| June 20 |
Today, Tom asked, "Since you got here a day later than you planned,
are you still leaving on the day you planned?" I said, "Yes."
He seemed disappointed. But for some reason, I feel an urge to move
onward. I remember how the tension between Tom and Bob used to drive
me crazy, as if they were both competing for my attention. It was as
bad as when my Mother and Sara were in the same house together. But
there was no competing draw for my attention here in Lone Pine. Perhaps
I just felt jittery, having stayed here longer than anyplace else.
A journey has a kind of momentum and timing of its own, and I've come
to respect that.
I could rationalize my departure by saying I needed to get
back to my home base in Mountain View a day early so I could
pack more thoughtfully for the rest of my trip.
But that is truly a second-hand reason. I really just want to get up
and go because I want to get up and go. Tom and I went up Whitney Portal, had lunch, and hiked partway up the trail. The sheer granite walls were amazing. Your eyes and then it seems your whole body floats upward, gazing at them. On our hike, we encountered a red, fleshy stalk poking up out of the ground in several places, twice near patches of snow. Neither of us knew what it was. I looked it up later in my Western Forests field guide. "Snow flower," it said. "Once seen, never forgotten." Indeed. Later that night, while Tom and I were talking, I noticed that there were times when Tom would drop the thread of the conversation and start on a completely different tack. I was often unprepared for the switch. I might have put it down to his not being in contact with people very often out here in Lone Pine, but when it happened a second time, I remembered that the same pattern occurred when Tom and I lived together in San Francisco. It is not the free-association of ideas that is one of the chief joys of talking with someone as bright as Tom. It is closer to a breakdown of the conversational contract. If I want to introduce an new topic, or veer off into something that interests me more, I usually signal the change, sometime quite overtly, saying, "This is off-topic, but ..." or "I just thought of something, ..." Tom doesn't usually do this. He just starts off in another direction and you have to keep up. I used to wonder, "Am I boring him? Did I just say something stupid and he wants to avoid embarrassing me? Or did he not hear what I just said?" I sometimes thought I served only as a sort of audience for him. I had forgotten how uncomfortable that made me feel. It was not a welcome recollection. But it passed. He talked about his HIV status and how he was managing his health out here in the middle of nowhere. Rather well, as it happens. He's never taken AZT, which he has equated with taking mercury for sphyllis, and he hasn't felt the need for any of the new "chemical cocktails." His T cells are in the reasonable range and his viral load is still undetectable. All good news. We also talked about Diseased Pariah News and how difficult it has been getting out the last few issues. It is no longer fun, and the next issue may well be its last. That's too bad. I was delighted to have two of my stories accepted in DPN as an honorary pariah and will be sorry to see it go. On the one hand, I suppose it's inevitable. Such an innovative, ground-breaking perspective on the AIDS epidemic must eventually become, by its own success, passe. On the other hand, as Tom would say, it sucks big wet weenies. We didn't go to the hot tub this night, but I did spend some time outside looking up at the stars. How spectacular they are in this fine, high desert air. |
New York Butte from Tommy's front porch. |
| June 21 |
Summer Solstice. Odd. I have planned no rituals. Also, Father's Day.
I have no rituals for that, either.
After leaving Tommy's, I headed up Highway 395 towards Bishop, but took the side tour to Bristcone Pine National Forest, even though Tom had said it was a bit out of the way. On the way up to the forest, I passed through a section of the desert that was still in bloom, possibly because it was at a higher elevation. Tom had said the desert was spectacular when it bloomed, and this patch certainly proved him right. The road to Bristlecone was only partially open. I got as far as Shulman's Grove. I started to take the Methusela self-guided nature walk, which goes through the oldest of the trees, some of which are 5,000 years old. (Typing that, I almost said, "some of whom ..." You get the feeling that some of these ancient trees are beings, sentient but slow, conscious but not animate.) I usually love self-guided nature walks and liked the one I took at Red Rocks south of Lone Pine. But for some reason, I felt out of place here. Was it the urge to continue the journey, the same urge that had me leave Tom's? At any rate, I turned back after going only about a mile down the trail. Is that going to be a theme of this trip? Goals only partially or vaguely realized? Is the lack of a clear intention something endemic in my life? Do I give up too soon? Are my pathways always incomplete? Maybe incompleteness can itself