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.
20050719
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.
20050711
20050710
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
