Rosebud

Ray Purcell

The horizon was still a monochrome of grayscale where the clouds that stubbornly refused to blow off of the Clark Range were gradually being pierced by the Morning Sun. Freshly fallen snow cracked the light of the advancing blue sky the way that fine silk lame does when it's draped over curves. Our muscles slowly warmed as we skied along in silence. Our legs gradually found the ascending rhythm of the trail, and we were lost in our own thoughts. My eyes wandered across the crest of mountains that bound us on the east. Lingering briefly on Mt. Starr King, my attention then drifted north to Mt. Clark. I was captured by the couloir that divides its West Face and the way that the new snow had highlighted its ledges and rock bands. I wished that the dust that seems to fill in the lines of my face after I've been working in the yard made me look so elegant.

I'm not sure why at this moment, but the opening scene of Citizen Kane began to play on some screen in my mind. I was curious to watch in black and white as children played and laughed with joyous abandon as they sledded down a snowy hill. Well snow is as magical a thing as ever was, it transforms a landscape perfectly, hiding all blemishes; it commands something deep within us to touch it, dive into it, slide over it careening past all threats and obstacles with out care or threat.

As the keening bite of the cold morning made my ears ache and face tingle I became distracted at the singular thought of this particular movie playing to the audience of my mind. What was the comparison, the association; was it my lightness of spirit, feeling carefree and alive. Or, perhaps nothing more complicated than the sled its self, the one that obediently followed behind me laden with the necessities for a winter expedition.

With out requiring a single thought my legs automatically propelled me over the snow. I was distantly aware of the squeak of dry snow as my skis compressed it with each gliding step, the hiss of my ski pole tips as they deftly creased the smooth surface before the baskets dimpled the airy mix of water crystals. Without demand or distraction my mind was free to continue with the movie. I followed Orson Wells as the brash and despotic Mr. Kane, whose life was parallel in no small way to that of William Randolph Hurst, while he built and commanded an empire, and influenced a nation.

In omniscience I watched as the storyline drew me into the provocative and bitter irony of the conclusion. The powerful Mr. Kane, protected within his mansion, surrounded by the trappings of amassed wealth, swathed in the comfort of linens, and attended to, as he faced death, by a retinue of servants and subordinates. The dark weight that this scene hung on me defied release.

I stepped back out into the bright refreshing light of day, out of the oppressive, musty and cloying scene of futility, the bleak emptiness that Mr. Kane faced on his deathbed, in his inevitable moment of reckoning. I felt the reassuring tug of the sled, as it would momentarily loose momentum with each pulsing kick and glide. I breathed a cleansing breath of cool dry air. It was like escaping a pursuing dream. As I looked ahead I saw the back of my son Sean as he skied ahead of me and I felt joyfully complete.

I've never felt happier than now in this moment. Certainly I have felt as happy: surrendering to tears before family and friends as Lisa and I simultaneously completed the last phrase of Kahlil Gibran poem as we wed; holding a sticky, wriggling, and oddly odorless new born daughter and then son; watching my then nine-year old son as he skied up Breckenridge Mountain Road, dressed in gray snow pants, flanked by our dogs, Merlin and Mattie, and all the while Sean seemed to only stay over his feet and defy an improbably shifted center of gravity by the sheer buoyancy of his wonderment in the experience.

"You know what the problem with the world is?" Sean's sudden words had caught me unaware, stolen me away from the reverie of our silent rhythmic travel. The same feeling had happened the previous night. While snuggled in my sleeping bag vigilantly listening to snow flakes as they tumbled and slid down the taunt nylon of our tent. A subtle flash, a crack of electricity and then, one thousand one, one thousand two, ... one thousand five, a deeply resonant kettledrum roll and boom! I listened for Sean to stir but only heard the slow even pull of air as he slept the sleep of the young, and just. It was the same rhythm of breathing that had assured Lisa and I as he slept so many nights of his infancy.

