Just Tote Up the Odds...........part one 2012

Carl Jüng, one of my many heroes, would have loved the following tale. It’s true, every word; accounts of the many curious events in my life need no embellishment. 

Despite much admiration I’m no student of his work (nor psychology in general). His books are dense, dry, and loaded with obscure references but I’ve read bits here and there plus a volume of selected letters. His autobiography, Memories, Dreams, Reflections, was a real pleasure; I’m more interested in the man, his way of bringing that enormous store of arcane knowledge to bear on such thorny subjects. Though Jüng’s worldview was so much deeper than my own we share some of its preoccupations: the convoluted, layers-upon-layers nature of the human psyche (so little of which we’re consciously aware); the perceived flow of this thing we call “time,” the cosmos at large. It is vast and we are small but gifted with an array of amazing sensory equipment, for us to use—for us, at times, to even savor with delight—in our interaction with a world full of wonders. All this….What for? I still like to bat that tired old question around, just for fun. I wouldn’t expect any answers but there’s no harm in sniffing at the edges of The Big Ones. (In truth, few things interest me more.) Topping the list, this cagey mystery:

            During my brief tenure on Earth I’ve seemingly had the lion’s share of highly unusual experiences and, years ago, started a list which gets added to on occasion. Those crazy coincidences, just-plain-weird incidents and meetings-in-strange-places  have inevitably led me to reject the philosophical stance that randomness and pure chance rule over all. No. Something else is going on here—something most subtle—woven elegantly into the fabric of reality. I have absolutely no idea what “it” might be but recognize that, puzzling and uncanny as all these occurrences seem, they’re just another manifestation of the fantastically intricate whole. I also realize my notions are abhorrent to the likes of Richard Dawkins—author of The Blind Watchmaker, arch Neo-Darwinist, teleology-denier—who blithely (and with maddening condescension) assures us that such wishful thinking is merely a protective device for staving off fear of the pitiless truth: All of this is no more than a cosmic fluke. It just happened, for no reason.

I’d have no difficulty embracing such a cold-hearted outlook, grim as it is…if it were true. There’s nothing negative about randomness; chance is an essential lubricant helping make the world go ‘round. We live, quite comfortably, cheek-to-jowl with chaos but amidst all this disorder sense a kindly harmony, some sort of Unnameable Principle that pervades everything. It both amazes and saddens me that a thinker as brilliant as Richard Dawkins doesn’t perceive this, too, and apparently isn’t bothered in the least believing that his presence on our exceptionally fine planet is devoid of significance.  He has stressed that living in a world without meaning or purpose doesn’t impede appreciating its beauty and intricacy. But, what then, does he make of the fact that none of this even “needs” to exist? If conditions at the Big Bang had been ever-so-slightly altered the universe could be an amorphous soup of subatomic particles instead of there being all this nifty…stuff. So Richard gets to be here with the rest of us enjoying (and suffering) the fascinating vicissitudes that come with the package-deal of life. After a life devoted to observation and contemplation I’ve seen not one sign of The Grand Plan but it seems terribly obvious that something is going on here. The phenomenon that Jüng called “synchronicity” has, for me, been crucial in affirming the actuality of some sort of purposeful force—or influence. A long string of fortuitous events, splendidly-timed, made my most momentous decisions easy ones and gave the trajectory of my life its fine arc. What’s transpired has lent my worldview a comforting conviction that there is meaning linked with being granted a chunk of time to actively participate in The Great Swirl. Not only are we here, now, but live in a world that in so many ways seems too good to be real. I saw a bumpersticker recently that expresses it perfectly:   

IF YOU’RE NOT IN AWE

YOU’RE NOT PAYING ATTENTION

I’m fine with not having the slightest idea about the hows & whys; we have only so much perceptive equipment—acute as it can be—to make use of, after all, and it’s obvious our capacity for Understanding is fairly limited. But on some level those absurdly improbable synchronisms—just another aspect of what I call “the given”— must be explicable. Whenever one happens my reaction is a frisson of delight; knowing the whole shebang is flowing and unfolding in its proper, inexorable fashion.

