King Range Blues by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

Kyle Klarkenson, a 31-year-old, average-build, moderately Methodist, of-West-Midlands-England-ancestry Caucasian American, continues walking southwestward on a damp-in-sections dirt trail in the Delgada Canyon area of the King Mountain Range in northern California. The misty-in-shady-pockets air is refreshingly cool on this Saturday morning in May of 1964. He soon becomes lost in his thoughts as he chews on a rubbery wad. This sure isn’t the tastiest toadstool in the world. Pretty darn rancid. Earl [a trusted friend] said to mince it into a mushy paste, and then to swallow it – all of it. ‘You must NOT spit it out, Kyle. If you do, you won’t get the whole effect.’ Hope I can hold it down. Almost to the oceanside bluff now. Maybe only ¾ of a mile [1.2 km] to go. Wonder what thoughts I will have on this so-called ‘magic mushroom’ [Psilocybe semilanceata] today. Bet it’s overrated. Funny what Earl said about the origin of religion: One major reason for it was to stop hominids – the male ones – from killing – at least immediately – unknown hominids. Was it really kill strangers first and ask questions later? Jesus Christ! What a species we are. But, we’re not Neanderthals anymore. Yet, that violent proclivity persists. War after war after war. Murder after murder after …   

“Woah!” Kyle shouts as he spies a dark-brown-rhombus-shapes-on-yellow snake on the trail motionlessly basking in an oval band of filtered-sunlight rays. Could that be a western diamondback rattlesnake? This far north?

He cautiously moves closer to get a better look at the four-foot-long (1.2 meters) terrestrial serpent. No, it’s just a Pacific gopher snake. Nonpoisonous. No health hazard here. Onward.

After sidestepping the attempting-to-warm-up-enough-to-move colubrid snake, Kyle continues his hike. Eighteen minutes later he is standing in the middle of an incredibly steep slope that descends all the way to the Pacific Ocean. He spies a light-brown-hatted hiker far below walking on the narrow beach. Wonder if that guy is coming or going. Is he coming up here? Is he going to take the Shipman Creek footpath? Must be careful to not accidentally dislodge a rock, as it could hit him in the head. And kill him. I’m pretty high up right here. Probably around 400 feet [122 meters] above sea level. Feel a wee wobbly. Should sit down and take a break. Catch my breath. Yeah.

As Kyle bends to sit on a nature-made stone ledge, he inadvertently kicks a cobble, which tumbles and bounds, and then bounces out from the 77° promontory. Oh, no! I hope that stone doesn’t hit that guy down there. Please, dear God, no! Can’t believe that I did this just after reminding myself to NOT do it. So clumsy of me.

The rock splashes into the shallow surf, thirteen feet (four meters) from the man below, who promptly looks up as Kyle ducks backward. Oh crap! Bet he thinks that I did it on purpose. Should I yell an apology down to him? ‘Sorry, man, it was an accident.’ No. He wouldn’t believe me anyway. Best to do nothing. I suppose. Starting to feel a little strange. These leaves sure are ultra-green all of a sudden. So very verdant. Maybe take a look again. See if that guy is still there. Will he be waving his fists in anger? Will he be aiming a rifle at me?

Kyle stands and peers down the eroding scarp. There is no sign of the man. Guess he’s gone. Wonder if he’s coming up here. Maybe so. If he’s coming up here, I’ll go down there. He can come up to 12 o’clock via 9 o’clock, and I’ll go down to 6 o’clock via 3 o’clock. We’ll keep it clockwise. And I’ll successfully avoid him, staying 180° opposite him on our tilted loop. Maybe I’m making a mountain out of a molehill, but I really don’t want to encounter him. Or anyone. Well, let’s get going.

After walking about a hundred feet (30.5 meters) on the same invisible contour line, the trail fizzles out. The coastal redwood forest is suddenly quite dense. As taupe-straw-hatted, 6’-2” (1.88 meters tall), dark-brown-haired Kyle makes his way into the lush woods, he notices that the terrain soon becomes a cleft ridge. This is a dead end. That ravine is certain death. No way am I going to attempt that. Certainly not in this state of mind. 

Kyle then begins to retreat with his head down. Better to be safe than sorry. A mishap up here could leave me in protracted agony. A slow death. Alone. Well, until a cougar devours me alive. What a ‘lovely’ thought.

“Yep, it’s hard to get down from there, partner,” a mid-40-something, russet-haired, suntan-faced, wide-brimmed-leather-hatted hiker says from out of nowhere. Who the hell is that? Is he the guy from down below? No way; he could have never got up here that quick. Never. Not even if he could fly. My mind sure is flying now. Soaring.

