20070630
20050719
Life in a dormant volcano, p1: gay hardcore and Linkin Park (what's the difference?)
Editor's Note: The following is a diary from my life in the isolated, dormant volcano at Crater Lake National Park from July - October 2004. The following are my raw journal entries with rough editing for space and protection of those involved in this harrowing summer. Some are boring, confusing to read, or uncomfortably personal. Hope you enjoy. It's all true, but the names have been changed.
July 7, 2004
I’ve been at Crater Lake, OR since about 1 p.m today. It’s good, but weird so far. I’m in a dorm a short drive away from the main lodge. Not far from here is the campground I’ll be working at, checking people in and out from a kiosk. I’m in "my room," which seems not quite right because my roommate didn’t know he was getting a roommate and has been out all day. The two beds are pushed together to make one. His stuff is in both closets. I’m in the corner of the room on the only chair that doesn’t have stuff on it, his or mine.
It’s more remote than I imagined in some ways. My cell phone only works at the lodge, a few miles from my room. The dorm is very nice, surprisingly, but there’s no computer, no tv, no phone. In other words about what I wanted. No noise. No email. No phone. No blog. No DVDs. No TV. No fridge. No microwave. No trash can? I wasn’t going to keep any sort of journal, but I reallly needed to do something to feel a little connected to the world.
My roommate is not here, and he won’t often be since he works nights and I’ll work days. We’ll just miss each other most days. I don’t know how that will work out. I still feel very removed from the rest of the staff.
At first, I couldn’t get my key to work, and when I tried a couple other doors, one opened right up. I wandered in but soon noticed that it looked too used, too recently. Still, it was a nice room, and would work well if it happened to be mine. Nice computer area set up, one big bed (wait a second), a leather biker hat and outfit, (um), DVDs titled "something something Hardcore," and "Gay porn 1," "Gay porn 2." Something was horribly wrong here. I got out fast and realized that the key had not actually unlocked the door; the door was unlocked already and I had wandered into a gay man’s abandoned, recently occupied bedroom. And apparently he had a leather fetish.
My actual room was far tamer. I still get the feeling that I’m in someone else’s place. I hope they get a hold of him and tell him he has a roommate before he wanders in to find a stranger in his bed. He has a spider man poster hung halfway on a bulletin board. A University of Oregon Lacrosse hat. Some kind of muscle mass supplement. He’s probably all beefy and shit. He’s the security guard around here. Oh and what I thought was a Linkin Park LP turned out to be a Linkin Park calendar. Almost as scary as the gay porn.
July 7, 2004
I’ve been at Crater Lake, OR since about 1 p.m today. It’s good, but weird so far. I’m in a dorm a short drive away from the main lodge. Not far from here is the campground I’ll be working at, checking people in and out from a kiosk. I’m in "my room," which seems not quite right because my roommate didn’t know he was getting a roommate and has been out all day. The two beds are pushed together to make one. His stuff is in both closets. I’m in the corner of the room on the only chair that doesn’t have stuff on it, his or mine.
It’s more remote than I imagined in some ways. My cell phone only works at the lodge, a few miles from my room. The dorm is very nice, surprisingly, but there’s no computer, no tv, no phone. In other words about what I wanted. No noise. No email. No phone. No blog. No DVDs. No TV. No fridge. No microwave. No trash can? I wasn’t going to keep any sort of journal, but I reallly needed to do something to feel a little connected to the world.
My roommate is not here, and he won’t often be since he works nights and I’ll work days. We’ll just miss each other most days. I don’t know how that will work out. I still feel very removed from the rest of the staff.
At first, I couldn’t get my key to work, and when I tried a couple other doors, one opened right up. I wandered in but soon noticed that it looked too used, too recently. Still, it was a nice room, and would work well if it happened to be mine. Nice computer area set up, one big bed (wait a second), a leather biker hat and outfit, (um), DVDs titled "something something Hardcore," and "Gay porn 1," "Gay porn 2." Something was horribly wrong here. I got out fast and realized that the key had not actually unlocked the door; the door was unlocked already and I had wandered into a gay man’s abandoned, recently occupied bedroom. And apparently he had a leather fetish.
My actual room was far tamer. I still get the feeling that I’m in someone else’s place. I hope they get a hold of him and tell him he has a roommate before he wanders in to find a stranger in his bed. He has a spider man poster hung halfway on a bulletin board. A University of Oregon Lacrosse hat. Some kind of muscle mass supplement. He’s probably all beefy and shit. He’s the security guard around here. Oh and what I thought was a Linkin Park LP turned out to be a Linkin Park calendar. Almost as scary as the gay porn.
Life in a dormant volcano, p.2: Rabbit and Little Mouse
July 8, 2004
My roommate never came home last night, but I did hear someone come home at like 4 a.m. and vomit loudly. I don’t know where it happened, but it was loud. I woke up and went to orientation, which was predictably dull.
The main dorm, at Rim Village, is far more of a college atmosphere. I was pretty set on moving up there, just to get closer to the lake, the rim road, the lodge and cafe. As it is, I have to drive 7 miles to get any of these things. I kind of like the idea of the other dorm. More exciting, more animated younger people. When you ask people down there if they’d move to the Mazama dorm, they say the people are too old and boring. When you ask the opposite, they say the people are too young and party too late. There’s the split between the two in a nutshell. While I was at Rim, I was really into it. Seemed a relaxed, cool atmosphere, and Tom could handle it and is far from a party animal. But more lately, I like it here. Quiet, peaceful. I took a hike nearby and saw an incredible canyon, filled with volcanic sand and sand formations, typical forest, grassy meadows. Really enjoyable. I’m thinking this half of the lake’s town is the way to go lately. Partying with a bunch of college kids could be a lot of fun. But I’m not sure I want it around me all the time. I’m not sure that’s why I came.
The room itself is growing on me. When I came home from work, my roommate, who will be referred to as Rabbit, was home asleep at 4 p.m. and the room had been rearranged better for two. My closet was empty. Later, I would meet Rabbit, who was late in coming home because two people he was in San Francisco with left with his car and without him. He had to take the bus, and was taking it strangely well. He’s from Baton Rouge, and has a down south simplicity that is easy to mistake for stupidity, but may actually be both. Our neighbors are Digger and George, I believe both boat captains who give tours on the lake. They’re very quiet and probably in their late sixties or seventies. At 11 p.m. Rabbit wanted to finish hanging up his spider man poster and knocked on the door adjoining our rooms by bathroom. I couldn’t believe he was waking up two elderly men for thumbtacks. "Digger you up?" Digger was, and he had thumbtacks. You want to drink some Brewskis?" "You got some?" Digger asked back. So they all went to some nearby town to drink some beer with a couple other guys.
I declined the invitation and noticed a fifth member of our suite: a tiny field mouse scampering across the carpet and into the bathroom.
July 10, 2004
I start a new job tomorrow. I’ll be a dock hand, which may be the coolest title I’ve ever held. Every day I hike a mile into the crater, where I’ll aid boat captains taking tourists on tours of the lake. I’m pretty excited, as the last time I went down to the water, the descent was borderline religious. People keep telling me that I landed a good job. There seems to be a network here, that I’m not part of yet. Apparently some elderly woman wanted my job so badly that she scared the park into giving it to her without telling me. I was pretty worked up until I got the boat job, but when I got home from the day’s ordeal, Rabbit knew I had a new position. Then I talked to my old co-worker and she asked which position I took (I had another choice, cleaning floors at night). I have this sneaking feeling that there’s a tight community around me here. I came expecting solitude, but I don’t think being anonymous is possible when working at a national park.
Rabbit gets more and more interesting. From a reporter’s standpoint, he’s one of those interviews that is a nightmare and a blessing in one. He’s a spewer. He tells it all, with no discrimination. So far I’ve learned:
He almost married a fat girl in Texas.
He has a year’s supply of Viagra.
He takes over the counter potency pills.
He has no qualms drinking a sixpack before a night-shift as the lodge security guard.
He loves Metallica.
He is 30.
I like talking/listening to him. I never know what he’s going to say and it’s usually a surprise. "I joined GNC and now they send me a health magazine in the mail." Bam, last thing he says as he walks out and closes the door behind him.
My roommate never came home last night, but I did hear someone come home at like 4 a.m. and vomit loudly. I don’t know where it happened, but it was loud. I woke up and went to orientation, which was predictably dull.
The main dorm, at Rim Village, is far more of a college atmosphere. I was pretty set on moving up there, just to get closer to the lake, the rim road, the lodge and cafe. As it is, I have to drive 7 miles to get any of these things. I kind of like the idea of the other dorm. More exciting, more animated younger people. When you ask people down there if they’d move to the Mazama dorm, they say the people are too old and boring. When you ask the opposite, they say the people are too young and party too late. There’s the split between the two in a nutshell. While I was at Rim, I was really into it. Seemed a relaxed, cool atmosphere, and Tom could handle it and is far from a party animal. But more lately, I like it here. Quiet, peaceful. I took a hike nearby and saw an incredible canyon, filled with volcanic sand and sand formations, typical forest, grassy meadows. Really enjoyable. I’m thinking this half of the lake’s town is the way to go lately. Partying with a bunch of college kids could be a lot of fun. But I’m not sure I want it around me all the time. I’m not sure that’s why I came.
The room itself is growing on me. When I came home from work, my roommate, who will be referred to as Rabbit, was home asleep at 4 p.m. and the room had been rearranged better for two. My closet was empty. Later, I would meet Rabbit, who was late in coming home because two people he was in San Francisco with left with his car and without him. He had to take the bus, and was taking it strangely well. He’s from Baton Rouge, and has a down south simplicity that is easy to mistake for stupidity, but may actually be both. Our neighbors are Digger and George, I believe both boat captains who give tours on the lake. They’re very quiet and probably in their late sixties or seventies. At 11 p.m. Rabbit wanted to finish hanging up his spider man poster and knocked on the door adjoining our rooms by bathroom. I couldn’t believe he was waking up two elderly men for thumbtacks. "Digger you up?" Digger was, and he had thumbtacks. You want to drink some Brewskis?" "You got some?" Digger asked back. So they all went to some nearby town to drink some beer with a couple other guys.
I declined the invitation and noticed a fifth member of our suite: a tiny field mouse scampering across the carpet and into the bathroom.
July 10, 2004
I start a new job tomorrow. I’ll be a dock hand, which may be the coolest title I’ve ever held. Every day I hike a mile into the crater, where I’ll aid boat captains taking tourists on tours of the lake. I’m pretty excited, as the last time I went down to the water, the descent was borderline religious. People keep telling me that I landed a good job. There seems to be a network here, that I’m not part of yet. Apparently some elderly woman wanted my job so badly that she scared the park into giving it to her without telling me. I was pretty worked up until I got the boat job, but when I got home from the day’s ordeal, Rabbit knew I had a new position. Then I talked to my old co-worker and she asked which position I took (I had another choice, cleaning floors at night). I have this sneaking feeling that there’s a tight community around me here. I came expecting solitude, but I don’t think being anonymous is possible when working at a national park.
Rabbit gets more and more interesting. From a reporter’s standpoint, he’s one of those interviews that is a nightmare and a blessing in one. He’s a spewer. He tells it all, with no discrimination. So far I’ve learned:
He almost married a fat girl in Texas.
He has a year’s supply of Viagra.
He takes over the counter potency pills.
He has no qualms drinking a sixpack before a night-shift as the lodge security guard.
He loves Metallica.
He is 30.
I like talking/listening to him. I never know what he’s going to say and it’s usually a surprise. "I joined GNC and now they send me a health magazine in the mail." Bam, last thing he says as he walks out and closes the door behind him.
Life in a Dormant Volcano, p.3. Hello Boat Ops.
July 11, 2004
Pretty tired today. Worked 11 hours at the ticket booth on top of the hill above the dock. As could be expected, Xanterra was nicely chaotic, making me fend for myself for such things as a ride to work and any food the whole day. I was told by the head of the dock the van would pick me up a half hour later than it actually would. I hauled ass up the hill to the Rim Village to meet up with everyone before they left for the lake. Since I was late I missed breakfast, which wouldn’t have been so bad if I had brought up a lunch like nobody told me to do. I saw earlier that the boat people (as we call ourselves seemingly unaware of the Haitian refugees sharing the name) have lunches made for them in takeout containers, but no lunches today.
Work is pretty cool. Today I just sat in a shack selling tickets, but it was fun. Explaining to people the park and the boat tours. Helping them have fun, and relax. Nan is an older woman who is really engaging and seems smart and educated. She’s marrried to one of the captains and they both seem to be retired. Stacey is a sweet girl who is also incredibly overbearing. She talks over not just people, but everything that is going on in the vicinity. And nonstop. I cringe at the thought of Rabbit and her in a room together. She has a sticker on her car of a handicap symbol, with the little guy in the wheelchair smoking a massive joint. I don’t really get it ... yet. She’s from a little town nearby, and is studying sociology. She’s smart enough, but uses double negatives constantly. Stefanie is a tomboyishly pretty blonde from Wisconsin. She seems sly and naive at the same time. I see her often at the pay phone at the camping store for long periods of time.
I think I’ll like the job, even though the bossman Dan gives me this look like he wants to kill me everytime I see him. Maybe I’m paranoid, because everyone seems to like him. Tomorrow I think I get to pump 200 gallons of fuel through pipes down an 800-foot drop to power the boats. I read a lot of my book today, and I found out that reading is perfectly acceptable at the ticket shack.
Pretty tired today. Worked 11 hours at the ticket booth on top of the hill above the dock. As could be expected, Xanterra was nicely chaotic, making me fend for myself for such things as a ride to work and any food the whole day. I was told by the head of the dock the van would pick me up a half hour later than it actually would. I hauled ass up the hill to the Rim Village to meet up with everyone before they left for the lake. Since I was late I missed breakfast, which wouldn’t have been so bad if I had brought up a lunch like nobody told me to do. I saw earlier that the boat people (as we call ourselves seemingly unaware of the Haitian refugees sharing the name) have lunches made for them in takeout containers, but no lunches today.
Work is pretty cool. Today I just sat in a shack selling tickets, but it was fun. Explaining to people the park and the boat tours. Helping them have fun, and relax. Nan is an older woman who is really engaging and seems smart and educated. She’s marrried to one of the captains and they both seem to be retired. Stacey is a sweet girl who is also incredibly overbearing. She talks over not just people, but everything that is going on in the vicinity. And nonstop. I cringe at the thought of Rabbit and her in a room together. She has a sticker on her car of a handicap symbol, with the little guy in the wheelchair smoking a massive joint. I don’t really get it ... yet. She’s from a little town nearby, and is studying sociology. She’s smart enough, but uses double negatives constantly. Stefanie is a tomboyishly pretty blonde from Wisconsin. She seems sly and naive at the same time. I see her often at the pay phone at the camping store for long periods of time.
I think I’ll like the job, even though the bossman Dan gives me this look like he wants to kill me everytime I see him. Maybe I’m paranoid, because everyone seems to like him. Tomorrow I think I get to pump 200 gallons of fuel through pipes down an 800-foot drop to power the boats. I read a lot of my book today, and I found out that reading is perfectly acceptable at the ticket shack.
Life in a Dormant Volcano, p.4. Cushy Butterfield and friends
July 15, 2004
The past few nights I’ve worked on a short story, went to a park ranger party and passed out exhausted, so I’m abandoning chronology in favor of topic for now.
Rabbit
You know Rabbit. He’s talking to me while half asleep right now. He goes to work soon.
Digger
Digger is my neighbor, mentioned above. He lives with George, to be introduced later. Digger’s a line cook, and George is moving out soon because Digger is a difficult roommate. He’s talking to Rabbit about it right now. "He’s a slob, though, look at all this shit. Wrappers everywhere. Geez, look at all those beer cases."
"Damn," Rabbit says.
Stacey
Don’t have much to add except that she has another sticker that says, “Enjoy life, eat out more often,” with two stick figures locked in 69 position. Who would buy such a thing? Stan told me that one time a troop of Boy Scouts came to the lake and took turns posing for photos next to the eat out more often sticker.
Stefanie
She likes to sing Queen while we work. She went to school to get a degree for her parents’ approval, but got one in theater. She likes odd numbers and the number 5, excusing even numbers divisible by five, and peanut butter. Peanut butter pancakes. She’s broken out in hives since moving to Crater Lake. She doesn’t want a real job. This is the farthest she’s ever been from her parents. On her 21st birthday she worked 13 hours at the docks and didn’t have a drink. She likes vodka, because it doesn’t taste strong.
Tim and Stan and the keeping up the rangers
“She’s a big lass she’s a bonny lass and she’ loves her beer, and her name is Cushy Butterfield and I wish she was here,” The three of us sang, egging along the 20 or so temporary park rangers who invited us over for a weekly pasta party.
Tim knows about 100 sea shantys, working songs, drinking songs, showtunes, song parodies, and when he’s had two drinks they all come out just about until he’s had his fill. Tim worked in the Navy as a young man, then went on to the Coast Guard where he worked for many years. He looks back fondly, but never forgets the names of the people he lost or couldn’t find. Then he worked at Portland city parks for nearly 20 years before retiring. He likes his job and has many stories from the bathrooms at city parks alone. Like the time a co-worker tried to get a man to leave the bathroom, only to have to force her way in and discover a 300-pound man riding a counter-mounted vibrating dildo. Or the fact that when junkies finish in public bathrooms, they don’t leave needles out in the open. They tuck them away in crevices for unsuspecting city employees to stick themselves on. Tim is living away from his wife this summer. He’s retired, and seems to be enjoying the freedom from home. He obsesses over the romantic lives of the rangers, and the fact that handsome Dillon is sleeping with Jane, who has a great navel and a slender body. He’s into “homosexual women,” as Stan says. He’s always ogling some young woman or commenting about some cleavage or nipples. This isn’t creepy in a dirty old man kind of way. This is a military man of the sea, cherishing lecherous sex talk in absence of a wife he’s been around way too long. He’s like a little kid discovering boobies for the first time. It’s inspiring really. Tim has a big bushy moustache.
“Fill the pot Annie, fill the pot Annie, Hey Ho nobody’s home, no eat nor drink nor money have I none.”
I think maybe the manliest thing I’ve done is sit around drinking more and later than any of us should have, singing sea shantys and dancing and stomping. When I compare the experience to sports or fishing, or whatever masculine posturing you can come up with, it’s a far more honest expression. When you can drink in the company of other men and sing dirty songs with endless verses about fat women, cabin boys, twats and cunts, and not be self-conscious, that’s manly. It’s soul bearing to sing songs together. Fearless and freeing.
Stan is learning more and more songs, and more and more knots. He’s been bouncing back and forth from nautical misadventures and earning degrees (he’s got four: Classics, History, Fisheries, and I can’t remember) at small colleges across the country. He’s very soft-spoken, but a learned conversationalist when you get him out of his shell. he has a large dark beard and moustache and long hair tied up behind. He thinks the 40s were the peak of the American drama. He considers the United States the best thing to come out fo Europe, not because of its success, but its epic tragedy and drama. He speaks as though it were a century earlier. He’s worked in living museums for years. He loves Dharma Bums and hates On the Road. He appears to have read everything. He says he knew Jerry Garcia and Ken Kesey and I believe him.
We left the party at the ranger dorms (which are palaces compared to our humble rooms) a bit after we were told that we could sing, but please don’t stomp. The three of us got fairly drunk and drove very slowly back to Mazama dorm. Tim went to bed and I went up to meet Stan's wife and have another beer. When I left, they and another woman were all practicing a certain technique with string. I’m pretty sure Stan was drunk the next morning.
George
George is my other neighbor. The Rim dorm is full of young people, who all seem to criticize Mazama for having so many old people. But young people and nothing but is really so much style with no substance. For example, George is a tiny man who speaks quietly and scares a lot of younger people. He’s 80, chain smokes and often hacks up god knows what in our shared bathroom.
Once I set my glasses down in the boat shed, and when I went to put them back on they were thick bifocals. Nobody could find the owner of the glasses, or my sunglasses, so the park ranger took them to bring them to lost and found. As the ranger was walking away, I looked at George, who appeared to be wearning my glasses.
“George, are those my sunglasses?”
“Heh, no.”
“Are you sure?”
He pulled them off and looked.
“I was wondering why I wasn’t seeing so well on that last tour.”
That’s the kind of thing you have to deal with at 80, even in George's amazing condition. For all he knew, it was just another sense, another part wearing down, failing slowly. His two possibilities at that point were: 1. His vision had just totally failed, despite bifocals, or 2. He lost his glasses and would have to pay 300 bucks to get new ones. But he lauged it off. George reads a book about boat captains during our drive to the dock.
If you can crack him, you’ll find that he’s sharp as ever. He’s a Pacific Ocean boat captain normally. He was a Marine in the Battle of Guadalcanal, one of the bloodiest battles in World War II. He’s funny, and quick and for an 80 year old man, is easier to talk to than most 20 somethings. He works 12 hour days, and his only handicap allowed is that he rides the tractor up the hill with our packs instead of hiking. I like George a lot and I’m sorry he’s moving. I’m also sorry that people see him as a novelty instead of a person to talk with and actually meet. I’m sorry I see him that way a little bit.
Roger, another boat captain: “You know that commercial with the two squirrels, crashing the cars as they come down the road. That’s a funny commercial.”
George: “De best commershel I seen in a long time is that one with the two lizards.”
Roger: “Lizards?”
George: “It’s two lizards, sitting there. Talking lizards. And de small one, he’s always getting into some kind of trouble.”
Silence.
The past few nights I’ve worked on a short story, went to a park ranger party and passed out exhausted, so I’m abandoning chronology in favor of topic for now.
Rabbit
You know Rabbit. He’s talking to me while half asleep right now. He goes to work soon.
Digger
Digger is my neighbor, mentioned above. He lives with George, to be introduced later. Digger’s a line cook, and George is moving out soon because Digger is a difficult roommate. He’s talking to Rabbit about it right now. "He’s a slob, though, look at all this shit. Wrappers everywhere. Geez, look at all those beer cases."
"Damn," Rabbit says.
Stacey
Don’t have much to add except that she has another sticker that says, “Enjoy life, eat out more often,” with two stick figures locked in 69 position. Who would buy such a thing? Stan told me that one time a troop of Boy Scouts came to the lake and took turns posing for photos next to the eat out more often sticker.
Stefanie
She likes to sing Queen while we work. She went to school to get a degree for her parents’ approval, but got one in theater. She likes odd numbers and the number 5, excusing even numbers divisible by five, and peanut butter. Peanut butter pancakes. She’s broken out in hives since moving to Crater Lake. She doesn’t want a real job. This is the farthest she’s ever been from her parents. On her 21st birthday she worked 13 hours at the docks and didn’t have a drink. She likes vodka, because it doesn’t taste strong.
Tim and Stan and the keeping up the rangers
“She’s a big lass she’s a bonny lass and she’ loves her beer, and her name is Cushy Butterfield and I wish she was here,” The three of us sang, egging along the 20 or so temporary park rangers who invited us over for a weekly pasta party.
Tim knows about 100 sea shantys, working songs, drinking songs, showtunes, song parodies, and when he’s had two drinks they all come out just about until he’s had his fill. Tim worked in the Navy as a young man, then went on to the Coast Guard where he worked for many years. He looks back fondly, but never forgets the names of the people he lost or couldn’t find. Then he worked at Portland city parks for nearly 20 years before retiring. He likes his job and has many stories from the bathrooms at city parks alone. Like the time a co-worker tried to get a man to leave the bathroom, only to have to force her way in and discover a 300-pound man riding a counter-mounted vibrating dildo. Or the fact that when junkies finish in public bathrooms, they don’t leave needles out in the open. They tuck them away in crevices for unsuspecting city employees to stick themselves on. Tim is living away from his wife this summer. He’s retired, and seems to be enjoying the freedom from home. He obsesses over the romantic lives of the rangers, and the fact that handsome Dillon is sleeping with Jane, who has a great navel and a slender body. He’s into “homosexual women,” as Stan says. He’s always ogling some young woman or commenting about some cleavage or nipples. This isn’t creepy in a dirty old man kind of way. This is a military man of the sea, cherishing lecherous sex talk in absence of a wife he’s been around way too long. He’s like a little kid discovering boobies for the first time. It’s inspiring really. Tim has a big bushy moustache.
“Fill the pot Annie, fill the pot Annie, Hey Ho nobody’s home, no eat nor drink nor money have I none.”
I think maybe the manliest thing I’ve done is sit around drinking more and later than any of us should have, singing sea shantys and dancing and stomping. When I compare the experience to sports or fishing, or whatever masculine posturing you can come up with, it’s a far more honest expression. When you can drink in the company of other men and sing dirty songs with endless verses about fat women, cabin boys, twats and cunts, and not be self-conscious, that’s manly. It’s soul bearing to sing songs together. Fearless and freeing.
Stan is learning more and more songs, and more and more knots. He’s been bouncing back and forth from nautical misadventures and earning degrees (he’s got four: Classics, History, Fisheries, and I can’t remember) at small colleges across the country. He’s very soft-spoken, but a learned conversationalist when you get him out of his shell. he has a large dark beard and moustache and long hair tied up behind. He thinks the 40s were the peak of the American drama. He considers the United States the best thing to come out fo Europe, not because of its success, but its epic tragedy and drama. He speaks as though it were a century earlier. He’s worked in living museums for years. He loves Dharma Bums and hates On the Road. He appears to have read everything. He says he knew Jerry Garcia and Ken Kesey and I believe him.
We left the party at the ranger dorms (which are palaces compared to our humble rooms) a bit after we were told that we could sing, but please don’t stomp. The three of us got fairly drunk and drove very slowly back to Mazama dorm. Tim went to bed and I went up to meet Stan's wife and have another beer. When I left, they and another woman were all practicing a certain technique with string. I’m pretty sure Stan was drunk the next morning.
George
George is my other neighbor. The Rim dorm is full of young people, who all seem to criticize Mazama for having so many old people. But young people and nothing but is really so much style with no substance. For example, George is a tiny man who speaks quietly and scares a lot of younger people. He’s 80, chain smokes and often hacks up god knows what in our shared bathroom.
Once I set my glasses down in the boat shed, and when I went to put them back on they were thick bifocals. Nobody could find the owner of the glasses, or my sunglasses, so the park ranger took them to bring them to lost and found. As the ranger was walking away, I looked at George, who appeared to be wearning my glasses.
“George, are those my sunglasses?”
“Heh, no.”
“Are you sure?”
He pulled them off and looked.
“I was wondering why I wasn’t seeing so well on that last tour.”
That’s the kind of thing you have to deal with at 80, even in George's amazing condition. For all he knew, it was just another sense, another part wearing down, failing slowly. His two possibilities at that point were: 1. His vision had just totally failed, despite bifocals, or 2. He lost his glasses and would have to pay 300 bucks to get new ones. But he lauged it off. George reads a book about boat captains during our drive to the dock.
If you can crack him, you’ll find that he’s sharp as ever. He’s a Pacific Ocean boat captain normally. He was a Marine in the Battle of Guadalcanal, one of the bloodiest battles in World War II. He’s funny, and quick and for an 80 year old man, is easier to talk to than most 20 somethings. He works 12 hour days, and his only handicap allowed is that he rides the tractor up the hill with our packs instead of hiking. I like George a lot and I’m sorry he’s moving. I’m also sorry that people see him as a novelty instead of a person to talk with and actually meet. I’m sorry I see him that way a little bit.
Roger, another boat captain: “You know that commercial with the two squirrels, crashing the cars as they come down the road. That’s a funny commercial.”
George: “De best commershel I seen in a long time is that one with the two lizards.”
Roger: “Lizards?”
George: “It’s two lizards, sitting there. Talking lizards. And de small one, he’s always getting into some kind of trouble.”
Silence.
Life in a Dormant Volcano, p. 5: 'I almost crapped my pants.'
July 23, 2004
Today I hiked the Lightning Springs trail, 8 miles roundtrip, and left as the sun was setting. There was a pinkish-orange rim over the treetops as a I walked out of the trail. It was a great hike, through desert-like pumice, thick trees, criss-crossing a stream of melted snow, a small waterfall.
Today Stacey told me (among thousands of other unsolicited things) that Smashmouth was playing a free concert at the Jackson County Fair, and that she almost crapped her pants when she found out. The double negatives are taking a toll on me.
I saw that little mouse a few times lately, including about five seconds ago. I think he’s living on Rabbit's side. He tried to make a run for the bathroom, but I blocked the door crack. I’m going with the strategy of live and let live, but I don’t want to step on the little guy late one night in the john. I tried to come up with a name for him, but I just keep calling him “little mouse,” mimicking Rabbit: “Hey Tate, did you see that little mouse anymore?”
I saw a squirrel fall apart into guts underneath the tire of the boat van as it drove in front of me. It was disgusting, and I made a big deal of it, far more than Stacey and Stefanie, who were also in the car. But it was gross, and sad, and I couldn’t get it out of my head today.
I should really be getting thinner, but I think the combination of increased snacking and being subjected to whatever food is on the plate is taking its toll. Those four or five recent trips to the Watchman buffet after the EDR was closed didn’t help either.
Seeing TB (my 13 year-old sister) was great (I recently visited her and Casey in Portland for a few days). She’s turning into a really cool teenager. She’s got the tips of her hair red and her nails black. She’s not emotionally disturbed, at least not on the outside. She’s not acting out or getting into trouble, or really showing any signs of wanting to. I think she’s just setting herself apart. She’s not a bad artist either. Dragons and elves and things like that are her favorite subjects. There’s one great picture of a little girl hunched over with her hands over her head, and a dragon bursting out of her back into flight. It’s a great drawing, and she calls it “Rebirth.” She’s really going to need a way to deal with all the trauma she’s building up inside, and it’s good to see it’s coming out somewhere.
This blanket Casey made for me is damn comfortable, by the way.
Today I hiked the Lightning Springs trail, 8 miles roundtrip, and left as the sun was setting. There was a pinkish-orange rim over the treetops as a I walked out of the trail. It was a great hike, through desert-like pumice, thick trees, criss-crossing a stream of melted snow, a small waterfall.
Today Stacey told me (among thousands of other unsolicited things) that Smashmouth was playing a free concert at the Jackson County Fair, and that she almost crapped her pants when she found out. The double negatives are taking a toll on me.
I saw that little mouse a few times lately, including about five seconds ago. I think he’s living on Rabbit's side. He tried to make a run for the bathroom, but I blocked the door crack. I’m going with the strategy of live and let live, but I don’t want to step on the little guy late one night in the john. I tried to come up with a name for him, but I just keep calling him “little mouse,” mimicking Rabbit: “Hey Tate, did you see that little mouse anymore?”
I saw a squirrel fall apart into guts underneath the tire of the boat van as it drove in front of me. It was disgusting, and I made a big deal of it, far more than Stacey and Stefanie, who were also in the car. But it was gross, and sad, and I couldn’t get it out of my head today.
I should really be getting thinner, but I think the combination of increased snacking and being subjected to whatever food is on the plate is taking its toll. Those four or five recent trips to the Watchman buffet after the EDR was closed didn’t help either.
Seeing TB (my 13 year-old sister) was great (I recently visited her and Casey in Portland for a few days). She’s turning into a really cool teenager. She’s got the tips of her hair red and her nails black. She’s not emotionally disturbed, at least not on the outside. She’s not acting out or getting into trouble, or really showing any signs of wanting to. I think she’s just setting herself apart. She’s not a bad artist either. Dragons and elves and things like that are her favorite subjects. There’s one great picture of a little girl hunched over with her hands over her head, and a dragon bursting out of her back into flight. It’s a great drawing, and she calls it “Rebirth.” She’s really going to need a way to deal with all the trauma she’s building up inside, and it’s good to see it’s coming out somewhere.
This blanket Casey made for me is damn comfortable, by the way.
Life in a Dormant Volcano, p.6: Colors of Crater Peak and late-night Black-and-White
July 24, 2004
Pretty tired again tonight. I hiked Crater Peak, a 5-mile roundtrip with some breathtaking views of the park and a sprawling meadow of shrubs, lava rock and dead old whitebark trees, scorched by lightning. It looked like a cemetary of gnarled, wind-eaten trees, fighting for life. The walk back was during sunset, and the colors ranged from orange-red cutting through the shadow of the trees, to purple in the depths of the woods at dusk, and then finally a white misty glow hovering across the span of trees and rocky hills. Pretty incredible. At many points I’d look down at my hands and the colors on my skin were totally foreign, like in a dream or a drug experience. Like you could touch the light.
I took my co-worker Stefanie with me, since I got tired of telling her about all the cool things I was driving to, and hearing about how she can never go anywhere. She hasn’t even been around the rim, because she doesn’t have a car. Her other options are going places with her roommates, whom she dislikes and for good reason. One refers to people from other countries as “internationals” and talks about them as if they were subhumans. She doesn’t follow politics because she upsets too easily. She’d rather get cancer than go to a gynecologist. She’s very dumb in the head. The other roommate is overweight, and spent one day in Medford with Stefanie, namely in Planned Parenthood getting the birth control shot.
On Thursday night, Rabbit got really drunk and called the chef, a large, scary woman whom he apparently used to date early in the season. He left her a mean voice message, calling her a bitch and all sorts of stuff. It apparently didn’t go over well and he got a scolding from the sous chef and the chef. Poor Rabbit, he seems to just fall right into these situations. He told me that he’s building up the courage to tell her that he was dating her for the wrong reasons. Sort of using her for her status at the park, and that he feels bad about it. He told me this as he was falling asleep. Then he said there was a rumor (there are so many of them) that someone was saying bad things about Rabbit. Rabbit said he didn’t care, and that he never says anything bad about anyone. And I realized that he’s absolutely right. He’s 100 percent positive about everyone he talks about, as far as I can recall. He was fading off that night and said something like, “Everyone is great, business is terrific, life is good.”
I didn’t get a chance to call Casey and I have a combination of missing her and guilt for not calling. Still, another great day on Crater Lake. There aren't any other kind here. I’m thinking about going to school to study creative writing or something else. That’s one thing people here are drilling home -- I can do anything I want. Same with my time spent with Stan and his wife Dru. Stan has four or five degrees and has maybe never had a grown up job. There’s room in the world people like Stan; there can be room for people like me.
Tomorrow’s my Friday, and I’m thinking of driving to Ashland for a day, doing some hiking, or checking out some hot springs north of the park. I hear there are naked people there.
Pretty tired again tonight. I hiked Crater Peak, a 5-mile roundtrip with some breathtaking views of the park and a sprawling meadow of shrubs, lava rock and dead old whitebark trees, scorched by lightning. It looked like a cemetary of gnarled, wind-eaten trees, fighting for life. The walk back was during sunset, and the colors ranged from orange-red cutting through the shadow of the trees, to purple in the depths of the woods at dusk, and then finally a white misty glow hovering across the span of trees and rocky hills. Pretty incredible. At many points I’d look down at my hands and the colors on my skin were totally foreign, like in a dream or a drug experience. Like you could touch the light.
I took my co-worker Stefanie with me, since I got tired of telling her about all the cool things I was driving to, and hearing about how she can never go anywhere. She hasn’t even been around the rim, because she doesn’t have a car. Her other options are going places with her roommates, whom she dislikes and for good reason. One refers to people from other countries as “internationals” and talks about them as if they were subhumans. She doesn’t follow politics because she upsets too easily. She’d rather get cancer than go to a gynecologist. She’s very dumb in the head. The other roommate is overweight, and spent one day in Medford with Stefanie, namely in Planned Parenthood getting the birth control shot.
On Thursday night, Rabbit got really drunk and called the chef, a large, scary woman whom he apparently used to date early in the season. He left her a mean voice message, calling her a bitch and all sorts of stuff. It apparently didn’t go over well and he got a scolding from the sous chef and the chef. Poor Rabbit, he seems to just fall right into these situations. He told me that he’s building up the courage to tell her that he was dating her for the wrong reasons. Sort of using her for her status at the park, and that he feels bad about it. He told me this as he was falling asleep. Then he said there was a rumor (there are so many of them) that someone was saying bad things about Rabbit. Rabbit said he didn’t care, and that he never says anything bad about anyone. And I realized that he’s absolutely right. He’s 100 percent positive about everyone he talks about, as far as I can recall. He was fading off that night and said something like, “Everyone is great, business is terrific, life is good.”
I didn’t get a chance to call Casey and I have a combination of missing her and guilt for not calling. Still, another great day on Crater Lake. There aren't any other kind here. I’m thinking about going to school to study creative writing or something else. That’s one thing people here are drilling home -- I can do anything I want. Same with my time spent with Stan and his wife Dru. Stan has four or five degrees and has maybe never had a grown up job. There’s room in the world people like Stan; there can be room for people like me.
Tomorrow’s my Friday, and I’m thinking of driving to Ashland for a day, doing some hiking, or checking out some hot springs north of the park. I hear there are naked people there.
Life in a Dormant Volcano, p. 7: Ashland and the Unsinkable Molly Brown
July 26, 2004
I’m in Ashland, Oregon, at the Standing Stone Brewpub. This will be a good test of battery on this thing (old laptop). I’m really wanting to splurge and buy a laptop with wireless net, the works. We’ll see if I can save any money this summer.
This restaurant suffers the same curse of all brewpubs. The brewing process requires a massive amount of room, and as a result, a large dining area to support it. The product is almost always a family friendly, strip-mallish feel filled with booster seats and middle-aged people with their t-shirts tucked into pleated shorts. Even here in edgy Ashland, with a beautiful patio overlooking the hills surrounding the bisecting creek, I’m a few tables from a party of baby boomers and their 20-25 children sucking down Shirley Temples.
Ashland suffers a problem that is common to all arts communities/tourist towns. (Ooh, good beer though.) It’s a gorgeous little tucked away town straddling a creek and housing the world famous Oregon Shakespeare Festival with a full Elizabethan theater drawing tourists from around the globe. But Ashland is two cities.
