Rocquerian Annals, known or in the vulgate as "The Rock Bible"
Chapter 1
Seek not the rock of exceptional clarity.
The vacuous spaces within are empty
as the minds of those that buy and sell
precious gems.

The most precious of rocks
reveals the greatest mystery.
Clarity lacks meaning
until mingled with the opaque
precious is balance.

Key Stone legend:













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Epilogue to Buzz Kill, Part Five of Fish and Game Series

I stewed all the next day about my conversation with Warden Meyer
(see previous entry, Buzz Kill)

NO, I couldn't collect rocks here because it's against the rules, he said.
DON'T do it or your illegal behavior will be punished by a big fine.

He had to be wrong.
He had used two words I've hated since childhood.
He had better watch out because, even as a child, I was a very dangerous...

The detested "N" and "D" words above played a critical role in my childhood development, starting when I was about five.  At the time, my mother would occasionally drop off Little Johnny (me) to visit Aunt Ruby and her family, all very much against my will. She had two daughters, one my age and another several years younger.  I couldn't understand why my aunt decided to have a girl, let alone two.  For that matter, what was my mother thinking when she abandoned me there, sometimes for several days at a time?

Truthfully, it was more like a few hours but seemed much, much longer.  Girl cousins--really?  They were nice enough as relatives go, but at the time they suffered from a bizarre attraction to dolls and make believe mommy/daddy scenarios.

Now Aunt Ruby (actually a cousin) always made me feel important, as if she could've been my best friend were she not for some strange reason my mother's age.  I've often told myself it was never my intention to hurt her or my cousins, Kimberly and Karen, and wish that over the years there had been opportunities to spend time with them.
How could they know at the time, they were dealing with Johnny "Bad Seed" Richardson?

Bored with girl pursuits one day, I discovered a strange device in my aunt's hallway.  It was small box mounted halfway up the wall and made me think of gadgets I had seen in science fiction movies.  I was jumping up, trying to touch this thing when I noticed my aunt watching me from down the hallway.

Instead of yelling at me, she called us all to lunch.  I  was learning that Aunt Ruby's family had "rules".  Well, mine did, too, but none so perplexing and challenging as my aunt's. For example, we had to carry our dirty dishes to the sink after lunch and rinse them.  The girls were dismissed that day to do more girl stuff, but I was asked to stay and help dry the dishes. Not a problem.  I had spent many fun hours washing dishes, laughing and goofing off with Sharon, my adopted sister (also my cousin and, NO, the Richardson's are not all inbred cousins).   Finishing off the dishes this time somehow seemed not so much a chore as a punishment, or a prelude to one.  I must have broken some other rule.  And sure enough, as soon as we finished the dishes, she asked me to follow her.  I was going to be spanked here, now, and probably a second time when my parents found out my infraction, whatever it was.  But  I followed without protest as my aunt to lead me down the hall.

"See this box, Johnny?" She pointed toward the mysterious box.
"Yes, Aunt Ruby."
"Don't touch it, ever."
"Ever?"
"No, not ever"  
"Why not?" I  asked.
"My Aunt's eyes widened.  She had yet to experienced the "joy" of having a "boy" and was perhaps unaccustomed to fielding that kind of question from her two girls.  And I certainly don't blame her for what happened afterwards.  Who among us has not resorted to hyperbole?

"Why shouldn't you touch it?  I'll tell you why not, Johnny... because the house will blow-up!"

Threats of violence, destruction and mayhem weren't new to me,  a combatant in an ongoing war with a spiteful older sister and annoying little brother.  What really fried my baloney sandwich was her use of those distasteful words, "NO" and "DON'T".  A bad mistake, though Aunt Ruby could never have known it, because those words always brings out the worst in me.

So I pondered my aunt's words for a long time, at least several visits, thought hard about her explosive prediction--and plotted.  I was hopelessly fixated on that strange box with its black and red numbers and, worse yet, was the enticing lever on the bottom which cried out for me to flip it.  Later in life I would learn it was a thermostat, a device unfamiliar to my less progressive Okie we-all-gather -around-swamp-cooler family.  I was mystified and intrigued by this new thing and implications of playing with it.

Really?  The house will explode?  No way!

