Darwin, the town not the man

Darwin, the town not the man

Photos on http://picasaweb.google.com/terryw100/Darwin09#

The name resounds with memories, echos of party time , characters, high desert scene, stories of same, hikes to secret mines, 10” crystals of calcite, friends won and lost. Once a year this sleepy little mountain ghost town with 37 full time inhabitants plus 15 dogs erupts with activity, creativity, ceremony, lavish potlucks, and to top it off, a rock n roll band for the ball on Saturday night in the old miners union hall, now dubbed and duly signed “Darwin Dance Hall”. It is now time for spring a ma jig, an annual salute to passage into summer and gathering of the tribe, the Saline plus tribe from near and far. We push our busy schedules aside, pissing off mom, as it is on mother’s day, and prepare for the onslaught.

Kathy Goss, the mayor, is in charge, running around like a mad banshee, doing last minute prep, even Canyon has been here since Sunday, after hiking 9 days along the inyo crest with ds buddies. I plan a stealth approach, but she gets on the horn and allows as how the party has already started, so I step up the pace, determine to leave Wednesday, but its slow getting everything together, im not outta town until noon. Im tired and munching a chicken sandwich high above altamont pass, trucks roaring past, wind generators buzzing on all quarters, and I look to the east, and see tracy, out there, the town, tracy, and my synapses click in and focus on the person there “INYO” I scream at the tops of my lungs and now he’s on the cell, “c’mon down, sure spend the night, use my table, we can party down.” Great, my second son is back from staking claims in Oregon and my plans change immediately. I’ve been sick, tired, harassed and its time to kick back and take care of myself. He lives in a small clabord house, foreclosures left and right, a little weasly dog that won’t let me alone, snuffling and licking, until I get my bark off high frequency generator and he immediately shuts up and cowers in a corner. I take a power nap in the back yard,then Inyo fires up the barby and I start twittering the evenings progress. We get mellow and open a bottle of zin, talking a mile a minute. He is the son of Jason Saleeby , my geology buddy who teaches at cal tech and has a place on big island, named his son Inyo after the mountain range west of Saline valley, east of owens valley, in the paradise of the east sierra.

I’m up early and on the road ragin’ down I5 by 7 am, and nothing can stop me now. At 75 mph the miles tick by, I call Cathy B, now her house is threatened by fire in Santa Barbara, on top of having to sell it because of the real estate crash. Through Wasco to last minute shop, gas up and head out into the mountains up the kern river canyon, snooze at walker pass, down into Indian wells valley, into the wide open spaces. I call Sam, but she had a bad fall a year ago and injured her spine and won’t be coming to Darwin. Now on 395 screaming up the long hill to olancha, last gas, then into the real outback, the sign death valley 65 miles, “No services 85 miles” tells the story of the road ahead,

Top the first hill, suddenly there’s a crowd, Elaine aka Desert Holly s multicolored blue bus sits with the hood up, a crowd gathered around, she’s got some help,so I sail past and on to the j tree forest, where the u2 cover was shot. The tree died because too many people tromped on its roots.

Over the hill and down the straightaway, the town spread out with funky houses, most abandoned, the mine with some new buildings, and finally into town proper, past the wrecked trailers, hulks of cars, truck and other things that don’t go. Alexs stone house looks untended, but then it always does, he’s gotta new life and woman in LA. Stop at the only stop sign in town, spy a gathering on the porch of the dance hall, but head right for my campsite across from the dance hall and center of operations. OOPs theres garbage mans truck right across the street, here we go again.

I hear “Is that Terry Wright?” and Catherine/Canyon appears, not in costume yet, and we greet and meet. Suddenly Mike appears and heads to his truck. “Hi Mike” I greet him, “I’ve gotta get out of here” he growls and fires up his truck. “You don’t have to leave mike! You did the same thing to me in Africa”, He slams the door rolls up the window as I approach and guns it outta there spraying gravel all over. “what was that all about?” Canyon asks, “oh just another mike tiff I introduced him as the man who loves to hate, and that pissed him off, I’m back on his shit list.

Canyon and I catch up and Jim comes over, “were gonna have a potluck at Pierre’s, ill carry your chair up in the pickup, as long as you sit with me and tell me more lies”. OK, time to spring into action, people are headed up the hill to a series of containers, now welded and joined into a house, Pierre’s hideaway. A crowd has gathered, old and new, the bbq is spitting out burgers and hot dogs, I add my smoked steelhead to the mix, crack a beer and I’m in heaven. Mike sneaks in, but seemingly in good humor, talking with everyone in his outrageous way, Laura bell arrives to great fanfare, broke her hip on a camping trip and now barely getting around, I meet her daughter’s husband, from Massachusetts, and we connect on many different levels, skiing Cannon, hiking the Whites. We banter back and forth with everyone, what a great bunch of characters. I have 2 burgers, and some wine and keep a steady chatter with Catherine, jim and kristie, Kathy goss, and whomever else comes by.

The sun is hot, but finally sinks to the west, I search out some old friends, then head down to camp to set up. After concentrated effort and many camping tricks, I’m ensconced in the cot, the poker game is going, and I opt out, canyon has her pouffy springs headpiece on and is dealing, I give her a peck and head for bed.

The wind kicks up sometime during the night and the tarp hung to shade me from moonburn starts flapping voraciously devouring my peace and quiet. Finally I get up and tie it in a bundle, insert the ear plugs and am off to ni ni land.

The bird chirpings wake me at dawn and Jim and Kristie are moving around on the coffee deck, looking like the nectar is in preparation. I stagger over, still groggy from the night before, not much wine, but fleurzapam put me down and I walk in a straight line as possible, collapse in a chair and miraculously my mug appears with milky potion, standard coffeee and bailys irish crème, and things are looking up. The stories fly, Nebraska life from Jim and Kristie who spend about 1/2 time there, and then Benton, my half time residence, adding up to some phenomenal tales.

I route out Canyon, luxuriating in her big tent with fancy rugs, scarfs, costume boxes in the corner, and a separate dressing room for prepping for the show. we, then break for Kathy’s where a great egg/potato/ onion/ pepper feast awaits. Kathy is back and forth like a bee, busy busy with chores, things that have to be done yesterday.. We lounge and talk, phil tells stories of shooting down migs and ducking from the patrols in nam. A bit rough he, that experience changed everyone.

