The end of my first forestry job, the end of summer and the end of my marriage- Then

As my summer job as a forest pathologist neared its end, one of our sites required us to descend a loose mix of dirt and rocks to our designated dead tree. It was the sort of place you cannot really walk down. You just get down on one leg, put the other out in front of you, and slide. This was a plot that took a long time to get to. We all did our individual jobs, like the well-oiled, loosely organized machine we had become by then. Later, as we were nearing our base camp at the end of the day, I noticed my wedding ring was gone. I checked to make sure I had not lost it in the jeep. I checked all my pockets. I asked if anyone had seen it anywhere. I then accepted that it had been pulled off my finger earlier as I slid down the hill, and it was gone. There was absolutely no chance of getting it back. When I called my wife later that night, I told her about the ring. I thought she would be upset. She was not. She said we would talk about it when I got back home. Not that we would replace it. We would talk about it. 

Just after that, we had a short holiday. My in-laws had invited me to a Giant-Dodger baseball game. It was a nice diversion. Of course, the Giants lost. On the way back up to Big Bear, the summer had one more try at killing me. 

I was heading up into the mountains and found myself behind the same slow driver for quite a while. I decided that if I did not get around him, I would spend the rest of my life looking at his brake lights. I had a chance to get around him and took it. Passing was difficult due to heavy traffic coming back to the valley after the holiday. Within a couple of minutes, after I passed, I rounded a corner, and there was a long straight-away. The downhill lane was moving, but very slowly, with rare spaces between. And, I noticed a car out in the uphill lane, passing a bunch of them on the straight section, heading right toward me. 

I slowed down and got as far onto the shoulder as I could, aware of the chance the driver I had passed could plow into me as I attempted to avoid the downhill passer hitting me head-on. 

Somehow, the passing downhill driver managed to force his way into the downhill traffic. He appeared terrified. 

I pulled back into the uphill lane after he went by.

A mile or so further up the hill, I realized that the car I had passed earlier wasn’t behind me. A bit further up, I saw an ambulance responding downhill with lights and sirens. The downhill traffic was bumper-to-bumper, but my lane was clear. He used that. It made me wonder what had happened. 

This return trip after the baseball weekend turned out to be one more close call in a seemingly never-ending list of close calls during this initial forestry job.   

Maybe the summer had been trying to tell me something. 

The drive home at the end of the job was uneventful.

And somehow, my wife, our friend (her co-worker), and I went to dinner shortly after I got home. The dinner was fine. I had stories. They had stories. How was it that he was there again (still)? I was beginning to feel like I should try to call a friend to get a date. Not for him, but for me. How is that for foreshadowing?

We were providing transportation that night. We dropped him off at his apartment. And, by dropping off, you might get the idea that we drove up, left the motor running as he got out, and we waited just long enough to see him go upstairs before we drove off to our own apartment. Normally, that might have been the way it should have gone. But not this time. He and my wife got out. (Huh?) They both stopped just close enough to the front of our car that I could not see above their shoulders. And then they hugged each other. It looked like a very close, long hug. I could only guess as to whether there had been more to it.  

She later claimed it was just a friendly hug, thanking him for all the time he had kept her company over the summer when I had been gone. Well, I had seen my share of friendly hugs, and this was about the friendliest hug I had ever seen her do to anyone other than me. I tried to let it go. She was right. He had helped her through the summer. I knew how lonely it had been for me.  It had to be worse for her, still being around things that reminded her of me. I wish I had had someone to keep me from thinking about her. I hope this does not sound too bitter. At the time, I knew nothing for sure, but I was beginning to wonder how much comfort from a friend might be too much.  

Other things seemed to be clues, if I had the eyes to see them, or the heart to accept them. 

At home, I noticed that all the pictures of me were put away. I asked her about that, and she said the only way to deal with me being gone was for her to convince herself that I was not around anymore, as in dead. I think she even used those words. She had to think of it as if I had died. And there had been numerous times I could have died if she really wanted to know those stories. It was just too hard for her to be reminded of me every time she went through the house; maybe on her way to see him, or be picked up by him.

I was completely the opposite. I wish I had had more pictures of her with me. Oh well. Everyone deals with stress differently. Some spend hours gazing longingly at photos. Some have affairs while their spouse’s pictures stay in a drawer. And, I guess she is right. If I had been having an affair, the last thing I would have wanted to see, or to be seen by my affair partner, would be a snapshot or two of my wife.

Of course, this was not as simple as it seemed on the outside. It is never simple. I know this caused her a lot of stress in the end because she came down with a case of mono. All of that is still in the future, though. I was back, and we seemed to be getting along just fine. I was happy, and I thought she was, too. She acted happy, anyway. 

Then he invited us to go see a friend of his up east of Sacramento who had been building a log house. There was also a site in the area that my wife was interested in for her master’s research project. Her project had to do with the effect of smoke on retarding the growth of certain fungi. The graduate student she worked with on this project was to become an important figure in her future. The site was in a recently burned area that she wanted to survey. 

We met her friend up there, and were introduced to the cabin builder. This turned out to be the most uncomfortable and worst weekend of my life up to that point. Exactly how it all came up, I am not sure. But early on, I realized my wife knew too much about the house and the area to have just been seeing it for the first time as I was. And, I was left alone a bit too much. Our host must have mentioned something about this to me, like how good a sport I was to come up with them. Maybe he thought that they had already told me they were together. This weekend, I finally became aware of how being friendly can become too much. 

