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 comfortable ease about him. He was clean. Articulate. Educated. He was traveling across America on his motorcycle. He was a retired vagabond. A modern-day Captain America. That resonated with us and we told him so.
But as we continued to talk to him, it became apparent that his romantic tale of life on the road was really just a subterfuge intended to hide his homelessness. He said he received $700/month in social security benefits. He was married for 40 years to the same women who left him after he paid $30,000 for her to get a face-lift. He liked the desert because it was safer than the city. He could trust campers. They typically didn't steal his meager belongings.
He asked us if we were academics. We pondered that for a moment before telling him "no." That was unfortunate he said. He had a math problem that he had been working on for decades that he wanted to discuss with a mathematician. But no one would give him the time. Even at public universities. "No disrespect, but people like you guys normally ignore me too" he told us. "The rest just try to rip me off."
He spoke about the "point to noise ratio" and how it was lower in the desert than in the city. We nodded in agreement although neither of us really knew what he was talking about. Later, we speculated that perhaps he was referring to the quality of human interactions in relation to their number. Whatever he intended, he seemed to want meaning from encounters with his fellow travelers.
He asked us what we were doing. We explained that we were there to backpack into the Cottonwood Lakes the next day. He looked perplexed. Why he asked? The question momentarily stymied us. Adventure, enjoyment, sublimity we ultimately told him. We were looking to reduce the noise too. He remained confused.
As the conversation waned and the sky turned black, he told us he couldn't drink the beer we had offered. Something about his past. He had demons and needed to keep them away from his campsite. We understood and reached to reclaim our gift. He stared long at the now warm can in his hands and then relinquished it. Reluctantly.
We left early the next morning as the rising sun began to paint the mountains in alpenglow. The old man was up and waved to us as we pulled out. We drove to the Eastern Sierra Interagency Visitors Center in hopes of securing a walk-up permit. When we arrived, there was already a line. After separating those with reserved permits from those of us without, the ranger in charge had us draw numbers from a hat to determine the order in which we would be called. There were 14 of us who drew numbers. I drew number 13 and tried to horse trade with the others. The only person who showed any interest was the unfortunate soul who drew unlucky number 14.
When my number was called, I stepped up and informed the ranger that we wanted to go into the Cottonwood Lakes Basin. He stared at the screen for a moment. There were 4 permits available. Surprisingly, they had been available since the day before. We took two and gave thanks to the God of Bureaucracy for allowing us entrance.
And then we went into the mountains with their crisp blue skies, cool green forests, deafening silence, and low point-to-noise ratio. The old man from Tuttle Creek was there too. As much as I had tried to put him out of my mind, he wouldn’t let me be. He kept intruding upon my thoughts and disrupting my equilibrium. His noise ratio was very high.
What will happen when he gets too old and feeble to handle his motorcycle I wondered? What if he gets rolled? Will anyone pay attention to him and his math problem? How will he get by if he has a major medical expense? Or a repair bill for his motorcycle? $700/month is pretty skimpy and he's already living on the edge. That fine and hazy line between the blue and the black.
I don't know what will happen to the old man from Tuttle Creek. But I liked him. And I'm worried.
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