Half of Ashland: residents are in their 20s, likely barefoot, braless, tattooed and pierced, and probably have a manuscript or two tucked away at home. Excellent restaurants and bars, I assume, and a fun if lazy nightlife. Sedona, Bisbee, Santa Cruz, Telluride, you’ve been there.
But it’s impossible to ignore the contradictory other half - the hungry half - of Ashland that seems to be cannibalizing the city to support itself. There’s a slew of junk stores, overpriced bistros, information kiosks frequented by white-haired snobs and rich urban bikers getting a tiny bit of culture. Even on a Monday, Ashland is selling itself to stay alive. There is NOTHING here but tourism. No industry but Shakespeare and serving food. How frustrating for the people who live in these hills, to watch their rent creep up as the trendiness soars. Their local restaurants jacking up their prices and filling up on weekend afternoons with tour van passengers so they can stuff their faces before the matinee of King Lear.
Then again, I’ve only been here a day, and technically I am a tourist, although I prefer "vagabond."
Since here, I have had two conversations about Arizona (one Flagstaff, another Tucson), a cup of coffee, some pricey ravioli and now a beer. There’s a great, adult-focused comic book shop that I stupidly threw some money at (my checking account was overdrawn until I dipped into my savings account). The tiny coffee shop served up outstanding Organic house blend (everything is organic here. Organic or lesbian). Right next door there were a half dozen younger folks drinking beer at 10:30 a.m. just as Ashland began to stir to life.
I stopped into a record shop that was selling off it’s merchandise with the advertisement "I’m retiring." When asked why he wouldn’t sell his store, he replied, "Because you’d have to have your head examined if you want to go into the music business now." Tower Records bankrupt. His distributor, formerly rolling in money, going bankrupt. Downloading cutting into album sales and the record companies oblivious to the problem and doing nothing to satisfy the fans. "I’m just really not into selling music as a secondary product. I don’t want to sell Felix the Cat clocks and spiked wristbands and crap." That and the music appealing to him less and less meant it was time to get out after 30 some years. Three dollars off all CDs, and four off DVDs, but I was already broke for the day. Just like everyone else.
I skipped the staff 70s party last night, opting to finish up a short story and drink four beers, then capped off the night by cracking a couple of stored up, unread comic books trades. Rabbit came home about 7:30 a.m. after giving disco partiers rides back from the RV campground to the dorms. He was on duty last night. When he came home this morning he asked if he could have a beer. 7:30, but he just finished a night shift. "It’s beer o clock for me," he said and grabbed a Pabst tallboy that I found yesterday under my car’s front seat.
3 p.m. in Ashland
I’m at the Grizzly something roasting house. I’m sure the coffee I’m drinking is organic. I just came from The Irish Pub, the last bastion of local watering holes in Ashland, I’m told by the bartender. He just gave me a Caldera IPA, made by a friend of his. I have a nose for sniffing out townie bars. Mostly it’s just going somewhere that looks dark and a little sad.
"It’s a slow Monday," the bear-like bartender told me, when I looked up from reading Stephen King’s Carrie. "Usually Mondays are less busy because the Shakespeare doesn’t run. This place is all local though. Pretty much the last place in town."
He’s been here since the 1960s, when he came for his freshman year at Southern Oregon University. He lives on a substantial tract of property overlooking the valley, and comes down less and less. "This whole area has been completely redone." Too bad, but good for the town, he guessed. He’s the second person I’ve asked who has no idea about local restaurants. Gosh, they don’t really know. It’s been a while since they’ve eaten out.
It’s expensive enough to live in Ashland (a quarter to a half million for most houses) not to mention eat out here. The bartender mostly stays at home now. He was about to tell me something he heard about Crater Lake, but was called away to shoot pool. He’s gray-haired and was wearing a faded Hawaiian shirt that miraculously fit his enormous torso.
The locals slowly poured in around two or so as their acceptable bar times came to term. There were two dogs, one part rottweiler and part something else. Another was a springer spaniel whose pony-tailed owner found her in a grocery store parking lot. No microchip, no tags, no record at local vets, no answers from classified ads. He figured she was a fugitive from a tourist RV stopping for groceries. The drivers realized probably at about Eugene that the dog was gone. Her name is Molly, taken from an opera, "The Unsinkable Molly Brown," written by a friend of a Colorado resident who survived the Titanic. Captain of Industry John Jacob Astor died in the disaster. Molly lived. Just before I left, her namesake got a biscuit and her owner got a brown beer. Wealthy tourists didn’t dare come in.
There are six people and five laptops in this coffee shop.
I’m in Ashland, Oregon, at the Standing Stone Brewpub. This will be a good test of battery on this thing (old laptop). I’m really wanting to splurge and buy a laptop with wireless net, the works. We’ll see if I can save any money this summer.
This restaurant suffers the same curse of all brewpubs. The brewing process requires a massive amount of room, and as a result, a large dining area to support it. The product is almost always a family friendly, strip-mallish feel filled with booster seats and middle-aged people with their t-shirts tucked into pleated shorts. Even here in edgy Ashland, with a beautiful patio overlooking the hills surrounding the bisecting creek, I’m a few tables from a party of baby boomers and their 20-25 children sucking down Shirley Temples.
Ashland suffers a problem that is common to all arts communities/tourist towns. (Ooh, good beer though.) It’s a gorgeous little tucked away town straddling a creek and housing the world famous Oregon Shakespeare Festival with a full Elizabethan theater drawing tourists from around the globe. But Ashland is two cities.
Half of Ashland: residents are in their 20s, likely barefoot, braless, tattooed and pierced, and probably have a manuscript or two tucked away at home. Excellent restaurants and bars, I assume, and a fun if lazy nightlife. Sedona, Bisbee, Santa Cruz, Telluride, you’ve been there.
But it’s impossible to ignore the contradictory other half - the hungry half - of Ashland that seems to be cannibalizing the city to support itself. There’s a slew of junk stores, overpriced bistros, information kiosks frequented by white-haired snobs and rich urban bikers getting a tiny bit of culture. Even on a Monday, Ashland is selling itself to stay alive. There is NOTHING here but tourism. No industry but Shakespeare and serving food. How frustrating for the people who live in these hills, to watch their rent creep up as the trendiness soars. Their local restaurants jacking up their prices and filling up on weekend afternoons with tour van passengers so they can stuff their faces before the matinee of King Lear.
Then again, I’ve only been here a day, and technically I am a tourist, although I prefer "vagabond."
Since here, I have had two conversations about Arizona (one Flagstaff, another Tucson), a cup of coffee, some pricey ravioli and now a beer. There’s a great, adult-focused comic book shop that I stupidly threw some money at (my checking account was overdrawn until I dipped into my savings account). The tiny coffee shop served up outstanding Organic house blend (everything is organic here. Organic or lesbian). Right next door there were a half dozen younger folks drinking beer at 10:30 a.m. just as Ashland began to stir to life.
I stopped into a record shop that was selling off it’s merchandise with the advertisement "I’m retiring." When asked why he wouldn’t sell his store, he replied, "Because you’d have to have your head examined if you want to go into the music business now." Tower Records bankrupt. His distributor, formerly rolling in money, going bankrupt. Downloading cutting into album sales and the record companies oblivious to the problem and doing nothing to satisfy the fans. "I’m just really not into selling music as a secondary product. I don’t want to sell Felix the Cat clocks and spiked wristbands and crap." That and the music appealing to him less and less meant it was time to get out after 30 some years. Three dollars off all CDs, and four off DVDs, but I was already broke for the day. Just like everyone else.
I skipped the staff 70s party last night, opting to finish up a short story and drink four beers, then capped off the night by cracking a couple of stored up, unread comic books trades. Rabbit came home about 7:30 a.m. after giving disco partiers rides back from the RV campground to the dorms. He was on duty last night. When he came home this morning he asked if he could have a beer. 7:30, but he just finished a night shift. "It’s beer o clock for me," he said and grabbed a Pabst tallboy that I found yesterday under my car’s front seat.
3 p.m. in Ashland
I’m at the Grizzly something roasting house. I’m sure the coffee I’m drinking is organic. I just came from The Irish Pub, the last bastion of local watering holes in Ashland, I’m told by the bartender. He just gave me a Caldera IPA, made by a friend of his. I have a nose for sniffing out townie bars. Mostly it’s just going somewhere that looks dark and a little sad.
"It’s a slow Monday," the bear-like bartender told me, when I looked up from reading Stephen King’s Carrie. "Usually Mondays are less busy because the Shakespeare doesn’t run. This place is all local though. Pretty much the last place in town."
He’s been here since the 1960s, when he came for his freshman year at Southern Oregon University. He lives on a substantial tract of property overlooking the valley, and comes down less and less. "This whole area has been completely redone." Too bad, but good for the town, he guessed. He’s the second person I’ve asked who has no idea about local restaurants. Gosh, they don’t really know. It’s been a while since they’ve eaten out.
It’s expensive enough to live in Ashland (a quarter to a half million for most houses) not to mention eat out here. The bartender mostly stays at home now. He was about to tell me something he heard about Crater Lake, but was called away to shoot pool. He’s gray-haired and was wearing a faded Hawaiian shirt that miraculously fit his enormous torso.
The locals slowly poured in around two or so as their acceptable bar times came to term. There were two dogs, one part rottweiler and part something else. Another was a springer spaniel whose pony-tailed owner found her in a grocery store parking lot. No microchip, no tags, no record at local vets, no answers from classified ads. He figured she was a fugitive from a tourist RV stopping for groceries. The drivers realized probably at about Eugene that the dog was gone. Her name is Molly, taken from an opera, "The Unsinkable Molly Brown," written by a friend of a Colorado resident who survived the Titanic. Captain of Industry John Jacob Astor died in the disaster. Molly lived. Just before I left, her namesake got a biscuit and her owner got a brown beer. Wealthy tourists didn’t dare come in.
There are six people and five laptops in this coffee shop.
Life in a Dormant Volcano, p. 8: "Crater Lake is great! Today I made and old woman cry!" and fun on the skiff.
July 31, 2004
Monday night I hung out with Stan and Dru at their room. We ran up to the lodge to get some food, shared a bottle of red wine. Stan drank a snifter of brandy and got pretty drunk. They’re a very interesting couple. They teach skiing during the winter in Tahoe. Their stuff fits in just a couple of big bags. Stan recently found a bag of his old nautical gear, lines and tools that had been lost in the post. It’s all really old canvas and hemp and linen soaked in turpentine and tar. Very old. Some of his tools are made from the wood of historic ships. He made almost all of them. The lodge is very beautiful at night.
Didn’t get much sleep, then the next night I went to Prospect with Rabbit and Todd, the floor cleaner whose boat job I inadvertently stole. We had a great time. Rabbit flirted with the bartender; we drank a lot of beer. The Trophy Room is strictly local, filled with actual animal trophies. Todd and I hashed out the boat job situation and shared our backstories. His dad is filthy rich and lives in San Juan. Todd is sort of his "illegitimate" son, and has what sounds like a shaky relationship with him. But he recently spent time in Puerto Rico visiting, and said it was incredible. So cheap, laid back. Everyone there does nothing but party, smoke pot, sip rum. He came here from Southern California because he was tired of not having work and sponging off of a friend. He came here with 15 cents and no idea about what he was getting into. He knows a lot about astronomy.
Rabbit got hammered and told me a little more about his past. I guess before coming here he was on the verge of being in the Navy. He opted out at the last minute and came out here. I told him it was the best decision he’s ever made. His family didn’t quite think so, though. I guess he’s real close with them and they were pretty happy about him going into the Navy. He’s keeping a girlfriend in Shady Cove now, a black mother of two who can’t be very young. Todd's in love with one of her daughters. They all met randomly while wandering around the Rogue River Valley on the Fourth of July.
The next day was one of highs and lows. I was in this great mood and had plans to head to Medford with Captain Tim for some Chinese. I hiked down to talk to Tim and finalize the plans, leaving Nan up in the ticket shack alone for what I thought would be a short time. Dana, an earthy dockhand asked if I wanted to take the skiff out to Wizard Island. How could I possibly refuse? The answer is, there is no way. I radioed Nan and she seemed fine with it.
We cruised out on the tiny motorboat on the beautiful afternoon. "It’s the only way to see the lake," she said, and I had to agree. Just a few inches from the glassy, deep blue. What a great afternoon. We stopped in the middle of the lake to fill up our water bottles. Ate off the dock with Jane the ranger and Dana, feet dangling in the water. A squirrel took half of my sandwich. We headed back after not too long. You could tell the lake makes Dana happy.
Just as I was thinking, "my god, I can’t believe this is my job," I found out that Dan (boss) was pretty pissed that we went out there. Nan was hit by a big crowd and got a bit shook up. She’s older and I should have been more wary about leaving her alone. I felt like a shit. It was a stupid move in retrospect, but again, one that couldn’t be avoided. Skiff, beautiful afternoon, lunch on an island, remember? We actually did clean the heads out there.
I would find out later that Nan ended up in tears by the end of the night because I left her alone again, after a mixup that evening that was completely not my fault. I would get a second talking to from Dan (who was extremely cool about all of it). Jesus Christ, nothing is simple up here. I considered making postcards reading, "Having a great time at Crater Lake! Today I made an old woman cry!"
On another high note, Tim, George, Stefanie, Chris the ranger, and I went to Medford for a kick ass Chinese Buffet. Then we swung by Willy’s Tavern for some beer and Karaoke. Tim sang a couple of sea shantys. It was a real pleasant night, out under the near full moon on the Karaoke stage/back patio at Willy’s, sitting with locals and enjoying not being on the lake for a while.
George once got a fish hook stuck in his eye and had a ship mate pull it out of his eyeball. "I didn’t go to no goddamn eye doctor." He also doesn’t swim. He never learned and snuck by the Marines in wartime. He almost drowned once during World War II. Stan told me for old Navy men, not swimming is sometimes a superstition, as if by learning they would be showing a lack of faith in the ship.
Rabbit was falling asleep again the other night and was telling me about his first love, whom he almost married. She’s now married to another guy. "Don’t think I haven’t sat around thinking of all the ways I could kill him ... and not get caught. I haven’t come up any so I haven’t done anything. She wasn’t that pretty anyway."
Nobody knows what’s wrong with Dan yet. His urinary system is swollen up and his ureter is blocked. He’s had a biopsy and was if not still is on a catheter.
Tim may be able to get me a job at Portland parks.
August 1, 2004
Today was a pretty smooth day on the lake. 11 hours working on the dock with Stan. At about 2 we took the skiff out a little bay near the dock and took a quick swim. It was hot as hell, so the 50 degree water felt great. It’s a huge surge to your system: your lungs expand, your heart starts to race, and a smile comes to your face almost involuntarily. We took the little boat out and stripped down, me to my boxers and Stan in the nude, and jumped off port and starboard. I had to take a second jump after crawling into the boat the first time. We putted back to the dock and I spent the rest of the afternoon with wet shorts under my pants. Felt great.
I wanted to go to a nearby Indian casino after work to get a prime rib at George's suggestion, but it was closed by the time I got there. I also wanted to do some shopping and go to a bank in the nearby Chiloquin, but it turned out to be a tiny, rundown Indian town with nothing much. I settled for Klamath Falls as a substitute, and the drive was shitty, with tiny green bugs hitting the car like raindrops. Klamath Falls’ motto should be, "come to Klamath Falls: get green shit all over your car." The town was actually kind of cool, and I got an overpriced dinner of buffalo wing flavored appetizers, cheap beer, and deodorant.
Monday night I hung out with Stan and Dru at their room. We ran up to the lodge to get some food, shared a bottle of red wine. Stan drank a snifter of brandy and got pretty drunk. They’re a very interesting couple. They teach skiing during the winter in Tahoe. Their stuff fits in just a couple of big bags. Stan recently found a bag of his old nautical gear, lines and tools that had been lost in the post. It’s all really old canvas and hemp and linen soaked in turpentine and tar. Very old. Some of his tools are made from the wood of historic ships. He made almost all of them. The lodge is very beautiful at night.
Didn’t get much sleep, then the next night I went to Prospect with Rabbit and Todd, the floor cleaner whose boat job I inadvertently stole. We had a great time. Rabbit flirted with the bartender; we drank a lot of beer. The Trophy Room is strictly local, filled with actual animal trophies. Todd and I hashed out the boat job situation and shared our backstories. His dad is filthy rich and lives in San Juan. Todd is sort of his "illegitimate" son, and has what sounds like a shaky relationship with him. But he recently spent time in Puerto Rico visiting, and said it was incredible. So cheap, laid back. Everyone there does nothing but party, smoke pot, sip rum. He came here from Southern California because he was tired of not having work and sponging off of a friend. He came here with 15 cents and no idea about what he was getting into. He knows a lot about astronomy.
Rabbit got hammered and told me a little more about his past. I guess before coming here he was on the verge of being in the Navy. He opted out at the last minute and came out here. I told him it was the best decision he’s ever made. His family didn’t quite think so, though. I guess he’s real close with them and they were pretty happy about him going into the Navy. He’s keeping a girlfriend in Shady Cove now, a black mother of two who can’t be very young. Todd's in love with one of her daughters. They all met randomly while wandering around the Rogue River Valley on the Fourth of July.
The next day was one of highs and lows. I was in this great mood and had plans to head to Medford with Captain Tim for some Chinese. I hiked down to talk to Tim and finalize the plans, leaving Nan up in the ticket shack alone for what I thought would be a short time. Dana, an earthy dockhand asked if I wanted to take the skiff out to Wizard Island. How could I possibly refuse? The answer is, there is no way. I radioed Nan and she seemed fine with it.
We cruised out on the tiny motorboat on the beautiful afternoon. "It’s the only way to see the lake," she said, and I had to agree. Just a few inches from the glassy, deep blue. What a great afternoon. We stopped in the middle of the lake to fill up our water bottles. Ate off the dock with Jane the ranger and Dana, feet dangling in the water. A squirrel took half of my sandwich. We headed back after not too long. You could tell the lake makes Dana happy.
Just as I was thinking, "my god, I can’t believe this is my job," I found out that Dan (boss) was pretty pissed that we went out there. Nan was hit by a big crowd and got a bit shook up. She’s older and I should have been more wary about leaving her alone. I felt like a shit. It was a stupid move in retrospect, but again, one that couldn’t be avoided. Skiff, beautiful afternoon, lunch on an island, remember? We actually did clean the heads out there.
I would find out later that Nan ended up in tears by the end of the night because I left her alone again, after a mixup that evening that was completely not my fault. I would get a second talking to from Dan (who was extremely cool about all of it). Jesus Christ, nothing is simple up here. I considered making postcards reading, "Having a great time at Crater Lake! Today I made an old woman cry!"
On another high note, Tim, George, Stefanie, Chris the ranger, and I went to Medford for a kick ass Chinese Buffet. Then we swung by Willy’s Tavern for some beer and Karaoke. Tim sang a couple of sea shantys. It was a real pleasant night, out under the near full moon on the Karaoke stage/back patio at Willy’s, sitting with locals and enjoying not being on the lake for a while.
George once got a fish hook stuck in his eye and had a ship mate pull it out of his eyeball. "I didn’t go to no goddamn eye doctor." He also doesn’t swim. He never learned and snuck by the Marines in wartime. He almost drowned once during World War II. Stan told me for old Navy men, not swimming is sometimes a superstition, as if by learning they would be showing a lack of faith in the ship.
Rabbit was falling asleep again the other night and was telling me about his first love, whom he almost married. She’s now married to another guy. "Don’t think I haven’t sat around thinking of all the ways I could kill him ... and not get caught. I haven’t come up any so I haven’t done anything. She wasn’t that pretty anyway."
Nobody knows what’s wrong with Dan yet. His urinary system is swollen up and his ureter is blocked. He’s had a biopsy and was if not still is on a catheter.
Tim may be able to get me a job at Portland parks.
August 1, 2004
Today was a pretty smooth day on the lake. 11 hours working on the dock with Stan. At about 2 we took the skiff out a little bay near the dock and took a quick swim. It was hot as hell, so the 50 degree water felt great. It’s a huge surge to your system: your lungs expand, your heart starts to race, and a smile comes to your face almost involuntarily. We took the little boat out and stripped down, me to my boxers and Stan in the nude, and jumped off port and starboard. I had to take a second jump after crawling into the boat the first time. We putted back to the dock and I spent the rest of the afternoon with wet shorts under my pants. Felt great.
I wanted to go to a nearby Indian casino after work to get a prime rib at George's suggestion, but it was closed by the time I got there. I also wanted to do some shopping and go to a bank in the nearby Chiloquin, but it turned out to be a tiny, rundown Indian town with nothing much. I settled for Klamath Falls as a substitute, and the drive was shitty, with tiny green bugs hitting the car like raindrops. Klamath Falls’ motto should be, "come to Klamath Falls: get green shit all over your car." The town was actually kind of cool, and I got an overpriced dinner of buffalo wing flavored appetizers, cheap beer, and deodorant.
LIDVp9: The State of Jefferson
August 4, 2004
Stan tried to murder me with Sake and Sushi last night. I’ll bet you didn’t know Japanese cuisine could be a murder weapon, but it’s true. And all that hippie peace and love stuff is all a front. He’s one savage bastard. Still, we had a great time. He and Dru and I went to two wineries near Ashland yesterday, and capped off the day at a Sushi bar. Capped it off heavily, I guess, since we both ended up puking by the end of the night. Dru offered to drive us home and we just kept drinking carafe after carafe of Sake, this great milky, unfiltered Sake that tasted like cold rice milk. We at $200 worth of great sushi - Stan is a food bully - and then hit two other bars before I vomited in the bathroom. And on the side of the road. And in our brown bag filled with leftovers and stolen pears. And in my bathroom. Felt kind of good actually. It’s been a while since I’ve thrown up, and I forgot how it’s kind of a comforting experience. Still, it was one of those perfect days. We spent the afternoon sipping wine on a balcony overlooking a vineyard. We stole pears from a farm along the road. Dru said, "Thanks for not puking on my yarn," as we left the car at the end of the night. There were two brown bags in the back seat with me: one was filled with yarn she bought, the other with pears and sushi. I puked in that one, and when they got to their front door with both bags, the puky one ripped open and pears rolled everywhere.
The day before that I hiked from Mazama to the Rim, after a frustrating hunt for a cutoff to the Pacific Crest Trail. I was rained on and just missed a massive thunder and hail storm that evening.
Rabbit mumbles great things to me when he’s half asleep. Today he said he wants to go to France instead of work. Then he said he doesn’t really. That if he were there he’d punch the French. "Why does your country stink so much? Why does every country in Europe smell good except yours? I hate you." He wants to burn Chiloquin to the ground, just like I do, but only if it were evacuated. Except for Gloria, an Indian who works here that he hates. "I’d tie her up to the flag pole and make her watch her city burn down in front of her." The other day he said, "I’m just a big ball of nothin. Sometimes I’m a big ball of somethin, but usually it’s the other way."
I went to another ranger party with Tim. It was another pasta party, this time at Paco’s, a really cool hippie guy who normally lives on an organic asparagus farm. He told me I’m always welcome at his house, no invitation necessary. I like hippies, I’ve decided.
August 5, 2004
I found out that in the early to mid 1900s, there was a strong push to make a new state - the state of Jefferson - that would comprise parts of California and Oregon from Redding in the south to Roseburg in the north. The rural, sparsely populated areas were being neglected by their respective state governments and their populations felt they would make better sense as a separate state: the State of Jefferson. The state was up for a vote in Congress, but on the same day the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. The vote was passed over and never took off again. I heard all of this from Eric Weisinger, the vintner of Weisinger Winery and Vineyard south of Ashland. (Note: Further investigation shows that while it was not up for vote, there was a massive demonstration planned that day, and until Pearl Harbor, Jefferson was competing daily with WW2 for the front page.)
Digger moved out by the way, and left town for reasons unknown. Rabbit and I snuck into his room and it appeared to be vacated. He left a bunch of clothes, empty beer cases, and some food around the dorm. His key and id badge were lying next to each other on the desk. Rabbit and I were going to take the room, annex it for ourselves, but instead we just stole his Pringles, Nutty Bars and some Ramen.
Stan tried to murder me with Sake and Sushi last night. I’ll bet you didn’t know Japanese cuisine could be a murder weapon, but it’s true. And all that hippie peace and love stuff is all a front. He’s one savage bastard. Still, we had a great time. He and Dru and I went to two wineries near Ashland yesterday, and capped off the day at a Sushi bar. Capped it off heavily, I guess, since we both ended up puking by the end of the night. Dru offered to drive us home and we just kept drinking carafe after carafe of Sake, this great milky, unfiltered Sake that tasted like cold rice milk. We at $200 worth of great sushi - Stan is a food bully - and then hit two other bars before I vomited in the bathroom. And on the side of the road. And in our brown bag filled with leftovers and stolen pears. And in my bathroom. Felt kind of good actually. It’s been a while since I’ve thrown up, and I forgot how it’s kind of a comforting experience. Still, it was one of those perfect days. We spent the afternoon sipping wine on a balcony overlooking a vineyard. We stole pears from a farm along the road. Dru said, "Thanks for not puking on my yarn," as we left the car at the end of the night. There were two brown bags in the back seat with me: one was filled with yarn she bought, the other with pears and sushi. I puked in that one, and when they got to their front door with both bags, the puky one ripped open and pears rolled everywhere.
The day before that I hiked from Mazama to the Rim, after a frustrating hunt for a cutoff to the Pacific Crest Trail. I was rained on and just missed a massive thunder and hail storm that evening.
Rabbit mumbles great things to me when he’s half asleep. Today he said he wants to go to France instead of work. Then he said he doesn’t really. That if he were there he’d punch the French. "Why does your country stink so much? Why does every country in Europe smell good except yours? I hate you." He wants to burn Chiloquin to the ground, just like I do, but only if it were evacuated. Except for Gloria, an Indian who works here that he hates. "I’d tie her up to the flag pole and make her watch her city burn down in front of her." The other day he said, "I’m just a big ball of nothin. Sometimes I’m a big ball of somethin, but usually it’s the other way."
I went to another ranger party with Tim. It was another pasta party, this time at Paco’s, a really cool hippie guy who normally lives on an organic asparagus farm. He told me I’m always welcome at his house, no invitation necessary. I like hippies, I’ve decided.
August 5, 2004
I found out that in the early to mid 1900s, there was a strong push to make a new state - the state of Jefferson - that would comprise parts of California and Oregon from Redding in the south to Roseburg in the north. The rural, sparsely populated areas were being neglected by their respective state governments and their populations felt they would make better sense as a separate state: the State of Jefferson. The state was up for a vote in Congress, but on the same day the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. The vote was passed over and never took off again. I heard all of this from Eric Weisinger, the vintner of Weisinger Winery and Vineyard south of Ashland. (Note: Further investigation shows that while it was not up for vote, there was a massive demonstration planned that day, and until Pearl Harbor, Jefferson was competing daily with WW2 for the front page.)
Digger moved out by the way, and left town for reasons unknown. Rabbit and I snuck into his room and it appeared to be vacated. He left a bunch of clothes, empty beer cases, and some food around the dorm. His key and id badge were lying next to each other on the desk. Rabbit and I were going to take the room, annex it for ourselves, but instead we just stole his Pringles, Nutty Bars and some Ramen.
LIaDVp.10: Trouble in town during shore leave
August 15, 2004
It’s been so long since I’ve done anything worthwhile, in the sense of productivity. I’ve been way too social. Going out and drinking. Whether it’s Shady Cove, Prospect, Medord, Klamath Falls, Ashland, the Ranger dorms whatever. I think I’m getting a bit of cabin fever and responding normally. I guess the real regret comes from the fact that I’ve instilled a lot into this little adventure. I pictured it monastic, solitary, studious, introspective. And it has been all of those things to some extent. But lately I’ve felt the lifestyle drift toward another slacker job in another slacker town. Stan tries to reassure that it is what it is and warns against trying to steer it one way or another, which I can appreciate when it’s such a good time. But lately I’ve been thinking about Grantly Warren’s advice when bartending: you never let your station run you. Run your station. I guess I can feel the days passing and I don’t want to look back and think, what the hell was that all for?
I went out on a rescue mission the other day on the lake. Casey was in town for a few days and she spent the morning on the boats with me. While she was out on tour a visitor was hiking along the base of the Caldera and fell off of a boulder, smashing his head, ankle and knee. A ranger scurried over to him along the wall of the rim, while Captain Tim and I took the Rogue, a tour boat, to the shore. I rowed the skiff out and tied it along the Rogue in case we needed to row to shore for a rescue. I kept up communication with the dock and the park rangers and it was decided that the patient couldn’t be moved without a neckbrace and a back board. We took the Rogue back to the shore, picked up medics and gear and went back out. Tim was able to push the nose of the boat into a nook in the rocks where patient fell. He was awake but groggy. He and his friends were covered in blood. He smashed the back of his head on a rock and gushed. After falling, he seized for a few minutes and couldn’t breathe. His friend gave CPR and he came to. The friends thought they were watching him die. I helped position the boat and carry the guy from the rocks on board. We circled for a while so they could stabilize the guy, Ian. He was 20. We loaded him on the dock and helped attach him to a one-wheeled, off-road gurney. Eight guys carried him up Cleetwood trail and I think he ended up fine. I, of course, made it known to the park that I had singlehandedly saved one, if not several lives.
That night we went to get Mexican food in Shady Cove with Stan and Dru. It was a mild night and we sat on the restaurant’s patio, with the Rogue River rushing by in the dark.
Traveling back in time, the day Casey arrived in the State of Jefferson, boat tours were cancelled because of weather. The lake was full of thick fog and clouds, and wind was rocking the water. It was really beautiful and a raven spent the morning with us, perched on the ticket shack squawking for food. Garfield Peak was hidden. A group of us made a hooky-day trip to Medford and Ashland. Casey met us in Ashland that evening and we had been drinking slowly but steadily all day. Soon after, it was about time to go, so Casey, Stefanie, Tim and I went back to Medford. We left Rabbit and Stan at the Irish Pub in Ashland and they were to meet us at Tin Tin Buffet in Medford. We had a pleasant dinner in the shitty bland sprawl of Medford.
As you might guess, Stan and Rabbit never made it to Medford for dinner. Or the Trophy Room to meet Casey and I later. Or home that night. Casey and I went to bed, and Dru came knocking at our door at 3 am wondering what happened to everyone. She had a visit from Alan the security guard who reported that Stan was spending the night in the drunk tank in Medford. Rabbit's location (or 20 in nautical code) was unknown. I lent Dru the Honda to go pick him up and passed out.
The next morning, still no Stan and Rabbit. Casey and I went to meet up with the boat crew, exhausted, a little hungover and rattled. There were rumblings about ‘Stan,’ ‘missing,’ and ‘detox.’ Not good. I opened up the boat shack along with Tim's help. Roger, our second in command, was furious. Stan showed up not too late with the story:
From various accounts, what I have gathered is that the two of them got properly shitfaced in Ashland. They were getting ready to head out around 10 p.m. and Rabbit decided to park the car to either A) go to a bank or B) panhandle for gas money. It’s unclear. A sloppily parked car and Stan, inside asleep with his ratty long hair and beard, drew the cops, who interrogated him about whose car it was and what he was doing in Ashland. He was pretty drunk and eventually got into a civil rights showdown with the cops, at one point calling a black officer an Uncle Tom. Without charging him, they cuffed him, hauled him into the drunk tank in Medford and impounded Rabbit's car. Ashland cops, I’ve since discovered, are essentially there to clean up the streets of whatever they deem riff-raff, hustling off hippies and vagrants, backpackers and drunks, all to keep the clean face of Ashland’s tourism heaven free of unwanted detritus. "Stay out of Malibu, Lebowski!"
As all of this was happening to Stan, Rabbit, who may have panhandled some cash for gas, saw his vehicle and Stan swarmed by cops and EMTs. He understandably lost his mind and fled the scene to go spend his newfound cash at another bar. A wave of conscience or necessity came over him and he called the Ashland cops with a story about his car being stolen. They called his bluff pretty quickly. A squad car was soon out to Rabbit's 20, if you will, where he was picked up and delivered to a mission homeless shelter where he would stay until the impound lot opened.
During the night in detox Stan recited the constitution to his guard, blew several breath tests, and ultimately peed on the floor of his holding cell, under the door toward his captor. Rabbit, however, slept like a baby in the mission. He didn't want to get up and go when Dru and Stan showed up to grab him. He came out of the church bright-eyed and bushy tailed, ready to go. I’m trying to get the nickname, "Rabbit," to stick. His car cost $215 to free. No charges filed, they just weren’t welcome in Ashland that night.
It’s been so long since I’ve done anything worthwhile, in the sense of productivity. I’ve been way too social. Going out and drinking. Whether it’s Shady Cove, Prospect, Medord, Klamath Falls, Ashland, the Ranger dorms whatever. I think I’m getting a bit of cabin fever and responding normally. I guess the real regret comes from the fact that I’ve instilled a lot into this little adventure. I pictured it monastic, solitary, studious, introspective. And it has been all of those things to some extent. But lately I’ve felt the lifestyle drift toward another slacker job in another slacker town. Stan tries to reassure that it is what it is and warns against trying to steer it one way or another, which I can appreciate when it’s such a good time. But lately I’ve been thinking about Grantly Warren’s advice when bartending: you never let your station run you. Run your station. I guess I can feel the days passing and I don’t want to look back and think, what the hell was that all for?
I went out on a rescue mission the other day on the lake. Casey was in town for a few days and she spent the morning on the boats with me. While she was out on tour a visitor was hiking along the base of the Caldera and fell off of a boulder, smashing his head, ankle and knee. A ranger scurried over to him along the wall of the rim, while Captain Tim and I took the Rogue, a tour boat, to the shore. I rowed the skiff out and tied it along the Rogue in case we needed to row to shore for a rescue. I kept up communication with the dock and the park rangers and it was decided that the patient couldn’t be moved without a neckbrace and a back board. We took the Rogue back to the shore, picked up medics and gear and went back out. Tim was able to push the nose of the boat into a nook in the rocks where patient fell. He was awake but groggy. He and his friends were covered in blood. He smashed the back of his head on a rock and gushed. After falling, he seized for a few minutes and couldn’t breathe. His friend gave CPR and he came to. The friends thought they were watching him die. I helped position the boat and carry the guy from the rocks on board. We circled for a while so they could stabilize the guy, Ian. He was 20. We loaded him on the dock and helped attach him to a one-wheeled, off-road gurney. Eight guys carried him up Cleetwood trail and I think he ended up fine. I, of course, made it known to the park that I had singlehandedly saved one, if not several lives.
That night we went to get Mexican food in Shady Cove with Stan and Dru. It was a mild night and we sat on the restaurant’s patio, with the Rogue River rushing by in the dark.
Traveling back in time, the day Casey arrived in the State of Jefferson, boat tours were cancelled because of weather. The lake was full of thick fog and clouds, and wind was rocking the water. It was really beautiful and a raven spent the morning with us, perched on the ticket shack squawking for food. Garfield Peak was hidden. A group of us made a hooky-day trip to Medford and Ashland. Casey met us in Ashland that evening and we had been drinking slowly but steadily all day. Soon after, it was about time to go, so Casey, Stefanie, Tim and I went back to Medford. We left Rabbit and Stan at the Irish Pub in Ashland and they were to meet us at Tin Tin Buffet in Medford. We had a pleasant dinner in the shitty bland sprawl of Medford.
As you might guess, Stan and Rabbit never made it to Medford for dinner. Or the Trophy Room to meet Casey and I later. Or home that night. Casey and I went to bed, and Dru came knocking at our door at 3 am wondering what happened to everyone. She had a visit from Alan the security guard who reported that Stan was spending the night in the drunk tank in Medford. Rabbit's location (or 20 in nautical code) was unknown. I lent Dru the Honda to go pick him up and passed out.
The next morning, still no Stan and Rabbit. Casey and I went to meet up with the boat crew, exhausted, a little hungover and rattled. There were rumblings about ‘Stan,’ ‘missing,’ and ‘detox.’ Not good. I opened up the boat shack along with Tim's help. Roger, our second in command, was furious. Stan showed up not too late with the story:
From various accounts, what I have gathered is that the two of them got properly shitfaced in Ashland. They were getting ready to head out around 10 p.m. and Rabbit decided to park the car to either A) go to a bank or B) panhandle for gas money. It’s unclear. A sloppily parked car and Stan, inside asleep with his ratty long hair and beard, drew the cops, who interrogated him about whose car it was and what he was doing in Ashland. He was pretty drunk and eventually got into a civil rights showdown with the cops, at one point calling a black officer an Uncle Tom. Without charging him, they cuffed him, hauled him into the drunk tank in Medford and impounded Rabbit's car. Ashland cops, I’ve since discovered, are essentially there to clean up the streets of whatever they deem riff-raff, hustling off hippies and vagrants, backpackers and drunks, all to keep the clean face of Ashland’s tourism heaven free of unwanted detritus. "Stay out of Malibu, Lebowski!"
As all of this was happening to Stan, Rabbit, who may have panhandled some cash for gas, saw his vehicle and Stan swarmed by cops and EMTs. He understandably lost his mind and fled the scene to go spend his newfound cash at another bar. A wave of conscience or necessity came over him and he called the Ashland cops with a story about his car being stolen. They called his bluff pretty quickly. A squad car was soon out to Rabbit's 20, if you will, where he was picked up and delivered to a mission homeless shelter where he would stay until the impound lot opened.
During the night in detox Stan recited the constitution to his guard, blew several breath tests, and ultimately peed on the floor of his holding cell, under the door toward his captor. Rabbit, however, slept like a baby in the mission. He didn't want to get up and go when Dru and Stan showed up to grab him. He came out of the church bright-eyed and bushy tailed, ready to go. I’m trying to get the nickname, "Rabbit," to stick. His car cost $215 to free. No charges filed, they just weren’t welcome in Ashland that night.