After we had gone to bed, I mentioned our host’s surprise at seeing me along on this trip. That was the start of officially marking the end of our relationship. 

I remember being up most of the night talking to her about what had gone on over the summer. It had all started innocently enough, for her anyway. They had gone to the beach just to do something as friends might do. I never went to any event anywhere with any woman, or even a friend who was not a woman, either of the two summers I was away during my marriage, but that is just me. The only place I went socially that summer was to a baseball game with her parents. And they had probably known about everything at that point.

But he and she went quite a few places, it seemed. Early on, they had talked about couples in general and us in particular, and then one thing led to another. She suddenly admitted to him that she had never enjoyed the more physical aspects of marriage, not at all. Not even one time. She did not even know that she was supposed to enjoy it. I guess, one thing led to more things, and suddenly, he was telling, and or showing her how to fix that. How is that for beating around the bush? This is a family-friendly blog after all. 

In theory, at this point, she was still intending to be with me. The problem was that I was not him. She was not able to put what she now felt with him into the context of feeling it with me. She claimed that she still wanted to try. I told her the only way it would work was for her to stop having any physical relationship with him. If she wanted to make it work with me, it would mean I was the only physical contact. Is that not a totally understanding attitude? I was not even sure it was a good idea for us to remain friends with him at that point, but I never brought that up.    

She claimed she wanted to try to get past this, but she could not. Or she did not want to do it. ‘Can’t a person love more than one person?’ she would ask me. Sure, you can. Love is limitless. But the physical expression of it is another thing, at least for me. That would have to be limited. This is one part of our relationship that I would not share with someone else. We spoke of divorce, but it was too soon to decide yet if it would come to that. 

It was decided sooner than I ever would have believed. I think that a quick divorce had always been the plan. She was just giving me time to adjust to the idea. Divorce was the only solution after all. We made the initial arrangements and started splitting up the household “things.”  We duplicated what we both needed. We packed it all up. I got my own apartment and moved out. We told our parents. We told our friends. It was one last project we did together, as flawlessly as all of the others.  

At this point, I started hearing things that friends or family had seen or wondered about. My old forestry camp roommate had seen my wife on the back of a motorcycle with some guy while I was gone, on more than one occasion. And my father had tried to call our apartment to check in with her and see if she was OK, but hadn’t gotten through for a while. Then, when he did, he was sure that he heard a guy in the background. Anyway, no one understood how the perfect couple could break up. What could I tell them? I was not really sure at that point myself. Why hadn’t she told me? Why was it so easy to tell someone else details of the most private portions of our lives and how she felt, when she could not tell me?

We saw each other a few times right after I moved. It got too hard for both of us, though. There was just too much baggage to act like we could go on as friends, knowing what had happened. Then she got sick, so I barely saw her after that.

By the following April, actually on April Fool’s Day, I received notice that our divorce was final. I remember actually getting the humor in that. Sometime in June, she sent me a copy of the invitation to her wedding, which had already taken place. I am not sure I really would have wanted to see the invitation if I had had a choice, but that is what she did. She sent that, with a couple of lines saying that she wanted me to know, but did not want me to find out from anyone else first. I doubt I even knew anyone else at that point who would have told me if they had known.  

It is funny that one excuse for her having done what she did was that she felt trapped by being married. I guess marriage itself was not the real problem. It was that her marriage had been to me. 

Jumping back to high school for a summer bike ride-Then

One note, I didn’t have a helmet for my ride.

Like all high school kids, I seemed to do a few things at times that would have made my mother nuts if she’d known what I was planning. One of those things was that I was secretly planning to do a bike ride to Point Reyes. I know she would not have approved because of the numerous times we had driven the route that I would take for the ride.

When I was younger, we would travel the route, seeing numerous bikes being ridden up over narrow switchback roads and steep hills. Since she was in the passenger seat and a non-driver, everything seemed so close to her as we passed the riders. It made her very nervous. Since then, knowing more of how my father drove and since I drive myself, I can understand a bit more why she was nervous. But, as much as my parents talked about those riders being nuts, I was thinking about doing that someday. When I decided to try it, I knew I could not just ride out and conquer the two separate hill climbs I would have to make. I had to find a local hill for practice rides.

Remember the hill up behind my house that, at one time, had a NIKE base? That was one steep hill. I figured if I could get to the top of that, I would have no trouble climbing the hills to get to Point Reyes. After school, at least three days a week, I would attempt to climb as high as I could on this hill. At first, I could hardly get up even a short distance. But every time I tried, I got a bit higher. Eventually, I could make it up with no problem. Some of my distance training was riding across town to see my girlfriend. Other times, I would just ride.

One ride for distance was to start out on San Pedro Rd from San Rafael, out past China Camp (famous for having parts of the African Queen and other movies filmed there), and ride the loop through Santa Venetia, to Terra Linda, and then back over the hill to San Rafael again. I rode that route several times and felt I was ready. Now, all I had to do was decide on a time to do the ride.

I think the ride happened early in the summer, after my girlfriend had left for a summer language training class at UC Santa Cruz. The perfect day for the ride came on a Saturday. There was high fog, a standard part of the summer in the Bay Area. There was very little wind and very cool temperatures. It was pretty much a spur-of-the-moment thing. I left. I figured I would go as far as I could. If I had to turn back, I would just turn back. I do not think I mentioned to anyone that I was going to do this ride. I did not even take any water or snacks. There were no cell phones then, but I doubt I would have had one if they had existed. I was on my own.