Looking at my dilemma with the box another way, nothing can be true until put to the test.  The lesson of Adam and Eve, forbidden fruit, and their subsequent punishment?  The necessity of disobedience.

Only by breaking the rules can we prove we have autonomous nature and prove the existence of free will.

Want to be certain that your child will eventually insert legumes into his nostrils? 
Just say, "Don't stick beans up your nose!"

 Obedience has no savor (or meaning) unless one has tasted the fruit of disobedience, an ongoing cycle of development that plays itself out in the mind of every child, generation after generation.

And this is the kind of crap I like to tell myself when I think about the tragic potential when I made my choice back then...
.
After one particularly trying afternoon with my cousins, I lurked around the hallway to make sure nobody was watching.  Ready, set, go!  I dashed down the hallway to the mysterious box, jumping up and down until I managed to swipe the lever all the way to one side.  The bomb was ticking now. I sprinted through the front door (already open because young psychopaths know the importance of thinking ahead) and then straight out into the street where I was luckily not obliterated by a passing car.

And with my hands cupped over my ears, I waited...
And waited. 
And then I waited some more.
Nothing! No bang, no explosion.  Eventually, I lowered my hands in disappointment.
But my life as a rebel had begun...
So did my growing realization that adults did not necessarily tell the truth,
And a lifetime haunted by the knowledge that by the age of five, I was capable of a triple homicide.

"No?"  "Don't?"  Yeah, right, said a new and very jaded voice from the dark recesses of my mind.

And all of this Freudian angst brings me back to yesterday's encounter with Warden Meyer .  Or was it Dwyer?  Maybe, McGuire?  Or liar?  No, not that.  The man was so professional and confident!  Misinformed, possibly, maybe new to his job but definitely not a liar.

But he did basically say,  "No, don't collect rocks--any kind, anywhere?"  This was a problem.


By late afternoon, I had a plan.
I got in my car and headed up the coast.
As hoped, I located a Fish and Game vehicle on the side of the road.  The occupant, who I assumed to be the aforementioned warden, was talking on his cell phone.  Averting my face and swooshing past him, I tried to imagine his conversation.  Maybe he was talking to county dispatch, signing off and heading in the same direction his vehicle was already oriented, south.  Then again, he could be talking to his wife, apologizing because he would be late due to some last minute paper work. And after ending the call, he would cruise south to Cambria, Mozzi's or West End Bar and Grill maybe, and put down some cool ones with fellow wardens. 
But I couldn't count on either possibility. There was too much at stake.

I watched as he disappeared in the rear view mirror.  No sign he recognized me or my coastally ubiquitous Honda Element. Still I slowed down, making sure he didn't "light 'em up" and make a dusty last second U-turn.  He didn't so I sped up and tried to put some serious distance between us.  After all, he might be wily...

But not as wily as me.  I parked away from my actual destination, gathering my gear and dropping quickly into a shadowy ravine.  I deployed my rope but didn't go down it. Instead I went further south where I could scramble down unassisted by a rope.  From that point, low tide would make it possible to pick my way over several reefs and arrive at the actual collection site.

Once there, I quickly finished unfinished business and afterwards allowed myself to explore.  More good stuff.  Thinking that enough time had elapsed since I'd last seen Mr. Warden for me to be featured in the viewfinder of his scope, I used my new misdirection trick:  pick up, feign throw, palm and pocket. A paranoid perception of being watched persisted, so I decided even more wiliness was in order: I traveled further south until I found an arroyo and climbed the cliff's above it.  Tentatively, I poked up my head, remembering an old arcade game which I used to play with my kids, the purpose of which was to hammer down prairie dog heads that popped up in unpredictable places.

I would be the one to get hammered in this case and by a multitude of federal and state fines--possibly even arrest. As it turned out, the coast or at least this section of it, was clear.  But if my warden friend crested a nearby ridge, I would have zero time to eject my geological contraband.  And if caught, it would be hard to claim slack-jawed ignorance after our lengthy encounter just the day before. So I discharged the contents of my pockets in the brush along the fence.  A  small bush across the highway would serve as my landmark, I decided, and with empty pockets returned my backpack to the car.