LIaDVp.11: Swiss among the rednecks
August 15, 2004 cont.
Today is my sister Amanda’s 29th birthday.
I’ve listened to Blood On the Tracks twice tonight and probably will listen twice more before the night is through.
Brent was here the other night. We ended up having great discussions, but ultimately hanging out with white trash and then hiding his dog from Xanterra security. My neighbor called security on us and we had to run the dog up to Stan's room, then sat in the dark whispering, "Sorry about this. This is not usual." He’s supposed to come back tomorrow, but who knows after a night like that.
Last night I went to the Trophy Room in Prospect with Stan and Dru where with met some Swiss visitors on their way to San Francisco. Jean-Pierre didn’t speak any English. He was like 6’5", had a long silver ponytail and beard and a long French nose. Dru swooned. Margerite was more talkative and fluent. We played shuffleboard and talked about Bush screwing up the world. She said roughly that, as a mother, she can’t imagine how an American mother can send her son to Iraq. She can’t imagine eating disgusting American fast food. She can’t imagine being so fat. She wasn’t being condescending or rude or snobbish like so many Americans imagine of people from other countries. She was befuddled. Honest. Confused at us and our horrible, disgusting habits. It made me ashamed. But at the same time, we were there with them in the
disgusting, fat, bigoted country - surrounded by trophies of mountain cats, baby deer and moose, rednecks shooting pool and hollering, a bar band playing Buffet and Skynyrd - and having a great time. That’s the real confusing part of America. How comfortable the redneckery was for us and them. Jean-Pierre less so, but then again, he loved dancing with Dru to "Walking the Dog."
A boat broke down on the water the other day. We had to send out a rescue boat to tow it in.
August 17, 2004
God it’s hard to figure out the days when I’m out here. I just spent like 10 minutes trying to figure out when I have to work this week. They’re really flying by now, though. Still I think when boat ops is up, I’ll head out if possible.
Went to a ranger party last night and had a pretty good time. Captain Tim and I went and played Cranium and Twister. Normally two things I wouldn’t be thrilled about, since I hate board games, but we had fun. I talked to one of the rangers for a while, and he told me he had no education related to park service work, he just volunteered for a couple of parks to get his foot in the door and has been going from park to park for about 10 years. Sounded pretty incredible. He spent his first season in a small park where he was the only person living there and he had a canoe to get around.
I was called in to work for Nan, the woman I made cry. She needed time off apparently. I was hoping she and her jerky husband had quit, but no such luck. I worked up at the ticket shack with Stefanie. Went pretty smoothly. All of the tours have been selling out in the morning because we’re running one boat short and only half the tours. The rest of the day is spent lying down on the cooler and bullshitting. Not a bad way to spend a work day. After work, I hiked Mount Scott. Beautiful hike. There’s this great feeling that I never really grasped before at the top of the mountain. It’s kind of a barren feeling, like you’re out there with nothing to hide you from the sky or the world or God. No houses, buildings or whatever to tuck under. It’s a very comfortable feeling, actually. Like, here I am, this is it, no hiding necessary. And Mt. Scott is a beautiful view. I could perch on a rock and watch the west end of the park on one end and out on the lake to the other. On the way back, I stopped at Phantom Ship Overlook and watched the sun fall behind the rim. It was like taking a Valium, watching that water ripple under the wind, that same wind in the face and watching the sun drop slowly. Sunlight still made it over the rim, casting a line of light and shadow across the higher parts of mountains near us.
Today is my sister Amanda’s 29th birthday.
I’ve listened to Blood On the Tracks twice tonight and probably will listen twice more before the night is through.
Brent was here the other night. We ended up having great discussions, but ultimately hanging out with white trash and then hiding his dog from Xanterra security. My neighbor called security on us and we had to run the dog up to Stan's room, then sat in the dark whispering, "Sorry about this. This is not usual." He’s supposed to come back tomorrow, but who knows after a night like that.
Last night I went to the Trophy Room in Prospect with Stan and Dru where with met some Swiss visitors on their way to San Francisco. Jean-Pierre didn’t speak any English. He was like 6’5", had a long silver ponytail and beard and a long French nose. Dru swooned. Margerite was more talkative and fluent. We played shuffleboard and talked about Bush screwing up the world. She said roughly that, as a mother, she can’t imagine how an American mother can send her son to Iraq. She can’t imagine eating disgusting American fast food. She can’t imagine being so fat. She wasn’t being condescending or rude or snobbish like so many Americans imagine of people from other countries. She was befuddled. Honest. Confused at us and our horrible, disgusting habits. It made me ashamed. But at the same time, we were there with them in the
disgusting, fat, bigoted country - surrounded by trophies of mountain cats, baby deer and moose, rednecks shooting pool and hollering, a bar band playing Buffet and Skynyrd - and having a great time. That’s the real confusing part of America. How comfortable the redneckery was for us and them. Jean-Pierre less so, but then again, he loved dancing with Dru to "Walking the Dog."
A boat broke down on the water the other day. We had to send out a rescue boat to tow it in.
August 17, 2004
God it’s hard to figure out the days when I’m out here. I just spent like 10 minutes trying to figure out when I have to work this week. They’re really flying by now, though. Still I think when boat ops is up, I’ll head out if possible.
Went to a ranger party last night and had a pretty good time. Captain Tim and I went and played Cranium and Twister. Normally two things I wouldn’t be thrilled about, since I hate board games, but we had fun. I talked to one of the rangers for a while, and he told me he had no education related to park service work, he just volunteered for a couple of parks to get his foot in the door and has been going from park to park for about 10 years. Sounded pretty incredible. He spent his first season in a small park where he was the only person living there and he had a canoe to get around.
I was called in to work for Nan, the woman I made cry. She needed time off apparently. I was hoping she and her jerky husband had quit, but no such luck. I worked up at the ticket shack with Stefanie. Went pretty smoothly. All of the tours have been selling out in the morning because we’re running one boat short and only half the tours. The rest of the day is spent lying down on the cooler and bullshitting. Not a bad way to spend a work day. After work, I hiked Mount Scott. Beautiful hike. There’s this great feeling that I never really grasped before at the top of the mountain. It’s kind of a barren feeling, like you’re out there with nothing to hide you from the sky or the world or God. No houses, buildings or whatever to tuck under. It’s a very comfortable feeling, actually. Like, here I am, this is it, no hiding necessary. And Mt. Scott is a beautiful view. I could perch on a rock and watch the west end of the park on one end and out on the lake to the other. On the way back, I stopped at Phantom Ship Overlook and watched the sun fall behind the rim. It was like taking a Valium, watching that water ripple under the wind, that same wind in the face and watching the sun drop slowly. Sunlight still made it over the rim, casting a line of light and shadow across the higher parts of mountains near us.
LIaDVp.12: This diarrhea has exhausted me
August 18, 2004
Stacey told me (among everything else she was thinking during the day) a series of disturbing stories. She’s really good at that. I was up all night pouring out of my ass thanks to something I ate at the EDR yesterday. Horrible diarrhea, in two stages. I didn’t know what was going on. So I wasn’t in the best of moods in the morning to hear:
Stacey told me (among everything else she was thinking during the day) a series of disturbing stories. She’s really good at that. I was up all night pouring out of my ass thanks to something I ate at the EDR yesterday. Horrible diarrhea, in two stages. I didn’t know what was going on. So I wasn’t in the best of moods in the morning to hear:
- When you hit a deer on the highway, you are expected to kill it if it is suffering. Stacey has experienced this a few times in her youth growing up in Chiloquin. Once her now-fiancee had to kill one with a tire iron when the perpetrator refused. Another time she witnessed someone twist a deer’s neck to put it out of it’s misery. Legs flopping around on the blacktop, seizing as it tried to wriggle away from death before the poor guy in the car had to snap the beast’s spinal cord.
- Her father had to have 10 hours of surgery on his back. Her sister had 9 hours on her arm after she flew over her bike’s handlebars and shattered her elbow and broke her arm. Once Stacey was in the hospital to get her appendix out, and she had to urinate so badly but couldn’t because the catheter was bothering her. The doctors had to threaten to MAKE her urinate if she wouldn’t do it.
- One year at the Caldera (name for a crater made by a collapsed volcano), a couple decided to walk down the Rim to go swimming. The husband slipped and cracked his head on a rock, fell into the water and drowned. As he was dying, he was unable to hear the cries of distress as his wife fell and broke her arm. She survived at least.
You see, I knew something was very wrong with Chiloquin. That place is dark. The list of awful stories from Stacey goes on, and might be more enjoyable if the stories didn’t contain so, so many double negatives. And if I hadn’t been so exhausted from diarrhea. "This diarrhea has exhausted me," I thought to myself that morning.
I was chuckling to myself at the phrase and thinking back to a similar story told to me by a couple of teachers who made their living performing classes on Navy vessels - history and politics and stuff like that. Sounded like a pretty good job. They basically sit around all year and wait for the call, then are shuttled off to some exotic location on the Navy’s dollar. They live among the sailors, teaching for the military’s roving community college. Eat the food, live in the quarters. Then they get to basically vacation for a couple of months at the nearest port, again on the government’s dime. Anyway, Navy food gave one guy violent diarrhea.
Twice now, this dark-skinned Mexican guy who always wears a rosary has stumbled to my door and asked for Rabbit. Then both times he asked me if he could buy some beer from me. I gave him some, but the second time he did this I accepted his offer of money, because shit, if I’m going to run a miniature convenience store for one Mexican guy I ought to be taking some kind of payment. My ass ain’t rich.
Today, this 19-year-old ranger was talking to me about one of the creepier rangers, Rick. Rick is the one who’s just like Chet in Weird Science. He’s so very creepy. Just a big ball of testosterone, a walking date rape. So this girl, Nancy, whom I get along with well, mentioned off hand that Rick was especially lecherous because "He’s like 25 and he’s hitting on us." I laughed, "Boy that’s right, how creepy." But really I was thinking, "Ouch, I’m 26." That means that in this girl’s mind and likely the minds of others, me hitting on anyone in her age bracket is CREEPY. Not inappropriate or irresponsible or forbidden by morals, but CREEPY. I have a great potential to be CREEPY. I felt so old. Suddenly I might be a dirty old man.
August 19, 2004
Today I decorated the ticket shack with duct tape. Heavily. See pictures of five foot tall face of gaping jaw and angry demon eyes. See cooler labeled, "Agua," in foot-tall letters. See tape bars on the windows. See my initials on the wall of the shed. We have a lot of down time.
I invited Rabbit to go to a ranger Halloween party tonight and we were pretty excited. We were very disappointed to find the party consisted of about 5 eight year olds and three 80 year olds. We ate burgers in about 2 minutes and ran out. Thankfully, there was a small, cozy gathering of rangers that Rabbit and I were able to piggyback onto at Sleepy Hollow. Rabbit made some inappropriate gay jokes ("Silly faggot, dicks are for chicks." I'm not joking) in the presence of a gay man, but other than that, we had a very nice time. We came home, cracked two beers and watched the stars, only to be tracked down by Rabbit's boss. She was angry that Rabbit (standing with a beer in hand) was planning on coming to work late. They yelled and yelled and he left for work. And here I am now.
LIaDVp.13: Stan says things like...
Interlude
Stan has become a fairly integral part of the story at this point, so I'll take some time to give the reader perspective on what kind of a guy he is. By now, he's my best, or most prevalent, friend on the mountain. That said, his friendship is the most exasperating one I've ever had. One moment you want to give him a hug or buy him a beer, the next you want to fucking strangle him, or at least never see him again. His bullshit is a key to who he is, so here's a small recollection of Stan Says Things Like...
Stan has become a fairly integral part of the story at this point, so I'll take some time to give the reader perspective on what kind of a guy he is. By now, he's my best, or most prevalent, friend on the mountain. That said, his friendship is the most exasperating one I've ever had. One moment you want to give him a hug or buy him a beer, the next you want to fucking strangle him, or at least never see him again. His bullshit is a key to who he is, so here's a small recollection of Stan Says Things Like...
- "Thank you for your friendship. It’s been a saving grace. I’m being serious."
- "Talk to you anon."
- "I've been eating (sushi) for so long that I no longer find it amusing when people react with disgust."
- "Do you believe there was a man Jesus Christ? (me: Yes, I do) "Then I feel sorry for you."
- "You're aware that I don't eat terrestrial animals?"
- "You don't know anything about bluegrass!"
- "I can't give blood. I played around with some boys in my 20s."
- "This is some interesting urban music." (The music playing was Built to Spill!?)
- "You clearly believe in a sterile environment." (referring to my use of antiperspirant)
- "Lawyers are the reason the 2000 election was such a disaster. And if you don't believe that then I'll jack off in your face."
- "Let's misbehave."
- "Are you a homosexual? Are you a homophobe? Then touch my butt."
- "Actually, Copenhagen stopped adding fiberglass. And ever since, it's never given me the same buzz."
- "If you don't like almonds, wait until you try almond butter."
- "Audubon (field guide) is Disneyland shit."
LIaDVp.14: No tears until it's gone; fugitives from the world
August 20, 2004
I read Richard Brautigan’s Willard and his Bowling Trophies again. What an incredible 165 pages. Just like Raymond Carver’s short stories, I can’t believe how such a small amount of words, run of the mill subject matter, and tight prose can accomplish so much in painting the human predicament. It doesn’t take much if it’s all in the right place. Billy Bragg said, "The most important decisions in life, are made between two people in bed." That’s the American short story in a nutshell, when at its peak. We don’t do War and Peace, but a novella about a couple with an STD, a sad bondage routine, and a papier mache bird living downstairs, can make you cry.
About to start a collection of Joe R. Lansdale short stories. In the author’s notes, he talked a lot about his early career, and how he wrote a story a day for three months. And how he made a ritual of burning rejection letters and the stories attached. It was an obsession for him, and a love. Sort of gave me some good insight into the direction I'd like to go: Do what it takes to pay the bills, and in the meantime, write and read - constantly. Make it not the means, but an end in itself. The only thing you have to do to be a writer is to do it; what happens then is inconsequential.
August 22, 2004
That sound is the beautiful pitter patter of the wet slippery stuff. The soundtrack of back home. The hangover gods smiling down at me and granting me reprieve for good behavior, released on time served. It’s pouring rain and work is cancelled.
Last night I drank Sake, Soju and beer with Dru, Stan, Rabbit and two Koreans named Dong Won and Rock. We started shortly after work and polished off two bottles of Soju (a Korean rice and sweet potato wine) two bottles of Sake and 18 beers. Judging from Stan kissing another man and puking all over the dorm, the Koreans getting chewed out by the shuttle driver for drunken behavior, and various confusing pictures on my digital camera, we must have had a pretty good time.
The Koreans are great guys, and I think we’ve made a pretty good friendship. We sat on the floor of Stan and Dru's room circled around our Asian liquor, eating bag after bag of seaweed and talked some bullshit about both countries, music, the Lake. The pictures made it look like some kind of Korean drug den, all of us huddled in a circle, around our pile of rice liquor. Every round of rice wine was punctuated with "We-hi-yo," the Korean cheers. Stan kept pouring more alcohol for everyone and saying, "No tears until it’s gone, and when it’s gone we cry." He says it’s a Japanese saying about Sake, but you never know with Stan.
By the end of the night, the Koreans were annihilated. Rock couldn't stand up without falling over and knocking something down. He was hanging all over Stan and Dru, kissing Dru's neck and laughing. He was so happy. We got a great picture of them flipping off a photo of Ronald Reagan. A tweekerish bald guy named Dan came by and drank so much that it appeared he was on a bad acid trip. I’ve never seen anyone get so drunk and be so confusing before. Just babbling nonsense. He passed out on their bed and Stan and Dru took turns molesting him. Among the pictures taken were Dru kissing Dan, Stan kissing Dru, Stan kissing Dan, Stan exposing his chest, Stan exposing Dru's chest, Stan and Dru with their pants down, and finally, Dan's girlfriend yelling about his drunken behavior to Dru in her car while smoking pot.
That was the end of the night. She came home and was pissed because Dan got so drunk. Somehow I ended up in the car with her and Dru, and listened to the ranting about Dan. Then I came to my senses, confused as to why I was sitting in the back seat of this stranger's car. I got my stuff and went to bed. When I left Stan, he was passed out cold, with Desolation Row live in 64 blaring throughout the room, probably as loud as it could be. Soon after he would vomit Korean liquor and seaweed all over the room.
August 27, 2004
The last five days or so we’ve been rained out of work. Not good for the money. I spent two days camping with my aunt, uncle and cousin. It was a relaxing time at Hyatt Lake. We lounged around the fire and canoed around the lake.
When I returned, work was rained out yet again. I hopped in the car and drove to Portland for two days. Casey and I had a great time. Saw a couple of bands at Holocene. Ate some pizza. Cooked some salmon.
Today Rabbit and I were talking about how people are getting stir crazy around here. He went over some of his previous roommates who disappeared on him.
"Some people just crack up fast. They can’t handle it up here," I suggested.
"You have to be in the right mindset, you have to have the right type of personality," he said, the last word bringing out his Baton Rouge accent.
"And you have to be prepared, ready for what you’re getting into," I said.
"Most important, you have to have nowhere else to go." Rabbit said, only sort of joking. "That’s how these parks survive man. A lot of these people we work with - they have nowhere to go."
We laughed at how true that is.
"Fugitives from the rest of the world."
"Fugitives from the world."
I think the lake may have been the most beautiful I’ve seen it the other day, the last one before our week vacation started. It was very windy, slightly overcast. The dock was rocking up and down and whitecaps were crashing all over the water.
"There’s sheep in the pen, George," I told the 80-year-old captain as we launched his boat.
"There’s a whole damn flock of em."
Man we had a great time in Portland. Really made me miss home. Watching tv with the cat and playing on the computer. Going to bars, drinking wine, DVDs. Just have to keep reading, working.
While driving around the state over the last week, I killed three animals: a ground squirrel, a grey tree squirrel, and some big dog-sized thing that I didn’t get a good look at before barreling over it and hitting it twice with the Honda at about 65. I had my brights on and by the time I saw the thing, it was practically underneath me. It scared the shit out of me, and shook me up pretty good. Just the sight of it, and knowing that I destroyed something of substantial size. Not a pet or anything, but it could have been. It was probably a marmot, but I didn’t stop to look. I was crying and saying I’m so sorry and driving about 30 mph. It felt like I had made a declaration of war against nature. I didn’t know if I was afraid or guilty or sad or just fatigued from the road. Regardless, I’ve decided to try not eating meat, other than fish, to see how I respond to it. That horrible, gnawing feeling of being complicit in killing a living, thinking creature. It was just horrible. And I want to feel better about it and myself and not eat meat. Not be complicit in suffering on such a massive scale. I dont’ consider it a moral issue necessarily, or that eating meat is inherently wrong. It’s just a matter of me feeling bad about something I do everyday, and wanting to stop it and see what happens.
I read Richard Brautigan’s Willard and his Bowling Trophies again. What an incredible 165 pages. Just like Raymond Carver’s short stories, I can’t believe how such a small amount of words, run of the mill subject matter, and tight prose can accomplish so much in painting the human predicament. It doesn’t take much if it’s all in the right place. Billy Bragg said, "The most important decisions in life, are made between two people in bed." That’s the American short story in a nutshell, when at its peak. We don’t do War and Peace, but a novella about a couple with an STD, a sad bondage routine, and a papier mache bird living downstairs, can make you cry.
About to start a collection of Joe R. Lansdale short stories. In the author’s notes, he talked a lot about his early career, and how he wrote a story a day for three months. And how he made a ritual of burning rejection letters and the stories attached. It was an obsession for him, and a love. Sort of gave me some good insight into the direction I'd like to go: Do what it takes to pay the bills, and in the meantime, write and read - constantly. Make it not the means, but an end in itself. The only thing you have to do to be a writer is to do it; what happens then is inconsequential.
August 22, 2004
That sound is the beautiful pitter patter of the wet slippery stuff. The soundtrack of back home. The hangover gods smiling down at me and granting me reprieve for good behavior, released on time served. It’s pouring rain and work is cancelled.
Last night I drank Sake, Soju and beer with Dru, Stan, Rabbit and two Koreans named Dong Won and Rock. We started shortly after work and polished off two bottles of Soju (a Korean rice and sweet potato wine) two bottles of Sake and 18 beers. Judging from Stan kissing another man and puking all over the dorm, the Koreans getting chewed out by the shuttle driver for drunken behavior, and various confusing pictures on my digital camera, we must have had a pretty good time.
The Koreans are great guys, and I think we’ve made a pretty good friendship. We sat on the floor of Stan and Dru's room circled around our Asian liquor, eating bag after bag of seaweed and talked some bullshit about both countries, music, the Lake. The pictures made it look like some kind of Korean drug den, all of us huddled in a circle, around our pile of rice liquor. Every round of rice wine was punctuated with "We-hi-yo," the Korean cheers. Stan kept pouring more alcohol for everyone and saying, "No tears until it’s gone, and when it’s gone we cry." He says it’s a Japanese saying about Sake, but you never know with Stan.
By the end of the night, the Koreans were annihilated. Rock couldn't stand up without falling over and knocking something down. He was hanging all over Stan and Dru, kissing Dru's neck and laughing. He was so happy. We got a great picture of them flipping off a photo of Ronald Reagan. A tweekerish bald guy named Dan came by and drank so much that it appeared he was on a bad acid trip. I’ve never seen anyone get so drunk and be so confusing before. Just babbling nonsense. He passed out on their bed and Stan and Dru took turns molesting him. Among the pictures taken were Dru kissing Dan, Stan kissing Dru, Stan kissing Dan, Stan exposing his chest, Stan exposing Dru's chest, Stan and Dru with their pants down, and finally, Dan's girlfriend yelling about his drunken behavior to Dru in her car while smoking pot.
That was the end of the night. She came home and was pissed because Dan got so drunk. Somehow I ended up in the car with her and Dru, and listened to the ranting about Dan. Then I came to my senses, confused as to why I was sitting in the back seat of this stranger's car. I got my stuff and went to bed. When I left Stan, he was passed out cold, with Desolation Row live in 64 blaring throughout the room, probably as loud as it could be. Soon after he would vomit Korean liquor and seaweed all over the room.
August 27, 2004
The last five days or so we’ve been rained out of work. Not good for the money. I spent two days camping with my aunt, uncle and cousin. It was a relaxing time at Hyatt Lake. We lounged around the fire and canoed around the lake.
When I returned, work was rained out yet again. I hopped in the car and drove to Portland for two days. Casey and I had a great time. Saw a couple of bands at Holocene. Ate some pizza. Cooked some salmon.
Today Rabbit and I were talking about how people are getting stir crazy around here. He went over some of his previous roommates who disappeared on him.
"Some people just crack up fast. They can’t handle it up here," I suggested.
"You have to be in the right mindset, you have to have the right type of personality," he said, the last word bringing out his Baton Rouge accent.
"And you have to be prepared, ready for what you’re getting into," I said.
"Most important, you have to have nowhere else to go." Rabbit said, only sort of joking. "That’s how these parks survive man. A lot of these people we work with - they have nowhere to go."
We laughed at how true that is.
"Fugitives from the rest of the world."
"Fugitives from the world."
I think the lake may have been the most beautiful I’ve seen it the other day, the last one before our week vacation started. It was very windy, slightly overcast. The dock was rocking up and down and whitecaps were crashing all over the water.
"There’s sheep in the pen, George," I told the 80-year-old captain as we launched his boat.
"There’s a whole damn flock of em."
Man we had a great time in Portland. Really made me miss home. Watching tv with the cat and playing on the computer. Going to bars, drinking wine, DVDs. Just have to keep reading, working.
While driving around the state over the last week, I killed three animals: a ground squirrel, a grey tree squirrel, and some big dog-sized thing that I didn’t get a good look at before barreling over it and hitting it twice with the Honda at about 65. I had my brights on and by the time I saw the thing, it was practically underneath me. It scared the shit out of me, and shook me up pretty good. Just the sight of it, and knowing that I destroyed something of substantial size. Not a pet or anything, but it could have been. It was probably a marmot, but I didn’t stop to look. I was crying and saying I’m so sorry and driving about 30 mph. It felt like I had made a declaration of war against nature. I didn’t know if I was afraid or guilty or sad or just fatigued from the road. Regardless, I’ve decided to try not eating meat, other than fish, to see how I respond to it. That horrible, gnawing feeling of being complicit in killing a living, thinking creature. It was just horrible. And I want to feel better about it and myself and not eat meat. Not be complicit in suffering on such a massive scale. I dont’ consider it a moral issue necessarily, or that eating meat is inherently wrong. It’s just a matter of me feeling bad about something I do everyday, and wanting to stop it and see what happens.
LIaDVp.14: No tears until it's gone; fugitives from the world
August 20, 2004
I read Richard Brautigan’s Willard and his Bowling Trophies again. What an incredible 165 pages. Just like Raymond Carver’s short stories, I can’t believe how such a small amount of words, run of the mill subject matter, and tight prose can accomplish so much in painting the human predicament. It doesn’t take much if it’s all in the right place. Billy Bragg said, "The most important decisions in life, are made between two people in bed." That’s the American short story in a nutshell, when at its peak. We don’t do War and Peace, but a novella about a couple with an STD, a sad bondage routine, and a papier mache bird living downstairs, can make you cry.
About to start a collection of Joe R. Lansdale short stories. In the author’s notes, he talked a lot about his early career, and how he wrote a story a day for three months. And how he made a ritual of burning rejection letters and the stories attached. It was an obsession for him, and a love. Sort of gave me some good insight into the direction I'd like to go: Do what it takes to pay the bills, and in the meantime, write and read - constantly. Make it not the means, but an end in itself. The only thing you have to do to be a writer is to do it; what happens then is inconsequential.
August 22, 2004
That sound is the beautiful pitter patter of the wet slippery stuff. The soundtrack of back home. The hangover gods smiling down at me and granting me reprieve for good behavior, released on time served. It’s pouring rain and work is cancelled.
Last night I drank Sake, Soju and beer with Dru, Stan, Rabbit and two Koreans named Dong Won and Rock. We started shortly after work and polished off two bottles of Soju (a Korean rice and sweet potato wine) two bottles of Sake and 18 beers. Judging from Stan kissing another man and puking all over the dorm, the Koreans getting chewed out by the shuttle driver for drunken behavior, and various confusing pictures on my digital camera, we must have had a pretty good time.
The Koreans are great guys, and I think we’ve made a pretty good friendship. We sat on the floor of Stan and Dru's room circled around our Asian liquor, eating bag after bag of seaweed and talked some bullshit about both countries, music, the Lake. The pictures made it look like some kind of Korean drug den, all of us huddled in a circle, around our pile of rice liquor. Every round of rice wine was punctuated with "We-hi-yo," the Korean cheers. Stan kept pouring more alcohol for everyone and saying, "No tears until it’s gone, and when it’s gone we cry." He says it’s a Japanese saying about Sake, but you never know with Stan.
By the end of the night, the Koreans were annihilated. Rock couldn't stand up without falling over and knocking something down. He was hanging all over Stan and Dru, kissing Dru's neck and laughing. He was so happy. We got a great picture of them flipping off a photo of Ronald Reagan. A tweekerish bald guy named Dan came by and drank so much that it appeared he was on a bad acid trip. I’ve never seen anyone get so drunk and be so confusing before. Just babbling nonsense. He passed out on their bed and Stan and Dru took turns molesting him. Among the pictures taken were Dru kissing Dan, Stan kissing Dru, Stan kissing Dan, Stan exposing his chest, Stan exposing Dru's chest, Stan and Dru with their pants down, and finally, Dan's girlfriend yelling about his drunken behavior to Dru in her car while smoking pot.
That was the end of the night. She came home and was pissed because Dan got so drunk. Somehow I ended up in the car with her and Dru, and listened to the ranting about Dan. Then I came to my senses, confused as to why I was sitting in the back seat of this stranger's car. I got my stuff and went to bed. When I left Stan, he was passed out cold, with Desolation Row live in 64 blaring throughout the room, probably as loud as it could be. Soon after he would vomit Korean liquor and seaweed all over the room.
August 27, 2004
The last five days or so we’ve been rained out of work. Not good for the money. I spent two days camping with my aunt, uncle and cousin. It was a relaxing time at Hyatt Lake. We lounged around the fire and canoed around the lake.
When I returned, work was rained out yet again. I hopped in the car and drove to Portland for two days. Casey and I had a great time. Saw a couple of bands at Holocene. Ate some pizza. Cooked some salmon.
Today Rabbit and I were talking about how people are getting stir crazy around here. He went over some of his previous roommates who disappeared on him.
"Some people just crack up fast. They can’t handle it up here," I suggested.
"You have to be in the right mindset, you have to have the right type of personality," he said, the last word bringing out his Baton Rouge accent.
"And you have to be prepared, ready for what you’re getting into," I said.
"Most important, you have to have nowhere else to go." Rabbit said, only sort of joking. "That’s how these parks survive man. A lot of these people we work with - they have nowhere to go."
We laughed at how true that is.
"Fugitives from the rest of the world."
"Fugitives from the world."
I think the lake may have been the most beautiful I’ve seen it the other day, the last one before our week vacation started. It was very windy, slightly overcast. The dock was rocking up and down and whitecaps were crashing all over the water.
"There’s sheep in the pen, George," I told the 80-year-old captain as we launched his boat.
"There’s a whole damn flock of em."
Man we had a great time in Portland. Really made me miss home. Watching tv with the cat and playing on the computer. Going to bars, drinking wine, DVDs. Just have to keep reading, working.
While driving around the state over the last week, I killed three animals: a ground squirrel, a grey tree squirrel, and some big dog-sized thing that I didn’t get a good look at before barreling over it and hitting it twice with the Honda at about 65. I had my brights on and by the time I saw the thing, it was practically underneath me. It scared the shit out of me, and shook me up pretty good. Just the sight of it, and knowing that I destroyed something of substantial size. Not a pet or anything, but it could have been. It was probably a marmot, but I didn’t stop to look. I was crying and saying I’m so sorry and driving about 30 mph. It felt like I had made a declaration of war against nature. I didn’t know if I was afraid or guilty or sad or just fatigued from the road. Regardless, I’ve decided to try not eating meat, other than fish, to see how I respond to it. That horrible, gnawing feeling of being complicit in killing a living, thinking creature. It was just horrible. And I want to feel better about it and myself and not eat meat. Not be complicit in suffering on such a massive scale. I dont’ consider it a moral issue necessarily, or that eating meat is inherently wrong. It’s just a matter of me feeling bad about something I do everyday, and wanting to stop it and see what happens.
I read Richard Brautigan’s Willard and his Bowling Trophies again. What an incredible 165 pages. Just like Raymond Carver’s short stories, I can’t believe how such a small amount of words, run of the mill subject matter, and tight prose can accomplish so much in painting the human predicament. It doesn’t take much if it’s all in the right place. Billy Bragg said, "The most important decisions in life, are made between two people in bed." That’s the American short story in a nutshell, when at its peak. We don’t do War and Peace, but a novella about a couple with an STD, a sad bondage routine, and a papier mache bird living downstairs, can make you cry.
About to start a collection of Joe R. Lansdale short stories. In the author’s notes, he talked a lot about his early career, and how he wrote a story a day for three months. And how he made a ritual of burning rejection letters and the stories attached. It was an obsession for him, and a love. Sort of gave me some good insight into the direction I'd like to go: Do what it takes to pay the bills, and in the meantime, write and read - constantly. Make it not the means, but an end in itself. The only thing you have to do to be a writer is to do it; what happens then is inconsequential.
August 22, 2004
That sound is the beautiful pitter patter of the wet slippery stuff. The soundtrack of back home. The hangover gods smiling down at me and granting me reprieve for good behavior, released on time served. It’s pouring rain and work is cancelled.
Last night I drank Sake, Soju and beer with Dru, Stan, Rabbit and two Koreans named Dong Won and Rock. We started shortly after work and polished off two bottles of Soju (a Korean rice and sweet potato wine) two bottles of Sake and 18 beers. Judging from Stan kissing another man and puking all over the dorm, the Koreans getting chewed out by the shuttle driver for drunken behavior, and various confusing pictures on my digital camera, we must have had a pretty good time.
The Koreans are great guys, and I think we’ve made a pretty good friendship. We sat on the floor of Stan and Dru's room circled around our Asian liquor, eating bag after bag of seaweed and talked some bullshit about both countries, music, the Lake. The pictures made it look like some kind of Korean drug den, all of us huddled in a circle, around our pile of rice liquor. Every round of rice wine was punctuated with "We-hi-yo," the Korean cheers. Stan kept pouring more alcohol for everyone and saying, "No tears until it’s gone, and when it’s gone we cry." He says it’s a Japanese saying about Sake, but you never know with Stan.
By the end of the night, the Koreans were annihilated. Rock couldn't stand up without falling over and knocking something down. He was hanging all over Stan and Dru, kissing Dru's neck and laughing. He was so happy. We got a great picture of them flipping off a photo of Ronald Reagan. A tweekerish bald guy named Dan came by and drank so much that it appeared he was on a bad acid trip. I’ve never seen anyone get so drunk and be so confusing before. Just babbling nonsense. He passed out on their bed and Stan and Dru took turns molesting him. Among the pictures taken were Dru kissing Dan, Stan kissing Dru, Stan kissing Dan, Stan exposing his chest, Stan exposing Dru's chest, Stan and Dru with their pants down, and finally, Dan's girlfriend yelling about his drunken behavior to Dru in her car while smoking pot.
That was the end of the night. She came home and was pissed because Dan got so drunk. Somehow I ended up in the car with her and Dru, and listened to the ranting about Dan. Then I came to my senses, confused as to why I was sitting in the back seat of this stranger's car. I got my stuff and went to bed. When I left Stan, he was passed out cold, with Desolation Row live in 64 blaring throughout the room, probably as loud as it could be. Soon after he would vomit Korean liquor and seaweed all over the room.
August 27, 2004
The last five days or so we’ve been rained out of work. Not good for the money. I spent two days camping with my aunt, uncle and cousin. It was a relaxing time at Hyatt Lake. We lounged around the fire and canoed around the lake.
When I returned, work was rained out yet again. I hopped in the car and drove to Portland for two days. Casey and I had a great time. Saw a couple of bands at Holocene. Ate some pizza. Cooked some salmon.
Today Rabbit and I were talking about how people are getting stir crazy around here. He went over some of his previous roommates who disappeared on him.
"Some people just crack up fast. They can’t handle it up here," I suggested.
"You have to be in the right mindset, you have to have the right type of personality," he said, the last word bringing out his Baton Rouge accent.
"And you have to be prepared, ready for what you’re getting into," I said.
"Most important, you have to have nowhere else to go." Rabbit said, only sort of joking. "That’s how these parks survive man. A lot of these people we work with - they have nowhere to go."
We laughed at how true that is.
"Fugitives from the rest of the world."
"Fugitives from the world."
I think the lake may have been the most beautiful I’ve seen it the other day, the last one before our week vacation started. It was very windy, slightly overcast. The dock was rocking up and down and whitecaps were crashing all over the water.
"There’s sheep in the pen, George," I told the 80-year-old captain as we launched his boat.
"There’s a whole damn flock of em."
Man we had a great time in Portland. Really made me miss home. Watching tv with the cat and playing on the computer. Going to bars, drinking wine, DVDs. Just have to keep reading, working.
While driving around the state over the last week, I killed three animals: a ground squirrel, a grey tree squirrel, and some big dog-sized thing that I didn’t get a good look at before barreling over it and hitting it twice with the Honda at about 65. I had my brights on and by the time I saw the thing, it was practically underneath me. It scared the shit out of me, and shook me up pretty good. Just the sight of it, and knowing that I destroyed something of substantial size. Not a pet or anything, but it could have been. It was probably a marmot, but I didn’t stop to look. I was crying and saying I’m so sorry and driving about 30 mph. It felt like I had made a declaration of war against nature. I didn’t know if I was afraid or guilty or sad or just fatigued from the road. Regardless, I’ve decided to try not eating meat, other than fish, to see how I respond to it. That horrible, gnawing feeling of being complicit in killing a living, thinking creature. It was just horrible. And I want to feel better about it and myself and not eat meat. Not be complicit in suffering on such a massive scale. I dont’ consider it a moral issue necessarily, or that eating meat is inherently wrong. It’s just a matter of me feeling bad about something I do everyday, and wanting to stop it and see what happens.
LIaDVp.15: The Second Coming of the Indian Jesus
August 30, 2004
Friday night, Rabbit and I went to Sleepy Hollow for a ranger party. Some of the interpreters threw a Halloween party, and we couldn't resist a night out from the dorm. It turned out to be one of the better ranger parties of the season. Some people really got into the costume aspect. Rabbit and I were resourceful, but unspectacular, by wearing each others' work uniforms and name tags. It worked well for those who knew us, but others were mainly confused. Rabbit and I drank several Pabsts and he had a few shots, daiquiris and martinis. What the hell, it was his night off. He was really in his element at the ranger party, so much moreso than around those punks from the Rim dorm. He was laughing most of the night and hitting on a weekend park dispatcher with big boobs. He gets that boyish excitement going, but then keeps throwing around how he wants to squeeze these, lick those, and so on. Not to any girls directly, but just to me and other guys. It's hilarious.
Stefanie and I worked together for a few hours this morning and were talking about how we spent our time here.
I'm going to hike Garfield with a bunch of people by moonlight tonight.
I've learned to take many things Stan says with a grain of salt. I've caught him (to myself of course) bluffing about having read books or seen movies. He's also exaggerated on a number of occasions, with his retelling of stories varying slightly from telling to telling. I'm not saying he's a filthy liar or anything, but he likes to bullshit. A lot. That morning, Stefanie and I were talking about how as time has passed this season, people we once found charming because of their odd personalities or quirky mannerisms, are becoming less charming. They go from characters to people, which are always far more complicated. Your appreciation of them deepens, but with that comes chinks in the armor of this image you've constructed of them. I guess that's what I mean about Stan. I still like him very much, and value his friendship. But he's no longer "Stan," he's just Stan. Sometimes he bugs the shit out of me, and other times I love him. That's a friendship instead of just a novelty you hang around with for kicks. That's the price of an adult friendship. The honeymoon ends quickly.
