Apotheosis

I am back from my Yosemite trip with tons of photos and videos.

I have not looked at any of those yet. Today, Saturday, 20 July, I slept until noon. I toss this draft off quickly to get something written. There is more, much more.

I am so physically whupped! I am still in recovery mode. I will likely be extremely sore tomorrow too. In the art of body building, if you go right out to your muscles’ maximum ability as revealed by “failure points,” you get maximum gains. But this requires four or five day rest times for those hard hit muscles.

Probably, I needed that kind of rest when I was first above Yosemite Falls and one leg was almost buckling under me. I even considered crawling. I have heard of people crawling for twenty miles in order to survive with a broken foot, ankle, or calf bone.

You have time to think when you are out alone on trails alone all day.

The point I am going at here and now is that I had been already that tired Monday night, and though I tried to rest and heal, I had yet still been traversing mile wide domes of granite, wading streams, climbing over or crawling under fallen trees, getting bogged in too much debris and so having to backtrack and climb again for another route through many regions without trails or signs of humans during a time when I was already tired indeed..

I was taking it easy! Going super slow.

I will write more on those. Here, now, I wanted to set up the extreme plod with which I was managing to get home. Late arrival. No busses. Fuck Uber. It is only six miles. My main problem was I wanted to ditch the new boots! They were good. They helped. But just too heavy. I was tired of them and came home a day earlier that I really had to because I wanted to get rid of extra gear.

I plan on running lighter than ever in my whole life. I would like to get a week’s voyage down to my smallest rucksack.

Again, more on that later.

You might accept that an old guy like me hiking alone off trail in some pretty stretchy stuff is unwise, even foolish, and I would honestly tell you that I agree, and that was exactly how I felt! So I just about tip-toed around out there I was was so very, very, very careful. If you have ever watched young deer explore a new region, that was I. Quivering. Watchful. Each step; look again. Step. Look. Step step. Look. What? What was that? WHEW! OK!

My life experience suggests that when you know you are in danger, the extra care you take actually makes you safer than “normal” life.

I probably started it all off.

By accident.

I am not trying to impress on anyone the dangers I was enjoying while hiking alone above Yosemite Falls. I see how people will do that, subtly humble bragging incessantly. I find it repugnant. Nature is not dangerous.

Cities though. Gods be damned. Fucking Fresno. Where is all this meth coming from?

It was not on a cliff in the rain and wind at eight thousand feet up but walking home from the train station starting late Friday and into Saturday morning. About halfway home at Shields and Palm, I was at Palm, crossing Shields on the east side of the street. Since I was so incredibly muscle sore, I had stopped and rested probably six times in three miles. But it was flat, so I could doze while I walked. I was on my own home turf. Tthat is why it was so late and empty. Probably just after midnight, so actually Saturday morning. I got home at two-fifteen.

I had three miles to go.

Later, I stopped and rested a long time at the tracks on West because the concrete barriers gave such a hidden zone from car lights; moreover, a clean tarp already laying there! Before that, then, a bit dozy I was at the street light, waiting for the walk signal.

In old Jacques Cousteau films, all would be calm in cool blue deeps, and then the the announcer would say, “Suddenly! Out of nowhere! A shark! And he is moving fast right at us!”

WHAM! In front of me! now! A big white guy! Shirtless! Cropped hair, muscular, and sweaty! He is riding one of those electric scooter thingies in the intersection! He asks me if I have a phone!

“Whaaa…?”

I am actually almost asleep. I am in dreamland. I do that on endurance runs. I will actually nap for a few seconds here and there. Usually, I will try to find something to lean against, but I can take little naps standing up. I have dreams. It is a skill. But it does not help me deal with this situation. One second I am asleep on my feet, another second someone wants to know if I have a phone? Is there an emergency? I am looking around for one even as I answer, “Sure. I got a phone, why?”

“I need to call someone, can I use it?”

I still was not quite awake and did not yet recognize the request as begging.

I was grumpy, a bit, I think, too, to be woken from a dream. Also shocked and surprised anyone anywhere would have the temerity to even make such a request. I told him with great definiteness, and I probably snorted out my nose a bit, “No! You may not use my phone!”

It is not an item I loan. Period.

I was, actually, disgusted. Begging to use someone’s phone? What nonsense is that? He, in my eyes, became a member of the lowest class.

Notice it?

I do that “by accident” all the time. I am told I can be so dismissive. It is some kind of arrogance way past arrogance in their eyes.

Perhaps I can use this as a lesson.

Yet, truly, I did not mean to antagonize him. It was the truth. There would be no argument. It was not negotiable. I said it cheerfully, if you can imagine it like soldier talk.

He, however, immediately got enraged. “Why? Why you not let me use your phone?”