The call goes out for the gravestone placing event, and we caravan down to the cemetery with Michaels stone, concrete, water, hoes and shovels and start to work. A big metal bucket with the upper 6 inches cut off to use as a form, and soon we are the Caltrans crew, mixing the concrete with gravel from the ground, a big load, then placing a crazy quilt of rebar in the hole for support, then pour the concrete. 5 people working, 10 people watching, like Caltrans. It’s getting hot, but we drink fluids and hid under sarongs and watch the men work. Man’s work, concrete mixing, women join in and a tarp covered with ceramics Michael made to be used to decorate the grave.. The stone is placed and secured and ceramic colors all around, we admire the work, fine tune it a little and return to town. Canyon wants to see the costume, so we hang under my sun tarp, open a Mcoy mammoth ale and talk and talk and then a bottle of wine, then camembert, then guitar and song, Canyon brings her mermaid costume, a masterpiece of green with a fish head she sees through the mouth. And long tail, to be held ;off the dirt by a thong. She brings a couple of cold Newcastle ales, Carson who forgot to work comes by and picks a little, has a beer, and finally its nap time and I crash out.

I awake to thoughts of beans, and fire up the outside stove Earl has and on Kristie’s stove the onions and peppers and spice, borrow some mape from jim, add marmalade and strawberry jam and its done. I have to pay attention to the process, but go to Cathy’s for a break and a beer, and run into Ginny, cathys friend from alameda, and she is a trip, we get mellow and get into a mock argument, and connect, what a woman. A legal secretary out of work, and a free spirit.

I make 2 pots of beans and take one to Kathys, hang there with Canyon under the shade of a j tree, and watch the downtown scene. People coming and going, Pierre roars by on his quad, Hal stops by to pay his respects and ask a geology question. We have a grand 2-part potluck, at the dance hall, and kathys. G mike is there and runs when I appear, still paranoid.

After dinner I put my guitar into Jims pickup and tell him to come by and wake me up when he leaves for the bonfire on the upper flats. This works great and I sit there with drums all around, no room for guitar, I play the recorder. A cute blonde next to me turns out to be from bishop and knows carol, win and a host of others, we talk and make contact, another mountain woman, doesn’t ski much, but an avid hiker. We agree to get together sometime.. I’ve had it with the drums and people are leaving, I get a ride with Elaine down the hill, and crash out.

Steve from Lancaster arrived in his big bus drunk and arguing loudly with his girlfriend who didn’t want to be here. He threw a bunch of stuff out on the road, his gf crying in the drivers seat, and he disappeared. Finally Jim finds him under Earls van crashed out, and lectures him on proper behavior, he agrees somehow getting the bus into the parking lot. All is quiet, until all hell breaks loose, more yelling and screaming and crying. Jim finally calms them down with the threat of throwing them out, calling the sheriff (who is due up here any minute on his daily run. I sleep through it, but morning dawns with the whole story.

I can roll over in my cot and see Jim puttering around in the predawn light, with the tops of western mts lit up already. I fumble around, find my cup and head over for the morning coffee klatch. Jim and Kristie smoking, talking, waking up , going over events of the evening before. Steve had disappeared again, only to return quietly about 3 am. We wait for more action but none to come. People join in, the Nebraska friends, they flew into vegas, rented a car and drove thru death valley for the party. Someone comes by with gooey buns and I munch a little.

Appearance a t Kathy’s, check out who has arrived, who is telling stories, phil is there telling war stories again, I leave and find Canyon still asleep and sneak up on her again with a big kiss. I bring her coffee and we hang in the xanadu tent for a while, listening to the town wake up.

I have more camp things to do, the sun shade has been blown around by the wind during the night, so I straighten it out, find a way to post the transect on the side of the barn, a beautiful art piece in itself. A guy comes by, another local and asks about the kayak, and I get to talk about Lars and his life, now gone to cancer, too many people dying, at the end of their life for no obvious reason.

The morning progresses, people come and go, I hang at the dance hall, june is there, my kayak partner from glacier bay, she wouldn’t paddle and I yelled at her, another classic trip. I bring out the group picture, and theres mike with huge long beard, killer cain, now passed from throat cancer, smoker;. Hardware dave, now software davida thanks to a sex change operation in thailand, tom and Carolyn now in Alaska finishing their house. The usual suspects. Friends and fellow travelers, all with the gleam in their eye of adventure, new experience in the outdoors and creators and master story tellers.

The tie dye operation is starting, I watch, hang in the gazebo telling art stories with ginny and sandy, perched above it all, watching a Rambo-style truck, old jeep style with a parasol, covered with costumed people, touring the town over and over, roaring by, the owner of the auto parts store in lone pine. More people arrive, the parking lot looks like an rv park, partying people under shade structures, small and large groups and a constant coming and going at the front of the dance hall. I sit with Jurgen, the german artist, old friend from days past, connection with timbo and Christine of pioneer town, he has painted a monument valley scene over the door in her living room in the old west style house designed by a Disney artist set in the middle of Joshua tree forest with huge boulders of granite, her own national park. I’ll miss the big party, may madness, but make a promise to be there for Halloween next fall.

Jurgen is into taking abandoned buildings in germany and refurbishing them for low cost housing. He painted a 3 d scene door on a garage door and the owner backed into it, it was so real he thought he had plenty of room.

I snooze, building up strength for the evening, Canyon comes by in her creationist outfit, long black dress, and sign “Down with Darwin”, Kathy has a costume on with long braided white hair and helmet with horns and breastplate. She and Canyon are the queens of costume, constantly coming up with something outrageous and new.

“Its time for the fish costumes” Canyon yells to me and I pull on the tyvek suit with the fish painted on it by heather and with glitter, and put feet on the fish kite, mount it on a ski pole and enter the fray. More costumes come out, a guy in furs, hat boots vest and many necklaces, holding a staff with a wooden star on it and a bird perched on the crook. Canyon comes with her green fish head, sequined dress and mermaid tail and we pose for the photographers. The fun begins, music playing dueling pianists in the dance hall raging classical, pop, you name it.,

Derek arrives with the band and they start setting up, with drum noises, and piano, bass and lead guitar warming up with a big sound system. He brings me my tripod chair, left in bishop at a concert a month ago and I am complete again, sitting with Pam of the straight hair, looking good, friend of win and carol, another bishopite, fur man and partner, older craggy woman looking like Georgia okeefe. We get food from the potluck table, my beans a hit again, a full spread with casseroles, meatballs, an a last plate of tritip, a major feed. I m working on a 30$ bottle of zin and give Derek the last hit, I don’t need any more and head for the water jug.