I read this Joe Lansdale story, "The Night They Missed the Drive-In," last night. Holy shit. Lansdale's writing varies so greatly, that from page to page, he's sad, funny, melancholy, scary, violent, sexual, angry and you never know when he'll be what. He hops genre and style in every short story. But this one had it all. I never, maybe just once, saw what he was going to throw at me before it hit me hard. This story takes you from a smile to out loud laugh to a shocked gape in about 20 or so pages. It's that good. Truly inspiring storytelling. And he doesn't seem to pass judgment or attempt to make a statement. He just tells the story, so effectively that you're with him the whole way, as if to say "and then what happened?!" between every turned page. That's admirable and daunting. For me, it's become a real watermark of what you can do with a few thousand words.
Later that night ..
Just got back from a moonlit hike up Garfield Peak. I drove there with Rabbit, picked up Stefanie from her dorm before meeting up with Lindsay, the lodge manager, and Cory and Beth, front desk.
We started up around 8 pm, when the sun had recently set and the western sky was lit up red and pink and orange like there was fire out there. We were noisy, but it was a group hike so I wasn't really expecting serenity. The sunlight grew more colorful and started to disappear as we worked our way up the 1.7 mile ridge. Cory is a part-Indian, asthmatic smoker who drinks Jagermeister while hiking and smoked a few cartons when he hiked the Pacific Crest Trail from Washington to California. He sort of led the way with a headlamp. We made several stops along the way, as the old and weak and overweight dragged ass up the trail. Rabbit was cracking me up the whole way.
I realized that Rabbit, Stefanie and I were all wearing clothes advertising our home states. It was just a coincidence, but you have to think that when we all dress ourselves to go out among the seasonal staff, it's like putting on an identity. I'm Arizona. She's Wisconsin. He's Louisiana. Our nametags boast the same homestates. Something to distinguish us. Make us not anonymous. Because when you leave context, you really are exactly that. Take away the people you know and love from around you, and your identity sort of washes out, like removing all the lights in the room. No shadow, no image. Just a t-shirt boasting your home state.
We got to the top of the hill and the moon was gold when it first came up from the mountain. Then it rose and started to light up the whole hillside pale silver. We stood up on the top and laughed and joked around. Cory claimed to be the second coming of the Indian Jesus. As people were commenting on how beautiful it was at the top, he said, "My butt is sweaty." On the way down, we stumbled through rocks and loose gravel, slipping time to time and the girls screaming before catching balance. Stefanie was worried about mountain lions the whole way. Rabbit was lagging in back flirting with Beth, the Christian front desk girl. At one point he smelled her. He also said he'd hoist her down over the ledge and let her pee off the side. Then he said if she fell he'd send her mother a telegram. "I'd send her a singing telegram." He was dropping wacky shit like that all night, in top Rabbit form.
We reached the bottom of the Rim and milled around the lodge for a few minutes before splitting up and calling it a night.
Friday night, Rabbit and I went to Sleepy Hollow for a ranger party. Some of the interpreters threw a Halloween party, and we couldn't resist a night out from the dorm. It turned out to be one of the better ranger parties of the season. Some people really got into the costume aspect. Rabbit and I were resourceful, but unspectacular, by wearing each others' work uniforms and name tags. It worked well for those who knew us, but others were mainly confused. Rabbit and I drank several Pabsts and he had a few shots, daiquiris and martinis. What the hell, it was his night off. He was really in his element at the ranger party, so much moreso than around those punks from the Rim dorm. He was laughing most of the night and hitting on a weekend park dispatcher with big boobs. He gets that boyish excitement going, but then keeps throwing around how he wants to squeeze these, lick those, and so on. Not to any girls directly, but just to me and other guys. It's hilarious.
Stefanie and I worked together for a few hours this morning and were talking about how we spent our time here.
"I think when it's all over, I'm going to be sad to see it end, in some ways," I said.
She raised her eyebrow, as if to say, "You've got to be kidding me."
"No, I mean, I'll be happy to go home, but I've grown accustomed to this
place in a lot of ways. I've come to like this place. Like my room, hiking, the
time alone."
"I more think that when it's over I'll be disappointed with the way I spent the time here. I guess I do this with everything and it's really stupid, because I never behave in a way that would make this happen, but .... I don't know ... I guess, I just always expect things to be like a movie in a way. I expect everything to be so meaningful -"
"Like you imagined all sorts of exciting things would have happened -"
"Or like I would meet these close friends and have these amazing social experiences. I mean I've had so many great opportunities for exciting things to happen, and I just don't act on them. Like
college. I had the most uneventful college experience."
"I think a lot of that feeling of importance and meaning will come later, as you almost project in a way, what this will all mean for you. What box to put the experience in," I said.
I'm going to hike Garfield with a bunch of people by moonlight tonight.
I've learned to take many things Stan says with a grain of salt. I've caught him (to myself of course) bluffing about having read books or seen movies. He's also exaggerated on a number of occasions, with his retelling of stories varying slightly from telling to telling. I'm not saying he's a filthy liar or anything, but he likes to bullshit. A lot. That morning, Stefanie and I were talking about how as time has passed this season, people we once found charming because of their odd personalities or quirky mannerisms, are becoming less charming. They go from characters to people, which are always far more complicated. Your appreciation of them deepens, but with that comes chinks in the armor of this image you've constructed of them. I guess that's what I mean about Stan. I still like him very much, and value his friendship. But he's no longer "Stan," he's just Stan. Sometimes he bugs the shit out of me, and other times I love him. That's a friendship instead of just a novelty you hang around with for kicks. That's the price of an adult friendship. The honeymoon ends quickly.
I read this Joe Lansdale story, "The Night They Missed the Drive-In," last night. Holy shit. Lansdale's writing varies so greatly, that from page to page, he's sad, funny, melancholy, scary, violent, sexual, angry and you never know when he'll be what. He hops genre and style in every short story. But this one had it all. I never, maybe just once, saw what he was going to throw at me before it hit me hard. This story takes you from a smile to out loud laugh to a shocked gape in about 20 or so pages. It's that good. Truly inspiring storytelling. And he doesn't seem to pass judgment or attempt to make a statement. He just tells the story, so effectively that you're with him the whole way, as if to say "and then what happened?!" between every turned page. That's admirable and daunting. For me, it's become a real watermark of what you can do with a few thousand words.
Later that night ..
Just got back from a moonlit hike up Garfield Peak. I drove there with Rabbit, picked up Stefanie from her dorm before meeting up with Lindsay, the lodge manager, and Cory and Beth, front desk.
We started up around 8 pm, when the sun had recently set and the western sky was lit up red and pink and orange like there was fire out there. We were noisy, but it was a group hike so I wasn't really expecting serenity. The sunlight grew more colorful and started to disappear as we worked our way up the 1.7 mile ridge. Cory is a part-Indian, asthmatic smoker who drinks Jagermeister while hiking and smoked a few cartons when he hiked the Pacific Crest Trail from Washington to California. He sort of led the way with a headlamp. We made several stops along the way, as the old and weak and overweight dragged ass up the trail. Rabbit was cracking me up the whole way.
I realized that Rabbit, Stefanie and I were all wearing clothes advertising our home states. It was just a coincidence, but you have to think that when we all dress ourselves to go out among the seasonal staff, it's like putting on an identity. I'm Arizona. She's Wisconsin. He's Louisiana. Our nametags boast the same homestates. Something to distinguish us. Make us not anonymous. Because when you leave context, you really are exactly that. Take away the people you know and love from around you, and your identity sort of washes out, like removing all the lights in the room. No shadow, no image. Just a t-shirt boasting your home state.
We got to the top of the hill and the moon was gold when it first came up from the mountain. Then it rose and started to light up the whole hillside pale silver. We stood up on the top and laughed and joked around. Cory claimed to be the second coming of the Indian Jesus. As people were commenting on how beautiful it was at the top, he said, "My butt is sweaty." On the way down, we stumbled through rocks and loose gravel, slipping time to time and the girls screaming before catching balance. Stefanie was worried about mountain lions the whole way. Rabbit was lagging in back flirting with Beth, the Christian front desk girl. At one point he smelled her. He also said he'd hoist her down over the ledge and let her pee off the side. Then he said if she fell he'd send her mother a telegram. "I'd send her a singing telegram." He was dropping wacky shit like that all night, in top Rabbit form.
We reached the bottom of the Rim and milled around the lodge for a few minutes before splitting up and calling it a night.
LIaDVp.17: Peace is a four-tour day... Fisticuffs on the outskirts of the park
September 2, 2004
Today was fucking freezing in the ticket shack. Temperatures have been very low on the lake. We bundled up with jackets and Crater Lake throw blankets. We barely sold any tickets and cancelled the 4 p.m. tour. Just a few days ago it was 80 or so degrees. I was out on the dock and Dana, Tim, Roger, Cara and I spent the afternoon lounging on the dock. We had a four-tour day, so there were two-hour breaks between tours, and not a tourist in sight. We all sprawled around the dock, feet in the water, some of us trying to sleep. What a beautiful way to spend a work day. Later I sat in the rescue boat, read and took a catnap.
That same day I took a boat tour. Hung out up front with Tim and Cara, joking around. We had some spare time, so Tim brought the boat right up close to the base of the crater wall at Chasky Bay, where two waterfalls trickle into blue-green water in a scene you’d think was in Hawaii. Then we took the boat right up to a small cave in the side of the Caldera volcano rock. What a beautiful way to spend a work day.
Today after work, Tim and I drove into Klamath Falls to get some Vietnamese food. I know, how perfect is it that after hearing of Tim's war stories, I’d go eat Vietnamese with him. He was the most normal, kind, regular guy the entire way. We had a calm political discussion during dinner. He was polite to the Vietnamese servers. He talked freely about his thoughts on war, calling it nothing but failed diplomacy.
I asked casually about his service in Vietnam. Turns out he never even set foot on the country. He volunteered with the Navy to avoid getting drafted into the shit. His time in the war was spent on an aircraft carrier working his ass off, repairing equipment, picking up pilots and passengers who may have been shot down. But he’s never actually been to Vietnam.
I have no way to align this impression of Tim that I’ve learned from spending time with him, and this monster that Stan and Dru describe. It’s like we’re talking about two people. I can’t say that Stan is flat out lying, but I also can’t guarantee that Tim is being completely up front with me. But after having dinner with this guy, who is thinking about getting a part-time job at Home Depot for fun, who thinks what the U.S. did to the Japanese in WWII is a war crime, who had to stop twice on the drive home because some Chiloquin Mexican food gave him the shits, I can’t accept the opinion that Stan and Dru have of him. (Aside: It occurs to me now that Stan and Dru are in their late 30s, Tim is in his late 50s, and I am in my late 20s. The middle-aged couple could be significantly more cynical about the generation directly above them than I would be. Just a thought.)
September 3, 2004
Rabbit woke me up at 3:30 a.m. this morning.
"Tate, I need to talk to you. It’s important."
"It’s important?"
"Yeah, it’s important."
I won’t try to recreate the conversation, but he essentially said that he went to Jessie’s place at the campground just outside the park late in the night to party. He and Stan got into a scuffle over Rabbit's car keys. It ended with Stan punching Rabbit in the face and Rabbit driving off. He said he called Troy, the second in command for the park and manager on call, and told him that Stan punched him in the face. Troy told Rabbit that since the campground is company property, Stan would be fired.
Rabbit was a mess. He was clearly shook up from being in a fight, and he also felt horrible about calling Troy. "I don’t handle situations like this very well Tate. Man I hope Stan doesn’t get fired. I didn’t want him to get fired." I pretty much heard him out, told him he ought to tell Troy that tomorrow, and should get some sleep.
From the accounts I’ve heard so far, it sounds like Rabbit was shitfaced (he told me he wasn’t drinking but I know otherwise) crashed at midnight, woke up at about 2 a.m. and decided to go to the campground to see if anyone was around. The party at Jess's was winding down, but Stan and Dru were there, and Stan was pretty drunk as well. How drunk Rabbit was is unclear, but chances are it was very. Rabbit said Stan wanted him to stay and drink, so he started wrestling him to the ground. Dru said Rabbit was way too drunk to be driving, and that he was in rare form, saying offensive sexual things (my inner eyes rolled when I heard this after our discussion the other night. Fucking hippies.) and Stan wanted to get his keys away for his safety. They wrestled for a while, when Dru and others pulled them apart. Rabbit said a while passed and then Stan walked up to him and punched him in the eye. Hard and a good shot, he said.
By the time I got to the Dining Room after work, it was already all over the place. Rumor had it that Stan got fired. I talked to Dru briefly. She was pretty much in the dark over the administrative stuff. I came home and Rabbit was lying in bed with a growing shiner. Yeah, it was a good shot. Rabbit pretty much gave the same story I heard last night, but a little more sympathetic to Stan, saying he was just trying to help him. But it sounds so far like he really did get suckerpunched. Rabbit said he didn’t fight back at all, which I believe, because he’s the security guard for one and can’t fight, and because it would contradict too wildly from others’ accounts.
I don’t really want to hear from Stan yet. I can’t get over the fact that he punched him with a closed fist. They’re friends, and no matter what Rabbit did or said, punching him in the face is out of boundaries. They both were called into management’s office and given a few written actions. Nobody was fired. Rabbit can’t be security anymore. I have a hunch that Stan is off boats. This goddamned place is making people mad.
(Note: later today, I’ve found out that Rabbit did in fact punch Stan when they were wrestling, and that all other witness accounts say he was pretty blitzed. Rabbit's account differred from all the other ones, which Rabbit suggested may be because he was more sober than all the other people there. I think that’s pretty funny. (Note note: By the end of the season I will have heard about 6 or 7 different accounts of this fight and still am unsure of exactly what happened. Blame is impossible to assign and irrelevant. More interesting is that it happened at all, and nobody can really describe it. Campfire light and massive amounts of alcohol late at night.))
Today was fucking freezing in the ticket shack. Temperatures have been very low on the lake. We bundled up with jackets and Crater Lake throw blankets. We barely sold any tickets and cancelled the 4 p.m. tour. Just a few days ago it was 80 or so degrees. I was out on the dock and Dana, Tim, Roger, Cara and I spent the afternoon lounging on the dock. We had a four-tour day, so there were two-hour breaks between tours, and not a tourist in sight. We all sprawled around the dock, feet in the water, some of us trying to sleep. What a beautiful way to spend a work day. Later I sat in the rescue boat, read and took a catnap.
That same day I took a boat tour. Hung out up front with Tim and Cara, joking around. We had some spare time, so Tim brought the boat right up close to the base of the crater wall at Chasky Bay, where two waterfalls trickle into blue-green water in a scene you’d think was in Hawaii. Then we took the boat right up to a small cave in the side of the Caldera volcano rock. What a beautiful way to spend a work day.
Today after work, Tim and I drove into Klamath Falls to get some Vietnamese food. I know, how perfect is it that after hearing of Tim's war stories, I’d go eat Vietnamese with him. He was the most normal, kind, regular guy the entire way. We had a calm political discussion during dinner. He was polite to the Vietnamese servers. He talked freely about his thoughts on war, calling it nothing but failed diplomacy.
I asked casually about his service in Vietnam. Turns out he never even set foot on the country. He volunteered with the Navy to avoid getting drafted into the shit. His time in the war was spent on an aircraft carrier working his ass off, repairing equipment, picking up pilots and passengers who may have been shot down. But he’s never actually been to Vietnam.
I have no way to align this impression of Tim that I’ve learned from spending time with him, and this monster that Stan and Dru describe. It’s like we’re talking about two people. I can’t say that Stan is flat out lying, but I also can’t guarantee that Tim is being completely up front with me. But after having dinner with this guy, who is thinking about getting a part-time job at Home Depot for fun, who thinks what the U.S. did to the Japanese in WWII is a war crime, who had to stop twice on the drive home because some Chiloquin Mexican food gave him the shits, I can’t accept the opinion that Stan and Dru have of him. (Aside: It occurs to me now that Stan and Dru are in their late 30s, Tim is in his late 50s, and I am in my late 20s. The middle-aged couple could be significantly more cynical about the generation directly above them than I would be. Just a thought.)
September 3, 2004
Rabbit woke me up at 3:30 a.m. this morning.
"Tate, I need to talk to you. It’s important."
"It’s important?"
"Yeah, it’s important."
I won’t try to recreate the conversation, but he essentially said that he went to Jessie’s place at the campground just outside the park late in the night to party. He and Stan got into a scuffle over Rabbit's car keys. It ended with Stan punching Rabbit in the face and Rabbit driving off. He said he called Troy, the second in command for the park and manager on call, and told him that Stan punched him in the face. Troy told Rabbit that since the campground is company property, Stan would be fired.
Rabbit was a mess. He was clearly shook up from being in a fight, and he also felt horrible about calling Troy. "I don’t handle situations like this very well Tate. Man I hope Stan doesn’t get fired. I didn’t want him to get fired." I pretty much heard him out, told him he ought to tell Troy that tomorrow, and should get some sleep.
From the accounts I’ve heard so far, it sounds like Rabbit was shitfaced (he told me he wasn’t drinking but I know otherwise) crashed at midnight, woke up at about 2 a.m. and decided to go to the campground to see if anyone was around. The party at Jess's was winding down, but Stan and Dru were there, and Stan was pretty drunk as well. How drunk Rabbit was is unclear, but chances are it was very. Rabbit said Stan wanted him to stay and drink, so he started wrestling him to the ground. Dru said Rabbit was way too drunk to be driving, and that he was in rare form, saying offensive sexual things (my inner eyes rolled when I heard this after our discussion the other night. Fucking hippies.) and Stan wanted to get his keys away for his safety. They wrestled for a while, when Dru and others pulled them apart. Rabbit said a while passed and then Stan walked up to him and punched him in the eye. Hard and a good shot, he said.
By the time I got to the Dining Room after work, it was already all over the place. Rumor had it that Stan got fired. I talked to Dru briefly. She was pretty much in the dark over the administrative stuff. I came home and Rabbit was lying in bed with a growing shiner. Yeah, it was a good shot. Rabbit pretty much gave the same story I heard last night, but a little more sympathetic to Stan, saying he was just trying to help him. But it sounds so far like he really did get suckerpunched. Rabbit said he didn’t fight back at all, which I believe, because he’s the security guard for one and can’t fight, and because it would contradict too wildly from others’ accounts.
I don’t really want to hear from Stan yet. I can’t get over the fact that he punched him with a closed fist. They’re friends, and no matter what Rabbit did or said, punching him in the face is out of boundaries. They both were called into management’s office and given a few written actions. Nobody was fired. Rabbit can’t be security anymore. I have a hunch that Stan is off boats. This goddamned place is making people mad.
(Note: later today, I’ve found out that Rabbit did in fact punch Stan when they were wrestling, and that all other witness accounts say he was pretty blitzed. Rabbit's account differred from all the other ones, which Rabbit suggested may be because he was more sober than all the other people there. I think that’s pretty funny. (Note note: By the end of the season I will have heard about 6 or 7 different accounts of this fight and still am unsure of exactly what happened. Blame is impossible to assign and irrelevant. More interesting is that it happened at all, and nobody can really describe it. Campfire light and massive amounts of alcohol late at night.))
LIaDVp18: Llao and Skell
September 8, 2004
Another update on Rabbit v. Stan. Stan maintains that Rabbit showed up at the campground wasted, and there was never any fight over keys. Rabbit was simply acting like an asshole, saying nasty things to Dru, and Stan socked him in the eye. While that portrayal may seem to cast a better light on Stan, it really makes the whole thing that much more idiotic. "You saying something about my woman?" Pow. So fucking dumb. Another notch down for Stan, or at least his social skills. Remind me never to say anything bad about Dru.
So when I returned from Portland, half of Rabbit's stuff was gone and I figured something was up. The next day I came home from work and it was all gone and there was a note: "Hey man, you are a great fella ... The Rabbit just needed some space and I have my own room up at the Rim dorm. I also didn't want to put you in any uncomfortable situation or burden on you." And so on. He felt like staying here would put a lot of bullshit on the room and unfairly burden me. I have to admit, when I came home to a cleaned out room, I was a little sad and a little hurt. I guess I wanted to hear it from him, but I can see why he just cleaned out and took off. I'm going to miss the Rabbit and coming home to his nonsense sleep-talking or nonsense awake-talking for that matter. I think he has some stuff to work out, but don't we all. Mostly I just think he was a good-hearted guy a little bit overwhelmed with the world. Another fugitive. I just hope he stays out of trouble up at the Rim. Shortly after the fight, Rabbit told me he regretted the whole thing happening and the way he reacted. "I'm just not any good at handling those types of situations." I think that's the most honest thing the Rabbit had said to me, and there was a certain amount of universal frustration behind it. Like he was speaking for a lot of us up here on the volcano. We're all just not any good at handling those types of situations. Fill in your type accordingly.
Portland was great. I met with Noel and Holly downtown and we all went to Sinferno Cabaret with two of their friends. It was wonderful to catch up on all of my friends activities. Anthony now has a breathalizer in his ignition so he has to blow into it to start his car. Funny. He gets other people to blow into it, but it shuts off randomly and if you don't blow into the tube again it won't restart. I guess one time he got stuck in a McDonalds drive-in. Another time Noel had to blow into it at 1:30 in the afternoon after a night of drinking, because his breath was rejected.
Sinferno was good. We did shots of tequila and watched fire dancers, strippers, and gogo dancers covered with tattoos everywhere but their boobies. Once again, we witnessed Liberty, an acquaintance from parties, strip but this time in front of a massive audience. It sort of made me proud of good old Liberty. She's come a long way since the Union Jack, where we first saw her strip shortly after we had first met her at a party.
September 10, 2004
I've all but decided to finish out the season. I was talking with Stan last night - we stayed up late the last two nights bullshitting and drinking wine, for which I've paid with very sleepy days - and sort of cemented my attitude toward the end of the run. I figure I have about two weeks left in the boat season, during which I'll be working almost everyday: Covering the ticket shack and dock now that we're shorthanded and then breaking down the whole boat operation before the winter snow comes and buries it all with 44 feet of white.
With that all happening so quickly, I had this strong feeling of incompletion at the idea of two more weeks of work followed by packing up and driving home. I'm not sure if a sense of completion or closure will come if I stay the full season, but I think it's more likely. As Stefanie said, I'll have to make that sense of completion happen for myself. I just need some more time up here. I want there to be an ending.
The night before I was talking with Dru, and she was talking vaguely about how this lake has made her face up to some demons. She made a point that had been kicking around in my head for a while: There's a battle going on in this volcano. That energy of tens of thousands of years of molten rock gnawing and burning its way out of it's caves only to ultimately explode in a matter of hours, giving way to the most pure, clear, tranquil waters in the country - it doesn't go away because we planted a lodge and some campsites around it and called it a park. We're chained to that battle for months at a time, staring into that glassy deep blue surface, surrounded by the geological story of chaos and fury and the underworld bursting forward and leaving its signature in the rocky rim like cave paintings. It takes its toll. Makes you think and feel deeply. Makes some drink, some screw, some write, some leave running away. Fugitives from the world hiding out in the battleground of the Klamath Indians' greatest gods: Llao, of the underworld, and Skell, of the overworld.
So I guess I've been thinking a lot about where I am in life and the world and trying to find a box to put this experience in, however pointless that may be. Dru said that nobody comes to a national park unless they're hiding from something, stalling, or they have some shit to figure out. I guess I'm here for a combination of the three. I spent the previous two years in polarized periods of extreme anxiety and peaceful escape. The nasty pains of change and development and destruction, followed by the calming quiet of introspection and thought. I don't know where I'm going next yet, but I've come to understand that this is what we're all about. Llao and Skell. Explosion and dormancy. Violence and peace. And in the middle we get Crater Lake National Park, where the retirees are outnumbered only by the drifters, or maybe the English majors, who ride alongside the restless excitement-seekers until someone pukes or pisses in a garbage can or gets punched in the face or gets thrown in the Medford drunk tank. No tears until it's gone, and then we cry. Wehayo.
Dru and Stan are exasperating, but valuable friends. Some nights it's all I can do to listen to their tirades about organic clothing, or Korean ceramics, or why Stan loathes Australian wine and pop music. They told me the other night that I'm more of a high brow intellectual than I let myself admit. I guess I just hate that cliche, the snob. But their company is usually so rewarding. I almost would say I like them more as friends than I do as people, as awful as that sounds. Dru is knitting me a hat. Stan gave me a Sake set. The three of us talk to the end of the bottle, reaffirming that it's okay to be people like us. People with educations both cherished and worthless, with no immediate goals or passions to deliver us neatly into careers or families. Resumes that read like David Lynch films. Non-people, really.
Stan and Dru have so many homes they really don't have any. I've turned my back on my home, finally fed up with it like an abusive parent. We both know we have development ahead, and challenges internal and external we'll have to face (Stan has known for years that his future involves a PhD and teaching in academia, but he can't quite bring himself to enroll, not just yet). We were talking about how you try to define yourself with possessions, but ultimately can't because in the end, it's just stuff. Dust. But debt! Debt defines you. An animal's only meaning in life is to survive. To feed and fight off starvation or danger. But for humans, that comes in the form of debt. It's the one thing you really own because it defines everything you do. It's the predator you avoid and the empty belly you feed. In modern living, there is a school of humanity cast and possessed by what they owe. Stan and Dru own so few possessions, and if they disappeared tomorrow, most human institutions would barely notice. But they owe a collective $50,000. The world keeps tabs on them because of it. It's the most concrete proof that they exist. These are the discussions I like with Stan and Dru, moreso than about say, the evils of Sprite.
Rabbit remains gone, and I remain with a ginormous suite of a room. Four chairs. Three beds. Two closets. It's beautiful. If I only had a spa in the middle of the floor, I'd feel like I'm at the honeymoon suite.
Speaking of fabricated laps of luxury, I think I've finally converted the ticket shack into a place a person can really enjoy. I went to Klamath Falls with Stefanie and Dru for Vietnamese food and shopping. I picked up chips and salsa, sandwich materials and a little cd player, which will go back and forth from my room and the ticket shack. Today we sat in the shack's twin folding chairs, afternoon tours cancelled for engine troubles, killing time with jazz in the background and a lunch of hummus and falafel. "Now we're finally getting serious about this place."
By they way, still a vegetarian. I'm moving toward a philosophy behind the whole thing, trying to hash out what that surge of guilt really did to me after I ran over those animals that week. I've sort of settled on the idea that while I'm not so willing to state that eating animal flesh for subsistence is immoral, I have a feeling that it shouldn't be taken lightly. In other words, eating wild fish and eggs for protein isn't so bad. Eating a 16-ounce T-bone off an animal born and raised to die with a rod to the brain may not be justified. I guess my approach is that eating meat to survive and live healthy is okay, but to a large extent, it really isn't necessary and should be minimized if we want to be good stewards. So shouldn't I try to minimize the amount of death and suffering I inflict on other animals if I can? If I'm starving in a third world country and eating a goat is the only way my family can survive, of course that's justified. Chaining a baby animal to the ground so its muscles remain tender, then bleeding it to death because it tastes so damn good? I can't do it. Call it a moderate view of vegetarianism. Pro-choice version of veganism. A rationalization behind wearing the occasional piece of leather or a steady diet of salmon, without the guilt of driving by a cattle farm and looking at those beasts with that look on their faces that seem to say, "I know what you're gonna do to me, and I'm not thrilled."
In the last two days, I had and lost a strong prospect of a temporary teaching job in the winter. Roger, acting B1, recommended I look into an 8-10 week gig where he used to teach, filling in for an English teacher on maternity leave. I got really excited about it, and learned that as long as the school initiates it, an emergency certification can be obtained for temporary status. But then I called the principal and he declined, saying the spot would be put up for application by certified teachers only. He gave me some advice for getting a quick masters. But man, do I not want to spend between a year and two years getting a masters in education. I just don't. Especially without knowing if I'll even be able to stand teaching. That's why this job would have been great. Play English teacher for a couple of months, and if it sticks, head to grad school right away. But no such luck.
An afterthought to the whole nature of the lake: I've found in the last few years, and solidified while working on the lake, that from water I can derive a tremendous amount of calm. Whether it's in the freezing cold water swimming, gently rocking on a boat or dock, or just staring out into small whitecaps, I've developed a special adoration for the water. It's worth keeping in mind when I look into my next job. Maybe this whole boat thing is an opening into something I could really find fulfilling.
Another update on Rabbit v. Stan. Stan maintains that Rabbit showed up at the campground wasted, and there was never any fight over keys. Rabbit was simply acting like an asshole, saying nasty things to Dru, and Stan socked him in the eye. While that portrayal may seem to cast a better light on Stan, it really makes the whole thing that much more idiotic. "You saying something about my woman?" Pow. So fucking dumb. Another notch down for Stan, or at least his social skills. Remind me never to say anything bad about Dru.
So when I returned from Portland, half of Rabbit's stuff was gone and I figured something was up. The next day I came home from work and it was all gone and there was a note: "Hey man, you are a great fella ... The Rabbit just needed some space and I have my own room up at the Rim dorm. I also didn't want to put you in any uncomfortable situation or burden on you." And so on. He felt like staying here would put a lot of bullshit on the room and unfairly burden me. I have to admit, when I came home to a cleaned out room, I was a little sad and a little hurt. I guess I wanted to hear it from him, but I can see why he just cleaned out and took off. I'm going to miss the Rabbit and coming home to his nonsense sleep-talking or nonsense awake-talking for that matter. I think he has some stuff to work out, but don't we all. Mostly I just think he was a good-hearted guy a little bit overwhelmed with the world. Another fugitive. I just hope he stays out of trouble up at the Rim. Shortly after the fight, Rabbit told me he regretted the whole thing happening and the way he reacted. "I'm just not any good at handling those types of situations." I think that's the most honest thing the Rabbit had said to me, and there was a certain amount of universal frustration behind it. Like he was speaking for a lot of us up here on the volcano. We're all just not any good at handling those types of situations. Fill in your type accordingly.
Portland was great. I met with Noel and Holly downtown and we all went to Sinferno Cabaret with two of their friends. It was wonderful to catch up on all of my friends activities. Anthony now has a breathalizer in his ignition so he has to blow into it to start his car. Funny. He gets other people to blow into it, but it shuts off randomly and if you don't blow into the tube again it won't restart. I guess one time he got stuck in a McDonalds drive-in. Another time Noel had to blow into it at 1:30 in the afternoon after a night of drinking, because his breath was rejected.
Sinferno was good. We did shots of tequila and watched fire dancers, strippers, and gogo dancers covered with tattoos everywhere but their boobies. Once again, we witnessed Liberty, an acquaintance from parties, strip but this time in front of a massive audience. It sort of made me proud of good old Liberty. She's come a long way since the Union Jack, where we first saw her strip shortly after we had first met her at a party.
September 10, 2004
I've all but decided to finish out the season. I was talking with Stan last night - we stayed up late the last two nights bullshitting and drinking wine, for which I've paid with very sleepy days - and sort of cemented my attitude toward the end of the run. I figure I have about two weeks left in the boat season, during which I'll be working almost everyday: Covering the ticket shack and dock now that we're shorthanded and then breaking down the whole boat operation before the winter snow comes and buries it all with 44 feet of white.
With that all happening so quickly, I had this strong feeling of incompletion at the idea of two more weeks of work followed by packing up and driving home. I'm not sure if a sense of completion or closure will come if I stay the full season, but I think it's more likely. As Stefanie said, I'll have to make that sense of completion happen for myself. I just need some more time up here. I want there to be an ending.
The night before I was talking with Dru, and she was talking vaguely about how this lake has made her face up to some demons. She made a point that had been kicking around in my head for a while: There's a battle going on in this volcano. That energy of tens of thousands of years of molten rock gnawing and burning its way out of it's caves only to ultimately explode in a matter of hours, giving way to the most pure, clear, tranquil waters in the country - it doesn't go away because we planted a lodge and some campsites around it and called it a park. We're chained to that battle for months at a time, staring into that glassy deep blue surface, surrounded by the geological story of chaos and fury and the underworld bursting forward and leaving its signature in the rocky rim like cave paintings. It takes its toll. Makes you think and feel deeply. Makes some drink, some screw, some write, some leave running away. Fugitives from the world hiding out in the battleground of the Klamath Indians' greatest gods: Llao, of the underworld, and Skell, of the overworld.
So I guess I've been thinking a lot about where I am in life and the world and trying to find a box to put this experience in, however pointless that may be. Dru said that nobody comes to a national park unless they're hiding from something, stalling, or they have some shit to figure out. I guess I'm here for a combination of the three. I spent the previous two years in polarized periods of extreme anxiety and peaceful escape. The nasty pains of change and development and destruction, followed by the calming quiet of introspection and thought. I don't know where I'm going next yet, but I've come to understand that this is what we're all about. Llao and Skell. Explosion and dormancy. Violence and peace. And in the middle we get Crater Lake National Park, where the retirees are outnumbered only by the drifters, or maybe the English majors, who ride alongside the restless excitement-seekers until someone pukes or pisses in a garbage can or gets punched in the face or gets thrown in the Medford drunk tank. No tears until it's gone, and then we cry. Wehayo.
Dru and Stan are exasperating, but valuable friends. Some nights it's all I can do to listen to their tirades about organic clothing, or Korean ceramics, or why Stan loathes Australian wine and pop music. They told me the other night that I'm more of a high brow intellectual than I let myself admit. I guess I just hate that cliche, the snob. But their company is usually so rewarding. I almost would say I like them more as friends than I do as people, as awful as that sounds. Dru is knitting me a hat. Stan gave me a Sake set. The three of us talk to the end of the bottle, reaffirming that it's okay to be people like us. People with educations both cherished and worthless, with no immediate goals or passions to deliver us neatly into careers or families. Resumes that read like David Lynch films. Non-people, really.
Stan and Dru have so many homes they really don't have any. I've turned my back on my home, finally fed up with it like an abusive parent. We both know we have development ahead, and challenges internal and external we'll have to face (Stan has known for years that his future involves a PhD and teaching in academia, but he can't quite bring himself to enroll, not just yet). We were talking about how you try to define yourself with possessions, but ultimately can't because in the end, it's just stuff. Dust. But debt! Debt defines you. An animal's only meaning in life is to survive. To feed and fight off starvation or danger. But for humans, that comes in the form of debt. It's the one thing you really own because it defines everything you do. It's the predator you avoid and the empty belly you feed. In modern living, there is a school of humanity cast and possessed by what they owe. Stan and Dru own so few possessions, and if they disappeared tomorrow, most human institutions would barely notice. But they owe a collective $50,000. The world keeps tabs on them because of it. It's the most concrete proof that they exist. These are the discussions I like with Stan and Dru, moreso than about say, the evils of Sprite.
Rabbit remains gone, and I remain with a ginormous suite of a room. Four chairs. Three beds. Two closets. It's beautiful. If I only had a spa in the middle of the floor, I'd feel like I'm at the honeymoon suite.
Speaking of fabricated laps of luxury, I think I've finally converted the ticket shack into a place a person can really enjoy. I went to Klamath Falls with Stefanie and Dru for Vietnamese food and shopping. I picked up chips and salsa, sandwich materials and a little cd player, which will go back and forth from my room and the ticket shack. Today we sat in the shack's twin folding chairs, afternoon tours cancelled for engine troubles, killing time with jazz in the background and a lunch of hummus and falafel. "Now we're finally getting serious about this place."
By they way, still a vegetarian. I'm moving toward a philosophy behind the whole thing, trying to hash out what that surge of guilt really did to me after I ran over those animals that week. I've sort of settled on the idea that while I'm not so willing to state that eating animal flesh for subsistence is immoral, I have a feeling that it shouldn't be taken lightly. In other words, eating wild fish and eggs for protein isn't so bad. Eating a 16-ounce T-bone off an animal born and raised to die with a rod to the brain may not be justified. I guess my approach is that eating meat to survive and live healthy is okay, but to a large extent, it really isn't necessary and should be minimized if we want to be good stewards. So shouldn't I try to minimize the amount of death and suffering I inflict on other animals if I can? If I'm starving in a third world country and eating a goat is the only way my family can survive, of course that's justified. Chaining a baby animal to the ground so its muscles remain tender, then bleeding it to death because it tastes so damn good? I can't do it. Call it a moderate view of vegetarianism. Pro-choice version of veganism. A rationalization behind wearing the occasional piece of leather or a steady diet of salmon, without the guilt of driving by a cattle farm and looking at those beasts with that look on their faces that seem to say, "I know what you're gonna do to me, and I'm not thrilled."
In the last two days, I had and lost a strong prospect of a temporary teaching job in the winter. Roger, acting B1, recommended I look into an 8-10 week gig where he used to teach, filling in for an English teacher on maternity leave. I got really excited about it, and learned that as long as the school initiates it, an emergency certification can be obtained for temporary status. But then I called the principal and he declined, saying the spot would be put up for application by certified teachers only. He gave me some advice for getting a quick masters. But man, do I not want to spend between a year and two years getting a masters in education. I just don't. Especially without knowing if I'll even be able to stand teaching. That's why this job would have been great. Play English teacher for a couple of months, and if it sticks, head to grad school right away. But no such luck.
An afterthought to the whole nature of the lake: I've found in the last few years, and solidified while working on the lake, that from water I can derive a tremendous amount of calm. Whether it's in the freezing cold water swimming, gently rocking on a boat or dock, or just staring out into small whitecaps, I've developed a special adoration for the water. It's worth keeping in mind when I look into my next job. Maybe this whole boat thing is an opening into something I could really find fulfilling.
