The Boy's Fault

The Boy’s Fault

Noel Laflin

9-22-15

We were lost. 

And just to prove it, we stumbled about the damn mountain for three hours trying in vain to find the right trail that would take us to the tram, which would bring us to my truck, and eventually home.

  

We finally did find that elusive trail, albeit the hard way, so there is a happy ending here.  I thought I should tell you that right off, just in case you are prone to anxiety.   But let me tell you how we nearly spent the evening of July 4th, 1998, atop Mt. San Jacinto.

 

It was the fault of El Nino – The Boy.

The relentless rains of 1998, brought about by El Nino, had also brought unprecedented amounts of snow to the Southland that year.  It was so thick in local mountains that it had the audacity to actually stick around well into the summer months.

Case in point: Even after my good friend, Larry, and I left the scorching heat of Palm Springs at a sweltering 115 degrees, and rode the aerial tram up to the kickoff point at Long Valley, and trudged another six miles up the mountain, what was to greet us way up there near the peak?

Well, snow of course – even on the Fourth of July.

So there we were, dressed in tee-shirts and shorts and crunching thru shaded paths covered in white, while two miles below, the Coachella Valley shimmered and radiated in triple digits.

 

Despite this unexpected development we made our way to the peak, and took in the magnificent view some 10,834 feet below.

 

There were few others up there that day, which may also help explain how we ended up lost just a short time later.  You see, getting to the rocky peak was fairly easy as it was visible from the trail.  Looking back down, however, much of that trail was hidden by tall ponderosas or covered in a cool, blinding whiteness that seemed in no great hurry to melt.  So, when it was time to head back, we could make neither heads nor tails as to where the trail was exactly.

Then we saw a young fellow leapfrogging down the rocks, striding confidently into the woods.  There’s our ticket out of here, we thought.  We followed the boy.

It turns out that this kid was heading elsewhere.  By the time we realized our error, once he’d disappeared around a bend a short time later, we were off the trail and disoriented altogether.

Thus we had yet another boy, and a real one at that, to blame for our own damn foolishness.

Now, I had done this hike four times over the years and felt confident that if we just backtracked a bit, we’d be all right.  But that did little good as everything looked pretty much the same – there were tall trees, giant rocks, and icy berms in every direction.  We could not even spot our own recent tracks.

But with the help of Larry’s compass and a fortunate spotting of the Mt. Palomar Observatory glinting in the late day sun some forty miles away, we had a pretty good idea as to which way our peak lay, even hidden as it was to us from our present location.

 

And so we trudged on for the next three hours - scaling icy berm after berm, wading through thorny buck brush - all the while gaining in elevation.
 

We eventually found and climbed San Jacinto’s peak once again – from the opposite side this time - and took in the magnificent view in déjà vu fashion.  I never thought that climbing the summit from that direction was even possible.  Well, I am here to tell you, it is.

Hearing voices carrying on not far below us, we made a beeline for civilization via the crowd and the right trail this time.

We made it to the tram station by seven and to my truck a half hour later.

We drove westward bloodied, bruised and mighty hungry.  Fireworks across three counties lit the pathway home.  We made a drive thru stop at a McDonalds close to the house.  By the time we parked in the driveway and opened the doors to the truck we found that our legs had cramped considerably.  The two of us had taken on the appearance of senior citizens having a bad arthritic day as we limped into the garage clutching our burgers and fries.  

I have not attempted the hike in seventeen years.  Every time I thought about it, Larry would send me an article about some guy or couple who got lost upon that mountain and stayed lost for a considerable amount of time - some permanently.

But with the prospect of a record breaking new El Nino on its way for this winter, I suddenly have the urge to tempt fate once again.

But if I do, I’m first investing in a GPS device.

And I’ll be damn careful if I follow any kid down an unknown trail again. 

Age of Wisdom

Age of Wisdom

Noel Laflin

9-20-15

Her first trimester consisted of many great poets. The words of Frost, Dickinson, Millay, Whitman, Poe, and Cummings were among some of the opening verses to be read aloud.

With the sudden and reassuring quickening of the child’s movements, giants in literature soon took center stage. Shelley, Hugo, Verne, Melville, Austen, Dumas, Twain, Hemingway, and London all then had their moments - whether by light of day or the soft glow of incandescence.

When she hit the final home stretch and discovered that her ever swelling body was not cooperating as easily as it once did, the woman found that even the simplest task of fluffing pillows from behind was a bit of a challenge. 

But motherhood looked good upon her nonetheless.

“Fair trade,” she mused, settling in at last, all the while carefully reaching for a heavy volume perched precariously atop an untidy stack of novels and verse. The tower of hardbound classics had been threatening to topple in teetering fashion for weeks now.

