The Black Sage Journal

  Friday Night. It’s a beautifully warm evening at Tuttle Creek campground in the Alabama Hills. The encroaching night has taken the edge off the day's sweltering heat. Stars blink brightly above the eastern escarpment of the Sierra Nevada. The waxing crescent moon hangs in the darkening sky. Across the dirt access road, in campsite no. 3 sits a solitary old man reading a book. A motorcycle is parked at the entrance to his site. He waved to us as we pulled in and then again as we walked back to the camp entrance to register our site. We waved back at him. After we set up and got situated, we crossed the road to offer him a beer. It seemed like the neighborly thing to do. Not knowing him or his tastes, we gave him options. A nice craft beer from a local brewery or a mass-produced can of suds from Trader Joe's. He contemplated his choice for a moment before reaching for the can of craft beer. He held it lovingly in his hands as we began to talk. He was 71 years old with a comfort