Nightbirds

February 2015 - Brighton, Ma

A summer bird sung out, it's call quavering timidly over the wintry twilight. It's song was solemn and sleepy, whispering faintly through the air as cars splashed over the sludge-filled street. 
 
She spoke of solstice, of summer. Of warm nights under the same sky to the same song. Of the kiss of sweeter air. Of memories from yore and night skies yet to bloom. 
 
But for now she just fantasized before falling silent. Her song returned to summer, and she to keeping warm. 

Roam Away from Home: Part II

Ghost Town

April, 2013 - Death Valley National Park, CA

The rain fly ruffled in the morning breeze as I awoke. I quietly crept over Tomek and unzipped the tent, walking out into the chill morning. Unseen morning doves and quail called out soothingly, and the distant mountains to the east were painted in a soft lavender as the sun emerged from behind the range.

I sipped on the dusty water from my canteen to rinse the morning taste out of my mouth. My movements alerted Lucy, who now grumbled to be let out of the tent. Soon, all of us were awake, sitting in our chairs, watching the sun rise as coffee percolated.

"What's for breakfast?" I asked.

"That's the best part," French responded. "We're going out for breakfast."

We drove in to Lone Pine, a quaint frontier-style town with old signs boasting Rosewood font signage. It was quiet and sunny, just a few cars driving and a couple people ambling about. It reminded me of a prettier Beatty, NV. We parked across the street from the Alabama Hills Cafe and walked in. Most of the seats were taken by dusty old men in cowboy hats and women with sun kissed skin. Other than that, it was like any townie breakfast joint I've ever been in (my favorite kind of place to get breakfast--gritty and greasy). Before this trip, I'd never had biscuits and gravy, but now it was all I could think about (though, I would have gotten chilaquiles if it was on the menu). With a heaping of that with some scrambled eggs to boot, I was full of food and fury, and ready to tackle the day.

Before leaving town, we stopped at a local outdoors store to grab a couple last-minute items: Granola bars, some extra rope, Tom needed a hat and I wanted a Lone Pine t-shirt. As Tom was perusing the hat selection, the store clerk, a younger woman with sinewy skin, made note of my hat.

"This one here is pretty good," She said to Tomek. "But you won't find anything as good as that hat," she said with stinging sarcasm as she nodded to me.

"It's a fucking great hat!" I scowled.

"Sure it is," she replied, cocksure.

What does she know, I thought to myself as I put down a shirt featuring local animal tracks and walked out of the store, grumpily. You don't remark on a man's hat, especially if your selection contains hats only suitable for gardening old women. (Nope, not bitter at all!)

*     *     *     *

With Lucy in my lap, we roared across the desert back towards Panamint Valley. I watched the Sierras dwindle out of sight as house music blared over the speakers. Steph texted me that Boston was safe now and I replied that I would probably be out of touch until the following night, told her where I'd be and how long we planned on being there (so someone would know where to look for us if we didn't return, always a good idea). 

We were back up in the mountains, nearing Father Crowley Point, when Tom spoke up.

"Could we get a change in music?"

"Huh? Oh, sure!" Alice replied.

Some other sort of thumping beat synth music came over the speakers. The new music was indiscernible from the last to Tom and me, but Alice and French had very strong opinions about each type. We spotted a bro-y looking man driving a black jeep with an open cabin blast by.

"I wouldn't be doin' that," Alice said. "Not in this heat."

Cruising down toward the valley, I asked if I could play some music. Alice passed the ipod wire back and I plugged in my device. Scrolling through, I found the ideal album: Canyon Candy by Javelin (not a fan of their other albums, but I do enjoy that particular collection). The low thundery vocals of "Cowpoke" reverberated in the car as we took an abrupt turn onto Panamint Valley Road, which cut directly down the middle of the valley. Surrounded on both sides by the vast, open, empty desert, the rolling mountains flowed past us, dark like dried blood and foreboding. The corridor we travelled down reminded me of Tatooine (which was partially filmed in Death Valley). Out in the desert, we could spy little dirt roads snaking through the sparse creosote plants that dotted the landscape. Ahead, our vehicle slowed and we turned down a dirt road. We passed a sign embedded in a stone structure that read "BALLARAT." It was an abandoned mining town, founded in 1897 before falling into disuse in 1905. All around us, derelict trucks, trailers and mobile homes dotted the run down settlement. Old shipping containers and tractor trailers were scattered around. Earthen structures with corrugated tin roofs sat rusting and crumbling in the Mojave sun, abandoned, forlorn. The whole place stood like a vestige of a long forgotten war, of a dead civilization. You could still feel the presence of the humans who lived here, though all but one had long left this place.

We pulled up to a fresher looking wood building with a Coca Cola sign and a lightly tattered American flag fluttering in the wind. We stopped and out walked a singular man. Greasy hair slicked back and dark, beady eyes, his skin was hardened by the sun and his belly pronounced from beer. In dusty jeans and a soiled sleeveless shirt, he had a fierce air about him, but not altogether unfriendly, probably the kind of personality garnered from being the sole inhabitant of a dead town miles away from the next nearest settlement. This was Rock Novak. He greeted us as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm.

"Where y'all headen' to?" He inquired with an accent all his own, like someone chewing cotton.

"We're going to make our way up to Panamint City." French replied.

"Pan-mint City, eh?" He pondered that for a moment, cocking his head to the side, looking up towards the mountains. "Good hike. Ain' done it 'n years m'self. Should be good time. Seent a bunch of boy scouts make their way up ther not yesterdey," he chuckled. "Figure y' might seen 'em up ther. How long y' plannin' 'n stayin' up ther?"

"Just for the night. Come back down in the morning."

"Welp, sounds good...good. If y' don' come back down, I'll tell the search par-t where t' look for y'." He laughed again.

We hopped back in the car and rolled down the window. Rock came towards us and pointed up the road.

"Jus' keep on 'iss road, take a right and y'll be at the lot for Su-prise Cany'n." He waved us off.

*     *     *     *

The road up to the trailhead was rough. To our left, a dry creek bed grew wild with cottonwood, red willow and creosote bushes. The mountains came up on both sides of us, and slowly the valley behind us disappeared from view. In the parking lot, there were more cars than I had anticipated, all parked in front of some mangled structures and pieces of mining equipment, the wood and metal both oxidized and sunburnt to the same color.