I headed west out of town, and before too long, I was through San Anselmo, then Fairfax. Just past Fairfax was White’s Hill. I felt fine. Of course, it had been only a gentle sloping rise up to now. Then it got steep fast. And slow. But I made it. I could not turn back now, so I rode on to Woodacre, the little spot barely on the map, where one of my aunts lived earlier. Now, would I go directly to Bolinas and then Point Reyes, or do the second climb and end up at Nicasio, then go along the reservoir?

I chose the second climb. This had more switchbacks and was pretty steep. This section really made my mother nervous when we encountered bike riders on it. I was lucky. There was not much traffic up here today. I made it to the top. Now it was a mostly flat run through Nicasio, and then along the road around the lake and to the dam, past places we used to stop to fish when I was younger. Then I rode on to Point Reyes Station. I was halfway, and I felt like I could ride forever. I did not even stop to rest. I probably should have, but I felt too good to stop and get off the bike. I just rode around a bit and then turned around for the return trip.

For the ride home, I decided to take the route that would bring me through Samuel P. Taylor Park and eventually back to the Woodacre turnoff at San Geronimo. Samuel P Taylor Park had been a picnic spot for my family as long as I could remember. It was fun being out there on a bike, by myself. The trip back was pretty calm, mostly downhill. At the bottom of White’s Hill again, I started the long, flat, straight run back to San Rafael. Then, all of a sudden, one of my derailleur cables broke, limiting me to only two gears. I am very lucky that it happened when it did. If I had been climbing, or if I had needed to climb when it happened, I would have been stuck. And no one would have had a clue where I was. When I got back, I stopped at the A & W Root Beer in San Rafael and had a root beer float. It was the best thing I ever tasted.

I challenged myself to a close to 50-mile ride with hills and made it without stopping, with no support, and with no water. And I could not tell anyone I had done it. I have driven the same route since then. I still see riders around the lake. But now, they rode in groups. They had water bottles that I did not even know existed back then. They have helmets. And they have a ride up the hills to the lake before they get on their bikes. I did not see any bikes along the route I had taken, except those on a flatbed trailer. It was interesting that it is still a popular destination, but also interesting that no one I saw, anyway, made the trip the way I did.

If I had grown up in this current time instead of the ’60s, maybe my life would have become more centered on riding. But when I was doing this, even though there had been interest in youth fitness since the days of President Kennedy, bike riding had not yet taken off. At least with the people I knew. I had no role models who thought it was anything exciting. They just rode bikes across town until they could drive, and then, for the most part, the bikes were forgotten. My bike (a close to 10-year-old Raleigh Grand Prix at the time) was way too heavy for any serious riding, even by the standards of that day. Now, it is a classic, but still a heavy classic. I saw one almost exactly like it at an antique show a few years ago. I was almost tempted to buy it just to have one on hand if I needed spare parts.

Walking by myself, and never alone- Now

Sunday, May 31, 2020

It has been a year and two months now since you died.

Sometimes in a dream, you come to me to explain that the doctors were wrong, and you did not really die. I can almost believe that, in the dream. Your doctors were not infallible, and they did miss a thing or two about your illness over the years.

And I know in the dream, as much as I want to believe that you, it is not true.

There are still moments- for a split second before I open my eyes in the morning, I forget the new reality. Then the memory of your passing returns to me. Earlier this would be sudden and jarring- a tough reminder.

At least now, that part is getting easier.

And there are still times I wake and hear you breathing, and then realize it is my breathing that I hear. Getting used to your absence takes time, having woken next to you for 36 years.  

And as I promised you the last time we spoke, in the brief moment when you were lucid, I will be OK. I know grieving is a process that could go on for many years, and quite possibly for the rest of my life. I miss you every day. That will never change.

Recently, I started getting out of the house again, just to walk through our old neighborhood as we used to before you got so sick.

It was odd at first to walk by myself on the same routes we used to walk together, hand in hand. Seeing the same old houses and even a few of the same cars in the streets we used to see. Even the fire hydrant that came close to kneecapping me while walking with you. Then, I leaned on you to keep from going to the ground in pain. This time, I thought of you holding me up then, as I leaned against that fire hydrant to remove a pebble from my shoe.

We went through so much together in those 36 years.

It is still hard to fully understand that you are gone.

Maybe that is because, as I walk by myself now, I feel you with me. And whether it is my walks or shopping for groceries. Or talking to friends over coffee when the COVID-19 pandemic shutdown allows a brief time with them… I know you are still with me.

And, as long as I know you are with me, I can never really be alone.

A Sunday at Peet’s- Now, but also then

It is a rare Sunday visit to Peet’s, a coffee shop in the town where I live. Only one of the regulars that I have become used to seeing on my more common weekday morning visits is here. I have known of Peet’s since my college days, in a much earlier life.

Then I could not really afford to be a regular. Now I make it a point to treat myself, whether or not I can really justify the extra cost of coffee out. Sometimes it is not just about the coffee. This has become a place to unwind and find respite. And I know I am a regular because the baristas know my name and what I usually order, and at times, they have it ready for me before I get to the counter to pay.

This is the first time I have tried to write a post for this or any of my other blogs out in the elements away from my normal haunts. This certainly is not my normal writing environment. I am typing on my Smartphone, something I have not tried much before. It is pretty easy with my BlackBerry 10. It completes words for me, whether I type the correct keys or not. And that has become an important feature on this phone since a neurological ailment has left me with a slight tremor.