LIaDVp. 19, Addict dreams, and heading toward the last leg of psychedelia
September 13, 2004
Nothing happened on September 11.
I had a dream last night that I ate a ground squirrel. Like picked up the whole thing and ate it. I was disgusted while chewing, but it tasted pretty good. Dana tells me these are what addiction specialists call "addict dreams." Your mind and body are so accustomed to whatever chemical response you’ve recently kicked, that in the dream state, it fabricates it to have that feeling again. It reminds me of phantom pains in limbs. Physically it’s gone, but the being’s mind and body still want it, or more accurately, still think it’s there. I also had a dream about eating a beef burrito. And a plate of chicken. When I quit smoking I regularly dreamed of smoking for at least a year afterward, and sporadically in years following. The most striking part about all of these dreams though, is the sense of guilt that follows either during the dream or during waking. Inner conflict and cognitive dissonance kick in despite the addiction’s lingering. Not that meat is really an addiction, but really, what other change is more radical than a change in diet? For a more extreme shift in norm, you’d have to change the pattern of your breathing. In waking hours, it’s been good though. The hardest part is availability of things that fit your diet. I had a tofu dog today. It tasted surprisingly like a hot dog. Too bad I really don’t like hot dogs.
I spent the day largely in isolation. It was raining all day and boats didn’t run. Roger wanted us to do some work on Wizard Island, but we mutinied. It was freezing and snowing in places, and visibility was not there. We nudged him to his senses and knocked off at about 10:30. The lodge manager told me to plan on reporting to work the morning after my last day on boats. I talked to her for a minute and then went to the Lodge's lounge to await the EDR’s lunch opening. I read about five pages and then fell asleep in a comfy chair for an hour. Felt great.
I read in my room for about an hour before the rain talked me into sleep, again, sitting in a chair. I awoke and stumbled over to the bed, where I slept for about an hour. When I came to, I was pretty disoriented, a combination of being alone for a while and not really knowing what time it was. I woke up a bit and went to the EDR for one of those tofu dogs, then drove almost immediately home for more reading, this time with the aid of bourbon-laced coffee to get my head right in this storm and fog.
I didn’t want to see anyone today. I think I’m going recluse at the thought of everyone going home soon, or just entering another phase of life here on the mountain. Distancing myself much like I did in the first month at the lake. Trying to stay anonymous. It’s a lot harder now. People come knock on my door. I can’t leave without seeing someone I know. This could be the trend of the last month here though. Withdrawing into myself. Sort of like the last leg of a psychedelic trip, where the giggling and jabbering ends, and you just kind of get quiet and thoughtful just as you start to come back to normal earth and go, "wow, huh."
I had a realization the other day that anything I’ve ever written that I’ve been proud of, or has caused a decent response, or has been well-received by people, was preceded by a great uneasiness before publication. Anything good I’ve ever done, I’ve sat holding before turning it in, thinking, "Oooh, I really don’t know about this one." It occured to me that anything worth publishing should create that feeling in its writer before it goes out. Fingers should be shaking over the keyboard. Waves of fear at how this will be received should wash over the author. Second thoughts of possibly watering it down, or smoothing it out should be had, but ultimately ignored. And after it’s dropped into whatever box or inbox or handed over to whatever editor, there should be a feeling of terror and a desire to grab it back and hide it. And when that feeling is ignored and the send key has long been pressed, there should be a great excitement at having turned in something powerful and fear-inspiring and maybe even good. Because even if it’s not good, it has elicited a visceral response, at the very least, in its creator. It could be great or it could be a disaster, but at least it made one person quake in it’s presence. Otherwise, aren’t we really just playing with ourselves?
Stan and I went into Ashland two nights ago. Had a good time but now I’m flat broke. Went to a co-op for lunch, shopped at a music store and the comic book store. Got some coffee. Had a few beers at this beatiful Ashland Creek Bar and Grill, right over Ashland creek trickling below. A bluegrass/folk band played at the top tier of a multilayered, wood deck over the water and below a canopy of trees. We sat at the bottom tier and talked nonsense and drank beers. Went to get sushi down the street and everything was great because they had just received their fish order. I tried for the first time raw octopus and snapper, along with salmon and yellowtail. It was all so great. And I didn’t puke it up on the ride back. When we got home with the help of a double Americano we woke up Dru and sat around my room, which we named, "Ta-te’s Boomerang Lounge," an amalgam of Dong Won’s mispronunciation of my name and the brand name of my tiny cd boombox I recently bought at Fred Meyer for $24.99. I was carrying it into my room and Stan said, "Hey it really does look like a boomerang." "Really?" "No, I was being sarcastic." We read Angry Youth Comics and Stan laughed his ass off despite his hippie political correctness. The Temptations played as we listened to a double disc collection Stan bought in Ashland. (As a sidenote, earlier Stan said to me, "I don’t know why everyone seems to think of me as a hippie." I laughed and laughed and said, "Stan there is almost no definition of the term ‘hippie,’ that you do not fall under, save maybe the fact that you weren’t around in the 1960s.") We stayed up until Dru finished my knit hat, an awesome wool rollup that’s grey, with a beige and green band. It’s so cool, and I’ve been bragging about it to everyone. It’s a little loose, but I either roll it up a bit, or pull it down over most of my head until I look like Badly Drawn Boy, or a really cool hobo.
Last night, Tim and Stefanie and I went to the Mexican food place on the Rogue River in Shady Cove. Had a great time. It was nice to spend some low key face to face time with friends who I will largely lose contact with soon. Stefanie was prickly and neurotic as usual, but less so, and I think she really enjoyed sitting on the deck over the river and talking about Wisconsin with Tim. I’ve come to settle on enjoying her company, despite the occasional annoyance or iciness during long work hours. I will say that I’m going to miss her, mostly since I know, like so many other people here, that I will very likely never hear from her again. The three of us talked about how it’s kind of sad how soon it will be all over. I haven’t even seen some of the Park Service people in several days, and they go home so soon.
I’ve decided that while interaction and getting outside and doing provides inspiration, only solitude and quiet and time alone with my own thoughts can provide writing; product. A stretch of time all alone is the only thing that does it.
Nothing happened on September 11.
I had a dream last night that I ate a ground squirrel. Like picked up the whole thing and ate it. I was disgusted while chewing, but it tasted pretty good. Dana tells me these are what addiction specialists call "addict dreams." Your mind and body are so accustomed to whatever chemical response you’ve recently kicked, that in the dream state, it fabricates it to have that feeling again. It reminds me of phantom pains in limbs. Physically it’s gone, but the being’s mind and body still want it, or more accurately, still think it’s there. I also had a dream about eating a beef burrito. And a plate of chicken. When I quit smoking I regularly dreamed of smoking for at least a year afterward, and sporadically in years following. The most striking part about all of these dreams though, is the sense of guilt that follows either during the dream or during waking. Inner conflict and cognitive dissonance kick in despite the addiction’s lingering. Not that meat is really an addiction, but really, what other change is more radical than a change in diet? For a more extreme shift in norm, you’d have to change the pattern of your breathing. In waking hours, it’s been good though. The hardest part is availability of things that fit your diet. I had a tofu dog today. It tasted surprisingly like a hot dog. Too bad I really don’t like hot dogs.
I spent the day largely in isolation. It was raining all day and boats didn’t run. Roger wanted us to do some work on Wizard Island, but we mutinied. It was freezing and snowing in places, and visibility was not there. We nudged him to his senses and knocked off at about 10:30. The lodge manager told me to plan on reporting to work the morning after my last day on boats. I talked to her for a minute and then went to the Lodge's lounge to await the EDR’s lunch opening. I read about five pages and then fell asleep in a comfy chair for an hour. Felt great.
I read in my room for about an hour before the rain talked me into sleep, again, sitting in a chair. I awoke and stumbled over to the bed, where I slept for about an hour. When I came to, I was pretty disoriented, a combination of being alone for a while and not really knowing what time it was. I woke up a bit and went to the EDR for one of those tofu dogs, then drove almost immediately home for more reading, this time with the aid of bourbon-laced coffee to get my head right in this storm and fog.
I didn’t want to see anyone today. I think I’m going recluse at the thought of everyone going home soon, or just entering another phase of life here on the mountain. Distancing myself much like I did in the first month at the lake. Trying to stay anonymous. It’s a lot harder now. People come knock on my door. I can’t leave without seeing someone I know. This could be the trend of the last month here though. Withdrawing into myself. Sort of like the last leg of a psychedelic trip, where the giggling and jabbering ends, and you just kind of get quiet and thoughtful just as you start to come back to normal earth and go, "wow, huh."
I had a realization the other day that anything I’ve ever written that I’ve been proud of, or has caused a decent response, or has been well-received by people, was preceded by a great uneasiness before publication. Anything good I’ve ever done, I’ve sat holding before turning it in, thinking, "Oooh, I really don’t know about this one." It occured to me that anything worth publishing should create that feeling in its writer before it goes out. Fingers should be shaking over the keyboard. Waves of fear at how this will be received should wash over the author. Second thoughts of possibly watering it down, or smoothing it out should be had, but ultimately ignored. And after it’s dropped into whatever box or inbox or handed over to whatever editor, there should be a feeling of terror and a desire to grab it back and hide it. And when that feeling is ignored and the send key has long been pressed, there should be a great excitement at having turned in something powerful and fear-inspiring and maybe even good. Because even if it’s not good, it has elicited a visceral response, at the very least, in its creator. It could be great or it could be a disaster, but at least it made one person quake in it’s presence. Otherwise, aren’t we really just playing with ourselves?
Stan and I went into Ashland two nights ago. Had a good time but now I’m flat broke. Went to a co-op for lunch, shopped at a music store and the comic book store. Got some coffee. Had a few beers at this beatiful Ashland Creek Bar and Grill, right over Ashland creek trickling below. A bluegrass/folk band played at the top tier of a multilayered, wood deck over the water and below a canopy of trees. We sat at the bottom tier and talked nonsense and drank beers. Went to get sushi down the street and everything was great because they had just received their fish order. I tried for the first time raw octopus and snapper, along with salmon and yellowtail. It was all so great. And I didn’t puke it up on the ride back. When we got home with the help of a double Americano we woke up Dru and sat around my room, which we named, "Ta-te’s Boomerang Lounge," an amalgam of Dong Won’s mispronunciation of my name and the brand name of my tiny cd boombox I recently bought at Fred Meyer for $24.99. I was carrying it into my room and Stan said, "Hey it really does look like a boomerang." "Really?" "No, I was being sarcastic." We read Angry Youth Comics and Stan laughed his ass off despite his hippie political correctness. The Temptations played as we listened to a double disc collection Stan bought in Ashland. (As a sidenote, earlier Stan said to me, "I don’t know why everyone seems to think of me as a hippie." I laughed and laughed and said, "Stan there is almost no definition of the term ‘hippie,’ that you do not fall under, save maybe the fact that you weren’t around in the 1960s.") We stayed up until Dru finished my knit hat, an awesome wool rollup that’s grey, with a beige and green band. It’s so cool, and I’ve been bragging about it to everyone. It’s a little loose, but I either roll it up a bit, or pull it down over most of my head until I look like Badly Drawn Boy, or a really cool hobo.
Last night, Tim and Stefanie and I went to the Mexican food place on the Rogue River in Shady Cove. Had a great time. It was nice to spend some low key face to face time with friends who I will largely lose contact with soon. Stefanie was prickly and neurotic as usual, but less so, and I think she really enjoyed sitting on the deck over the river and talking about Wisconsin with Tim. I’ve come to settle on enjoying her company, despite the occasional annoyance or iciness during long work hours. I will say that I’m going to miss her, mostly since I know, like so many other people here, that I will very likely never hear from her again. The three of us talked about how it’s kind of sad how soon it will be all over. I haven’t even seen some of the Park Service people in several days, and they go home so soon.
I’ve decided that while interaction and getting outside and doing provides inspiration, only solitude and quiet and time alone with my own thoughts can provide writing; product. A stretch of time all alone is the only thing that does it.
LIaDVp.20: Old Men
September 14, 2004
It’s been sumbitchin cold out lately, as Roger or George might say, so we’ve been working sort of sporadically. Two days ago, Tim and I braved the freezing cold wind and rough waters to do a morning tour. I went along as a deckhand, given the rough conditions. It was one of my more fun boat trips actually. The beginning leg was rough and cold, bouncing the boat up and down and side to side, splashing the passengers with sheets of water as I tried to cover everyone up with plastic garbage bag ponchos. The middle section was calm and beautiful, with the last third turning into an adventure ride again. It was fun watching the looks on people’s faces as the whole boat swayed like a toy in a bathtub. I ran another tour with George and Kevin as interp.
Poor George was freezing. He’s a tiny 80-year-old guy, and the cold really affects him. Whenever it’s cold outside, he puts on a camoflauge jumpsuit, two jackets and cinches up his hood. Even then, he shields his face with his hand or part of his jacket, and his face turns purple from the nose at first and then spreading outward.
"It’s colder n ... anything out there."
George and I have been working together quite a bit lately.
"It got cold again, George," I said one day on the drive home.
"Whet?" his raspy, almost whispering way of saying "What?" that he says in response to almost everything, even though his hearing is fine.
"I said It’s cold again," I repeated.
"Yeah it is. I won’t be warm again until about a half hour." He makes a drinking motion with his hand.
"Liquid blanket?" I asked.
"You bet. I think about that thick," he indicates four fingers, for the number of shots of rum it’ll take in his Coke for him to warm up.
He sits under the shower for sometimes an hour and a half after a cold workday, with his Rum and Coke at his side.
"I think it’ll be about four today," he says.
George has a girlfriend who works in the laundry room. She lives out in the RV camp while George lives in his dorm room. He comes home, showers, dresses up nice in his good cowboy boots and a western shirt and heads over to Mary’s. She cooks up steak for him and pours him Rum and Cokes. Mary can’t be much older than her 60s. George is 80. When George's glasses broke, he had to take them in to Klamath Falls to get them repaired. While they were being fixed, he wore a pair of glasses he borrowed from Mary for about a week. They were wire frames with little flowery designs where the earpieces meet the lenses. Everyone had been mumbling about old George's new Elton John look, but nobody really wanted to say anything. Then a day ago, he noticed the decor while we were riding back in the van.
"I didn’t notice all of this shit on here," he said.
"Yeah George, we were commenting on how you’ve been looking rather festive lately," Tim said.
"Shit, no wonder people have been giving me funny looks."
The next day he had his new glasses.
I found out George has a daughter who is 55. She lives in Los Angeles, and is from his second marriage. She’s all messed up on drugs, and George hasn’t seen her in about 30 years. "I don’t mind the booze, but I can’t stand the drugs."
Today, George, Roger and I had to load 14, 90-pound rolls of roofing material onto the tractor, down the 2-mile trail, onto a boat and then into Wizard Island’s boat house. We rigged up a makeshift cart to carry the stuff across the volcanic rock leading up to the boat house. There’s a generator-powered tow line that they use to pull the boats up along a railroad-tracked ramp and into the boat houses for the winter. We threw some boards across it to make sort of a motorized cart to carry the weight. It was awkward and rocking and shaking the whole ride up the tracks into the house. George stood at the top of the tracks, holding the generator's button and watching it wobble on the way up.
"What the hell’s it bouncing for ... It sure is bouncing... It’s bouncing... Boy look at it bounce... Quit bouncing goddamnit!"
Roger seems to be losing it lately. As the end of the season approaches, he’s been in charge of boat ops since Dan is in the hospital getting cancer treatment. The responsiblity is wearing on him, as he seems to want to go in 20 different directions and do 30 different things at a time. Dana thinks he’s lost his mind or had an aneurysm, since the other day he described having a sharp pain that started in his forehead, worked it’s way around his skull, went down his neck and on through his left arm. He said he could survive it, since once he had a tree fall on his head and crush in his skull. They put a plate in his head, gave him about 200 stitches and kept him in the hospital for days. He had lost pints of blood and his blood pressure was about half what it should have been when he got to the hospital.
The other day, there was a Golden Mantled Ground Squirrel in the boat shack and Roger threw a spool of waxed line at him. I heard George and Roger laughing by the door of the shack. Kira and Dana were just outside and the captains made a quiet "Shh" motion. George moved his boot to reveal a big puddle of blood on the floor.
"Roger just wanted to scare him, but he went ahead and scared him to death," George said. "Those little guys have soft heads."
The spool of thread whacked him in the skull, and squished it pretty good. George mimed a convulsion to imitate what happened. Roger picked the little guy up and chucked him into the rocks by the water.
"Maybe the little bums will see the blood and stay out from now on," George said. "That could be you!"
"I hate those little bastards anyway. Always coming in here and stealling our lunches," Roger said. You could tell he felt bad though.
The other day, a squirrel was dying after some teenage girls were tormenting it. Chris and Dana couldn’t put it out of its misery, so they went and got George. He whacked it with a little stick a few times before it stopped moving. "It was just a little stick. Those things have real soft heads."
I stood on top of the Old Man the other day. The Old Man is a 30-foot mountain Hemlock log that somehow fell into the lake completely preserved by its own pitch, like an oiled telephone pole. It’s oddly weighted so that he floats around the lake completely vertical, drifting miles a day but never coming horizontal to the surface. He’s about three feet thick, and extends about five feet above water with the rest of his body underwater and covered with thick green moss. He’s been bobbing around the lake upright for more than 100 years.
"You’re not going to go stand on him are you?" Roger said when Dana asked if we could go see the old man in the skiff. We took the little boat out to the Old Man and got right up close to him. He’s incredible. You can see all the way down his body. His head looks like any old log, white and splintering some. Rangers used to stand on the Old Man’s head during boat tours, but now it’s become illegal. "Do you want to stand on him?" Dana asked. "Yes." He didn’t really move too much. He’s so big and buoyant that he just sort of drifts and sways a tiny bit, spinning slightly under your feet. It’s a bizzare sensation to be adrift on a balancing 100-year old tree on a 2000-foot deep lake. Especially when Dana pulled the skiff away as I stood on top of him, pulling the boat around to pick me up, but essentially stranding me for a small time. I clung to the log’s tip and took a picture straight down, sure that either I would fall into the water or drop the camera all the way down, watching it plummet through a world-record setting 143 feet of underwater visiblility.
Today Roger and I had to drive the tractor up the trail, stopping at each manhole along the way so we can check the access points to the fuel line. A six-inch thick tube gravity drops the gasoline 800 feet down the edge of the rim, and several access points are covered with manholes along the way. I got to drive the tractor, despite my swearing that I never would. It’s a small tractor that tows a flatbed trailer that is slightly bigger than the tractor’s wheelbase and slightly smaller than the width of the trail, which switchbacks along the steep edge of the caldera’s wall.
Once a bad tractor driver lost the trailer over one of the edges, a wheel slipping over the edge and toppling the whole thing down a switchback. It detached from the tractor and fell down to the trail below, several dozens of feet and crashing into the rim’s face. It barely missed crushing a hiker below. I really didn’t want that to happen. It was actually pretty fun. I relaxed very quickly and sort of fell into a trance. You glance back toward your wheelbase now and then, but otherwise just sit back and steer, swinging around the tractor steering wheel with one hand to make a sharp switchback turn, making it wide enough so the trailer can follow, but not so wide that the above-mentioned happens. The way down is a little more exciting, as you have to let the low gear in the engine slow your descent so you have enough time to steer. Still, I think I did a pretty good job. I didn’t topple us into the caldera to certain death, so that’s good. So now I’ve driven a century-old floating log, a tractor, a small boat, a cargo van and I’m really hoping to get to steer the big boats sometime before I go.
It’s been sumbitchin cold out lately, as Roger or George might say, so we’ve been working sort of sporadically. Two days ago, Tim and I braved the freezing cold wind and rough waters to do a morning tour. I went along as a deckhand, given the rough conditions. It was one of my more fun boat trips actually. The beginning leg was rough and cold, bouncing the boat up and down and side to side, splashing the passengers with sheets of water as I tried to cover everyone up with plastic garbage bag ponchos. The middle section was calm and beautiful, with the last third turning into an adventure ride again. It was fun watching the looks on people’s faces as the whole boat swayed like a toy in a bathtub. I ran another tour with George and Kevin as interp.
Poor George was freezing. He’s a tiny 80-year-old guy, and the cold really affects him. Whenever it’s cold outside, he puts on a camoflauge jumpsuit, two jackets and cinches up his hood. Even then, he shields his face with his hand or part of his jacket, and his face turns purple from the nose at first and then spreading outward.
"It’s colder n ... anything out there."
George and I have been working together quite a bit lately.
"It got cold again, George," I said one day on the drive home.
"Whet?" his raspy, almost whispering way of saying "What?" that he says in response to almost everything, even though his hearing is fine.
"I said It’s cold again," I repeated.
"Yeah it is. I won’t be warm again until about a half hour." He makes a drinking motion with his hand.
"Liquid blanket?" I asked.
"You bet. I think about that thick," he indicates four fingers, for the number of shots of rum it’ll take in his Coke for him to warm up.
He sits under the shower for sometimes an hour and a half after a cold workday, with his Rum and Coke at his side.
"I think it’ll be about four today," he says.
George has a girlfriend who works in the laundry room. She lives out in the RV camp while George lives in his dorm room. He comes home, showers, dresses up nice in his good cowboy boots and a western shirt and heads over to Mary’s. She cooks up steak for him and pours him Rum and Cokes. Mary can’t be much older than her 60s. George is 80. When George's glasses broke, he had to take them in to Klamath Falls to get them repaired. While they were being fixed, he wore a pair of glasses he borrowed from Mary for about a week. They were wire frames with little flowery designs where the earpieces meet the lenses. Everyone had been mumbling about old George's new Elton John look, but nobody really wanted to say anything. Then a day ago, he noticed the decor while we were riding back in the van.
"I didn’t notice all of this shit on here," he said.
"Yeah George, we were commenting on how you’ve been looking rather festive lately," Tim said.
"Shit, no wonder people have been giving me funny looks."
The next day he had his new glasses.
I found out George has a daughter who is 55. She lives in Los Angeles, and is from his second marriage. She’s all messed up on drugs, and George hasn’t seen her in about 30 years. "I don’t mind the booze, but I can’t stand the drugs."
Today, George, Roger and I had to load 14, 90-pound rolls of roofing material onto the tractor, down the 2-mile trail, onto a boat and then into Wizard Island’s boat house. We rigged up a makeshift cart to carry the stuff across the volcanic rock leading up to the boat house. There’s a generator-powered tow line that they use to pull the boats up along a railroad-tracked ramp and into the boat houses for the winter. We threw some boards across it to make sort of a motorized cart to carry the weight. It was awkward and rocking and shaking the whole ride up the tracks into the house. George stood at the top of the tracks, holding the generator's button and watching it wobble on the way up.
"What the hell’s it bouncing for ... It sure is bouncing... It’s bouncing... Boy look at it bounce... Quit bouncing goddamnit!"
Roger seems to be losing it lately. As the end of the season approaches, he’s been in charge of boat ops since Dan is in the hospital getting cancer treatment. The responsiblity is wearing on him, as he seems to want to go in 20 different directions and do 30 different things at a time. Dana thinks he’s lost his mind or had an aneurysm, since the other day he described having a sharp pain that started in his forehead, worked it’s way around his skull, went down his neck and on through his left arm. He said he could survive it, since once he had a tree fall on his head and crush in his skull. They put a plate in his head, gave him about 200 stitches and kept him in the hospital for days. He had lost pints of blood and his blood pressure was about half what it should have been when he got to the hospital.
The other day, there was a Golden Mantled Ground Squirrel in the boat shack and Roger threw a spool of waxed line at him. I heard George and Roger laughing by the door of the shack. Kira and Dana were just outside and the captains made a quiet "Shh" motion. George moved his boot to reveal a big puddle of blood on the floor.
"Roger just wanted to scare him, but he went ahead and scared him to death," George said. "Those little guys have soft heads."
The spool of thread whacked him in the skull, and squished it pretty good. George mimed a convulsion to imitate what happened. Roger picked the little guy up and chucked him into the rocks by the water.
"Maybe the little bums will see the blood and stay out from now on," George said. "That could be you!"
"I hate those little bastards anyway. Always coming in here and stealling our lunches," Roger said. You could tell he felt bad though.
The other day, a squirrel was dying after some teenage girls were tormenting it. Chris and Dana couldn’t put it out of its misery, so they went and got George. He whacked it with a little stick a few times before it stopped moving. "It was just a little stick. Those things have real soft heads."
I stood on top of the Old Man the other day. The Old Man is a 30-foot mountain Hemlock log that somehow fell into the lake completely preserved by its own pitch, like an oiled telephone pole. It’s oddly weighted so that he floats around the lake completely vertical, drifting miles a day but never coming horizontal to the surface. He’s about three feet thick, and extends about five feet above water with the rest of his body underwater and covered with thick green moss. He’s been bobbing around the lake upright for more than 100 years.
"You’re not going to go stand on him are you?" Roger said when Dana asked if we could go see the old man in the skiff. We took the little boat out to the Old Man and got right up close to him. He’s incredible. You can see all the way down his body. His head looks like any old log, white and splintering some. Rangers used to stand on the Old Man’s head during boat tours, but now it’s become illegal. "Do you want to stand on him?" Dana asked. "Yes." He didn’t really move too much. He’s so big and buoyant that he just sort of drifts and sways a tiny bit, spinning slightly under your feet. It’s a bizzare sensation to be adrift on a balancing 100-year old tree on a 2000-foot deep lake. Especially when Dana pulled the skiff away as I stood on top of him, pulling the boat around to pick me up, but essentially stranding me for a small time. I clung to the log’s tip and took a picture straight down, sure that either I would fall into the water or drop the camera all the way down, watching it plummet through a world-record setting 143 feet of underwater visiblility.
Today Roger and I had to drive the tractor up the trail, stopping at each manhole along the way so we can check the access points to the fuel line. A six-inch thick tube gravity drops the gasoline 800 feet down the edge of the rim, and several access points are covered with manholes along the way. I got to drive the tractor, despite my swearing that I never would. It’s a small tractor that tows a flatbed trailer that is slightly bigger than the tractor’s wheelbase and slightly smaller than the width of the trail, which switchbacks along the steep edge of the caldera’s wall.
Once a bad tractor driver lost the trailer over one of the edges, a wheel slipping over the edge and toppling the whole thing down a switchback. It detached from the tractor and fell down to the trail below, several dozens of feet and crashing into the rim’s face. It barely missed crushing a hiker below. I really didn’t want that to happen. It was actually pretty fun. I relaxed very quickly and sort of fell into a trance. You glance back toward your wheelbase now and then, but otherwise just sit back and steer, swinging around the tractor steering wheel with one hand to make a sharp switchback turn, making it wide enough so the trailer can follow, but not so wide that the above-mentioned happens. The way down is a little more exciting, as you have to let the low gear in the engine slow your descent so you have enough time to steer. Still, I think I did a pretty good job. I didn’t topple us into the caldera to certain death, so that’s good. So now I’ve driven a century-old floating log, a tractor, a small boat, a cargo van and I’m really hoping to get to steer the big boats sometime before I go.
LIaDVp.21: Just as one can not hear a heart-beat in a noisy city
September 15, 2004
Didn’t work again today. Sat around most of the day and read or slept. Took some hardcore naps. Now the asshole Fred who lives across the hall is fucking blaring Jack Johnson with the bass turned all the way up. He’s from Chiloquin, so you know, he’s mentally retarded. There’s a ranger party tonight. I think I’m going because I have to, the season so close to over and all. That and I’m really hungry and I don’t want to drive all the way to the EDR. The theme is pizza and poker. Poker sounds really boring. Pizza sounds pretty damn good right now though. God I don’t want to go by myself though. Shit there’s no more unsettling feeling than showing up at a party alone. I’ll have to get half drunk before I go.
God I’m trying so hard to remember this dream-like memory of reading a passage that described how pain and suffering unlocks the true nature of the world, or the ability to think with true clarity. I was thinking it, because I remembered how long it’s been since I had a real hardcore hangover, like one that has you bedridden all morning and sipping coffee and water in misery all day. I was thinking that part of drinking is probably craving that self-induced pain. Punishing ourselves to make us feel something, even if it is pain. Suffering like an ascetic to get some clarity, even if it is an uncomfortable, sick clarity. Like in a high fever. But shit! I’m struggling with where the passage is from. Just the former part, not the hangover part. I’m thinking it might be Crowley but I can’t place it.
Ha! I found it. Chuck Palahniuk’s "Diary." It’s an ongoing theme.
"It’s so hard to forget pain, but it’s even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness. We learn so little from peace."
"Their idea is that the visionary must live apart from the normal world , and reject pleasure and comfort and conformity in order to connect with the divine."
"You said how Michelangelo was a manic-depressive who portrayed himself as a flayed martyr in his painting. Henri Matisse gave up being a lawyer because of appendicitis. Robert Shumann only began composing after his right hand became paralyzed and ended his career as a concert pianist. ... Inspiration needs disease, injury, madness."
I wasn’t too far off with Crowley though:
"The main idea is that the Infinite, the Absolute, God, the Oversoul, or whatever you may prefer to call it, is always present; but veiled or masked by thoughts of the mind, just as one can not hear a heart-beat in a noisy city."
Class dismissed.
September 16, 2004
It wasn’t the first time I had been awoken by Dru asking, "Tate, where’s Stan?"
"What? I don’t know. What?"
"Where’s Stan? Is he down here."
"No."
"Yes I am," said Stan, from the floor of my dorm next to a puddle of what probably is his piss.
"Stan, did you wake him up? God, you’re such an asshole! Did you pee on his floor?" Dru said.
"Stan what did you do to my floor?" I was starting to coming to. "And my books? Stan, did you piss on my books?"
"What did you do to your floor? Did you piss on your books?" Stan said back.
I remember being pushed out of my bed very late at night. Stan wants to drink Sake. Says I’m dishonoring the spirit of Sake drinking by being asleep. I don’t want to move, but he’s pushing me. It’s so late, and I’m so drunk and I should be fast asleep but now I’m drinking Sake. I have to start locking my door.
"God Stan, you’re such a fucking asshole," Dru kept yelling.
"Oh shit, I have to go to work!" I realized as things started to fall into place and I noticed that it was 7:30. I usually show up to work at 7:30. "Shit! Thanks for waking me up Dru."
"Stan you peed!" Dru said.
Why is Stan sleeping here? I did a few shots of Sake to appease him and then he made me read "Big Sur" to him as he fell asleep, half on my guest bed and half off. I remember eating noodles with Stan and Dru and ... Rabbit! at the dorm kitchen very late. Rabbit and Stan hugging and Stan asking, "Why did you have to do that?" Dru still not quite ready to forgive Rabbit. Dru mad at everything for some reason, but in a really funny way. Oh shit, she dumped a whole glass of water on top of Stan because she was so mad at him for something.
"Okay, everybody out. I’m late for work. Stan I can’t believe you pissed on my floor."
"I can’t believe you pissed on your floor," he said back.
God I’m still so wasted right now. I have to catch up with everyone at work and pretend to be sober. Rabbit was here. We talked about him moving back in. I told him he was always welcome, and now that he’s made up with Stan and Dru he may do it. We first ran in to him at ... Oh yeah! The ranger party...
I talked Stan and Dru into going to the ranger party. I had just woken up from a serious nap and drank a bourbon and Coke to pull my head together. It was like 6:30 last night and we drank a few beers at their room before packing up some Pabst to go and a couple of bottles of wine. Throughout the night none of these things would have survived our drinking, nor would Goldschlager, some blue margaritas, Crown Royal and a bottle of Sake. All of the 425s (code for interpreter rangers) were there. Kevin, Kira, Jane, Chris. Dana was there. We talked much of the night. Stan even had a heart to heart with Dana. Dru even had a heart to heart with Dana. Jane was dancing. Stan and Kira were dancing. Stan grabbed Kira’s boobs. Rabbit showed up randomly. Kevin was making overt passes at Dana, now that her boyfriend dumped her. She was looking very pretty last night. Homemade pizza and Mexican food. I had a taco with nothing but peppers, onions, salsa and sour cream. I was starving. And increasingly drunk. A Big glass of wine was what started it. Then another. Then a few beers. Then a margarita. Then a margarita with a shot of Crown Royal dumped in. (What?) Then a tug off a bottle of Goldschlager. We were all in the kitchen most of the time. Standing in a circle. "I’m going to miss my 425s."
Understand this was probably the last hurrah with the 425s mostly in attendance. It definitely showed. Like I said, dancing, joke telling, flirting. There was talk of an orgy, but it never panned out. All the girls were going on about how hard up they were. Stan was talking to a researcher named Keith, who everyone was certain is gay. Turns out he’s been with the same girlfriend for 11 years. Stan was like, "Wow, so you’re completely straight? But you have been with guys before right? No? Wow. I’m sorry, I just thought." It was so uncomfortable I had to walk away. When Rabbit showed up randomly it was a little tense, then the apologizing and hugging and kissing started. I had this uneasy feeling that it was sort of teetering on the brink of either being a reconciliation or another drunken argument. I vaguely recall being some sort of facilitator. I vaguely recall a lot of things.
We finally left around eleventy b’glock. I drove very carefully down the short jog from Sleepy Hollow to Mazama. Rabbit came too and did his laundry. Dru was still pissed for some reason. It was like everything was sort of normal with her but she was always upset about something or yelling at Dru. We were still having fun, but she was just angry at everything. We were laughing and laughing at her. She grabbed some noodle packets out of my hands furiously and went to the kitchen to cook them for us, but still angry somehow. Somehow my bottle of Sake made it out. When Stan pushed me out of bed the bottle of Sake was half gone. I don’t know how that happened. I don’t think it was me but I have again, only a vague recollection of going to bed. But together we finished it off before I read some Kerouac to Stan and we passed out and one of us apparently pissed on the floor and partially on several of my books. What a great night.
The next morning I only worked half a day, drunk the whole time mostly. Drove the tractor down to Cleetwood, probably could have gotten a DUI. Too windy to work. Soon the interps will go to their homes, most back to Ashland for school. Jane will stay until the 31st, then I’m going to try to get her to visit Portland. Dana will be volunteering with the Park Service all winter, giving snow shoe tours and working the visitors center. Man that sounds amazing. I’d love to do that. But it really is winding down. It’s really happening. Great last party though.
Didn’t work again today. Sat around most of the day and read or slept. Took some hardcore naps. Now the asshole Fred who lives across the hall is fucking blaring Jack Johnson with the bass turned all the way up. He’s from Chiloquin, so you know, he’s mentally retarded. There’s a ranger party tonight. I think I’m going because I have to, the season so close to over and all. That and I’m really hungry and I don’t want to drive all the way to the EDR. The theme is pizza and poker. Poker sounds really boring. Pizza sounds pretty damn good right now though. God I don’t want to go by myself though. Shit there’s no more unsettling feeling than showing up at a party alone. I’ll have to get half drunk before I go.
God I’m trying so hard to remember this dream-like memory of reading a passage that described how pain and suffering unlocks the true nature of the world, or the ability to think with true clarity. I was thinking it, because I remembered how long it’s been since I had a real hardcore hangover, like one that has you bedridden all morning and sipping coffee and water in misery all day. I was thinking that part of drinking is probably craving that self-induced pain. Punishing ourselves to make us feel something, even if it is pain. Suffering like an ascetic to get some clarity, even if it is an uncomfortable, sick clarity. Like in a high fever. But shit! I’m struggling with where the passage is from. Just the former part, not the hangover part. I’m thinking it might be Crowley but I can’t place it.
Ha! I found it. Chuck Palahniuk’s "Diary." It’s an ongoing theme.
"It’s so hard to forget pain, but it’s even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness. We learn so little from peace."
"Their idea is that the visionary must live apart from the normal world , and reject pleasure and comfort and conformity in order to connect with the divine."
"You said how Michelangelo was a manic-depressive who portrayed himself as a flayed martyr in his painting. Henri Matisse gave up being a lawyer because of appendicitis. Robert Shumann only began composing after his right hand became paralyzed and ended his career as a concert pianist. ... Inspiration needs disease, injury, madness."
I wasn’t too far off with Crowley though:
"The main idea is that the Infinite, the Absolute, God, the Oversoul, or whatever you may prefer to call it, is always present; but veiled or masked by thoughts of the mind, just as one can not hear a heart-beat in a noisy city."
Class dismissed.
September 16, 2004
It wasn’t the first time I had been awoken by Dru asking, "Tate, where’s Stan?"
"What? I don’t know. What?"
"Where’s Stan? Is he down here."
"No."
"Yes I am," said Stan, from the floor of my dorm next to a puddle of what probably is his piss.
"Stan, did you wake him up? God, you’re such an asshole! Did you pee on his floor?" Dru said.
"Stan what did you do to my floor?" I was starting to coming to. "And my books? Stan, did you piss on my books?"
"What did you do to your floor? Did you piss on your books?" Stan said back.
I remember being pushed out of my bed very late at night. Stan wants to drink Sake. Says I’m dishonoring the spirit of Sake drinking by being asleep. I don’t want to move, but he’s pushing me. It’s so late, and I’m so drunk and I should be fast asleep but now I’m drinking Sake. I have to start locking my door.
"God Stan, you’re such a fucking asshole," Dru kept yelling.
"Oh shit, I have to go to work!" I realized as things started to fall into place and I noticed that it was 7:30. I usually show up to work at 7:30. "Shit! Thanks for waking me up Dru."
"Stan you peed!" Dru said.
Why is Stan sleeping here? I did a few shots of Sake to appease him and then he made me read "Big Sur" to him as he fell asleep, half on my guest bed and half off. I remember eating noodles with Stan and Dru and ... Rabbit! at the dorm kitchen very late. Rabbit and Stan hugging and Stan asking, "Why did you have to do that?" Dru still not quite ready to forgive Rabbit. Dru mad at everything for some reason, but in a really funny way. Oh shit, she dumped a whole glass of water on top of Stan because she was so mad at him for something.