I congratulated myself on being so devilishly tricky.  But dusk was coming too soon so I hustled to nearby cliffs where I retrieved my "red-herring" rope, after which I ambled south along the edge of the road until parallel to my landmark bush and the memory of where I discarded my booty.  It was gone!  I walked up and down that section of fence cursing the weak winter sun, the similarity of bushes, and chlorophyll life forms in general until complete darkness and a dramatic drop in temperature overtook me.  Time to give up, I admitted.  Sure, I could get a flashlight from my car and continue walking the fence.  But along that notorious section of the coast, I might as well swing a neon sign: "Disabled veteran and marijuana smuggler.  Will trade panga boat for ride."

I went home, a little down, but telling myself that the rocks would still be there (and much easier to find) in the morning.  Only coyotes on the prowl would come near my stash.  I got busy the next day, however, and had to leave for Visalia the following morning.  My rocks were still out there, I told myself.

But I sure outsmarted that warden!  Nobody tells me "NO" or "DON'T".

Epilogue to the epilogue:

Since my encounter with Warden Meyer that day I've done extensive research on the question of  whether collecting rocks in that particular area was in fact "breakin' duh law" as Judas Priest might put it.  I combed the internet for the next few days, studying every code and regulation that might enlighten me as to the degree of my criminality. Next I called people from a multitude of bureaucratic agencies, asking for names and some confirmation as to whether my interpretation of all this legal gibberish was correct.  Finally, I was ready to call the dark side, California Department of Fish and Game, and report my findings.

I was surprised to learn that people of the D of  F&G were helpful, polite, and called me back in a timely manner.   Call on a Friday, get a call-back on Sunday of all days.  Call someone higher on the food chain Monday morning and get a response by 4:59 pm of the same day--in this case by Warden Don Wells. When I professed my astonishment at receiving a call so close to when most of his department must have been packing it in he chuckled, "Just half way through my fifteen" (whatever that meant).

Anyway, after I provided my new friend Don a summary of the codes, subsets of codes, and all amendments relevant to the "taking" of rock in protected sanctuaries and the areas adjacent to them (and providing longitude and latitude numbers to delineate their boundaries), Uber-Warden Wells conceded that it was unlikely I had broken any laws, rules or regulations.  He also promised to further research this issue on my behalf and get back to me.  And I expect he will.

In the meantime, I'm ready.  Should  I again be stopped by a representative of the California Department of Fish and Game, I will produce a stack of printouts, all carefully highlighted and sorted by federal, state, and local jurisdictions.  I might even drop the names of a few superiors and highly place bureaucrats.

 But if all this fails, I will resort to a deadly solution learned in childhood:

"If you're thinking about writing me a citation, Mr. Warden, DON'T!  Bad warden--NO! NO! NO!"

BUZZ KILL, Number Five in the Fish and Games Series

North coast bound and Van Morrison coming at me from all four speakers:

I can hear her heart beat for a thousand miles
And the heavens open every time she smiles
And when I come to her that's where I belong
Yes, I'm running to her like a river's song

She give me love, love, love, love, crazy love
She give me love, love, love, love, crazy love

Temperatures were over 70 with an afternoon devoid of wind and plenty of time before the low tide and maximum collecting conditions.  I was "feeling good" like James Brown said I should, anticipating a great afternoon of sun, rock gathering, and maybe some downtime with the novel in my backpack.  

Gear had been unloaded, and I was already across the barbed wire when I realized a music induced endorphin rush must have caused me to pull over at the wrong arroyo.  I was in the process of putting everything back into the car when a kelly green pickup pulled up behind me. 
What, my game warden friends wanted another chat?

There was the usual friendly but well practiced greeting.
"How you doing today, sir?"
"Great, except I pulled over at the wrong place.  I'm going to have to move about a hundred yards down the road."
"What's in those bags?"
"Nothing much, just my collecting gear.  And I haven't even been down to the beach yet."
"Is it okay if I take look in those bags?"