It was hot as we checked our bags, the sun now rising ahead of us, lazily filling the canyon with fiery light. I covered every surface with sunscreen, checked my bag, signed our names into the log book, and we made our way to the trail, following the dry creek as we went. 

The canyon walls around us were bleached white, with the mountains standing above them were painted like blood and brick. As the creek wound its way up the pass, it would guide us into the shade before launching us back into the unforgiving light. Soon, towering trees, fed by the now-trickling stream, provided refuge from the sun. The further up the canyon we went, the fatter the creek grew until we could hear it splashing beyond. Lucy waded through the water, taking sips of it as she went. Ahead, we spotted a large pool at the base of a waterfall.

"Are we going to climb up that?" Tom asked. There was no way around it.

"Look to the middle," French pointed. "See how it's got those stairs almost? That's the way you want to go up."

"Barefoot?" I asked, as the "stairs" were saturated with submerged moss.

"We're going to be walking through the creek for a bunch of the hike, so you might as well leave them on," Alice answered. "They're gonna get wet anyway."

We dropped our bags on the dry beach below an overhanging ledge. After French climbed up, I submerged my legs in the cool, crisp pool and scrambled up the mossy stairs, my feet slightly slipping as I went. French grabbed my hand and we made our way to the ledge to hoist up our bags and the puppy. She looked about confusedly, her feet occasionally kicking like a turtle plucked from the water. She was restful by the time we got her up, her tongue hanging lazily from her mouth, her tail wagging in excitement at seeing people she'd been separated from for an eternity of minutes. After Tom and Alice made their way up, we rested for a moment, listening to the soothing waterfall before moving on. 

There were several smaller waterfalls along the way and the trail kept mostly to the middle of the creek. Our feet wet and cool while our bodies were singed by the midday sun, we darted between red willow groves and enjoyed the shade as we went. Surprise Creek fattened ahead and we were launched into a flooded forest, our bodied bent over from the low canopy. I noticed a small object dart at my feet, but assumed it was some stream-smoothed pebble splashing in the torrent. But again I saw another. And another.

"Yo, guys," I called behind me. "Are there frogs up here?"

"We don't have any frogs registered in the park." An answer came from behind.

"Come here and check this out." I hollered back over the clatter of the creek. 

Alice came up and I pointed to the ground ahead of us. Sure enough, there was a small frog with a green body, khaki appendages and a black slit down its side.

"That's a pacific tree frog!" Rejoiced Alice. We pushed on.

Suddenly, the water stopped. The trees still covered us, but the trail was once again dry and dusty. we stopped to rest next to a cave, taking sips of water as we pitched stones into the darkened abyss. 

"I don't think we're going to have as good a resting place after this 'til we get to the top." Alice said.

"Lunch?" Asked Tomek, his mind always to food. I grabbed my sandwich out before anyone else agreed.

Low bushes and dried stalks of dead grass lined the trail as we made our way to Limekiln Spring. The dried grass was firm and whipped us as we passed. The backs of my legs began to sting. The trail rose up rocky from the wash and lifted us away from the cover of trees. Below, we could hear the faint trickle of the spring below the sun scorched leaves. Ahead, the canyon forked and the plant life changed to scattered creosote, sage and desert holy. Vibrantly colored collared lizards shot across the path and basked on the rocks, their turquoise, reds and yellows vibrating off the steely stones on which they sat. I whooped at every one I saw, as they are my favorite lizard and I'd never expected to see one in the wild. (I'd adopted one from a classmate as a kid. It's name was "Liz," as in "short for lizard." A condition of my adoption was I could not rename it. In retrospect, I don't know why I never did, as I neither hung out with the former owner nor do reptiles learn their names. Plus that is a damn lazy name. Sidenote, that lizard needed an expensive surgery when his rectum came out, but he survived for several more years. Go figure.)

The next two thousand feet of elevation were arduous to say the least. As the canyon runs east-west, the sun sat above us the whole time. There was no cover. We passed Brewery Spring, but the trail ran outside of its grove, so we merely watched the shade as we passed. The trail itself narrowed, with little game paths running along side it. Burro scat paved most of the trail at this point, ranging in freshness from shiny and wet, brimming with flies to dried and blown away, appearing more like lawnmower clippings than animal waste.

"Some of this scat looks pretty fresh, don't you think?" I asked.

"No, it's pretty old. Don't get your hopes up on seeing any burros." Alice replied.

"They live up here?"

"Yeah, we have a lot of them all over the park. But they don't usually make themselves known."

"We need to worry if we see one?"

"No. Unless it's an aggressive male, he might charge. But if we hold our ground, he'll back off."

"I think there's a guy who sells burro meat down in Ballarat." French chimed in.

"Can we get some?" Tom and I pleaded.

"We'll see," French responded, like a dad offering a glimmer of hope to kids asking for ice cream.

We spoke little, admiring the canyon as we walked. It looked like a torrential mudslide had been frozen in time, bulbous and tumbling as it made its way to the pass. Deep reds, ivory and rust. At the intersection of Cannon, Woodpecker and Surprise canyons, we could see all the way to the terminus of the pass. The mountains beyond were dotted with pinyon pine, lovely and rich against our austere surroundings.

The back of my legs began to feel sickly hot. I tried to peer at them, but with my pack in the way, I couldn't get a glimpse. I waited for Alice and French to catch up.

"Hey guys," I asked wearily. "Do my legs look sunburned?"

They paused, droning an "uh" before answering.

"They're not looking too good," French replied.

"Did you put sunscreen on them?" Asked Alice.

"Yeah, when we left."

"But what about the second time?"

"Shit!" I became angered at myself.

"Alright, we'll let's put some on now," Alice said handing me the bottle of 50 SPF sunscreen.

I cursed at myself as I slathered on the warm liquid.

You can kind of make at least one out in the center.

I rolled down the legs of my jorts and we moved on quietly. As we proceeded, the burro scat piles became more numerous, the desolate canyon loomed above us. I kept my eyes to the nooks and paths that scrambled away from the main pass. There was a feeling of being watched and it made our troop uneasy. Would we stumble upon a burro, or a lion stalking them, my paranoid mind wondered, wandered. Ahead, there was an earthen platform that overlooked the trail, and Tom pointed to it.

"Check it out!"

