Authors: Edmond Manning
He scoffs. “Sadly, this is an improvement over chasing a man with a gun,” he says over his shoulder as he leaves me. “I suppose I should be grateful for that,”
Perry disappears into the bathroom.
Good. I could use a moment or two without him to confirm some props.
P
ERRY
looks astonished when I fling back the last tarp to gather what’s underneath. Not because the contents are all that unique—just a backpack—but the tarps represent Vin’s Mighty Van of Secrets. Now there’s nothing left to hide; everything is out in the open.
Perry’s surprised face barely registers, so quickly comes his cool reply, “What a surprise, another backpack. I hope you kept the receipts. You must have spent a fortune at a sporting goods store this week. Seriously, it makes me nervous about your finances, Vin.”
I grab the sleeping bag. “You haven’t met the King of Bargains. Plus, think of how much we’re saving on hotels.”
I ask Perry to pack what’s left of our duck food and grab an extra water bottle. I attach the latest backpack to the sleeping bag frame and drag out the heated pouch of the most exquisite bruschetta I have known. Sometimes beautiful food that comes lovingly into my world makes me cry. I’m such a wuss that way.
Wuss
is a good word too. I like that word, a deflating balloon. Wuuuuuuuuusssssssssssss.
Vigor
vs.
wuss
.
Huh.
“Duck is locked and loaded, Commander,” Perry says.
“Let’s cover the cage. We’ll need to cover our friend tonight if we want to sleep.”
“Sleep,” Perry says wistfully. “The sunset will be beautiful, I’m sure, but if I weren’t completely exhausted, I would talk you into going back to the hotel. That bathroom had four different scented soaps. One of them was blueberry.”
“Did you take them when you left?”
He says, “The soaps? I should have.”
I say, “I love hotel soaps. For some reason, I always believe those little soaps will bring me luck. So far, they have only brought me soap. The word
soap
sounds slippery, and it slips right out of your mouth. Sssoooooooap.”
Perry says, “Sssoooooooooooooap.”
We begin our final quarter mile.
Unlike most California park trails, the east peak hike isn’t easy. The trail starts out perfectly fine: we traipse over two-hundred feet on solid railroad ties and enjoy a metal bar railing. The railing provides some illusory protection against the incredible distance a person would fall. You comfort yourself with how easy this seems, how safe.
Soon we reach a crossroads. A sign warns the path to our right is CLOSED - DO NOT ACCESS, and a metal gate actually blocks this access, symbolically at least. People skirt the gate all the time. At this moment, nobody flaunts that directive. I kept us in the parking lot long enough that we began the final ascent without company. That route is a shorter path to the top, a little steeper, but for the surefooted, easier. I don’t want this to be easy for Perry.
We press forward.
Almost right after the CLOSED sign, the wide wooden path and metal railing end abruptly, which means going forward it’s nobody’s responsibility but yours not to plunge to your death. Perhaps you’d only fall thirty feet and crush your spine against a giant boulder. But the brain can’t help but calculate the damage from falling all the way to sea level.
A dirt trail leads us, narrower than the wooden railroad ties, and rock stubs poke out, like enormous potatoes forcing themselves up, demanding harvest. The half-buried rocks are easy enough to navigate for a while, until suddenly they’re bigger and closer together. A few feet ahead, they’re bigger, and they are strong enough to form a union. Suddenly you’re climbing over instead of stepping around, remembering fondly that comforting safety rail.
I say, “Whenever I’m here, I feel I’m hiking through a life-sized diorama about how gravel grows into giant mountain boulders. And everyone knows what mountain boulders grow up to be.”
Perry stops eyeing his next strategic climbing move and says, “What’s that?”
“Mountains. Duh.”
He looks nervous.
“Vin, can we make it up here with all this stuff?”
“Yes, Pear, believe in me.”
With a smile he says, “I do.”
It’s a good thing we already like each other, because as expected, our sweaty exertion is not so sexy. Perry’s trying hard to keep the duck cage level, his hair plastered against his head, dripping profusely. I’m precariously balancing the weight of the pack frame against my back and the warm bruschetta pouch before me, which means I have to stop every other boulder and wheeze and plan my next footsteps.
I need to lose some weight.