I noticed then the accent, like old country Russian but not Russian. That is how my dull-eared American ignorance might describe Ukrainian to another American. Of, course, I have nothing against Ukrainians or anyone from any country at all, but I noticed this. In my mind at that instant there then hung the possibility that this fellow might have different codes or fight/flight patterns. You get me? It was a moment of wonder. I was not afraid. I found him interesting.

Now, it is also interesting here, and we are coming to my thesis, but I had earlier decided up on the mountain that I would always tell the perfect truth as best I could. Deceive? Yes. the art of war is the art of deception. Not all people are friends. But “lie?” No. Not even to “enemies.”

New to this Way, I made a goof. You will see me talking about how he “misread the room?” Obviously he did not see he was NOT to approach one of my class with such an impertinent demand!

You see the irony here?

I actually thought that. I gave off that vibe. Possibly, it was not an accident at all. A repulsion field that keeps almost everyone a a distance when I want that?

But dismissive I was indeed however softened by a totally gentle voice, amused, like teacher to as child, I answered his question with perfect honesty, “Because I don’t want to be involved in your bullshit!”

I actually chuckled. It was ridiculous. Use my phone? Crazy! Crazy talk!

Only this was a methed-out, shirtless, body building Ukrainian in the middle of the night at an empty Fresno intersection.

Was I in danger?

He may have been expecting instant capitulation?

I have let strangers use my phone. Then some psycho drug dealer is calling you back on it. Oh, and you have to wait for the call too, and they make you wait. And, of course, it is a super life and death matter in which the other person does not call back until he does, much later, all ENRAGED! “Who are you? How did you get this number?”

Fuck that. I had three more miles to walk. I was not stopping for nothing.

But I guess those were fighting words to that guy. This same shit would happen when I came back to “civilization” after working with soldiers for months. To them, “Fuuuuck you, man!” gets a chuckle.

Try that on any city corner with anyone who has been to jail.

Fuck, but does jail turn men into little bitches taking offense at every slightest nothing! That is how it is seen by soldier culture, and in that culture I was immersed peacefully and powerfully for many years. So I brushed him off with a laugh, like his “need” was a joke to me. Well, it was a joke to me.

The light turned green, I started walking. I well and truly gave not one fuck why he wanted my phone. He would be using someone else’s and that was that.

I was dressed in my mountain gear. Loose pants, but tight cuffs below the tops Vietnam style combat boots, light shirt, fingerless gloves, light ball cap, black. Rather military looking, actually. He should have known better than to pick me for a toy. All the signs were there that I was not to be fucked with.

From behind, he would have seen my pack. That particular one hangs low and sticks out too far in the back. I had truly tested it, and, in fact, I did not care much for its geometry, but this is not about gear. Finally, the big back mesh pocket had spiky things sticking up from it. those would be a bundle of yarrow stalks, an umbrella, and the broken ends of my walking stick. If he was observant at all, these might have been objects of curiosity.

It simply seems to me that I could not possibly have been perceived as easy prey. Even by a dingbat speedster.

I could have lied. I could have said, “No, I don’t have a phone, sorry.” And smiled.

But remember my vow of truth only?

Instead of a sweet, social lie to evade him, in effect, I ridiculed him; in so many words, I called his need, “Bullshit.”

Also, I gave a rather unpredictable crystal methamphetamine user the drama he needed and wanted.

Those electric scooters are damn quiet! He had a good one too: the long, wide, deep kind with large batteries and big wheels. They go further, faster, and over rougher stuff. The section of sidewalk behind me was fresh and new too. I am guessing he was able to build up full speed.

WHOOOSH!

That was him attempting to hit me from from behind!

I was under attack.

There were some plantings in gravel to my right. Deer grass! I love that stuff! I always notice it wherever I go. It grows in hemisphere shaped clumps. Excellent plant for arid regions. I show this particular detail as a noted detail because deer grass is one of those plants you can easily make some pretty good rope from! I will always spot it everywhere out of instinct.

Also, some instinct had selected this area as my fight zone. I needed evasion, defense, and patience. That deer grass and gravel gave me all that.

I had heard him coming and felt his intent. He would do an endo if he hit that gravel. I could flit around in it too to keep him back from me.

Just as he neared, I stepped to the side into the gravel. I waited until the last instant. It was exciting!

In this way, I avoided the shove he had planned to give my backpack. It may well have knocked me to the ground. However, I do not know his exact move. Perhaps I was to be spun around? Perhaps it was meant to be more playful?

I do not know. I know the back of my neck said, “Jump now!

I moved quick enough and far enough so that only the tips of a couple fingers could brush my pack.

Funny, but I see it like a flash photo. The streetlights behind us are bright to my dark adjusted eyes, yet I am more turning to look at my escape route rather than he. I barely see this from my bad eye, our long shadows on the sidewalk, his arm is out as far as it can go and still ride that scooter fast and straight.

Had I not moved, he might have punched my head? Dude was six feet six?

There are varying definitions of “assault” in various counties, states, and nations.