Standing in the middle of the ledge was a burro, barely visible, camouflaged effectively by its dusty brown coat. We stood and admired it for a bit, waiting to see if it would make a move. It did not, but soon, another head emerged from behind the ledge. And another. And another. Soon there were five or six burros all standing above us, their black eyes watching us as we approached. Lucy wagged her tail curiously. We were within a few yards of them and stopped again. The trail brought us to the foot of the shelf and we were weary they might approach when we came too close. They stood as silent and still as the mountains around them. A light breeze was the only sound in the canyon. We pushed on, their dopey heads turning to watch us as we moved up the trail.

Along the cliff walls, we began to notice foundations for small structures. Alice explored a cave to see if there was any evidence of human habitation while we waited on the trail--there was none. The sun was waning when we first saw the chimney stack come into focus. Now, pinyon clung to the cliff walls and evidence of human habitation became more evident.

Finally, we arrived at Panamint City. Above us, we could see myriad structures: The chimney, a long warehouse devoid of walls, some sort of building way up the ridge, a cabin and others. We could hear the boy scouts rummaging for firewood.

"They must have taken the Hilton. Damnit." Alice spoke, dismayed at loosing the ghost town's premier cabin.

"We can take the other cabin up the hill." said French.

We turned back and made our way past the low pinyon on our way up Sourdough Canyon. A derelict bulldozer and some rusted out trucks lined the way, with countless rusty tin cans littering the ground. The cabin came into view, disused and rustic with a sheet metal roof and a long front porch. Two immense dogs began barking ferociously. French restrained Lucy as a man came out from the darkened depths of the cabin. He was dirty, with a baseball cap on, wearing a sleeveless button-up shirt, holding a beer in his hand. It almost looked like he lived there.

"Hidy." He said, making no effort to quiet his beasts.

"Hullo," hollered Alice. "Staying up here?"

"For the foreseeable." He responded dully.

"Alright..."

"I'm guessing he doesn't want us up here," Tom said.

"I'm inclined to agree," I spoke, eyeing the man as he sat down on a chair on the porch. "Where're we going to camp if the boy scouts are down at the main camp."

"Don't worry," said French quietly. "There's another spot."

*     *     *     *

We sat overlooking the canyon, our tents set up around a smaller, rustic cabin, it's vertical wooden beams charred by decades of unforgiving sun. The buildings were rather well-kept, as volunteer groups take great pains to keep them intact, sometimes at the cost of their historical integrity (much to the chagrin of Alice). Inside, there were beds, but also copious amounts of vermin scat, so we decided to camp where there was not a risk of hanta. Nearby, there was an old shed behind a chicken wire-enclosed vegetable garden, its crops long gone. Surrounding it were lush green irises, and Lucy collapsed in them, rolling about with great ecstasy.

We set about sautéing red onion, two bell peppers, a zuke and a kielbasa as jambalaya rice boiled in a pot. Once the rice was done, we added the sauteed items, cheddar cheese and a few cans of Bumblebee canned chipotle chicken (can't get it out here, I've looked, but you can sometimes find canned buffalo chicken!) to the rice, and there it was: backpacking jambalaya. My stomach growled and my mouth salivated as I watched French pour dinner onto my tray. By now the sun was low and we lit our dinner with headlamps. I dug in, washing the food down with a lukewarm Porkslap pale ale (warm beer is usually better than no beer).

The sun was gone and the night grew cold. After we finished our meal and cleaned our dishes, we walked down a stone stairwell to a disused fire pit surrounded by a semicircular stone bench. The fire alight, we spoke loosely of the days travels, the history of Panamint City, my sun-stung legs and of sleep. Sweet, glorious sleep. I sat inflating my air mattress, my head light from the constant exhalation. Soon the fire shrank to but a glow and we covered it with dirt and water before wandering off to our tents. I laid down in my bag and stuffed my jacket under my head. I checked my phone, thinking perhaps I could get a small signal to tell Steph that all was well, but, of course, there was no service. As soon as I turned my phone back off, I was lost to the world and my sleep was empty of dreams.

*     *     *     *

I awoke with a start. I could hear the distant commotion of the boy scouts making breakfast and breaking camp. My nose was dry and felt as though it was on the precipice of bleeding. I went to pull my head up, but my lips were caked to my sleeping bag. I pulled the nylon away as my lips cracked, the sweet taste of nickel in my mouth. Below my head were traces of dried blood. I wetted my kerchief and washed the bits of blood from my face before venturing out to the dry, chill morning. As soon as I'd unzipped my tent, Lucy began to moan in Alice and French's tent, and soon everyone was up. We made quick work of breaking down the camp and boiling water for coffee and oatmeal--a speedy breakfast seemed prudent.

We sipped our bitter coffee and watched as the boy scouts made their way down the canyon. Once they were out of sight, we grabbed our packs (which were delightfully lighter without all the food/beer in them) and made our way down to Panamint City. Most of the buildings seemed newer, perhaps no more than forty years old. Unlike the cabins, however, they were in great disrepair. Inside a mostly-ruined warehouse, where empty cans and work benches covered in rusty nails were scattered about the room, we found the well water faucet and set about filtering our bladders. The place was heavy with the ghosts of those who once lived here, but their civilization was gone now, dead—a relic of a world that is no longer. 

We walked into the Hilton, the largest, best-kept cabin of the three. On its front porch looking down on the canyon and the valley beyond, there were rusted gears and metal pieces hung from wires that acted as crude wind chimes. Inside, the cabin was well swept, clean, with a small kitchen and some decent-looking bunks. We walked past the towering brick chimney, built in the 1870s. Its shadow stretched down towards the canyon, and we followed it out.

The backs of my legs stung fiercely as we went, the sun kissing them with every step. Oh! how I could not wait for noon to pass and the sun to be before us. As we walked again through the tall, dry grass, the stalks whipped me ferociously as I went. I contemplated switching to pants, but the day was already too warm, so I seethed instead, waiting for the grass to make way for scattered creosote. We saw no burros and no other people on our way down, and there was no breeze--the canyon was deathly still. We passed quietly by familiar sights: The cave, frogs hopping in the creek, small waterfalls. We lowered Lucy down to French before making the slow, refreshing scramble back down the mossy rocks of the larger fall. At the bottom, we rested, soaking our feet (and my sunburnt legs) in the cool pool, attempting to entice Lucy into the lagoon (she was not a big swimmer at the time, but a few summers in Death Valley have since changed that).

When we arrived back in the parking lot, it was after noon. The mountains on the other side of the valley stood distorted in the midday heat, and our lungs labored in the dry air. There was only one other car in the lot. We signed our names out of the log book, got in the car, and made our bumpy way back to the highway, waving to Rock Novak as we passed. But we did not stop, dear reader, for we had a destination that could not wait.

