GRAND CANYON: TIOGA PASS

The highway that runs through Tioga Pass is a long two-lane road that cuts through the heart of Yosemite and climbs to an elevation of nearly 10,000 feet. The glare of the morning sun on a winding road makes the going tough, slow and treacherous. I remark off-hand that if for any reason the pass were closed it would cost us literally hundreds of miles and a full day’s travel. We are grateful we did not attempt the pass last night.

Soon enough the road opens up and the going is easy. We are about thirty miles from the village when we are flagged to a stop by a park ranger. He informs us that a fellow ranger has been shot during the night. Tioga Pass is closed until they find the shooter. He tells it might be an hour or two or it might be a few days. No one knows. We ask if there’s a place to wait it out and he directs us to the lodge at Wolf Creek. We thank him but before we can turn around he asks for the second time: Are you sure you don’t have a gun in the car? Not even a little one? Wiz has joked about carrying a gun and I give him a glance before answering: No, not even a little one.

We will hear several versions of the shooting but the one that sticks is: The ranger came upon a man walking down the road and stopped to ask him if he needed help. The man said no but inexplicably took off running into the woods. When the ranger followed, he fired two bullets from a 22-caliber pistol. That’s a little gun. The ranger is still alive and presumably will be able to identify the gunman.

It occurs to me that we are suspects and I begin to think about prophetic remarks, given and taken so lightly at the time. First there was Wiz with his: Well, we’ll just have to kill him. Then there was my comment about the closing of Tioga Pass. Wiz’s mind has begun to spin the same yarn. He tells me that the empty bottles we left at the park headquarters would collaborate our story. I tell him that if they decide to search Sally the first thing they would see upon opening the trunk would be the word Killer on the strap of my golf bag. It was a gift from my father and the inscription was his nickname from his fighting days. Never mind, it would a long time before they would allow us to leave this place.

At the Wolf Creek lodge we are greeted by a small gathering of stranded travelers waiting for the restaurant to open for breakfast. A line is forming when a lady emerges from inside to explain that the lodgers have first priority. We step aside and allow the lodgers to move to the front. As the hours drag on, the gathering of fellow travelers grows. They relate their varied stories of the shooting and speculate on the identity of the suspect. He could be miles away in the desolate country or he could have doubled back to find a car. He could be right here at Wolf Creek. He might be one of us. Suddenly all single men begin to look suspicious. Some make the difficult decision to turn back and replan their vacations. We are content for now to wait. We have a wonderful breakfast and enjoy the interchange with the waiters. They are surprisingly joyful and upbeat despite the chaos descending on them.

We pull our instruments from Sally and Wiz decides to give me a lesson on the trumpet. He teaches me a simple jazz scale. Before long the practice gives way to improvisational jazz and space music. The sounds are sweet to these ears and seem to blend with our rustic surroundings. We are joined on the rocks by two fellow travelers and invite them to play but they are content to listen.

A dark complexioned man with a large pack and a very noticeable limp draws all eyes as he walks into camp. He is an American Indian who is walking a trail that will take him from the Mexican border to Canada. A fire walking experience that left a large blister on his right foot has slowed his progress. He was detained for carrying a weapon in the park. It was a bow and arrow he carried for hunting. The local Indian group came to his defense and gave him shelter. Their defense was successful but he was unable to retrieve his bow. He wears a medicine pouch around his neck, army surplus pants, coat and boots. In the eyes of the predominantly white encampment he is suspect number one. Naturally he finds his way to our gathering on the rocks.

He is pleased to join us on guitar and shows an affinity for Jimi Hendrix. Between songs and interludes we exchange stories. Though he is on foot the rangers will not allow him to continue his journey until the shooter is caught. He has been through the desert. I ask him if has seen Don Juan. Without a smile he replies: I am Don Juan.

An elderly couple emerges from the cabin adjacent to our circle and the man is clearly incensed. He makes it to his car before he erupts. He explains that he and his wife were trying to meditate in their cabin when the noise of our trumpet session broke their concentration, disturbing their peace. Wiz wonders why they didn’t say something at the time. The woman explains that they anticipated how they would be greeted: A couple of old fogies. Don Juan offers to play them a song and that only infuriates the man: Now you’re being smart. He storms off to the lodge as we continue our discussion with the woman. We apologize but suggest that they should not presume us to be devoid of manners and common decency. Had they said something we would surely have stopped. They are not aware of what has transpired in the night. We make our peace but we have lost the feel for music. The mood has shifted.

I surmise that the old man is in grave danger. To feel such rage and to be unable even to conceive another way of diffusing it. What is the purpose of his meditation? The Zen masters would welcome the distraction of a practicing trumpet as a challenge to their practice of the meditative art. Embrace it and focus ever deeper on the center of your being. Or if you cannot, seek remedy. Do not allow your rage to envelop you. Do not give yourself to rage. Or if you must then embrace the rage and understand it as your own so that you may learn from it and find another way.

We pack away our instruments and begin to discuss our options. We study the atlas for an alternative route that might have escaped us. There is none. Wiz opens the Zen of Golf at random and reads a passage: Be still and take in the breadth and depth of your surroundings. The message is clear. I had been leaning the other way. The thought that keeps circling through my mind is one that I have not allowed myself to speak for fear of the power of the self fulfilling prophecy: If we don’t get out of California today, we will never get out.

