Green and Black

GREEN & BLACK

Way back, in an ancient rainforest, five miles from a road end and then eighteen more to a highway winding through long stretches of unpopulated woods and cutover lands; along a famous valley, where ferns and giant trees thrive on cobbled paths surrendered eons ago by melting glaciers whose remnants still feed on the mountain which bore them; away from the river, on a secluded terrace, in a 10’ by 12’ canvass tent supported by rusted poles and guy lines tethered to the boles of mammoth firs.

It's early March. As dawn approaches, a purple glow appears on the eastern horizon. Gradually the illumination spreads, then softens to rose and finally yellow. With each passing minute, forest silhouettes change to individual branches, limbs and trunks. Soon the first rays beam through the woods. A layer of clouds suspended above the great river catches the light and holds it. Thickly timbered ridges materialize, rising three thousand feet from the valley floor. The chirping of robins and wrens breaks the night silence. It’s the start of another rainforest day.

Morning sunlight strikes the tent, stirring its occupant. Still dozing, he rolls on his other side to avoid the annoyance. But it doesn’t help and he grudgingly slips out of his sleeping bag and unzips the door for a better look. From daily practice he’s learned how to avoid getting drenched in the process. Like a besieged turtle, he keeps his head tucked inside the tent wall while pushing open the door. Instantly, a sheet of water splashes into the muddied puddle that serves as a doorstep. He waits till the shower slows to drops then flips the soaken door aside. A familiar gothic scene unveils: Sunbeams slanting through forest aisles project rows of shadow and light; fog rises from the ground in slow motion; a soothing calm before ocean winds move ashore. He shimmies into wool pants, pants which haven’t been completely dry for five months, pulls on his boots and steps out into the sunshine.

The routine of every morning begins at the woodpile. He withdraws an armful from beneath a plastic tarp then pauses a moment to study the balance of fuel – and groans. At most, there’s only a two-day supply left. How could this be? Since November he’s been chopping like a Cuisinart but never manages to stay more than a few days ahead. Adding to the never-ending drudgery is that, with each passing week, he must search ever farther from camp for anything decent. There’s plenty of green wood nearby but experience has shown it might be easier to ignite a granite boulder.

Using a pocketknife he shaves cedar strips onto a scrap of candle paper set within a ring of stones and lights it. He waits for a sturdy flame then adds a handful of small sticks. Now for breakfast. Menu items are stored in five-gallon plastic jugs lined up alongside the tent. Most are scored with tooth and claw marks from mice. The canisters hold the following: Oatmeal, instant rice, elbow macaroni, freeze-dried beans and vegetables, powdered soup, dehydrated fruit, beef jerky and trail mix. At the end of the row sits his precious supply of coffee crystals. He has no oils of any kind; salt and pepper are his only spices. He scoops ½ cup of oatmeal into a plastic bowl, a tablespoon of coffee for his mug and heads back to the fire.

The kindling has burned sufficiently to accept larger pieces. Ten minutes later a blackened kettle with the wrong lid is lowered into the flames. Reaching boil will take a while so he ducks into the tent to retrieve his journal and sleeping pad (the inflatable mattress doubles as camp chair with the aid of two straps). Each morning the quality of day and any worthwhile thoughts are entered in a spiral notebook. But first he must find it.

The inside of the tent is a nightmare of sleeping bags, crumpled clothes, hats, flashlights, stoves, etc. Not a square inch of the floor is visible. Above the mess, a ragged web of rope – his dryer – sags beneath damp towels, socks and underwear. A musty odor prevails. The disorder is caused mainly by a fanatical adherence to the Noah’s Ark theory of survival – two of everything. The lone exception is a dozen nonfiction paperbacks. He crawls around on hands and knees pushing, lifting, flinging until he spots the zip-loc bag encasing the journal.

He sets the chair beside the fire, eases in and attempts to write. Nothing. Not a brain cell functioning; like a guy with a concussion trying to read Nietzsche. Too many other things on his mind this morning so he leans back and begins daydreaming. Will he remember? And then the same old unresolved problems start creeping in. As usual, he has no answers but a sudden clinking rescues him. He removes the vibrating kettle lid and pours a cup of steaming water into his mug and some on the oatmeal. With less than an hour to go, he quickly finishes, collects a towel and toiletries then walks 50 yards over to the terrace edge.

Squatting on his haunches he peers out intently over a forest glade, forty vertical feet below. The objects of interest are two parallel trails separated by a dry slough channel. All three run perpendicular to his intended line of travel. The trails and streambed traverse open parklands that contrast sharply with the dense evergreen forest towering above his camp.

He moves laterally a couple steps and scans the area again. He’s careful, wary, totally paranoid. Any chance encounter with an Olympic National Park ranger this time of year would surely lead to his eviction. They’d be mighty suspicious of someone emerging from such an unlikely spot carrying a towel and ditty bag. The constant vigilance is as tiresome as it is necessary. The Park has a strict policy on squatters.

