“Where have you been? Get lost?”
“I was distracted by Christmas festivities.”
“In Guerneville? Whatever you say.”
Shaun hopped off the hood of his Porsche and grabbed the daypack, and the two friends walked through the entrance into the park.
“We could drive through here and to a pond about halfway up, but it’s free to walk in. Besides, I don’t think anyone can experience the redwoods encased in plastic and glass.”
Because of the recent rains and it being the off-season, the redwood grove was pristine. Rust-colored needles covered the black-top road that wound through the majestic trees. Bobby felt as if they were the first two humans to ever have stepped into the gulch of first-growth, thirty-story trees. Well into the ravine, under the darkening canopy, the two came upon a monstrous tree that had fallen during the recent storm. The length of the tree raced back into the distance across the gulch and up into the brush covering the opposite bank. The felled giant had taken out several smaller redwoods in a final act of strength. In falling it had blocked the road, but the rangers, working like wood ants, had cut a swath in the seven-foot diameter trunk to open access to the remainder of the park. As they passed through the opening, they paused to examine the concentric rings of the tree. Through their rough calculations, they determined that the tree had sprung from the earth during the fading moments of the Roman Empire. Bobby felt a sudden sadness as he looked at the majestic being. He felt an embarrassment – as if he were an insensitive tourist gawking at a beached, bloated whale.
Soon they were through the park and into the preserve, a protected watershed area above the grove. They scooted off the road onto a climbing, switchback trail, which shot them up several hundred feet to a higher trail hugging the ridge of the blue-green forest of trees. As they rose up the path, Bobby turned and looked down on the stand of the modern dinosaurs of the plant world, surely dinosaurs if the lumber companies continued to destroy the first and even second growth stands and replace them with their genetically engineered seedlings of other evergreen species that grew faster and turned a quicker profit. As they ascended into the preserve, the forest gave way to more of a chaparral country, with the hills covered in isolated stands of madrone, manzanita and brush oak, and, on the northern slope, an occasional redwood.
After a steep and trying climb, Shaun led Bobby to a promontory with a panoramic view of the county. Shaun dropped the daypack beside a lichen-covered boulder and sat down beside it. These were to be their seats for the evening’s sunset.
Bobby absorbed the scene before him. To his left and below was what he assumed was the stream bed, the lowest and darkest band of trees winding through the carpeted hills. And suddenly rising out of the bed was the preserve of first-growth redwoods, giants even from his vantage point high above them. The creek bed curved through the meadow and into a hamlet, what surely was Guerneville. From a distance it appeared so peaceful nestled in the trees and hills, yet he remembered what a strange little spot it was. Behind Guerneville, The River could be made out. Not the water, only the broad expanse between the closer and further ridges that were separated by a finger-like bank of white fog drifting in from the coast. The fingers of fog spilled over the low hills and around a bluff that in defiance held out for sunlight with but a few of its ridge top trees protruding, silhouetted, above the swirling mist. The encroaching fog could be traced back to the wide bank that earlier had invaded the coast and driven them inland that afternoon. Bobby looked stage right, far to the north. On the horizon a bright white anvil of a distant storm rose in the azure sky. Behind him, in the farthest balcony of this natural theater was the extinct volcano to the east, and hiding at its base were the foothills that gave way to The Valley – his home.
Ahead, center stage, the meadows they looked upon were covered in dry, tan grass and scarred by outcroppings of exposed rock. Only a few clumps of trees hugged the protective slopes of the steep hills. Bobby found it hard to believe that just those few miles – those few miles away from the cool fog moving up The River – could make such a difference in the microclimate.
Shaun pulled the cork on the pinot noir and poured two glasses as he spoke. “This is supposed to be some wine.”
“I’ve heard it is. I know the owners of the winery, Shaun. They said it comes from thirty-year-old vines growing on a non-irrigated slope near The River. I think that’s the key, this pinot noir comes from mature vines.”
“You don’t grow any pinot noir, do you?”
“Hell, no. Jeremy was too lucky for that.”
“Lucky?”
“For some time now, American wine writers have been writing an annual column about how bad California pinot noirs are.”
“Why?”
“Mob hysteria. It may take a quarter of a century, Shaun, but I believe someday California pinot noir will get their due,” Bobby added. He turned to look at a ground squirrel a few yards away.
“Bobby, do you ever talk to Carin? Have things ever gotten any better?”
“No.”
“Do you want to know if I have?”
“Have what?”