Blasting out of the hot, flat playa, we headed west towards a small settlement in the foothills of the Argus mountains: Panamint Springs Resort. We pulled up to a rustic looking, one-story building, flanked by large palmetto trees, with a large, open front porch. A sign above the front steps simply read: 

RESTAURANT

PIZZA • BURGERS • SALADS

A few German tourists sat out front and stared at us as we walked up, whispering to each other with curious excitement. Inside it was cool and dark. A burl wood counter wrapped around the bar. I turned to a well-lit room to my right and oh! what a sight! Three convenience store refrigerators stood side by side, each one filled top to bottom with beer. Of all breweries and brews. Dozens upon dozens of beers. So many, I became lost and panicked, as I often do when given too many good choices. I asked Alice what I should pick.

"There are no bad choices here."

Wonderful. I picked one I knew and I loved and I could not get back east: Mammoth Brewery's 395 IPA. I walked to meet my friends outside. One of the German tourists stopped me.

"Are you a cowboy?" She asked curiously.

"No, sorry. I'm just a fella, like everyone else," I said, channelling my Clint Eastwood.

She didn't look disappointed, but turned away disinterested. I walked to our table on the porch with a smile as wide as the brim of my hat. We ordered gluttonously: French fries, fried zucchini strips and a large BBQ chicken pizza, of which had been foretold before we even bought our plane tickets. Soon, our appetizers came out and we noshed while trading sips of each others beers, staring off into the arid land around us. When the pizza finally came out, 18" wide cut into 16 delectable slices, I felt my stomach jump. Covered in a 4 cheese blend, the symphony of smoked gouda, barbeque sauce, chicken and red onions was the most delicious thing I could remember beholding. We each took our slices and cherished every bite while sipping down the last of our beers.

We spoke with our waitress for a time after we paid. She told us how just the day before they had to call in a med-evac for an off road driver suffering from severe heat stroke. It appears that the gentleman braved the +100 degree playa in his coverless jeep with no water for drinking in the midday sun.

"Was it a black jeep?" Alice asked.

"Why yes, it was," the waitress kindly replied.

"We saw him on our way through yesterday."

"Well, we still have his jeep out back. Hope he can come to get it."

*     *     *     *

The day wore on as we made it back to Death Valley. We stopped at the Stovepipe Wells store to peruse their selection of t-shirts and tchotchkes. Outside, there was a pay phone (how retro!), and I scrounged the change in my pocket and made a call to Steph, as I had not spoken to her in some time. All was fine in Boston. The city had finally calmed down after a tumultuous week. She seemed happy to hear that I had not died (although she gave me some ribbing for suffering a sunburn), but her voice was tired, perhaps she was worn out from the last few days' events. I told her I'd be home soon and that I'd call her later on.

We pulled up to the Mesquite Dunes. There were some tourists yet walking around, but the sun was beginning to set and most folks were turning in. In our trunk, we had a bocci ball set and we wandered out into the sands for a few games. Lobbing the cannonball-sized orbs about the dunes, we joked that we hoped we wouldn't hit anyone on the far side of the sandy sea. Our last match finished, we sat on the crest of a dune and watched the distant mountains as the sunset cascaded across the clear sky. 

The next day we said our farewell to French, as he had to go to work. Alice drove us back to Las Vegas and stopped for lunch at a casino that brewed their own beer. We tried a few types, none of them particularly notable, but all quite potable. The bartender was boisterous and ever-hospitable, and we spent a great deal of time debating whether he was a wondrous character or a drunk. We ate some bar food and Tom tried a house-made root beer blended with jaeger that the barkeep insisted he have (it was quite good!). I made a pitstop at the bathroom, which featured ashtrays above the urinals, and walked passed the penny slots to pay our tab (astoundingly only $25). Then, we drove through the throngs of lights towards the airport. Our return to civilization was now assured.

It was a sorrowful goodbye. Going home not only meant leaving friends that I may not see again for some time, it also meant returning to the harsh realities at home, coming to terms with all that had happened. I sat on the plane, drowning out the harsh shouting of the children that surrounded me with a David Sedaris audiobook, and watched the spartan desert landscape pass below us. Looking upon the canyon-carved land, I marveled. What a land it is out there. One where no matter how much of it you see, there is much more unknown. An open land, and uncertain land.

City on the Edge

The Plowman's Wrath

Boston, Ma - February, 2015

I'll start this all with a story from Sunday, the day after our last storm. Steph and our friends Josh and Libby decided we'd spend the day relaxing at our Brighton residence. We'd all been shoveling car spot after car spot (Steph and I don't own a car, but it seems like the neighborly thing to do), sidewalk after sidewalk, stairway after stairway. We were tired, worn out, and becoming stir crazy. We needed a break. So with some tasty snacks and a few IPAs to boot, we decided to build a snow fort in the snowbank that now covers my front lawn in over six feet of snow. It was surprisingly quick work--Josh and I had a car-sized space carved out in about fifteen minutes. We pulled a couple of lawn chairs from the basement (which had to be dug out) and a small coleman charcoal grill. All the felled wood is buried in snow, so we used charcoal and cardboard boxes. Not exactly green, but really what is?

After some nice time around the fire, my beard crisp and frosty from the sub-zero temperatures, we began to joke around. One thing lead to another, as things often do, and a snowball left our little roofless igloo and sailed across the street, where it crossed the path of a snow plowing backhoe. The driver stopped and opened the truck door with a thunderous crash.

"You're real fuckin' funny!" A voice bellowed down our silent street. "Real fucking funny! Yeah think it's funny if I smash up your fucking cars? How bout I smash your fucking cars!"

We stared silently at each other, afraid to venture out for what the man would do. The kids in the apartment above us all gathered at the windows, watching with curiosity.

"How bout I fucking bury your fucking cars you shits! You little shits!"

It should be noted here that none of the cars parked in front of our apartment belonged to us, but rather to the other tenants of the building. 

The clinking of chains rattled and the plow lifted its boom above a neighbor's car, jerking it up and down as if to mock smashing the vehicle. Door still open, the driver reversed down the road, lowered the plow, gathered snow from a large snowbank down the road and crushed it into the vehicles until they were satisfactorily buried in snow. He drove off into the still night. We didn't play in the snow anymore that night. I grabbed a shovel and shoveled out the cars I had unwittingly buried in the madman's wrath. 