I can tell you that in Fresno County, and I am quoting a judge in court, you do not have to touch someone at all. If you threaten them with words combined with ability to carry out the threat you have assaulted someone.

One of the examples that judge gave is that if a guy in a wheelchair is threatening to kick you, you have NOT been assaulted. If a big man shouts the same thing within striking distance, you have been assaulted. Not all cases are clear.

But this case:

A: Young man. Huge. In shape. Looks like a wrestler, not a boxer. Jailbait sensitive to slightest rebuke so therefore probably one who has been there a lot. Probably always found in that area of hood. High as a kite.
B: Old man walking home from the train station. zero criminal record.
C: You be the judge. Do you think it would even get to a judge? No. Cop would probably help me sit comfortably and buy me a iced drink while they investigated the scene.

I was not feeling hateful at all.

Even then, even at this hint of violence and escalated threat, I am still thinking this is a stupid child. Stupid child thinking he could use someone’s phone then get mad when told, “No?”

Ridiculous. It was ridiculous. Asking a guy walking by with a backpack to use his phone? What kind of foolishness is that? It boggles my mind to this second.

But that is my flaw.

I confess I sometimes feel burdened by those who use me as a hole in which to dump their shit.

Up on the mountain, I finally spotted that as a source of long enduring anger. “Wrath,” is the word.

But let us add clarity. It is not everyone all the time. I can let it in or keep it out. I am impervious to any permanent damage, so let them be needy infants if they are so weak as that. I know how to handle babies. Sad we will never be genuine friends. Friends are relative equals.

That burning rage purged instantly when I spotted that.

A great calm came through me and over me.

These terrible injustices that life inflicts on us!

To whom has not some random event done near to death anyone?

Certainly, it is not fair when relationships are so one-sided. One person a wreck, the other patiently helping? And it is always this way? When it becomes a permanently stuck one-way flow, that is not a peer relationship.

But fair? What is fair? Since when are we ever truly entitled to “fair?”

We speak of “rights” and “justice” like they are solid objects that actually exist, but they do not exist in nature.

In order for rights, justice, truth, order, beauty, ethics, art or any other human ideal to be, we must make them come into existence, and we must remake them over and again. We need to do it socially and collectively as shared forms with affection for each other.

No matter what the law says, never do any rights ever exist “automatically.”

Rock slides and storms, for example, do not perceive your “rights.”

I do not remember the exact number,* but in the very early ’80s, ’81 if I am not mistaken, a rock slide on the Yosemite Falls Trail killed some 20 people. It was one of the greatest tragedies in Yosemite history. Again, from recall of things I heard only, it was a weekend day in the middle of summer at a time of day when not only the trail but that part was full of physically fit people.

When I worked in that valley in 1982, The Falls Trail had been closed since the slide. Much time had been spent trying to recover remains. There was tremendous danger of another slide from a big piece of rock right next to the one that had fallen.

When I say, “big piece,” I speak in Yosemite language. Funny! I see this now! Let me explain, in “Yosemitespeak,” A “big piece” is bigger than a football field. In this case, the thickness varied from forty to sixty feet, but there were some bumps.

Yosemite rock is known for these sheets of granite that flake off like exfoliating skin, but they are the skins of a forty mile long dragons.

I stood on the deck of the Curry Village Hamburger Stand in my hideously ugly brown and orange uniform, self-conscious because my clothes were permeated by hamburger meat grease. There were a lot of people. I could smell that sickening oil scent wafting up from my clothes. If I could smell it, so could others.

I would usually avoid tourists when I put on that repugnant uniform. It was so shamefully impossible to keep clean until I resorted to daily soakings and swapping back and forth of the two. I had not figured that out yet, so that was the beginning of the tourist season when I was learning that hamburger grill areas seem to be filled with microscopic meat fat particles that hang in the air. I would detect that grease on the back of my head! Blech.

But that was my job, and out on the big deck in front we watched as demolition teams blasted free the big piece that was also about to fall. The manager, Greg, had actually closed the place for the occasion!

We saw the puff of smoke for what seemed like too many long seconds before we heard the blast. At six hundred or so miles an hour, it seemed the sound should have come sooner, but it seemed a long, long time to me.

The sound was not as loud as one might think. It was not a big boom. More of a sharp retort. But the sharp crack did echo up and down the valley for many, many more long seconds.

And then… nothing.

I did not mention I had binoculars. I used them for star gazing. They were not the best kind for this, but I did have a good view. I saw nothing move at first. I wondered if there would be another set of blasts.

I knew I was looking at the right area. I had seen the jets of smoke. It was colored like gray blasting powder smoke and somehow dusty beige smoke.

And then I saw it. The giant tear-shaped rock did not move much at first, and then it was suddenly moving fast!

It did not look so big. Not this terrible threat at all.

Yet I have been on and under those exact kinds of rock formations many times. They are as big as a city blocks. Bigger! It is just that in Yosemite, everything is so huge, that is relatively small. Can you imagine that big thing coming down at you at thirty-two feet per second, per second?

