Shadows On A Cloud

SHADOWS ON A CLOUD  

BY NOEL LAFLIN
October 2000/May 2012

                                                                

June 2012 - Looking westward toward the peak of the mountain.



           When I was 16 years old I was invited to climb Mt. San Jacinto, the lone granite giant looming over Palm Springs and the valley floor below.  The proposed hike would begin on the Idyllwild side of the mountain, starting at a trailhead called "Devil's Slide."  Ironically, I had broken my left leg in three places on this very same spot two years earlier while sledding down an icy slope.  The thought made me shiver that this was the kick-off point for the hike.  Nonetheless, we would start here and wind ever higher up the trail, making camp in two different locations over the weekend.  We would then reach the peak, traverse a different trail and ride the tram down the cable back to Palm Springs.   Our adventure was to begin on a Friday night, mid-October, 1969.

          I was very excited, not only at the prospect of this grand 25-mile hike, but happy to be in the company of good friends.  Chuck Bausback and his sons had become very much a part of my life.  We had met the year before at Ahwahnee.  Father, sons and I bonded immediately; they made me feel like a member of the family.   

          We drove to Idyllwild and parked at the trailhead.  It was after nine.  It was also cold with some frost on the ground.  You could see your breath.  Flashbacks of that all too recently broken leg weren't far from my thoughts.  I wanted to be away from this area.  It was pitch black as our flashlights scanned the trail ahead.  Chuck knew the area well.  In fact he knew more than any man I've ever met to this day about California history, geography, topography and trivia in general.  He charmed me at an early age and continues to amaze me with his vast knowledge, not to mention both his humor and his wit some four decades later.   

          So, off we trudged, the packs seeming to weigh twice their weight while carried up the switchbacks.  Sometime around midnight we made camp at "Skunk Cabbage." Our little party was cold and tired.  Chuck got out the gas burner and made hot chocolate.  It was down to freezing.  We were at seventy-nine hundred feet.  It was a chilly night.

          Come the morning I discovered our exquisite surroundings.  We were in a pristine meadow, far removed from the smog and grit of LA.  The sky was crystal blue, the trees majestic and the wildlife plentiful.  We shivered in the early morning light looking for patches of sunshine in which to stand and warm ourselves.  When breakfast was over we broke camp and were on our way.  We hiked that entire Saturday, stopping only for lunch and breaks.  Any excuse to rest our packs was a godsend.

          We climbed steadily, eventually making camp at a site scattered with large, strange rock formations. The day was quickly drawing to a close.  We were going to lose the light soon.  Chuck scanned the sky and told us to drop our gear and make a move for the peak.  We dropped our heavy loads and scrambled up and over large boulders, now running up the trail.  The sun was going down quickly. 

         We reached the summit of barren granite. There was a small stone cabin, used in emergencies for hikers in need of shelter.  Additionally, there was a ledger in a metal jacket cover in which to write your name, date and thoughts.  There was a US Geological marker at the very highest elevation.  All of this was interesting, but what captured my attention was the view.  Chuck spouted off several facts:  San Jacinto is unique in that it is a mountain range all unto itself, raising 10,834 feet right out of the desert floor.  It's the second highest prominent peak in Southern California, barely beaten out by San Gorgonio, now visible to us miles away in the distance.  “This is the steepest vertical rise of its kind, boys; look about you … look below!"  And, look we did.  It seemed like the entire world was laid out beneath us.  With wind blowing hard in our faces, our noses dripping, our backs aching from the all-day climb, sweat drying and chilling us to the rocks, we stared below.  A vast triangular shape loomed over the entire Palm Springs basin.  It was the shadow of the mountain.  Its length must have stretched forty miles or more across the desert.  The sun was sinking fast behind us.

          Looking eastward there was a band of pink and white clouds, somewhere in the direction of Arizona.  As the sun sank lower, a small black pyramid of a shape suddenly appeared on the bank of those eastern clouds, another state away.  We all stared intently at that small black triangle, dead center in the middle of the cloudbank.  It was a perfect silhouette.

           “Of what?” I wondered.

           "No way … that’s us," I whispered in answer.  

           Similar thoughts were erupting from the others. 

           "Wow, that shadow on the clouds ... it's this mountain!" one boy ventured. 

           We were in collective awe.  I felt as if my spirit had been transported to those far away clouds at the speed of light, which in fact, it had.  It was light that was causing this phenomenon. 

           The small shadow of our mountain lingered a bit on the cloudbank, and then began to slip away. With the final dip of the sun, so did our shadow.  The illusion was gone. 

           It was dark, beyond twilight now.  The wind was picking up, sending the nickel balsa gliders we had carried to the peak and tossed into the air (to see if they really would fly all the way to some golf course far below) back in our direction.  Their flight patterns were helter skelter as they crashed at our feet.  And it was cold.  We reluctantly gathered our broken planes and left the summit, each of us glancing over our shoulders for one last look at what had been. There were only puffy, fading clouds now. 

