7.4 – Ghosts in the Canyon

All summer Marty continued to explore the unique environment around his new home.  The geographically isolated canyon in which their “property” existed offered many opportunities for discovery.  He began to consider the entire canyon his natural home, and scoffed at the idea that it was the possession of any human being.  His mom, on the other hand, was territorial to the extreme.  She would let nearly anyone park their car on her property and spend the night, but if you arrived on a bicycle, she’d protect her boundaries like a junkyard dog.  Sir Francis Drake Boulevard was the only paved road running through the canyon, and it was twisty and narrow.  Many stout tree trunks crowded the edges of the road, against which an unwary cyclist could easily be crushed by a passing Winnebago.  The most popular alternative route for bicycles was the level railroad bed that passed within 20 feet of their house, which Marge considered to be her “private property” because she worked her ass off to pay for it.  Other than the highway, it was the only other way through the canyon, unless you paddled a canoe down the creek and portaged around the Inkwells.

 

Marty often rode his own bicycle on the pathways of his little corner of the canyon.  He sometimes saw “bikeys” (as Marge disparagingly called them) coming down their dirt road, trying to use their driveway to access Samuel P. Taylor State Park just a few hundred yards farther west.  Marty thought the nickname was apt due to the odd clothing they wore; as if they had taken a very, very wrong turn from the Tour de France.  It was easy to tell the difference between the long-haired local bikers like Marty, wearing t-shirts and jeans, and the spandex-clad “outsiders” who used the canyon for weekend outings.  Marge didn’t take kindly to trespassers, Marty thought fences were stupid, and the bikeys just wanted to get to the park.  That made for a rather interesting trip through their section of the road.

 

One day, Marty was riding up the hill from the old railroad bed when he met an annoying, athletic young man in a bright red, skin-tight space suit, balanced on top of a tiny European bicycle that looked like a paper clip between his legs.  “Is this Park Road?” he demanded of the local hick.

 

Marty skidded to a stop.  In the ancient tradition of locals providing smart-ass directions to tourists, his first response was, “Sure, lots of folks park here.”  He tried to keep the sarcastic tone from his voice, but the man was vexed by his very nature, and impatient with the jest.

 

“No, I mean, is this the way to the state park?”  He jabbed his index finger at a map as if it entitled him to be informed of the answer to his question. 

 

Marty smiled with his teeth and decided to have some fun. “Sure, just continue down and follow the creek.”  He knew his mom was nursing a hangover in the front yard after a hard night of partying, and would probably chew his legs off.  The haughty bikey waved in dismissal and squeaked his brakes all the way down the rutted road, standing on his pedals in his crimson leotards with the delicacy of a circus performer.  Marty counted ninety seconds until he heard satisfying bursts of invective ripping the forest to shreds like distant machine gun fire.  Another bikey bites the dust!

 

On summer weekends there were often bold attempts to trespass the entire length of Marge’s property.  Some of the more audacious bikeys tried to cross the McAuliffes’ bridge, but the surreal matched pair of Great Danes quickly changed their minds.  Confronting huge, black hellhounds in a dark forest of gigantic trees was probably too much for their weekend pedaling sensibilities.  Marty once saw a pair of them wading across the creek from the road to Otter’s teepee, holding their bikes over their heads to keep them dry.  Fortunately, the grumpy Inuit wasn’t home at the time, or their rusty buckets might have encountered a whomping stick.  After that, they still had to get past Marge!  Even if they survived her territorial terror, they had to run a gauntlet of naked hippies to reach the sanctuary of the park.  Marty enjoyed thinking that their little neck of the woods was much talked about at the bicycle shop in Fairfax.

 

Some obstacles were universal, because of course he also had to ride right past the China House to access the best trails.  Fortunately, Camille, Frederick, and their unclothed acolytes shared his open-mindedness about “property,” and unfailingly waved at him with welcoming cheerfulness.  Unfortunately, their equal sense of freedom regarding their birthday suits made the greetings uncomfortable and awkward.  It may have been a good strategy for them… if you went around in the nude, and didn’t break any laws, people were very likely to leave you alone.  Not to mention all the money you saved by not having to do laundry.  All the same, while suffering the throes of puberty, Marty generally tried to avoid social interaction with naked people as much as possible.  There were times, however, when he couldn’t avoid a direct meeting, and had to do more than just wave.

 

One sunny afternoon he had to walk his bike around a colorful painted hippie bus that filled their driveway.  It was decorated with many fantastic designs, and he naturally slowed down to look.  When he got to the front, Frederick was working under the large hood, which was decorated in the likeness of a dragon’s mouth.  It was an exceedingly odd sight: this psychedelic, mythical metal apparition, caught in the act of devouring a bronzed, naked Adonis.