Ah!

The good sounds did happen.

As that chunk fell, it broke up, and those pieces when falling, began to spread wider; as these hit other areas, they too shattered and spread wider again. The noise grew louder and louder during this process. I would compare the sounds to those of the way military transport jet engines can sound when you to the side of them across a runway in buffeting wind. You can hear the raw power. It is loud.

The boom, boom, boom, of THAT rock. WOW! Over and over. It broke up when it hit bottom, and chunks of it fell out of our sight, but one could hear the continued crashes and the echoes of the crashes booming up and down the wonderfully sound conducting valley!for at LEAST a full minute!

What a rush!

We even felt the deck shake.

Everyone there was all, “Well, now we know what rock slide is like! WAY scarier than earthquakes!”

And we were two miles away.

I am going somewhere with this, someplace wonderful, so be patient.

Because at this time on that street corner, this guy decides to assault that extremely tired old man in boots which hurt his feet and a spine that needs to lay supine soon or else the pain will be… another story?

With that step-aside, I am reeling a bit. A fight?

A fight?

Most annoying. Gods damn this fucking mother fucker cunt.

I have no extra energy. I am on reserves and burning through energy drinks just to get home without any more calorie deficit.

He has so much speed going, he gets far up the sidewalk to my left before he can stop and spin to face me.

It is definitely, as they say, “On.”

And so blessed I had been on my whole trip!

“Blessings AND curses is what the gods give you at best. Be glad you got some blessings.” That is an ancient Greek saying. I could hear Fresno farmers saying those exact words with equal sincerity.

I had, at the time of this encounter with this powerful young man that night, walked up, camped for days, explored all around, and down through that stretch of trail on which so many people died. I was still carrying some of that burden with me.

It had been a transformative experience. This interruption in the middle of the night was so rude. The gods, seeing how blessed I had been, I guess decided to toss me a curse.

What my assailant could not have known is how recently I had been walking down the Yosemite Falls Trail.

The night before it was.

I started from the top of the Falls by “Iron Creek,” so-called by me for the taste. Chelated minerals — that is, those bound to at least one carbon atom, basically — are safe to consume. They will pass through the body and can sometimes be used nutritionally. The taste can be nasty though! My doctor told me I was anemic. I have been working on that. I bet that iron water helped me!

That was three ten in the afternoon. I noted the time. I finished at the valley floor at eleven twenty that night, and I noted the time then too. There was a long stop wherein I discovered the spot where and when Ansel Adams had taken a famous photo. After first duplicating at least some aspects of his superb work, I stayed to watch and time the shadow moving up the face of Half Dome. Then I watched the hot pink alpenglow in the high country peaks I could see until they were gone. I took a lot of photos. I as a bit late. I wish I had gotten there a half an hour earlier. Next time! There was a twisted old manzanita shrub who was a good foreground model though. It was scary at the edge of a death fall edge cliff!

The pink had turned brown by eight eleven. I tarried not then but packed and ascended out from the lookout point by the side of the main trail while I still had some light. I went as fast as my muscles, wind, joints, and bones allowed after that. Still took me two hours!

But then, one I reached that shady part with all the live oaks, it is slow going by flashlight. I realized I was actually doing the most dangerous thing so far by going down that steep rock trail in the fucking dark, so I took my time. I kept my muscles ready.

What a contrast to the blazing white light of the slide area!

Above me then.

I had passed through.

That part of the Yosemite Falls Trail is all shiny bright fresh granite in the newer “cobble stone” style instead of the “step” style of ’30s Conservation Corps. I call the styles that. There are most certainly a technical terms, but I do not know them. In the region, even after more than forty years only small bushes have grown back, but that is all.

You do not want to be on that part of the hill when the sun is full on it! Blinding light and burning heat! No water in that stretch.

I had been up and down this trail a few times in those forty years, and each time I always felt most definitely weirded when passing through the death zone.

This time though, yikes.

Walking up, I felt rather than heard…

A wailing? Weeping?

No.

It took me a couple hours through that part.

I was absolutely the slowest walker on the trail.

I was glad I had soaked my long sleeved t-shirt in water and wore it like a turban on my head to keep me cool. Even with the sun behind the cliff behind me in the afternoon, as planned, it was still hot from the rocks that radiated the day’s solar gain back up through one’s boots and all around. The turban worked.

I was never too hot. Walking in Fresno had grooved in my heat handling tech. That part of my skill set was good. But oh, these old bones! Tough, tough climb for me. Had my left leg almost buckle under me a couple times! Almost crawled into bed at the end of the climb!

On a few days later — after many happy experiences — I came back through the death zone again.