The sun is lowering, and the barriers set up to control the crowd into the dance hall. Bad elements from the outback are kept at bay in the street , setting up chairs and sitting in quads and 4 wds unwilling to pay the 10$ fee to enter, and keeping trouble at a minimum. There used to be tweekers, and tweekettes starting fights and crowding the dance floor, but after most of them died in an auto accident and other unnatural causes, and the control fence things calmed down considerably.

Derek is raging, loud band, old favorites, new costumes coming out, Pierres wife has a gauzy white thing on with lightwire in big scrolls underneath showing through, and a bird like headdress. Canyon is in her fish outfit, sans head, showing off her elegant bony upper body, I feast on the sights and we dance me next to Derek in the red pimpdaddy coat with lights on now, and we hug in joy. I got him the gig, and he’s happy to be playing. A little rough, but loud, I’m with earplugs. Mustang sally rings out, stones, beatles, old standards, everyone loving it. I drop a 20 in the tip jar and mingle with the crowd and watch the action. A guy in camo is ripping it up with crazy steps, Kathy goss enters in a long robe and lit up crown, and it goes on and on. I linger outside with the dispossessed, and see some old friends, dave who survived the tweeker stage, when 3 friends died in a horrific car crash on their way to lone pine high as kites. Now he lives at willow creek mining camp in saline valley, all green, water, swimming pool, I promise to visit around the 4th when its good and hot. I’m already pooped and settle in on the cot with earplugs and drift off to the thumping of crazed dancing.

Another morning, another coffee klatch, people already packing up to leave, jim kristie and I settle in and another spate of long stories, and people coming and going. Jay is ensconced in his spiffy car, with his oxygen feeder hoses, emphysema, and morbidly obese, and diabetes, still smoking and drinking scotch. He asked Jim if he would spread his ashes next year, and Jim replied “ ask me next year”.

People are getting ready for the memorial procession for michael’s service. I putter around and get ready to load and leave. Post a couple of signs for geology talk for jason’s transect which I have posted on the side of a barn behind my camp. People mill around and finally we are off, 30 or so costuemed, drums, my recorder, bagpipes, and led by a pickup with a life sized puppet in the back with articulated arms waving and bowing operated by franchesca from behind. We enter the cemetery scattering dried rose petals from a big bowl Michaels daughter is passing around. We gather in the hippie corner of the cemetery, surrounded by souls from the 1800s and recent tweekers, and all are impressed by our job concrete base for the stone and colored pieces of ceramics embedded from wasted parts of Michaels potter career. Words and prayers and poems, one sung in Sanskrit by his daughter, and she passes the urn and we all spread parts of Michaels dust around the site, and on the surrounding desert. Vials of dust are handed out to be spread in places far away that he loved. He was a true child and force of Darwin, one of the original artists who settled there in the 60s to find solitude and creativity in the desert ghost town.

We head back in Jims truck, Canyon next to me, adjusting a new flowing costume and a busby, marge simpson hair piece 3 feet hi, made of wool top and gopher cages. Man she is something else, major creative force. We settle into pre potluck mode and there is Sam, my old friend from ridgecrest and we party, Carson banters and I catch it on video. I put the call out for the geology talk, and get a few takers, go over the section showing geology from Monterey to amargosa desert and down 130 km with no vertical exaggeration. Beautiful colors and incredible science.

Back to the brunch potluck, fill up on eggs and potatoes and other good stuff, gotta avoid the salt, I try, but can tell some stuff is suspect. Pack up the remainder of camp and head out after goodbyes to all. G Mike has disappeared, but big mike is playing guitar and Canyon comes out for a good by kiss. And I’m off on the road again, call Linda from lone pine with a large vanilla milkshake at mcds, and she’s in big pine and I plan a nap there, which I do, wake up gasping for breath, too much salt, head for Benton via bishop vons, no Sunday la times, all out. Tired, make it to Benton and call judy, she’s gardening in Tulsa, we relax for a while, bantering, she tells a story of spreading her first husbands ashes on the golf course after digging them up with a silver spoon. I tell her of lars and Michael, 2 memorial services in one week, too many people dieing.

I’m wiped but call Eileen and she starts talking about her new tv and her new place, “what’s this about?” “Im moving out to that 55+ complex I told you about, you said you wanted me out by july, so I’m doing it now” Stunned, I thought we had a couple of months left, but its over. Change is good but this is huge, I sleep swearing at myself.

3725 words
Copyright 2009 Terry Wright

may day celebration gone bad.

The classical hippie gathering at the ranch high in the coastal mountains was dampened by a steady drizzle, but the maypole was up with multicolored strands dropping from the top crowned by sprigs of blue flowers, and people were gathering, a small but hard core crowd, ready to relive old relationships and tell stories of the heyday of the years of love.

I arrive a little late to erect the pole, one of my favorite activities, 30 foot pine sunk into a 4 foot deep hole, jammed in with rocks, shining in the drizzle and filtered sunlight . I brought a full phalanx of tarps, poles, zipties, stakes, clips and we soon had about 200 ft2 of shelter from the storm. the regulars are all there, people who have remained sequestered on the ranch, the remains of a community of about 100 or so who settled here to save the world in the late 60s and 70s.

I visited several times as i had friends out there , gotta tour of the gardens, after delivering some mattrasses hauled out of a house my future ex brother in law had been fixing up. I got to know Jake, the master of ceremonies and owner of this 300 acre piece of wildness, president and ruler pro tem of the tribe, in the 80s after we appeared together in a fashion show benefit for our favorite political party, the west county mafia, we took over the county board of supes and fought the development interests in the 70s. Hes now in his late 60s, and a reknowned artist, and a figure appearing occasionally at bars now overcome by yuppies and post boomers who have taken over the scene out here. We embrace with a great bear hug and catch up on life, still trying to get him out to the east sierra, to my home there and to enjoy the scene, paint my mountain for me, and hang with the local incredible characters of the high desert. See benton blogs for some of that.