My fine day was taking on an ugly and unexpected turn. Besides a lost afternoon, this might be the time I finally end up in jail.  But Van was still a presence:

Shes got a fine sense of humor when I'm feeling low down
And when I come to her when the sun goes down
Take away my trouble, take away my grief
Take away my heartache, in the night like a thief

"Absolutely, let's take a look," I said, responding to his not-really-an-option request since game wardens do not need cause or a court order to perform a search.  I waited while he approached the back of my vehicle. My choice of the word "absolutely," it seemed to me, was so very close to the dyslectic syntax of Yoda: "Asshole-you-be".
Yet I obediently begin another tour of my personal belongings.
"In this bag I have my windbreaker, the tow rope to get down the cliffs around here, sun tan lotion, a couple beers and a rock hammer."
"The other pouches?"  
"This one has my wallet, a camera, a can of sardines and a small pocket knife."
"Anything else?"
"Well, there's this plastic container filled with band aids.  I bleed easily. Long story there."
"What about the other bag, the orange one?"

Ah, take a breath now, I thought.  Think before you answer.
"Well, it's just glass... a bunch of empty bottles."
"And why do you have them?"
"Whenever I go to a beach, I like clean up some."
He proceeds to undo my bow tie knot and paw through my booze bottles: large wine, small wine, big gin, little gin, lots and lots of beer bottles, some blue, brown and green. A merry lot.
"Where'd you get all this?"

My buzz and the hope for this fine afternoon began to fade. But Van's words still echoed in my head, and I  thought of my wife:

She's got a fine sense of humor when I'm feeling low down
And when I come to her when the sun goes down
Take away my trouble, take away my grief
Take away my heartache, in the night like a thief

Show time.
"Where did I get all these glass bottles? Uh, let's see... two turnstiles down.  It must have been a big party."  
"Oh you mean the (something or other) creek access?  
I nod hesitantly, trying for all I'm worth to look casual.
He digs deeper into my farming supplies.
"Seriously, all this from just down the road?  No kidding it must have one heck of a party.  I'm having a little problem with this."
"Well, actually it was collected it over the course of several days."  (You idiot--never change your story midstream!  But I pushed on, appealing, I hoped, to his ecological mindset).
"I like to leave places cleaner than I left them, you know?"

"Do you recycle?"
"Of course.  Money for doing the right thing... Those are all deposit bottles, I believe." 
And I thought to myself that I actually do recycle (in ways I hope to God you, Mr. Warden, have not yet figured out).
"I do the same thing, actually," he revealed with some pride. "but why the rock hammer?"
I pause a moment and think how to put this, not wanting to sound smart assed...
        Question: So why do you have a tooth brush? 
        Answer: Obviously, to brush toilets, dumb ass!
Instead I say, "Because I collect rocks" hearing an odd sense of shame in my voice.
"What kind of rocks?"  
Hmm...is he a geologist?  Metamorphic.   A gemologist? Chalcedony.
"Moonstone, I say, just agate, as you know, and an occasional piece of jade--though local experts lsay it can't be found this far south, pretty sure they're wrong."  The "shut-up" sensors are now flashing red in some part of my mind. 
"It's illegal to collect jade anywhere along this coast except for Jade Cove."
Oops! Another of my TMI moments

"Really?  I hadn't heard that but good to know."   I decided not to complicate matters by explaining the difference between true jade and jadeite, a more accurate explanation of what I had actually found.

"In fact, it is also illegal," he continued, "to collect anything at all along this part of the coast, including rocks, all the way to a point north of San Francisco."
"Really?  I hadn't heard that, either." (and now I know why my wife says I tend to repeat myself)
"But I don't understand why," I continue with wide eyed innocence.
"Because this is a protected marine sanctuary, PMS."
"Oh yes, I've heard of that zone.  It starts at the cypress tree two miles south of here, right?"  (Shut up, shut up about PMS jokes, don't go there!).

"No, it starts at a point south of Cambria."
I was about to answer with another "Really?" but instead asked, "Are you sure about that?
"Yes."  
Hard to argue against stone-faced certainty, especially when coming from a young, grim, and holstered ex-military type.

Still, I was pretty sure he was wrong about jade collecting, having read many texts recommending beaches north south of jade cove.

"I always thought the purpose of marine sanctuary was to, you know, protect marine life.  You know, living stuff in the water and not on the land," (hence, the designation"marine" but I withheld this last part).
"No.  This area is controlled both on land and sea by two jurisdictions, one state one federal."
I couldn't help myself this time, "Really?"
"Yes, and if one of the federal guys catches you with rocks, he will assign you a fine right there on the spot."
What federal guys?  What kind of vehicles do they drive?  I had been through this drill two times before with Fish and Game officials and made a point of mentioning the name of the previous warden.  The response from each person "interviewing" me was always a blank stare: "Never heard of him/them."

