1982 (2) – Wilderness Baseball?

Night fell quickly in the autumn evening, the shadows not lingering as in summer, but dissolving into blackness before the moonrise.  There would be a full moon during our stay, but not tonight, and it was just as well because we would have been too tired to enjoy it.  All too soon, the modest forest around the lake resounded with a vigorous cacophony of buzz-saw apnea.  By now the local chipmunks must have thought it was the end of the world, and they stocked up on what goodies they could extract from our pile before the apocalypse.  (Not any of my stuff of course, which was tightly sealed in chew-proof containers, heh heh.)

In the morning, it was trout harvesting time.  We laid our cooking fires and strutted confidently down to the lakeside with our frying pans, where the silly little fishes were pushing and shoving to leap onto the breakfast menu.  There is nothing in the world like alpine trout cooked so fresh from the water that it curls in the pan when you cook it.  Some of our party foolishly tried to make a trout omelet with powdered eggs, but trout are best eaten by themselves; held like corn on the cob.  We licked our fingers in gleeful anticipation of the glories that a crystal-clear alpine day could bring.

Al, Greg, and Joe were hypnotized by the sacrificial trout that threw themselves willingly upon their hooks as soon as they hit the water, so they spent the morning conducting a catch-and-release educational program that eventually resulted in a more cautious population of fish.  Chris and I checked the cave (naturally), and meandered casually all around the lake shore to see what might have changed.  We made it all the way to Bumblebee Spring on the south side, now trickling and dormant.  There were many signs that the vegetation was folding up its tents for the long season of short days.  Chipmunks bustled every which way, frantically gathering whatever they could against the deprivation of winter.  The bees were reserved and ponderous, crawling across the same faded flowers over and over, shaking out the last grains of pollen.  Birds skulked from branch to branch, their quick, beady eyes searching for any remaining insects that were tardy in burrowing beneath the scaly bark.  For us, however, the alpine year was fresh and new, not just because this was our only chance to experience it, but also because we could conveniently leave before a harsh winter choked the life from the land.

After a lunch of more succulent trout, accompanied by whatever morsels the chipmunks had left us, we hobbled painfully back down to Wee Bear as a group.  With the enthusiasm of seasoned guides leading a busload of gawking tourists, Chris, Greg, and I took turns pointing out the natural and scenic highlights from every vantage point.  The Beater Cedar was visited, and suitably honored with the burning of herbal offerings.  We had brought stronger mind-altering substances for the full moon that was due tomorrow night, but the scenery had already imparted its transformative powers naturally.  As so often happens in the presence of majesty, our voices receded to the bare minimum of volume, and with softly spoken words we could easily hold conversations across impressive distances.  We invested a pleasant afternoon at the rate offered by the wilderness, and reaped the dividends before the sun set over the western crags of Altamira.  We all knew what we were waiting for.  It may have seemed ridiculous in the presence of mountains that had existed for millennia, but the Giants and Dodgers were embroiled in a pennant race… and we had brought a radio!  Nightfall would boost the signal, and we hoped to have a riotous time rooting for our teams.  The Giants were totally out of the pennant race, but they could still crush the Dodgers’ hopes, which was the next best thing.  Chris and Greg played the part of the obnoxious, confident Dodger fans, while the rest of us jeered derisively and assured them their arrogance would be punished.

To the utter delight of the blue-blooded brothers, the Dodgers poured it on thick and spread it around with a flourish, utterly disposing of the listless Giants, 15-2.  The rival Braves had lost earlier that evening, and our fireside was marred by the gleeful Dodger fans dancing in the flickering glow in anticipation of winning the pennant.  They were now just one game behind the Braves with one game to go, and their ace Fernando Valenzuela would be on the mound tomorrow.  There was nothing left for Giants fans but to go meekly into the dark night, huddling deep inside our sad little sleeping bags to drown out the exuberant boasting of the Dodger dimwits.

Sunday was the climax of our mountain itinerary.  Not only was it the last day of the baseball season, but it would end with a chemically enhanced, full moon hike.  The baseball games would begin at 1:00, and Greg watched over the precious radio like a mother hen, caressing and preening its dials to tune in the faint, wandering daytime signals.  He started his routine early in the morning, tuning into the raucous Dodger talk shows just to annoy the Giants contingent, who jeered in contempt whenever he walked by with the infernal contraption, blaring incongruously in the ambient autumn forest.  So naturally, he did as often as he could.

That morning and afternoon we were a tribe divided, with the muttering, discontented Giants faction sullenly strewn about White Bear Rock, while the irritating Dodger coalition huddled protectively around the radio like worker ants attending to their queen.  “I hope the batteries run out,” I cursed in the general direction of the tinny broadcast, and was rudely answered by confident, profane heckling.  How we could be expectantly waiting for two artificial baseball games in the midst of a gorgeously real, Technicolor day in alpine paradise, I knew not at the time.  Now I recognize that we, too, were helplessly committed to learn the outcome of the season.  As true baseball fans, the drama of the pennant chase was compelling beyond reason or the ability to explain, and we were all thrilled that our teams would play a part in the ultimate culmination of 162 games; most of which we had all listened to, watched, discussed, and passionately argued about for months.

