by Jack Kerouac
52
Seattles in the fog, burlesque shows, cigars and wines and papers in a room, fogs, ferries, bacon and eggs and toast in the morning—sweet cities below.
Down about where the heavy timber begins, big Ponderosas and russet all-trees, the air hits me nice, green Northwest, blue pine needles, fresh, the boat is cutting a swath in the nearer lake, it’s going to beat me, but just keep on swinging, Marcus Magee—You’ve had falls before and Joyce made a word two lines long to describe it—brabarackotawackomanashtopatarata-wackomanac!
We’ll light three candles to three souls when we get there.
The trail, last halfmile, is worse, than above, the rocks, big, small, twisted ravines for your feet—Now I begin sobbing for myself, cursing of course—“It never ends!” is my big complaint, just like I’d thought in the door, “How can anything ever end? But this is only a Samsara-World-of-Suffering trail, subject to time and space, therefore must end, but my God it will never end!” and I come running and thwapping finally no more—For the first time I fall exhausted without planning.
And the boat is coming right in.
“Cant make it.”
I sit there a long time, moody faced and finished—Wont do it—But the boat gets coming closer, it’s like timeclock civilization, gotta get to work on time, like on the railroad, tho you cant make it you’ll make it—It was blasted in the forges with iron vulcan might, by Poseidon and his heroes, by Zen Saints with swords of intelligence, by Master Frenchgod—I push myself up and try on—Every step wont do, it wont work, that my thighs hold it up’s’mystery to me—plah—
Finally I’m loading my steps on ahead of me, like placing topheavy things on a platform with outstretched arms, the kind of strain you cant keep up—other than the bare feet (now battered with torn skin and blisters and blood) I could just plow and push down the hill, like a falling drunk almost falling never quite falling and if so would it hurt as much as my feet?—nu—gotta push and place each up-knee and down with the barbfoot on scissors of Blakean Perfidy with worms and howlings everywhere—dust—I fall on my knees.
Rest that way awhile and go on.
“Eh damn Eh maudit” I’m crying last 100 yards—now the boat’s stopped and Fred whistles sharply, no a hoot, an Indian Hooo! which I answer with a whistle, with fingers in mouth—He settles back to read a cowboy book while I finish that trail—Now I dont want him to hear me cry, but he does he must hear my slow sick steps—plawrp, plawrp—timble tinker of pebbles plopping off a rock round precipice, the wild flowers dont interest me no more—
“I cant make it” is my only thought as I keep going, which thought is like phosphorescent negative red glow imprinting the film of my brain “Gotta make it”—
Desolation, Desolation
so hard
To come down off of
53
But that was okay, the water was shrill and close and lapping on dry driftwood when I rounded the final little shelf-trail to the boat—This I plodded and waved with a smile, letting the feet go by, blister in left shoe that I thought was a sharp pebble ground into my skin—
In all the excitement, dont realize I am back in the world at last—
And no sweeter man in the world to meet me at the bottom of it.
Fred is an oldtime woodsman and ranger liked by all the old fellows and the young—Gloomily in bunkhouses he presents to you a completely saddened and almost disappointed face staring off into the void, sometimes he wont answer questions, he lets you drink in his trance—You learn from his eyes, which look far, that there’s nothing further to see—A great silent Bodhisattva of a man, these woodsmen have it—Ole Blacky Blake loves him, Andy loves him, his son Howard loves him—Instead of good old soul Phil in the boat, whose day-off, it’s Fred, wearing incredibly long visor, crazyhat, golf link hat he uses to shade in the sun while prorping the boat around the lake—“There comes the fire warden” say the buttonhatted fishermen from Bellingham and Otay—from Squohomish and Squonalmish and Vancouver and pine towns and residential suburbs of Seattle—They ease up and down the lake casting their lines for secret joyful fish who once were birds but fell—They were angels and fell, the fisherman, loss of wings meant need of food—But they fish for the joy of the joyous dead fish—I’ve seen it—I understand the gaping mouth of a fish on a hook—“When a lion claws ya, let him claw … that kind of courage wont help ya”———Fish submit,
fishermen sit
And cast the line.
Old Fred, all’s he gotta do is see no fisherman campfire runs wild and burns up the timber scene—Big binoculars, he looks the far shore over—Illegal campers—Parties of drinkers on little islands, with sleepingbags and cans of beans—Women sometimes, some of them beautiful—Great floating harems in putput boats, legs, show all, awful them Samsara-World-of-Suffering women with they show you their legs for to turn the wheel along—
What makes the world
go around?