"Okay, everybody out. I’m late for work. Stan I can’t believe you pissed on my floor."
"I can’t believe you pissed on your floor," he said back.
God I’m still so wasted right now. I have to catch up with everyone at work and pretend to be sober. Rabbit was here. We talked about him moving back in. I told him he was always welcome, and now that he’s made up with Stan and Dru he may do it. We first ran in to him at ... Oh yeah! The ranger party...
I talked Stan and Dru into going to the ranger party. I had just woken up from a serious nap and drank a bourbon and Coke to pull my head together. It was like 6:30 last night and we drank a few beers at their room before packing up some Pabst to go and a couple of bottles of wine. Throughout the night none of these things would have survived our drinking, nor would Goldschlager, some blue margaritas, Crown Royal and a bottle of Sake. All of the 425s (code for interpreter rangers) were there. Kevin, Kira, Jane, Chris. Dana was there. We talked much of the night. Stan even had a heart to heart with Dana. Dru even had a heart to heart with Dana. Jane was dancing. Stan and Kira were dancing. Stan grabbed Kira’s boobs. Rabbit showed up randomly. Kevin was making overt passes at Dana, now that her boyfriend dumped her. She was looking very pretty last night. Homemade pizza and Mexican food. I had a taco with nothing but peppers, onions, salsa and sour cream. I was starving. And increasingly drunk. A Big glass of wine was what started it. Then another. Then a few beers. Then a margarita. Then a margarita with a shot of Crown Royal dumped in. (What?) Then a tug off a bottle of Goldschlager. We were all in the kitchen most of the time. Standing in a circle. "I’m going to miss my 425s."
Understand this was probably the last hurrah with the 425s mostly in attendance. It definitely showed. Like I said, dancing, joke telling, flirting. There was talk of an orgy, but it never panned out. All the girls were going on about how hard up they were. Stan was talking to a researcher named Keith, who everyone was certain is gay. Turns out he’s been with the same girlfriend for 11 years. Stan was like, "Wow, so you’re completely straight? But you have been with guys before right? No? Wow. I’m sorry, I just thought." It was so uncomfortable I had to walk away. When Rabbit showed up randomly it was a little tense, then the apologizing and hugging and kissing started. I had this uneasy feeling that it was sort of teetering on the brink of either being a reconciliation or another drunken argument. I vaguely recall being some sort of facilitator. I vaguely recall a lot of things.
We finally left around eleventy b’glock. I drove very carefully down the short jog from Sleepy Hollow to Mazama. Rabbit came too and did his laundry. Dru was still pissed for some reason. It was like everything was sort of normal with her but she was always upset about something or yelling at Dru. We were still having fun, but she was just angry at everything. We were laughing and laughing at her. She grabbed some noodle packets out of my hands furiously and went to the kitchen to cook them for us, but still angry somehow. Somehow my bottle of Sake made it out. When Stan pushed me out of bed the bottle of Sake was half gone. I don’t know how that happened. I don’t think it was me but I have again, only a vague recollection of going to bed. But together we finished it off before I read some Kerouac to Stan and we passed out and one of us apparently pissed on the floor and partially on several of my books. What a great night.
The next morning I only worked half a day, drunk the whole time mostly. Drove the tractor down to Cleetwood, probably could have gotten a DUI. Too windy to work. Soon the interps will go to their homes, most back to Ashland for school. Jane will stay until the 31st, then I’m going to try to get her to visit Portland. Dana will be volunteering with the Park Service all winter, giving snow shoe tours and working the visitors center. Man that sounds amazing. I’d love to do that. But it really is winding down. It’s really happening. Great last party though.
LIaDVp.22: Out of Context
September 17, 2004
I’ve been losing track of time very easily lately. The days are running together, I think because of fading context. For one, it’s been pretty regularly overcast and rainy, making time hard to place. Also, I haven’t had a scheduled day off since September 6, but haven’t had a full, typical day of work more than twice or three times in about the same period. Every morning I wake up, put on my uniform, walk out to varying degrees of winter weather, report for work at 7:30, sit around the boat office or nap on the nearby couch until my acting boss (normal boss just had a bladder full of cancer cut out) decides what form of busy work he’s going to throw at us today. One day it’s replacing absorbent diapers under our fuel line access points, hauling roofing paper that is ultimately not going to be used pending lead paint and asbestos inspections, attempting to remove an inflatable crew saver from a boat before realizing that the water’s too rough, cleaning the boats throroughly even though it’s raining every other day, piping down fuel for the park service research boats, running an oil spill hazmat drill, and so on. So each day I work/sit around for between a couple of hours to a full day, getting home between noon and four, but you wouldn’t know it because the sky’s the same color. That and the occasional comatose daytime nap make it downright confusing. If it weren’t for the coffee and the bourbon, I’d be lost.
This is compounded by the lack of civilization-provided context that normally governs our schedules daily. The days and the hours are running together. It’s tough to remember what yesterday was, or when this morning was. See, I’ll let you in on a little secret...ready? There’s no such thing as time, at least not in the o’clock sense. There’s also no such thing as days of the week in the "----day" sense. Or of the month. I know, because everyday I’m startlingly aware that they are nowhere to be seen until you make them up or ask someone else to make them up for you. All there really are are the seasons. Namely winter, as it approaches like a freight train. Now it’s fog and low clouds and rain and brief flurries of snow. They came early this year, but the real stuff, time in its realest sense is coming - winter. Before I know it my entire means of living: the shacks, the boats, the docks, even the weather buoys will be gone. Buried in shelters on Wizard Island, and then finally underneath 44-some feet of snow. No that’s not a mistake, 44 feet on average over a winter, often more. This whole place, even my room where I sit right now will be gone, buried by the only real time here at the lake: Winter o’clock. Time to go.
Another interesting side-effect of lake living: While I’m completely unreachable in the more modern sense (No phones, reliable computer, one landline in the building that you can’t make outside calls from), anyone can knock on my door at anytime. Hell, if you’re Stan, you can just come right in and knock me out of bed until I drink Sake and read Kerouac.That’s another weird sensation. I’m anonymous by most civilized standards, but in the traditional sense, I guess the sense of the village rather than the city, I’m beyond hiding. I’m right here in 101B, if you want me you only have to knock. I may not answer but you’ll know I’m in here. And you’ll just come back later if I don’t come out now. In the city, you’re surrounded by thousands and accessible by millions, but you’re completely anonymous if you want to be. You don’t have to talk to anyone on the way to pick up takeout. You can sit and drink coffee in public and likely not be disturbed. Here in Mazama village, or Rim village, or Sleepy Hollow, your connections with the people around are for good. It’s quiet and silent in many ways, but your interactions with others are only avoidable as long as you can stay away from them. There’s always the woods, I guess. Then you have to watch for cougars though.
I’ve been losing track of time very easily lately. The days are running together, I think because of fading context. For one, it’s been pretty regularly overcast and rainy, making time hard to place. Also, I haven’t had a scheduled day off since September 6, but haven’t had a full, typical day of work more than twice or three times in about the same period. Every morning I wake up, put on my uniform, walk out to varying degrees of winter weather, report for work at 7:30, sit around the boat office or nap on the nearby couch until my acting boss (normal boss just had a bladder full of cancer cut out) decides what form of busy work he’s going to throw at us today. One day it’s replacing absorbent diapers under our fuel line access points, hauling roofing paper that is ultimately not going to be used pending lead paint and asbestos inspections, attempting to remove an inflatable crew saver from a boat before realizing that the water’s too rough, cleaning the boats throroughly even though it’s raining every other day, piping down fuel for the park service research boats, running an oil spill hazmat drill, and so on. So each day I work/sit around for between a couple of hours to a full day, getting home between noon and four, but you wouldn’t know it because the sky’s the same color. That and the occasional comatose daytime nap make it downright confusing. If it weren’t for the coffee and the bourbon, I’d be lost.
This is compounded by the lack of civilization-provided context that normally governs our schedules daily. The days and the hours are running together. It’s tough to remember what yesterday was, or when this morning was. See, I’ll let you in on a little secret...ready? There’s no such thing as time, at least not in the o’clock sense. There’s also no such thing as days of the week in the "----day" sense. Or of the month. I know, because everyday I’m startlingly aware that they are nowhere to be seen until you make them up or ask someone else to make them up for you. All there really are are the seasons. Namely winter, as it approaches like a freight train. Now it’s fog and low clouds and rain and brief flurries of snow. They came early this year, but the real stuff, time in its realest sense is coming - winter. Before I know it my entire means of living: the shacks, the boats, the docks, even the weather buoys will be gone. Buried in shelters on Wizard Island, and then finally underneath 44-some feet of snow. No that’s not a mistake, 44 feet on average over a winter, often more. This whole place, even my room where I sit right now will be gone, buried by the only real time here at the lake: Winter o’clock. Time to go.
Another interesting side-effect of lake living: While I’m completely unreachable in the more modern sense (No phones, reliable computer, one landline in the building that you can’t make outside calls from), anyone can knock on my door at anytime. Hell, if you’re Stan, you can just come right in and knock me out of bed until I drink Sake and read Kerouac.That’s another weird sensation. I’m anonymous by most civilized standards, but in the traditional sense, I guess the sense of the village rather than the city, I’m beyond hiding. I’m right here in 101B, if you want me you only have to knock. I may not answer but you’ll know I’m in here. And you’ll just come back later if I don’t come out now. In the city, you’re surrounded by thousands and accessible by millions, but you’re completely anonymous if you want to be. You don’t have to talk to anyone on the way to pick up takeout. You can sit and drink coffee in public and likely not be disturbed. Here in Mazama village, or Rim village, or Sleepy Hollow, your connections with the people around are for good. It’s quiet and silent in many ways, but your interactions with others are only avoidable as long as you can stay away from them. There’s always the woods, I guess. Then you have to watch for cougars though.
LIaDVp.23: Fuck America
September 23, 2004
My my what has happened since I last sat down? Well, for starters I stood in an employee men’s room with our environmental director and human resources director (a woman) watching a cup of my piss to see if I’m a crystal meth user. It took about 20 minutes huddled around my urine, all of us extremely uncomfortable, before a little strip of paper displayed a little black stripe that indicated I am a good person, not a bad person to be disposed of. I was singled out by Xanterra’s random drug test policy (reportedly required by the National Park Service) to offer up my waste so my managers can stand next to me in the john, waiting to see if I have a job or not. Completely unprovoked. Totally random. I just finished helping the boat ops wrap up their operation before donning a green vest to help out at the lodge for the rest of the season. I was thanked by management and may even get a raise. I helped the company pass an environmental audit by getting grilled by an outside inspector with the rest of the boat people. But there I was this afternoon, on the first day of my new job, discussing a possible suspension as my test appeared to be showing positive for tweek.
First Jack, the really cool Canadian environmental director, inserted a plastic card into the jar of piss and nothing happened really. Two of the four drugs (marijuana, cocaine, meth and opiates) came out negative. "Okay this shows up if you’re a good person and this shows up if you’re a bad person," Jack jokes. "You can even tell if what you’re smoking is any good. If it’s from BC." Two stripes showed on two, meaning negative. If one stripe shows, you fail and are kicked out on your ass. If no stripes show, which they didn’t on two of the drugs, we weren’t really sure what to do. So we stuck another card and waited. The female HR director had been waiting outside and came in, really uncomfortable in the men’s room. I almost spilled my piss on her. And we waited. And waited. Marijuana gets two stripes and I think Jack breathed a sigh of relief, since he likes me and suspected I may smoke a little dope. Coke gets two stripes. Now I'm just getting bored and annoyed. I voiced my annoyance at the fact that I’m a solid employee and somehow I’m in here with these two really kind people, staring at my urine. It’s so invasive and abusive. It’s disgusting and offensive.
Jack tells me this isn’t his regular job, he’s just helping out since Jennifer didn’t want to stand next to me while I peed. Jack starts telling me about how in Canada, none of this is constitutional. It’s an invasion. And it was. It was fucked up and humiliating, and is active proof that this country is not the leader of the free world. That’s all horseshit and propaganda and me in that bathroom proves it. We’re still waiting. What happens hypothetically, I ask, if the stripes don’t show up. Opiates show up two stripes and another solitary stripe shows up under meth. It’s been about 10 or 15 minutes now. It’s supposed to take three. Well, Jennifer says, if you deny the drug use, we’ll send it to a lab and you’ll be suspended in the meantime. Anger. "If I am fired for crystal meth use, we’re going to have a problem. A big problem." Jack chuckles nervously. "I know Tate, and he’s clearly not using meth. Maybe pot, but definitely not meth." We start to nervously chat about what an awful drug it is. My face is burning red from anger and embarrasment at me and this cool guy and this nice middle aged woman waiting for my pee to not be evil. Now it’s getting downright uncomfortable. Guys are waiting outside the bathroom for us to leave. I never saw it, but Jack insisted there was a second line. We made a couple of jokes about feeling closer after the bonding experience and I left.
It’s not a huge deal really, just a piss test. But I hate going to the doctor, even for perfectly legitimate reasons. To be called by my bosses out of work for an examination of my body chemistry, perfectly legally and upheld in the court of the land, to answer for a bullshit crime that I didn’t even commit, well, if that’s American, then fuck America. I’ll go to Canada. But what really started to upset me was when I started to wonder, "Shit, what if I was a tweeker? What if I did test positive for what may be the most depraved and soulsucking manmade drug out there?" The answer is that I would have been fired without a second thought, as a criminal, a reject and an unsavory individual totally unfit for minimum wage work in a national park.
That’s the fucked up part. Not me being drug tested, but the consequences for a person who is really drugsick. Kicked to the curb to die, from a place that is otherwise run by people with nowhere else to go. Fugitives from the world, not welcome here if you’ve used drugs.
What else? Oh, boats are done. I’ve officially become a bellhop/front desker/housekeeper. Friday night Casey came to visit, driving in a snowstorm and an undistinguishable Rim drive to make it here. It took her hours to get through the flurry all the way down to my dorm. When she arrived, she said the entire road was a mess. We started drinking with Dru, waiting for Stan to get home. We finally drove up to the Rim to get him and realized quickly that she was right. The whole road was covered in fresh fallen snow. That night we drank bombers of microbrew and wine Casey brought down from Portland. She and Stan and Dru and I had a great time, listening to Cole Porter and trying to dance in a four by four space in my dorm room. Stan kept trying to show us this swing move and wouldn’t stop. He dropped Dru on the floor on her back. I think we pissed off my upstairs neighbor again.
My my what has happened since I last sat down? Well, for starters I stood in an employee men’s room with our environmental director and human resources director (a woman) watching a cup of my piss to see if I’m a crystal meth user. It took about 20 minutes huddled around my urine, all of us extremely uncomfortable, before a little strip of paper displayed a little black stripe that indicated I am a good person, not a bad person to be disposed of. I was singled out by Xanterra’s random drug test policy (reportedly required by the National Park Service) to offer up my waste so my managers can stand next to me in the john, waiting to see if I have a job or not. Completely unprovoked. Totally random. I just finished helping the boat ops wrap up their operation before donning a green vest to help out at the lodge for the rest of the season. I was thanked by management and may even get a raise. I helped the company pass an environmental audit by getting grilled by an outside inspector with the rest of the boat people. But there I was this afternoon, on the first day of my new job, discussing a possible suspension as my test appeared to be showing positive for tweek.
First Jack, the really cool Canadian environmental director, inserted a plastic card into the jar of piss and nothing happened really. Two of the four drugs (marijuana, cocaine, meth and opiates) came out negative. "Okay this shows up if you’re a good person and this shows up if you’re a bad person," Jack jokes. "You can even tell if what you’re smoking is any good. If it’s from BC." Two stripes showed on two, meaning negative. If one stripe shows, you fail and are kicked out on your ass. If no stripes show, which they didn’t on two of the drugs, we weren’t really sure what to do. So we stuck another card and waited. The female HR director had been waiting outside and came in, really uncomfortable in the men’s room. I almost spilled my piss on her. And we waited. And waited. Marijuana gets two stripes and I think Jack breathed a sigh of relief, since he likes me and suspected I may smoke a little dope. Coke gets two stripes. Now I'm just getting bored and annoyed. I voiced my annoyance at the fact that I’m a solid employee and somehow I’m in here with these two really kind people, staring at my urine. It’s so invasive and abusive. It’s disgusting and offensive.
Jack tells me this isn’t his regular job, he’s just helping out since Jennifer didn’t want to stand next to me while I peed. Jack starts telling me about how in Canada, none of this is constitutional. It’s an invasion. And it was. It was fucked up and humiliating, and is active proof that this country is not the leader of the free world. That’s all horseshit and propaganda and me in that bathroom proves it. We’re still waiting. What happens hypothetically, I ask, if the stripes don’t show up. Opiates show up two stripes and another solitary stripe shows up under meth. It’s been about 10 or 15 minutes now. It’s supposed to take three. Well, Jennifer says, if you deny the drug use, we’ll send it to a lab and you’ll be suspended in the meantime. Anger. "If I am fired for crystal meth use, we’re going to have a problem. A big problem." Jack chuckles nervously. "I know Tate, and he’s clearly not using meth. Maybe pot, but definitely not meth." We start to nervously chat about what an awful drug it is. My face is burning red from anger and embarrasment at me and this cool guy and this nice middle aged woman waiting for my pee to not be evil. Now it’s getting downright uncomfortable. Guys are waiting outside the bathroom for us to leave. I never saw it, but Jack insisted there was a second line. We made a couple of jokes about feeling closer after the bonding experience and I left.
It’s not a huge deal really, just a piss test. But I hate going to the doctor, even for perfectly legitimate reasons. To be called by my bosses out of work for an examination of my body chemistry, perfectly legally and upheld in the court of the land, to answer for a bullshit crime that I didn’t even commit, well, if that’s American, then fuck America. I’ll go to Canada. But what really started to upset me was when I started to wonder, "Shit, what if I was a tweeker? What if I did test positive for what may be the most depraved and soulsucking manmade drug out there?" The answer is that I would have been fired without a second thought, as a criminal, a reject and an unsavory individual totally unfit for minimum wage work in a national park.
That’s the fucked up part. Not me being drug tested, but the consequences for a person who is really drugsick. Kicked to the curb to die, from a place that is otherwise run by people with nowhere else to go. Fugitives from the world, not welcome here if you’ve used drugs.
What else? Oh, boats are done. I’ve officially become a bellhop/front desker/housekeeper. Friday night Casey came to visit, driving in a snowstorm and an undistinguishable Rim drive to make it here. It took her hours to get through the flurry all the way down to my dorm. When she arrived, she said the entire road was a mess. We started drinking with Dru, waiting for Stan to get home. We finally drove up to the Rim to get him and realized quickly that she was right. The whole road was covered in fresh fallen snow. That night we drank bombers of microbrew and wine Casey brought down from Portland. She and Stan and Dru and I had a great time, listening to Cole Porter and trying to dance in a four by four space in my dorm room. Stan kept trying to show us this swing move and wouldn’t stop. He dropped Dru on the floor on her back. I think we pissed off my upstairs neighbor again.
The Long Awaited LIADVp.24: Snow Days; Sappy Goodbye to Boatops
September 23, 2004 continued.
The next day, the whole park was coated in a thick layer of snow. It was beautiful. The weather was anticipated to be so bad that boats were cancelled. Casey, Stan, Dru and I decided to go to Klamath Falls instead of Ashland, since we drank all night and slept until the afternoon. We stopped at a couple of dives on the way into K Falls and made it into the big city with enough time to meet Tim at that amazing Vietnamese place on Sixth. We had a great time, and it was good to see Stan and Dru having a pleasant interaction with me and other people. I joked that the company should ship in people from off the mountain because of the way it makes everyone around feel so much better. Just a new person, outside contact is so easing. We stayed long after the bill laughing about the season and whatever else we needed to laugh about. Us all with our uneasiness about the future and fond memories about where we've been so far. Hugs. Tim went home and the rest of us went to a bar on Main. A fun little dive I'd come to like in my few times visiting alone in KFalls. We had a few rounds and came home and drank some more, then passed out. Again, I opted not to go to work. This time without permission necessarily, just Tim saying he’d understand if I didn’t show up.
Casey and I went to Ashland on Sunday. Hit the co-op for lunch, then a winery. The comic book store and then a great afternoon at the Creek bar and grill, the one with the tiered deck over the creek. The sun and rain were alternating all afternoon and evening. Then we got some sushi at KatWok and headed home for a pretty calm night at the dorm. The next day I went in hours later than normal, because fuck it, I figured. The park was covered in snow from steady dumping all weekend. The Rim Drive had been closed by NPS for safety. We were supposed to do an employee tour, but it was cancelled for weather. The afternoon was beautiful and there was a general consensus that the company fucked us over. So instead of working boats, I wandered into the lodge around nine or so where I got set up with management to transfer over to front desk. I spent the day training and made 40 bucks in bellhop tips. Bellhopping is actually really fun. People are super nice to you. They're happy to be at Crater Lake, happy to talk to a young man and happy they don't have to carry all the shit they overpacked for a one night stay. All in all I enjoy working at the lodge. It's nice being a liason, between this beatiful, historic, calming wilderness getaway and these poor people who work like sardines in cans (I think I stole that from Abbey) all year to have these few days, or few years at the end of their lives to exist in a state they probably wished they had their whole time on Earth. No TV, no phone, gorgeous views of one of the most beautiful places on the planet. At least I get to be here to help them enjoy it. We'll see how I feel in a month.
Casey went home that day, and that night I forced a trip to the Vietnamese place with some of the boat crew and 425s, Jane and Kevin. The guy who runs the restaurant loves Crater Lake people so much that he was slashing prices left and right for us. Bringing us more and more beer and sake and a coconut/mango/rice dessert on the house. We stayed there too late, almost an hour after closing, talking again about our fondest memories (almost always of George) speculating on our futures and how we can all stay in touch. It was sad, but a great evening. Nobody wanted it to end. We stood around in a circle after paying at the register. We stood around in a circle in the parking lot and finally went separate ways. We exchanged information, as I am doing with everyone, but in all reality probably won't stay in touch with most. It's sad but true. Still, it's nice having the option. Like we never truly said goodbye, just see you later next time we meet.
The last day of boats for me was a similar love fest, but even better since we were all together, out on the lake. Started out I was in a shitty shitty mood, fed up with all the hurry up and wait bullshit that was plaguing the boat ops breakdown. It was an off and on clusterfuck and Roger was frantic. Earlier that week, in his rush to lower a huge, track-mounted boat cradle to the surface, he ended up sinking it to the bottom of the lake, to be hauled to the surface later by scuba divers. This was one of a few such goofs by Captain Roger, who is really a great guy and a good manager, but sometimes makes errors in judgement that haunt him. Like the time he was towing the skiff behind a tour boat and capsized it, sending its contents sinking. Or when he was doing a drill with an inflatable emergency raft, and ended up catching the tow rope around the propellor, reeling the raft and its passengers in toward the boat engine.
The day turned out alright though. We all took the Rogue out to Wizard Island. We ate lunch on the boat, all giddy from that great calming joy that comes from being out on Crater Lake. It's like going through two hours of meditation. Your sadness and frustrations just dissolve as you skate across the glassy surface, the calm, peaceful half of the battle of Llao and Skell. The truce between the over and under worlds. Enough of the shore, the rim, the human chaos and winter deadlines. We're the only people out here, let's enjoy this time. Who knows if there will be another.
We pulled into Wizard Island's dock and everyone spent the afternoon half working half playing around and joking and laughing. Toward the end of the afternoon, Stan and I scrambled up to the top of the island to check out the cinder cone's crater that is the lake's namesake. Wizard Island is a tiny volcano sprouting out of the remains of Mount Mazama, the huge volcano that made the lake when it erupted and collapsed. It sticks up in one corner of the lake, rocky with black/purple lava and some scattered pines, surrounded with blue-green shallow waters of its many coves, and shallow Skell channel toward the rim's edge. Wizard is the underworld god Llao's head, according to myth, chopped off by overworld god Skell and tossed into the big hole to settle the battle for now. White guys named it such because it looks sort of like a Wizard's conical hat. The hike to the top was a bit anti-climactic, but a beautiful view from the edge of the 300-foot wide crater, and from inside. Often tourists think the top of Wiz to be the only real thing to do in the park, but the hike that day proved that to take a driveby tourist's view of such a complex chunk of the country is stupid and sad. It's just one chapter of the centuries-old battle.
We practically ran down to avoid pissing off the others, and took the Rogue back to the shore. We sat in a row on the back edge of the boat, joking and singing Cole Porter from the middle of the lake, the cruise all to ourselves for once. The lake as it really ought to be seen, without price or time limits or park service supervision. Just friends on the deep blue waters, feeling the splash of that snowmelt. We swung by the Old Man so Stacey and Stefanie could get a last look at the floating log before leaving the following day. Roger softened up with a big goofy Roger grin and said it was alright if they stood on his head. As Stan stumbled out to stand on the head, the old guy swayed heavily, at about a 10-degree angle. We all got a llittle spooked. We cruised in and packed up, eager to get to the dorms and go back into Klamath for another nostalgic send off.
We went to this Asian place on Main Street. Psueudo city bar, with lots of great beers on tap, thumping bass music. Strange but a lot of fun. We went around and told our favorite lake stories, and favorite stupid tourist questions. We told a toast to absent members, including our missing leader Dan who never made it down to see the lake again before it was all over, still in bed fighting cancer. Roger said this was the best year he had ever had at the lake, because of all of us. He had that huge Roger grin. He's a lonely guy, so when he's happy it shows double than for most people. Tim made a long toast to the whole party present.
Another sad goodbye and another largely ceremonial exchange of contact info. I do think I'll get in touch with a lot of these folks though. You can't go through something as wacky as this and not. Something as intense and bizarre as this experience seems to fuse people together like heat. It's a good thing. Something that makes memories and friends who will always be sticking around back there even if you're not sending each other Christmas cards.
The next day, the whole park was coated in a thick layer of snow. It was beautiful. The weather was anticipated to be so bad that boats were cancelled. Casey, Stan, Dru and I decided to go to Klamath Falls instead of Ashland, since we drank all night and slept until the afternoon. We stopped at a couple of dives on the way into K Falls and made it into the big city with enough time to meet Tim at that amazing Vietnamese place on Sixth. We had a great time, and it was good to see Stan and Dru having a pleasant interaction with me and other people. I joked that the company should ship in people from off the mountain because of the way it makes everyone around feel so much better. Just a new person, outside contact is so easing. We stayed long after the bill laughing about the season and whatever else we needed to laugh about. Us all with our uneasiness about the future and fond memories about where we've been so far. Hugs. Tim went home and the rest of us went to a bar on Main. A fun little dive I'd come to like in my few times visiting alone in KFalls. We had a few rounds and came home and drank some more, then passed out. Again, I opted not to go to work. This time without permission necessarily, just Tim saying he’d understand if I didn’t show up.
Casey and I went to Ashland on Sunday. Hit the co-op for lunch, then a winery. The comic book store and then a great afternoon at the Creek bar and grill, the one with the tiered deck over the creek. The sun and rain were alternating all afternoon and evening. Then we got some sushi at KatWok and headed home for a pretty calm night at the dorm. The next day I went in hours later than normal, because fuck it, I figured. The park was covered in snow from steady dumping all weekend. The Rim Drive had been closed by NPS for safety. We were supposed to do an employee tour, but it was cancelled for weather. The afternoon was beautiful and there was a general consensus that the company fucked us over. So instead of working boats, I wandered into the lodge around nine or so where I got set up with management to transfer over to front desk. I spent the day training and made 40 bucks in bellhop tips. Bellhopping is actually really fun. People are super nice to you. They're happy to be at Crater Lake, happy to talk to a young man and happy they don't have to carry all the shit they overpacked for a one night stay. All in all I enjoy working at the lodge. It's nice being a liason, between this beatiful, historic, calming wilderness getaway and these poor people who work like sardines in cans (I think I stole that from Abbey) all year to have these few days, or few years at the end of their lives to exist in a state they probably wished they had their whole time on Earth. No TV, no phone, gorgeous views of one of the most beautiful places on the planet. At least I get to be here to help them enjoy it. We'll see how I feel in a month.
Casey went home that day, and that night I forced a trip to the Vietnamese place with some of the boat crew and 425s, Jane and Kevin. The guy who runs the restaurant loves Crater Lake people so much that he was slashing prices left and right for us. Bringing us more and more beer and sake and a coconut/mango/rice dessert on the house. We stayed there too late, almost an hour after closing, talking again about our fondest memories (almost always of George) speculating on our futures and how we can all stay in touch. It was sad, but a great evening. Nobody wanted it to end. We stood around in a circle after paying at the register. We stood around in a circle in the parking lot and finally went separate ways. We exchanged information, as I am doing with everyone, but in all reality probably won't stay in touch with most. It's sad but true. Still, it's nice having the option. Like we never truly said goodbye, just see you later next time we meet.
The last day of boats for me was a similar love fest, but even better since we were all together, out on the lake. Started out I was in a shitty shitty mood, fed up with all the hurry up and wait bullshit that was plaguing the boat ops breakdown. It was an off and on clusterfuck and Roger was frantic. Earlier that week, in his rush to lower a huge, track-mounted boat cradle to the surface, he ended up sinking it to the bottom of the lake, to be hauled to the surface later by scuba divers. This was one of a few such goofs by Captain Roger, who is really a great guy and a good manager, but sometimes makes errors in judgement that haunt him. Like the time he was towing the skiff behind a tour boat and capsized it, sending its contents sinking. Or when he was doing a drill with an inflatable emergency raft, and ended up catching the tow rope around the propellor, reeling the raft and its passengers in toward the boat engine.
The day turned out alright though. We all took the Rogue out to Wizard Island. We ate lunch on the boat, all giddy from that great calming joy that comes from being out on Crater Lake. It's like going through two hours of meditation. Your sadness and frustrations just dissolve as you skate across the glassy surface, the calm, peaceful half of the battle of Llao and Skell. The truce between the over and under worlds. Enough of the shore, the rim, the human chaos and winter deadlines. We're the only people out here, let's enjoy this time. Who knows if there will be another.
We pulled into Wizard Island's dock and everyone spent the afternoon half working half playing around and joking and laughing. Toward the end of the afternoon, Stan and I scrambled up to the top of the island to check out the cinder cone's crater that is the lake's namesake. Wizard Island is a tiny volcano sprouting out of the remains of Mount Mazama, the huge volcano that made the lake when it erupted and collapsed. It sticks up in one corner of the lake, rocky with black/purple lava and some scattered pines, surrounded with blue-green shallow waters of its many coves, and shallow Skell channel toward the rim's edge. Wizard is the underworld god Llao's head, according to myth, chopped off by overworld god Skell and tossed into the big hole to settle the battle for now. White guys named it such because it looks sort of like a Wizard's conical hat. The hike to the top was a bit anti-climactic, but a beautiful view from the edge of the 300-foot wide crater, and from inside. Often tourists think the top of Wiz to be the only real thing to do in the park, but the hike that day proved that to take a driveby tourist's view of such a complex chunk of the country is stupid and sad. It's just one chapter of the centuries-old battle.
We practically ran down to avoid pissing off the others, and took the Rogue back to the shore. We sat in a row on the back edge of the boat, joking and singing Cole Porter from the middle of the lake, the cruise all to ourselves for once. The lake as it really ought to be seen, without price or time limits or park service supervision. Just friends on the deep blue waters, feeling the splash of that snowmelt. We swung by the Old Man so Stacey and Stefanie could get a last look at the floating log before leaving the following day. Roger softened up with a big goofy Roger grin and said it was alright if they stood on his head. As Stan stumbled out to stand on the head, the old guy swayed heavily, at about a 10-degree angle. We all got a llittle spooked. We cruised in and packed up, eager to get to the dorms and go back into Klamath for another nostalgic send off.
We went to this Asian place on Main Street. Psueudo city bar, with lots of great beers on tap, thumping bass music. Strange but a lot of fun. We went around and told our favorite lake stories, and favorite stupid tourist questions. We told a toast to absent members, including our missing leader Dan who never made it down to see the lake again before it was all over, still in bed fighting cancer. Roger said this was the best year he had ever had at the lake, because of all of us. He had that huge Roger grin. He's a lonely guy, so when he's happy it shows double than for most people. Tim made a long toast to the whole party present.
Another sad goodbye and another largely ceremonial exchange of contact info. I do think I'll get in touch with a lot of these folks though. You can't go through something as wacky as this and not. Something as intense and bizarre as this experience seems to fuse people together like heat. It's a good thing. Something that makes memories and friends who will always be sticking around back there even if you're not sending each other Christmas cards.
LIaDVp.25: Living with Chiloquin and 9-Finger Stan
September 25, 2004
Well I guess it was only a matter of time before I got a roommate from Chiloquin. I think he's from Chiloquin at least. I got a call much like I'm sure Rabbit did months ago when I was en route: Pam from HR breaking the bad news that a new roomie is moving in. Looking around the room, things looked a lot like they did when I first came to the park months ago. My stuff is in both closets. Both beds are pushed together. I've got a small blue boombox. There are a couple of empty bottles on the desk. Full circle.
I haven't met the tike yet, but he's fresh out of high school and dating one of the skaterats native to the state of Jefferson, known by most as "Z." This is a very Chiloquin nickname, because her actual name starts with an X. Who knows, I may really like him. God I hope so. I can't handle 18 year old shenanigans, or the two of them humping like teenage bunnies right next to me. The last time I had 18 year old roommates was when I was 18, and that's probably the only reason it was acceptable. I was pretty upset all day, but now that I've moved the furniture back into it's two-person state, I've come to accept my fate. It's actually kind of nice, like a homecoming, since now my room looks identical to when I started what seems like so long ago. A few more books in the “have read” pile and a few less in the “to read” pile. A few more items stolen from the company decorating the room.
Speaking of roommates, I forgot to mention that Rabbit jumped the fence. The stories I've heard indicate that he wasn't exactly beloved on the front desk. Lodge manager Lindsay told him he'd have to help out with housekeeping like all lodge staff, and he decided to quit. He shortly after told Dru that he's moving to Redding to live with the fat ranger he's been trying to have sex with. I guess he probably had sex with her and fell in love with her giant, fat boobs. He told Dru that this ranger is the reason he's in the West, he just didn't know it. She still has to break up with her boyfriend before they can run off together. Shortly after their conversation, he threw his shit in his Saturn and drove off the mountain. Just like that. Bam, out the door just like everytime he ever walked out of the dorm. Godspeed to good old Rabbit. I wish he would have said goodbye or given me his email or number, but I understand what it's like when it's just time to go, and saying goodbye might lose you one of those moments where your life makes a kind of sense and you gotta do something. Still.
Today as I was getting ready to leave work at the desk I got a call from Dru:
"You're still there?" she asked. I was supposed to leave a while ago.
"Yeah, Cody's in the bathroom," I said.
"Have you seen Chef around? Stan Frick cut his finger pretty good."
"Oh shit, so now he's 8-fingered Stan?"
"Yep."
Stan Frick is a big dumb prep cook, who believes he knows everything, but in reality knows very little due to an alleged bout of amnesia. He claims to be very close to a degree in biology, but just before finishing was in a car accident and the injuries wiped out his memory. When the Rim was covered in snow and ice last weekend and half of the road was closed to the public, Frick opened up the gate and drove on it anyway in his $200 Geo. He used to work on an oil rig, where he lost one of his fingers. So now when anyone differentiates between Stan Frick and other Stans on the mountain, it's "9-finger Stan." Or in George’s case, just "9-finger." When I went down to finally leave work with Dru, I passed by an open store room in the kitchen. 9-Finger was sitting there looking kind of white, with his hand held up at eye level to his side, blood streaming down his arm.
"Oh, shit," I said unconciously.
"Yeah," he said in kind of a "what are you gonna do, one more down, eight to go" way.
"How bad is it?"
"This bad," and he held up a butcher knife covered with vegetable scraps and a streak of blood running almost up to the back of the blade. "About a quarter-inch gone."
He nonchalantly held up his thumb up to me and sure enough, the tip of it was gone. I left pretty quickly.
Later as I was contemplating whether to have another grill cheese sandwich at the EDR, since they made jack shit for vegetarians, I heard the chef yelling down the hall about Frick.
"It's just the tip of the thumb, they're not going to be able to sew it back on! He doesn't need to keep it, I keep fucking telling him. But he has to go to the hospital!" Some of the people in the EDR were snickering. "Well, he's a fucking moron!"
I decided to go to Prospect tonight for pizza instead of EDR.
Well I guess it was only a matter of time before I got a roommate from Chiloquin. I think he's from Chiloquin at least. I got a call much like I'm sure Rabbit did months ago when I was en route: Pam from HR breaking the bad news that a new roomie is moving in. Looking around the room, things looked a lot like they did when I first came to the park months ago. My stuff is in both closets. Both beds are pushed together. I've got a small blue boombox. There are a couple of empty bottles on the desk. Full circle.
I haven't met the tike yet, but he's fresh out of high school and dating one of the skaterats native to the state of Jefferson, known by most as "Z." This is a very Chiloquin nickname, because her actual name starts with an X. Who knows, I may really like him. God I hope so. I can't handle 18 year old shenanigans, or the two of them humping like teenage bunnies right next to me. The last time I had 18 year old roommates was when I was 18, and that's probably the only reason it was acceptable. I was pretty upset all day, but now that I've moved the furniture back into it's two-person state, I've come to accept my fate. It's actually kind of nice, like a homecoming, since now my room looks identical to when I started what seems like so long ago. A few more books in the “have read” pile and a few less in the “to read” pile. A few more items stolen from the company decorating the room.