Writing has become more important in my life in recent months. It is partly therapy. It is partly a feeling of needing to create something someone else may want to read. But it is not what I thought I would be doing at this stage of my life.

I have had people comment on the other blogs I write. Those are about specific topics, and it was good to find out that my other blogs have audiences for their unique topics. But this one is personal. This is just me writing what I have done in my life, or about the people who have touched my life. A friend recently told me I was a good writer. She herself is a writer and a pretty good one. Her opinion is important to me.

Lots of things used to keep me awake at night. Some of those things still keep me awake now. But now writing has become something that keeps me awake as well. What to write. How to write those things I think of. Reworking things I have already written. At times, I wish I could get up and actually write when I wake up at two in the morning. It might help calm down my thoughts. Sleep eventually overtakes me. Maybe someday I will dream of a solution for the things I am trying to work out. It used to happen when I was still working.

More forestry- and the summer tries to get me again-Then

We had a study plot to look at that required us to drive 20 miles or so into an area over roads that were not maintained. Scott drove in, claiming roads were too far gone to let anyone else do it, and he had been out here before. This was fine with me. Even though we had all been required to pass an off-road driving test when hired, he could do as he pleased.

Due to the time it took to reach the area, we would have to spend the night at our base camp, an old cabin long abandoned. Our plot was a few miles from the cabin. We hiked out to the plot in the morning. Getting to the plot was not a problem. We were there and finished by eleven or so. We decided to hike back to a designated spot to eat, then do another plot after lunch.

Here was the trouble. Scott wanted to hike back via the river, thinking it looked more direct to our lunch spot. The smog specialist, Michael figured it would be better to stick to the routes we knew. We had navigated to the plots using 3-D photos of the area. One thing is that in order to see in 3-D, you had to use both photos in a 3-D viewer. Scott had a quick look at only one photo and decided he wanted to go via the river. The entomologist wanted to go with him. I stuck with the smog guy. We split the photos. Scott had not looked at his proposed route in 3-D. If they came upon anything they could not get through, they would be out of luck choosing a new route.

Our route was just fine, except for one spot where there was no trail across a 15-foot expanse of bare cliff. Of course, falling down this slope would put us at the river, if we were lucky enough to survive the fall. There had been a trial last time they had come this way, but it must have fallen away into the river since then.

Michael asked how much experience I had had in a situation like this. I knew the basic theory of navigating this sort of hazard, but this was a first for that distance and for that kind of hazard waiting below. He reminded me to keep my polaski on the uphill side and, if I fell, to try to use it to snag something to at least slow my slide. Also, to keep the edges of the soles of my boots on the side of the cliff, and to take each alternate footfall as if the ground were level at that place, right foot to the outside of the boot, and then left foot to the inside.

Easy. I followed, and I would not have even thought anything about it if I could have done it, not knowing the river was down a couple of hundred feet, and using the polaski may not have stopped me if I had slipped. But I made it just fine. We sped up after that, thinking that if the shortcut had worked for Scott, they might already be waiting for us.

But we were the first to arrive. We waited. We eventually ate. We waited a bit more and then figured it would be too late to do the next plot, even if they did show up. Then we decided something must have happened to them. We left a note in a tree, hoping they would see it if they came by, and we hiked back to camp. They were not at camp either. Of course, when things go wrong, they go wrong in a big way. Scott still had the Jeep Wagoneer’s keys. Not only were we unable to drive for help, but all of our supplies were also locked in the Wagoneer. Michael decided he had better start hiking out for help. Around ten miles out and back up a dirt road, there had been a road up to some sort of military radar site. That was his destination. I stayed to wait and to try to break into our vehicle.

Getting into the Wagoneer was not a real problem. I had a Buck knife that my wife’s parents had given me. I finally was able to slip it into the vent window, flip the latch up, and somehow snake my arm in to release the lock. At least I had access to supplies and food. Hey, I had the easy job. One crew member was hiking out ten miles for help. Part of my crew had already been missing for four hours. All I had to do was wait for them to show up. After six hours, I did not figure they would show up. After eight hours, I assumed they were both dead. This was turning into a very unpleasant summer. 

Then, somewhere around 10 pm, I heard them. They stumbled into camp. It reminded me of how I must have looked that afternoon they brought me to the hospital. They both appeared to be OK. No broken bones or major cuts. I could tell they were sunburned, and they were a bit loopy-sounding since they had been out in the elements most of the day with only a little food. I got them food and water- if they wanted. They seemed to know to take it easy at first on both. After a very brief rest and explanation of what had gone wrong, we decided we should drive out right then, to try to catch up with and cancel the search that would no doubt be starting at sunrise. You guessed it. I was the only one in condition to drive. At least Scott had managed to keep hold of the keys in their adventures.

As I tried to maneuver on roads that were barely there, and if there, I could barely see, they told me their adventure. They had gotten into trouble pretty quickly. They reached a waterfall they had not seen in the photo because they had not looked at their path in 3-D. The problem was that, even though they got past the first one, there were many more to come. In their attempts to get up the falls, they would have to backtrack up the hillsides. Eventually, they realized they had walked into an area that was not covered by the photo they had with them. It just became a series of two steps forward, three steps back, with no idea of where they were or where they had to get to. Not that I was happy it had happened to them, because I was relieved that they had made it back to camp- But, I thought they deserved what had happened to them. Scott was so egotistical that he could do no wrong. Why bother to look at his route in 3-D? He knew his way out would work without his having to check.

