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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