Been two years since I got out of the Army, back to the real world. I shared with brother Tom, still a Marine, Dad’s remodeled “bunkhouse” in the backyard of our home in Canoga Park, Calif. I was 22 in the summer of 1973, and my folks said I’d changed. I insisted I hadn’t.
Well, there were these Army tattoos including a nude woman on my arms, and I’d started smoking. Eventually I’d re-enlist because I couldn’t find a job. Hard times for us vets then. A V.A. counselor said we’re too into the past, and lost our sense of present and future. One thing I knew: “home” wasn’t really the “real world” anymore.
Right before I went back to college, I quit my summer guard job to go backpacking with Tom and my buddies, David and Paul, brothers I knew since Cub Scouts. I bought Dad’s ’64 VW microbus. I trusted it; we drove it many times in the eastern Sierras through high canyons to hike, fish and climb. As teenagers, we played chicken with slow semis on the highways up Owens Valley. Don’t ask me how we ever survived.
We wanted to repeat the same climb we tried before joining the services. A 25-foot glacier wall and improper gear foiled us the first time. Now, with technical gear, we hoped to ascend the bergschrund and reach North Palisades peak. It was a rite of passage, too, to see how we were as friends. We’d fought against changes inside we knew occurred but did not want to admit. The Army and Marines will change you for better or for worse.
We camped near our old spot on the alpine ridge above Sam Mack Lake. We rose at dawn in the cold air, made hot chocolate and oatmeal, loaded backpacks and started hiking. We were in our groove. Once we got to our camp five miles up the steep trail, though, I saw problems: Paul was feeling sick and Tom had blisters breaking in new boots. Didn’t this happen before? We’d relax and try next morning.
Next morning, Paul was throwing up and Tom was still nursing blisters. So, with rope, ‘biners, axes and screws, Dave and I climbed the north ice field to the glacier wall. It was taller than a light post and overhanged everywhere. I tried screws, and David tried belaying from the lip of the ice field, but the ice was too soft. Dave looked tired and I was panting. He paced back and forth, then murmured: “Well, I need to help Paul.”
I knew this climb was over — again. I felt frustration and relief. We hiked back to camp and rested.
It was then I remembered packing a fishing rod, tackle and a jar of eggs. With fishing gear in my knapsack, I climbed a scree ridge high above camp toward an unnamed blue dot on the topo map. Tom shouted: “Get some fish for dinner!”
Over the ledge, I saw the lake below. It looked sterile. I turned around to go back but something told me to fish it anyway. It was a brilliant summer day in the “Range of Light.”
I cast once and reeled. Nothing. Second cast, I saw a shadow. Third cast and “bam!” A spunky fighter. It was no bigger than my two hands when I grabbed the slippery body. I’d caught one years ago. It was Nature’s crown jewel, her most gorgeous creation in these parts. Its golden belly, crimson stripes, parr marks and white fin tips glittered like the lake itself. For an instant, I saw Nature’s face gleaming at me in this golden trout, one light of the universe shimmering in a small High Sierran lake.
I saw in my mind’s eye when we’d first camped here, years ago: David, his bright smile, clicking his Minolta: “Wow, this is fantastic!”
Paul, white T-shirt covering his freckled neck, gathering firewood. Tom, limping on blistered feet but managing his tent.
The thin air pounded my head but I couldn’t be happier. The gasping jewel told me: “You’re OK, you’ve been scared, you’ve seen some terrible things, many of your Army buddies are gone, so honor them. Now, let me go.”
I placed the jewel back into its little kingdom like a baby into its cradle, then saw it dart away from me forever. I sipped the pure water and breathed in the turquoise sky. I heard the music of Nature in the rushing creek.
When I was back at camp, Tom asked: “So, where’s the fish?” I smiled and said there was none.
That next January, my youngest brother called me at college to say Dad was dead. He’d drowned saving his skipper, trapped under a capsized boat off Ventura. As his eldest child, I was to give the eulogy. Tears swelled in my eyes but I did not cry. Afterward, I was told it was wonderful tribute for the World War II submariner.
How could I tell them I was inspired by a small, rare Sierran fish gleaming gold in the bright sun, gasping in my hands, reminding me how wonderful is this green enchantment called life?
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