 

“Hello there, Marty,” Frederick called in his accented Swiss baritone.  His tone was remarkably sincere, without any pretense.  “I see you pass by often.”

 

“Yeah, I like to ride my bike a lot.”  That was a stupid thing to say, but what can you say to a naked man?  Hey, your dick’s gonna get caught in that radiator if you’re not careful…

 

Camille heard them talking and appeared in the doorway.  She was wearing a robe of a subtle but enriching shade of ochre, which Marty thought made her look more beautiful than when she was nude.  She was carrying a purple robe for Frederick, and he wiped his hands and slipped it on.

 

“There, is that better?”  He flashed his perfect teeth and spread out his hands as if to say, ‘this is me,’ and motioned to the door.  “Do you want a tour of the old hotel?  I know you like the history of this area.”

 

“You know this used to be a brothel back in the railroad days,” he winked coyly, “They say even Teddy Roosevelt spent the night here.”

 

“Oh, Frederick,” Camille teased, and then looked at Marty seriously.  “We’ve worked really hard to reverse the karma of this afflicted building, where so many women suffered in the past, and passions were misused.”

 

Marty thought that was an extremely nice way to put it, and he opened his mouth to say so, but was overcome with a sudden awareness of the depth of suffering to which she was alluding.  “It must have been quite a scene in the old days,” he offered carefully, after a moment’s reflection.

 

“Oh, we have some antique pictures inside, come and see!”  She led the way into the top level of the house, which had a door facing the upper driveway.  It was dark and unfinished inside, with exposed beams and rough-hewn wooden studs in the walls.  Tie-dye and batik prints were hung like tapestries, in a way that probably hid some of the uglier parts.  The strong odor of incense and patchouli infused the air with a mystic charm, and what little furniture there was in the entranceway added to the Oriental motif.  A long hall opened on the left, and Frederick started the tour.

 

“These are old rooms of the hotel,” he informed as he passed, patting the aged wood of the door jambs fondly.  “Now they are used for our Ashram.”  Most of the rooms were open, and Marty couldn’t see any actual doors – just some patterned curtains or beads hung in the doorway.  Guitar chords sounded from inside one of the rooms as they passed, but he couldn’t see who was playing.  He wanted to go back for another look, but was too embarrassed.  Frederick led him into an open area with sunny windows and a high, beamed ceiling.  The room was dilapidated but very clean, with a funky but well-kept order to everything, which he silently attributed to Camille’s good grace.  The Swiss model waved his arm around grandly, saying this was their “communal room,” and pointed at some old framed photos on the mantel of a huge stone fireplace.

 

Marty moved in for a closer look.  One of the photos showed a long wooden railroad trestle next to the building, and was dated 1898.  A classic old locomotive was stopped at the level of what was now the second story, and ladies in elaborate dresses with parasols shaded their eyes from the sun.  The eaves of the building had Chinese decorations like a temple, and the ‘gentlemen’ stood posing for the picture with top hats and hands in their vest pockets.  He wondered if the ‘ladies’ were actually hookers, and tried to make out their faces, but the print was too faded.  Next to it was another picture of a locomotive stopped on a long trestle in the redwoods, with a man posing at the front.  “There used to be a trestle running the length of the property,” Frederic offered, “Folks would come out here from the city, and camp in the woods at your place.”

 

The next photo showed a group of men and women at the Inkwells, with a written inscription that said “Papermill Creek swimming hole,” but no date.  Judging by the ridiculous bathing suits they wore, it was probably taken at about the same time.  The overdressed ladies were sitting on stools with their parasols, and one was wearing a hat like a coolie.  The men were hamming it up again – some in strong-man poses, while others were feigning as if they were going to jump off the rocks.  There was no pipeline, of course, but it was difficult to make out any detail in old black and white.

 

Another frame displayed some bathers in another part of the creek, perhaps a bit downstream.  The inscription said, “Taylorville, 1902,” but there were no buildings in the picture.  Once again, the ‘swim suits’ were more elaborate than most people wore nowadays when they weren’t swimming at all.  Camille pointed out a small child, and said she thought that might be her grandmother.  “Really?” Marty asked with genuine interest.  “Your family lived here before?”

 

“No,” she said vaguely, “My grandparents lived in San Francisco, but they used to come here for holidays. That’s how we heard about this place.”  She showed him a few old artifacts, but there were no more pictures.  “Come on downstairs, I’ll show you the kitchen.”  A narrow set of stairs he hadn’t noticed before descended into darkness, and he followed her down to a storage area, which opened up into a large kitchen with a dining table and pantry.  An antique white enamel stove with chrome fittings dominated the room, and dried herbs and peppers hung from the rafters.  He took a special interest in the fat, elegantly trimmed buds strung up to dry behind the stove.  Beyond that, another door opened to the garden on the lower level, and suddenly they were outside again.