Kyle sighs. “Way too hard for me today.” He then walks back to the vista point with the scraggly hiker. “Think I’ll take an easier way down to the beach.”

“There’s a trail that descends relatively gently to that sandy cove,” the older, ice-blue-eyed hiker states. “You catch it about 150 feet [46 meters] down this trail. It will be on your left. It’s faint and thin at first, but then it opens up.” Faint and thin at first? Bet it leads to Shipman Creek. Really don’t want to go down that way.

“Ok, thanks for the tip, sir,” Kyle replies. “That information is much appreciated.” Why does my voice sound like a monotone recording? Those mushrooms are taking effect. Need to wrap up this discussion. Quick. Before I blurt a blunder.

“Say, did you happen to see anyone hiking down there in the last half-hour?” the razor-cut-lower-lip man asks. Huh?

“Well, I’ve only been here for ten minutes,” Kyle answers. Don’t want to lie. Though, I guess I just did. / What kind of evasive answer is that? This guy is weird.

“Ok, well, have a nice rest of your day. Stay safe. Be careful on that trail that I was talking about. The round rocks get dislodged rather easily. You can lose your footing in an instant.” Uncanny that he would say that.

“You’re absolutely right. Will do. Enjoy your day, too.” Kyle waves as he walks back down the trail. Loose rocks and loose socks. The elastic bands are shot. Loose rocks cause ships to list. And sink. Ballast shifting in the hold. Inundation. Submersion.

After passing the descending trail on the left, Kyle begins looking for an ascending trail on the right. And soon finds it. Ah, yes, here we go. Maybe my concern of seeing another snake caused me to miss the path.

The trail switchbacks up the sylvan ridge. After climbing 350 feet (107 meters), a somewhat-winded Kyle sees a trail branching off on the right as he takes a swig of water from his dented steel canteen. That’s it! That’s the one. When was the last time I hiked this trail? Was it six years ago? Or, was it eight? What about seven? Or 707? Ha-ha. The flora almost seems alive. It is alive, you fool! Oh, my brain has been a-zapped by those liberty caps. No doubt about it now. Not a dud. Whew! I feel it. See it. Hear it. Smell it.

Kyle marches on for eight more minutes and then stops at an overlook. He spies the same small beach way, way below. He sees a speck moving. Is that the guy who was talking to me? Or, is it the guy who I initially saw down there? Or, is it someone else? Oh, what does it matter? It’s really not important. Everyone is ok. No one is injured. We’re all having a nice day – a perfect NorCal [Northern California] hiking day. Living in a full-page ‘Come Visit California’ magazine advertisement. Living the rustic lives of Riley. Though, can’t really be sure of that right now. Well, just savor the scene. If I could only totally forget Donna. [Kyle’s former fiancée]  I know why she left me – and Earl was right – I became complacent. Became content as the assistant. She wanted me to become the director. Maybe I should have applied myself. More. More often. ‘Women don’t like stasis, Kyle; they demand dynamism.’ For such a ‘genius’, he sure is broke. And alone. Guess Donna and I were ultimately a mismatch. The marriage would have failed anyway. Hard to find the perfect woman. Is there really a perfect woman for every man? Hmmm … maybe just ‘good enough’. For most. Some guys get lucky. I guess. Did I just feel a minor tremor? Is this ridge going to collapse into Delgada Bight? In 31 seconds? Why 31? Donna’s birthday: March 31st. Her next birthday will be with some other guy. Not really that bitter. Or, am I? Lying to myself. The things one thinks, but should never say. Aloud. Or write down. Just wish I could have the time back. To do what? Hope it works out for her in Santa Rosa. Not going back. Never. I’ll eek out an existence in Garberville. Maybe go back to being a mechanic. Or an alcoholic. Wonder what the thoughts were of the last guy – or gal? – who stopped here. Wonder if a Native American stopped here in 1613 and saw someone way down below. Perhaps a Spaniard? 1613 … why did my brain pick that particular year? It’s the psilocybin. Psilocosis. [sic] Need to tell Earl that one later. On this very date in 1613 … things happened. The sun rose in the east and set in the west. Just another 24-hour rectangular block on a calendar. But, the Cahto [an indigenous northern California tribe] wouldn’t have been aware of the Gregorian calendar. And lucky for them. ‘Be careful what you (es)chew.’ What nonsense I’m thinking! Time to start the descent. Must stay focused on my footing. A twisted ankle would suck; a broken ankle would doubly suck. Immobilized in darkness.