          "Wow," I whispered for the tenth time,

         "Wow," another echoed in quiet reply.

          We made our way back to camp.    After dinner we spoke in hushed voices of what we had seen.  ‘Awesome’ and ‘Fantastic’ were two words that kept creeping into the conversation.

          The next morning we hiked out of this wondrous spot and met our friends at the tram station. I had never been in a cable car suspended by huge fantastic wires like this.  We glided down the mountain leaving one environmental zone after another behind us; from alpine to desert in mere minutes. 

          “Unbelievable," I quietly chanted again and again.  I kept staring up the mountain as it grew further away.  I continued to stare at it as we drove down Highway 111 and onto the 10 Interstate.  I stared until it was out of sight, but never out of mind.

          There are times to this day, when I am driving within certain parts of this or a neighboring county and the air is clear and fine and the angle just right, that I catch a glimpse of San Jacinto.  Its jagged crown is very recognizable.  Each time I see it, even if for only a moment or two, I am transported back to 1969.

 I have since made the hike to the summit three more times over the course of these 40 years; once for each decade I suppose. And, I even lost the trail for a considerable amount of time on one memorable 4^th of July hike – reclimbing the damn peak by sheer accident and self-induced ineptitude.  But I've never been there again at sunset.  It would probably not be the same anyway. 

However, if there were a chance for distant clouds in the east, I might just be tempted to make that hard climb once more and linger till dark, waiting for far away shadows.

                                           



In Search Of Mr. Lincoln

“IN SEARCH OF MR. LINCOLN”
February 24, 2001
By Noel Laflin

I find that I have something in common with the late Marilyn Monroe - we both loved Abraham Lincoln.  She had a favorite portrait of the man which was always hung near her bed.  I like, in particular, one old photo of a smiling Marilyn seated behind the wheel of her convertible with the framed portrait of Mr. Lincoln propped up beside her in the passenger seat. Other old photos from several of her former residences again show the same portrait on different bedroom walls.  She is quoted as saying that the sixteenth president was a “father figure” in her life.  I believe Abraham Lincoln was perhaps the only true father she ever had.

My admiration for this gentle giant of a man began in early childhood.  Like my brother and sister, I also attended Abraham Lincoln Elementary School in Anaheim, CA.  The school was erected in 1924 - built of tan colored brick.  Tall hallways echoed with our footsteps as we moved through the well-worn corridors.  As the original structure was not up to future earthquake codes, it was demolished in the seventies.  Ironically it had withstood the Long Beach quake of 1933, whereas the city’s only high school did not and had to be rebuilt.  I’d like to think that Lincoln Elementary would have weathered the test of time just fine.  Modular classrooms soon replaced the eloquent lath and plaster and hand laid brick, however.  The charm and soul of the old school were gone.

Also gone was the statue of Mr. Lincoln, which graced its opening foyer for nearly fifty years or more.  Not quite life-sized (Lincoln was a very tall man), the late President stood erect, with a coat in hand peering out upon the flagpole and assembly area, which faced Lincoln Avenue.  Ancient pepper trees once surrounded the grounds.  Some still stood while I attended grades K-6 in the late fifties through mid-sixties.  Lincoln gazed upon all this for half a century, greeting thousands of students, faculty, parents and visitors over that span of time.  We celebrated the centennial of his election to the White House, reelection and subsequent assassination during my tenure as a student there.  Looking back on it now, I feel honored to have been a part of the school and its history.

I too was gazing out on Lincoln Avenue, near lunch time, one sunny November day when the principal quietly came into our fifth grade room and whispered something urgently to our teacher, Lloyd Armstrong.  The principal then left abruptly for more whispered conversations throughout the school.   Mr. Armstrong sighed, removed his glasses, wiped his forehead and told us that President Kennedy had just been shot in Dallas.  He mumbled that class was dismissed. I have a clear memory of him repeating over and over to himself, “I did not even vote for the man - I did not even vote for the man,” as he left the classroom, tears streaming down his face.  I believe it may have been the first time that I had seen an adult cry unabashedly.  It seemed appropriate that I should be where I was at the time.  I wonder now if I patted Mr. Lincoln, as I frequently did each day, when I left for home that lunch hour.  I don’t recall.  I hope I did.  His gaze was always Lincoln-like ... sad, yet comforting - both old and wise.

Lyndon Johnson was firmly entrenched in the White House by the time I moved on to junior high school.  But I stayed in touch with Mr. Lincoln vicariously through my mother, as she was a teacher’s aide at the old school.  Much of her day was spent in the main office, which looked out on father Abraham standing guard over the school.  She too, was quite fond of him.