 *     *     *     *

I won't spend time telling you, dear reader, the details of Boston's broken transit system, how coworkers from outside the city leave at 7am and arrive at 11. How we're turning two-way roads into one-way streets, because there's too much snow for two cars to fit down the road abreast. How every bus or T is overflowing with passengers. How there's nowhere to put all the snow. How offices are half empty. How bars and restaurants are struggling. How I've walked 8 miles to and from work every day since the first storm. How people are being told by employers to ignore the state's don't-go-in-to-work requests. How bad my Bean boots are starting to smell. Just know that all of that is happening. And there's more snow on the way. 

In due order, shoveled spaces have been claimed and stolen before being violently reclaimed. What was once a shady Southie tradition has, over the course of the last four years, become a citywide shame that now occupies every vacant space. Tires have been slashed. Lives threatened. Thought pieces on both sides trumpeted. And it's bound to last until the snow melts away. And the most our city officials do about it is to ask us to play nice.

This is a strange time to live in this city--a city I grew up in. Most of my life, I've known one mayor of Boston: Menino. And Deval Patrick led our state for most of my adult life (remember Jane Swift and her helicopter babysitter?). But over the course of the last few months, we've lost those leaders and replaced them with Walsh and Baker, respectively. I can't imagine a worse cauldron for a newly elected official to fall into than this snowy hell. It brings out all of the worst aspects of the Massachusetts: Bad traffic, shitty attitudes, selfishness, finger pointing, name calling, space savers. These officials and their administrations have been, at best, faltering. At worst, they've been failing miserably. It's not to say Deval or Menino would have done a better job dealing with these storms; no one can know that. But certainly watching elected officials bicker about who's to blame over the MBTA, the roads, the inefficiencies is a sorrowful sight. Leaders are meant to be followed; is this the example we should pursue?

Friends who grew up in other cities and states (or even just know that sometimes other places get lots of snow) continue to point out that although Boston is looking down the barrel at 100 inches of powdery death this winter (only halfway through February, people), other places have it worse. Sure, Minneapolis has sky bridges so you don't have to go outside in the winter. Yes, cities in Siberia are very snowy indeed. But we're not Siberia, Minneapolis, Chicago, Bangor, Anchorage or any other place. We're in Boston. And although it's got a lot of wicked great things about it, dealing with this much snow isn't one of them. Those other places have space to put the snow. We do not. Truly, there's so much snow that cars now park in the right lane (and are summarily ticketed by the same city that didn't clear the streets). Walking home the other day, I came to a gridlocked Kenmore and saw to my amazement that the traffic lights weren't working. Two hours, I was later told, was what it took for a 57 bus to leave Kenmore and reach Brighton that night. Walking takes about 30 minutes. As for the streets, they are woefully pock-marked with pot holes, appearing more like a mortar firing range than a roadway in a major city. Any given day now, you can watch lines of potential MBTA passengers snake their way along unshoveled sidewalks waiting for a shuttle bus. And as the Globe has been pointing out, we will soon see exactly what all this snow has cost us in the form of a big bill.

And people are awfully fed up. When the last snow accumulation predictions were posted, I heard people cackling like maniacs (I numbered amongst them). Where are we even going to put it? They asked no one, for no one knows. Every conversation I hear surrounds snow horror stories, from roof collapses and car accidents to ice-covered homes and backbreaking shoveling. The sidewalks are packed with an angry citizenry, eyes forward, unconcerned with those around them. Our workplaces filled with grumbling colleagues who've spent hours using Cold War-era transit systems to ferry them to work. Our homes are illuminated by the dull light of two million televisions, for what else are we to do after spending hours just trying to get home? Even my cat is getting sick of me staying indoors. 

But all the passive-aggressive note leaving, space saving, twitter ranting (blogger ranting?), and MBTA chastising won't save us. We're stuck in place, just watching the snow pile higher and higher, stuck in the routine of snow, shovel, save space, work, shovel, snow, repeat. There is no more joy in a snow day (kids will be in school until the end of June), no more whimsey to a fresh blanket of snow, no more fun in throwing a snowball, no more humor seeing people skiing down Beacon Hill (okay, those pictures are still great, I take that back). This is but a moment in time, which we should remember as readily as we should move away from it, for who knows what the future will bring (or how much snow will fall). 

In our zeal to become a world-class city, Boston has been so busy charging forward that it didn't remember to look back and maintain promises made to its citizenry--things like a working infrastructure and a top-of-the-line transit system. We were too busy trying to figure out how to bring 10,000 people to Boston to figure out what to do with 100 inches of snow.  But now the cracks in our infrastructure and our community are showing, and we should not ignore them or those who refuse to do anything about it. Like the storm of '78, I'm sure crotchety old yankees will be bemoaning this winter for generations to come. Let's just hope they remember to speak up come election day and when next year's budgets are set. 

In the mean time, House of Cards starts next week, so just keep shoveling 'til then. Good luck and see you on the sidewalk. 

Roam Away from Home: Part I

Escapism 

April, 2013 - Death Valley National Park, CA

My mouth tasted musky and stale, and my eyes felt puffy as Alice urgently shook me awake.

"Mmmmwhatsup?" I groaned.

"Yo dude," she replied with uncommon worry in her voice. "Steph's on the phone. Something's wrong in Boston."

My first thought went to our cat, Neko, who has a propensity to fill Steph with worry. I walked out of Alice and French's guest room, climbed over a still sleeping Tomek, and shuffled into the kitchen to pick up the phone. When I heard Steph on the other end of the line, I could tell it was clearly not about the cat.

"Rory," Steph said with a start. She sounded on edge. "Have you been watching the news?"

"Uhh, no," I responded sluggishly. "It's like...quarter to 6 here."

"Well you should turn it on. Like...a lot of shit went down last night."

"What do you mean?" I was no longer in a sleepy state. My eyes were wide and my heart pounded in my throat. Alice, French and Tomek all stared at me.

"They shot a cop." She started. "And the police were like chasing them all through Watertown and they were throwing bombs and everything. And now no one knows where they are? I don't know. We're on lock down. Charlie's coming over. Your mom called me this morning to tell me."

I was speechless. My friends all gathered around me, their eyes pleading with me to tell them what was happening.

"Are you okay?" I was finally able to muster.

"Yeah, I guess. I don't know. I'm pretty freaked out."

"Turn on WBUR," I mouthed to French. He made his way to the computer and soon I could hear Bob Oakes voice in the other room.

