A Western Landscape

“Listen, you just don’t get it do you?” Werner leaned over to make his point. “She’s seeing someone else.”

“Don’t say that.” I interrupted. We were driving, speeding really, northbound on the sinewy Angeles Crest Highway, before sunrise. Visibility? Foggy, so not much.

“But it’s true.” Werner said.

“No, I mean don’t say listen.” The tires screeched. I had the hi-beams on but still struggled to make out the road through the morning mist. “Don’t say listen,” I repeated, “especially if you’re going to say something stupid after, like you just don’t get it do you.” I put on what I thought was a stupid accent for that last part.   

Werner looked at me befuddled.

I explained, “We’re having a conversation right?”

He raised his eyebrows “sure”.

“A conversation means I talk you listen, you talk I listen. Listening is part of the deal. When you tell me to listen before talking, you’re implying I wasn’t listening. Like I broke the deal.” Werner stared at me. He’d have swallowed flies if there were any. I rolled down the window to slip my hand out into the cool morning air. We veered east, and zoomed down a rare straightaway.

“You’re deflecting as usual.” Werner sneered. He took a sip from an aluminum coffee mug with the logo from his medical group printed on it.

“Only because you say stupid shit. Name a movie where they say you just don’t get it do you, and I bet it’s a stupid movie.”

Werner gave that one a cursory thought before saying, “Okay fine. But you’re trying to change the subject again.”

“Maybe.”

“So you do get it?”

“I’m not blind.” I said, hoping to close the subject, at least for the moment. For the first time since leaving the valley, we found ourselves above the mist, with a clear view of the San Gabriel mountain range. The first sunlight was still a good hour from breaking the jagged horizontal ridge dominated by Mt Baldy in the distance.

“Look,” Werner started to say, but stopped, before I could interject. “I take that back. Don’t look. Keep your eyes on the road. I’d like to get to the trailhead alive.”

He was right of course; I was avoiding the subject, my relationship with Nicole, his sister. After dating for a year and living together for two, we were going through a little bit more than a domestic dispute. Deep down I really wanted Werner’s advice, but even though he seemed eager to talk about it, I was too proud to ask, and afraid of what he might say, if I’m honest.  

“Shut the window. I’m freezing.” Werner cuddled into the passenger seat and covered his head with his hoodie.

“Freezing? It’s not even cold out.” The car displayed an outdoor temperature of forty-five, “nice Spring weather.” I added.

Werner shook his head. “White folks.”

I’d known Werner since college. He was pre-Med; I was finishing a thesis in media studies. We met in a hiking club that organized weekly outings. We soon realized that we kept a similar pace, and we shared an interest in discussing just about anything, from local politics to pesto recipes, Korean cinema to medical history, renewable energies to haiku poetry, but above all, we didn’t mind disagreeing. Actually, and I think I speak for both of us, we fed the occasional spat, no hard feelings.  

The plan for the day was to summit Mount Baldy from the north, the least traveled road, the Backbone trail, a gnarly roller-coaster route with close to six thousand feet of elevation gain in a wilderness seldom visited by humans. We set off from the trailhead at six, half an hour later than scheduled, but alive. We strapped headlamps over our heads to light our way through the early dawn murkiness.

“So the two brothers, Land-God and Sea-God got into this big argument, huge argument, life-changing argument”, Werner made a sweeping gesture towards the peaks we were heading for, “because they didn’t agree on what humans should look like. Sea-God, not exactly a chill surfer dude, stirred up the waters to piss off his brother, or drown him, I guess, but Land-God had his own powers. He shook up the flat earth to erect this insurmountable barrier,” again, Werner pointed at the massive mountains all around us.

“Insurmountable barrier? Nice. Are you trying to tell me something?” I asked.

“Food for thought. When you face a barrier, is it wiser to climb over it or go around, avoid it?”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

We continued the usual banter along a mostly flat dirt road. Occasionally, to the north, our left, we caught a glimpse of the first sunlight raking over the vast, nearly empty expanse of the High desert, Victorville, and the Mojave beyond that. In the foreground, in the valley below, sat the mountain village of Wrightwood, where we‘d stop later for pizza and beer.

“It really is a barrier isn’t it? Ten million people on one side,” Werner pointed to the south, the endless urban sprawl of the Los Angeles basin, hidden from view by the barrier we were hoping to surmount, “fighter jets and rattle snakes on the other.”  

The trail junction was marked by a strip of hard brown plastic planted in the ground, with a luminescent “Angeles National Forest” logo on the tip, and right under it a Black Lives Matter sticker on top of which someone had scribbled a swastika with a red sharpie.

“Just when you think you’re getting away from it all.” I commented.

“Sign of the times, my friend, sign of the times.”  

“Which one? The sticker or the swastika?”

“The culture war.”

 We turned off the road and, after a very short dip, started climbing, and climbing, and climbing. Technically, it was just walking up a very steep path, meaning there was no need for special gear, but the quasi vertical, lethal drops on both sides of the three to four foot trail had us checking our footing and our balance very carefully.