This time, I was was fresh off an easy hike down a river canyon and up over a a few big domes of granite. Rested, fed, relaxed, I headed down late. I had taken my time. I knew I’d be walking in the dark later, but that was by design. A shady descent. there were some photo ops I had seen on the way up, but I wanted some light and shade effects I guessed I would get later, at certain places. There was a side trail I wanted to explore too. A hiking companion named Durga had asked me a bout it, and I had mistakenly thought he meant another trail and so told him it was “nothing,” a bushwhack trail.

[Sorry, Durga, no! It leads to a great lookout! My apologies.]

Mainly, I had the trail to myself. It was a Thursday, so there were not as many people as a Saturday, but still, mid July in Yosemite is peak tourist time.

It was nice to use gravity to go down, despite the shocks of many impacts, instead of fighting gravity to go up from it for hour after hour! People will say going down can be harder than going up, and that can be true if you are hurt in a way that the impacts really tag you. But ordinarily no; hard as it is going down steep trails, it is never as exhausting as going up. Measuring respiration and heart rates will prove it.

But.

Absolutely.

Going down is more dangerous.

I was able to maintain a regular pace for some pitches. Every ten or fifteen minutes I was getting passed near the top, but that slowed down to almost nothing unless I stopped to rest.

I did that a lot. Since my left leg was so painful. I’d been using my right a lot. Finally, my right knee refused to do any more stairs up or down straight on. I had to use my stick in my left hand and turn around to go backwards down steep parts, and sideways down others.

having to do that was what slowed me down. At times, I felt like a toddler who could only go down stairs backward favoring one side with each step even unto rearranging their footing to get the same leading leg.

I knew it would be that way.

Uh. Er, no. Rather, I was ready for it to be that way. I was ready for it to be worse. I was quite at peace with any outcome. It was not apathy. I had food. I had water. I had warmth. I had shelter. At any time, I could stop and rest well indeed. It gave me great pace of mind. I did not have to rush off the mountain. I could stay for a long time.

I did that.

I always wanted to do that.

That was the broad stroke of the whole plan for this expedition.

I gave myself only distance targets I thought I could do. I carried with me everything I needed to stay put and heal if I had to. I rested a lot!

I was walking through injuries and this was the tough end set of many tough sets in a therapy by design. Some parts of my plan worked poorly, but that part worked well.

But enough about an old man’s slow going due to aches and pains!

How changed I was in my attitudes to tourists!

I noticed this even riding the bus up.

Each time the bus stopped, a new group would board, and I would watch them with great interest.

When I worked in the valley during that period after my start in the hamburger stand, I and most of the other employees called the tourists, “turkeys.” In all my memories, I hardly look at them. Every time I see any, I look the other way. Years of memories like that. When I do look at them at that time it is not with love. They stand between me and an objective. I am not blind. I see them. Almost all in new clothes.

Those who would purport to be hikers would have new packs with all sorts of glinting accoutrements attached or showing, coats, pants, shoes, all immaculately clean.

Perhaps one in forty was an experienced “outside” person. In my youth, I would tend to spot them and be willing to engage.

I met a few magic people too, like an old, old man who used a stick to whack big bears on the nose. Like, big, full grown, dominant male brown bears, no shit.

But, he told me, those bears knew him.

Generally, though I worked with them face to face at work every day, I had nothing to do with tourists and was oddly incurious about them. I have insights as to that apparent lack of interest back then and understand, however.

Because watching them now?

I love it!

Yes, I have changed.

On the trails in particular you get a “fitness filter.”

All the human silhouettes take on higher height to width ratios, for instance. The average age drops to… well, at 66, for five days in that region, my age peers seen were rare sightings. At a guess, anyone over fifty was less than one in twenty. More than half were in their twenties. Many family groups with pretty young kids! Many young couples. I think I looked at and said, “Hi!” to every person I saw on that trail. The average age is young.

I love watching all the fit and beautiful people!

Old now, I perceive procreation and sex with much more experience. I can most definitely look at pretty girls or boys with no lust whatsoever, seeing them as living art who have even dressed up to look beautiful, to be seen, to be wonderful!

Wondrous to my eyes are the beautiful people, old, young, women, men, girls, boys, wrinkled leather and gray whiskers to satin smooth downy, from wire brush to corn silk, blue, gold, black, blown, pink, dry, wet, anything people!

I love them.

I love to look at them. I love to talk. With families going by, it is usually the mom or dad one addresses. But sometimes there will be a precocious child who will address you first.

I can tell when this is usual, so that means the parents know that the kid does this. Often, I have found, far from random in their selection of who to address, such children are keen scouts with noses for the slightest danger. Never once have I seen that look of rebuke on the face of an adult for speaking to their child when it is one of those extremely extroverted kids who is known to chat up everyone everywhere all the time. You cannot stop them any more than you can halt the sun in the sky.

But normally, one talks to the parents. I understand. I am protective of my kids too. It is the way.

Oh, the laughing! Literal singing! The children jumping from rock to rock while the parents slog with camp burdens. The troupes of young men who blast by all trying to prove they are no weakling by jim crack golly not them! I know. I was one. Haha.