As it turned out, nobody wanted to wander too far from the radio, so the trout were safe that day.  Chris and Greg meandered down to the shoreline with their fishing poles, but either the radio scared the fish away, or they were too worried it might fall in the water, and they headed back to camp after a short and unproductive foray.  We knew this because we had shifted our places on the rock so we could see what they were doing; being unreasonably suspicious that they might somehow alter the course of the game if we weren’t watching.  After a poor, distracted lunch of Cup O’ Noodles and ramen, Greg busied himself with aligning the tiny radio to its weak signal, still crunching on the dried noodles he hadn’t bothered to cook.  It seemed to me a gruesome omen that when the game started, the distant, whining drawl of Vin Scully came in more clearly than the closer Giants station.  We Giants fans vainly feigned indifference to the outcome, while secretly hanging on every pitch of a close game.  Chris and Greg were far too vested in the outcome to hide their devotion, and they lived and died with every pitch.

The Giants game stayed tied at 2-2, while the reports from the Braves game revealed the inevitability (to Dodger fans) that they would lose to the lowly Padres again.  The tension rose dramatically with every inning, as it became clear that a Dodger win would force a one-game playoff to determine the division winner.  Fernando was pitching well, but was matched by the intrepid Bill Laskey, backed by the collective will of the Giants players to salvage a dismal season by knocking off their arch-rivals.  The Dodgers loaded the bases in the top of the 7th inning, while the Braves were in the final throes of finishing their season with a whimper.  Greg and Chris leaned expectantly close to the yellow plastic transistor radio, like two transfixed robins waiting for a worm to peek out from its hole.  The Giants bravely ended the threat, and much disdainful banter was exchanged among our little band of displaced baseball fanatics.

From the vantage point of the camp robber jay, this curious display of human behavior must have seemed queerly vexing.  Why did the smelly, loud beasts not go away and leave their delicious treats unguarded?  What was that oddly attractive object that spat and sputtered with a guttural squawk?  No fair!  It’s the jay’s job to be the obnoxious voice in the forest!  They hopped from branch to branch in frustration, squawking their disapproval.  Hungry chipmunks watched impatiently from the cracks between the rocks, twitching their ears to the high-pitched squeal of the radio, and flinching with the roars that bounced off the hard, gray trunks of the trees with every out.  Oblivious to how we appeared to the locals, we remained rudely in camp, kicking up the brown dust with our pacing, and stridently imposing our sports agenda on the alpine afternoon.

In the bottom of the 7th, the Giants got a couple of guys on second and third with no outs, and it looked grim for the Dodger faithful.  Now it was our turn to hoot sardonically at the desultory Dodger fans, who had lost all semblance of bravado and gnawed vigorously on their nails with great concern.  After much maneuvering by the managers, a change of pitchers, and two strikeouts; the game – and the Dodgers’ season – was precariously on the line.  Up to the plate came the pesky Joe Morgan, a veteran Hall of Fame player in the twilight of his career, and in the inexplicable manner unique to the rhythms of baseball, the tension ratcheted up pitch by pitch, until it was agonizingly unbearable.

“Morgan hits it high and deep to right field…”  Our divided group rose to its feet as one, with some straining to hear if the ball had cleared the fence at Candlestick Park, while others gasped in horror, holding their breath as if to will the ball into Rick Monday’s glove.  “It’s gone!”  In our imagination, Monday turned to watch his team’s season sail over the fence, Morgan pumped his fist in the air, and Giants fans all over the state of California lost their collective minds vicariously, with unabashed glee and morbid satisfaction that if they could not advance to the playoffs, neither would the hated Dodgers.  As the late afternoon shadows reached their fingers eastward to Shasta, the local wildlife fled the Little Bear Lake basin in startled haste as the human intruders went completely nuts.  Whooping, manly hugs were exchanged while bouncing awkwardly on crunchy pine needles, and handfuls of victorious twigs and pine cones were hurled at the dejected Dodger fans.  Yes, there were still two innings to go, but even the chipmunks knew that the Dodgers were done for. 

Greg started an impromptu game of stickball on the spot, using a seasoned length of pine as a bat, to crack a few of those pine cones as far out into the lake as possible, given that its dimensions resembled a huge baseball stadium.  The “fans,” seated in the stands of granite forming the walls of the stadium, were unimpressed by his skill.  Eventually, true to the spirit of friendship and camaraderie, by sunset all tension and division receded with the brash autumn sunlight, and our excited little band of adventurers were once again united in anticipation of the full moon, the mushrooms, and the prospect of weaving the threads of our exuberant consciousness into the sentient tapestry of the Trinity Alps.