Tuesday, March 19, 2013

The Gnashing Of Teeth

My Friend Michele (a hippy who spells her name with one “L”) got me thinking about mountain lions.  This powerful predator roams the Americas, where it is also known as a puma, cougar, and catamount. This big cat of many names is also found in many habitats, from Florida swamps to Canadian forests.  It’s a pretty awe inspiring animal, and I love the looks of the thing, but like so many good looking things, it can be very dangerous. (hehe)

As a teenager I loved to backpack.  Moving to the United States at such a young age (13) was one of the greatest benefits of my life.  My childhood years in Sydney were spent glued to the goggle box (Aussie slang for the TV) watching the Wonderful World of Disney, and Marlin Perkins’ Wild Kingdom which essentially defined my impression of America and how I would perceive this great country as I began to mature.  The specials about the Sierra Nevada mountain ranges only served to inspire my imagination.  When my family immigrated to the USA it was no wonder, upon arriving in California’s Central Valley, that I headed straight for the mountains at my very first opportunity.
That first opportunity came in the form a church youth group I joined.  They had a backpacking tradition, a two week sojourn into the real back country, often above tree line.  It’s hard for me to believe that a young Australian boy would begin to truly discover himself, so far from home, but I did. On my first trip (of which there would be many) on my first night, myself and a few friends set up camp some distance from the main group, too cool and much too groovy to “hang out” with the other so-called losers.  Kumbaya was not in our Black Sabbath/Blue Oyster Cult repertoire.  Late at night and many cigarettes later, we began to toss small rocks at a short tree stump some distance away, flanked in shadows of darkness.  One of the group noticed that it somewhat resembled the shape of a large cat.  We laughed at him and observed how our friend also resembled an anatomical body part also named after a small house cat.  A few minutes later, that dark tree stump stood onto all- fours, snarled, and bounded away.  As we four brave lads bolted back to the main group and the safety of all those "losers," my mind immediately flashed on the image of Marlin Perkins, observing ferocious wild life from the safety of a helicopter, while his poor friend Jim, the camera man ever in danger, stalked their prey on the ground.  I suddenly felt like Jim.  I wanted a helicopter.

Years later, I applied for and got a job with a company called U.S. Windpower.  The company was a forerunner in wind turbine technology.  My job title was “Windsmith.” It was my duty to climb the turbines to repair and service them.  I loved the title and loved the job.  It was dangerous and fun, which as a newlywed in my mid to late twenties, was what I lived for.  Our territory was the brown grassy hills of the Altamont Pass, the dividing range that straddles the San Andreas Fault line and separates the valley and all those Bay Area commuters from their jobs and their homes.  The weather there can be extreme.  High heat to freezing cold, punctuated by high winds and sprinting grass fires.  We would sometimes spot mountain lions not far from a wind turbine we were repairing.  I used to think us rather observant, picking out a lion in the fawn colored waist high grasses, but it soon occurred to me the mountain lions had spotted us long before we even thought to look for them.  One day, after unhooking my safety belt from the climbing ladder, I stepped away from a wind turbine close-by the tailgate of my service truck.  Tossing my belt into the truck bed, I shifted toward the driver’s side as I rounded the back of the vehicle.  At the front, on the same side, a rather thick looking mountain lion hind quarters, rear and tail disappeared around the bumper. 

In my life I have found that dark profanity has the almost spiritual quality of allowing one to think and act rapidly in certain situations.  It’s an almost automatic and involuntary reflex, like the need to fart in a crowded elevator.  This time was no exception.  I managed a simultaneous cursing streak and rapid retreat back up the climb ladder, albeit without my belt.  I re-lived a long ago familiar feeling, like when you are a kid, laying awake in bed,  and you are dead certain that if you stick a hand outside the safe boundaries of the covers, something with teeth will remove it for you.
Last year, on vacation with Eileen in Sequim Washington, I decided to go for a hike.  I had not yet begun to lose the weight and was a very pudgy and heavy man.  It did not stop me from taking challenges though so after a little research I settled on a 13 mile portion of the Olympic Coast Trail.  On the day of the hike, loaded with drink and trail mix, I located the trail head sign (all it said was “Trail Head”), turned on the headphones and stepped out.  The hike was fantastic, but I was not prepared for the distance.  Sometime, between my youth and late forties, some son-uva-bitch stretched a mile into a much longer and harder length to cover on foot than it used to be.  But, the forest was green, the mountains were gorgeous and for the most part ( as long as I ignored the massive blisters that grew in my overloaded and crushed feet) I was pretty happy.

When (many hours later) I finally arrived at my destination, the town of Port Angeles, I was truly beat up and worn out.  I don’t think I could have managed another step forward if Barry Manilow himself was offering free piano lessons.  There, at the Port Angeles trail head, was a welcome park bench waiting for me onto which I collapsed.  After catching my breath, and trying to decide if I dare remove my shoes to take a look at my mutilated feet, I noticed a large sign board.  On the sign board, in thick red letters were the following words.  “CAUTION:  DO NOT HIKE ALONE!  MOUNTAIN LIONS!”
Again, I cursed and swore aloud.  It did no good.  It would have been nice to see that sign at the beginning of that hike.  After just waddling my meaty self though some of the darkest and deepest forest on the west coast, I felt like a tasty fat pastry that had just been rolled unnoticed across a table at a weight watchers meeting. 
When cycling now, especially in the foothills, I am admittedly a little nervous about what may be lurking in the tan and sun washed fields I pass.  Aside from the occasional toothless redneck or crack head, the real danger lays in what one can’t see or hear.  I pay closer attention at river crossings and wooded areas.  I am reminded afresh to buy some damn animal mace or pepper spray.  It should work if it isn’t swallowed whole in the first bite.

Happy Cycling!

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