This time out, I saw few old timers like I who putt on by up or down, going slow, slow, slow.

Lots of couples couples out hiking with each other… Oh! So fun to try and read those dynamics. Usually, dressed in costumes that show off their bodies. Sometimes, the boy all big man, he man, macho, you looking at my girl, everywhere he goes all the time, sometimes playing the great protector in the outdoors, and never once looking into the eyes of any of the women with them, even the Kardashian types, are any of the women ever impressed by that posturing! Obviously, the guys do not see it. I have a few theories. One is that such women like such men because they are easy to handle. The guy gets to strut around with a trophy, and she basically gets everything else.

These couples never get far on any trails. I mean, Come on? Make up on mountain trail in heat, dust, and rain? Such types turn around and go back very soon.

I think hard trails may be mirrors and amplifiers of people’s souls.

It brings them out. It is surprising how many of the couples you see going by who are fighting each other. One can hear from far off in that open canyon with sonic reflectors all around. even without getting the words, one can hear tones of whining, accusing, and complaining, or angry, sad emotions. When they go by: silence. No eye contact. No looking at scenery. No enjoyment of an environment uniquely magnificent at a time and place that is once in a lifetime, but no, this duo has to have a snit.

I think the trail brings it out. It found them defective and sent them packing.

Haha.

I anthropomorphize. I do that for fun all the time.

That is one type of fighting couple. Another has loud vocals one can hear all up and down the canyon, but the people are so introverted and citified they have no idea they are broadcasting on loud megaphones.

I say all that because I have noticed hard trails starting arguments my whole life. It seems to be a thing. People’s souls are drawn out. Sometimes they come out fighting.

Mainly though, the people are joyous. Without exaggeration, the changing view is as good as it gets in the world. Yosemite is incredibly, spectacularly, and overwhelmingly beautiful at every turn or time. Further, for fit people, the exercise is exhilarating.

I love Yosemite!

And that was exactly what those people were feeling on that stretch of trail at that time when that sixty feet tall wall of city block wide rock began to fall on them that bright, happy day.

Young. Beautiful. Their whole futures ahead! And children. Many. Even some carried infants!

Sun shining, wind blowing, so much glory, so much beauty.

The terror, huh?

Hearing those first keeee-RACK… KACK sounds above. Nowhere to go there. Nowhere. It is open. No trees or big boulders to dive behind.

You would run is what you would do. Either up or down the trail to get to the nearest cover you could find. And that, as I understand it, based on the patterns of the bodies recovered, is exactly what those people did.

You might remember I described the pattern made by the same rock as it fell in the same part of the cliff and trail? Ever widened fan shapes. With mathematical certainty, I can assure you, that the further down one went, the worse the odds. Me? I would stay put and look up enjoy a once in a many lifetimes view before I splatted.

We all walk our own walks.

It was a tough spot!

A great injustice. So many killed at exact instants of ecstasy and exaltation.

This is the true horror of that death zone.

If you know anyone who talks to ghosts, ask them about haunting that have that color. When killed suddenly and wrongly during times of great, youthful exuberance that look to fantastic futures, and then SMACK, dead, well people can get a bit “stuck,” and in fact, become “ghosts” instead of free spirits.

That’s what I hear from adepts anyway. Not that I am one.

Sensitive perhaps because I had been so healed and cleaned, when I came down through that area again…

It was like getting hit by an thousand anvils. Anvils forty feet on a side.

I was not tired. The walking was pretty easy. I was having fun.

And suddenly I was smashed!

The howling!

Not everyone was immediately dead. Oh, my gods! The horror and terror in those shrieks! They made you wish you were dead rather than hear them! A few minutes later, those who can, have bled out. The shrieking is down to pitiful moans and groans here and there.

The wind blows. The sun is in the sky. A few confused birds come out of the billowing dust.

I had to drop my pack and sit down. Tears, hot and wet, exploded out of my eye ducts.

It was as though it was my own sadness! But it was not. it was the grief of many other people I felt.

I had to bawl my head off.

I am not the type to cry at funerals. That was a strange event for me. I hesitated even writing it down. People might think I am claiming to be some kind of medium or something.

But that happened.

This was to repeat several times.

I understand there are still quite a few bodies and parts of bodies under those rocks. They will never be recovered. That cliff by Yosemite Falls is their graveyard.

You may chalk up my reactions to a hyper imagination if you want. It does not matter.

Again, if you know anything about ghosts, you will not be surprised to hear such things can be damn addling to many people who die that way. They get frustrated, too, screaming at us where their bodies are laying. But now? Needing no sleep, no food, no nothing, feeling neither heat nor cold, years can pass in a day, but it is a day of horror, and so the horror goes on and on. Also, how do you speak to someone who perceives you as a flick of light? You are there only a split instant as far as the ghost can see. Time stress is something only meat experiences because it has to eat and procreate, tick-rock. Not ghosts.