So, there I was driving them out in the dark, barely able to see where the road was supposed to be. We got to the fork in the road leading up to the radar site, and there was a pile of rocks in the road showing that our Michael had gone up that way. All we had to do was get to him, call off the search, and drive out the rest of the way- and home. I am not sure how much trouble he had to go to to get the messages sent to whoever would be searching, but it took a bit of convincing for them to believe the missing persons had appeared and that all was well. After what seemed to be hours of slow twisting, turning, and almost off-road travel in places, we finally got out to a paved road. I could finally start to breathe again. The rest of the trip, I just listened to the stories of everyone’s day as I drove. My day had been routine compared to others. But, without me, they would not have gotten home that night. I guess I was the designated driver.  

Worrying about the future; past- Now

Contemplating the future is probably not the most sensible use of my time, but it seems to have been foremost in my mind recently.

It makes no sense, really. It will be what it will be. If in my past, I had known of and contemplated the details needed to reach this particular present, I might not have ever made the journey necessary to actually be here, now. And as odd and complicated as the journey has been at times, and as difficult as certain potential future outcomes may now be, I wouldn’t change a bit of it, even if it were possible to do so. Being here, now, makes it all worth it.

And as much as the future has been on my mind recently, I am now able to say that I am totally at peace with it, however it plays out.

The future will happen, no matter what I do or say. It will do as it will do. And with my past record of trying to control things in my life, I am willing to give any power I may think I have now over to the future to control it all.

So far, whoever or whatever is in control has done a pretty good job of keeping me in the game. The future may take away people or things, but eventually it gives back.

I have to trust that it will remain true.

Further adventures as a forester-Then

This hyperventilating hike in the forest was only the first of many threatening situations during this summer. Aside from my “brush” with heat and hyperventilation, it just seemed the summer was out to get me. Eventually, I became acclimated to the heat and altitude, but the summer still caught up with me when I found out that my wife had been having an affair with a co-worker, someone I thought I could trust to keep an eye on her while I was gone. Well, he did keep an eye on her, I guess.

In the middle of my time in and around Big Bear, my work crew decided to fly home for a long weekend. There were no vacation days, so flying home meant we had to work extra hours each day to make up for the time away. On the way to the airport, we had to stop at UC Riverside to pick up our Wagoneer, which had been left for scheduled maintenance the week before. When we showed up, we had to catch a plane. The Jeep Wagoneer was not ready. The mechanics assured us it would be ready. Scott, our main leader, the one who I chased up out of the canyon, joked that as long as the wheels did not fall off on the trip, any way they could speed the process would be appreciated.

Ah, humor. Sometimes it can be refreshing. Sometimes it can portend the future. I was nominated to drive from Riverside to the airport. I remember so little about things down there. What airport was it? Ah, it must have been Ontario. What I recall about the trip was an initial stretch of freeway driving at 75-80 mph. At a certain point, you exit to the right and reduce speed to 45 or so for a rather long transition ramp to the next part of the trip, which is another stretch of freeway. In the middle of that reduced-speed section, the front passenger-side wheel suddenly came off.

I was very lucky that it stayed on as long as it had. A few minutes earlier at 80 mph or later, and in traffic, who knows what might have happened? As quickly as I could regain some control and move to the shoulder, I stopped, and we all got out to survey the damage. The wheel had been caught up in the wheel well, and luckily, the hub cap had caught all of the lug nuts that had come off. The problem was that, during loosening, the wheel had worn out a large section of the threads on the wheel studs. We jacked it up and attempted to get it back on. Basically, we could only get the lug nuts at best halfway on, and some not even that far. If we went on, it would be a slow trip. But we had no choice. The real damage to the wheel had already been done.

We decided to limp into the airport if we could. If we made the flight, that would be great. If we missed it, we would just have the university put us up or send a car for us. They owed us that much after nearly killing us. I drove the rest of the way at 20 to 25 with all lights flashing. Still, people drove by honking and pointing to the front of the car as if we were not aware of the trouble. The thing was trying to shake itself apart. “OK, Thanks for pointing out the obvious!” Where were your warnings before the wheel came off? We knew there was a problem. We finally got to the airport, still in time for the flight. Scott called the university garage and yelled at them for a while. He then told them where they could pick up our Jeep Wagoneer, and that there better be a car there for us when we got back. The flight to Oakland was without any further trouble.

The main thing I remember about this weekend was a dinner with my wife and our friend (and her co-worker) Steve. It was almost like I was the third wheel. I had the impression they had been spending a fair amount of time together. She seemed happy to see me, but there was an edge to it. She was not aware of what I had been doing, and I was not really aware of what she had been up to. But Steve seemed to know quite a bit about how she had been spending her time. It made me feel like I was intruding on them. It was like I usually feel when I am the only one not drinking at some gathering. I am there, but I am not really a part of things because I do not have that drinking experience to share. They sensed it too. I was an outsider. But, in the end, I was the one who went home with her. It had to be that I was just overthinking the situation. All too soon, it was time to leave again. We said our good-byes, and before I knew it, I was meeting my co-workers for the return flight.

This return flight was the very last time I ever flew. I know I am overreacting to this, but I just can’t face getting on another plane, even now. I know there is a greater chance of being killed in a car or twenty other different ways than getting “it” in a plane. Knowing that does not help.

