Notes from Red's Camp...

[mnaz]

March 3
I was surprised when Jerry called, but I knew I'd take the job-- to look after Red's old gold mining camp in the Mojave Desert for a month or two. Job title: Caretaker. Duties: Camp out. Pay: Perhaps. No power or water. Just an old motorhome on jack stands and cold, dry March wind through the greasewood. How could I pass up the chance? I start packing immediately.

The next day, I roll down U.S. 395, barely outrun a fearsome blizzard. I squeeze through Devil's Gate, over Mono pass in fifty-yard visibility, pop out of a grim cloud on the grade into Owens Valley. I call Jerry from Big Pine, tell him of my narrow escape, and he says the campsite is ready. Farther south, the road drops into soft glow and shadow, and I turn left, head out into more of the same. When I reach Jerry's place, the old motorhome, a faded '72 Dodge Sportsman, rests dormant behind the garage, possibly since the Carter Administration. "I think it needs a starter..... God, I hope the engine isn't frozen"....

March 4
As I grind up the trail to Red's Camp, the foothills take me back, right down to earth. Step One: Show up. When I reach camp, it is what I imagined-- mesas of chocolate-gold, and a bewildering array of rusted equipment of the trade, much of it from sixty-plus years ago. The old Sportsman is a no-show, so I sleep in the little trailer tonight-- like the one my parents bought on credit in 1962, the one they'll someday tow into the woods if they find time and sit on campstools with bug repellent and admire its rounded Space Age design on a budget, though a far cry from the silver-sleek Airstream rigs of the same era. The little trailer isn't bad, but for its tiny space-- no room to turn around inside, short of a butt-bruise. It has a two-burner stove with no gas and a faucet without water. These things are my responsibility from now on.

By and by I have unexpected visitors-- friends of Jerry, I learn. They come to wish me well. Leeland is first. He chugs into camp in his Ford diesel mega-cab, a stout, ample truck, made of proper right angles. He had the good sense to grow a beard and find humor in most anything, and the unfortunate judgment to bring the city with him to his campsite, using all that cargo space. He would lack for nothing of what he left behind in the space away from it all that he sought....

Shortly thereafter, a man called Deacon rattles up the trail in a rust-flavored '78 Datsun pickup with a "Jesus Saves" decal on the back window and tires as big as the truck. He's a terminally-ebullient man with finely-crafted post-Brylcreem hair, not quite stiff as a board. He is the sum of all good God-fearing farm belt preachers of the early sixties, and he fits well beside my budget Space Age trailer. I have no doubt he's a man of God, due to his telltale skyward head-tilt, at times. He introduces himself forcefully, with a mighty hand grip.

I show him some of my desert photos and he's enraptured. "Hallelujuah!", he repeats. He points to a photo of Toroweap Canyon-- the powerful Colorado River, reduced to an emaciated green snake at the bottom of a sheer 3,000-foot gorge. "How long do you suppose it took to carve such an astounding canyon?", he asks. "Several million years, I suppose-- my geology is a little rough". "Or ten-thousand, perhaps", he counters. "God sure did pack eons into those glorious six days, didn't he?".... "Well yes, I suppose he did.... I never had much use for a science of millions and billions of years, anyway"....

Deacon tells a lie as effortlessly and earnestly as breath. His wide Bible Belt forehead crease cannot be ignored. He warns of a biker gang which often passes through these parts. It's pure horseshit, of course, but he hammers away at it. He won't quit. And it will be dark soon-- i should protect myself. "Just keep an eye out", that's all.... and watch for the signs.... you know, there's a reason UFO activity peaked in the '50s, the same time the government most emphatically denied their existence. Do the arithmetic. Old Red, he used to sit out here and watch those night lights which went sideways and zag and zig like whiplash".... "Perhaps they came here and found little of interest", I posit. "Not true. They're still here. They're still with us"....

In due time, Leeland and Deacon pronounce themselves "herbologists" and retire to the porch of Red's cabin to spark a patch of weed. The low sunlight turns everything amber, and I sip a Pabst Blue Ribbon. "You know, these mountains are filled with entities", Deacon declares. "You'll see them.... It was a year ago, I saw a man hiking up Alamo Canyon, not so much hiking, but gliding.... He was a tall man, who carried a child on his shoulders, and he wore only a thin, tattered shirt and jeans, despite the dusk chill and wind. When I came around the next bend, he was gone. Maybe he took a side trail-- I can't be sure. Next day, I met some folks camped near the spring who swear that a tall man with a kid towed their truck out of deep sand, down the wash. They asked him where he was from, and he said, 'around the corner'. It had to be St. Christopher himself, I tell you.... Just look for the signs.... these mountains are filled with them". "I haven't been to the mountains in years", I fumble. "Where have you been?" A fair question....

Later, when the sun drops and the temperature free falls, I improvise a pitiful campfire with scrap wood, grab another Pabst, sit back and urge a thin moon gently over the hill. Soon I hear hectic tapping and scratching from the trailer. I investigate and find two field mice living in a kitchen drawer. One of them looks me straight in the eye. What claim do I have to this place? I sleep in the truck that night.

[mousey1]

Purely excellent mnaz! And what a lovely adventure. Will you get lonely? I expect not! I almost envy you.

Oh, you used some lovely, witty lines.

and I so loved,

"sit back and urge a thin moon gently over the hill." if I had such power I would abuse it, I assure you.

Wonderful read.

[abcrystcats]

I was just checking to see if you were around again and here you are.

I enjoyed your narrative. The field mice and the men sitting around speculating about the UFO signs you'll see were the best parts.

I liked this:

Deacon tells a lie as effortlessly and earnestly as breath. His wide Bible Belt forehead crease cannot be ignored.

Show up in the A place if you can.

[stilltrucking]

I think it needs a starter..... God, I hope the engine isn't frozen"....

Great story, thanks

[mnaz]

Thanks all! I'm glad you enjoyed the read!.... It's been quite an adventure-- just the rats and me, left to our devices, and the mountain and its entities.... I'll post more when I can-- internet time is hard to come by in this one-horse town.... Thanks again!