I kept getting whomped on by the encapsulated sadness and terror of that area though. All the way down.

Finally, I sat down, held up my hands, and asked, “What is it? Is there more? You tell me you are SO sad, but telling me that so much it makes me cry too STILL is bringing you no relief?

“So that isn’t it, is it? There is something else here, isn’t there huh?”

Yes. Indeed. The trauma of screaming for forty years, and no one hears.

Oh.

Pierced, my heart.

“I hear you,” I said.

I then had the strange sensation then of having wind pass through me, cold wind and warm wind both, but a feeling of being all “touched” from the inside, and at that time, just about sunset of the day before yesterday at least some little part of that old terror on that mountain was finally soul-cleaned.

There are some parts I am not telling. I have already gotten as weird as you can handle, if you can handle even that. Can you?

And then this guy is picking a fight for the use of my phone?

Do you see what a reality check he is going to get?

I tossed off my pack in that gravel with the deer grass.

My phone, by the way, was in airplane mode to conserve power, and it was in a very secure pouch on the right strap. A nice feature of that particular pack.

In the wide, deep, mesh pouch on the back was my broken walking stick. I had broken it not thirty minutes earlier whacking a fence with a barking dog behind it. That stupid dog and its stupid dog big buddy barks at everyone going by all day, every day, and all night, every night. And I had had to hear it snarl behind that fence many, many times. This time I even shouted up at the owner how rude he was to let those untrained dogs bark at people on the sidewalk on the other side of the fence all day and night.

Someone has to say things out loud.

I probably should have been more artful than to call him a, “pussy bitch” though. Haha.

So, you see, you might say I “antagonize people” but I promise you this: That dog owner heard me and it boiled his little rat turd brains, but also, so did twenty neighbors who laughed and laughed.

Therefore, a much truer thing to say is, “I antagonize bullies.”

I have rather specialized in them since I was quite little. Those are people who take pleasure in te pain of others. I see them with a spotlight on them. I will see, for example, that twinkle of laughter in their eyes when they have said something designed to make the other person feel small, weak, vulnerable, defenseless. Almost always, I am the first one in a group to have my mean person detector needle give those first few tics.

He was probably expecting me to say, “I don’t want you to steal my phone. You are on a scooter. I have a pack and am tired. I cannot hand over my phone.”

Something like that. And he no doubt had a set of performances he had worked out for all the various objections, and I would hear what a trustworthy guy he was and how it was just to leave one message and there would be no call backs, and thanks? Please?

Like that. All sweet.

He was expecting an objection he could overcome, my guess.

In fact, he probably was NOT going to steal my phone.

Still.

I was considering tactics as I pulled my weapon and stanced up. That’s my own made up language. Other fighters will have other ways, but the Ricky Way is lot about the feet. I have been knocked on my ass so many times. I learned to stand wide in a big box in order to stay up. Others who are more skilled can use willowy, pretty, upright forms. Not I.

Big, big guy. “Six six?” No. that was pucker factor. Six two though. He is a bruin. Can’t let him close. Can’t grapple! He has Longer arms. Can’t let those fists near my head! He’d drop me with one punch.

People say, “There’s no time to think in a fight! It is all reaction!”

Fucking idiots.

There is all the time in the universe to think in a fight. maybe, though, when I say, “think” and when they say, “think” we mean different things.

I am certain of the time dilation that occurs in battle though. No “maybe” there!

I am dizzy a bit from hunger and altitude sickness. We are out in public. There are lights. All I have to do is evade and endure until the public battle becomes… the cops. The streets I walk — chosen for this! — have that feature; cops drive by quite often.

My weapon is my broken walking stick. The handle is, however, of extremely hard and dense valley oak. It is certainly stronger than bone. It is also carved like a pick axe and there is a steel reinforcement within. The shaft is only about twenty inches. The shaft, though capable of handle lots of weight, was not made for point shock loads to the side, as I had learned that night.

With that weapon, such as it is, I do have longer reach than he, and any place I strike will badly hurt.

“The hands,” I think.

I have spoken of Miyamoto Musashi before in other places many times. He wrote a book that influenced me greatly. It is called, The Book of Five Rings.

Of supreme relevance in the Musashi style is, “No style. You are there to strike the other man down.”

I know my legal position. Legally, I may kill this man.

I also know I must now — ethically — do everything I can to get him to stand down.

He’s a cagey enough fighter to not show visible alarm when I face him like that. But that’s part of every bully schtick: “Neener neener, no effect on meee-ee-eee!”

He might also be used to other tweakers putting on big shows too. The drama with those shitbirds! The main lights are behind me. He can’t see my face, but I can see his. No time to think? Plenty of time!

No matter what happens now, I know a couple things. I have space I can use and legs that can still jump. I can evade that way, moving back through the deer grass in the gravel. My boots have almost cleat-like tread get splendid traction there. I will get in “hyper strikes!” Many hits! All strong!