Stay focused.
"Hmm... And the fine you mentioned will probably have to go straight to Fresno, right?  I was having doubts about the depth of his local knowledge and wanted to see if he knew where the nearest federal court was.  A facial tic suggesting I was right--but no real acknowledgement of his ignorance.

"But you know, that's strange," I slid lightly along a knife edge separating challenge sincere curiosity, "because I've been detained and searched by two other law enforcement agencies besides your own, and they had no problem with my rock collecting" (maybe because they weren't just bored like this guy and more focused on their jobs: catching poachers and marijuana smugglers).  I decided not to pursue this point and risk any perception of being "uncooperative".

"So how do I know which of the two sanctuaries I'm in and which rules apply?"
He explained at length, evoking boundaries named after other obscure creeks and arroyos not even delineated on Google Earth,  I know, having tried at length to get this kind of information for another blog entry.
"Out of curiosity," I asked,c "how much would the fine be... something steep, maybe around $300?
"Well beyond that, I'm sure."

"Ouch! I sure appreciate you telling me all this.  I don't have the money to pay that kind of fine.  And to think here all along I've been operating on the fifty plus one per day rule."
No response.  A blank stare.  
"You've never heard the phrase before, have you... fifty plus one per day?"
I waited the teacher obligatory four seconds.
One, two, three...
"No."
That's when I decided that Officer/Warden Meyer was FOS (the first letter stands for "full," followed by "of" and you know where I'm going with the next word.

I covered my astonishment by rambling on, as if nothing significant had transpired.
"I mean it makes sense, right?  You wouldn't want some guy taking tons of rock from the beach to decorate his front lawn.  Not sure why they phrase it like that, though.  Fifty pounds of rock, give or take one, per day."

And this revelation was a puppy I decided to let be, further proving  that I must be dealing either with an idiot or someone very new to the area.

"You know officer... was it Nilmeir?" (I once had a student so named).
"No, Meyer."
"Oh, right.  Well this is all very new and confusing to me, and I'm not sure I've got it all straight in my Alzheimered brain. Could you suggest someone I could contact that might be able to explain all of this to me again so I don't accidentally violate some very expensive laws?"
"Yes.  Go south to the pier across from Hearst's Castle.  There's a trailer," he started to say then corrected himself, "actually a building called "The Discovery Center."
I waited a beat. Trailer bigot! 
"Oh, yes, I think I know where that is." (Duh)
"They should be able to explain it all to you."
"Great!"

"Well, thanks again, officer Meyer and would it be okay if I went on down to that cove I mentioned... just to clean up any trash?"
"Of course."

"Thanks, officer." (I should probably have addressed him simply as Warden God but decided his actual title was more likeky to be special agent--and why aren't there any "not so special" agents?).  But then maybe this guy was just new to his job, ignorant, and arrogant.

In either case, I wanted to assure good-will in case we met again, and deflect any interest in my quasi-legal hobbies.
"Oh, by the way, good work on that bank robber arrest.  We're you the one who took him down?"
"Yes.  Well no, not me, but one of the members of my unit."

Wrong on several accounts but not worth explaining if you haven't been following local news.  Also a fibp if I've ever heard one.  His choice of words: "my unit"?  Obvious military phrasing, not what would one would expect from an employee who draws a check from a department in our state.

"And out in the boonies," I continued with my ass-kissing, "it's always the warden that gets the call, isn't it?
"Yes."
Then in the interest of further good will, "And most of the time you guys patrol alone, totally without back up, don't you?"
He nodded.  And I hoped this last part would not be prrceiced as a threat.  Safety under the radar.

Yet here I was, picnic supplies, libations and a good book. No way I was going to let this unanticipated interrogation ruin my mood and thought again of Van Morrison lyrics and my wife.

Yes I need her in the daytime
Yes I need her in the night
Yes I want to throw my arms around her
Kiss her, hug her, kiss her, hug her tight

"FTS," I said to myself (the middle part of the acronym being "this".  Again, you can figure out the rest).
So I moved my car south and parked at the correct ravine this time, watching the green pickup head north toward Ragged Point. Before long I was throwing out my rope and sliding down a muddy cliff. Though I had just been there just a day before it now seemed different, like I had planted my feet on a new beach: sand and kelp, all piled in new locations.