Our flight back started out fine. It was a beautiful day. We were wondering if the Wagoneer had gotten fixed. No one seemed to think it had, or if it had, we wondered what would fall off now. Just my luck, I finally had a window seat. The plane throttled down, starting our descent. Suddenly, we just dropped. The next thing I was aware of was hearing the engines revving back up to regain some speed and lift. From the sound and the appearance of the wings, it was quite a strain. Of course, we made it. Later as we taxied towards the terminal, Scott leaned forward so he could see us all, and said, “Well. . . That was certainly exciting.” The summer was not through trying to get me, though.

High school moments and beyond, then and now

Things were always changing in my younger years. The Beatles had just stopped being the Beatles, or so it seemed at the time. Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr. were both killed at a time they had so much more to offer, at least potentially. The Vietnam War escalated. College tension increased. Riots and protests happened more frequently, and the whole world was watching. Then, peacefully demonstrating, students were shot at Kent State. The first Earth Day happened. We landed on the moon. I had a girlfriend. I was accepted to Cal, Berkeley. Then I was alone again. It was a really strange time. And it all seems like it happened to someone else now.

It was probably a natural thing for me to try to be different in some way when I was in high school. I grew my hair long and tried to grow a beard. I may have looked like the stereotypical hippie, but that was as far as it went. I dressed appropriately, I went to classes, got good grades, and did not smoke or drink. I did not touch anything that was not legal. It was just the hair that was odd about me.

I remember one time walking up the street where we lived, and an older lady walking towards me on the same side until she saw me. She detoured around me, walking out into the street so she would not have to share the sidewalk with me. I was dressed neatly, always had clean, brushed hair. It did not matter to her, though. It did not matter to her how well I was doing in school or that I was going on to college. She would rather take a chance of being hit by a car than have me any closer. She had the most extreme reaction to me in general that I remember from that period.

On April Fool’s Day in my senior year, I stuffed my hair into a wool cap and went off to school as if nothing was different. People came up to me in shock that I had cut my hair. It was a fairly cool day, so no one seemed to question why I suddenly refused to take off this cap. My head had to be cooler with the lack of hair, so it all made sense to them.

Suddenly, all of the sports jock-types, who had also started growing their hair longer, came up to me in awe of the change. ‘Why?’ they would ask me. Why did I do it? A couple of my teachers made comments like ‘welcome back to the human race’ to me. I took all of these comments in. I thanked my teachers for being concerned about me. I told the jocks I just needed a change. No, go ahead and keep your hair long. I do not care that some of you, as recently as last year, used to imply that you thought I was gay because my hair was long. My girlfriend and a couple of my closest friends were in on the joke They helped make it more believable for everyone else.

I walked home and took off the cap.

The next day, a miracle of miracles, my hair had been restored. I thought the punch line the next day was hysterical. Not all of them appreciated my sense of humor.

I did a couple of other practical jokes in my high school years. One time, I pretended to have just lost a contact lens in a hallway that was soon to be inundated by students passing by on their way from one class to the next. I had a bit of help here, too. A couple of students walked by before the rush and stopped to ask me what I was looking for. They were soon helping to look, and they were the ones who tried to stop the flow of passing students. Once it got crowded, I just lost myself in the throng of people and left them to look without me. I had never worn glasses at the time. I guess that detail never occurred to those who initially stopped to help me look.

Every Friday, fliers would be posted in the hallways advertising a party that night, or whatever night it was. Some of them would say that the parties were “unbustable,” meaning they involved drinking and other unsavory or illegal activities, but rest assured, no police would come to stop it.

Once, I set up an imaginary “unbustable” party. I had never gone to one of the advertised ones, but I had plenty of examples of what to say in my flyer. And I had known a perfect place for such a party. At least, I knew a place out in the hills on the map with existing roads, up to a point. After that, who knew? I hand-drew the map to the party spot well enough to get the party goers to the point that the road disappeared on the real map, and then I just drew a couple of more turns- totally free of any link to the real world. I added the details- the time and the day. Of course, this was the extreme party of the year, and would be totally “unbustable.” I guaranteed it. I made a copy or two and put them up in the usual spots.

I am not sure how many fell for my fake party and tried to follow my directions to it on a map that was only real to a certain point, but I did hear a few people I knew had been to several other parties like the one I advertised, talking on the following Monday morning. They were so disappointed because they had never found the party they had planned to attend the previous Friday night.

People generally liked me when I was in high school, but I was not always aware of it, or of them. Going to reunions as I have over the decades, the one thing that impresses me is how many people come up to me and thank me for being there for one reason or another. The odd thing is that there are an awful lot of them that I really do not remember having been there at all.

The first reunion I attended was the tenth. It started then. I had not even gotten in the door when a brother and sister came up to me, whom I had no memory of at all, even in that short ten-year span. They thanked me for my contribution to the yearbook and to their memories. At the same time, some had totally ignored me, even though I had classes with them and sat near them. They had no time then, and no time now. One thing that has happened over the span of reunions, though, is that more and more people come up to me who I never thought would have given me the time of day back then. And those people thank me, just for being a calming influence, or for my work in the early days of organized recycling, or for the pictures in the yearbooks.

Some women have even asked me why I never asked them out. Do you remember me? I remember you. It’s funny what you find out at reunions. One woman I had a crush on back then came up to me and greeted me in a way that made me wonder what the hell I had missed back in school. It was nothing really, just friendlier than I remember us being back then. It turned out that she thought I was my brother. I knew it! I do not think we look that similar, but she may have been drinking a bit at the time. One other lady, whom I had actually considered asking out back then, asked me why I had never asked her out. She then told me that my brother had asked her out, and her mother had forbidden it. Not that she had really been interested in him in that way. My brother again. I was not that humiliated. He wasn’t in our class, so why would he have even been there?