Speaking of roommates, I forgot to mention that Rabbit jumped the fence. The stories I've heard indicate that he wasn't exactly beloved on the front desk. Lodge manager Lindsay told him he'd have to help out with housekeeping like all lodge staff, and he decided to quit. He shortly after told Dru that he's moving to Redding to live with the fat ranger he's been trying to have sex with. I guess he probably had sex with her and fell in love with her giant, fat boobs. He told Dru that this ranger is the reason he's in the West, he just didn't know it. She still has to break up with her boyfriend before they can run off together. Shortly after their conversation, he threw his shit in his Saturn and drove off the mountain. Just like that. Bam, out the door just like everytime he ever walked out of the dorm. Godspeed to good old Rabbit. I wish he would have said goodbye or given me his email or number, but I understand what it's like when it's just time to go, and saying goodbye might lose you one of those moments where your life makes a kind of sense and you gotta do something. Still.
Today as I was getting ready to leave work at the desk I got a call from Dru:
"You're still there?" she asked. I was supposed to leave a while ago.
"Yeah, Cody's in the bathroom," I said.
"Have you seen Chef around? Stan Frick cut his finger pretty good."
"Oh shit, so now he's 8-fingered Stan?"
"Yep."
Stan Frick is a big dumb prep cook, who believes he knows everything, but in reality knows very little due to an alleged bout of amnesia. He claims to be very close to a degree in biology, but just before finishing was in a car accident and the injuries wiped out his memory. When the Rim was covered in snow and ice last weekend and half of the road was closed to the public, Frick opened up the gate and drove on it anyway in his $200 Geo. He used to work on an oil rig, where he lost one of his fingers. So now when anyone differentiates between Stan Frick and other Stans on the mountain, it's "9-finger Stan." Or in George’s case, just "9-finger." When I went down to finally leave work with Dru, I passed by an open store room in the kitchen. 9-Finger was sitting there looking kind of white, with his hand held up at eye level to his side, blood streaming down his arm.
"Oh, shit," I said unconciously.
"Yeah," he said in kind of a "what are you gonna do, one more down, eight to go" way.
"How bad is it?"
"This bad," and he held up a butcher knife covered with vegetable scraps and a streak of blood running almost up to the back of the blade. "About a quarter-inch gone."
He nonchalantly held up his thumb up to me and sure enough, the tip of it was gone. I left pretty quickly.
Later as I was contemplating whether to have another grill cheese sandwich at the EDR, since they made jack shit for vegetarians, I heard the chef yelling down the hall about Frick.
"It's just the tip of the thumb, they're not going to be able to sew it back on! He doesn't need to keep it, I keep fucking telling him. But he has to go to the hospital!" Some of the people in the EDR were snickering. "Well, he's a fucking moron!"
I decided to go to Prospect tonight for pizza instead of EDR.
LIaDVp.26: Stan has a meltdown ... I have no more friends
Sept. 26, 2004
I watched some of Survivor the other night while I ate pizza in Prospect. It occurred to me, if all of these people are so isolated from civilization and hygiene and comfort and good food, why are they all shaved? Not necessarily the men, but the women, while bathing by the ocean and using the rough wet sand to scrub themselves clean, had clearly shaved legs and underarms. What the hell? They don't have blankets or food or even a flint to make fire, but they all shave?
Greg is one of the bellhops/front desk workers with me. He's pretty funny, and always seems to be hungover or sort of on something. Not in a sketchy way, but in a wacky fun young guy kind of way. He's going to Europe for a few months after this. He's worked at a couple of parks. His last day off he woke up and ate some mushrooms, drove to Bend for a concert and smoked some weed and drank some beer. He's hysterical to work with, muttering little things under his breath or between checkins. He seems to hate dealing with guests.
October 2, 2004
Well, I think I finally may have found that solitude I was looking for, as I have essentially no friends on the mountain. Most of them left as the season winds to a close. My last two, Dru and Stan, pretty much signed the divorce papers about 10 minutes ago when Dru came by to return some books I had loaned them and asked for a cup and a book I had borrowed. She barely spoke to me, and as I told Stan a few nights ago, I've been added to the list of people Stan has alienated on the mountain. I was pretty sure we were done for, but I guess I didn't anticipate being the one given the cold shoulder. I thought I'd at least be able to negotiate a civil relationship with Dru if not Stan. She seems to hate me more than he does, which is made even more funny by the fact that it was Dru and I screaming together at Stan the other night, telling him to come home, her trying to tackle him so he'd stop jumping in front of Tim's car. Me telling him that if he knows what's good for him, he'll go make amends with his wife. Her sobbing at him, asking why he acts like this. But like most abusive drunks, he's mastered the art of turning blame and guilt on others. Dru got the guilt, I got the blame. He barely escaped being escorted off of the mountain by security.
I guess I have to go back to Monday night, when were having our big boat ops send off party. We were spiking our Cokes with a liter of rum 80-year-old George had stashed in his room. Stan in retrospect, seemed to be taking more than his fair share, since he turned into his obnoxious, overbearing drunken self by like 8 p.m. By the end of our little gathering, he had smacked Jane's ass a few times, heckled Roger's appreciative speech and a few of its recipients, picked up and threw around Dana trying to get her to dance, knocked several drinks on the floor and George, and finally, his masterpiece, told the top two managers at the park that the company was basically shit as were they. Sexually harrassed the GM. Was a few words from being knocked out by the facilities manager. Dru was furious. Stan was like a zombie. Relentless, unshaken by anything she said.
So when Tim and I decided to go the nearby campground to continue the celebration (almost everyone else went home, uncomfortable), Tim laughed with Stan and said he didn't think it would be a good idea. Stan had work at 6 a.m. and if he showed up drunk after the night's disaster, he'd be canned for sure. Dru begged him, Tim and I reasoned with him, but he wouldn't let up. Every move we made he followed us, taunting and relentlessly asking for keys to my car.
We finally went out to Tim's car, and started to drive away and he jumped on the hood of the stationwagon and hung on. Tim slowly parked again and we got out and walked back to the room cursing him and telling him he'd be lucky if Dru didn't leave him. She was bawling in a pile on the sidewalk. Meanwhile Stan insisted this was all a matter of us being too uptight, too Puritan in our upbringings. "I love you Dru, but why won't you just let go?" Dru trying to convince herself that she wasn't crazy, that Stan was acting badly, and us assuring her that he was. This went on for some time in various form. Stan pounding on my door, pushing his way into my room. Yelling, yelling and more yelling. All of us threatening to wake up the manager on duty and have him taken into custody. Tim finally did. The manager woke up pissed and told him if he didn't go to bed he'd lose his job. Later as Tim and I drove to the campground, Stan was still waiting for us, and came chasing after, yelling and running in front of the car. We swerved to miss him and left.
But behold! At the campground, one of its residents pulled up late from work with Stan in the passenger seat. Jessica said she picked him up when she saw him hitchhiking on the side of the road, about 4 miles from the dorm. He had been running to the campground. He called me a conservative asshole, and I told him I didn't want to talk to him, not now, maybe not ever. Cory called the general manager out to the campground, but by the time she got there, Jessica had convinced Stan to leave with her.
And that's how I lost my best friends at the park. I have to say, it had been building for a while. Stan has a track record of losing control and pissing people off when drunk, then trying to blame it on the other: Tim in Prospect, his ex-friend gay James who Stan told to put on a dress and just be a woman, Brent when he came to visit and Stan told him he was going to "Jack off in his face," Rabbit, who Stan punched in the eye. And everytime, it was the other guy's fault. Stan was barely even drinking, he swore. Well now it happened to me, but I couldn't laugh it off this time. I couldn't watch Stan make his wife sob in the parking lot and then try to tell her it was her fault for being too uptight. I told them I wouldn't sit back and watch their divorce, and I meant it. And when it all comes down to it, I didn't do a thing to Stan, except that I wouldn't give him my car to take to the campground. I didn't tell management, or try to run him over, or watch as he got himself fired for sheer stupidity. Maybe as the season wound down, I overreacted, ready to shed my seasonal friends. I think I just finally lost patience. I probably would have come around if they would have come to me wanting to hash it out. I'm a pushover that way. But they wrote me off without a thought or even an attempt to talk about it. They've been doing this seasonal thing for a lot longer than I have, so I guess they've mastered the skill of severing ties with a temporary friend. I watched it happen to Stan and Dru and three other of their good friends on the mountain. Then me.
So now the boat people are gone, except for Stan and Dana (who I guess technically is my last friend on the hill) Jane just left. Tim's in Portland. Stefanie's gone. George's gone. Rabbit's gone. I get along with my new coworkers, so I could consider them friends if I didn't feel melodramatic. But such is the way with seasonal work: Winter comes, and the bonds you built, so you didn't feel alone, are no longer necessary, and they sort of slough off. Not unlike high school really. Or your freshman year of college. Or prison. The situation is so radical, so extremely unusual, that you form fast, powerful relationships to make it by. The friendships are vivid and strong and the experiences you share are outrageous and emotional. But they just can't really last that long. They run at top speed for too long and either just shut down or explode.
I watched some of Survivor the other night while I ate pizza in Prospect. It occurred to me, if all of these people are so isolated from civilization and hygiene and comfort and good food, why are they all shaved? Not necessarily the men, but the women, while bathing by the ocean and using the rough wet sand to scrub themselves clean, had clearly shaved legs and underarms. What the hell? They don't have blankets or food or even a flint to make fire, but they all shave?
Greg is one of the bellhops/front desk workers with me. He's pretty funny, and always seems to be hungover or sort of on something. Not in a sketchy way, but in a wacky fun young guy kind of way. He's going to Europe for a few months after this. He's worked at a couple of parks. His last day off he woke up and ate some mushrooms, drove to Bend for a concert and smoked some weed and drank some beer. He's hysterical to work with, muttering little things under his breath or between checkins. He seems to hate dealing with guests.
October 2, 2004
Well, I think I finally may have found that solitude I was looking for, as I have essentially no friends on the mountain. Most of them left as the season winds to a close. My last two, Dru and Stan, pretty much signed the divorce papers about 10 minutes ago when Dru came by to return some books I had loaned them and asked for a cup and a book I had borrowed. She barely spoke to me, and as I told Stan a few nights ago, I've been added to the list of people Stan has alienated on the mountain. I was pretty sure we were done for, but I guess I didn't anticipate being the one given the cold shoulder. I thought I'd at least be able to negotiate a civil relationship with Dru if not Stan. She seems to hate me more than he does, which is made even more funny by the fact that it was Dru and I screaming together at Stan the other night, telling him to come home, her trying to tackle him so he'd stop jumping in front of Tim's car. Me telling him that if he knows what's good for him, he'll go make amends with his wife. Her sobbing at him, asking why he acts like this. But like most abusive drunks, he's mastered the art of turning blame and guilt on others. Dru got the guilt, I got the blame. He barely escaped being escorted off of the mountain by security.
I guess I have to go back to Monday night, when were having our big boat ops send off party. We were spiking our Cokes with a liter of rum 80-year-old George had stashed in his room. Stan in retrospect, seemed to be taking more than his fair share, since he turned into his obnoxious, overbearing drunken self by like 8 p.m. By the end of our little gathering, he had smacked Jane's ass a few times, heckled Roger's appreciative speech and a few of its recipients, picked up and threw around Dana trying to get her to dance, knocked several drinks on the floor and George, and finally, his masterpiece, told the top two managers at the park that the company was basically shit as were they. Sexually harrassed the GM. Was a few words from being knocked out by the facilities manager. Dru was furious. Stan was like a zombie. Relentless, unshaken by anything she said.
So when Tim and I decided to go the nearby campground to continue the celebration (almost everyone else went home, uncomfortable), Tim laughed with Stan and said he didn't think it would be a good idea. Stan had work at 6 a.m. and if he showed up drunk after the night's disaster, he'd be canned for sure. Dru begged him, Tim and I reasoned with him, but he wouldn't let up. Every move we made he followed us, taunting and relentlessly asking for keys to my car.
We finally went out to Tim's car, and started to drive away and he jumped on the hood of the stationwagon and hung on. Tim slowly parked again and we got out and walked back to the room cursing him and telling him he'd be lucky if Dru didn't leave him. She was bawling in a pile on the sidewalk. Meanwhile Stan insisted this was all a matter of us being too uptight, too Puritan in our upbringings. "I love you Dru, but why won't you just let go?" Dru trying to convince herself that she wasn't crazy, that Stan was acting badly, and us assuring her that he was. This went on for some time in various form. Stan pounding on my door, pushing his way into my room. Yelling, yelling and more yelling. All of us threatening to wake up the manager on duty and have him taken into custody. Tim finally did. The manager woke up pissed and told him if he didn't go to bed he'd lose his job. Later as Tim and I drove to the campground, Stan was still waiting for us, and came chasing after, yelling and running in front of the car. We swerved to miss him and left.
But behold! At the campground, one of its residents pulled up late from work with Stan in the passenger seat. Jessica said she picked him up when she saw him hitchhiking on the side of the road, about 4 miles from the dorm. He had been running to the campground. He called me a conservative asshole, and I told him I didn't want to talk to him, not now, maybe not ever. Cory called the general manager out to the campground, but by the time she got there, Jessica had convinced Stan to leave with her.
And that's how I lost my best friends at the park. I have to say, it had been building for a while. Stan has a track record of losing control and pissing people off when drunk, then trying to blame it on the other: Tim in Prospect, his ex-friend gay James who Stan told to put on a dress and just be a woman, Brent when he came to visit and Stan told him he was going to "Jack off in his face," Rabbit, who Stan punched in the eye. And everytime, it was the other guy's fault. Stan was barely even drinking, he swore. Well now it happened to me, but I couldn't laugh it off this time. I couldn't watch Stan make his wife sob in the parking lot and then try to tell her it was her fault for being too uptight. I told them I wouldn't sit back and watch their divorce, and I meant it. And when it all comes down to it, I didn't do a thing to Stan, except that I wouldn't give him my car to take to the campground. I didn't tell management, or try to run him over, or watch as he got himself fired for sheer stupidity. Maybe as the season wound down, I overreacted, ready to shed my seasonal friends. I think I just finally lost patience. I probably would have come around if they would have come to me wanting to hash it out. I'm a pushover that way. But they wrote me off without a thought or even an attempt to talk about it. They've been doing this seasonal thing for a lot longer than I have, so I guess they've mastered the skill of severing ties with a temporary friend. I watched it happen to Stan and Dru and three other of their good friends on the mountain. Then me.
So now the boat people are gone, except for Stan and Dana (who I guess technically is my last friend on the hill) Jane just left. Tim's in Portland. Stefanie's gone. George's gone. Rabbit's gone. I get along with my new coworkers, so I could consider them friends if I didn't feel melodramatic. But such is the way with seasonal work: Winter comes, and the bonds you built, so you didn't feel alone, are no longer necessary, and they sort of slough off. Not unlike high school really. Or your freshman year of college. Or prison. The situation is so radical, so extremely unusual, that you form fast, powerful relationships to make it by. The friendships are vivid and strong and the experiences you share are outrageous and emotional. But they just can't really last that long. They run at top speed for too long and either just shut down or explode.
LIaDVp.27: Norsemen and The Clanks
October 3, 2004
I was able to spend two full days in Portland recently, which was much needed after the meltdown in the dorm parking lot the night before. Being home was wonderful. Probably my last trip before shutting this bitch down. I probably could have used a haircut, but the last day in town I was hungover, so Casey and I watched eight episodes of Freaks and Geeks instead. That show is incredible, but just watching dvds all day and night hit the spot. The night before we visited the Hotel Mallory's popular lobby bar, The Driftwood Room. Aside from a handful of locals, there were about 30 visitors from Norway, here to gather at the Norse Hall in SE Portland. When we arrived, they were all in the lobby, playing six accordians, an acoustic guitar, and a handsaw, while others danced. When that party wound down, they shifted to the bar where one Norseman played the guitar and another led them in song. The crazy part: when they weren't playing Norse folk songs that sounded exactly like old American songs, they were playing actual old American songs. "Do you guys know Merle Aggard?" Then leading us all in a rousing version of "Okie from Muskogee," with all of the words dead on in English, except for the "th" sound was replaced with "t," like "everyting," and a few other minor pronunciation mistakes. And this went on and on until the bar closed. Some Ringo Starr song. The Green Green Grass of Home. A Bobby Darren song.
The mountain feels a little lonely lately. The neverending sunny and beautiful weather is grating at me. After seeing leaves in the Portland streets, I want the seasons to change, badly. I guess that's mainly why I decided to stay. I needed to see it happen. The snow fall, the doors lock, the cars dissapear. To know that when I leave, there will be nothing here to leave behind but snowdrifts and a park service skeleton staff.
I work nights now, and it's a whole new perspective on the lodge and the park. The stars and moon and sunset are as breathtaking as the glassy lake on a crisp morning at Cleetwood. The lodge in particular takes on a unique beauty at night. No more bustling in and out of doors as people settle down for their dinner reservations or sit back in the great hall for cocktails and desserts. A major duty for the night front deskman is checking out blankets so people can sit in rocking chairs on the back porch and watch the moon over the big dark water. Twice tonight people came up to me to comment that at 7000 feet with no clouds or light pollution for about a 75 to 100 mile radius, this is the greatest night sky they had ever seen. I sort of take it as a compliment, though I have nothing to do with it. It's nice to know that I had something to do with people seeing the most beautiful night sky of their lives, as small as that part is.
The other night at the campground, bellman Cory told me about a fungus that grows on wheat, which the U.S. Department of Agriculture has long devoted resources to monitoring. It creates hallucinations in someone who ingests it. One of his former government co-workers accidentally ingested it and proved such. Historians can trace back a massive presence of the fungus in the area during the Salem witch trials. This is how they account for the visions among the persecuted. They were all loopy on wheat fungus and were burned at the stake.
Another job that Cory actually had in common with Captain Roger was night watch at a morgue. Cory didn't hold the job, but often assisted a friend who did. All parties present testified to a phenomenon called, "The Clanks." This is when waning nerve impulses remaining in corpses kick in and cause the bodies to lurch up in their slumbers, creating "clanks," in their metal drawers, which echo throughout the halls most nights. One night, Cory saw a particularly powerful Clank that knocked the drawer loose and out of its slot, so it appeared as though one of the corpses had pushed its way out. He pissed in his pants.
I heard all of these stories on that same night that Stan was nearly fired. I got completely hammered (but never caused trouble with anyone I'd like to point out). We sat around a campfire and bullshitted till late at night. Two servers came by right before the General Manager showed up looking for Stan. One server was smoking dope right before she appeared from the shadows. We started joking that she was a ninja and I kept going on about how she has the power to manipulate time and space, probably a bit too long. I think (this is fuzzy) I raised some eyebrows. I was talking a lot to this waitress. We had a nice talk, but I vaguely remember the sensation that I was wearing her out a bit. I couldn't help it. After the Stan thing, I really needed to have a positive social experience, even if I was about 20 or so drinks ahead of her.
I rode back to the dorm with her and Bruce, a pretty cool middle aged waiter who drives this Oldsmobile hoopty looking thing with the coolest interior I've ever seen. In my drunken state, I was silently obsessing over its massive wall of console and dashboard and electronics. In the dark, lit by glowing stereo gizmos and dashlights, it looked like the interior of a spacecraft or a 747. I decided at that moment that I would have such a car of my own someday. A 1980s sedan of some sort with a massive dash and instruments. That's all I had to go on, but my mind was made up. I sheepishly thanked Bruce the next day for the ride, but couldn't remember the girl's name so didn't talk to her. Now I feel bad about not saying hello. I'm told I'm pretty coherent even when extremely wasted. But they were so sober and I was so drunk, I had that weird feeling like they saw me naked or something.
I was able to spend two full days in Portland recently, which was much needed after the meltdown in the dorm parking lot the night before. Being home was wonderful. Probably my last trip before shutting this bitch down. I probably could have used a haircut, but the last day in town I was hungover, so Casey and I watched eight episodes of Freaks and Geeks instead. That show is incredible, but just watching dvds all day and night hit the spot. The night before we visited the Hotel Mallory's popular lobby bar, The Driftwood Room. Aside from a handful of locals, there were about 30 visitors from Norway, here to gather at the Norse Hall in SE Portland. When we arrived, they were all in the lobby, playing six accordians, an acoustic guitar, and a handsaw, while others danced. When that party wound down, they shifted to the bar where one Norseman played the guitar and another led them in song. The crazy part: when they weren't playing Norse folk songs that sounded exactly like old American songs, they were playing actual old American songs. "Do you guys know Merle Aggard?" Then leading us all in a rousing version of "Okie from Muskogee," with all of the words dead on in English, except for the "th" sound was replaced with "t," like "everyting," and a few other minor pronunciation mistakes. And this went on and on until the bar closed. Some Ringo Starr song. The Green Green Grass of Home. A Bobby Darren song.
The mountain feels a little lonely lately. The neverending sunny and beautiful weather is grating at me. After seeing leaves in the Portland streets, I want the seasons to change, badly. I guess that's mainly why I decided to stay. I needed to see it happen. The snow fall, the doors lock, the cars dissapear. To know that when I leave, there will be nothing here to leave behind but snowdrifts and a park service skeleton staff.
I work nights now, and it's a whole new perspective on the lodge and the park. The stars and moon and sunset are as breathtaking as the glassy lake on a crisp morning at Cleetwood. The lodge in particular takes on a unique beauty at night. No more bustling in and out of doors as people settle down for their dinner reservations or sit back in the great hall for cocktails and desserts. A major duty for the night front deskman is checking out blankets so people can sit in rocking chairs on the back porch and watch the moon over the big dark water. Twice tonight people came up to me to comment that at 7000 feet with no clouds or light pollution for about a 75 to 100 mile radius, this is the greatest night sky they had ever seen. I sort of take it as a compliment, though I have nothing to do with it. It's nice to know that I had something to do with people seeing the most beautiful night sky of their lives, as small as that part is.
The other night at the campground, bellman Cory told me about a fungus that grows on wheat, which the U.S. Department of Agriculture has long devoted resources to monitoring. It creates hallucinations in someone who ingests it. One of his former government co-workers accidentally ingested it and proved such. Historians can trace back a massive presence of the fungus in the area during the Salem witch trials. This is how they account for the visions among the persecuted. They were all loopy on wheat fungus and were burned at the stake.
Another job that Cory actually had in common with Captain Roger was night watch at a morgue. Cory didn't hold the job, but often assisted a friend who did. All parties present testified to a phenomenon called, "The Clanks." This is when waning nerve impulses remaining in corpses kick in and cause the bodies to lurch up in their slumbers, creating "clanks," in their metal drawers, which echo throughout the halls most nights. One night, Cory saw a particularly powerful Clank that knocked the drawer loose and out of its slot, so it appeared as though one of the corpses had pushed its way out. He pissed in his pants.
I heard all of these stories on that same night that Stan was nearly fired. I got completely hammered (but never caused trouble with anyone I'd like to point out). We sat around a campfire and bullshitted till late at night. Two servers came by right before the General Manager showed up looking for Stan. One server was smoking dope right before she appeared from the shadows. We started joking that she was a ninja and I kept going on about how she has the power to manipulate time and space, probably a bit too long. I think (this is fuzzy) I raised some eyebrows. I was talking a lot to this waitress. We had a nice talk, but I vaguely remember the sensation that I was wearing her out a bit. I couldn't help it. After the Stan thing, I really needed to have a positive social experience, even if I was about 20 or so drinks ahead of her.
I rode back to the dorm with her and Bruce, a pretty cool middle aged waiter who drives this Oldsmobile hoopty looking thing with the coolest interior I've ever seen. In my drunken state, I was silently obsessing over its massive wall of console and dashboard and electronics. In the dark, lit by glowing stereo gizmos and dashlights, it looked like the interior of a spacecraft or a 747. I decided at that moment that I would have such a car of my own someday. A 1980s sedan of some sort with a massive dash and instruments. That's all I had to go on, but my mind was made up. I sheepishly thanked Bruce the next day for the ride, but couldn't remember the girl's name so didn't talk to her. Now I feel bad about not saying hello. I'm told I'm pretty coherent even when extremely wasted. But they were so sober and I was so drunk, I had that weird feeling like they saw me naked or something.
20050718
LIaDVp. 28: Return of Stan ... An Intimate Evening in Prospect
October 5, 2004
It finally happened. A week after I swore myself done with the nonsense, Stan knocked on my door with a foam-backed USGS bathymetry poster of Crater Lake, and a wine decantur we had been drinking from all season. "What's this?" I asked, probably visibly stunned after spending so many days ignoring or dodging each other.
"It's for you."
"Why did you do that?"
"I'm here to make recompense. Not to get overly academic, but I respect the Asian and Native American cultures the most, and in tradition, they bear gifts when they enter someone's home for the first time, or when they enter someone's home to make recompense."
He held his arms out and we hugged. He said, "I guess I should just say I'm sorry." I thanked him for the gifts and for coming down. I offered him a chair and a beer. We talked skittishly about what had happpened. I reluctantly told him I was sorry for blowing up. We agreed that this mountain makes things intense, and that overall we just overheated and needed to cool down. He acknowledged that when he started drinking that rum from George on an empty stomach, combined with the "forced celebratory atmosphere," he snapped and pushed too far. He made a few attempts to justify his behavior, calling himself a revolutionary in more words, and defending his attacks on management. I tried to hold firm on my anger. But just as I reluctantly but sincerely apologized, so had he. And he came down and knocked on my door with extended arms and gifts and that meant a lot. He's still an asshole and an abusive drunk, and I still stand by my notion that I like him better as a friend than as a person. But as I told them, this mountain is too small to hold a grudge. I think things will still be different between us, more subdued. But Stan made a strong point that we shouldn't part on such terms. I can swallow my contempt and my ego enough to tolerate his qualified apology. What does he have to do, get on his knees? Dru said she asked Stan, "What if you go down there and he says, "Sorry Stan, I don't want to talk to you.'" She remembered my "add me to the list of ...' speech, and was afraid I meant it. I told her I did and felt that way for a few days, but that I was never any good at holding grudges. As I tried to sum up, "I've had far worse arguments in the past and I'll have far worse arguments in the future, so what are you going to do?" We hugged and went to bed early, without struggle or chaos, for perhaps the first time since we became friends.
October 6, 2004
14 days left . . . When I came home from work I went to sleep at about 4 p.m. and stayed so until almost 7. During that time it rained all evening. I was tired. When I awoke, I dressed quickly and drove to Prospect Pizza for dinner. I've said a lot about Prospect, but tonight was one of those good nights in a town where you can see why people would want to live there. I ate a small onion and jalapeno pizza and a Kona beer while watching a new prime time drama about some really attractive plane crash survivors stuck on an island. At the table next to me, there were three bald and/or mustachioed rednecks. They were pretty drunk and the plane crash show was one guy's "favorite new program." He also referred to it as a movie. A homely woman and her young daughter were running the pizza place. The daughter watched as the mother dumped out the flower vase/tip jar. "Wow Mom." She had a lot of tips that night.
I stopped in at Prospect Trophy Room Bar, now under new management by a nice enough guy named Ralph. I took a stool under a row of about 50 deer racks. To my left was a 43-year-old guy, short with a mustache, a cowboy hat and wearing jeans and a tank top. He was talking to another guy, 45, wearing a Rogue Valley Fire Department cap. He was drinking a mug of beer and a shot of whiskey, and had clearly had many more before I pulled in.
The two men were talking about pugs. Yeah, the little dogs with squished noses and wrinkled faces, pugs. They were both enthusiasts. The little guy with the cowboy hat had been raising and breeding them for quite a while. The other guy had just one, but he was a fan, and wanted to know more about the dogs, despite his being very drunk interfering with the conversation. Halfway into their discussion, he said, "So you are experienced with pugs, huh?" They both agreed that pugs had lots of personality, moreso than their other dogs, Sharpeis and Basset hounds and such. No, pugs are the best dogs. They snore. They like to sleep on their backs. They don't like the heat, but they love the snow. If you breed them, the cowboy guy recommends cesarian section, to avoid common complications. When your female begins heat, she needs a week or so before she can conceive, so you need to separate the dogs during that time. Otherwise, the male will go crazy and wear himself out before she's fertile. "He won't even eat. All he can think about is poontang." Then they got a bit sentimental, asking the names of each others' dogs. Cowboy guy had pugs named Killer, Killer Jr., and Pooper. Drunken guy had a pug named Pugsy. "That's a great name," Cowboy said. "Yep," Drunk said. "Pugsy Winchester von Ruger."
To my right, two gentlemen walked up to the bar after I ordered my second mug. One man was at least 6'7" wearing farmer overalls and a hooded sweatshirt. He had long stringy hair and a big bushy moustache. His hands were massive and gnarled, with fingernails that looked more like pieces of bark than cartiledge. His friend had crewcut hair, slightly balding and big Buddy Holly glasses. You'd think them from totally different backgrounds, except that the guy with glasses also had massive, strong hands. They ordered beer and burgers and were catching up on baseball scores. The Yankees had just defeated the Twins, but the tall guy said, "I hate both of those squads." I asked what they were doing here, and the tall guy told me they were blowing up trees for the Forest Service. Buddy Holly climbs 70 feet up a tree and plants dynamite, but tall guy just gets to hit the detonator. They're from the other side of the world: Corvalis. "Fucking Yankees," tall guy said, watching highlights.
I left after two mugs, drove home the 30 miles back to my dorm with an open Miler Lite in the cupholder and the new Giant Sand on the stereo. Howe Gelb is a mad genius.
It finally happened. A week after I swore myself done with the nonsense, Stan knocked on my door with a foam-backed USGS bathymetry poster of Crater Lake, and a wine decantur we had been drinking from all season. "What's this?" I asked, probably visibly stunned after spending so many days ignoring or dodging each other.
"It's for you."
"Why did you do that?"
"I'm here to make recompense. Not to get overly academic, but I respect the Asian and Native American cultures the most, and in tradition, they bear gifts when they enter someone's home for the first time, or when they enter someone's home to make recompense."
He held his arms out and we hugged. He said, "I guess I should just say I'm sorry." I thanked him for the gifts and for coming down. I offered him a chair and a beer. We talked skittishly about what had happpened. I reluctantly told him I was sorry for blowing up. We agreed that this mountain makes things intense, and that overall we just overheated and needed to cool down. He acknowledged that when he started drinking that rum from George on an empty stomach, combined with the "forced celebratory atmosphere," he snapped and pushed too far. He made a few attempts to justify his behavior, calling himself a revolutionary in more words, and defending his attacks on management. I tried to hold firm on my anger. But just as I reluctantly but sincerely apologized, so had he. And he came down and knocked on my door with extended arms and gifts and that meant a lot. He's still an asshole and an abusive drunk, and I still stand by my notion that I like him better as a friend than as a person. But as I told them, this mountain is too small to hold a grudge. I think things will still be different between us, more subdued. But Stan made a strong point that we shouldn't part on such terms. I can swallow my contempt and my ego enough to tolerate his qualified apology. What does he have to do, get on his knees? Dru said she asked Stan, "What if you go down there and he says, "Sorry Stan, I don't want to talk to you.'" She remembered my "add me to the list of ...' speech, and was afraid I meant it. I told her I did and felt that way for a few days, but that I was never any good at holding grudges. As I tried to sum up, "I've had far worse arguments in the past and I'll have far worse arguments in the future, so what are you going to do?" We hugged and went to bed early, without struggle or chaos, for perhaps the first time since we became friends.
October 6, 2004
14 days left . . . When I came home from work I went to sleep at about 4 p.m. and stayed so until almost 7. During that time it rained all evening. I was tired. When I awoke, I dressed quickly and drove to Prospect Pizza for dinner. I've said a lot about Prospect, but tonight was one of those good nights in a town where you can see why people would want to live there. I ate a small onion and jalapeno pizza and a Kona beer while watching a new prime time drama about some really attractive plane crash survivors stuck on an island. At the table next to me, there were three bald and/or mustachioed rednecks. They were pretty drunk and the plane crash show was one guy's "favorite new program." He also referred to it as a movie. A homely woman and her young daughter were running the pizza place. The daughter watched as the mother dumped out the flower vase/tip jar. "Wow Mom." She had a lot of tips that night.
I stopped in at Prospect Trophy Room Bar, now under new management by a nice enough guy named Ralph. I took a stool under a row of about 50 deer racks. To my left was a 43-year-old guy, short with a mustache, a cowboy hat and wearing jeans and a tank top. He was talking to another guy, 45, wearing a Rogue Valley Fire Department cap. He was drinking a mug of beer and a shot of whiskey, and had clearly had many more before I pulled in.
The two men were talking about pugs. Yeah, the little dogs with squished noses and wrinkled faces, pugs. They were both enthusiasts. The little guy with the cowboy hat had been raising and breeding them for quite a while. The other guy had just one, but he was a fan, and wanted to know more about the dogs, despite his being very drunk interfering with the conversation. Halfway into their discussion, he said, "So you are experienced with pugs, huh?" They both agreed that pugs had lots of personality, moreso than their other dogs, Sharpeis and Basset hounds and such. No, pugs are the best dogs. They snore. They like to sleep on their backs. They don't like the heat, but they love the snow. If you breed them, the cowboy guy recommends cesarian section, to avoid common complications. When your female begins heat, she needs a week or so before she can conceive, so you need to separate the dogs during that time. Otherwise, the male will go crazy and wear himself out before she's fertile. "He won't even eat. All he can think about is poontang." Then they got a bit sentimental, asking the names of each others' dogs. Cowboy guy had pugs named Killer, Killer Jr., and Pooper. Drunken guy had a pug named Pugsy. "That's a great name," Cowboy said. "Yep," Drunk said. "Pugsy Winchester von Ruger."
To my right, two gentlemen walked up to the bar after I ordered my second mug. One man was at least 6'7" wearing farmer overalls and a hooded sweatshirt. He had long stringy hair and a big bushy moustache. His hands were massive and gnarled, with fingernails that looked more like pieces of bark than cartiledge. His friend had crewcut hair, slightly balding and big Buddy Holly glasses. You'd think them from totally different backgrounds, except that the guy with glasses also had massive, strong hands. They ordered beer and burgers and were catching up on baseball scores. The Yankees had just defeated the Twins, but the tall guy said, "I hate both of those squads." I asked what they were doing here, and the tall guy told me they were blowing up trees for the Forest Service. Buddy Holly climbs 70 feet up a tree and plants dynamite, but tall guy just gets to hit the detonator. They're from the other side of the world: Corvalis. "Fucking Yankees," tall guy said, watching highlights.
I left after two mugs, drove home the 30 miles back to my dorm with an open Miler Lite in the cupholder and the new Giant Sand on the stereo. Howe Gelb is a mad genius.
LIaDVp.29: Horror stories from the rural highway
October 6, 2004, cont.
A group of German teenagers were visiting the lodge for a night. They were like a pack of beautiful, slender Abercrombie models. It's not the first tour from Europe that is like that. I'm starting to think that every European is beautiful by nature. Uh oh, I just opened a bomber of Arrrogant Bastard, that means I'm probably getting pretty drunk tonight. I have tomorrow off, and I'm not sure what I want to do. One guest got to talking today about the Oregon Vortex in Gold Hill. While most I've talked to have mild appreciation for the Vortex, this woman was clearly a fan. She said you have to go. I said I've been to the Mystery Spot in Santa Cruz, which she passed off as a pale imitator, one of several across the country, but the Vortex, that's the real deal. A natural phenomenon in the Earth's magnetic field. I started to get the feeeling that Crater lake was just a stop on the way to the Vortex for these people.
The guests during the last two nights have been overall, very cool people. Not cool in the MTV sense, but interesting and friendly. It's been sad to see a lot of them go. Like the leather-clad, young biker couple, the man with a braided goatee. They like Monopoly. Or the yuppie-ish Idahoans, also on bikes, but yuppie bikes, who had all kinds of experience working at various lodges. Or the middle-aged government worker who had been at the lodge for a few days by herself. She's an investigator for the Department of Justice, and had been in the area hunting a polluter. She had been dating a guy who's now living in Redding and it doesn't seem to be going well. He was supposed to meet her at the Lake. Instead she was travelling alone, but doing so very well and happily. She was on her way up to Bend to see what it's like. By her attitude, I got the feeling that she's sort of important in her circle. Kind of bitchy, but fun to talk to. She's contemplating moving, but is nervous about the social adjustment and the cultural value of the area. Now presumably single, I think she wanted a change, but was afraid of moving to an area with nobody to help her settle in, no other and no friends in the area. Of course, I strongly recommended Portland. We exchanged numbers, me and this 50 something federal lawyer, and she said she may be able to help me with work if I'm ever in the DC area (I told her my paper background). I told her I'd be happy to show her around Portland if she ever takes the dive. She seemed sincerely appreciative, although a very dry personality I really think she'll call if she's around. How cool is that?
October 15, 2004
Four days left . . . Cory has hit about 50 deer with cars in his life. He's about my age, and grew up in Nebraska. In Nebraska the overpopulation of deer is a serious problem. That's why they have open season for hunters. Grocery stores in Lincoln have long removed the sensor activated doors, since deer began wandering into WalMarts and Safeways. They'd kick around merchandise and scare the customers until some employee would have to take a Remington off the wall and plug the deer right in the store. It was too traumatizing to shoppers in the store so they took out the automatic doors. When Cory worked for the Department of Agriculture, they had several large pickup trucks with "deer-killer" grills of heavy duty, steel pipe. One month driving around in Nebraska, Cory hit about 15 deer. Almost all of them were killed by the nasty grills. The worst times were when the deer would try to jump over the trucks when they finally recognized them. All of the cab roofs were caved in from deer landing on top of the trucks and flying over onto the highway behind.