And in my quiet mind, to the side, “This will be a wolverine and bear battle. We know who wins. Question is: dumb bear or smart bear? Dumb bear dies. Smart bear walks.

I bellow at him. I can belt if I need to. Many times tested. Big room sound checks, no microphone required, street singer here, OK? I know how to throw my voice. I did not even let him hear me at full force this whole time.

I was not at all afraid.

I honestly sensed a possibly positive outcome.

Groups are always electing me the cop. This is why. A proper cop should never be the bully, but the anti-bully. I have even heard of this deadly cool in a fracas as one of the signs of a sociopath.

I wonder if some mystique is now building around the word? It used to mean a cold-blooded killer, and I am not that. Killing makes me feel horrible.

But in this case, I would do what I had to do.

So first I roared. “God damn you! I just broke my stick on a dog, and now I get to break the rest on YOU?”

His eyes did get big than. He was having the, “Holy shit,” moment.

Yeah buddy. You reading the room now?

Now, as I write this, I am thinking, “No war stories without shame,” and I feel this cringy part, so out with it, out with it, and this is where I think it is. I think my posturing may have been just that, for I also yelled, “I just spent NINE DAYS in the mountains, and now I am walking home, and I have to deal with THIS… this, this, SHIT?”

It was only seven days of sleeping outside in the wilds, not nine, and only four were above the falls. I don’t know why I said that. I shall watch for those little story embellishments because they actually are not better than the truth.

What is funny here is that he then did a big man ape man dance for me!

That was his retaliation for my bellowing. But it was pretty funny!

Part of this dance routine was bucking his hips and holding on to a cock as big around as an elephant’s trunk.

I was never mad at this guy. He annoyed me like monkey reaching into my bag. He was about to get tagged. I was not going down. I would not take a single hit. He was going to get dropped.

This was reality. This was the future. All I had to do was let it unfold.

But when then he did that dance, I laughed with joy! It was hilarious! And laughingly, I taunted, “Yes! That’s it! Exactly!’

And then in square stance with my broken walking stick on my strong side, I told him, “Come on!”

I wanted him to rush at me full force. I was hoping for it. It felt beautiful to me. Maybe he saw how happy my face was.

It was then he decided I was not worth the trouble.

Ah. Smart bear!

Also, behind me, a car went through the intersection. I saw his eyes flash alarm. A cop? Don’t know, but he grunted and growled and shoved off, flipping his scooter out of my way, and headed off.

But then, suddenly he turns around, and I’m feeling another adrenal rush because maybe he is smart and tricky? Oh! Deadly!

Is it a new attack? What? Wait. He is holding out his hand? He wants to shake hands?

This too is too weird. A trick?

“No!” I bark, backing up, this time into right jab boxer stance, but it retreats my weapon.

“You demand my phone and threaten me when I don’t give it to you? Certainly not I will not shake your hand!”

I hear him say it, “Yes. Yes. I see it now! I am sorry!”

I back up “scissor feet” a half-stride.**

When in potentially violent confrontations, one must always keep the antagonist beyond his arm’s reach. When they advance in all big-chested? No! Do not come within arm’s reach. A judge would especially expect a big, strong guy like me to give many chances and warnings, and I agree! I do that! And I guess he got the message. I said something then that may have been the first time he heard it that way. Probingly, I asked, “Are you sincere?”

His head shot back like he’d been shot, but he grinned a big, goofy, cheerful grin and proclaimed, “Yes I am sincere!”

And then all my sense of danger dissipated. I felt warmly safe. He had no more ill intent. He was going to have this great story about this crazy mean old man with a broken walking stick!

I did not quite turn my back on him when I reached down to stuff my broken walking stick down the back pouch where it had been. I also picked up and put away the other end that had popped out when I had briskly pulled the handle part out earlier.

I would not do to shake another man’s hand while holding a weapon, would it? You have to show trust.

First, we bumped fists. It was a bit awkward.

Then, we did shake.

No ill feelings at all. I bet I’d like the guy. I always like having big, strong friends. He was high, so he was irrational; imperceptive, he did not see it was no good to try to bum off an old warrior with no time for nothing but motion home. Possibly, due to meth-head drama seeking, he wanted a worthy opponent on that night at that intersection.

Honestly, I should have been nicer to him and talked a while. He revealed a nature that had honor. I admire that.

I am sorry. I am not a saint.

===

* I should look that up. I WILL look that up. This is a first draft. I just returned home and I am talking right now. (I had planned on working on a timeline outline, actually. So MUCH happened!)

** It’s a way of moving forward and back while keeping the same side advanced. I do not know the proper martial arts term, but I hear Kendo people use the phrase. I only noticed after that I was doing that then. I brought it up to show how training and practice will burn in these physical pattern habits requiring no thought when shit goes down.