At my thirty-year reunion, prominently displayed at the class sign-in table, was a collage of photographs of “senior memories.”  One of the pictures was from the senior class edition of the newspaper. In our paper, we had categories like senior couple, most humorous guy or girl, etc. I am sure many high schools have similar traditions for the graduating class. Seniors were asked to submit and vote for who they thought should be in each category. I was voted to be the most mysterious man. The most mysterious woman was named Jane. And, she was so mysterious; I had to admit that I really did not know anything about her when she showed up for her picture to be taken with me. She did not know me either. The perfect mysterious couple. For our photo, since the category was ‘most mysterious’ and I was the photographer, I asked her if she minded if I took pictures of our shadows on the ground. Wanting to be mysterious, or maybe just not wanting her picture in the paper, she agreed. It had to seem to others that this was a really creative way to do this picture, but it was really out of necessity. There was no one else there to help take the picture.

It is interesting to discover how many in my high school class remember me. I would not have thought anyone really would have a reason to, aside from the pictures I may have taken of people, events, or places that they now have in their yearbooks- if they still have them. I did not think of myself as someone that anyone would remember back then. I must have had my moments, though.

There were several, though, who only wanted information about what my brother was doing now. I wonder if people in his high school class asked him about me?

End of college and start of my short Career as a Forester- Then

It was the end of my time at the Cal Berkeley School of Forestry. Classes were ending. Graduation was coming up, and with it, my trip to the south to work as a pathologist on a long-running Forest Service/Cal Forestry joint research project. I was actually going to miss going to school. I was just getting the hang of it and actually managed a few A’s in my final couple of quarters. My parents came to my graduation. My wife did not attend her ceremony, so her parents did not come to the graduation. She was continuing to higher degrees anyway, already getting into her master’s program and research. I was packing up to drive to San Bernardino to spend the summer as a forest pathologist.

Our base camp in San Bernardino was at Big Bear Lake, at the Timberline Lodge. There were two crews, each one with a lead forester, a pathologist, an entomologist, and a smog rater. The project involved driving to an initial plot area and hiking to a designated dead tree noted on aerial photos. We would then rate the area for overall cover and forest type, and try to determine the causal agent in the tree’s death. The smog rater would choose a few live trees in the area and rate them for smog damage. They were trying to relate smog damage to the trees’ weakness and, by extension, to a specific problem that had caused the tree’s death. The project had already gone on for a couple of seasons before I joined. A couple of years later, I heard the data was all in a bunch of boxes waiting to be analyzed. As far as I know, it is still waiting. The program had lost its funding by then.

The first thing I realized after starting this job was that I really wasn’t in good enough shape to hike in high-altitude heat and smoggy conditions. No wonder the trees were dying. They lived in a pretty close approximation of hell. This lack of conditioning first showed itself when I was always the last person to reach the site we were hiking to. This was not a real concern, though. I am sure someone is always last, and I was used to it. It didn’t occur to me then, but the rest of the crew had already arrived before I had. They had a chance to acclimate to the heat and altitude. I didn’t.

Where my lack of conditioning became a problem was fairly early on, when we were hiking out of a site back to the jeep for lunch. The “trail” to this particular site was extremely steep. Since the others on my crew had been there the year before, they were more used to the terrain and heat than I was, so they made a game of it on the way out to see who could be the first one out. Of course, that left me behind in an area of 7 ft high manzanita.

I was OK at first. There was a narrow path. But it did not take me too long to get into trouble. I missed a turn, and suddenly the path that had been small to begin with was completely gone. I could hear them ahead, so I assumed they had to have gone this way. I was wrong. I struggled a bit in the brush, then realized I could no longer hear the other crew members.

It must have been near 100 degrees, or it seemed so anyway. There was an ongoing smog alert. When was it not smoggy here, I wondered? I was literally in over my head. I had trouble moving forward. I had trouble moving back down the way I had just come. And since I knew at this point that I had missed something, I figured I only had one direction that made any sense to me, and that was up. Going back down or to either side would just tire me out more, or I might be going away from a clearing or the resumption of the trail.

I called out, but they were too far ahead to hear me. The water in my canteen was so hot that it did nothing to quench my growing thirst. I realized that I had stopped moving at all, and the thought crossed my mind that I might just die out there on that hill. Even knowing that, I did stop. It took all my will to start up again.

Somehow, I got up the strength to push on uphill through the head-high manzanita. At times, I was up in it, actually off the ground. It made it a bit easier to see ahead, but not being on the ground is also harder on your feet. My legs were already weak from this struggle, and I was starting to hyperventilate. Something at this point must have taken over. I really have no idea how I got through it, but suddenly I was free of the brush. There was still no path, but I just kept climbing. Eventually, I got to the top of the climb. I had no idea at that point which way to go to our jeep. I just started walking. And I use the term loosely. I was dead on my feet. My legs were barely moving, feet dragging. I knew I was breathing too shallowly and was losing control of how I was breathing, but I had to keep going.