            A classic example of one of these random gifts-from-the-Universe:

            My father used to bring home stacks of these little time-and-expense notebooks from his workplace. They have a stiff cover and about twenty 3½”x 5½” lined pages bound by two staples. He used them to keep track of all kinds of things: gas mileage, vehicle maintenance logs, needs-lists. I’ve gone through quite a few myself. For more than two decades they’ve served as handy Name&Address books.

            But, being chintzy little notebooks, they’d wear out every few years and need replacing. My father is gone and with him went the endless supply; about four years ago I used the only one left for a new contacts-book. To help make this last one last longer did two new things: at the top of each page a I wrote a big letter (or two) in ink but the names and coordinates in pencil this time. That way, as they changed or the person left my world, an entry could be erased instead of crossed out. And, to protect the thin cardboard cover, a layer of clear cellophane packing tape.

            I’d never done this with previous editions and thought to decorate (and further stiffen) the cover with a photo before applying tape. Got out a box of old three-by-fives, looked for one I could sacrifice, and picked a rather odd image but one that could be trimmed to fit on the cover and still leave space for tape to hold it down. It was taken through a macro lens with my Father’s Minolta, summer of 1976, on a family vacation to the Santa Rita Mountains near Tucson. Our reason for visiting this little desert range, famous in “nature people” circles, was to see some of the exotic Mexican plants and animals that only show up in the U.S. there. The picture was a close-up of one—a type of scarab beetle, Chrysina lecontei—crawling up my left forefinger. This animated jewel, caught in the act of trying to escape with its life, was an inch-long, iridescent emerald-green-colored bug with metallic-gold highlights. Its stout legs were colored a similarly metallic-hued bronze. Like no creature I’d ever seen.…

 I trimmed down the thirty-year-old snapshot and “tried it on for size” but…it just didn’t look right. So, back to the stack. I finally settled on this picture of a former home right at the foot of the Sierra—my funky little shack, blossoming fruit trees; a guitar-playing friend seated beneath one in the foreground—an idyllic scene that somehow seemed much more appropriate on the cover of a homemade Name&Address book than a photograph of an insect so I trimmed then glued and taped it down.

            What to do with the scarab beetle? While not overly inclined to dwell on the past, I enjoy preserving memories (it’s in my blood…) and wasn’t about to just throw it out. Something like this—a random photo, an obituary, an old note—I’ll  tuck into one of my books. Most of them contain these mementos and it’s amazing, when I stumble on some such bit of flotsam (perhaps unseen for years), how it instantly becomes a ticket to a long-gone time or faraway place; a lovely little present from the living past.

            So I reached for a volume to cache my beetle in and pulled several that already held one or two items before finding an “empty” one: Jüng’s Synchronicity. Opened it, put the little bookmark-sized scrap of photograph inside, and slid it back home. I’d read its first half a few years before, naively hoping to get some smidgen of concrete insight into the phenomenon, but shelved the slender paperback when a chapter about his experiments with subjects guessing symbols printed on cards began. (I lost interest there, already knowing from other sources that the results had been inconclusive.)

             Fast forward two years or so. One day I happened to notice the book and pulled it off the shelf since I’d just been pondering the subject again—a matter long dear to my heart—and thought maybe to try again and finish this time. Not surprisingly, it opened naturally to the pages between which I’d stashed my picture of a golden-green scarab beetle and I absently began to read partway down the left one at random:

            “…I shall mention an incident from my own observation. I was treating a young woman who, at a critical moment had a dream in which she was given a golden scarab. While she was telling me this dream I sat with my back to the closed window. Suddenly I heard a noise behind me, like a gentle tapping. I turned round and saw a flying insect knocking against the window-pane from the outside. I opened the window and caught the creature as it flew in. It was the nearest analogy to a golden scarab that one finds in our latitudes, a Scarabaeid beetle, the common rose-chafer which contrary to its usual habits had evidently felt an urge to get into a dark room at this moment. I must admit that nothing like it ever happened to me before or since, and that the dream of the patient has remained unique in my experience.”