The organized chaos of the commune now manifests itself in a few hardy souls left living off grid and out of sight, continuing the tradition. They chose may day all it means politically and spiritually as the annual get together. My daughter and grandkids came out last week with me to die the fabric with jane and george, one of the longest lived remaining couples on site. their kids all grown and flown to more conventional lives, they have a cozy complex of hand built cottages, living space kitchen, lots of books, and a welcoming place to hang and tell stories of incredible happenings now and long ago, one topping the other. the oral tradition is alive and well with these gracious welcoming people. I swapped stories with george, an old berkeleyite who took geology from john verhoogan at cal, and loves my geological tales, he returns fire with long stories, twisting and turning, unexpected connections and an appreciation for the land and the wierd things humans do to it.

People are getting down, a little wine, but not much alcohol, lots of healthy food an occasional mellow whiff, and i unleash the smoked steelhead with the mango chipotle sauce on the crowd, spread out on my rollatable, help set up the rolla cot for people to sit on and settle in to great conversations with old friends as the rain drums on the roof. We dodge drips from holes in the tarps, and find dry spots to set, raymond brings out his accordian, a mandolin, i drag out my guitar and we are singing and playing and everyone is mellowing out, celebrating the event and revelling in memories of the good old days. True hippies with dreads and colorful clothing, swathed in jackets and parkas. tall john, one of the originals is totally dressed in yellow slickers, knee boots and rain hat. he towers over everyone and holds us rapt with stories of old and new times, his place in the desert at a hidden hot spring campground, and greeting old friends with bear hugs. Silent sam appears from the woods totally garbed in rain gear, he doesnt talk, and stays like a ghost on the edge of the clearing, then dissappears back into the dripping pine forest.

Garbage moss is nowhere to be seen, he is in another one of his depressed moods, after being great fun in the desert, but i had introduced him as " the man who loves to hate" to some people, and he's not talked to me since. he has written so many good people off his list, including me for the last year, for behaviour he deems as inappropriate, such as my comment. so again we were best friends at the springs over pres day, partying, him wearing his dicknose and picking up. he was the garbage man here at the ranch during the heyday, organizing the recycling and garbage control. Oh well, he is severely bipolar, and needs to take time off from the scene.

The grandkids shasta and jevria have found friends and are running around in the rain, roasting strawberries over the fire i've set up in the old weber kettle. they think its great to be playing in the rain, and no cries of anguish have come to pass, so all is well.

I spot an apparition, a beautiful young woman in a long white dress, never seen her before and am transfixed, she moves like a dancer. now mellow on a little martini cab and some smokables and high on the conversations with a great group of characters. She drifts in with a net bag and sets it down, brings out a 1/2 gallon of segrams 7 whiskey and a big bottle of 7 up and starts pouring 1:1 into a large canteen. Now theres some alcohol, and i watch as she hits off the canteen and passes it to two guys with her. They are immediately tagged as the postmen, in postal service jacket, one tall with a pith helmet and intense eyes and energy, and another shorter with a wet dark curl of hair in the middle of his forehead, same intensity, and it occurs to me these guys are already stoned, on something and now drinking heavily out of the canteen, which keeps getting empty and full again with great rapidity. I m not the only one who notices, and jake comes over, i tell him what's happening and he says "who are those guys, who invited them??" they are definately not in the mellow groove and getting more intense by the minute as they down big swigs of their deadly concoction.

we talk a little and they are kind of interesting and i get a glass of their drink and it tastes good but goes down very easily and they are gulping it. Jake and i get into the same conversation about when to do the maypole dance we always do. he wants to do it now, a slight break in the weather, but i'm sure more people will show up for the big event. "C'mon jake, we want weather! we have the opportunity to do the dance in a raging rainstorm! We gotta wait a bit". He aceeds and we go on with the music playing, i haul out the recorder and start finding it easy to play along and improvise on the tune line.

Finally raymond breaks into the maypole dance tune on the accordian and we flow out onto the field a goodly crowd now about 40 with kids and oldsters, pre, post and syn boomers all ready to dance and play. They select the brightly colored strips and start the dance, in and out, back and forth, winding around. raymond and i lead the band, joiined by a wooden flute and harmonica, and all is smiles all around. People flash by and i telephoto in on the grandkids, heather and jane and jake and even the white dress lady and the postmen are twirling around the pole, a bit unsteady, and still swigging from the canteen.

We wrap it up with a colorful blaze of strips intertwined up and down the pole, people tie off and we play to the bitter end, till the last strip is tied at the bottom and people standing around loving the feeling of community, rebirth and fun we have just had. I move back to the shelter, it starts to rain harder and we huddle together, more smoked steelhead, and i settle into my throne a few drips spoiling my comfort, but nonetheless content to observe play a few tunes on the recorder and talk with passersby. People are packing up, Heather leaves with her gang, beaming smiling at the experience, and both of us rejoicing at what a great time father and daughter can have together.

The crowd shifts a bit and suddenly the postmen are sitting on the cot talking to me. it starts as a banter filled, interesting conversation going in many directions. Pith helmet (PH) is an actor and does voiceovers, bit parts but i ask him where he lives and he becomes evasive, but keeps up the banter. 64 different places in the last year, he finally says. I say wow, you are on the road, now tuning into my latest project, re reading and writing in kerouac style. "i bet you have some great stories, y'know we otta get together and i could write up some of this stuff and maybe publish it". his body stiffens, "not unless you pay me lots of money" "hey no problem, if it happens, it happens," but he cranks it up a notch " i mean thousands", Uh Oh, i'm losing this guy i say. well worth a try. Holding out my notebook and pen "just write your contact info here and well be in touch", he comes unglued "no you're not gonna rip me off for my stories" he says loudly, people start to turn and look to see what's going on. I say "OK, lets forget it" and get up and outta there, passing by Jake who looks at me with a raised eyebrow "pith helmet is outta control, very drunk" "did he insult you? " "no but he's being really weird, and not reacting to reason." I move off and see that pith helmet has come up to the table unsteadily looking at jake, and the short guy is beside him. "Just chill, just chill" jake says in a firm voice. A volley of outrage comes from the guy, while the little guy plunges his hand into the mac salad and crams it into his mouth losing 1/2 of it on the table and ground. Jake cranks it up a notch "cmon you guys, just chill out, this is getting out of hand". The white lady stumbles onto the scene, and Jake starts wooing her, trying to get her to leave, she can barely stand up, i look down and see the segrams bottle is empty lying on the ground next to the empty 7up bottle, they killed the whole bottle in about an hour and are totally out of control.