My mother moved to a new teachers’ aide post at another school across town after the razing of old Lincoln Elementary.  I inquired about the statue.  According to Champ, the former school custodian and family friend, Mr. Lincoln was crated and removed to the district headquarters prior to the demolition of the old brick structure.  I worried about his fate, trapped in a dark box, stuck in a far corner of some remote warehouse, no doubt.

Mr. Lincoln was never far from memory.  Twenty years after his disappearance from public view, I would raise the issue of his whereabouts with friends or my mother.

“You know,” I frequently lamented, “if I could only find Mr. Lincoln, I’d like to buy his freedom.  I mean, he’s just standing or lying in a wooden crate somewhere in the dark catacombs of some forgotten old district building.  He needs the light of day.  I’d put him in my garden as a centerpiece for the whole yard. Or better yet, I’d stand him in the corner of the living room, greeting guests as they came into the house. Wouldn’t that be cool?”

My listeners, familiar with this insane line of reasoning, would sigh in mock agreement and gently steer the conversation in another direction.  I knew the drill.

So it happened one day in the mid ‘90's when a phone message from a good friend and former teacher from the campus caught my immediate attention.           

“Noel, I have extraordinary news.  Mr. Lincoln has been found!  He is currently residing at the Anaheim Museum.  Give him my regards.”  Freddy signed off.

Although extremely excited by the discovery, I postponed a visit to the great emancipator for some months.  I don’t know the reasons why in retrospect.  Perhaps I just figured that my old pal had found a permanent home in the city’s first library-turned museum.  There would be plenty of time for a proper visit, I reasoned.  After all, they had an honored guest on hand.  He would most likely be there for years, if not forever. 

 By the time I did make it there, he had vanished once more.

 “Why yes, the Lincoln statue was here on display for some time,” a kindly museum volunteer informed me.  “But he went back to the school district just last month.  I’m sorry you missed him.  He was from the old Lincoln Elementary School, you know.”

“Yeah,” I muttered by way of thanks to the older woman.  Cheated once more I thought.  Well, it’s my own damn fault, I should have gotten here sooner, I figured.  I had waited too long.

It was going on thirty years since I had last patted the cool, hard arm of my old school chum.  It would be another five years before we would be reunited once more.

Fast forward to February 11, 2001, the eve of Lincoln’s one hundred and ninety-second birthday.  I was browsing through an antique store in Orange.  I found an old Life magazine dated February 15, 1963.  The cover read, “Whatever Happened To Lincoln’s Body?”  The ancient black and white photo showed a coffin being raised from its grave. 

As strange as it might seem, I found myself in front of yet one more antique store just a week later. It was named, appropriately enough, Lincoln Antique Mall.  Pulling into a parking spot, I briefly looked up and stared in disbelief.  Mr. Lincoln stood outside the entrance to the store, with coat in hand, as if greeting customers.  I walked up to my old friend.  He was intact, firmly attached to his base, which was on rollers now.

"But he’s the wrong color," I said to myself, patting his cool, hard black arm.  "He used to be a bronze color, I’m sure."  I knelt and looked the statue over more carefully.  Black paint had flecked off the back of Mr. Lincoln’s left leg.  A three quarter inch patch sparkled through.  It was a dull gold-bronze color beneath.  "Yup, it’s him," I whispered.  "Hello, old friend." 

“Can you tell me about the statue out front?” I eventually asked the owner of the store.

“Well,” the woman began, “can you believe that the school district was throwing him away?  Fortunately for us, a kind-hearted custodian there couldn’t see that happening, got him in the trunk of his car somehow and drove him here.  We love him.  He’s kind of our mascot now."

I cursed the school district and city in one breath and gave silent thanks to the unknown custodian.  "They were going to throw him out,” I muttered to no one in particular.  “Those ingrates!  They were going to take Mr. Lincoln to the dump?  What insanity!"

On the drive home, I called a familiar phone number from memory.  An old friend got on the line.

“Freddy, it’s Noel.  I have wonderful news.  Mr. Lincoln has been found.”

I’ve been eyeing both the garden and living room differently lately.

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Epilogue:  January 28, 2013
     
Mr. Lincoln has been found (once again), restored and reinstated at the newly constructed Lincoln Elementary School in Anaheim.  

Through the dauntless efforts of the current principal, the statue was eventually located.  It seems that someone else had similar thoughts as mine, as they did acquire it from the Lincoln Antique Mall (now, long gone and out of business) and had the good man placed in their garden.  When word reached them that the old school was being rebuilt and that the principal was anxious to locate Mr. Lincoln so that he might be rightfully re-united once more, they donated the statue to the school.  He was fully restored (he had fallen on dreadful times, as you might recall) and preserved in a beautiful white finish.  
  
I just called Freddy with the good news.
         
The long search is over.

I can't wait for the dedication.

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Post Epilogue: February 15, 2013:

The dedication ceremony was great.  Patting Mr. Lincoln's cool arm once more was even more rewarding..

Noel Laflin
Lincoln Elementary School - Graduating Sixth Grade Class of 1965