             Reading these words with mounting shock and wonder, I felt oddly numb, as if the day had come to a stop or gone silent. Of course I remembered this famous anecdote from my previous attempt (and a very similar version in his autobiography.) Finished, I gazed at the picture of my own golden scarab with a grin that had spread from my face  through my whole body. As mentioned, these events are a familiar element in my life. But this time I hit a synchronicity grand-slam…I won the synchronism sweepstakes. Just tote up the odds, Richard Dawkins, and read off that probability figure of ten-to-the-minus-whatever and tell me right to my face there’s not something just a little bit fishy going on here.

                       

For a few years of teenage-driven angst I flirted with believing the Universe was a cold, meaningless place “where nothing bears out in practice that it promises incipiently.” Things changed when I began to forge a life of my own; making choices, gaining an illusory (but necessary) feeling of control, and becoming “content with tentativeness from day to day.”[Thomas Hardy, diary] Then: amazing things started happening and at some point I began to feel like the Universe was really trying to lend a hand. Why me? I didn’t know…but began to conciously foster my gratitude for all these gifts. Eventually it was becoming downright ridiculous and, unavoidably, began to see a world that was operating under an additional set of subtle laws that couldn’t be explained scientifically but, by the same token, needn’t be attributed to a grey-haired, sky-dwelling deity. It just seemed so obvious that…something…was going on here. This story is merely an extra-good example of the unexplainable Something Wonderful that occasionally brightens an otherwise “normal” day. But there’s the trouble: just living is hard work, and to get by in our constant struggles we’ve been conditioned to not even notice that this planet and everything on it is altogether the One True Miracle. We seem to appreciate this fact only on rarest occasions (if ever). A pet theory maintains that my life—relatively, so easy and fortune-filled—has been granted so very much because I’ve been able to sustain durable feelings of wonder, appreciation and gratitude. I’ve also “been through the fire” and come terribly close to death, which has only strengthened my core beliefs. All the weird coincidences have served to affirm what I sense to be a fine thread of pure harmony that underlies everything. Even knowing I’ll never plumb this mystery, it’s the one truth upholding my essential and deep faith that this world we get to live in is a perfect place to be and everything, all of it, a gift not to be taken for granted— 

            Never to be taken for granted.

Lest the well run dry.         

                                                                                                                 19 Nov 2012, 14 Feb 2013

© 2013 Tim Forsell

All rights reserved.

Severely Compromised 1999

            For a few seasons I was frequently hosting Forest Service groups. Many of these “dog and pony shows” were political—the Toiyabe Forest  Supervisor taking Senator Harry Reid’s staff, generals and colonels from Pendleton, or his own minions on horseback mini-vacations to Piute cabin. Some were show-me tours for Bridgeport or other Toiyabe personnel. Occasionally, volunteer groups would come up for a couple of days—nine bodies to do the work of three. As these junkets’ frequency increased my boss, Lorenzo, began referring to the cabin as “Club Piute.” Part of me was glad and proud to see folks enjoying my idyllic backcountry scene but I mostly dreaded these visits. (Also, the potential for injury to people inexperienced with livestock was huge and a very real cause for worry.) But when the Forest Super got busted—for genuine crimes of personal enrichment—and was forced to “retire,” the trips ended.

            Fortunately, I’d never been required to outfit or cook but had been their packer and otherwise helped things along. Usually I’d give up my bunk and move into a tent up on the hill behind the outhouse where it was quiet and away from all the chaos. Every time: too many people, too much stuff, hassles with horses… plus being rudely shaken from my peaceful routines and solitude caused me to grow anxious. Particularly when the Forest Supervisor came up with his cronies. Then, I’d just head for the hills—a good excuse to camp out and work on some distant project—but stressful nonetheless.

            There was only one time I was actually asked to vacate the cabin. This was October, 1989; late in my second season at Piute. Our “DR” (District Ranger), John McGee, was bringing up three local entrepreneurs plus his Range and Recreation Officers, presumably as a gesture—at, ahem, taxpayers’ expense—of “harmony and cooperation” between feds and community. (Its purpose was never clearly laid out but this sort of thing actually is important in a small town like Bridgeport where the Forest Service is a major presence.) It was our Rec Officer, Bill, who told me about their upcoming trip and when he suggested that I “might not want to be around” he glanced at me pointedly with his brows arched so that I’d catch his drift.

