

To read part I, go here.

We had passed some signs for Bass lake and the road turned to dirt. I could see the murky blue water through the trees now, and drove around trying to find parking. Jack spent the entire time talking about the landscape, and about his house, and everything that goes on on in the area. We had passed some signs for Bass lake and the road turned to dirt. I could see the murky blue water through the trees now, and drove around trying to find parking. Jack spent the entire time talking about the landscape, and about his house, and everything that goes on on in the area.

“Oh yer gonna love my place, up in Mariposa- I got a river and you know my friend the archeologist, he said ‘These are Indian carvings!’ Better not disturb them, oh no, theyre carved into the rocks! Ill show ya! We got this fire pit, cook some hotdogs, itll be a great time he he” Jack may have been a bit crazy, but I liked him. He was interesting, at least, even if he was in his own little world. If we did end up going back to his house, whatever it looked like, I might be able to talk him into driving me to Yosemite. I just had to keep my wits about me- I had a feeling jacks personality could easily take a turn for the worse.

We parked, and he promptly lit up a joint, passing it to me. Normally I wouldnt smoke before meeting people, but I was already the designated homeless kid, so why not live it up? We spent a few hours at the lake, talking with his extended family and swimming. From the rolled eyes and smirks, I gathered tat Jack was the crazy uncle/grandpa of the family. That family was very nice; they fed and treated me graciously, even though the only person vouching for me was a possibly bi-polar aging space cadet.

Jack lit up a few more doobies (his favorite word for them) and attempted to passe them around the fire. nobody took him up on it, and it made the other family members visibly awkward. This is one of my favorite things about backpacking: immunity to awkwardness. Travelers are totally outside social norms; anything weird is ignored, but anything sociable is points in our favor. After all, im just a homeless guy- no one expects me to even be half civilized, and if I decide to toke up with a crazy uncle around a bunch of semi-conservative upper middle class whites, well then, everybody should have expected that. At least I wasnt dirty and naked and ranting about chem trails.



We left the reunion in the late afternoon, after the sun had cooled down. I decided to take up Jacks offer about visiting his house. He mentioned something about giving me a job, Indian carvings and curses, a water slide, his dogs, and shrimp ponds- I couldnt really keep up. Even if half of what he said were true, it sounded like a nice side trip. Besides, I had more than a week before I had to meet Katy in Yosemite, which was only about 10 miles away- a days hike.

After about 40 minutes of winding dirt paths, we pulled past a mailbox and headed downhill. We were on the side of a ravine carved out by some unseen river, and the landscape was oaky and dry. As we pulled to a stop on the gravel driveway, I saw a small man-made pond overloaded with plants- his shrimpless shrimp pond, I guessed. In front of us were several levels of flattened ground, stepping down a slope. Each level was separated by aged stone walls and had huge oak trees- far older than the low lying scrub oak around us. Each of the levels had some something on them: a fire pit, a tire swing, a stump-made table, some chairs. At the very top level- right next to us- was a trailer. Next to the trailer was a visibly intoxicated Mexican man in a ragged T-shirt and baseball cap, sitting casually and drinking a beer. To my left, a stone staircase wound around a gnarled tree and disappeared down the ravine. Far below, I could hear some great river crashing through the rocks.

We got out of the car, and I let Luna off leash. There were other dogs around, and they went through their sniffing ritual. I checked my map, and found that we were straddling the border of Yosemite National park. Where we were at, the border took a sharp turn inwards towards the park before looping back around to continue its path. It seemed as if someone had taken a bite out of the the side of Yosemite and placed us there- I guess when the national park land was being bought, whoever owned this place must not have sold out. Maybe it was even Jacks. I tried to imagine him young and angry, debating vigorously with president Roosevelt and talking in an aged voice that didnt match his younger self at all. Jack interrupted my imagined debate.

“...and then I said ‘yeah you can find it right here!’ and he came down and set up his boat. I got me dozens of acres, you know down there is a Indian rock? Ive found three carvings, and ya know, I brought an archeologist up here and he says ‘Yeah those are real!’ he wanted to dig em up, but i said no cause ya gotta respect it- its a burial site.” All this talk of rivers and Indian carvings was piquing my interest.

“That sounds awesome! Can I go see them?” I talked to Jack as we walked over by the seated man, and I could see a hearty collection of beer cans by his feet now. The man was smiling, and looked friendly. Before Jack answered, the man started talking.

“ Ayyyy man! Hows it goin? Name’s Miguel eh” He reached out his hand to shake mine in the sloppy friendly handshake that drunk people have, and I introduced myself. Jack spoke up, sounding a bit confused.

“Oh...eh..thats my friend, Mickey. I see you two’ve met! Why dont you take him down to the river Mickey?” I got the feeling that “Mickey” wasnt a nickname. Miguel rolled his eyes and headed down the stone staircase with me. Laika was close behind, treading cautiously.

The staircase turned into a dirt trail that wound precariously around bushes clinging for life to the side of the gully. The trail ended up on a large flat section boulder, huge monoliths held against the slope by their own weight. About fifty feet below us, I could see the river. It was crystal clear, weaving and crashing its way through a maze of boulders that had no doubt been revealed by centuries of water flow. It was actually less of a river, and more of a series of cascades plummeting into sapphire swimming holes. Gulleys and chutes were carved in the rock and what looked like water slides winding across the faces of the boulders. I could already see several places to jump from, and the smile on my face was growing. This was paradise. Miguel sat down on the rock next to me and took a sip of his beer.

“So howd you get here, eh? The old man pick you up too?”

“Ha, yeah, I was hitchiking on the side of the road and he swerved in and took me to a family reunion. It was kinda weird. Hey- have you seen those Indian carving he was talking about?” My legs were dangling over the sides of the rock, and Laika was walking around and peering over the edge trying to get a good view of the river. “Yeah, sure, he SAYS theyre there, but you know...he says a lot of things…” Miguel laughed at himself.

“So how’d you meet him?” I asked

“Well I was sitting at the gas station enjoying my beer, when this guy pulls up. He yells at me ‘Hey ya lookin for work?’ and then starts talkin about some trailer and a pond. I mean, thats kinda racist” he laughed again and sipped his beer. “but i could use some work, and I was bored. That was a few days ago. Watch out for that guy, man, hes kinda...” Miguel pointed at his head and made the signal for crazy .

Miguel and I spoke a while longer, and I decided to head down to the river for a swim. He stayed behind on the rock and “chilled”. The path down to the river was overgrown and thorny, and I had to be very careful not to tumble down the slope. I stopped every once in a while to encourage Laika over a ledge. I finally made it down to the river and was rewarded with a waterfall about 10 feet high, obscuring the river above it. My backpack was hidden in the bushes, and my swim trunks were on, so I started climbing the drier rocks around the waterfall. After some false starts, Laika made it up too. I thought I could hear some laughing farther upstream, so I decided to walk the bank.

Several waterfalls later, I saw a group of college aged kids. They waved at me, and I smiled. “Hey bro! This your land? We live up the hill there.” There were two guys in the water, and a third sunning himself on the rock next to a girl. We talked for a while and they packed up a bowl. Marijuana is a social ritual in California- the pipe is passed around like a sacrament, and there is a specific method to it. New guests get the first hit- “greens”- though they must be careful to only light a portion of the bowl, and not brown the entire top layer. Next is usually the packer of the pipe, followed by the rest of the circle. I think briefly about other social rituals, and decide this one is the nicest.