We had set up our shelter well in advance of the setting Sun and the promised gathering storm. Secure in the lee of a ridge and protected by a windrow of tall firs, we erected a snow wall and dug out a dining area. We advanced through a reassuring routine to prepare against the night and storm. As we ate hot tortellini in basil Alfredo sauce from a shared pot, we took turns adding snow to a pan melting drinking water.

With not a smudge of food left in the pot that required cleaning it, we tucked into the tent and pulled in anything we didn't want to dig out of the snow the following morning. Sean was immediately asleep while I lay awake, taking the first watch while the wind howled over the top of the ridge and windrow. After two hours of snow, waling wind, and crashing thunder the tent was unyielding. As if reassured that there would be no adventure in this night I passed into sleep.

Sean's rhetorical question proceeded with a timber and presentation of a well-considered conclusion. Clearly his mind, as usual, was far from languid. Like a knock-knock joke that demands a "who's there" to vanquish, I sarcastically quipped "Problem? Just one." Sean, with out a pause, set me straight by responding that a true problem is in effect seminal and therefore if there seem to be problems, plural, then they are not really in fact "the' problem. I should have more carefully considered my choice of words before shooting off my mouth. So, properly, and deservedly re-aligned in my thinking I was ready to receive Sean's epiphany. He continued, "no, really, this problem has a solution."

The logic was textbook, though a little out of sequence in it's presentation. But hey, who am I to toss a big boulder in my kid's stream of thought. In a nutshell: observation, "People don't go on pilgrimages"; observation, people spend their lives chasing around after the stuff that leads to unfulfilled and ephemeral happiness. Premise, and I paraphrase, a pilgrimage reveals to the sojourner, ideally through supplication, acts of humility, and by embracing austerity the distillation of what is truly of value in life. Assumption, authentic values are necessary to a worthy life. Assumption, people lead shallow lives. Therefore, going on a pilgrimage leads to worthy living.

I'm thinking sarcastically to myself, "is that what they're teaching you up at that college". Instead I say, "so, why do you think people are missing the boat? What repeatedly attracts people to the disingenuous?" Sean supported his position by discussing consumerism and conspicuous consumption, and then his perspective on the catch 22 of becoming mired in an unsatisfying job just to perpetuate the cycle of debt/consumerism. I'm thinking "uh hu".

As an exemplar of unenlightenment Sean then invokes the name of Mr. Venzetti (the name has been changed here to protect the author from a ridiculous libel suit by an egregiously ignorant and tenured teacher), Sean's politically and socially arch conservative high school government teacher. I won't go into the specifics of Sean's ensuing catharsis against Mr. Venzetti (remember, not his real name). Suffice it to say that Sean extracted a remarkable lesson from the negative, though sadly nearly failed the class. For example, how to not have an incongruous personal philosophy and worldview. How to not justify a socially conservative agenda based on disparate bits of biblical scripture. How not to wage ad hominum attacks against those who are politically and socially different.

Of course I made the mistake of playing the devils advocate when I asked if Sean thought that Mr. Venzetti (any resemblance to a real stupid high school teacher is purely coincidental) might just be trying to provoke thinking among an oversized classroom of bovine like high schoolers by taking what appeared to be the low ground in the extreme. Once again, for brevity and to filter out my Son's vehemence, I'll paraphrase Sean's response- no. I descided to leave well enough allone.

We skied out of the forest and onto a ridge above Taft Point that had a stunning view over Yosemite Valley. Two things immediately distracted my attention; first, a toilet that hadn't been closed for the winter (with toilet paper!), and two, a cluster of brightly colored, and quite buried dome tents. The former, because I'm no ascetic regarding the snow camping experience, if you catch my drift. The latter, if I may be so judgmental, because I couldn't figure who would intentionally set up their camp on an exposed ridge let alone near a toilet. While I was in line for the facilities I learned from one of the ridge top habitues that they had a very sleepless night from having gotten up close and personal with the storm. When asked about our own experience I tried to explain without being patronizing how we had selected a more sheltered site and sacrificed the view, function before form so to speak.