Seeing nobody, he descends an elk path leading to a stand of moss-padded maples and cottonwoods. In less than five minutes he crosses the first trail, drops to the slough, climbs the far bank, and gains the main trail bordered by grass and ferns. Next, he veers down a sidepath cut through a column of leaning alders, past the official campsites and shortly reaches the riverbank. The total distance traveled measures about 1/3 mile.

He strolls across gravel bars to the water’s edge, disrobes and braces for his daily cleansing.

The fabled Hoh. No temperate rainforest on earth can match its combination of wide, flat floor, giant conifers and luxuriant undergrowth. The river is surprisingly large relative to length. Most of the valley’s 150 inches of annual precipitation falls between November and April. The water cycle shifts into overdrive during these six months – the harder the rain, the faster the Hoh hurls it back to the sea. And the more damage it causes. During prolonged downpours the Hoh swells to staggering dimensions. At such times the lawless brute rearranges the valley’s geography by scouring banksides and flooding bottomlands. Oftentimes, old-growth firs and spruces are plucked like weeds and used as weapons to gut ranchlands and roads further downstream.

Summer and early fall reveal a different side. Water level drops significantly as the potent gray mass of winter and spring slows to a shallow, clear stream. The highest of the previously submerged sand and gravel bars form islands within the braided channel. Many are dotted with stranded logs or nascent alder groves. But even in the driest years the Hoh maintains a healthy flow. A complex of massive glaciers on Mount Olympus (the river’s headwaters) releases its bounty throughout the course of warm days.

After filling his mylar bladder, he takes a few sips and smiles. The satisfaction of drinking straight from the Hoh never grows old. Guidebooks warn of giardia but he’d rather be infected with microbes than admit the river might be tainted. Then, with soap in one hand, he hoists the water bag overhead with the other and begins bathing.

While drying off he’s startled by someone calling from the bank.
“Al! Alex!!”
He pivots and spots Brian with hands cupped around his mouth. They quickly advance toward each other and embrace.

“I wasn’t convinced you’d remember!” Alex exclaimed.

“Whaddya nuts? I’ve been counting down the days since the Super Bowl.”

“You’re too much. Alright, let me collect my stuff and we’ll head back to camp.”  Alex takes a few steps before stopping to ask, “How did you find me out here?”

Brian rolls his eyes in mock exasperation.  “Again I wonder, ‘Has the man lost it?’ I checked your camp first, then came straight over. I know this place like my own backyard.”

And well he should. Last September it was Brian who helped Alex carry all his gear and supplies to the encampment. For three days they hauled everything crammed into Brian’s SUV – fifty pounds a pack, thirty total miles of hiking. Before leaving, he promised to return at 11:00 o’clock on Alex’s birthday.

They settle in next to the recharged fire and exchange news about the last five months. Wife, kids, job, mortgage, rain, slugs, mold, cougars and other subjects bounce back and forth for nearly an hour. When conversation wanes, Brian reaches into the large compartment of his pack.

“I’ve got a little surprise for you.” 
He carefully lifts a covered plate, places it in front of Alex and peels away the foil. It’s a miniature chocolate cake with ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY ALEX’ scored in the icing. Alex’s eyes bulge as a tingling sensation tickles the base of his tongue. If a bell rang he’d probably drool. He licks a fingerful and slowly closes his eyes in delight.
“I finally understand why some women think chocolate is better than sex. That was almost worth the six-month wait… thanks, Bri. Has anyone ever mentioned you’re the nicest guy in the world?’

“Yeah, my ex-wife.”

Alex grabs a knife and starts cutting.

“Wait, before you start abusing that thing, I have to give you your present.” Brian digs into his shirt pocket and produces a tightly-wrapped joint which he hands to Alex.

Alex rubs the gift between thumb and forefinger, admiring its smooth, firm surface. He then passes it beneath his nose and smiles slyly.
“I see you haven’t lost your touch.”

Brian shakes his head.
“I didn’t roll it. In fact, you’d be amazed what it took to get that little doob. The sister of a co-worker of mine bought if from some derelict who sleeps in the entranceway of her apartment building.”

“Not as simple as the good old college days. By the way, how long has it been since you smoked?”

“Three years, maybe longer.”

Alex pulls a burning stick from the fire.
“Well now,” lighting the joint, “Looks like we’re both in for quite a ride.”

Morning slides lazily into early afternoon. Both men lay on air mattresses, gazing straight up at the forest canopy. Because of parallax (and because they’re stoned) the immense brown shafts appear to bend inward as they stretch to the sky. A gentle breeze blowing up the valley ruffles their crowns; its effects are seen and heard but not felt by Alex and Brian. From time to time they catch the sweet scent of cottonwood buds wafting up from the bottomlands.

Alex eventually breaks the silence.
“God how I love this place. It’s even better than I thought. And you know that’s saying a mouthful.”

“No shit. I can’t believe this is the same valley we hiked in September. Those maples right below us…  are you kidding me?”