Everywhere I looked there were agates, jadeite, and other interesting jasper/flint conglomerates.  The earth replenishes and abides, I thought.  I hesitated to pick anything up.  Then I remembered the warden driving off.  It would take him at least five minutes to circle back and pull over.  Then he had to cross a field and set up his scope (possibly a Redfield with Zeis optics unless his agency, whatever it was, lacked the funds to spring for the best).

So I picked up some moonstone/agates with exceptional clarity and slipped them into my pockets--not my backpack, oh no.  "Go ahead and search my bag," I imagined saying to anyone I met on my way out. Of my four previous encounters, only one had resulted in something so invasive as a weak pat down.  I left my other bag, filled with farming supplies, back in the car.  Too hard to explain why all those bottles had disappeared, nearly five pounds of glass, no longer to be found edcept by future collectors of beach glass.

Before long I knew enough time had lapsed for my law-enforcement friend to be ready and watching, maybe even taking photos through his scope.  And wouldn't you know it? Forbidden fruit and all, I kept finding some real beauties.

I picked up some of the more promising rocks and made an exaggerated display of tossing them aside.  Other times I would palm them--not even a Redfield scope, I reasoned, could detect a stone thrown from my hand.  Then I started to pick up two rocks at a time, actually letting go of one while keeping the other until I could casually pocket it.

Some of the rocks were a bit large... yet interesting enough that I decided to cram them into a back pocket.   This kind of hurt my butt, but my eventual plan was to put everything in my pockets into a baggie before I climbed the cliff and be ready to jettison it all.

Everything was ruined, however, especially my mood.  No peace. No reveling in the sun.  No sense of being master of all that I surveyed. Certainly not when suspecting I was being observed.  I ate some crackers and drank a soda. Seriously, just a soda.  Federal custody is serious shi--stuff.

The climb to the highway was tense.
To what length would this guy go to apprehend a heinous collector of rocks?  Each wavering shrub and cascading rock unnerved me. Eventually, I poked my head up over the brown grasslands, ready to duck down and throw out the illicit contents of my pockets.

My car was to the left.  Check.  I ducked back down, counted to five, then popped my head up and looked right.  No green pickups, no sign of rangers/wardens/or whatever waiting to intercept me. Check again.

And along the way home, I did stop at the Discovery Center and talked to an elderly gent (meaning my age, I guess) and was handed a list of government phone numbers, bureaucratic agencies that on a Friday afternoon were about as likely to respond as dialing 1-800-Hey-God and expecting The Man Himself to pick up.

Strange how I kept running into wardens with names that were unknown to my local contacts.  And what gave them the right, whether DEA, Homeland Security, or FBI, to misrepresent themselves and drive around in those nice Fish and Game pickups?

"Keep things in perspective," someone I love often reminds me.
I tried to do just that.  And after a few quick miles, I was home.

When I'm returning from so far away
She gives me some sweet lovin' brighten up my day
Yes, it makes me righteous, yes it makes me feel whole
Yes, it makes me mellow down into my soul.


12/16/13

A Very Dry Year

FInally unpacked
seated on my front porch
I see zebras grazing in
the gap between two
neigborly houses

I am wondering why
I ever left this place
but also perplexed at deliberate
zebra movements staying
an unusually long time
cropping one area for all its worth

Then I remember something
about gramnivores
how they have to eat twice as much
work twice as hard for nourishment
when the grasses are so brown
this desicated

But they could have it worse
and smile at the fresh breeze
and record temps over 108
predicted tomorrow in the valley
I left behind

So whether the grass
Is brown or green
there is that which sustains us
though there may be years
when we work harder
to find it

Enswensy Spider

I grabbed the rope and scrambled up the cliff.
Yeah, knee meniscus problems and all that crap,
but I had been working out.
All that upper body strength was still there,
and I climbed this particular cliff faster
than ever before.

I willed it be, wanted it to be, and would not let
my last visit to this beach be compromised
by a weak effort.

I clamored fast and wicked like a black widow
closing on a fly.

And there I was... almost to the
last ledge, pulling myself up hand over hand. Until
I encountered the deep amber eyes.