be an intention, a goal. The Buddha might say, "Who or what is incomplete?" I might gain insight by fully sensing the incompleteness - the completeness of the incompleteness. I feel the hot breath of Kurt Goedel breathing down my neck. I made it to Mammoth Lakes and checked into the Alpenhoff hotel. The visitor's center said the road to the Devil's Postpile is closed due to snow. The monument is inaccessible. Typical. You can never get to the Devil when you want him. Score another one for incompleteness. I took a nap and had another of those damnable school dreams. I was in a choir. The teacher told me to sing a passage I was supposed to have studied. I hadn't studied and didn't know it. She had me dead to rights: it was my fault. (This is the second time the teacher in my dreams has been a woman.) But instead of admitting I was wrong, I said simply, "I don't know it." She then said something angry and belittling. I said, growing angry and yet self-confident at the same time, "Belittling people and using anger and sarcasm is no way to get them to learn. You may be a good musician, but that doesn't make you a fit teacher." When I woke, I rather liked what I had said. Perhaps I should practice it, like the chant I meant to do before starting this trip: I don't know where I'm going. I don't know what this journey is supposed to do to me. I don't know and I can't know so quit bugging me about it. I am here, now. Don't belittle my state just because it is unformed. Let me alone. Let me settle in my own time. My furture and my career after this trip are uncertain, and they are going to remain uncertain until after the trip is over, so quit asking me to study for the furture. I'm not ready for it yet. I need to be schooled in the moment and feel it under my feet and feel it passing through me and me through it. Then I'll know how to dance, whatever the future brings. What is my goal? I don't know. What is my future? I don't know. What should I study? Myself. Here. Now. Not the you-over-there, not the soon-to-be, not the what-if. Here, now, me. Let me go, wherever that may lead. Don't worry. I won't let you starve. |
1. Beavertail cactus in bloom on the way to Bristlecone Pine
2. The top of the Sierra Nevada from the top of the White Mountains |
| June 22 |
Despite the handsomeness and friendliness of the night clerk at the
Alpenhof, I've decided to transfer to the Snow Goose, a bed and
breakfast where I'll feel more like I'm in contact with people and
less like I'm staying at a motel. I tried to reach Mitch by phone
yesterday and told him I was staying at the Alpenhof. I hope this
switch in lodgings doesn't confuse him, though he doesn't seem to
have made any effort to contact me so far. I'll leave him another
message with my new telephone contact. The people at the Snow Goose
are much more personable and friendly. Denise, the owner, operator,
and cook, really made me feel like I was somewhere.
I drove up to the Mammoth Lakes themselves. I was surprised to see ice still covered the upper lakes. A spectacular waterfall of snowmelt was cascading from the upper lakes to the lower ones, where people were fishing. I picked up a brouchure at the lodge, which looked like a nice place to spend a winter evening. A charming pair of English couples is also staying at the Snow Goose. When I returned from my viewing the lakes we had a little chat and I mentioned my upcoming trip to England and Wales. Later that evening, I ran into all four of them again at the movies, where we had gone to watch The X Files (which, incidently, I found slightly baffling, but I guess that's the intent of the whole series). Before bed, I used a pay phone to call my answering machine. I had told the folks I am going to visit along the way that that was the best place to leave messages, since I didn't know where I would be from day to day. I thought Mitch might have called there and left a message. There was a new message on the machine, but it was some woman speaking an incomprehensible language. Where are Agents Scully and Dimwit when you need them? I'm giving up on Mitch. When I spoke to him about making this trip and meeting up with him, perhaps somewhere in Yosemite, I felt I almost had to talk him into it. The last message I left for him mentioned that I knew the Tioga Pass was closed, and that coming over by the longer Sonora Pass might be more than he'd want to take on (the ranger at the visitor's station said it could take six hours). Since he wants to leave for San Francisco on Friday, I don't see the advantage to him in driving all that way to spend one day with me. So instead of heading into Yosemite, I'll spend tomorrow here in Long Valley, touring Inyo craters and the Hot Creek. Maybe I'll try to find another of the secluded hot springs mentioned in my guide book. Remington was washed out by the Kern, but I might have better luck here, away from the spring run-off. |
|
| June 23 |
According to the local paper, there will be a square dance tonight. That
will be nice, a kind of warm-up for the convention. It might also be
interesting to see what local variations and styling the dancers use.