I go over to another group with big guys and alert them of the situation "Jake needs some backup for these guys" so we move and form a wall behind him. "You guys better be moving along now"Jake in a matter of fact voice. I grab the heavy screwdriver from the back of the pickup and the long pry bar and set them up so they are visible to pith helmet and friends. Jake looks at me and says "cool it Dean, just cool it let me handle this". I stay put behind him as he tries to reason with these guys to no avail. Jake changes tactics, goes to the woman, and gently wins her over "please, we;ve got to get you out of here, no leave the bottles we care of that, but we've really got to go". She gets led gently off by Jake's charm and the other two follow, not letting up on the intensity. They disappear off up the road, 1 mile hike to their car, and just as tall john and i are relaxing saying "great its over, Jake has taken care of every thiing, now we can party".

Just after he says that, the woman in white appears again with jake and pith helmet in tow. Pith helmet (PH) ranting about needing a ride up to his car, she stumbling around, Jake with a puzzled look on his face, as if to say "i tried, what now"?? I take control, now raging with adrenaline and manic energy. Loudly "All right, you’ve got 5 minutes to get into the back of that red pickup and I’ll drive you up, now move your ass! I don’t have any room in front, my guitar is riding shotgun, so you're riding in back, get down low and hang on, we will be going fast" . PH is up immediately, but white dress is stumbling, jake throws her air mattress and net bag into the back of the pickup. I try to use the big screwdriver to open the tail gate, to no avail, its raining harder now, getting dark and its buried in the boughs of a pine tree. I lead her to a chair and she flops up onto the back and i jump in and take off up the bumpy dirt road at a very dangerous rate of speed. I count the things in my favor: they are drunk, hopefully harmless, but i don't know about ph, and check for the pepper spray tear gas canister, not there where it always is, wtf??, oh well, i got the screw driver if i really need something, left the prybar back there at camp, shit.

I stop and get out at jake's driveway. white dress is lying passed out on top of the job box, and i yell at her to get down. she's not moving, so i grab her by the dress and drag her off the box and hear a resounding thunk as she lands in the bottom of the bed of the pickup. "YOu get down too" i yell at ph, "and hang on for dear life, because if you fly out, you're gonna die". Slam the door, slam the gears into 4 wheel hi range and fly up the road. the big bf goodrich knobbys grab the road and slither a little on the clay soils of the wilson grove formation, i start a drift and determine where the traction is on the center divider and drive with right wheels high on the right bank at a crazy angle. I sing the praises of toyota tacoma engineering staff, bilstein shocks and the extra leaf spring risers in the back and become virtually airborn 1/2 the time off the bumps and ruts and rocks. We make good time, i look back once to make sure they are still there and they seem to be, ghosts in the dark thrashing around to the motion.

i pull into the parking lot, and get out, screwdriver in my hand. white dress gets slowly out, "thanks for the ride," a bit unsteady, but around the corner comes ph, wound up like a clock "im gonna beat the shit outta you" and braces looking at me he is weaving back and forth and i see i have the physical advantage, but don't want to do any damage unless absolutely necessary. I lean against the bed of the pickup and sigh loudly as if bored and say in a quiet voice "I don't think thats a very good idea". He looks at me and backs off a little, I waste no time and run out into the parking lot, yelling "everyone, i need help, this guy says he's gonna beat the shit outta me, come out now, i need witnesses" One lady is walking up to her car, takes one look at the situation, and keeps walking. I see exhaust coming out of a volvo wagon, and hammer on the back window with the screwdriver and rip open the door and yell "get out i need help this guy is gonna beat me up", she is scared, judy i recognize from the party, we had a nice conversation, she gets out, and I start back for the pickup. ph is standing there, weaving, "Hey man its cool, im leaving" "OK, but please sleep in your car for a while before you try to drive, there are other people out there." Jump in the cab, and spin outta there, driving doing deep breathing to calm down, back to jane and george’s and sleep the sleep of the dead. no more adrenaline left. totally manic, mellowness calms me down and i sleep fitfully.through the rainy night.




Copyright 2009 (Dean Moriarity) aka Terry Wright
2851 words

da guida-skiing mammoth

Da guida-Win-skiing with an open container. 1/22/09

WTF? No answer at cell or home, he must be on his way and his communication systems have taken a dump. I lean on the side of the pickup in the Mill parking lot at Mammoth, looking for a flash of blue truck and talking to my almost 60 year old sister. She is xc skiing in new Hampshire and is awed by my birthday present: 2 boxes of vintage 45s with all the oldies from the 50s we partied to, a healthy dose of elvis, carl perkins, all the classics. We talk, she trying again to get me to come east for her 60th party, but im scheduled up now with gigs in soco, but im thinking of the possibilities.

“great, here come my skiis” I spy the blue pickup 2 dogs poking their faces out of windows fore and aft, and a smiling face, ringo mop of hair, sharp nose of my ski guide, ski surgeon, painting contractor, neighbor and fellow explorer, win lewis. I sign off with cindy, promising to think about the east trip, maybe combine with a night in las vegas to see “love” with Eileen, that would be cool, but my mind now is rigging for the slopes.

We banter as I struggle with my boots, always a pain to put on, and dress for the worst, a storm is coming in, we can see the minarets disappearing already. This is good, no fresh snow for 2.5 weeks, with a high sitting on the face of California, shunting all moisture to the north. Too long this pattern, global warming again. “gotta get one day a week in, at least, I tuned your skiis and the edges should be nice and sharp, you might find yourself catching edges on the tips, so if you do, ill get a file and detune them, but try em out first, your first day on the hill. Well take it easy and build up, snow is hard and fast,but should be soft lower and on southfacing slopes, Oh I forgot to tell you, my dog in the back had an accident, but I wiped most of the dogshit off of your skiis.” Ugh, dogs again, a constant factor of life with my friends, dog people, I have to accept them as friends, but the dogs are free spirits and will shit anywhere.

