Rollin' Away the Stone: Year Zero-Six

It made sense at the time.

Rollin' Away the Stone: Year Zero-Six

I: Alles Kaputt

The bungee cord of recovered memory took me back.

Back to the opening scenes of the powerful film "Das Bööty", where the lanky Herr Kapitan G of U-812 was studying the world through the powerful ZeissOptikon Periskop. He'd been stalking the elusive "Convoy Odalisque" for several days--the round-bottomed freighters were tempting, but he had to wait for the proper moment.

Little Dieter the radioman was monitoring the convoy signals. Suddenly he began to pick up the cluster LS-MFT...LS-MFT...LS-MFT. A distress call broadcast in the clear.

Herr Kapitan G 's commands were curt, with no schwitters.

"Es ist total alte Schule...senken Sie den Periscope"

The periscope retracted swiftly to the deck as the klaxon brayed its 2-note "Muff-diving! Muff-diving!" alert.

The Bosun bellowed "Prepare torpedoes!"

The swift and deadly Mark VIII-PunktFunf FleischTorpedoes were readied, armed, and chambered.

"Triple Cap latte! Ach rechts oben kommen!!

"Torpedos 1, 2, 3, 4 away"

There was a burst of sound and bubbles as the torpedoes pursued their prey with blind one-eyed tenacity. Eine Kleinische Schlacht-Musik, Kapitan G thought grimly.

He watched intently through the periscope. Torpedo 2 struck MV Ethyl Murmanskaya right behind the wheelhouse with a blinding flash. Five thousand tons of volatile personal lubricant ignited in a cataclysmic explosion, which made twin miniature reflections in his oval glasses...

I had awoken in a sweat. It was OK.

II: Nomex Is An Island, Its a Peninsula

The penance section of the Chantry Road was empty. Mostly. Save for a few most excellent Chantry Road Hikers who had deployed their hiking poles, mainly to get a better purchase on the relentless blacktop. Moving past them, I was on the Righteous Path to Ascend Mt Wilson-Phillips, and it was good.

I was alone in a breezy silence; the only sound was my tantric breathing in counterpoint to the grinding noises of my thoughts. Climbing up the now-mossy green rocks of the Winter Creek Trail, I set my sights upwards for the Manzanita Ridge. Coming around a corner I surprised a young adult cougar. It a stripling lad, heir and tributary to the Chucky the Cheese-Kutting Kougar predatory tradition.

Seeing the cougar made me realize I was hungry. I unwrapped an industrial caloric extrusion, and savored the complex flavors and textures; red oak sawdust and pink urinal cake, bound together with WD40. Chased it with a swig of water, and left a fluorescent cloud in my wake.

III: The Killer In Ewe Is the Killer in Me

Upper Winter Creek was empty of all traffic. A few apostate squirrels made desultory insults in my general direction. I caught the whiff of post-Saturday night squirrel whiz. The poison oak was trembling and dewy, the glowing ingenue of the trail, begging to be touched in that special way. I manfully declined the oblique proposition, and made relentless forward progress.

The top of Mt Wilson-Phillips was shrouded in the modest veil of mystery and scudding clouds. I began to see outriders of the REI Tribe in traditional Sabbath finery as they made their way down from the top. Evidently another solo unsupported bid.

Water flowed from the summit tap which is always a good thing. The wind whistled through the pavilion, carrying with the echoes of many Alannis Morisette songs that have escaped from the lowlands beneath the mountain.

The Sturtevant Trail was again empty, with only the skidmarks of yesterday's children to remind you of your eventual mortality if you ride a mountain bike. But the mountain lion sleeps well tonight, bwana, for all of our tomorrows. I took a long, reflective pull on the narghyle. Omar knew his shit.

Past the spruce, down the rocky trail to where the canyon oaks dwell and frolic. I'd read in the paper that Halliburton was bidding on a contract to mine and log in this part of the forest. This would remove all the chaotic and unpredictable irregularity. In its place would be uniform tetrahedral slopes, garbed in bamboo, tended by giant robots armed with machetes and AK-47s, which have a better service record according to Consumer Reports.

I was coming into the Sturtevant Camp drainage, populated by the mystic and reclusive Sturtevant Canyon Bears. These bears generally wear green hooded sweatshirts, beer hats, have surly dispositions, and are known to have a fondness for pen-fed Cub Scouts and Boy Scouts.

Free-range Boy Scouts are non-existent, while the pen-fed ones are given a carefully selected diet high in HFCS, white flour, and various stabilized culinary lubricants. The Bears can track packs of these sojourners simply by following the caramalizing vapor trails. Its a remarkable process, one that's been put on hold while the Chantry Road has been closed, and the seasonal herds of Boy Scouts have not been able to have been trucked in to their summer ranges.

IV: Where You Goin' WIth That UB40 In Your Hand?

I stopped by the Sturtevant Camp to visit with the Camp Manager. There we discussed the recent developments wherein some cabin owners had discovered that squirrels had set up meth labs beneath the floor boards. The most effective solution was to burn them out, which was not met with enthusiasm by the squirrels.

This being Easter, an influx of chocolate bunnies had been noticed. The erstwhile hosts had responded by biting off their ears and asses in retaliation. The bunnies were mute in their sufferings, as was their destiny.

Now was the time to Make Time, For Time Waits For Nobody's Goat's Head Soup. The trails were warming up as I came more into the general range of Big Santa Anita Canyon. Looking down various drainages and washes I marvel at the creativity of the names; Dead Horse, Lost Rider, and Remote Control Canyon come to mind.

Surfacing again at Chantry, it was clearing and sunny. I tucked it in and made my tangent-cutting drop down to the bottom, where the Shire of SIerra Madre slumbered in the wan afternoon light. The inhabitants were closing in on their final Easter Dinners, and if it wasn't Lamb With The Bone In, it was Wild Tofurkey in some description.

And thus another day was spent in the contemplation of resurrection. Word.