I had another performance dream last night. I and a bunch of Army buddies got "caught" on stage and had to do an impromptu musical and a dance. We were quite good and the show was a smash hit. So I guess my mantra is working: I don't know where I'm going, but I know how to take care of myself. Don't bother me about the future. I can improvise. I don't know the furture. I'm studying the now. I just spoke to the woman at the RV park about the square dancing. She said that the square dancing is Wednesday night. I said I knew that from the paper. She said, "But today is Tuesday." I was amazed and somewhat delighted. I had successfully lost track of time! That also means Mitch isn't late in calling me. He could still call tomorrow and still be on the schedule we agreed to before I started the trip. But why put hope in tomorrow? That's what the caldera says. There has been a two foot rise in the center of Long Valley, which means the magma beneath it is on the move again. If this thing blows, it could pour lava all the way down to the San Fernando Valley. It's done it before. It could do it again. I went on a hike around Inyo Craters, running these thoughts through my mind. The craters themselves are rather abrupt, appearing almost out of nowhere in the middle of the forest, like a bit of moonscape accidentally left behind. Eventually, as I circled the craters and walked back through the woods, "What the Caldera Says" took shape in my mind, along with a simple melody to sing it to. After Inyo, I went looking for Hot Creek. Parts of this creek are so heated by the volcanism below that the water is actually scalding. You can be boiled alive here. Nevertheless, I did not find it interesting, and went looking for Hot Tub Springs, which was further out in the center of Long Valley. This valley is basically the ancient caldera. The terrain is pretty flat, with a few hills, and the vegetation is desert. It's criss-crossed with dirt roads. Looking for Hot Tub, I took the wrong road and wandered off into the desert. However, unlike my experience looking for the opal mine in Red Rocks, I did not feel like I could get lost and wander on forever in the desert. Sooner or later, I would hit the wall of the caldera. The scene was also beautifully framed by the snow-topped Sierras to the west and the equally epinomous White Mountains to the east. I knew I was lost almost at once, but once again came across a patch of the desert in bloom and was so amazed and delighted by the carpets and tufts of flowers that I didn't feel at all distressed about having lost my way. It was as if this accident had led me to a place I needed to be, to a sight I needed to see. I eventually got back to the main road, took my bearings again, reread the directions in the hot springs guide book, and finally found my way to Hot Tub. I parked my van where the spring starts and walked down the path to where the guide book said there would be a man-made tub and a small, tiled patio big enough for one person. There was one man already there, sun bathing in the nude. He was trim and nicely proportioned, smooth-skinned and clean cut. I startled him at first. He hadn't heard my van approach or me come down the path. We chatted, and I stripped and got into the tub. The water was very hot, but I was enjoying the relaxing effect it was having on my joints, especially my knees. He moved over beside the pool and the two of us got to chatting. He told me how he got here from L.A. and how he was now so used to the isolation that he didn't enjoy cities at all. Out here, he could pursue his interest in horses. I said how much I liked the quiet, and how even the sound of a jet plane flying overhead seemed like an intrusion. I like occasional solitude, and when I go camping, I like to be where I can't even hear the sound of an engine. He said you can get used to that out here. He rarely goes into the city, and when he does, he feels claustrophobic. I mentioned my friend Tom in Lone Pine. After only six months out here, found himself baffled by San Francisco the first time he returned there. It was a kind of sensory overload. I was beginning to get a kind of sensory overload myself. This man was very handsome and very friendly and this spot was very isolated. But do these sorts of things actually happen anywhere outside of, say, First Hand magazine? Indeed, they do. We both had a remarkably good time, even if my knees got slightly scalded from kneeling in the tub. Afterwards, we both laughed about it. "The guide book said nothing about this," I said. "I don't get many opportunities like this out here," he said. "This is really read-neck country." Then he said his "lunch hour" was over and he would have to be getting back. We exchanged e-mail addresses and I recited "What the Caldera Says" to him. He liked it, especially the closing lines. Then he left. I stayed behind, soaking a bit more, then writing up my journal notes. Within the next twenty minutes, the tub was visited by two other people, and a third drove by in a pickup. This made our moment together seemed all the more remarkable - a little frame of solitude in which two men could enjoy the gifts that time had given them. I had meant to go out for lunch then, but discovered I had left my wallet at the Snow Goose. I guess sometimes I really don't know what I'm doing. After retrieving my wallet, I decided to take a trip right across the caldera and over the rim to a little town called Benton or Benton Crossing. I remember stopping at such a town on my first Grand Summer Adventure in 1984. But now, I was uncertain of where it was. Was it really Benton, or was it Bridgeport? or Bishop? Some town on the eastern side of the Sierras beginning with "B." Jack Huckleberry and I ate there before heading for Bodie, Mono Lake, and Yosemite. I took the drive across the valley. Going over the lip of the caldera was spectacular. Then down into another valley, surprisingly green, and into the town of Benton. I was certain now this was the place. I had lunch at the White Mountain Cafe, where I chatted with Mom, who runs the place, and her son, a sun-wrinkled 50-year-old with one blue eye and one white eye (probably from cateracts). He was the owner and operator of the Maranantha Jesus Is Coming Soon Drilling and Pumping Company. I asked Mom if she remembered my stopping by here fourteen years ago. She said she didn't think she owned the place back then. I drove back to Mammoth Lakes by way of Bishop. I meant to stop by the Railroad Museum just outside of Bishop, but it was closed. I was not disappointed. The day had been full enough. Just as I was walking into the Snow Goose, Denise said, "Guess who's on the phone?" It was Mitch. He had just returned from Phoenix. "I flew over you today," he said. I remembered the sound of a jet just as two men were warming up to each other in the desert. I also remembered in a flash that Mitch had told me he would be visiting his mother in Phoenix. Odd how that slipped my mind. Odder still how I automatically assumed neglect and betrayal, abandonement and disregard. Old Mr. Negative is still with me. But my own experiences prove him wrong. Abundance is everywhere. The day is full of joys. Mitch and I agreed that his driving over the pass to meet me was a silly idea. However, if Tioga Pass opens on Thursday, as they say it will, then perhaps I can still spend Thursday night with him. We shall simply play it by ear. As I am learning to trust it should be. I topped the evening off with a movie and dinner at Whiskey Creek. |
|
| June 24 |
I slept uneasily. Perhaps the dinner at Whiskey Creek was too rich.