“Nicole could never do this.” Werner said.

“Sure she could, she’s in better shape than I am.”

“She’s got vertigo.”

“Really?” Nicole and I had been on countless hikes together, although, come to think of it, none where you felt quite so exposed to heights. “She never said anything to me.”

“Of course not. She’d never admit it. She’s too competitive.”

Not that I was foolish enough to believe I knew everything about Nicole, but I started suspecting that this was Werner’s no too subtle way of bringing her back into the conversation. Actually, wasn’t the whole excursion his idea? Or was it Nicole’s?

“Did Nicole put you up to this?” I asked Werner. I was staring at his feet, that’s how steep it was.

“Up to what?” He seemed genuinely surprised.

“You have something to tell me.” I remembered what he’d started to say in the car.

“Huh? Altitude is getting to you.” He trudged on.

“Now you’re deflecting.” I said.

“Damn! This is a real thigh buster. Not sure what’s worse, going up or thinking about going down. Sure wouldn’t want to slip.” He said jokingly. Had he slipped, he would have taken both of us down to the certainty of broken bones, or worse.

For the next mile or so I thought about how my dad had taken me fishing when I was ten or eleven, something we’d never done before; it was his excuse to have the facts-of-life conversation. My mom talked him into it I’m sure. I’d just clammed up at the first mention of sexual organs. I didn’t tell him about the porn sites. No correlation with the current situation, other than the scheming part, but that’s what I was thinking. Werner used the hike as a pretense to have a talk, but about what? Maybe Nicole was done with me and Werner was the unwitting bad news messenger, or maybe he was probing on her behalf, maybe she thought I was done with her. Maybe I’d watched one too many romcoms.

We reached a small flat area where, just off the trail, a large pine tree had recently fallen, offering a perfect seat, to weary hikers. We sat quietly for a few minutes, loading up on protein and caffeine.

“You ready now?” Werner broke the silence.

“Yep. Ready.” I stood up and packed. He didn’t move. “Wait. Ready for what?”

“To hear what I’ve been trying to tell you since this morning.”

“Shoot.”

I sat down again and listened. Nicole had been meeting, spending time, with someone from work. She felt bad about it because she had kept it secret, but good in a way, because the reason she’d let it happen in the first place was that she was starting to dread the commitment of her three-year relationship with me, where could it lead? Marriage? Family life? She wasn’t ready. That much she’d shared with Werner, but when he’d asked her if things had gotten serious with the coworker, had anything happened she might regret, she’d gotten seriously angry. When that happens, you won’t be the first to know, she’d said, and then, you better not tell Mark.

“So I wouldn’t sweat it brother” Werner concluded, “if she’s thinking breakup, you will be the first to find out.”

Werner was off the hook, Nicole too, now what, I asked?

“Be patient, loving, take her out for a nice dinner, rub a rabbit’s foot? How do I know?” Werner said.

“Toss some salt over my shoulder?”

“Cross your fingers, knock on wood, whatever, just don’t tell her I told you any of this, because if you do...”

“You’ll never talk to me again?”

“I’m a dead man.”

A half hour later, we reached the flattened bump of Pine Mountain. At every step, Mount Baldy loomed larger before us. I felt small, minuscule, insignificant; everything around us was rugged and beaten up by the inhospitable big mountain climate. Humans enter at your own risk. It dawned on me, as we forged on, that we hadn’t seen a soul all day. We followed a windsept ridge, twisted bristlecones leaned like a chorus of dancers bending in unison. A couple of crows hovered above us for a few yards before dipping into the wind. In a matter of seconds they were mere black dots in the cloudless cerulean sky. They say wind makes people go crazy after a while, but I’d always felt elated, energized, in breezy conditions. My legs felt lighter, my lungs, even though we were gaining altitude, relished the constant oxygen flow, my skin, ionized, tingled from the friction. We covered the stretch to Dawson Peak in no time, then scrambled down, zigzagging around Manzanita and ceanothus bushes, dodging yucca spikes, arms extended like kids pretending to be airplanes, or bald eagles. We reached a saddle that looked small from a distance but was more like a meadow, bordered by giant ponderosa pines and white firs.

We’d agreed beforehand this was the bailout point. If we were too late, too tired, or didn’t have enough provisions to proceed, this was where we’d turn around. All was good as we caught our breath after the dizzying descent. We marched on. A bed of pine needles and soft dirt muted our footsteps.

“Check it out!” Werner pointed off to the right. A lone figure stood next to a tripod of some sort, back to us, about a hundred yards away. As we drew closer, I recognized the tripod as a portable easel. At the foot of it, a backpack and a mini foldable stool with a thermos, one of those old school types with a handle, that paired with workers’ lunch boxes, and an enamel mug.

“A plein-air painter? You don’t see that every day.” I said.

“A dying breed.” Werner added. “We should say something. Don’t want to startle him.”