"The cop they shot, it was right across the street from my office," Steph went on.

We talked for a little while longer before I got off the phone to call my Mom and thank her for checking in on Steph. Steph had wanted me home, but with the city on lockdown and Logan surely shuttered, there was little I could do. What's worse was that I would be likely out of cell service for the next three days. As Alice whipped up sausages, biscuits and gravy, I walked outside to clear my head.

Death Valley extended beyond view before me. A dust storm at the far end of the valley obstructed the sight of the distant, sandy mountains. Around me, clay and red spires jutted into the clear sky. The air was hot and crisp with the taste of dust. The silence filled my ears, with only the subtle breeze licking my hair. The hot concrete patio warmed my feet. I stared off at bighorn trails coming down from the bluffs behind the house.

What the fuck am I doing here? I thought.

*     *     *     *

Boston, MA - Several Days Earlier

I walked into my office on Huntington Avenue groggy. I had spent the weekend reenacting the Battle of Lexington and Concord with my British unit His Majesty's First Foot Guards, and that Monday morning, I had awakened at 3 AM for the skirmish on Lexington Green. While many institutions offer Patriots Day off due to the Boston Marathon, my work did not, so I'd struggled to bike to work, winding my way through Boston, past throngs of spectators and barricades.

Work, thankfully, was laid back. We had a hot dog party for lunch and there wasn't much pressing business, so I spent much of the day reading The Atlantic and watching the hordes of people walking to the finish line across the street from my office. A loud boom ricocheted between the downtown towers. Several of my coworkers rushed to the window that overlooks the Prudential Center and Lord & Taylor, so I joined them filled with curiosity. A large black cloud rose over the buildings.

"Maybe they're firing cannons," one of my coworkers reasoned. "You know, cause it's Patriots Day?"

I'd been around cannon fire all weekend and could tell that that wasn't the sound. I said nothing, for fear of appearing a paranoid alarmist. Another boom echoed down the corridors of Boston and another plume of smoke rose up. By this time, people began streaming down the roads between Boylston and Huntington. Some people were running, others were walking calmly, as though they were leaving the Marathon normally. Three bros rolled an eight-foot high basketball with Greek letters on it down the street.

I kept trying to send out texts, but nobodies' phones were working, so I rushed to the computer to message friends. Before long, one of them sent a photo posted on reddit showing a large explosion on Beacon Street. After that, the news started pouring in. Two explosions at the finish line. Many injuries. Pandemonium. I'd parked my bike on the sidewalk, so I ran down to get it out of the way of the now countless ambulances parked in front of my building. The streets were chaos. A group of pre-teen boys walked up to me and asked how to get to Downtown Crossing. I tried to remember how to get down there, my mind was fogged with confusion. I gave them some directions, but don't know if I sent them the right way. I grabbed my bike and went upstairs.

We waited in the office for another hour before leaving out the back. Joined by some of my coworkers who live near Brighton, we made our way through the back streets to avoid major roadways. The streets were flooded with people and cops were everywhere. Walking past bars, we saw people silently glued to TV screens, watching. Steph called me frantically, asking how long until I would be home. When I parted ways with the last of my coworkers, I hopped on my bike and sped home -- the streets were now devoid of cars. Steph and I spent the rest of the afternoon watching the news, slowly sipping on bourbon. When night came, we turned the news off and put on 30 Rock, but our minds wandered.

Work was cancelled the next day, as we were within the police investigation radius. I asked Steph and my parents if I should cancel my upcoming trip to Death Valley. I was scheduled to depart on Wednesday night.

"No, you should go." They said. "It'd be good to get out of the city for a few days."

My plans went unchanged.

By wednesday, my office reopened. Biking through BU and Kenmore, nothing seemed different. Just Boston on a nice spring day. When I got to Mass Ave, however, the scene changed. State troopers covered head to toe in kevlar, strapped with assault rifles, patrolled the streets. Turret-mounted National Guard humvees blockaded Beacon Street and barriers were set up to stop traffic. Fire trucks and police cars thundered down the street, sirens blaring. Work was quiet. No one really spoke. We mostly just stared out the window, watching events unfold across the way. I went home at 4 and got ready to fly to Las Vegas.

*     *     *     *

My gut jumped. The plane was dark, the sound of the engines droning muffled the quiet chatter inside the cabin. I heard a slight "ping!" and saw the seatbelt sign glimmer on. We were going through bone rattling turbulence. Again, the sound of a dull thud and my stomach jumped. The melted ice and whiskey residue in my cup tipped over and snaked across the tray table. My stomach began to grumble and cramp and suddenly I realized I needed to vomit. Next to me, a sleeping couple in their 30s blocked my way to the aisle. I did a quick mental calculation: Do I wake them up to go to the bathroom, or do I use the barf bag? Quickly, my mind turned to the prospect of waking them up by vomiting next to them, so I opted to go to the bathroom. Once there, I took a few deep breaths and felt at ease again. I arranged myself in the uncomfortable chair and looked at the map. We were over Missouri. The turbulence continued to Nevada.

It was dark when the plane landed, the warm, dry air kissed my face as I walked onto the jetbridge. Looking out on the darkened valley, I could see lights of Las Vegas glowing sickly above the city. To the west, the specter of a setting sun silhouetted the shadowed mountains. I gave Steph a call to tell her I'd landed and to see if everything was okay in Boston. If she was upset with me for leaving, she hid it. Exiting the airport, I began a confusing bout of texting with Alice as she tried to direct me to her current location. After I finally found the car, I was cheerfully greeted by my friends.

Tomek wouldn't land until the next day (which was more than fine--it had taken some effort to coordinate our trip anyway), so we had about 18 hours to kill. Originally, we'd considered camping for the night at Lake Mead, but my late arrival killed that idea. So, instead, we dropped our gear off at the dreary Four Queens Hotel and wandered around the Fremont neighborhood. Illuminated by the neon lights of Sinatra's day, the neighborhood now stood as a dusty relic of the days of Old Las Vegas. Pings and flashes erupted from various casinos and restaurants. Disheveled young men with backwards baseball caps and floral swim trunks sauntered down the walkways, eyes fiery red with booze and anger, looking for a fight, as the spectacle of the Walkway of Lights danced above us. We wandered into a piano bar and watched a few acts while sipping tall boys of PBR (which does taste different out there) before heading back to the hotel.

The next morning, we packed the car and made our way to breakfast at the unpretentiously-named "eat."  Peering over the menu, I saw a word I had not seen before.