To top off a resteless night,
I was rolled out of bed at 5:00 AM by an earthquake, about 3.5 - 4.0
on the Richter scale, I
would guess. Quite the little jolt.
I wrote a preliminary draft of a poem describing yesterday's adventure at Hot Tub Springs and sent it to Bob Graeber. Then I prepared to leave this wonderful caldera. Before leaving Mammoth Lakes, I had my tires checked. One of them was badly worn, so I bought two new front tires. While I was waiting to have them mounted and balanced, I rewrote the tongue-in-cheek summary of yesterday's encounter in the desert. The result was "The Ballad of Hot Tub Springs." I put it on three postcards, two stanzas per card, and over the next three days sent it, one card at a time, to Don. Today's goals are the June Loop, Mono Lake, Bodie, Travertine Hot Springs, setting up camp at Honeymoon Flats, and a visit to Buckeye Hot Springs. I'll also keep an ear open on the status of Tioga Pass in case it opens up and I can make it across the mountains. I stopped at the Railroad Museum outside of Bishop first, though. I thought this would be an interesting way to start my "railroad" adventures. The train's old route, from Carson City to Bishop and beyond, must have been a spectacular ride in its day, but the seats in the old coach were quite narrow and uncomfortable. I wandered around the old buildings, too, looking in at an old dentist's office and a printer's. I rang the bell on the locamotive, then headed north to Benton. I had decided to go back over the rim of the caldera, reversing the route I'd taken the day before. I remember taking this rounte on my trip with Jack in 1984, climbing up the rim of the caldera and looking back at the White Mountains. The valley Benton sat in seemed an isolated paradise. The same road now seemed eerie, isolated but beautiful. I was alone this time and stopped at one point and simply shouted aloud how beautiful I thought this place was. I stopped at Mono and started to take a ranger-guided nature walk, but again the urge to move on struck me, and I returned to my car and drove on the the June Lake Loop. That's a lovely spot, too, well worth a return visit. I had lunch there in a restaurant that seemed to cater to hunters. Would this be a good place to live, or would the isolation and near-insular quality of this valley become oppressive? I decided to skip Bodie and went right on to Travertine hot springs. It was a travesty, full of obnoxious people: local yokels at the spring at one end of the travertine and yuppies at the pool at the other end. I was very disappointed in the social ambience. The travertine itself, however, was fascinating. I had never seen the geological formation that leads to travertine before, other than a distant view of one spot in the Grand Canyon. The Earth does amazing things entirely without our help. I had no joy at Honeymoon Flats, either. It was pleasant driving up the flank of a mountain getting there, and it seemed a tidy and well-designed campground, but Buckeye Springs, which is what I had come this way to see, was washed out, just as Remington had been earlier on my trip. I walked along the creek that had swallowed the springs for about a half a mile, then returned to my car. A woman and a child came up to me, asking where the springs were. I told her I had no luck finding them and believed they were under the swollen creek. She shrugged philosophically and the two of them walked on. I wondered breifly where they had come from, as mine was the only car around. I decided then to take the Sonora Pass over the mountains. It was much farther north than the Tioga, but the Tioga was still snowbound. I had never been over the Sonora, so the adventure of doing something different was appealing. Rather than return the way I had come up the mountain, I decided to take a narrow trail back to the highway. The hot springs guide claimed it was a shorter route, but full of twists and turns and not to be tried in rainy weather. It may well have been shorter in distance, but it took me much longer to get back to the highway than it had taken to get up the mountain. Still, the route afforded me some lovely vistas, and had the appeal of not going back the way I had come. But a Caravan, it must be said, is not really an off-road vehicle, and although this trail was not wilderness, at times the only suggestion that it was, in fact, a road was the existence of two roughly parallel ruts. When I think of the search for the opal mine and this rough passage down the mountain side, I'm amazed the Blue Beast put up with my lack of concern for its undercoating. Then I headed for the Sonora Pass. It now looked like I would be able to spend Thursday night with Mitch after all. |
An unfocused view of the Sonora Pass |
| June 25 |
I'm glad I took the Sonora pass. The views are breathtaking - and
at 8,000 to 9,000 feet, often literally so! I camped overnight
at Eureka Valley in the Stanislaus Forest. I chose my campsite
because there were wildflowers among the rocks. I thought they
would make a nice scene to wake up to.