No, I did not take this photo.  My GoCam was off.  I was using both hands just to struggle up the cliff.  But this is what I saw.  Beautiful contemplative eyes, taking in my preoccupied hands as I clung to some weak coastal shrubs.  A predator who recognized an edge.  Minutes, or what seemed like them, came and went.

We ended the stand-off by doing what all males do under such circumstances.  We bluffed.  I pulled my lips back and attempted a growl.  His growl was better, his teeth more impressive.

Then he dusted me with dirt and ran up the last few yards to the top of the cliff.

But he turned for a final look: "What the hell was that all about?" we both thought.  

He was Canis Fimilarius, genetically identical to my dog Stewie at home but a 

sub-branch of canines that had long ago rejected human companionship. 

Nothing personal.  And we both went our own way.

As I write this tonight and swear this to be true, his kin are howling crazily not far outside my window. 

It's time to take Stewie for his final walk--and I need to keep him on a tight leash.

Wild ones have a different attitude.

Post Script:

Three days after writing this brief piece of nothing, I was in the desert riding a quad motorcycle.  I was afraid that the night would be long and I would have little to read, so I downloaded a recent Dean Koontz novel titled "The Taking".

Soon after dark I read the first few chapters to my friend Bob.  Who knows why I was prompted to do this and thank God I have friends that will tolerate the weirdness of one adult reading to another.

Anyway, the story begins with a woman afflicted with insomnia who wakes up to powerful and supernaturally strange rain pouring down on her mountain cabin above San Bernardino.  She decides to use her insomnia to work on a novel but hears noises on the front porch.  At first she thinks she sees wolves but they are in fact coyotes, coyotes with such an imploring look in their eyes that she goes out and joins them.  They rub against her legs having momentarily abondoned their fear of humans, because they know that something way more scary is on its way...

So I read for twenty minutes and afterwards slept straight through the night.  I wanted to watch the stars but was just too tired.

The next morning we headed into town for breakfast, having planed to eat at the cafe where we ate the night before.  It was closed.  We drove on saw The Coyote cafe.  An excellent place for breakfast, and I'd recommend it to anyone stuck in California City.

Pictures of coytes, cute little cartoons, and a full plaster mask of a coyote head right above our table.  My appetite was off and I was having trouble finishing my breakfast.

"Did you hear the ruckus last night?"

"No," I said.

"Something big, probably a coyote," Bob said. "I think he was trying to get some liquid out of your 7-up can."

"Really?  Sorry, I missed that.  I should've done a better job of cleaning up before bed."

But I was more sorry I hadn't left out a bowl of water for our thirsty visitor.  We had plenty of it.

"Well who knows what that was all about, Bob?  The Navahos call Mr. Coyote "The Trickster" because he's always up to something."

And I wondered what kind of mischief Mr. Coyote was working to make himself such a frequent visitor in my mind.

And worried that I might find out.

How Dodger Shirts Can Save Your Live

I was on the final leg of my four mile Saturday walk.  Made it down to the Grab and Rob but got sucked in for breakfast at the nearby Los Barrachos, a wonderful Mexican joint along the way home on this hot Visalia Morning.

The proprietor convinced me that a Cerveza Roja would be the perfect companion for my Torta Asada.  Whatever, I still wasn't fully awake.

I pulled out the newspaper I'd purchased from the the G and R and chuckled out loud about the Sacramento woman who had slugged a deputy just so she could have her ass hauled back to jail and dry up from her addiction. Whatever works.  Other patrons politely ignored my inappropriate laughter...

But now I was almost home, the Cerveza Roja just about burned off, and I saw a byclicist roaring toward me and screaming at the top of his lungs.  Couldn't make out his words yet but I took inventory and tried to assume the "Horse" stance, facing  your opponent laterally, front foot forward, back boot perpendicular as an anchor, hands half way uncommitted until you see the source of the threat.

At seventy five yards out I could hear the word "Dodgers", and realized that I was walking through a predominantly "Red" neighborhood still wearing the Bluish T-shirt from last night's surprise birthday party:  "Los Angeles" near the neckline, "LA" underneath, with bats crisscrossing like a skull and cross bones.  The guy coming at me looked young, crazed a little like that weird relief pitcher for the Giants, Sergio Romo.  I sensed this could end badly.