“If you tumble,” the woman warned - her voice lightly chastising, “well, so be it.  I suppose that there are worse things in life other than great words and works being spilled and tossed about my bedroom floor”.

“Now, where were we,” she asked the swollen outline hiding beneath the covers as she opened the tattered volume, removing the fragile oak leaf serving as bookmark.

"Ah, yes, Mr. Dickens at his finest. Listen carefully, child:”

‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope …’

--------------------------------------------------------------

The bedroom still looked remarkably the same. 

A middle-aged man sat in a chair next to the bed in which he’d been born, adjusting the glow of an old incandescent light resting atop an ancient nightstand piled high with books, most having been published a century prior.

He’d been in and out of that chair for months, reading aloud to the old woman resting comfortably in the bed.  Sometimes his children accompanied him and spelled him for a while, continuing with the stories and verses long into the quiet hours of the night as the man dozed in the chair.

Thus, they had covered many of the great poets during the first three months of his frequent comings and goings to his boyhood home.

They had then moved on to the giants in literature shortly thereafter and he brought the old woman up to speed with the likes of Tolkien, Bradbury, Lee, Irving, and Solzhenitsyn.

But tonight, the man was alone.

And although the old woman had neither eaten nor spoken for the past three days, he was certain that there was nothing wrong with her hearing.

Thus, he had been saving their favorite for last.  And they were now on the final home stretch.

“We are nearly at the end of Mr. Dickens’s fine tale, mother.  I propose we wrap this one up tonight.  But, I’ve a feeling that you and I both know how it ends. “

And with that, he opened the tattered book, carefully removing the old oak leaf still serving as bookmark, and began:

 ‘It is a far, far better thing that I do than I have ever done,’ the man quoted, leaning in closely – enunciating in a clear, soft voice.

‘It is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known,’ he concluded, his voice breaking ever so slightly.

The old woman smiled as the covers gently rose and then settled quite still and moved no more.

“It was the spring of hope,” the man whispered, carefully replacing the old leaf bookmark before he closed the book, and blindly placed it atop the precariously leaning tower of literature.

He was not quick enough to catch the unbalanced stack before it tumbled.

Great words and works spilled and tossed about the bedroom floor, spanning an age of wisdom.

King of the Pond

King of the Pond

Noel Laflin

9-16-15

Belted Kingfisher

Whenever a Cooper’s hawk comes swooping down to our little neighborhood pond out here in El Modena, the doves and pigeons scatter promptly, diving for the cover of oak, pepper, and sycamore trees like there’s no tomorrow.  It’s somewhat reminiscent of the scene from Blazing Saddles when the townsfolk first spot Mongo riding into Rock Ridge atop a giant ox.

 

Unlike the hapless frontier town in Mel Brooks’ movie, our pond does have a natural civil defense system in place.  It’s called the mocking bird.  His angry screech and kamikaze dive bombing maneuvers against intruding predators usually provide the other birds time to fly for shelter.  It also alerts this hapless amateur bird watcher that a battle is normally brewing just overhead.

The alarm sounded today was that of a different guy, however; although it still gave me time to note the scattered flight of doves, pigeons, blue birds and such just as a young hawk zipped across the park, taking refuge in a sycamore tree.

The new sheriff in town sounding the alarm was the resident black and white belted kingfisher – a fine feathered fellow who’d taken up residence over the summer.  He’s a quick little character and difficult to photograph.  But he’s easy to spot with his narrow sharp beak, Don King-like hairdo, and his distinctive rattle of a cry as he skips and dives above the water in search of a meal.

Well, today, that rattle was in overdrive as it seems that he was the intended dinner for the Cooper’s hawk – at least if the hawk had his druthers.

And sure enough, his intentions were made clear as the chase was soon on.  The hawk leapt from the tree and went for the smaller bird as he made a pass over the pond.  The raptor did not even come close.  Both birds landed on opposite sides of the fence glaring at one another.

The king then made a second pass over the pond, rattling his war cry as he flew, daring the young hawk – or so it would appear – to give chase once more.  The hawk obliged and dove for the swift little guy.  He missed.  It was pretty pathetic.

 

Thus, five or six attempts in all were made in vain before the hawk gave up and flew westward.  The kingfisher joyfully swooped and somersaulted across the water before making a beeline for a very tall sycamore tree of his own. You could have heard his triumphant rattle of a cry from a mile away.

And just like that, the other feathered townsfolk sheepishly flew from their own respective hiding places and resumed their perching along the fence or pecking the ground for grubs and seed.

Score one for the smart little king of a sheriff and zip for Mongo once more.

And the outcome was not even predicated on an exploding box of candy.