"What's this say?" I asked Alice.
"It's called chilaquiles. You should get them, they're good."

"Chilaquiles -  scrambled eggs, turken, jalapeno mango sausage, corn tortilla chips w/ red & green new mexican chili & pico"

What the description neglected to mention is that chilaquiles are more accurately called "breakfast nachos," or as I like to say, "breakfast fucking nachos." The meal came out in a stately casserole dish, with fresh-made salsa and a generous glob of unmentioned guacamole. Even writing about it makes my stomach pang. Our bellies delighted with fine food and dark coffee, we got back in car and made our way west towards the mountains.

Towering red rocks stood above the highway, like the statues of Argonath, as our car wound its way through boulder-covered scrub desert: Red Rocks National Conservation Area.

Wandering up the trail, the sun warmed my skin. It was late April, so the heat was not yet oppressive. It was a nice change from the balmy spring weather back East. As we walked aimlessly through the open desert, Alice told me how it was unwise to approach a desert tortoise, as they might urinate and die of dehydration if harassed. Ahead, we spotted a large, adobe-colored rock, about the size of a one story cape home, pock marked with nooks and crannies. We followed a sand-covered channel that carved its way up the side of the rock, acting as a trail to the top. Hoisting ourselves up to the crown of the boulder, we sat and looked out on the valley before us, the wall of mountains behind, and the endless desert all around. In the distance, a vulture circled an unseen meal and the towers of Vegas were distorted by the waves of heat. We wandered up the trail, climbing over smooth rock faces as we pleased, before our water began running low and we turned back.

By the time we made it to the car, we realized we had about 40 minutes until Tomek landed, so we raced back to the city.

Tom squinted and beamed when he saw us.

"Yoooo!" He hollered, holding the "o" for a while before he broke into a delighted laugh. We all embraced before dispensing with the necessary small talk. How was the flight? It was fine. Did they feed you? Just a cookie and a coffee. Did you sleep? No.

The day was getting late and we were all hungry, so we made our way to Tacos el Gordo for tacos. It was located in a strip mall, next to a touristy tchotchke shop and a liquor store fortified with bulletproof glass. Inside, the florescent light faltered, slightly strobing the dining area, and we watched large cuts of mouth-watering meat sizzle on the grill or rotate on a spit. Although I don't "dine on swine," Alice urged me to try the spice pork, so I obliged and ordered one of those with a lengua taco to boot. People from the Southwest enjoy fighting over who has the best Mexican food while simultaneously reminding East Coast folk that ours is barely better than taco bell. While I disagree that East Coast Mexican food is garbage and am too ignorant to say which western state has the best Mexican food, I will say that Mexican food out there is something to behold. The second I bit into that taco, all my worry about Steph, Boston, the bombings and not being able to check in back home with ease (not much cell service in Death Valley, even on Verison), all of that vanished. I was man. I was eating taco. Taco was wonder. That was all. And before I knew it, they were gone. So I ordered another, wolfed it down, and got in the car to head further West.

We pulled up to Alice and French's new place, just down the street from their old apartment. A cool breeze blew across the valley and the stars glistened silvery behind swift passing blue-grey clouds. Their new puppy, Ethel, yipped excitedly, her wagging tail whipping her backside back and forth uncontrollably, her big feet stammering clumsily as we walked through the door. We dropped our gear and grabbed a beer before heading out to the driveway to look out on the valley, dark and grim in the night. It was hard to discern the mountains in the distance, how far the desert expanded before us, but the presence of the open grandeur of the place loomed like a ghost in our midst. Alice and French explained the itinerary of the weekend. We would make way for the Alabama Hills at the foot of Mount Whitney for a night of car camping before heading to Panamint City for a backcountry excursion. She pointed vaguely across the valley. Tomorrow, we would be heading away.

*     *     *     *

Tom and I listened intently to WBUR's telling of the previous night's events over the computer speakers as Alice and French worked on our breakfast, the smell of sizzling sausage permeated the house. We sat around their small kitchen table, Ethel waiting patiently by our feet for falling food, and talked soberly about what was happening in Boston. My brain working feverishly and my stomach fit to split, I excused myself and walked to the bluff overlooking the park staff village. The valley stretched out before me, a plume of dust traveled across it, revealing the endless beyond. 

The air was still and silent but for the sound of rocks and dirt crumbling under my feet. I called Steph to check in and make sure she was all set. I'd call her and text her whenever I had service, I told her. She told me to go have fun and that she'd update me with any developments. I put my phone back in my pocket, lingering on the sight of the park as I worried about venturing into it, out of reach of anyone who might need me.

We passed swiftly through the park, down to the belly of the valley, passing the bleak, open range and the kaleidoscope of browns painting the distant mountains. The rolling sands of the Mesquite Dunes rippled along the horizon and I rolled down the window to feel the dry, broiling heat of the desert. 

The road swept up before us, rolling its way towards the rising hills and away from the valley floor. The sky above us was clear and burning blue, and a haze hung in the mountains, like a fog that distorted our view, making the ranges seem distant, untouchable, unknowable. Before long, we were in the middle of the mountains, snaking along deep canyons and slopes. And oh! the colors of the mountains: Ivory to turquoise to adobe to blood red to charcoal to black. Rivets dug and wove into the sides of the hills like towering termite mounds. Beyond us, Panamint Valley opened up, a with blinding silvery sheet glazed across the playa.

Our ears popped as we dropped into the desolate valley. There was not another car in sight. No buildings to be seen. The only manmade object visible was the sweltering asphalt before us. As we sped across the playa, the distant mountains charged towards us, bulbous and lashed with white stripes. Back into the mountains, we stopped at Father Crowley Point, a dark, gaping canyon like a wound in the side of the range that emptied into the valley below. Alice and French told us that sometimes fighter jets will dive into the canyon, bringing to mind a certain scene from Independence Day, but there were no jets today. Instead, we found the Park outhouse riddled with bullet holes, likely fired from a high-powered rifle. Through the door were about twelve good-sized holes, with more perforating the stone structure. I opened the door to the bathroom, which rattled with lead from the still-trapped bullets. Only one had made it all the way through the door. Its resting place was in the wall above the toilet--about head level if one was sitting on the toilet. We joked about taking a group photo in front of the bullet-riddled door, but agreed that it was too grim (and probably bad medicine).