“Talked to her.”
“No. Not really.”
“Okay.”
Bobby wanted Shaun to talk, but not about that. Bobby focused on Guerneville, about to be invaded by a white tentacle of fog.
“Shaun, what did you think of living in Guerneville? Wasn’t it strange?”
“For the six months I was there, Bobby, it was fascinating. Like stepping back a decade – two decades — and seeing what it was like when we were kids. That town has some of the most unique, iconoclastic individuals in the world. It’s a marketing surveyor’s nightmare. I’ve got stories, have I got stories.”
“Tell me one. I can’t think of anything I’d rather hear than one of your yarns.”
Bobby remembered the long tales that Shaun wove on their hikes in the Smoky Mountains. Shaun had inherited the trait of yarn-spinning from his Tennessee grandfather, and he could ramble on in a fascinating way about even the most mundane subject. Bobby had always found the stories to be soothing, like the smell of pine needles or the crackle of a campfire on the beach.
“Have I told you about Albert the Fishmonger?”
“No. Let’s hear it.”
“When I first moved to Guerneville, I found a place on The River outside of town. It was a dilapidated, turn-of-the-century summer home built into the side of a steep hill. Beautiful place. I had a dozen hundred-foot redwoods in my yard. I had to climb fifty-four steps to my front door. The landlord was a dry waller in The City who’d bought the place as a refuge for the coming nuclear war. It definitely was a fixer-upper.
“I’d head into Guerneville for groceries once a week. The town only has one big supermarket, but I always bought my fish from Gladys’ Sea-Fresh Seafood stand. The stand was nothing more than a small, one-room portable building with a collapsible awning that opened up to protect the customers from winter rain while they bought their fish.
“I called it Al’s, because Al sold me the fresh fish they brought over the fifteen miles from the little fishing village by the bay. It really wasn’t Al’s place, because Gladys was the owner. I’d rather have bought my fish from Al, though, because he was so much friendlier. Gladys was grouchy, and I always had the feeling that she put her thumb on the scale when she weighed out my red snapper.
“So I always tried to drop by when I saw Al’s bicycle parked out front. Al had one of those ancient Schwinns. Had those big fenders and a large sheet-metal tube between the handlebars and seat that had all the utility of old Cadillac fins. But his bike had a new red paint job, and the headlight still worked.
“Al was a short, stocky man in his late 40’s or early 50’s, I’d guess. He had an intense look on his face, and a well-trimmed beard and stout build. His face was dark and had these shiny red splotches – they were noticeable but not disgusting – that I only saw when he was excited or working hard. In a way, he reminded me of Luciano Pavoratti, except that Al had a squeaky voice with a Brooklyn accent. I still have this amusing image in my mind that I conjured up of Al – closing his fish shop and peddling through the redwoods on his ancient red bike, all the while booming out Nadir’s aria from Bizet’s opera, The Pearl Fishers.
“Al was a good fish salesman because he was opinionated about which fish were good that day, and because he told me what it was like to work on a fishing boat in the ocean. Al’s biggest problem in life, besides not working on a boat anymore, was Gladys. He could talk for hours about what a crab she was, or about the gaff he had to take from her and how it had driven him to the brink. Yet I never saw him look crosswise at her when she was around.
“Al was the perfect shopkeeper. Even when I moved away from here out to the restaurant, whenever I was near Guerneville I’d always stop in to see him and buy something from him. I even made it a point to give him a bottle of wine – your wine – at Christmas. But there was one thing that bothered me about Al that I only noticed after I’d been to his fish stand many times. When he gave me my fish one day, I noticed his hands were covered in warts. Not outrageously, but I’m sure there were twenty or so on each hand if I had tried to count them. It didn’t bother me too much because I didn’t think I could catch warts from the fish he gut or the crab he boiled. But one thing was for certain, Bobby – “
“What?”
“I never bought frog legs from Al.”
Bobby opened one eye and looked at Shaun sipping his wine.
“I think I saw your friend Al listening to the carolers this afternoon. Fat guy with a short beard holding onto an old red bicycle.”
“I’m afraid not. Al was killed in an accident a couple of months ago.”
“No, you can’t be serious. This man I saw fit your description perfectly.”
“Al was run over on his bicycle about a block from the fish stand. It was a big story in the local papers – a hit and run. A lot of people, including myself, were extremely upset.”
“I swear I saw him today.”
“An imposter.”
Bobby felt the hairs on his neck rise up. He closed his eyes and tried to take in the warmth of the last rays of the declining sun.