I offer a couple of tricks on moving slowly, how to center the body while straddling two rocks, strategies for carrying a bulky object gracefully.
Between raspy gasps for air, he says, “How can you do this? You bring ducks up here all the time?”
Between my own raspy gasps for air, I say, “Coolers.”
We crawl the next two hundred feet over what appears to be an avalanche of house-crushing rocks that got confused and tumbled in the wrong direction.
I say, “Something to drink, Sir? Peanuts? Pretzels?”
Perry grunts in appreciation.
“That’s it? A grunt? I was proud of that joke.”
Perry grunts.
We are passed by a couple in their sixties, then a small family, everyone startled by how much baggage we drag with us. We exchange “High enough for ya?” type comments, and Perry waves them by with good cheer. He had to carry the duck to the summit. And he doesn’t seem to mind, actually. Instead of the faux-crime turning into the last straw, the duck now represents his ability to trust again, his adventurousness.
We take a moment to catch our breath.
“Ginger peach soap,” Perry says. “We could be soaking in ginger peach goodness right now, Vin.”
“Were you lying on Tuesday night when you said that you liked to camp and go hiking?”
“It’s not lying. It’s flirting. I was
flirting
.”
“Serves you right. Of course, I was fishing, trying to manipulate you into saying you liked camping, so perhaps that was unfair.”
“If I had more breath, I’d call you an asshole right now.”
“Please,” I say somberly. “Not in front of the duck.”
Moments later, facing north, we face a staggering vista and Perry wants his picture taken. He stands on an enormous boulder, and his backdrop is an uncountable number of avocado-green, humpbacked hills. Staring at these hills already blanketed in soft mist, a person might believe that the land got jealous of the ocean’s whale population and created these hills in loving imitation.
Like a magician, Perry slowly draws the black curtain from Mr. Quackers’s cage.
“Check it out,” he says to our mutual friend. “Someday you could fly up here if you wanted to.”
Mr. Quackers belts out a steady stream of exuberant sentences, saluting the world, announcing that he belongs, that he has always belonged.
“You’re traumatizing Mr. Quackers, Perry. He’s going to need therapy.”
“Great,” Perry says. “We can share a therapist. There’s probably a Vin Vanbly support group we can join.”
I set my burdens on a nearby boulder and free our camera from the backpack. People climbing by stop to watch. They were curious about us moments ago but now stare openly.
“Ready?”
“Absolutely,” Perry says, smiling hard.
I start laughing because he’s contagious. “What’s wrong with you?”
Perry laughs hard and it takes a moment for him to stop long enough to say, “I’m holding a duck you convinced me was the victim of a showbiz kidnapping.”
A few photos will develop blurry either because I laughed hard while snapping the shot or Perry doubled over exactly as I clicked the button. We manage a few photos where Perry is only beaming, splitting at the seams. Of course, we are not shy about asking someone to take our photograph together; Perry is all over that.
After one of our photographers shakes her head at our maniacally quacking friend, Perry informs her, “It’s the Tourist King’s birthday today.”
We boulder-crawl our way around the summit area, Perry occasionally splashing water or food pellets around Mr. Quackers’ quarters. No trail exists for up here, just enormous rocks, the ones that always seem to crush cartoon coyotes.
A brown ranger station dares to straddle the tallest tip of the east peak, selfishly hogging the best view, but because the building is draped in Tibetan prayer flags, we forgive. The engineering and architectural skill necessary to create this sturdy little house atop mountain boulders rivals the Golden Gate Bridge’s masterful achievement. Definitely worth photographing the foundation just to figure out how they built the damn thing. Once again, I can’t help but think,
Engineers. Got it
.
Perry says, “What do you suppose is in there? Weather equipment?”
I say, “Yeah, some. A bunch of reporting instruments. Two board games and some communication stuff. It’s mostly just floor space.”
“You’ve been in there?”
“Yeah, I spent the night in there twice.”
“Up there?
In
there?”
“Yeah, but it’s not really worth the effort. It’s ridiculously hard to get a cooler up there.”
Perry turns away to stare.
At this moment, hundreds of green miles and hundreds of blue miles are visible in every direction, and it’s perfectly apparent why our planet is portrayed in those two colors. I always forget how stunning our planet is from this height, the curve of the earth visible at last, and how you suddenly feel like Superman commanding this unique view of creation.