Win is the guide; He knows the mountain like the back of his hand, when we ski together we have a constant planning banter going on, wheres the good snow? Where was it good last week? Or last year? We talk with a patrol friend and he gives us some tips, and we are off. Win breaks open his first bottle of beer, skiing one handed with an open container, two more sticking out of his belt pack, First thing we do is ski into the woods and hang out. I'm not sure of my reaction to high elevations, major exercise and a replacement pacemaker, and an ejection fraction of 35% in my left ventricle due to congestive heart failure. We yellow the snow, talk a blue streak about the mountains, new job as surgeon general of the Ski Surgeon ski repain/tuning shop on the mountain. Painting contracts are slow in coming, so he’s picked up an old gig at a new place, more experience, late nights in the shop, big bucks.

“ok we’ll head down some groomers then work our way up toward the top. Get you broken in good and slow. I dunno about any steep stuff, it is hard and fast and if you make a mistake, itll be a long fast slide”. I know of what he speaks, several of these slides off of cornice and dave’s have made me conservative. I survived intact, but the danger of breaking a leg, or conking my head is high, and I don’t want to screw up my great joy of exploring the outdoors. We work our way up to face lift, and he sneaks up on a cute patrol, named Terri, hugs her, and we exchange banter and she gives us more tips on where to go for the good snow. I go over the origin of my name: from william h wright iii my mom extracted terry from tertiary for the third, “a Harvard radcliffe union thing, my parents” both gone now, but still living on, indelibly imprinted on my life and actions. We joke and laugh and shes beautiful, perfect mountain woman, we peel off into the open.

The guide is thinking and talking about the routes, the snow, the infinite possibilities. We head down rooster tail, my first dive off this steep run in soft, mushy, south facing snow and we traverse across to the bowls. “we don’t wanna head down dry creek, big boulders there and monster moguls, well traverse over 2 ridges and down the face, much smoother over there!”
I follow as he skiis with poles in one hand beer in the other down the black diamond steeps, me hanging on for dear life and shaking with joy.

A couple runs on chair 5, good hard snow,but the skis are unsteady, getting knocked around by little ridges of snow, but I handle it, and find I don’t have to rest as much, losing 10 lbs and hiking and acclimatizing has set me up for an enjoyable time, less concerned about being worn out after 2 turns. We look back up at dry creek at the moguls, and down come the military, marines from the mountain training base. “I would have gone that way but it looks like they are struggling, it would have been good for the entertainment value” win comments. Wryly.

I think about being back in nh for the big party, my sibs will all be there as will a good crowd of the old gang, and there will be snow on the mts and we could ski together again, if her adult add doesn’t carry her off on some other tangent. Hmm, maybe I can reschedule, ill see what I can do later.

We break at the mill, he stays out side with his personal beer and I get hot chochlate with a shot of coffee for 2$, the price has gone up, have a great conversation with the teller lady, “its starting to come down out there, big flakes”, “ya I go out every once in a while and get excited!” she smiles and dosent seem to upset about the lack of tip. When the hc was 1.50, there were quarters to burn, and tips were better. Sit by the fire and unwind, aching a bit but feeling better,but definitely tired. A couple more runs this afternoon if the weather doesn’t completely flatten the light looks good. Win sits down, burping from his second beer of the day and we banter, look at the possibilities, I mandate another 10 minutes of rest. We banter with a nice older lady with lots of rings and looking like a tiger of a skier, praying for snow.

Dress up and out into the storm, its getting windy and the big flakes are pelting down, raining at the base, but better up high. We traverse the summer road from the top of 23 in flat flat light, and do a couple runs on the back bowls of 14, exploring the woods once more for another hit. Nice smooth groomers and a little crud, highly varied snow conditions, but im handling it. We coast back to base lodge, win on his 3rd beer. We get to the trucks at 3 and finish off with lunch at angels, fish tacos and hot brandy for me. Rob Henderson joins us, old friend of wins and my buddy, and he produces the photograph I bought last spring a great view of setting sun on mountains and flowery meadow in the foreground, perfectly lit. It is beautifully framed and ready to hang. We bid farewell, I flail around vons, forgetting some stuff and remembering others not noted in my list left in the car along with the cloth bags.

Back across the Benton crossing road, talking to mark, who is headed out south to consult on botany, hes in the big projects now,desert solar farms, all needing to know if they are going to molest some endangered species. I am tired, the house is a mess, but I shower an flop out for 2 hours, no nap this afternoon, and wake to wonder where the princess phone has gone off to. It isn’t in all the usual places and the remote fancy phone is acting up, giving me all kinds of weird beeps and messages and being generally useless. Princess is hiding, and I scour the clutter for her, no where to be found, and I need to make/take calls. This is the second mysterious phone disappearance in several months, what is going on? I finally give up after crawling on all fours poking under furniture and looking in all cabinets, and head over to harrys, to borrow their spare phone. Harry is naked, wrapped in a towel talking to his mom, I wait as june shows me the beautiful Indian portraits her sister did, she is a good artist herself, did a great picture of the mountain during my potlatch party, and her daughter is finishing chico state as an art teacher. She retrieves their spare phone, “you gotta have one of these when the power goes out.” “I know, but mine was stolen, or developed legs and walked off and hid somewhere I cant find.”. Back to the ranch and some calls later to line up more takers for Fridays potluck, should be a blast, with new and old locals, wine, food, talk, banter, Alaska slides, and a show of the last year.

I don’t light the fire, its still warm from this morning’s blaze in the wood stove, and read and write and so to bed, tired but satisfied, my demons quenched for the time being, bubbles carrying them off, drifting silently toward the surface of this nice warm pond.

copyright 2009, Terry Wright

why you wear helmets in mine adits.

hadda mishap yesterday, i was exploring an adit (horizontal mine tunnel) up in the hills looking for an anticline. i found it, but in my excitement, tripped on some rough rocks and did a headfirst dive into razor sharp rocks, punctured my left palm and gotta 4" scalp wound which bled like a stuck pig (no similarity intended)/ luckily i was in good hands with by friend paul, ex cop, and well trained in 1st aid. he drove me to his place on 20 acres off the grid and cleaned up and surveyed the damage. he wanted todrive me to the hospital in bishop (3/4 hr away), but i rested awhile and convinced him i had to go to benton to get my wallet with med cards and my meds list before i went to any hospital.