My point seemingly was not lost on my companion at the crapper, she replied "I think next time we'll think twice about selecting a view spot." So maybe this same group won't buy a home in Malibu, build near a river floodplain, or on a fire prone chaparral covered hillside- maybe.

The for-real metaphor of the campers on this ridge top as applied to Sean's dictum regarding authentic values was a priceless comparison and contrast to our own experience the previous night in the storm. Of course when I asked him about the thunder and lightening he replied "there was thunder?"- well, there you go. I decided to further pushed my luck by asking if he thought that the trip we were on was worthy. You know, whether-or-not our trip was a pilgrimage of sorts, with out actually saying that. He was silent for a moment as we began to gather momentum down the grade to Glacier Point. He laconically replied "yeah".

We had just had lunch and were sitting on the stone masonry wall that curves in front of the Tea Hut at Glacier Point. I talk to so many people who now only recognize the hut as the Geology Exhibit. It's as though the memory of Glacier Point Hotel that burned down in 1986 has been erased from the collective memory; are Californians so transient. Anyway, the hotel was a grand two-story building that predated the Ahwahnee having been built in the late 1800s. Like the Ahwahnee, the Glacier Point Hotel was intended to cater to the elegant traveler in Yosemite, and as such provision was made for the genteel art of afternoon tea. Thus the Tea Hut was built and positioned such that over tea one could leisurely gaze over Half Dome, Vernal and Nevada Falls, as well as an the extraordinary expanse of Sierra High Country.

In contrast we now enjoyed the same view over salami, prochuitto, basil and mozerella roll, and french bread (no point in being too austere), while our sleeping bags and tent aired out from the huts log rafters. The effect of the view at least is undiminished. Sean began to enthusiastically enterprise over how wonderful it would be to open the hut again as a tea concession. I knew that Sean enjoyed tea but had no idea that he was such a connoisseur. Or perhaps my knowledge base is just limited. He was carried way with the romance of recapturing an entire tea drinking experience at the hut, not to mention an extensive selection of offerings. "Coffee?" I asked. "No." He said shaking his head as though offering coffee would would introduce an element of impurity, the way a burger or chili size might. "Though juices, of course. He turned to me, "What do you think it would take to do something like that?"

Our conversation lagged and I was once again consumed by the eminence of Half Dome, as though the sheer mass of its granite could physically absorb me. The vivid colors faded to black and white and once again I was watching Orson Wells in his death scene as the omnipotent Mr. Kane. Seemingly delirious he whispered with a slight rasp Rosebud, Rosebud, the syllables and pronunciation trailing as he passed through the curtain of death- very dramatic. To the attending entourage of staff and servants the reference was obscure. Then, for the audience alone, the revelation. As the relatively inconsequential and valueless possessions of the estate are incinerated the sled, that the audience is introduced to in the opening scene, is tossed into the furnace. The platform that joins the skids begins to char and warp while the heat blisters and erases the picture of a Rosebud.

We spent the night in the Tea Hut and slept beneath the signs that would expand the visitors understanding of glacial geomorphology. The next morning we renewed the ritual of fixing oatmeal and melting drinking water. It was colder that morning as we began the ski back to Badger Pass. We spoke again of the restoration of tea to Glacier Point and I passed sled duty over to Sean. He adjusted the waistband, that I had salvaged from an old Jan Sport backpack, that was attached to the $7.95 sled, that I bought at the Lone Pine True Value Hardware Store, by old fiberglass cross country ski poles from a yard sale.

Sean strode off with a brisk, smooth, and confident pace. We easily descended the grade back to Bridal Vail Creek in absolute solitude. That"s when we began to encounter other skiers out for the day. I was astonished at how full of bon hom Sean was, dispensing good mornings with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. Taking any opportunity to chat about the sled and our travels with any interested party, and there were many. I wondered if he were trying out his tea impresario persona. Sean was fully out of himself and authentically happy if I'm any judge of it. I think there are many ways to discern authenticity and live a life worthy, prayer, fasting, reading sacred works, and snow camping trips with a sled, that I think I'll name Rosebud. After all, life is process.

February, 2003

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