The sun seems fascinated to get closer to this paradise landscape, and keeps dropping half inch by half inch in the west. Tenderly he flies to his lover, the Ocean, who twists in delight with his imminent arrival. “Patience, my love,” the Sun whispers in long golden rays. “Soon I am yours.”
As expected, the east peak boasts a happy gathering of tourists like us. Or locals. There’s no need for that distinction, no snobbery here. It’s a crime not to love the world and each other at this altitude, a crime almost as terrible as spilling red wine in an art gallery.
Everyone greets us, because, well, we have a duck. Duckling.
Perry answers all questions in good humor, sometimes answering truthfully, sometimes teasing that we represent a local zoo on a field trip.
We don’t trade names like at the Golden Gate Bridge. Perhaps because it’s offensive amid this level of intense beauty to think
my name matters
. We are worshippers here, and only She matters, the Queen who carries us all.
Everyone wants a photograph of the man with his duck at the top of the world, and Perry grins for each photo, proudly displaying his adopted son. Two frowning couples won’t come near us; we scare them. It’s not entirely fair to blame Mr. Quackers. As soon as he becomes a mountaintop celebrity, out comes the fragrant bruschetta, still dripping warm olive oil. Luckily, Anna Marie packed plenty of napkins. That pouch thing works really well.
When people ask, I describe how to find Anna Marie’s restaurant, and after devouring their share, an older couple write down the restaurant name. They live in San Francisco but never go to Sausalito. “Too touristy,” they explain.
When invited to partake, a German family of six discuss amongst themselves. The father expresses suspicion in his native tongue until I take a big bite to show him my willingness. I probably didn’t have to eat one to convince them, but I love her bruschetta, so I am happy to prove my devotion. The oldest of his children, a woman in her twenties, speaks patiently to her father. I do not speak German, but I’m fairly confident she’s explaining how American murderers would never draw such attention to themselves.
They have a duck, father.
That’s what it sounds like to me.
“Parents,” she says, and hands him a piece.
He insists on a first bite before letting any of his over-eager children taste it.
I like him.
Our friendship finally negotiated, the Germans love the bruschetta and become eager conversationalists through their adult daughter. German Dad observes how uptight American parents are at this height, and we watch his kids leap from boulder to boulder, eating Italian bread and quacking happily in their native tongue. Duck love is recognizable in any language.
As we shake hands to part, Perry says, “We’re delighted to meet you guys. You’re beautiful.”
German Mom says, “Thank you.”
Among our small crowd of twenty or twenty-five, most come to investigate. Those who chomp away on Anna Marie’s bruschetta wave the remaining strangers to meet us. Some return for seconds. I have to apologize several times for running out. Once everyone who wants a photo of Perry and his duck has one, we are free of party obligations.
I nod around the area. “Look for a spot to lay our sleeping bag.”
We find a suitable patch of dirt, smaller than the Hammock, braced on either side by rock, but enough ground to lay flat. Less than one-hundred feet away, this dirt area becomes the alternate path, the one we avoided. I don’t want us exploring that path any further.
Perry sets the cage on solid ground and joins our tourist friends in gaping at everything. The sun and ocean draw closer to an actual kiss. Last photographs are snapped as our party guests depart. We will have the actual sunset entirely to ourselves, because nobody dares stay as light disappears.
I point toward a spot nearby, six feet away with more room. “How about over there? Break from the wind?”
A flat bit of earth offers an ocean view and stony shelter from the east and south. Plenty of space to sit together, cuddle together, and watch the day slowly end over the Pacific Ocean.
Perry believes I have spontaneously selected a suitable spot in this unfriendly campground. But we have to sleep right here. Otherwise, all my work yesterday was a huge waste of time.
Perry fusses with Mr. Quackers’s cage so he’s not facing any strong wind.
It’s hard not to hear the stories of the trees, the low keening of these mountain rocks; everything sings at this height. The wind stings us, explaining in sharp, brittle words the stories of the earth and her tricky relationship with ocean. We’re tiny ukulele players sitting up here, staring at the Hawaii-themed birthday cake all our own. We’re so close to upside down, more sky than anything else visible, that if one of us were to stumble over a rock, there’s no telling whether we would fall down or up.