Once, Cory and his coworker hit a deer square on and it flew over them. They pulled into a gas station in central Lincoln, a large city, and someone asked if they had been hunting. The deer was lying in the bed of the truck, twitching and shaking in death throes. They didn't have any weapons, and they couldn't really fire any off anyway as federal employees in the middle of the city. But there they were in an urban gas station with a seizing deer on the verge of death in the back of their government pickup truck. They both looked around for something heavy or sharp like a shovel but the best Cory could find was a monkey wrench. His co-worker jumped into the bed and grabbed hold of the deer's head. Cory jumped up and started swinging the wrench into its head like he was chopping wood. The thing finally died and Cory and his friend collapsed on the tailgate of the truck. Cory had blood all over his arms and some on his face. His coworker had blood all over him. There was a crowd of about 15 people watching the spectacle. "I'm calling the cops," one guy said. They were at risk of being charged with inhumane killing of an animal. They waited for the police to arrive, and then for a deer autopsy. The animal had ruptured several organs including its lungs. It was dying when they bashed its head in, and likely saved it a lot of suffering.
I walked out of the employee exit of the lodge at about dusk today. The Klamath Valley was indescribably beautiful, pinkish or so with rolling hills and purple horizons. About 20 feet away was an adult deer, standing and watching me, barely afraid. I've learned from highway driving that when you see one deer, you really need to be careful of the two or three following behind. They were two fawns, stumbling clumsily behind about 30 yards. They saw me and scampered up behind the mother. I waved and said "hi," and since there was nobody around, walked alongside of them for the length of the parking lot, never more than a car's length away. When I reached the end, there was a tourist going to his car. I wanted to show him, but it would have spooked the deer. They were very close to his car. The deer lost their patience and scurried up the hill out of sight. The tourist never knew they were there.
I was sitting in Ben's dorm (he's from Chiloquin, so I expected no good). He was wearing baggy denim pants, a belt, some leather shoes, and a denim button-up shirt tucked in. "Looks like you're ready to hit the Rim Dorm," I said. "Yeah, you want to go?" "Fuck no," I said. So we sat around his dorm, drinking Black Velvet whiskey and cheap beer, talking about the season and looking at photos. Ben loves bluegrass and whiteboy funk and country. We were listening to Suicidal Tendencies, Lights Camera Revolution, with "Send me your money," circa1991. I asked him if he liked Primus and he said no. He had a bad experience:
"Me and a few of my friends were driving along Highway XX and we had just taken bunch of mushrooms and were tripping balls. We pulled over to the side of the road. and sat there for a while just frying and listening to Primus. This Jeep with government plates was hauling down the highway, and another car was coming the other way," and he made this crashing motion with both fists, to show a head-on collision. "We sat there and watched the two cars wreck and this chick was so fucked up her that her scalp was pulled away from her head and she looked dead. We were all frying so we just hauled ass out of there. So I don't like Primus."
A group of German teenagers were visiting the lodge for a night. They were like a pack of beautiful, slender Abercrombie models. It's not the first tour from Europe that is like that. I'm starting to think that every European is beautiful by nature. Uh oh, I just opened a bomber of Arrrogant Bastard, that means I'm probably getting pretty drunk tonight. I have tomorrow off, and I'm not sure what I want to do. One guest got to talking today about the Oregon Vortex in Gold Hill. While most I've talked to have mild appreciation for the Vortex, this woman was clearly a fan. She said you have to go. I said I've been to the Mystery Spot in Santa Cruz, which she passed off as a pale imitator, one of several across the country, but the Vortex, that's the real deal. A natural phenomenon in the Earth's magnetic field. I started to get the feeeling that Crater lake was just a stop on the way to the Vortex for these people.
The guests during the last two nights have been overall, very cool people. Not cool in the MTV sense, but interesting and friendly. It's been sad to see a lot of them go. Like the leather-clad, young biker couple, the man with a braided goatee. They like Monopoly. Or the yuppie-ish Idahoans, also on bikes, but yuppie bikes, who had all kinds of experience working at various lodges. Or the middle-aged government worker who had been at the lodge for a few days by herself. She's an investigator for the Department of Justice, and had been in the area hunting a polluter. She had been dating a guy who's now living in Redding and it doesn't seem to be going well. He was supposed to meet her at the Lake. Instead she was travelling alone, but doing so very well and happily. She was on her way up to Bend to see what it's like. By her attitude, I got the feeling that she's sort of important in her circle. Kind of bitchy, but fun to talk to. She's contemplating moving, but is nervous about the social adjustment and the cultural value of the area. Now presumably single, I think she wanted a change, but was afraid of moving to an area with nobody to help her settle in, no other and no friends in the area. Of course, I strongly recommended Portland. We exchanged numbers, me and this 50 something federal lawyer, and she said she may be able to help me with work if I'm ever in the DC area (I told her my paper background). I told her I'd be happy to show her around Portland if she ever takes the dive. She seemed sincerely appreciative, although a very dry personality I really think she'll call if she's around. How cool is that?
October 15, 2004
Four days left . . . Cory has hit about 50 deer with cars in his life. He's about my age, and grew up in Nebraska. In Nebraska the overpopulation of deer is a serious problem. That's why they have open season for hunters. Grocery stores in Lincoln have long removed the sensor activated doors, since deer began wandering into WalMarts and Safeways. They'd kick around merchandise and scare the customers until some employee would have to take a Remington off the wall and plug the deer right in the store. It was too traumatizing to shoppers in the store so they took out the automatic doors. When Cory worked for the Department of Agriculture, they had several large pickup trucks with "deer-killer" grills of heavy duty, steel pipe. One month driving around in Nebraska, Cory hit about 15 deer. Almost all of them were killed by the nasty grills. The worst times were when the deer would try to jump over the trucks when they finally recognized them. All of the cab roofs were caved in from deer landing on top of the trucks and flying over onto the highway behind.
Once, Cory and his coworker hit a deer square on and it flew over them. They pulled into a gas station in central Lincoln, a large city, and someone asked if they had been hunting. The deer was lying in the bed of the truck, twitching and shaking in death throes. They didn't have any weapons, and they couldn't really fire any off anyway as federal employees in the middle of the city. But there they were in an urban gas station with a seizing deer on the verge of death in the back of their government pickup truck. They both looked around for something heavy or sharp like a shovel but the best Cory could find was a monkey wrench. His co-worker jumped into the bed and grabbed hold of the deer's head. Cory jumped up and started swinging the wrench into its head like he was chopping wood. The thing finally died and Cory and his friend collapsed on the tailgate of the truck. Cory had blood all over his arms and some on his face. His coworker had blood all over him. There was a crowd of about 15 people watching the spectacle. "I'm calling the cops," one guy said. They were at risk of being charged with inhumane killing of an animal. They waited for the police to arrive, and then for a deer autopsy. The animal had ruptured several organs including its lungs. It was dying when they bashed its head in, and likely saved it a lot of suffering.
I walked out of the employee exit of the lodge at about dusk today. The Klamath Valley was indescribably beautiful, pinkish or so with rolling hills and purple horizons. About 20 feet away was an adult deer, standing and watching me, barely afraid. I've learned from highway driving that when you see one deer, you really need to be careful of the two or three following behind. They were two fawns, stumbling clumsily behind about 30 yards. They saw me and scampered up behind the mother. I waved and said "hi," and since there was nobody around, walked alongside of them for the length of the parking lot, never more than a car's length away. When I reached the end, there was a tourist going to his car. I wanted to show him, but it would have spooked the deer. They were very close to his car. The deer lost their patience and scurried up the hill out of sight. The tourist never knew they were there.
I was sitting in Ben's dorm (he's from Chiloquin, so I expected no good). He was wearing baggy denim pants, a belt, some leather shoes, and a denim button-up shirt tucked in. "Looks like you're ready to hit the Rim Dorm," I said. "Yeah, you want to go?" "Fuck no," I said. So we sat around his dorm, drinking Black Velvet whiskey and cheap beer, talking about the season and looking at photos. Ben loves bluegrass and whiteboy funk and country. We were listening to Suicidal Tendencies, Lights Camera Revolution, with "Send me your money," circa1991. I asked him if he liked Primus and he said no. He had a bad experience:
"Me and a few of my friends were driving along Highway XX and we had just taken bunch of mushrooms and were tripping balls. We pulled over to the side of the road. and sat there for a while just frying and listening to Primus. This Jeep with government plates was hauling down the highway, and another car was coming the other way," and he made this crashing motion with both fists, to show a head-on collision. "We sat there and watched the two cars wreck and this chick was so fucked up her that her scalp was pulled away from her head and she looked dead. We were all frying so we just hauled ass out of there. So I don't like Primus."
20050717
LIaDVp. 30: A day with the mountain
October 16, 2004
Last day off. I decided to spend it in the park, tracing a lot of my footsteps from the first month or so here. I slept late after drinking a bunch of liquor and beer, and when I finally rolled out of bed, I had a quick meal at the EDR and started driving around the Rim. I stopped at just about every pullout viewpoint I passed. At one stop, a fat guy in a leather jacket had walked right past a "Danger: Do not pass," sign, toward the sheer drop of the Caldera wall, and was out on an outcropping of rock and loose dirt. He was taking pictures. When he walked back he had this stupid grin like he was so proud of his fat self. I couldn't resist and said, "You know, one person dies every year doing what you just did." He said, "Oh I guess that's why there's a sign." "One person every year," I repeated. I felt bad, but he pissed me off. This place deserves respect. You don't have to follow every rule and path, but for fuck's sake, don't walk into the Caldera. I planned to hike up Watchman, a short walk up to the park service's fire tower. I had done it before and decided to take a left instead of a right and scamper up Hillman Peak, the highest point on the Rim. I only made it about halfway up, since there's only a makeshift trail and as you approach the peak it gets pretty nasty. I was also in plain view of the watch tower, just one peak away, and wasn't thrilled with the idea of a federal fine for trailblazing. Still, just halfway up had some incredible views.
The next stop was my old office Cleetwood Cove. I strolled down the trail to what used to be the dock and boat shack, but now is a gangway to nowhere and a pile of wood covered in tarp and netting. I passed a group of young people gathered around the gas tank, wondering how it works. I thought about answering their questions, but seeing as how it was my day off, I kept on walking.
I walked up the hill to the rocky cliffs where people used to jump off into the lake's 40 degree water. There were a few tourists around so I lowered myself down the rocks to the lake's surface, just underneath the jumping overhang. I ate a Clif bar and drank an Olympia beer and started wishing I had swam in the lake more often, cold as it is. I started looking out into the waters feeling great from that deep blue. It was a sunny but chilly day even at 4 p.m., and a strong wind had kicked up the water pretty rough, whitecaps and all. Sheep in the pen and they were standing up. I looked up at the cliff overhead and didn't hear anyone. Besides, the overhang protected me from tourists well enough. In October, after a snowstorm, the water here's probably low 30s. Two thoughts bounced around: Those polar bear club guys in Alaska and that last scene in Titanic where Leo hits the water and dies almost immediately. I hate that movie, so I stripped and shimmied down into the water. The first dip lasted about 3 seconds, but I felt like a coward and went back in for a good 10. I could lie and say it wasn't so cold, but with the wind, those waves and a healthy recent dose of snowmelt, it was downright motherfucking freezing. When I got out, I had a vagina where my penis and testicles once were. "Whoo! Hoo! Shit! Fuck! Omigodomigodomigod!" I scrambled up the slippery rocks and planted my bare ass on a warm shelf of slate, letting the warm sun and cold wind dry me. The dip was so intensely cold I barely remember it, but when I got out, my metabolism was racing, breath and heartbeat pulsing heavily. It feels incredible, and then the nervous system's calming reflex takes over like a shot of bourbon laced with morphine. You just feel good. My penis came back, thankfully. I felt kind of bad about not dunking my head, and toyed with going back in. But I was nearly dry, and my timing was perfect, since just as I dressed I heard some people above.
A pretty blonde perched herself on the rock 20 feet above, in plain sight of my formerly naked self. We gave little waves, and for just a minute or two, I could have been in a Tolkien story, or Shakespearian comedy. Me tiptoeing barefoot on the rocks just over the frothy water and her lounging on a rock, hair lightly tied back with itself. I guess you could say I felt darn Puckish. She sprawled on her rock and I perched on mine and I stared into the water for a good 10, 15 minutes, not wanting to leave, slapped occassionally by flying foam from a good wave hitting the rocks.
I drove the other half of the Rim on the way to Sun Notch, a dip in the mountainous cliffs surrounding the water that offers a secluded, panoramic view of the lake. I wanted to catch the sunset. Just off the trail I found a soft place to sit, popped open another Olympia and waited for the show to start. Without killing it with words, I estimate it to be about the third best sunset I've seen. The other two were in Tucson, where they invented sunsets. One at the tail end of a monsoon storm, the sky a wall of brilliant gold/orange and a purple horizon with lightning and storm clouds in the distant mountains. I saw it from the cop station after visiting Swedlund at work, and then later outside Zachary's Pizza. The second I was on mushrooms, so may not even really count. It was at my old pinkish-adobeish apartment complex. I drank a bunch of mushroom tea that evening and had to walk to my apartment as the sun was going down. My door faced the sunset and it was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen. The walls were beaming, like they were electrified or on fire. But anyway, this one definitely made the list. We're talking on-the-verge-of-tears, colors-that-you-didn't-know-existed beautiful.
Now I'd like to take a moment to mention something very dear to my heart: The Vietnamese food place in Klamath Falls. I went there tonight for what will likely be my last time this summer. Who knew that in the redneck, right-wing capital of Oregon, Klamath Falls, there would be some of the best Asian food I've ever had? But it's true. You know you're there when you pass the "Ronald McDonald car," a street racer Acura that's painted red and yellow. It belongs to the thrill-seeking, unintelligible, scar-covered Vietnamesian who half runs the place. He has the thickest, densest accent, mixed with American dialect and slang, compounded by the fact that he pluralizes everything (my favorite thing he's said is "Medfords, Renos" when describing the places he street races) When you walk in he's right at your service, making the perfect recommendations from a wall of photos that serve as a menu. My favorite probably remains the "Tofu Vegetable Curry," a yellow mixture of fragrant rice, firm tofu strips, peppers, and shitake mushrooms so meaty you could mistake the texture for pork tenderloin or T-bone. I also like it's sister dish, with thin rice noodles instead of rice. I occasionally request a drizzle of coconut milk on top for fun. Another choice dish is the "Baked Stuffed Tofu," a vegetarian lasagna impostor that consists of a loaf of firm, baked tofu, cut down the middle and stuffed with mushrooms and peppers, then served over rice and covered in a spicy, sweet and sour tomato sauce. Killer. For appetizers, I enjoy the vegetarian spring rolls. Rice noodles, bean sprouts, cilantro and possibly mint, wrapped in thin strips of tofu, then finally wrapped tight again in transluscent rice paper. It's chewy and crunchy and dipped in plum sauce or chili peanut sauce borders on perfection. The service is stellar, particularly for Crater Lake folks. Us earthy types are their bread and butter. They love us. They give us discounted beer and sake, comped desserts of mango and coconut cream over rice. They let us stay late. They talk to us about the lake and K Falls and tell us the unpronouncable Vietnamese version of "cheers." They show us their street racer Acuras and the street illegal nitro tanks. I have an elementary knowledge of the Vietnam war, but as far as I'm concerned, it's all water under the bridge. Me and Vietnam, we're cool.
Last day off. I decided to spend it in the park, tracing a lot of my footsteps from the first month or so here. I slept late after drinking a bunch of liquor and beer, and when I finally rolled out of bed, I had a quick meal at the EDR and started driving around the Rim. I stopped at just about every pullout viewpoint I passed. At one stop, a fat guy in a leather jacket had walked right past a "Danger: Do not pass," sign, toward the sheer drop of the Caldera wall, and was out on an outcropping of rock and loose dirt. He was taking pictures. When he walked back he had this stupid grin like he was so proud of his fat self. I couldn't resist and said, "You know, one person dies every year doing what you just did." He said, "Oh I guess that's why there's a sign." "One person every year," I repeated. I felt bad, but he pissed me off. This place deserves respect. You don't have to follow every rule and path, but for fuck's sake, don't walk into the Caldera. I planned to hike up Watchman, a short walk up to the park service's fire tower. I had done it before and decided to take a left instead of a right and scamper up Hillman Peak, the highest point on the Rim. I only made it about halfway up, since there's only a makeshift trail and as you approach the peak it gets pretty nasty. I was also in plain view of the watch tower, just one peak away, and wasn't thrilled with the idea of a federal fine for trailblazing. Still, just halfway up had some incredible views.
The next stop was my old office Cleetwood Cove. I strolled down the trail to what used to be the dock and boat shack, but now is a gangway to nowhere and a pile of wood covered in tarp and netting. I passed a group of young people gathered around the gas tank, wondering how it works. I thought about answering their questions, but seeing as how it was my day off, I kept on walking.
I walked up the hill to the rocky cliffs where people used to jump off into the lake's 40 degree water. There were a few tourists around so I lowered myself down the rocks to the lake's surface, just underneath the jumping overhang. I ate a Clif bar and drank an Olympia beer and started wishing I had swam in the lake more often, cold as it is. I started looking out into the waters feeling great from that deep blue. It was a sunny but chilly day even at 4 p.m., and a strong wind had kicked up the water pretty rough, whitecaps and all. Sheep in the pen and they were standing up. I looked up at the cliff overhead and didn't hear anyone. Besides, the overhang protected me from tourists well enough. In October, after a snowstorm, the water here's probably low 30s. Two thoughts bounced around: Those polar bear club guys in Alaska and that last scene in Titanic where Leo hits the water and dies almost immediately. I hate that movie, so I stripped and shimmied down into the water. The first dip lasted about 3 seconds, but I felt like a coward and went back in for a good 10. I could lie and say it wasn't so cold, but with the wind, those waves and a healthy recent dose of snowmelt, it was downright motherfucking freezing. When I got out, I had a vagina where my penis and testicles once were. "Whoo! Hoo! Shit! Fuck! Omigodomigodomigod!" I scrambled up the slippery rocks and planted my bare ass on a warm shelf of slate, letting the warm sun and cold wind dry me. The dip was so intensely cold I barely remember it, but when I got out, my metabolism was racing, breath and heartbeat pulsing heavily. It feels incredible, and then the nervous system's calming reflex takes over like a shot of bourbon laced with morphine. You just feel good. My penis came back, thankfully. I felt kind of bad about not dunking my head, and toyed with going back in. But I was nearly dry, and my timing was perfect, since just as I dressed I heard some people above.
A pretty blonde perched herself on the rock 20 feet above, in plain sight of my formerly naked self. We gave little waves, and for just a minute or two, I could have been in a Tolkien story, or Shakespearian comedy. Me tiptoeing barefoot on the rocks just over the frothy water and her lounging on a rock, hair lightly tied back with itself. I guess you could say I felt darn Puckish. She sprawled on her rock and I perched on mine and I stared into the water for a good 10, 15 minutes, not wanting to leave, slapped occassionally by flying foam from a good wave hitting the rocks.
I drove the other half of the Rim on the way to Sun Notch, a dip in the mountainous cliffs surrounding the water that offers a secluded, panoramic view of the lake. I wanted to catch the sunset. Just off the trail I found a soft place to sit, popped open another Olympia and waited for the show to start. Without killing it with words, I estimate it to be about the third best sunset I've seen. The other two were in Tucson, where they invented sunsets. One at the tail end of a monsoon storm, the sky a wall of brilliant gold/orange and a purple horizon with lightning and storm clouds in the distant mountains. I saw it from the cop station after visiting Swedlund at work, and then later outside Zachary's Pizza. The second I was on mushrooms, so may not even really count. It was at my old pinkish-adobeish apartment complex. I drank a bunch of mushroom tea that evening and had to walk to my apartment as the sun was going down. My door faced the sunset and it was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen. The walls were beaming, like they were electrified or on fire. But anyway, this one definitely made the list. We're talking on-the-verge-of-tears, colors-that-you-didn't-know-existed beautiful.
Now I'd like to take a moment to mention something very dear to my heart: The Vietnamese food place in Klamath Falls. I went there tonight for what will likely be my last time this summer. Who knew that in the redneck, right-wing capital of Oregon, Klamath Falls, there would be some of the best Asian food I've ever had? But it's true. You know you're there when you pass the "Ronald McDonald car," a street racer Acura that's painted red and yellow. It belongs to the thrill-seeking, unintelligible, scar-covered Vietnamesian who half runs the place. He has the thickest, densest accent, mixed with American dialect and slang, compounded by the fact that he pluralizes everything (my favorite thing he's said is "Medfords, Renos" when describing the places he street races) When you walk in he's right at your service, making the perfect recommendations from a wall of photos that serve as a menu. My favorite probably remains the "Tofu Vegetable Curry," a yellow mixture of fragrant rice, firm tofu strips, peppers, and shitake mushrooms so meaty you could mistake the texture for pork tenderloin or T-bone. I also like it's sister dish, with thin rice noodles instead of rice. I occasionally request a drizzle of coconut milk on top for fun. Another choice dish is the "Baked Stuffed Tofu," a vegetarian lasagna impostor that consists of a loaf of firm, baked tofu, cut down the middle and stuffed with mushrooms and peppers, then served over rice and covered in a spicy, sweet and sour tomato sauce. Killer. For appetizers, I enjoy the vegetarian spring rolls. Rice noodles, bean sprouts, cilantro and possibly mint, wrapped in thin strips of tofu, then finally wrapped tight again in transluscent rice paper. It's chewy and crunchy and dipped in plum sauce or chili peanut sauce borders on perfection. The service is stellar, particularly for Crater Lake folks. Us earthy types are their bread and butter. They love us. They give us discounted beer and sake, comped desserts of mango and coconut cream over rice. They let us stay late. They talk to us about the lake and K Falls and tell us the unpronouncable Vietnamese version of "cheers." They show us their street racer Acuras and the street illegal nitro tanks. I have an elementary knowledge of the Vietnam war, but as far as I'm concerned, it's all water under the bridge. Me and Vietnam, we're cool.
LIaDVp.31: Not much to say really
October 16, 2005, cont.
During the gap in daily entries, Casey was visiting for four days. We had the best time. She hung out in the lodge with me during work. We ate in the dining room twice, and in the Great Hall for appetizers and drinks. Really good wild mushroom Bruschetta. We slept late. My boss Lindsay, a leathery, overmakeuped, but still hot 43-year-old, bought us all dinner and a few rooms at Prospect Bed and Breakfast. Casey and I spent the day in Ashland, then drove to get pizza at my second favorite eatery in S. Oregon. Then we met up with the hotel staff at the B&B and drank a bunch of wine. The heavy drinking got heavy at the Trophy Room. We took over the place, edging out the locals for once. I ordered round after round of shots. Played shuffleboard, watched pool, pumped dollars into the jukebox. Took about a hundred pictures. Several other Xanterrites showed up later in the night and the party hit fever pitch. Tom, Casey and I drove in Tom's minivan with our drinks in hand to the nearest payphone and randomly called my old restaurant in Tucson trying to reach Jarrod. We miraculously caught him as they were closing and caught up over the phone for about 20 minutes. ("So, just give me a list of all the servers you've slept with since you've been single.") We left empty glasses at the phone and wandered back to the bar. Dana was there and looked beautiful as usual. Todd, like the asshole he is, shut himself in one of our rooms to have dirty drunken sex with his girlfriend. The room was meant for about six people. Lindsay offered Greg a key to her room. She was shitfaced and coming on to all of her green-vested men. Casey and I, unfortunately didn't have a room because of Todd. We miraculously drove back to my dorm and both puked in the toilet before passing out. I slept though lunch till about 1:00, and slammed two beers, one on the drive to work, just for good measure. I felt okay until after dinner, when I had to sneak down to housekeeping to recover for 20 minutes. Greg was pretty understanding and covered the front desk.Fitting send off party I guess.
October 18, 2004
Last day at Crater Lake. I ate my last meal at the EDR. Checked out my last guest. Took a last walk through the vacant lodge after all of the employees cleaned it up and shut it down. I have tons to do right now, but I have to get something down before I head out of here. Not much to say really. I finally got that snow I was wanting so badly, in the form of a three-day blizzard. Roads snowed and iced over. More than a foot on the ground. Barely any visibility. I'm packing up my room, checking out with HR and driving back to Portland tomorrow with Greg. He's going to stay with us for a few days before flying to Prague. I'm happy to head home, but I'll obviously miss this place. Weird feeling, just like that first night. Just weird. Not much to say really. It's over.
During the gap in daily entries, Casey was visiting for four days. We had the best time. She hung out in the lodge with me during work. We ate in the dining room twice, and in the Great Hall for appetizers and drinks. Really good wild mushroom Bruschetta. We slept late. My boss Lindsay, a leathery, overmakeuped, but still hot 43-year-old, bought us all dinner and a few rooms at Prospect Bed and Breakfast. Casey and I spent the day in Ashland, then drove to get pizza at my second favorite eatery in S. Oregon. Then we met up with the hotel staff at the B&B and drank a bunch of wine. The heavy drinking got heavy at the Trophy Room. We took over the place, edging out the locals for once. I ordered round after round of shots. Played shuffleboard, watched pool, pumped dollars into the jukebox. Took about a hundred pictures. Several other Xanterrites showed up later in the night and the party hit fever pitch. Tom, Casey and I drove in Tom's minivan with our drinks in hand to the nearest payphone and randomly called my old restaurant in Tucson trying to reach Jarrod. We miraculously caught him as they were closing and caught up over the phone for about 20 minutes. ("So, just give me a list of all the servers you've slept with since you've been single.") We left empty glasses at the phone and wandered back to the bar. Dana was there and looked beautiful as usual. Todd, like the asshole he is, shut himself in one of our rooms to have dirty drunken sex with his girlfriend. The room was meant for about six people. Lindsay offered Greg a key to her room. She was shitfaced and coming on to all of her green-vested men. Casey and I, unfortunately didn't have a room because of Todd. We miraculously drove back to my dorm and both puked in the toilet before passing out. I slept though lunch till about 1:00, and slammed two beers, one on the drive to work, just for good measure. I felt okay until after dinner, when I had to sneak down to housekeeping to recover for 20 minutes. Greg was pretty understanding and covered the front desk.Fitting send off party I guess.
October 18, 2004
Last day at Crater Lake. I ate my last meal at the EDR. Checked out my last guest. Took a last walk through the vacant lodge after all of the employees cleaned it up and shut it down. I have tons to do right now, but I have to get something down before I head out of here. Not much to say really. I finally got that snow I was wanting so badly, in the form of a three-day blizzard. Roads snowed and iced over. More than a foot on the ground. Barely any visibility. I'm packing up my room, checking out with HR and driving back to Portland tomorrow with Greg. He's going to stay with us for a few days before flying to Prague. I'm happy to head home, but I'll obviously miss this place. Weird feeling, just like that first night. Just weird. Not much to say really. It's over.
20050712
The Players and Glossary
Stan: Hippie. Previously has been a living historian, homosexual, grad student, ski instructor. Chews tobacco and drinks like a fish, but insists that my ingestion of Sprite is horribly unhealthy. Terrific friend; awful drunk. My best friend on the mountain, for the most part.
Dru: Stan's unfortunate wife. Head cook at the Employee Dining Room. Everything decent I've eaten at the EDR has come directly from Dru. Sweetest girl on the mountain. From a New England fisherman family of abusive men. Dru made me a hat.
Rabbit: My roommate for most of the time on the mountain. Rabbit is from Louisiana. He's a beefy, awkward guy who is horrible in social situations and tends to talk to me in his sleep. He worked the night shift at the lodge, so I often woke up to him drinking beer early in the morning.
Captain Tim: Another very good friend. Boat captain, and retired Coast Guard/Navy man. Big bushy moustache. Tim and I first became friends while singing dirty sea shantees with NPS rangers, and made many trips to Klamath Falls for Vietnamese food. Tim lives in Portland with his wife. We remain friends.
Captain George: George is our 80-year-old boat captain, who survived as a grunt Marine in World War II and Korea. Spent most of his civillian life on fishing boats and drinking rum and Cokes. George doesn't take shit from fools. He can't swim.
Captain Roger: After my initial boss went to Eugene for bladder cancer treatment, Roger became the boss. Good-hearted man who works hard and tends to goof up a lot. Roger can't hear shit. Once a tree fell on Roger when he was younger. His skull was crushed and he lost pints of blood.
Dana: The other dockmaster at Cleetwood Cove. Considered by many to be the most beautiful girl on the mountain. I got in trouble with Dana for hijacking the skiff and spending an afternoon on Wizard Island without approval. Farmgirl from Central Oregon.
Stefanie: Pretty Midwestern blonde from Madison. Just out of college where she majored in theater, and therefore hasn't a hint of a career. Worked in the ticket shack for hours with Stefanie, where we pushed the limits of sanity. She was miserable with her living situation, and had one half-retarded roommate.
Stacey/Stacy: Good-hearted girl from Chiloquin, the worst shit-town in the United States. Also spent many hours with Stacy, listening to her depressing stories about growing up in Chiloquin and her constant double-negatives.
Greg: Bellman. Young hearthrob who spends his days off and sometimes on under the influence of random drugs and alcohol. One of my favorite guys on the mountain. Greg stayed with me in Portland for a few days before flying out to Eastern Europe.
Cory: Head Bellman. Indian from Nebraska who has hit more deer with his truck than he can count. Full of great, bloody stories about living in rural America. Cory dated Jess, a hippie girl who lived on a campground just out of the park, for most of the season.
Ben: My across the hall neighbor. Ben is from Chiloquin as well, and therefore, suspect. He plays country music with blaring bass. I think it would be pretty fair to call Ben a redneck.
Todd: Kind of a worthless dude who works at the lodge. He cleaned floors and worked front desk with me. Locked me out of my hotel room in Prospect on the night of our goodbye party.
Tom: Tom is my hero, although his appearance here is limited. I worked with him in Tucson, where he planted the seed to work in Crater Lake. When I showed up, he was there. Tom's idea of settling down would be living in an apartment of his own for a few months. He's been rambling around the world for as long as he can remember. Brilliant, well-read and friend to all who meet him. His influence has had a great deal to do with my adventures in Crater Lake and lifestyle up until today.
Places and other inside language:
EDR: Employee Dining Room. Hit or miss place where the workers get their food.
Cleetwood: The cove where the boat tours took place. Aside from government research, Cleetwood's boats are the only ones allowed on the pristine water. The dock is a 2-mile hike from the top of the rim to the bottom, and about 700 feet in altitude change. Typical days at Cleetwood last 13 hours, but were mostly spent lounging around the shore.
Caldera/Mt. Mazama: Mt. Mazama is the massive volcano that erupted thousands of years ago, collapsed in on itself, filled with snowmelt and made Crater lake. The remaining crater is called a Caldera.
Llao and Skell: The Klamath Indian gods whose battles created Crater Lake. Two opposing forces representing the chaos and violence of the underworld and the calm, civillized overworld.
Mazama and Rim dorms: Mazama is where I lived, about a 15 minute mountain drive to the lodge. Home to the older workers, who earned it the name "The Mazoleum." The Rim Dorm is where the party's at, apparently. All the college kids live there and behave like drunk monkeys. I only went to the Rim dorm once or twice, because it always appalled me how obnoxious it was. Often, Mazama folk would drive to the Rim at night hunting for ass.
Xanterra: The National Park Service can't afford to run all aspects of its parks. It provides maintenance, fire crew, tour guides, law enforcement and so on. The remainder, in all of the country's parks, is performed by "concessionaires," who run the lodges, restaurants and stores under NPS oversight. While the two entities are civil, there is underlying tension and a little resentment between the very different groups. The boat crew and the rangers work closer than any other branches of the park, and are one of the few bridges between the government and the concession. I worked for Xanterra, one of the largest park companies in the country.
425s/Interps: College kids and grad students hired by the National Park Service to act as guides within their parks. The 425s live in a set of duplexes called Sleepy Hollow. Since the company I work for often hires lowlifes and fuckups, friends and I would seek refuge at Sleepy Hollow. All very cool people who were kind enough to host me and mine every week or so.
Prospect: Tiny logging town 30 minutes from Mazama dorm. Great pizza place there. Home of the infamous Trophy Room, where firefighters wait for the call and get wasted, and locals beat up the Park workers for looking at their women. I spent a fair number of evenings here.
Klamath Falls: A dull, conservative town about 45 minutes the other direction from the park. The only reason to go to K. Falls is for the terrific Vietnamese food, but it's reason enough. K Falls is a haven for pelicans, and therefore they have become the town's unofficial mascot.
Ashland: Hipper than hip town south of the park, where I go for Sushi, good beer and comic books. Ashland has become a refuge for Northern Californians who are tired of high living costs and tourists. Wine country.
Dru: Stan's unfortunate wife. Head cook at the Employee Dining Room. Everything decent I've eaten at the EDR has come directly from Dru. Sweetest girl on the mountain. From a New England fisherman family of abusive men. Dru made me a hat.
Rabbit: My roommate for most of the time on the mountain. Rabbit is from Louisiana. He's a beefy, awkward guy who is horrible in social situations and tends to talk to me in his sleep. He worked the night shift at the lodge, so I often woke up to him drinking beer early in the morning.
Captain Tim: Another very good friend. Boat captain, and retired Coast Guard/Navy man. Big bushy moustache. Tim and I first became friends while singing dirty sea shantees with NPS rangers, and made many trips to Klamath Falls for Vietnamese food. Tim lives in Portland with his wife. We remain friends.
Captain George: George is our 80-year-old boat captain, who survived as a grunt Marine in World War II and Korea. Spent most of his civillian life on fishing boats and drinking rum and Cokes. George doesn't take shit from fools. He can't swim.
Captain Roger: After my initial boss went to Eugene for bladder cancer treatment, Roger became the boss. Good-hearted man who works hard and tends to goof up a lot. Roger can't hear shit. Once a tree fell on Roger when he was younger. His skull was crushed and he lost pints of blood.
Dana: The other dockmaster at Cleetwood Cove. Considered by many to be the most beautiful girl on the mountain. I got in trouble with Dana for hijacking the skiff and spending an afternoon on Wizard Island without approval. Farmgirl from Central Oregon.
Stefanie: Pretty Midwestern blonde from Madison. Just out of college where she majored in theater, and therefore hasn't a hint of a career. Worked in the ticket shack for hours with Stefanie, where we pushed the limits of sanity. She was miserable with her living situation, and had one half-retarded roommate.
Stacey/Stacy: Good-hearted girl from Chiloquin, the worst shit-town in the United States. Also spent many hours with Stacy, listening to her depressing stories about growing up in Chiloquin and her constant double-negatives.
Greg: Bellman. Young hearthrob who spends his days off and sometimes on under the influence of random drugs and alcohol. One of my favorite guys on the mountain. Greg stayed with me in Portland for a few days before flying out to Eastern Europe.
Cory: Head Bellman. Indian from Nebraska who has hit more deer with his truck than he can count. Full of great, bloody stories about living in rural America. Cory dated Jess, a hippie girl who lived on a campground just out of the park, for most of the season.
Ben: My across the hall neighbor. Ben is from Chiloquin as well, and therefore, suspect. He plays country music with blaring bass. I think it would be pretty fair to call Ben a redneck.
Todd: Kind of a worthless dude who works at the lodge. He cleaned floors and worked front desk with me. Locked me out of my hotel room in Prospect on the night of our goodbye party.
Tom: Tom is my hero, although his appearance here is limited. I worked with him in Tucson, where he planted the seed to work in Crater Lake. When I showed up, he was there. Tom's idea of settling down would be living in an apartment of his own for a few months. He's been rambling around the world for as long as he can remember. Brilliant, well-read and friend to all who meet him. His influence has had a great deal to do with my adventures in Crater Lake and lifestyle up until today.
Places and other inside language:
EDR: Employee Dining Room. Hit or miss place where the workers get their food.
Cleetwood: The cove where the boat tours took place. Aside from government research, Cleetwood's boats are the only ones allowed on the pristine water. The dock is a 2-mile hike from the top of the rim to the bottom, and about 700 feet in altitude change. Typical days at Cleetwood last 13 hours, but were mostly spent lounging around the shore.
Caldera/Mt. Mazama: Mt. Mazama is the massive volcano that erupted thousands of years ago, collapsed in on itself, filled with snowmelt and made Crater lake. The remaining crater is called a Caldera.
Llao and Skell: The Klamath Indian gods whose battles created Crater Lake. Two opposing forces representing the chaos and violence of the underworld and the calm, civillized overworld.
Mazama and Rim dorms: Mazama is where I lived, about a 15 minute mountain drive to the lodge. Home to the older workers, who earned it the name "The Mazoleum." The Rim Dorm is where the party's at, apparently. All the college kids live there and behave like drunk monkeys. I only went to the Rim dorm once or twice, because it always appalled me how obnoxious it was. Often, Mazama folk would drive to the Rim at night hunting for ass.
Xanterra: The National Park Service can't afford to run all aspects of its parks. It provides maintenance, fire crew, tour guides, law enforcement and so on. The remainder, in all of the country's parks, is performed by "concessionaires," who run the lodges, restaurants and stores under NPS oversight. While the two entities are civil, there is underlying tension and a little resentment between the very different groups. The boat crew and the rangers work closer than any other branches of the park, and are one of the few bridges between the government and the concession. I worked for Xanterra, one of the largest park companies in the country.
425s/Interps: College kids and grad students hired by the National Park Service to act as guides within their parks. The 425s live in a set of duplexes called Sleepy Hollow. Since the company I work for often hires lowlifes and fuckups, friends and I would seek refuge at Sleepy Hollow. All very cool people who were kind enough to host me and mine every week or so.
Prospect: Tiny logging town 30 minutes from Mazama dorm. Great pizza place there. Home of the infamous Trophy Room, where firefighters wait for the call and get wasted, and locals beat up the Park workers for looking at their women. I spent a fair number of evenings here.
Klamath Falls: A dull, conservative town about 45 minutes the other direction from the park. The only reason to go to K. Falls is for the terrific Vietnamese food, but it's reason enough. K Falls is a haven for pelicans, and therefore they have become the town's unofficial mascot.
Ashland: Hipper than hip town south of the park, where I go for Sushi, good beer and comic books. Ashland has become a refuge for Northern Californians who are tired of high living costs and tourists. Wine country.
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