All of a sudden, I walked into a clearing, and there was the jeep. Everyone ran over to me. I went to the ground, grabbing into my vest for a sample bag to breathe into. I got hold of one, and they took it away from me. Next thing I knew, I was in the back seat of the jeep, and they were driving like a bat out of hell to a hospital. In the back seat, I knew I needed to breathe into a bag, but my extremities were so numb at that point that I could not get one. I must not have been able to talk to them, because I would have told them what I needed. Finally, we get to the hospital, and the first thing the nurses did for me was put a bag up against my nose and mouth and tell me to keep breathing as normally as I could. I knew what I needed. My crew had already let me down, and when I tried to fix my problem myself, they just let me keep hyperventilating. Some crew I had there.

My breathing got better, and my numbness disappeared. When the hospital crew was sure I could function, they let me go. Work for that day was done. It was a Friday; time to rest for the weekend. My crew had some phone calls and reports to make about what had happened to me, and how they would ensure it would not happen again. No one ever asked me my side of it. I would have told them my crew members had left me in the canyon and had failed to make sure I was behind them. Then they had continued to the jeep as if nothing was wrong. I was surprised I had made it to the jeep. I had no clue where it was compared to where I came up out of the canyon. Evidently, they had been honking the horn since they realized I was not right behind them. I had been so out of it that I had no memory of hearing anything.

The summer continued. Later, we had to go back to that plot to re-take certain data. It was equally hot and smoggy. Some things had changed. Now, there had to be someone behind the person least able to keep up with the group. They made jokes about me keeping up with them on the way out. But I was no longer the weakest of the group.

I was acclimated by then. I kept so close to my “leader” on the way out that I was literally at his heels. He knew I was right there, and the competitive instinct of this clown made him go even faster. I kept up with him, no matter how fast he went. When we got to the top, he doubled over, hands on his knees, panting. I stopped for a moment to ask if he was OK, then kept walking. Either my conditioning was improving, or he was drinking way too much beer after work.

Mistaken identity at gunpoint- then but told now

Wednesday, May 27, 2020

After I realized my forestry career was over, I lived in Oakland, CA, for a short time, across the street from Highland Hospital. I remembered hearing back then that, generally, this wasn’t a very safe neighborhood. And that was without the proximity to Highland Hospital generally. Specifically, my apartment was just across the street from what is currently labeled Highland Emergency Medicine on Fourteenth Avenue.

I think my apartment building was just down the street on the left. Image from Google Maps Street view, added Jan. 24, 2026.

I remember that my apartment complex offered me off-street parking. Still, I never used it because I felt less safe back in that secluded parking area than I did out in the relatively open city streets, even if my parking space was adjacent to a long expanse of Highland Hospital very close to the emergency entrance that was used for the most part for people injured in fights, drug overdoses, crimes of all description, or during encounters of some kind with the Oakland Police. For all of the activity of that kind that must have gone on, I was only rarely aware of it.

One otherwise normal morning, I crossed the street to my truck to start the drive to work. I got in and noticed my glove box was open, with some of its contents on the truck’s floor. The only thing I could tell was missing was a pair of prescription sunglasses. It wasn’t that much of a shock, considering the neighborhood, but it did put me on a bit more alert. There had been no sign of forced entry, so I assumed I must have inadvertently left the passenger side door unlocked. I started going down to inspect my truck at random times when I was home.

During one of those spot inspections, I had just checked the passenger-side door lock. It was secure. Before I could turn and cross back to my apartment building, I heard the heavy impacts of boots running towards me, and the yells of, “Freeze and get your hands up where we can see them!!!”

I was happy to oblige. Two officers were running towards me, both with guns drawn. I remained frozen until they got to me to explain what they thought I had done that would warrant such a dramatic entry on their part.

Hands still up and where they could see them, they demanded to know who I was and why I was trying to open the door to the truck we were still standing close to.

I told them my name and that the truck in question was mine. I explained, “I have noticed of late that the neighborhood is not particularly safe, and my truck has been broken into before. I was just checking to make sure I had locked it up before I went to bed.”

“Do you have your ID?”

They had calmed down a bit, but I still had my hands up. However relaxed they seemed, they had not told me I could lower my hands yet.  

I told them, “My wallet is not in my back pocket. I carry it in my front left pocket. Is it OK that I reach into this pocket (I pointed) to get my wallet out?”

They said that would be OK, but even though I had told them my wallet was in my front pocket instead of the more common back pocket, I still kept my movements slow and deliberate. Their guns were no longer out, but they still had them. And I was also aware of how much bigger physically, each of them was compared to me. If they turned on me, it wouldn’t be much of a struggle.

Once they verified that my story matched the vehicle ownership and my address matched where I told them I lived, they told me the “why” of their stopping me.  

There had been a “walk-away” of a person they had in custody and had brought to the hospital to have a medical exam. And, I looked just like him.

I looked just like him, and I guess, from a distance at night, with adrenaline pumping in both of them once they had seen me trying the doors on the truck, it probably shaded their interpretation of the event they thought they were seeing.

This happened forty years ago, and it sticks with me to this day.

And every time I hear of a person of color who has lost his or her life in the act of being apprehended by the police, I think back to this event, and how I instinctively acted when two cops ran up to me with guns drawn, yelling for me to freeze and keep my hands in sight.

I was lucky that night because I stayed calm. I was lucky I had my ID on me.  

But since then, I have always wondered.

Had I been a person of color, would I have reacted the same way, having two cops run up on me with guns drawn? Or would I have learned by then that people of color are assumed guilty even if they are in the right?

Had I been a person of color, would they have acted the same way towards me?

I think the outcome would have been different.  

I remember seeing them running to me with guns drawn, and at no time did I have a thought that I was in danger. I think I was lucky that night that I was white.