I checked in with the fire chief, an emt, but he was still at work, and his wife clucked and moaned over me, but also suggested i go to terry and jerrys, shes a nurse. they are friends so i found jerry the ex bronc rider awaiting the immanent return of his wife terry, who is a nurse. She patched me up with some steristrips after cleaning the wounds and giving me more of a haircut than i needed. after agreeing to call after resting for an hour, so i did, and slept most of the evening, finished my book, christopher moores new one "fool" a hysterical takeoff on King Lear from the fools point of view and rested soundly. now contemplating dawn and skiing or resting. hmmmm. either is an option.

kenneyville

Bill Kenney 3/09

I finally have some time, cindy is somewhere else, and her exploder sits in the drive, ready for a cruise to kenneyville. I rev up on the Easton road, a sign “frost heaves” is very true, and soon I pass the sign to the Robert frost museum, paralleling the ham branch river, running black between random patches of ice and snow. Flash on the time I ran it at high water in the canoe with Derek. “don’t kill my son” were the last words Carolyn gave me. I was the one who swam when we hit a log, just another river trip.

Flash again on the gunfight that took place here, with liko Kenney pulled over, getting into an argument with a cop, and shooting him with a 45 then running over him. Then the crazed ex marine picking up the cops gun and shooting liko in cold blood. The town went crazy over this one, fingers pointing everywhere, and friends shocked. I know the family, and knew liko as a kid running wild, undisciplined, and always in trouble. He was on the road to recovery until this catastrophe.

Im on a quest for old friendship, looking for bill Kenney, archtypical new Hampshire farmer and black sheep of many in the Kenney family. Jack and peg Kenney met skiing and bought an old farm out here 500 acres in the 40s and had a skiers hostel with raging parties back in the early days. Their kids now feud over the land use, a sometimes tennis camp, beefalo ranch and organic garden. Davy grew a field of mellowness, and now bill is the only one left working the land. Mike has a tennis court refinishing business and joe is semi retired, running an antique shop, now mother of the famous ski racer, bode miller, who has just retired from the world cup circuit after winning the cup.

Bill has married a Russian lady, mail order bride, and lives in the cook shack, a log cabin structure back in the woods. I look up the drive and there he is, looking very busy, a Maddox over his shoulder, headed for the carrot patch. Knee boots, coveralls, tattered carhart jacket, craggy face, beard, but piercing eyes, always moving, We greet , old friends, and banter about the weather, the crop of organic carrots hes been growing since august now under an insulating cover of straw. “an old Indian trick, keeps em growing through the winter”. He wacks away with the Maddox and removes a thick layer of rotten hay, digs into black rich earth and red shapes of carrots start to come up. He fishes them out and soon has a good pile. “wow, I never knew about that” “you gotta be tricky out here to survive”, he grins and goes back to work “I can get 1$ apiece for these things in the health food store.” Hmm I wonder how true that is.

He starts in about his farm “ ya, still got them beefalos, did in a big steer last month, another ready to go” dreaming of a cash crop, he has 12 of the beasts, and they eat a lot of hay. “ gonna have a valley full of organic farm here, gotta option on 26 acres in the lowland, great soil, gona be hiring soon, know anyone who needs a job?” “ I know a couple million out there, that need a job, maybe we could start a new town for them”.

He’s at odds with his sibs over how to split up the farm, he wants 5 acres, a minimum lot size, but his sibs are all at his throat, tried arbitration, to no avail, they really don’t like each other. Its coming down to a court hearing in the spring. He may be out of a place to live.

Its quiet and getting cold, the sun setting steel gray in the west, and the smell of fresh earth in the air. He’s headed to the barn to feed the beefalos, and I’m cold, feet wet in my crocs, and not suited to hike down the hill in the deep snow. “ you got no boots,” he observes, “I better be moving on, I stole cindys car, and shell be wondering where it is.”

We part ways, waving as he goes down the road into the gathering dusk, headed for the greater glory of living off the land.

Copyright 2009 terry wright

franconia 2

Franconia 2 3/09

The day starts with a bang, cindy leaving early in a flurry of activity to secure a prime spot for our bbq lunch on the mountain, pancakes flying low, a new gallon of mape makes the scene to sweeten things up. It is still over cast but warm and sun is promised for afternoon. I pack up ski gear, head for the mt and watch the stream of cars pack ing into cannon parking lot. We ignore the signalers and find cindy parked next tot he bunny slope, booting up, ready to rock n roll. Steve and phil dunn are already on the mt, Kathleen is there from montreal, the troops are gathering. Now we have a group of about 10, kids, sibs old friends, skiing fast, long swoopting carvers on the open slopes.. still haard up top, we can see the ice rink of profile trail glinting high above. I get a senior ticket for 36 and off we go, the rat pack, moving smoothly through the lines, greeting old friends, cindy knows everyone local, and we get a great hit of cannon comaderie. Down to the tram after a false start, and I enter the hallowed ground of my youth, flashing on my first makeout session in a snowbank with terry norton, right in front of her fathers office window. My mouth still hurting from being hit by Malcolm grandy,the bad guy at high school, going up after a basketball. I pushed off and he landed on his back, wind knocked out. It really made kissing interesting, but we orally exchanges precious bodily fluids in a fit of passion, rollijng in the snow.



We try the top, now blasting raggae at the lift station, a guy in natty dreads stands guard. We fly down ravine, playing with the snow along the edges, now soft with rising temps. We follow each other in a line, blowing past the standers and snow plowers. I look around and the mountain is coming out, our mountain, Lafayette, how many times did we top out there, hunkering down in the stone shelter smoking a tobacco pipe while the snow blew by, snug in our tight group shot through with testosterone with mountains, rock climbing, ice climbing skiing a way of life. We cruise down to the parking lot where the briquetts are sizzling dogs and burgers, beers in hand sitting in folding chairs, with the sun breaking through. It is a real scene, kids running around, skiing on one ski, munching dogs, friends dropping by, and the 4 sibs reveling in the reunion. Phil dunn is there too, tall white moustached gent, our neighborhood friend, and Kathleen, cindys tuckermans friend from montreal. She and cindy were at tuck on 4 th of july one year and suddenly Kathleen wasn’t there, she had broken through a snow bridge and was 20 feet down in a crevasse upside down, hanging from her skiis. The patrol extracted her, but not until a great deal of rope arranging and derring do on the part of swampy paris and his crew. So we retell the old tales, reliving the past triumphs and disasters and all taken back to our invincible youth.