Wiz suggests that we take our sand wedges, a couple of balls and shoot our way along the hiking trail to Luben’s Lake. The hike is about three miles. Wiz has only recently purchased his wedge at a second hand store in Motown. He is anxious to give it workout. It’s too bizarre to take a pass. Before we embark Don Juan offers us some sage. He explains that he offers it to all musicians that cross his path. I am pleased with the designation as a musician though it is not a title I claim. Who am I to deny the offering of Don Juan? As is his habit, Wiz gives him a CD of his girlfriend Rhonda’s album. It is a labor of love that he has produced. I offer some road kill jerky. It is the best I can do. It later occurs to me that I should have given him the manuscript of a recent play: The Ringed Women of the Sacred and Forbidden Forest. It is a Joseph Campbell inspired tale of a hero’s journey. Maybe it would have been presumptuous. Don Juan needs no lessons that I can deliver. Knowing we will never see him again, we bid him farewell. I believe we have formed a brotherhood and that he will remember and speak of us just as we will of him.

We begin the hike, laying down our balls at the foot of the trail. We each have two balls and are determined to play all the way to the lake. I am not aware that Wiz has stored away a third ball. The lower part of the trail is relatively wide and flat, allowing us to swing freely, blasting away at fifty to seventy yards a shot. As we cross a creek with shots over the water, the trail narrows, becoming rocky and climbing steeply. Soon we take on the characters of Dufus McGhee and Sivas MacDuff, Irish masters of the ancient and royal art. We begin to count strokes. I build a sizable lead but begin taking drops at the cost of a stroke, concerned that the rocky terrain will damage my wedge.

At some point we both hit into the woods. After a long search we decide to exchange roles. He looks for my ball and I look for his. Our reasoning is that since we have not focused on the other’s ball, we will be forced to employ a sixth sense. Within minutes we find both balls. Wiz loses one in the thick grass and I abandon the search when I discover water on the ground below. It is then he reveals his third ball. I am convinced that that is the reason he has lost a ball. I have advised many a beginning golfer not to carry an extra ball in his pocket, particularly when water is in play. It invites doubt and even the smallest measure of doubt can break down the golf swing. The gods of golf can smell a weakness and the water will draw the ball in like a magnet.

We are near the lake as a couple of amazed hikers as they descended the trail. Wiz is reluctant to give up his search. He is determined to play the same ball the length of the trail. It is hard to give up your goals. Finally we resume the climb and Wiz overtakes me by two strokes when the lake appears before us. We are observing etiquette and I am away. If my shot makes the lake through the trees, he will have two shots to win. I hit a beautiful shot that finds an opening and sails into the middle of the lake. Wiz plays a setup shot to position himself for the win. We agree that the next shot must enter the water on the fly rather than rolling in for his victory to be pure. He sets up, takes his backswing and lets loose a glorious, soaring shot deep into the lake. I shake his hand and congratulate him. We have played the game in its best tradition and I have discovered there is as much joy in playing well and falling short as there is in winning.

Wiz figures we have played some three thousand shots during the four hours it has taken us to hike the trail. It has been an adventure. We begin the descent, wedges tucked under our arms, with the same self-satisfied feeling one has after a round of golf well played. At some point Wiz breaks into a trot that gives way to a run and becomes a mad dash down the mountain. I stay with him about ten yards behind and find the going surprisingly easy, effortless and free of restraint. We are approaching the creek and I wonder what Wiz has in mind. I place myself in his hands. I follow his lead. He decides to fly through the maze with a blindfold. He accelerates, taking great leaping strides. It is an amazing sight, man becoming bird, but the log he has chosen to plant his foot gives way. Crack! The Wiz is down, sprawled out on a small boulder with one foot in the creek. I manage to pull up before I come down on top of him.

He looks up with an expression that tells me his ego is bruised more than his body. He was protected by blind faith and his natural relaxation at the moment of impact. That the log gave way is like the distraction of the trumpet scales. His fall is triumphant, a beautiful and inspired event, but my smile does nothing to comfort him. He proposes a deal and I agree: I will not mention his fall if he does not mention his victory in golf. I agree though I see only glory in both events. I admit I have not completely conquered my competitive spirit but I feel no shame in losing a round of golf and hope I never will.

We are back on the trail and like Castaneda and Don Juan in the desert of New Mexico we are soon trotting at a comfortable pace. We reach the lodge to discover that little has changed. The shooter is still at large. The authorities have evacuated a village down the road. We decide it is time to move on.

We wish Don Juan well, crank up Sally and head for the pass, hoping against hope that it will open before us. To my surprise the road is open for miles and miles, climbing to an elevation of 9,000 feet before we are pulled over at a lookout station by Fairview Dome and Tuolumne Meadows. The view is spectacular. It is a clear day and the sky calls to the imagination the blues of Maxfield Parrish. El Capitan towers in the distance. Surrounded by the enormous granite mountains that dominate this land, I cannot imagine a manhunt on this terrain. The hopelessness of the pursued is rivaled only by the hopelessness of the pursuers. We linger in the glory and the beauty and the majesty and the grace of mother earth, trying to communicate our gratitude with sweet sounds of music.

A park ranger about our age breaks from our station to join us. He is a musician. We talk, he plays a song and he repeats the news of the hour. It might be a matter of minutes or it might be days. We are no more than twenty or thirty miles from conquering the pass and resuming our eastward journey but it is it not to be. We are not defeated but we turn back, resolved that our path has been chosen for us. I am grateful that we are in agreement. He later confesses that he has been visited by the same haunting thought that has trailed me since our detainment at Wolf Creek: Though it runs counter to the philosophy of the journey, we must get out of California tonight.