“I call it wintergreen,” replied Alex. “Anyone who only sees the Hoh in summer has been defrauded. If they had any balls at all the Park would close the gates from June through September. After people see what they really own there’d be no more funding problems or threats to these woods. They’d be lining up by the thousand to stomp the first prick with a chainsaw. Wait till you see where we’re going tomorrow.”

Brian turns to face Alex and hesitates. He’s heard these rants before and knows better than to temper them. Thankfully, Alex’s last words provide the perfect segue for what he’s been waiting to ask.

“Uh, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about our plans. What would you say to skipping tomorrow and coming home with me for a few days?”

Alex’s torso springs up like a catapult. He tries to respond but the sudden change in position causes a power outage. A few head shakes reconnect brain cells already weakened by months of inactivity.
“Whoa… next time put on your blinker! Civilization, eh? I don’t know. Let me think about it a minute.”

“What’s to think about? You’ve been living alone in a terrarium for the last five months, probably talking to squirrels by now for all I know. You look like hell – what have you lost, 15 pounds? - and you absolutely positively need to shave that dead animal off your face. Besides, Linda and the kids are dying to see you. So cut the crap and start packing. I told Lin to expect us no later than eight.”

Alex loved every word. For the past few weeks he worried Brian might not be able to make their little rendezvous. He was well aware of Brian’s hectic life and the sacrifice required to come out here. It made this latest act of thoughtfulness even more touching.

“I guess that settles that. Actually this works out well. I’m running low on food and was planning a trip into Forks to re-supply. But are you sure you want to do all that back and forth driving in two days?”

“Not a problem. I already took Monday off.”

Half an hour later Brian leaves for the trailhead followed shortly by ever-cautious Alex toting an empty backpack. In less than two hours they arrive at the parking lot where Brian waits on the hood of his new Lexus.

Alex runs his hand along the shiny fender and says, “Looks like all those months as a Microsoft hack are paying off.”

“That’s nothing. Wait till I cash in my stock options. I’ll buy this whole goddamn Park and let you have it – for a reasonable price, that is.”

Brian looks away.
“Stock options… what a crock.”

“My my. I believe this poor boy really has lost his way. So now you’re against the stock market too?”

“Com’on Bri, you know there’s something fundamentally wrong with people making money, tons of it, by sitting on their ass and calling a broker or clicking a mouse. Unearned income, as my uncle would say.”

“What’s the matter, can’t anything nice happen to people without suffering some Catholic guilt about it?”

“Catholic? I thought you knew I saw through that fairy tale years ago. For your information, I now belong to the Fellowship of Backsliding Agnostics. Our credo is, ‘Life is just a temporary game of chance – but I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“That’s real good, Alex. I think this place is starting to get to you.”

“It always gets to me.”

Tired of the repartee, Brian suggests they go the southern route back to Redmond, which is fine with Alex.

                                                                  2

They drive 18 miles out to Highway 101, turn left and meander past clearcuts and ocean beaches, cross two more rainforest rivers – the Queets and Quinault – before reaching the depressed, depressing twin towns of Hoquiam and Aberdeen where the road swings east and the subject of Brian’s job resurfaces.

“So Bri, how much longer can Microsoft stay on top?”

“Indefinitely. We’ve still got a stranglehold on PC software. As long as Billy’s lawyers keep squashing our whining competition we’ll dominate.”

Brian adds some more facts about wireless access and other arcane cyber babble as Alex nods along at appropriate times. But his mind is elsewhere. He’s picturing the Brian of a decade ago.

Brian’s passion was the piano. As a gifted child, he was subject to the blueprint of classical training, scholarships and great expectations. But that all changed in high school. He ‘devolved’ (as his father said) into playing keyboards for various rock & roll bands. During college, he criss-crossed the states searching for the perfect chemistry that would launch him to stardom. Brian lived this transient life for two years before meeting Alex’s sister. Then everything changed again. Linda gave an ultimatum after 6 months of dating: Me or your dreams. “Me” of course, meant graduating college, getting a (high-paying) job and building a foundation under their future family. And that’s precisely what Brian did. Shortly after their engagement, an obscure band from Rochester, NY called ‘Black Sheep’ (which Brian once played in) signed a record contract then switched their name to ‘Foreigner’.

Brian and Linda complemented each other perfectly – she the emotional nurturer, he the brainy, creative force. Their wedding was a grand affair. Near the end of the celebration Brian teamed with some old bandmates and rocked the guests for almost an hour. During the mini-concert Alex leaned against a food cart in the rear of the hall with eyes closed and head bobbing in sync to the music. And a big fat grin on his face. Linda was his only sister – his baby sister. Brian was the type of friend you never let go of. Alex would be forever grateful these two diamonds in his life found each other. In the ensuing years, they produced two lovely daughters; the older one, Emily, would be goddaughter to Alex. Brian changed jobs three times in the next five years, finally settling at Microsoft. Through it all – the surrendering of his music goals, marriage, kids, fucking SUV’s, and all the rest – Alex never thought Brian lost his grip on the wild . Until now.