“You know we’ve been through a lot together, Bobby. The formative years. The fun years. Remember when you and Carin came to see me in Paris that summer? What wonderful memories. What was the name of that Champagne house we visited in Rheims?”
“Pommary.”
“Do you remember that day?”
“How could I forget?”
“Your father had that man, Mr. Bergen, from The Winery write a letter of introduction for us so we’d be given the grand tour. And we went down into those catacombs – or chalk caves or whatever – filled with mile upon mile of bottles in those racks.”
“Pupitres.”
“Yes. And while we were talking to the guide Carin backed up and tripped and knocked one over.”
“How could I forget? It was so embarrassing.”
“Do you remember the sound? It was like a glacier falling into the sea. It echoed off the walls for an eternity. And those two Frenchmen – “
“The little one with the moustache screaming at her in French. She’d only broken a couple cases of wine.”
“And she cried until we left.”
“How about the time she cooked that fancy dinner at our apartment?”
“Oh God, yes. She’d planned that meal out for a week. I’d volunteered to help her, Bobby, but she wanted to go it alone. She’d forgotten to soak the eggplant in salt water and it was incredibly bitter. Then she made those French-fried mushrooms – “
“A disaster.”
“ – and she was using one of my large plastic spatulas. When she pulled it out of the boiling oil only half the handle was left!”
“Remember the black smoke that came out of that pan?”
“My spatula was melted on the ceiling!”
“The smoke alarm went off and she bolted from the kitchen –“
“And we ended up taking her out for Chinese food.”
“And the night she put the pizza in the oven and went to bed.”
“And the potatoes!” Shaun shouted with a laugh.
“You came home from class and the fire department was there.”
“Waiting for one of us to come home. They’d kicked the door in with axes in hand. Can you imagine? They rushed out with those three little burnt potatoes and foamed them down!”
“Three pieces of charcoal on a potato skewer.”
“And the smell!”
“She wasn’t much with a frying pan, Shaun, but she was wicked with a pen.”
“Yes, she really is a talented writer.”
“Shaun, did I ever tell you the story of why she quit her sorority a week after she had pledged? It happened before we knew her. It all was such a big secret back then.”
“No, I want to hear.”
“She had pledged one of the more exclusive sororities at Vanderbilt, one with a really good bloodline. Their sorority house was one of those southern mansions that makes Mount Vernon look like the servants’ quarters. You’d remember it. At the first meeting all the pledges were to walk down the big winding staircase in the foyer to meet the members down below. Carin caught her heel on a loop in the carpet and tumbled half the length of the stairway to a sprawl at their feet.
“My God, was the hurt?”
“She sprained her ankle. They had to carry her to the student hospital. She was too embarrassed to go back. She depledged. That woman had a lot of pride.”
“Poor Carin.”
“God, how I loved her.”
“So did I. Bobby, I’m sorry she came up. She was taboo.”
“That’s alright. We can only talk about the fun times.”
The two let the conversation fade in the hushed silence before the evening’s performance began. For the second time that day the tiny congregation, minus Amelie, performed their sacrament. Bread was broken, the wine poured, and the sacrifice made to the God responsible for the pastoral scene.
Bobby looked to the brilliant orb of light on the horizon as it passed behind a patch of high wispy cirrus that he knew was many miles out to sea. At his feet were the dried wild oats that covered the knoll and upland meadow before them. A deep orange tinge ringed the tops of the golden grain silently nodding in a light breeze. Between the dried sprouts and the sky were the tree-covered hills rolling away toward the sea. The dark verdant peaks in the foreground gave way to the successfully distant ridges, each higher and lighter and more lavender than the one before, until a final ridge, jagged with the silhouettes of a few lone trees on its precipice, gave way to the blazing stage for nature’s grand finale. Bobby’s eyes met the sun, blazing at him in a ball of explosive fury. As the sun met the horizon the circle became an octagon, and finally it took the strange shape of a glowing mushroom. It appeared to increase its size and intensity in that instant before it was snuffed out by the sea.
All was quiet but for the faint flapping of a lone turkey vulture overhead. No sound came from the silent screen before them, yet if the event, the sunset, could have made a noise, Bobby thought it would have been a loud, glorious trumpeting. Finally the last ray disappeared from view.
Suddenly there was a brilliant green flash. Bobby opened his lips to speak, but he couldn’t bear to intrude on the scene. He wondered if he had really seen it. A gust of wind blew past, causing the shoots of wild grain to nod rhythmically.