From there, we passed through more scrub-covered desert and dusty mountains. The land immediately around us flattened out and the road took a turn, revealing a stunning sight: The Sierra Nevada Mountains. They were still capped with snow, looming imposingly in the distance, an impossible tower of granite on the horizon slowly came towards us. I could only imagine the early settlers, after toiling through such unforgiving land, seeing the sight of those mountains must have been like a punch in the gut (or maybe a little lower). But for us, who did not need to make it through those mountains, the view was magnificent. As we came closer, blasting our way past Owen's Lake, the emerald forest at the mountains' base gleamed vibrantly in the midmorning sun.

Passing through Lone Pine, we made our way into the Alabama Hills. Big, bulbous rocks--ranging in scope from van-sized to building-sized--were scattered across the land haphazardly. The place looked like The Flinstones' Bedrock. There were a few other cars parked about, with rock climbers scaling their way up the face of these monoliths. We found a cul-de-sac to claim for ourselves (it's a big place and we didn't want to share our space with others) before grabbing a duffle bag full of rock climbing gear and making our way to a nice spot to scramble up.

The area we were climbing in was shaped like half a crater; a semi-circle surrounded by towering, tan colored boulders, some over 200 feet high. They grew and expanded beyond the cove floor, with the peaks of the Sierra Nevadas looming above them. Across the way, on a big, flat-faced rock, several climbers made their way to the lofty summit of the 200-foot boulder, appearing like lizards basking in the afternoon sun. The rock we chose was much more manageable. At 75 feet, a novice climber like me wouldn't have too much trouble.

French--the best climber in the group--attached his harness and lines, and made his way up the rock as quickly and adeptly as a mountain goat. Every few feet, he found an anchor and attached the line. He made it to the top, admired the view for a time, and rappelled back down to give Tom a turn. Tom nimbly made his way up the rock face.

"Move your right hand about two feet up," Alice shouted as Tomek searched for his next hold."Good. Now your left foot to where your knee is."

After Tom, Alice took her turn. And then it was my turn. I emptied my pockets--wallet, leatherman, pipe and tobacco--to make the harness fit more easily. I'd handed my phone to Alice, but after putting my harness on, I took it back thinking maybe I could snap a photo from the top.

It was tough going getting up the rock. My friends shouted footing suggestions as I ascended. Finally, I got to the top and pulled the line out to brake. I looked up at the snowy Sierras as the dry, warm breeze from the desert floor warmed my skin.

"How is it up there?" Alice shouted.

"Quite nice!"

"Take a picture!"

"Fuck that!" I replied, as I couldn't maneuver my phone safely out of my pocket. I enjoyed the view for another moment before making my descent to the ground, when I noticed my pocket shake. As anyone who's had a cell phone for a while knows, sometimes you get a "ghost text," or feel like your phone is vibrating in your pocket even if no one is contacting you (or if you don't even have it in your pocket). I figured this was what was happening--we were in the middle of bumfuck nowhere and I hadn't had service for hours--so I ignored it. Until my pocket vibrated again. And again. And again.

I quickly rappelled down and took off my harness. Ethel greeted me exuberantly, with enthusiastic tail wags and kisses.

"My phone was going crazy up there. I wonder what's up."

Now normally, dear reader, I try to avoid using my phone while in the great outdoors. But aforementioned factors encouraged me to try to stay in touch with the outside world.

I took of my harness and pulled out my phone. Eight new texts. Most were folks asking me if I was okay, but the ones from Steph were alarming. The police were hunting for the bombers in Watertown--just across the river from our apartment. The city was still on lock-down. Everyone was ordered to shelter in place. Our friend Charlie was still over keeping Steph company. She had yelled at our upstairs neighbor for smoking a cigarette on the front porch--maniacs were on the loose after all! I shot her a text back. Stay safe. Don't open the door for anyone. I love you. Then I lost service again.

Throughout the afternoon, we kept climbing the egg-shaped rock, finding different paths up the side of it. Between climbing and being the anchor, I followed Ethel as she chased a kangaroo rat from hole to hole.

Every time I summited, I'd get more texts. I'd descent and respond. Mostly they were from Steph, and I was happy to get to talk to her. Otherwise they were from friends and neighbors who knew my residence's proximity to the action.

Are you safe? They all asked.

I'm in the middle of the desert in California. Couldn't be safer. Thanks for asking. I'd reply.

*     *     *     *

On my last climb, the texts from Steph got confusing. The shelter-in-place was called off. Then it was back on. SWAT teams were storming people's homes. One of the bombers was dead, killed by his brother. No one knew where the other one was.

By then the sun was waning and we had to set up camp and make dinner. I shot off one more encouraging text to Steph before I lost service. And that was all I knew for the rest of the evening.


After setting up our tents, we all cracked a Great Basin Icky IPA and wandered around our rocky cove. I tried to put my worries of home out of my mind and stay in the present. We found a cave in the rocks and wandered our way through it. Eventually, the cave narrowed to a foot-and-a-half wide slit in the rock. Alice scrambled through it and I followed, almost getting stuck at the end (what a fun way to spend the night that would have been!). At the bottom, we found a sandy den with charred burns on the ceiling--an old shelter from a passerby in the past.

We rejoined Tomek and French on the boulder above the den and watched the sun set behind the desert. As we were now in the shadow of the mountain, the air cooled rapidly. The land before us was baked in an orange glow as the shadows of the mountain crept across the desert, jagged and random, like the teeth of a beast slowly devouring the land into night. 

Back at the camp, we enjoyed a few more beers and started our dinner. We set about dicing up potatoes, onions, peppers, carrots and sausage before dousing them with olive oil and wrapping the mix in tin foil. Thrown onto the grill above the fire, we listened to our meal sizzle appetizingly as we sipped on cans of Olys. The tin foil blackened with charred markings, we opened up the wrap and scooped generous mounds of the food onto our plates before covering it with cheese. The entire meal was devoured in short order.

The sun left us and the sky turned royal blue, displaying a wondrous spectacle of stars. Big, beaming planets, clusters of distant suns and the Milky Way nebula slowly came into focus as the night grew darker. Thousands of miles away, police were firing hundreds of rounds into a boat containing the bombing suspect. The city watched shocked as he was pulled bloodied from his hiding place. My family, friends and coworkers all sat and reflected about what this all meant and where our city would go from here. But under the starlight, next to our campfire, I knew nothing of this. Surrounded by friends with a cold beer in my hand and food in my belly, I looked out across the quiet desert, said a silent goodnight to Steph, wandered to my tent, and remembered no more.