Little did I realize when I woke up this morning that I would find myself in wildflower paradise. I've never seen so many different, delicate kinds, all growing and blooming in turts and carpets. Everywhere there was a crevice in the granite, there were flowers. Everywhere a slight, pebbly soil accumulated, there were flowers, some no larger than a pinhead, some in large, showey clumps. I'm glad I came this way. I could have stressed out about not getting a phone call to Mitch this morning, and again about not being able to leave a message at noon, but I was took enchanted with the forest and the rushing creeks to be distracted by worry. I walked across one bridge that spanned a roaring torrent and was fascinated by the rush of water. There is so much commotion in the wild, yet so little worry and so little noise. Mitch was not home when I arrived at his place in Midpines. I was pleased with myself that I was able to find his cabin after having visited him only once. The California poppies were blooming profusely in his yard, and a large white flower was blooming in the meadows and hillsides around his place. Later, Mitch identified it as a Mariposa lily, which is native only here. My field guide called it a Sego lily and gave it a broader range. Either way, it's beautiful. I went back to Mariposa and left Mitch a message on his phone, saying I was waiting for him in the parking lot where we rendezvoused the last time I came for a visit. I wandered around a bookstore, then settled into my car to read a bit. Mitch found me soon enough. I thought it was sweet of him to put up with my ad hoc approach to planning and drive all the way from Midpines just to lead me back. Mitch fixed a fabulous dinner on the bar-b-que. We chatted and relaxed, then eventually went to bed together in his "livingroom." He is a wonderfully warm person. |
Wildflowers outside my campsite in the Stanislaus Forest |
| June 26 |
Mitch prepared a simple but delicious breakfast this morning.
I wanted to take a picture of him, but was having trouble with
my camera. I eventually figured out that, although the manual
said it would take "up to 16" high-resolution pictures, it really
could hold only about 14. I deleted two pictures, which gave me
enough room finally to take Mitch's picture and still have room
for one of Lew.
I picked a Mariposa lily to take with me to Lew's. Mitch said he didn't think it would survive the trip, but I put it in a bottle of Evian in the hope that it would. I know Mitch and Lew dated at one time, and I wanted to bring a symbol of the affection Mitch and I had shared the night before with me to Lew's, a token of the unexpected ties that unite our lives. I took an unusual route into and out of Mariposa that went through some rather steep canyons of the Gold Country. I nearly ran out of gas, too! Funny, this land used to be bustling with wealth. It now seemed almost abandoned, though busy highways run nearby. I arrived at Lew's feeling worn out and oddly asexual. I had been wondering on the way over here if his problem had cleared up. It hadn't. That's okay; I enjoy his company, even if it looked unlikely that we would repeat the romp we had on my last visit. Honesty compells me to admit that, when I planned this trip, I had expected my weekend with Lew to be the climax, and that I was very much looking forward to it. Now, however, I was feeling more tired than aroused, and a fuzziness filled my thoughts, as if I couldn't really imagine what it was I wanted to do next. While relaxing on the lawn chairs in his front yard, Lew told me a story about a massage client he had recently had. The client enjoyed the massage, but aftewards wanted to take a picture of Lew in the nude. "It's a hobby I have," the guy explained. "I take pictures of men doing the work they do naked." Lew declined. I think it is important to him to keep a sexual dimension out of his massage work. We spent the late evening in his hot tub. The stars were dazzling, and there were so many bright meteors and fireballs in the sky that I thought there must surely be some periodic meteor shower going on. A later examination of my ephemera, however, said there was none. Maybe the sky is ablaze like this all the time, if only you live in a dark, quiet place. |
Mitch outside his cabin in Midpines |