Cooper's Hawk

Shoes

Shoes

Noel Laflin

September 2, 2015

Should I ever return to Zambia, I am going to skip the suggested trinkets of hand mirrors and magic markers I was advised to bring as objects of trade with the back country locals.  Instead, I shall bring shoes – lots and lots of shoes – modest new running models, worn-through sneakers, or any state of footwear in between.  In fact, I’ll bring a footlocker full if customs so allows.  And, I won’t trade for them.  I’ll just give them away.

This twenty-year fantasy accelerated into full gear once again yesterday as I was cleaning out my old car.  For there, amidst all of the junk hiding in the trunk, were some cheap rubber sandals, hiking boots, and two old pairs of tennis shoes.   And just like that, as I began my sorting and tossing, my last image of Joseph popped into fresh focus once again. There he was - my apparition, as clear as the African day is long - standing quietly, staring in wonder and hoping against hope that I might give him an old pair of shoes.

The young barefoot lad who worked at our remote, small camp hidden high away in a northern Zambian national park, always greeted me with downcast eyes.  I initially thought that he was extremely shy or perhaps just politely deferential to guests.

“Joseph,” I finally asked toward the end of my stay, “why are you always staring at the ground?  You have a beautiful smile – you should let people see that more often.  But it’s hard to notice when you are always looking down.”

“It is your shoes, sir” he replied softly in beautifully clipped English, eyes still lowered.  “I like your shoes very much.  Can I have them please?”

The image of Joseph and his camp co-workers, along with nearly every other Zambian encountered throughout my three-week stay in their country suddenly came into sharp focus.  There was not a pair of shoes to be found among the entire lot.

“I would like nothing better than to give you these old Nikes, my friend,” I finally replied, finding my own eyes suddenly cast downward.  “But I’m afraid they will not let me on the plane taking me home tomorrow, should I show up barefoot.  I have no other shoes or sandals to wear.”

Joseph slowly nodded in agreement.

“I understand, sir.  Thank you for allowing me to ask.”

Before we struck camp the following day, I handed over the last of my Zambian currency to Joseph.  I told him to put it toward some shoes.  He raised his eyes level with mine and gave me a fantastic smile.

What I had not told the boy, however, was that I had come on the trip with two sets of shoes but had given away the first pair just two weeks prior.  Being old, they had split apart due to water damage while on the Zambezi River.  A young barefoot boatman by the name of Washington repaired them for me using rubber raft repair glue. They were as good as new by the time he was done. As he too had no shoes, I asked if he could use them.  After all, I had a spare pair in the duffle bag. You would have thought I’d given him a winning lottery ticket.

 

“I will trade these for a pair in my own size,” said the gentle giant with feet much larger than mine.  “I have never had a pair of shoes before.  Thank you, sir!”

 

The last I saw of the young man, he was running barefoot up a steep, rocky, cactus-strewn mountain. Washington was on his way back home, to a village some ten kilometers north.

He had a very firm grip on an ancient pair of New Balance running shoes as he ran.

British Airlines had no such obstacles in its flight path.  Maybe I should have chanced a barefoot journey of my own.

Humbled & Bumbled

Humbled & Bumbled

Noel Laflin

8-23-15

Illustration from 'The Tales of Peter Rabbit,' by Beatrix Potter

A colony of bumblebees has taken up residency under part of the old wooden deck in our small garden here in El Modena.  They moved in stealthily enough this past spring and have been multiplying ever since. Their comings and goings, like brightly painted small black and yellow hovercraft, is pretty interesting to watch – from a distance. It only took one small sting to the forehead to drill that into my brain. 

Now, the deck butts up against some large rocks lying adjacent to one of the ponds.  It’s probably an old rodent hole, according to every bumblebee site referenced thus far.  Better bees than rodents I suppose. 

Anyway, I have been reading up on bumble/humble/dumblebees for the better part of two days, trying to determine just how long they might stay. I don’t want to be an ungracious host, especially since these guys and their queen are doing nature’s calling with pollinating, etc. And although there are varying opinions, more than one expert assures me that the colony will peter out come the fall and cooler weather.

But as the summer wears on and the multiplying continues, making it all the more perilous to work at that end of the garden, well, autumn can’t come soon enough. I now empathize with Mrs. Tittlemouse, of Peter Rabbit fame, who once remarked to Babbity Bumble: “I am not in the habit of letting lodgings; this is an intrusion!”

Intrusion or not, one bumble bee web site emphasizes just how fortunate I should feel that these majestic, fuzzy, humblebees have chosen my land as their new home. 

I should feel so humbled and honored.

Meanwhile, I’m secretly cheering for cooler weather.

Just don’t tell the bees.