We head up the chair, spirits high, me feeling the effects of a nooner beer. Get to the top of the chair and I make the fatal mistake of weight too far back, cant spring up in time and my skiis go sideways and I crash, a resounding thump on my helmet tells me where the chair is hitting. The lift guy is on top of it, and stops the chair from running over me, and a crowd helps me up, shaken, the high destroyed, but ready for more.

Now more top runs, and I opt to return for my nap with steve and Ronnie. Alls set for the party and people arrive , some of the older guard, including dick bennik a class mate of dads at Harvard, and Duncan cullman, old boyfriend from telluride. We rev up with catered munchies, and when the crowd is in full swing, I get tom and we suit me up with the elvis costume, turn the lights on in the pimpdaddy coat and im off down the back stairs, hanging out on the lawn, in the dark until cindy and part of the crowd emerges, and I walk waving my lighted arms, to the great enjoyment of all. Cameras click, cindy and I grind out, “you aint nothing but a hound dog” in gravelly voices, more cameras and people crowd around to feel the coat and cuddle. A great thing that, cathys gift after burning man 3 years ago. And now my staple costume.

We gather for buffet and sitdown dinner at a long table, 21 people and toast cindy, tell tall tales, and have a great meal. Cake ice cream, and good cheer, lots of wine. I sit with Irene and we strike up our old friendship, she still in town, doing body work, and living off the land, skiing as much as possible. We relive old times, old friends and revel in the atmosphere of community.

I tell the story of taking cindy over the headwall the first time, and other stories abound. Even little Carolyn gets in the act and tells a Lapland story. Irene and I repair to the living room and I show the burning man slides and a few more shows. Now people leave, and I cruise to the apt and sleep soundly, rain pounding on the roof.

franconia new hampshire

Franconia 09

Hectic times, doing taxes, and death, and heading out into the storm to gain the motel la quinta, and park sleep fly accommodations, my flight leaves at 6 am so im taking the easy route. Another adventure back to childhood haunts, family and old friends. Ski cannon, party for cindys 60th, and hang with the north country scenery and crowd.

Kk and I talk and I surface after 2 near accidents in shallow alto, a row of high class stores, restaurants, and the apple store, where kk and zoe, looking hugely pregnant, are perusing the latest in apple ware. We oo and aahhh over a monster computer screen and mac tv wireless setup and head into th e night in search of sustenance. The usual choices, all high class, settle into Vietnamese, very posh, typical silicon valley types, wining and dining. We settle in and choose a pinot by the glass, all wines are 40 or more, with emeritus pinot on the menue for 125. ouch. These friends of mine know how to market.

We have a great chat, and leave with kk and zoe ready prepared and willing to be parents of my next granddaughter. I crash late, rise early 3:40 and do a seamless entry into the world of international travel. Catching my flight to ohare, watching quantum of solace with the bose headphones, and making the transition to the flight to Manchester seamlessly.

Tom isn’t there, and I finally duck out of the cold with a beautiful sunset behind, and there he is, looking for me. We nosh and I sleep on a bench until jostled out of reverie by Carolyn, in from dulles, complete with skiis boots and ready. We rocket off to Franconia thru the night, intense conversations, growing up up here, old trips in the night with blinding snow, freezing rain, where we slid into a snow bank, and watched cars crash into the barrier and spin around us. The notch is clear and they are grooming garys and avalanche, so we have a good day ahead to ski. Cindy greets us with spaghetti and nonstop conversation, I break in every once in a while,, but feel a bit left out. They are intense conversationalists, not leaving a break between stories for me to get my oar in, I crash as the chatter contines, and rest the rest of the dead.

The alarm wakes me right on time for my flight 3:40 am, shit I forgot to turn it off, and then the cell beeps its low battery refrain, up a gain, more ibu and a s pill and im off till 8. awake to cindy opening the garage door below me, and the race is on, nonstop conversations, events, prepping for a day on the slopes, like old times in the cabin. We scrape 1/2 inch of ice off toms car, freezing rain coming down, the mountain in clouds. Andy fixes me up with a great set of salomons and technical boots that fit great and we are off tot he slopes. The usual prep scene, dressing for the day,now raining, and booting up, ready for a typical day on cannon, so many times in our youth we are on auto pilot, still chatting away and planning the logistics for the day.

Im bundled up, the facemask on, new goggles,helmet, new parka ready for anything. Its warm and raining, and we realize our first mistake: sittting on the wet chairlift and soaking our butts. Oh well, a normal day at the coldest worst weather mountain in the east. The snow is soft and groomed, so we find places to turn abundant, and follow like rockets down the narrow trails, all skiing in unison, a thing of beauty, like the old days, for the first time in years. Exhileration explodes in cheers and yodels as we scream down the slopes, taking the inside of the turns on ravine, singing the praises of the master of trail builders, sel Hannah, with hair growing out of his ears, planning and cutting the original trails on cannon.

We hit the top lift and the seats on the chair are glazed with ice, which we melt and make our butts even wetter, still non stop chat, great memories, wonderful family times, all set by dad and mom, we are now continuing a long tradition, only we have had. Into the clouds, flat light and boilerplate ice conditions, like skiing on marbles, but soon I find the snow has been pushed to the sides of the trail, and it great going there, easy turns, keep ing up with the flashing image of cindy, in perfect race form, zinging in front, flying down the mountain. We explore the old haunts and some new ones, little trails no one uses, with good snow, easy turns, few people and great feelings.

Lunch break with sandwiches from home, despite the sign that says no bag lunches at the door, all kinds of people around, loads of kids, still a family mountain. Carolyn is there in a ski class, and we tag a long, but they are ripping the mountain. I notice few snowboarders, and they are very polite, unlike the unruly, disrespectful sort at mammoth. We ski the top again, the doors blaring at the base station for the chair. it has warmed up and no ice on the seats, but still glare polish on the upper part of the trails, but tom has sharpened my edges and im holding firm, even on vast patchs of ice. Cindy and I head down the mountain, leaving tom and Carolyn to their devices, I crash and up and suddenly dinner is ready, early, a full evening ahead, picking up Ronnie, going to a play, I play dead, and write this, hook up the ipod with the doors playing, at peace with the world.


copyright 2009 terry wright