            This was somewhat dismaying; the indian-summer weather was exquisite and in only a handful of days I had to close down my baileywick for the season. Not to mention the inconvenience and extra work of having to pack up and go off for just a night. But altered plans are a particular feature of ranger-life; something we learn to accept—partly as a result of working for the government, partly from living in the mountains (where Ma Nature calls all the shots and doesn’t care about “plans.”)

A week passed and the day of their arrival was nigh. I still had nothing in mind, still felt ambivalent about leaving, but a good idea finally showed up just before my “guests” did: a close-to-home camp-out up in my tree. That’s right…up in a tree.

Standing on the porch you can see a sheer, forty-foot-tall cliff-band of the same slatey grey rock the cabin’s foundation rests on. It juts out of a steep slope rising behind the river’s far shore, about three-hundred yards away as the raven flies. My hammock was installed in a stout pine that hugs this cliff’s perpendicular face before proceeding skyward. Some days, after work, I scramble up the side of the bluff to a flat ledge just below its top. This is key: from the ledge I can finally reach a virtual ladder of thick limbs and climb with relative ease to my hammock—a little aerie slung in the top-most branches, about seventy feet off the ground—with grand views of mile-long Upper Piute Meadows and, beyond, the Sierra crest curving across a quarter of the skyline.

            Something I’d wanted to do for awhile was to actually spend a night up in the pine. This would be a perfect opportunity; I’ve done so before in other trees by slinging my old climber’s hammock (designed for sleeping on multi-day climbs like El Capitan) from limbs instead of pitons. Aptly called a “peapod”—made of nylon webbing and green rip-stop fabric—it looks like one and you’re like the proverbial pea when nestled deeply within its thin walls. It feels wonderfully secure in exposed places and provides a great way to spend quality time in tree-world—incredibly peaceful and relaxing.

            I just stuck around all day catching up on chores, knowing from experience how long it’d take to get a show like theirs on the road, followed by an eleven-mile-ride. The group wouldn’t arrive until early evening. By mid-afternoon I was ready to haul gear across the river and up the tree. My pack was stuffed with sleeping bag, a little stove, can of hearty soup, box of crackers and some water. Next morning they’d leave pretty early and I could be back home for some late breakfast, ready to put a day to good use.

            I wanted to be gone before my guests arrived so left early, with plenty of time for an evening stroll. My black cat, Mr. Rip, eagerly followed me across the log bridge below the cabin and the kitten, Velcro, followed Rip. They were clearly in the mood for a hike and of course I welcomed their company. (Cats like to take walks, too—you just have to start letting them know it’s OK when they’re young.) Rip got diverted along the way by some critter but joined us a bit later as I was “setting up camp.”On the ledge, right where the four-foot-wide trunk shot over our heads, in this sweet little niche with needle-covered floor; a fine place to have “dinner” so I laid out the stove and cooking gear. Then just after I’d started up to the hammock with my sleeping bag Rip arrived. He paced around while looking up at me and mrrowing, asking to come along.

He’d never been quite eager enough to join me in the hammock…at least, not on his own. One time I’d stuffed my furry partner  into an empty pack and hauled him up. Rip seemed plenty happy once we got there, purring and kneading his claws—in truth, out of nervousness—but obviously relished the peapod’s security. He was enjoying our superb vantage as much as me, gazing off with paws and chin resting on the taut hammock’s rim. We’d both watched the horses grazing and when I shouted down at them their heads snapped up quizzically. I had a good laugh and think Mr. Rip did, too.

            I climbed back down and the three of us took a hike, contouring the hillside to a craggy point with fine views down-canyon, across the way, and up toward Dorothy Lake Pass with northernmost Yosemite Park beyond. The cats were all open-eyed and up-eared. Me, as well. Taking a stroll with kitties is not at all like going on a walk with the dogs; I feel more like I’m one of them, seeing the world through cat-eyes.

            We got back to our camp at dusk. Earlier, I’d heard the bunch coming and looked down to the trail: counted six riders and two packstock…watched them splash across the river and pull up to my hitch-rail, chattering loudly. Their banter carried with remarkable clarity through the evening quiet as they unloaded. Then the horses raced out into the meadow—At last, we’re free!— fell to grazing, and silence returned except for river-whispers and muted sounds from inside the cabin while my un-hosted guests got a fire going in the stove. A little pink light was left on the peaks and I ate my meager supper while talking to the cats and listening to those muffled voices from the cabin.