All of a sudden, an offshore gust blows Kyle’s hat off. It sails down the slope, disappearing into the lush greenery. So much for that one. $21 down the drain/cliff.

Step by wary step, Kyle slowly zigzags his way down towards the beach on the southeast side of the ridge. Twenty-two minutes later, his old hiking boots are sinking into the wet, black, coarse sand. Made it. Wonder where that guy went. Glad I’m here alone. Not sure if I could communicate very well with a human being right now. Seems like this mountain is trying to communicate with me. Millions of stories over the millennia. ‘There was this moment in 4444 BC …’ Time. ‘Time is the invisible dimension, Kyle.’ Wonder what Earl is doing right now. Should try to catch up with him next weekend. Give him a furoughly [sic] furrowed fungal report. Ha-ha.

He then looks up to where he was earlier. Wow! So, I was way up there. The mountain seems to be breathing. So alive. Don’t see anyone at either stopping point. Wonder where those two gents went. Who knows? Well, hopefully they’re alright. Whew! It’s gonna be quite a hike back up. Maybe rest for about a half-hour. Or more. Maybe an hour. Or more. No rush. Nothing to do tonight. It will just be me. Just me. Flying in place. On a remote beachlet [sic] in North America. Wow! Listen to that soul-soothing surf. It’s a sea-phony! What a clever coinage! Though, I’m sure that I wasn’t the first one to come up with that. Must remember to tell Earl. Bet he’ll say that he already thought of it. Sure wish that I had brought a pen and paper. Darn it! Yeah, the sea itself also seems to be alive. So very alive. Such a lively, swelling/receding, shape-shifting liquid. What a great day to be alive. Ah, look at the waves crashing onto those rocks down there. It’s been going on for decades. For centuries. For eons it would seem. The ocean is slowly breaking down the rocks. Very slowly. Very slowly this world is breaking me down, too. What a ball of joy I’m becoming. Don’t want to become one of those dour sods. Wow! Look at that huge bird. Is that a California condor? Up here? Maybe. Earl would know. Of course. He seems to know everything. About everything. Everything is alive. Even this sand. Wow! Another crab. They would love for me to croak right here. What an epic feast for these crustaceans.

Sixty-six minutes later, after a nonstop neural nexus of nascently nebulous notions, Kyle begins his Shipman Creek ascent. Three hundred yards (274 meters) into the streamside rise, Kyle sees a man face-down in the ferns, just off the trail. Woah! That’s the guy who I was talking to. He’s unconscious. Did he have a heart attack? Or stroke? Is he alive?! 

Kyle walks up to the man, and trepidatiously turns his livor-mortis body over. His forehead has been bashed in. His frontal lobe is visible. And his whole face is covered in not-quite-dry blood. Kyle also notices an adjacent, blood-stained, softball-size rock. Oh, my God! Is this real?! It is! A tragically surreal horror! Someone killed him – stoned him to death. Who? Was it the first guy I saw on the beach? But, why? Did they get into an argument? About what? Was it a robbery? No, his wallet is still in this pocket. $88. A thief would have taken the loot. Bad move touching his wallet. Now my fingerprints are all over it. Must smear them with something. Let’s see … 

“It was in self-defense, I swear to God, Kyle,” an adult male voice abruptly announces. That sounds just like …

Kyle whips his head around. It’s 33-year-old, black-haired, childlike-thin, bespectacled, dusty-brown-sombrero-lidded Earl. Kyle’s mouth falls agape. He’s speechless. Earl – Earl of all people – killed and mutilated this poor innocent man? Mild-mannered Earl? Why?! What happened? Was Earl the guy who I first saw down on the beach – the one who almost got struck by my ill-fated rock? Was that him? Didn’t know he was hiking here today.

“I was almost hit while down by the sea by a rock tossed from high above, Kyle. This clown’s prank could have easily killed me. I told him repeatedly to just tell me the truth – to confess, and to not be a lying weasel. But, he wouldn’t admit to doing it. He kept saying that he knew nothing about it. But, I caught the tan color of his hat very faintly, yet distinctly. Still, denial after denial. You know how I can’t stand people who won’t own up to their misdeeds. Well, then our conversation gets heated. He told me to ‘go fly a kite’, and I got right in his face. That’s when he swung his cane at me and brandished a pocketknife. I snapped; I lost it. A rage consumed me like I’ve never known.” 

The sound of footsteps 40 feet (12 meters) above. “Daryl, is that you down there?”