I agreed, but before either of us could say anything, a dog who’d blended in with the pinecones and dead branches that littered the ground, sprung up and stared us down. His master looked over his shoulder. “Easy Bear. Easy.” Bear was a sand colored mutt the size of a coyote, but better fed, with a white face that looked anything but easy as we approached, probably insecure because he couldn’t smell us; we were downwind. The painter wiped his brush on a rag and slowly turned to face us. “Hi there.” He said. He put a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun behind us. He wore a blue bandana that kept his shoulder length silver hair off his weather-beaten face, three-day white beard smudged with paint, deep-set squinting grey eyes topped by wizard eyebrows. His denim shirt too was speckled with paint marks, as were his desert camo pants. I guessed his age at a well-kept mid sixties. He wasn’t thick, but stood upright which gave him an air of solidity.

“How’s it going?” Werner said.

“Do you mind if we take a look?” I asked, pointing at the easel.

As we approached and got within thirty feet Bear growled, a guard dog kind of growl. Werner and I slowed down.

“Easy Bear.” The painter commanded. Bear’s head tilted slightly. His back legs twitched, in fact his whole body tensed and suddenly, after we took a few more careful steps, he lunged forward a few feet, flashing his canines, then just as fast backtracked to stand by his master. A warning.

I heard Werner almost whisper “I’m not sure about this.” 

“It’s okay Bear, it’s okay.” I said, hoping to sound friendly but firm. I put my hand out. “Put your hand out so he can smell you.” I told Werner.

I took a few more steps. Bear hesitated, looked up at the painter, then at me, then at Werner. He flashed his jaw again, with a low growl.

I’d been around plenty of dogs. I wasn’t afraid. As a child, I had an uncle with a German shepherd, Sandy, twice my size, I used to play-fight with. This guy though, I couldn’t read him, too fidgety for comfort. He seemed torn between instinct and obedience. Though his master was strangely quiet. I stood up to talk to the man, maybe a little abruptly. Bear lunged past me. In a flash he was within biting reach of Werner, barking madly, jaws bared, moving from side to side, looking for an angle of attack. Werner stood his ground. He’d just about had time to pick up a stick to hold off the dog. I watch this strange combat dance for a second before reacting.

“BEAR. STOP! HEEL!” I yelled but Bear didn’t seem to hear me. Guard dogs only obey their trainers. I turned to the painter. He was smiling. Shocked, I told him to call his animal back. Who lets their dog do that?

The man did not budge or speak.

“BEAR! STAND DOWN!” I yelled again and walked towards Werner and Bear.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you!” I heard the painter shout behind me.

“Call him back then!” I shouted back.

I watched Werner jab at the enraged dog with his brittle piece of wood. It was the right move, just enough to make Bear think twice about lunging. Had Werner tried to run, he wouldn’t have stood a chance, it would have been like those civil rights dogs chomping on protesters, easy prey for trained attack canines.  

“BEAR. LEAVE IT!”

At the sound of his master’s voice Bear retreated, though unhappy, or insecure about it; he never took his eyes off Werner, kept barking, nostrils flaring.

“What the fuck?” I faced the master. “What’s your name sir?” He looked at me nonplussed. “You can bet your ass I’m going to report this.” I added.

“Report what, Sir?” He emphasized sir. “He’s a guard dog. He’s guarding.”

“Against what?”

“Bears, cougars,” he pointed at Werner with his chin “hoodlums.” Bear punctuated with a bark.

“Let it be Mark! Let’s just get out of here!” Werner shouted in my back.

“Sit.” The man told Bear quietly. Bear sat, let out a couple of residual barks. “Quiet!” Bear shut up.

I looked back at Werner waving his arm, “Drop it. Let’s go!”

“No way! This is fucking ridiculous.” I took a couple of steps towards the painter but froze. Bear was quiet, still zeroed in on Werner, but the man, calm and deliberate, had lifted the right side of his stained denim shirt ever so slightly, to reveal a holstered gun on his hip.

“Woaw!” I put my hands up. “Seriously old man? You’re going to brandish a gun on me?” The painter stared me down. I could’ve sworn he squinted like they do in western movies. Fitting, in this western landscape.

I walked backwards carefully, fuming, caught up to Werner and we promptly went on our way. Bear barked his own version of good riddance and we heard the painter “Good dog Bear, good dog.”

It felt like we ran up the brutal climb to the summit. Adrenaline pumping like crazy, I couldn’t shut up. I was going to report the incident to the rangers in Wrightwood. There couldn’t be that many gun-toting painters with dogs named Bear, even in these parts. Werner was quiet. I could tell something was eating at him, besides being attacked by Bear. Which was kind of strange, I had to admit, how he let me approach, but clearly saw Werner as a threat, zeroed in on him. He was trained, no denying that.

“I told you, you should have put your hand out.” I said. Werner shook his head. I tried to lighten the mood. “You should’ve showered this morning.”

Werner stopped and turned to face me with a look of an intensity I did not recognize. “What?” I asked.

“You really don’t get it?”