  

Lost Time

Lost Time

Noel Laflin

8-19-15

I lost my last working wristwatch on the evening of January 7, 2015 in the Taiwan Taoyuan International Airport.  Don’t press me as to what time it was precisely, as I no longer had a watch.  But I’m certain it was nighttime, at least in that part of the world. 

All I can surmise is that it must have fallen out of my jacket pocket, where it had been hastily stashed just prior to passing through the security checkpoint.   And although I had always been fond of that old, inexpensive Swiss Army watch, since it had traveled with me as far west as Asia and as far east as Africa when I was a younger man, I got over it.   After all I reasoned, I had at least a dozen other watches back home.

However, I have yet to strap any one of them back on.  Glancing at my wrist, I now take pride in noting even skin tone on both arms; not a tan line in sight.

The fact that each and every one of those watches scattered throughout my home is in need of a new battery is the most convenient excuse for no longer wearing a timepiece.  But the simple truth of the matter is, I no longer need a watch.  I have no pressing appointments with clients nowadays, having retired that time-consuming life a year ago; nor do I really need to know the time as I wander or bike through the neighborhood shooting photos or talking back to noisy parrots.  Like ancient man, or even the wild, colorful parrots perhaps, the sun is now my time keeper - as is my belly.  I head home when I am either hungry, hot, cold, or out of daylight.

Now, I did find a very cool old pocket watch lying at the bottom of a box of knickknacks out in the garage.  It’s pictured here, as a matter of record.  But it too no longer runs.  It probably stopped working half a century ago.  In fact, I can’t even recall how I came into procession of the ancient timepiece.  It could spell me a story or two if it could talk I reckon and probably has a nice loud ticking sound to accompany its telling of timeless tales if it did work.  But alas, it does not.  And even if I did fix it, where would I place it?  I’d need both a snazzy fob and a sharp looking vest for starters, and just how ridiculous would I look dressed in nothing more than cargo shorts, flip flops and fancy fob and vest?  No, I think not.  That old teller of timeless tales is staying at the bottom of the box in the garage.

Meanwhile, the man with no tell-tale sign of a wristwatch tan line on either arm has already left the premises, peddling aimlessly out of the garage, down the driveway and off in search of something interesting to photograph.  He’ll be back when either the sun goes down or his stomach begins to rumble.

You can watch for him then.

Conspiring with Parrots

Conspiring with Parrots

Noel Laflin

8-12-15

“A free bird leaps on the back of the wind

and floats downstream till the current ends

and dips his wings in the orange sun rays

and dares to claim the sky.” 

Maya Angelou, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

As I walk the old neighborhoods of El Modena, I am frequently struck by the melodic chirping and singing of caged birds. Listen carefully and you too will also hear the chattering of parakeets, the singing of canaries, the squawking of parrots, and the screech of cockatiels. Often times I will stop mid step along the sidewalk and look for the source of the melody, squeal, shriek, or holler.  Sometimes I am not alone in my curiosity.  Looking up I will frequently find wild parrots sitting attentively on a phone line above me, their heads cocked, zeroing in on the same song or cry. And like my wild green feathered friends above, or so I sometimes fantasize, I wish I could open some cage doors and set their pals free.

Maybe it’s just the lingering memory from the stage play, Mary Poppins that has put me in such a wistful mood.    Mary sets free a caged lark near the end of the show, after the bird has told her of his two-year captivity.   He flies away happily whilst his captor is eventually caged herself and put away in some dark closet. It’s a crowd pleaser of a scene every time - true karma at its best.

 

Or perhaps,  it’s just the  fact that  I am usually coming back from another  birding expedition down  at the small  pond, trying  my  damndest  to catch a  graceful egret,  hawk, falcon, bluebird, kingfisher, hummingbird, phoebe, dove or heron in flight.  Catching sight and capturing a frame or two of the magnificent Pin-tailed Whydah, descendents of escaped caged pets imported from sub-Sahara Africa decades ago, are a particular thrill.  There are at least two males and a host of females claiming the southern portion of the pond as their territory now.  They have made it in the wild just fine.  And they too like to sit atop the phone lines.  I wonder to whose song they might be tuning in.

Most recently, my attention has been drawn to the evening skies as massive flocks of wild Mexican parrots swarm, twist, turn and noisily land in the numerous oaks or sycamores that permeate our neck of the woods. Often they will take over long stretches of phone lines, out-conversing Ma Bell herself.  They are an amature photographer’s delight.

 

So, whether successful in the daily photo attempts or not, the wild parrots and I continue to conspire as I walk, stop and all too often listen to a mournful tune.

“The caged bird sings with a fearful trill,
of things unknown, but longed for still, 
and his tune is heard on the distant hill, 
for the caged bird sings of freedom.”

Maya Angelou