—always—there is ceaseless, unfiltered gossiping.
For a couple of years I’d occasionally be ribbed
about that night. Some of it was good-humored mockery though a few
acquaintances would call me “Mad Bomber” just to provoke me. Others (including
the mother, of course) kept my censure alive.
Phase Two: Several years later, once
more in Saline Valley at the hotsprings. New Years eve again, as well, with
friends around a cheery fire in my camp after a lovely dinner. Libations and
laughter. My pal Gabriel’s mother, Ariella, took the opportunity to recall that
semi-infamous event’s anniversary. She had done this on other occasions. So
people who hadn’t even been there got to hear (again) about the ball of fire,
the blazing coals winging through the air, the molten projectile that whizzed
past someone’s ear. (For a few, this was a first telling.) In the past, close
friends had kidded me but apparently there were some who still believed that
I’d heedlessly endangered innocent people and they still carried some residual
indignation. And maybe this was justified.
Still, being reminded of the affair most definitely
annoyed me. But: it just so happened that I had in my
possession a spent Bic disposable lighter that had run out of gas the day
before and was right there in my trash bag. To finally lay this matter to rest,
I went and fished the thing out and carried it over to the fire. After a brief
preliminary statement I tossed it into the coals. Everybody quickly backed off
but I stood directly in front of the fire, three yards from the flames. Some
people actually crouched behind cars or bushes. There was a fair amount of
anticipation in the air. After several long seconds there was an insipid little
pop! and a few small coals fell onto
the surrounding sand. There was some disappointment-tinged laughter at the
manifest anticlimax and folks ambled back to the campfire while I just stood
there, stunned. Because:
In the darkness, beyond the circle of fire-light,
no one had seen what happened (me included). But that lighter had sailed out of
the firepit, hitting me in the chest. In fact, it struck directly over my heart. There was no pain, none, but I’d just taken
a straight shot to the heart. I plucked the slightly melted lighter out of the
sand at my feet and began babbling, holding it up to show everyone. No one
seemed particularly impressed or even interested. But I sure thought it was, well…something.
And still do.
Phase Three: November 2015. Back in
Saline Valley for the first time in several years, specifically to attend the
wedding of my friends Gabriel and Loretta.
The evening before the ceremony: a big dinner in
their camp attended by at least thirty people, most of whom I’d never met.
Dylan and I are fairly antisocial, especially when it comes to mingling with
groups of virtual strangers. So we skipped the dinner but ambled over later to
at least make a polite appearance. (Our hosts had plenty on their plates so we
hadn’t expected to spend much time with them on this trip.) It was breezy on
top of the autumn chill and Dylan ended up sitting in front of one crowded
campfire. I wandered around and chatted with some old acquaintances.
Gabriel had been brand-new to “desert camping” when
he first started coming to Saline in the late 90s but has since become expert
when it comes to the many subtle details involved with camping out in the
desert—camping with small children, in particular. Saline Valley can quickly
turn vicious when the wind blows or if it rains. (On rare occasions it even
snows). This year he’d brought a new and practical item: the interior works of
an old washing machine—the critical “tub” part that spins during the spin
cycle. Its purpose was to serve as a “fire-pan,” something you can build a
small campfire in to keep the fire “contained” without having to build a
fire-ring out of stones. (Now that Saline Valley is part of Death Valley
National Park, the Park Service has outlawed the building of fire-rings.) This
wasn’t the first time I’d seen one of these; they’re lined with drain-holes
that let out some light and they radiate heat—good in the wind.
I was becoming chilled so joined a couple of folks around
the washing machine tub fire. One of them was Gabriel’s mom, Ariella—the woman
fond of teasing me about the lighter debacle. I’ve known her as long as her
son; they often come out at the same times, particularly for Thanksgiving and
Christmas. Ariella is one of my oldest Saline friends and we get along well but
she does have a way of getting on my nerves at times.
It may have been because we were sitting around a
campfire on a cold, windy night but for some reason Ariella chose to (one more
time!) dredge up the lighter incident. She’s likely one of the few people who
even remembers and is certainly the
only one who would still bring it up. I found it positively annoying that she
felt compelled to rehash an embarrassing incident in front of total strangers.
But I went along, downplaying her customary exaggerations. “Uh…there was no
‘ball of flames,’ Ariella.” But she was obviously taking perverse pleasure in
my clearly telegraphed discomfort. Not one minute later I got up and walked
away from the fire, feeling fairly irritated.
I took a step or two before hearing a faint pop! followed by a hissing sound and
cries of distress from Ariella. The washing machine tub fire-pan had sort of
“exploded,” spraying her—and only her—with some mystery-fluid. Ariella was
fine, but rattled.
It so happened that the washer tub was double
walled and held some fluid in its internal space—hopefully just water—which I
later realized was a way of helping balance an uneven load of clothes during
the spin cycle. (When a load is unbalanced, the fluid rushes to the opposite
side of the tub to compensate, helping stabilize the machine. Clever.) The fire
had boiled the fluid and apparently there was some kind of a fill-cap that had
popped off. The fill-hole just happened to be pointed Ariella’s way so she got
sprayed with steam and hot mystery-liquid. Thanks to the multiple layers of
warm clothes she was wearing, Gabriel’s mom was unhurt but flustered and
confused. He heard the commotion, came over, and we gradually figured out what
had happened. I seriously doubt Ariella made the connection between this
bizarre incident and the story she’d just shared. Me: I found the irony
delicious.
This final episode occurred after I’d written an
early draft of this story. I wasn’t anticipating an additional material and
don’t attribute any more meaning to it than the rest (which is to say, none).
But, I must say, this final chapter is a curious and fortuitous postscript—one
that neatly tidies up a tale’s loose ends and closes a circle.
©2017 by
Tim Forsell draft 2
May 2017
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