With the curtain closed, Bobby finally looked away from the stage and gazed down upon what had been tiny Guerneville, now covered in a down-like blanket of fog. Shaun spoke.
“Do you know what is the most wonderful thing of all? Not that we were able to witness such a thing, but that we’ve been given the ability to appreciate it.” With his statement made he poured the last few drops of wine, including the grains of sediment onto the ground. “We’d better be getting back.”
Bobby and Shaun policed their camp, placing all the appurtenances of the good life back into Shaun’s day pack. They began the anticlimactic trek down from the mount, both quietly reflecting on the spectacle they had just seen. When they reached the grove of towering redwoods, only a faint glow filtered through the enormous trees. As they walked over the path of dead needles, they saw the redwoods rise from the roadside, ominous black pillars disappearing into a canopy overhead. Bobby realized why the Native Americans of the area had called it The Forbidden Place.
Shaun stammered with an inaudible word or two, and from his tone and actions, Bobby knew immediately that Shaun was about to talk about something he had put off until it could wait no longer.
“Bobby, there was a reason I called you yesterday, besides wanting to see you – to have you come out for a visit. There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Yes?”
“In truth, it’s probably nothing that concerns you, but I still felt you should know, should be aware.”
“What? Tell me.”
“I have this friend. A very close friend, who’s a regular of the bar scene in Guerneville. To the point: My friend met a man, a tourist, or so he though, at a pot-luck held at the resort in Guerneville last week. They hit it off and soon found themselves in one of those ‘by-the-hour’ cabins. I won’t give you the intimate details, but they were using poppers.”
“Poppers?”
“Come on, you know what they are.”
“You’re forgetting I was raised on a ranch.”
“Well, you are into mushrooms in sheep shit, right?”
“Funny.”
“A popper, lad, is also called amyl nitrate. It’s an inhalant that prolongs and intensifies an orgasm. Anyway, back to the story. My unnamed friend said he wasn’t sure if it was the poppers, the coke, the drinks – or all three, but his partner in this affair began to talk as if he were on truth serum. The simple question, ‘What do you do?’ got quite a response.”
“What is this leading to? End the suspense.”
“I’m getting there. This ‘tourist’ turned out to be an undercover agent for the DEA, the hypocrite. My friend said he should have suspected something, because he did look like one of those straight-arrow feds. He wasn’t out here to bust anybody, he was in Guerneville on his night off. He told my friend he was up from LA to work a sting on some of ‘those pot farmers’ around here. The exact location he named was your valley.”
“Do you think I’m growing pot between rows of my chardonnay vines?”
“No, not you, but what about that space-cadet brother of yours, your business partner.”
“Tobie? Are you serious? Do you know how much trouble it is to grow enough plants to catch the eye of the Drug Enforcement Administration? If Tobie tried to grow ten plants they’d be dead in a week from neglect.”
“You’re probably right. It’s just that my friend remembered his partner saying one thing that was a bit disconcerting.”
“Yes?”
“He said that he mumbled something about how they were going to nab themselves one of the big boys. And your family has the largest ranch in your valley, right?”
“Yes. But he must have meant the biggest pot grower. Come on Shaun. Tobie and The Insect partners in crime? Those two on the ten most-wanted list of the DEA? They couldn’t scheme their way out of a paper bag. Forget it.”
“I guess so. But you might want to alert any of your neighbors who might be trying to supplement their income.”
“I’ve got no idea who that’d be.”
The two friends reached the entrance to the park and their cars.
“Shaun, I wonder if living in isolation on the coast hasn’t given you cabin fever – a mild case of paranoia.”
“Could be.”
“Have you ever seen that DEA man again?”
“Of course not!” Shaun paused, seeing the trap a second too late. “Ah, very clever. You should have been a Red baiter.”
Bobby unlocked his car door and looked to Shaun.
“I can’t tell you how much fun today was. I had a great time.”
“Same here. Let’s not wait so long next time.”
“I’ll have you out to the ranch in a couple of weeks. Tell Amelie I enjoyed meeting her, and I’ll hug her again anytime – under different circumstances.”
“I will.”
“There’s one thing I’ve been meaning to ask you. What was she shouting when I was falling down the cliff today? I meant to ask you that earlier.”
“It was French.”
“Of course it was. What did she say?”
“A quote?”
“Yes.”
“She said, ‘Help him, save him, he’s dying.’”