Especially since my right knee, the one I had used preemptively in the past to bust other peoples' knees and walk away unscathed, had recently suffered two torn ligaments which still hadn't been adjusted by surgery.

My left leg had little comparative kicking power and my left fist was going to be busy just trying to protect my recently broken rib.  All anyone would have to do is brush me in either of those areas, and I would be a screaming crying mess.

And then he was on me, still yelling at the top of his lungs: "Dodgers are just getting ready...they're going to take the pennant and you, my man, have made a great fashion choice!"

And he swished by me.  He must have been 50 yards away before I pointed toward him and yelled back,  "Yeah, you got that right.!"

I was barely 11:00 am.  I decided to go home, wash off my sweat, and watch a Dodger game if for no other reasons than loyalty--and gratitude.

How to be Run over by Your Own Motorcycle

Your blood pressure is a little high...

"Maybe because I'm embarrassed about what happened to me."

And so I told my story...

And I told it over and over at the emergency ward while waiting for my x-ray results--until I suspected staff members were bringing people off the street, possibly charging admission...

  

"Okay, like I told the P.A. (Physician's Assistant)

I was riding a quad, you know an ATV, kind of like a motorcycle but with four wheels."

My latest listener nodded encouragingly.

"At the time, I was going down a steep hill, so steep most sane people wouldn't consider walking it.

My friend was behind me on his own ATV and we were taking it slowly, under 10 mph certainly."

Another nod from my latest visitor.

"Anyway, my right front wheel slid against a road channel and locked in sideways, stopping all forward motion.

The vehicle stopped abruptly and my body continued forward at the previous velocity."

And what happened?

"What happened?  Obviously, I sailed over the handle bars and landed 7 or 8 feet down the trail. 

Now usually, that's no problem.  Happens all the time, you know?"

A raised eyebrow.

"You know, like the saying I once saw on a t-shirt: I don't have a drinking problem. I drink. I fall down. No problem

Which is to say, I've fallen off  motorcycles many times-no big deal."

Then why are your here?

"Well obviously--because two wheeled idiot motorcyclists rutted this trail out over the years shaping it into an absolute "W".  I landed on the middle ridge of that sharp letter.

In seconds, it seemed to me, my friend was kneeling over me.  My first words were:

"It threw me." 

"Are you all right, John?"

"I'm not sure, Bob, , I remember a cracking sound when I hit the ground.  I didn't just feel it,  but heard it--with my ears.

Then I saw something big and green coming in from my right.  My quad.

My latest listener leaned forward in anticipation.

"Apparently the ATV I had just been ejected from had been idling, still in gear and at that point decided to move in for the kill. 

Kind of like--the bad man was down, time to finish him off but maybe it was just what they call post injury shock, I don't know."

My listener leaned back and went silent. I figured she was trying to distance herself from my Stephen King-like interpretation of events.  But I continued...

"Bob and I watched as the front wheels of my ATV rolled over both of my legs.  Didn't hurt much at the time, no snapping sounds, possibly because a quad is lighter when no one was actually riding it.

At this point my listener covered her mouth.

"And then the rear wheels--with all the weight of the 500 cc engine and tranny were about to roll over my legs a second time while I waited numbly for twin snapping sounds,

But Bob stood up and wrestled with the handle bars, managing to turn the killer machine away, and eventually jumped on top of it and parked it down the trail."

And all this happened how long ago?

"A little over 24 hours, I guess."

And it took you this long to seek medical attention for a fractured rib?"  (First I'd heard of it, thank you very much!)

"Well, you see, at the time we were less than half way to our destination."

Which was?

"Not sure. Just a couple of places way out on our map."

Then you started back to Visalia?

"Actually, no, because we found some huge logs along the way and we're planning on an enormous campfire that evening."

My listener shook her had back and forth and eventually stood up.

As she opened the door, 

I saw her motion to someone, a "next"  kind of gesture, hopefully for the PA, maybe even a real doctor.

But she turned to me before she left the room.

Have you considered having someone say a prayer over your motorcycle?

"Yeah, hah, that's good.  Like the Christine car in that old movie, bad mojo, bad metal, an exorcism kind of thing?"

She nodded and closed the door.

Honest to God, some people are so weird.  Why can't everyone be normal like Bob and me?