            This caused me to grow curious: Wonder what they’re talking about…? Felt a little devilish thrill: I’ll  go spy on those guys! The impulse to “spy” was right in line with an impish part of my nature; something I’ve relished when opportunity arises since early childhood and through these later stages. I’ve gotta take the cats home, anyway….

            Ten minutes later I was peering through the back window. There was still a bit of light left but it was dark enough that six men around a lantern-lit table would never see me. Three guys in Forest Service uniform were on one bench and across from them sat the proprietor of the relatively-swank Bridgeport Inn, the owner of our little mom&pop grocery store, and a man I didn’t know who ran one of the three motels. I could hear the conversation clearly and listened for awhile (hoping their gossip might turn to ME…) but it was just trivial talk in that har-har-har, good-ol’-boy fashion you’d expect.

            Dinner was winding down when the DR stood up and headed for the door. John was likely stepping out for some air or to check on their stock but maybe “going to see a man about a horse,” in which case he’d be headed my way, so I tiptoed off to hide.

             A short trail from the cabin climbs over a glacially-carved outcrop and leads to my outhouse. I padded over to a tiny level spot near that hump of rock where I could see if he was going one way or the other. Sure enough, the DR was headed for the pot but suddenly veered off the trail onto my little bench and headed straight toward me. Caught off guard, I went for the only available cover: a two-foot-tall “erratic”—a granite boulder which had come to rest here on this little flat place when the last glacier melted, ten-thousand years ago. Diving behind it, I curled into a ball with elbows and knees in the dirt, appalled by my folly. The DR stopped a mere fifteen feet off…complete silence. If he didn’t see my rear end poking up, a snapped twig would give me away.

            John was an okay guy. My boss’ boss’ boss; a quintessential bureaucrat. I was not in the least intimidated by him; I was no concern of his and certainly never caused him any problems. Basically, I was just another face in the office hallway so when I made one of my rare appearances we’d greet each other cheerfully and maybe exchange some lite chit-chat . He might have had a slightly romanticized notion of me as a real ranger, with my cushy backcountry gig…the cabin, the horses…but, all things considered, this could prove a verrrry awkward meeting. Why did he come over HERE!?! What…?

            The answer came forthwith in a great upheaval. The District Ranger spilled his dinner on the ground. I heard all-too-clearly an unmistakable sound: violent and belly-deep, restrained regurgitation—followed by retching, spitting and a vicious oath. While he was distracted I contorted myself into a smaller-yet package, with knees and elbows grinding into coarse gravel. Long, long moments of silence were followed by another eruption, this one liquid and bountiful. The cats had been lurking-about since we “came home”and Rip took this opportunity to jump up on me, twirling and purring happily. It felt like my rump was sticking way up in the air—and a jet-black cat was advertising its presence. Then John moved even closer, within ten feet. It was inevitable that he’d spot me now; quaking inside, I tried to come up with some (lame) excuse. Nothing came.

            I knew why John was puking in my backyard: Lorenzo had told me that the DR was a Viet Nam veteran; had been gut-shot or blown-up and part of his intestinal tract surgically removed. So he had a “delicate system.” There was also a story about the time John was a guest in Doc Grishaw’s camp and had lost a bellyful of Doc’s notorious stew. Not too hard to imagine since that bean-based concoction—served every night—might contain spam, raisins, beef jerky, peanut-butter, pineapple, or all of the above.

            The DR had one more round—dry-heaves followed by more hawking and furious curses. (He’d missed another dinner….) Blessedly, the cat got scared off and John was facing away. Finally he left to rejoin his party. It took me awhile to get unkinked; my joints were screaming. I crept back across the river and up the hill with tail between my legs. Climbed into my aerie where I huddled in near-terminal shame, playing out potential scenarios until finally rescued by sleep. A close call that could have gone very bad. One thing was certain. My spying days were over.

14 May 1999, 5 Jan 2013   

© 2013 Tim Forsell

All rights reserved.