Vans and Meatloafs

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GDavis

Trad climber

Topic Author's Original Post - Aug 10, 2009 - 11:16pm PT

The longest day of the year usually lands somewhere in late June, just in time for schools to let out and family barbeques to light up in unison to the patriotic stylings of independence day and memorial day, a time to reflect on our great country and the heroes who planted its apple seeds by frying up the grill and eating mystery-meat-in-a-bun. Unfortunately to a climber it means the clock is already ticking, and though the high mountain passes are only recently open, each day that window of natural light closes a bit more, leaving not quite enough room for plans that probably couldn't fit through the front door anyhow.

It was a light snow year, and there were no patriotic revelries planned, not for me. Some old friends were back in town to cover my shift, and in between trying to cram four weeks worth of ninny high tech climbing-mongery into my parents decrepit old minivan, I hopped on line and into the NOAA web site.

Sweet Jesus! Looks like I wouldn't have to drive by Fresno after all. If I raced up, TODAY, I would be able to get to the 120 in time to beat tomorrows storm. Californians have a certain amount of hubris to gain from an understanding of mountain weather, but after another semester of accounting classes and the usual grind, I decided to cast my die and enjoy a more casual pace up the East side of the sierras. After all, I think only four or five of the vans cylinders worked.

It wasn't until the late morning that I got going. The jalopy was missing several important traits, current registration being one of them, however it did have a Chevy CD player. You know, the kind that turns the volume up whenever the engine accelerates to drown out the sound of poorly manufactured pistons leaking who knows how much fuel. But the road was mine, and in the captains chair I was a man of my own destiny, charging through Adelanto in my Van with the speed and vigor of a paper plate. I had to wave a parade float past me in Independence.

Up through Mammoth things were going fantastic. Even a bit after too, as that super accurate sign near June Lake forewarned me that the passes were O.P.E.N. with such arrogance. Glancing every so often in between long battles up the sherwin grade and the tiny foothills above the 203 up to my left I saw white capped peaks and striking white lines of snow magnifying the powerful lines, objectives I knew and some things maybe haven't been thought of yet. On my fifth home made CD mix, during Jazz Man by Carly Simon (must have put it on there on accident thinking it was Paul Simon, I swear I didn't know she was on there, and that goes for the Linda Rondstadt session I had in Bishop) I arrived at the holy of holies, the Mobil deli itself.

Sliding alongside RVs, FJs, coupes and sedans was my certifiable clunker. I had to circle the gas station a few times to make sure I got a parking space facing down hill.

I didn't have a lot of money, and the hot dogs were looking pretty good. Being memorial day weekend I might have wanted to think about my grandfather and all the friends he lost in Japan, maybe my Uncle who was in the Tet, or even the young kids from school, somewhere off in Iraq, safe hopefully. All good ideas, but probably would have to wait. The clouds were ominous coming into town, nothing short of an ass kicking was waiting for me, I was sure of it.

Things weren't looking good driving up the canyon. Not. At. All. When you actually SEE a head sized boulder coming at your car from the hillside above, and realize that you don't have the power to move your vehicle in front of it nor the breaking power to stop in time, you start to evaluate some things. Careful swerving saved the soon-to-be dismantled vehicle, but my nerves were already shot. Really should have picked up a few Red Bulls. Did I have any in my food bin? Who knows, its buried anyway, I think under my bike and mattress. Passing Elery lake, I started to think maybe I don't always have good ideas. The white out at Tioga certainly didn't impede those thoughts. Getting out of the car in a sweaty T shirt and walking up the road to see if, indeed, the ranger station had closed off, my suspicions were confirmed.

I now have to careen my van down this iced up road like a bobsled.

Feel the rhythm, feel the rhyme, get on up, I hope I don't die.

(For those of you over 30, that was a reference to a certain Jamaican Olympic athlete).

It was safe to say that while the memory of that ride will firmly be locked into my streaming mental dialogue, I would rather not recount it so soon. I'll just say that my down jacket, next to the wheel well, still smells like burnt break pads.

Back to the Deli, for food, caffeine, maybe answers. I feel better in the company of every day people, dealing with the same problems I am. A fishing trip cancelled, going to miss work in Oakhurst, a pair of soggy children standing under a hand dryer. Here at the Deli, in the presence of funky crap on the wall and a staff of beautiful young women (in case you forgot, you're ugly), we are all stripped down and honest. The storm is the great equalizer, comfort food our only ally.

"Uh... whats good. I need something... really good."
He seems to understand. My eyelids are still sealed against my forehead.
"Do you like Meatloaf? We do a great roast here."
"Sure... sounds good. How much?"

I sat in my own booth dissecting that twenty two dollar hunk of curly nonsense like I was panning it for gold. Outside it was starting to get dark, cold, and a bit wet. I would probably have to sleep on top of my bike behind the Mobil station. Outside I saw that big American flag waving, and remembered that yes, it was memorial day. That's today. I'm eating a giant dinner in the most beautiful range of mountains in the world, waiting for them to get a fresh blanket of snow and to allow me to pass through them, once again.

Back at home, my parents probably have the whole family over and are drinking beer and watching the Padre game, laughing, enjoying company. I found out later a kid that I went to high school with, who together we learned to run and play in our small local hills, was a world away in the desert hunting an animal. We first heard of this animal together, as children, in our English class. He put two planes into the World Trade Center.

I looked out again, the storm was now thick and very real. You couldn't see Mono lake even, nor the 395. That flag was still standing, waving, as it has and always will do. Maybe Memorial day is about reflection, maybe it is about a celebration. I really don't know, I'm only twenty three years old. But sitting there, at the foot of our mountains, during the worst spring storm in 2008, I knew that there was no place I would rather be.