Between the stems
Fred sees me and starts up the motor to edge up closer, make it easier for easy-to-see-dejectable me—First thing he does is ask me a question which I dont hear and I say “Huh?” and he looks surprised but us ghosts that spend summer in the solitude wilds we lose all our touch, get ephemeral and not there—A lookout coming down the mountain is like a boy that was drowned reappearing in ghost form, I know—But he’s only asked “How’s the weather up there, hot?”
“No, a big wind’s blowin up there, from the west, from the Sea, it’s not hot, only down here”
“Gimme your pack”
“It’s heavy”
But he reaches over the gunwale and hauls it in anyway, arms outstretched and strained, and lays it on the bilgey boards, and I clamber on and point to my shoes—“No shoes, look”—
Starts up the motor as we leave, and I put on Band-Aids after soaking my feet in the rush by the starboards—Wow, the water comes up and slams up my legs, so I wash them too, clear to the knee, and soak my tortured woolsocks too and wring em and lay em out to dry on the poop—oop—
And here we go putputtin back to the world, in a bright sunny and beautiful morning, and I sit in the front seat and smoke the new Lucky Strikes Camels he’s brought me, and we talk—We yell—the engine is loud—
We yell like everywhere in the world of No-Desolation (?) people are yelling in telling rooms, or whispering, the noise of their converse is melded into one vast white compound of holy hushing silence which eventually you’ll hear forever when you learn (and learn to remember to hear)—So why not? go ahead and yell, do what you want—
And we talk about deer
54
Happy, happy, the little gasoline fumes on the lake—happy, the cowboy book he has, which I glance at, the first rough dusty chapter with sneering hombres in dust hats pow-wowing murders in a canyon crack—hatred steeling in their faces all blue—woe, gaunt, worn, weathered horses and rough chaparral—And I think “O pooey it’s all a dream, who care? Come on, that which passes through everything, pass through everything, I’m with you”—“Pass through dear Fred, make him feel the ecstasy of you, God”—“Pass through it all”—How can the universe be anything but a Womb? And the Womb of God or the Womb of Tathagata, it’s two languages not two Gods—And anyway the truth is relative, the world is relative—Everything is relative—Fire is fire and isnt fire—“Dont disturb the sleeping Einstein in his bliss”—“So it’s only a dream so shut up and enjoy—lake of the mind”—
Only seldom Fred talks, especially with old loquacious Andy the muleskinner from Wyoming, but his loquaciousness only takes a fill-in role—Today though as I sit smoking my first package cigarette, he talks to me, thinking I need talkin after 63 days in solitary—and talking to a human being is like flying with angels.
“Bucks, two bucks—does—one night two fawns ate in my yard”—(I’m shouting over the engine)——“Bear, signs of a bear—blueberries—” “Strange birds,” I add to think, and chipmunks with little oatsies in the
ir paws they’d pick up from old corral fence rack—Ponies and horses of old 1935
where
Are they now?
“There’s coyotes up on Crater!”
55
Desolate adventure—we go slowly three miles an hour down the lake, I settle back on the backboard and just take in the sun and rest, no need shouting—no sense—And soon he’s got that lake whipped and turned Sourdough on our upright and left Cat Island way behind and the mouth of the Big Beaver, and we’re turning in to the little white flag rag that’s hoiked on booms (logs) that the boat passes through but a congestion of other logs that majestically took all August to idle on down from the tarn of Hozomeen—there they are and we have to maneuver and push them around and slip thru—after which Fred returns to his hour-long perusal of Insurance forms with little cartoons and advertising showing anxious American heroes worrying about what will happen to their kin when they pass on—good enough—and up ahead, flat on the lakebottom scene, the houses and floats of Ross Lake Resort—Ephesus, the mother of cities to me—we aim right straight for there.
And there’s the bankside where I’d spent a whole day digging in the rocky soil, four feet down, for the Forest Ranger Garbage Pit and had talked with Zeal the quarter Indian kid who’d quit running down the dam trail and was never seen again, usta split cedar shakes with his brothers for independent pay—“Don’t like to work for the government, damn I’m goin to L.A.”—and there’s the waterside where, finished with the pit dug and the trail yawrked out of brush, twisty, to the latrine hole Zeal’d dug, I’d gone down and thrun rocks at little sailing can ships and Admiral me Nelson if they didnt get away and sail off and make it to the Golden Eternity—me resorting finally to huge plaps of wood and great boulders, to swamp the ship-can, but wouldnt sink, Ah Valor—And the long long booms I thought I’d make it back to the Ranger Station Float without a boat but when I got out to the middle boom and had to jump three feet over choppy water to half submerged log I knew I’d get wet and I quit and went back—there it all is, all in June, and now’s September and I’m going four thousand miles down the cities of the rib of America—
“We’ll eat lunch on the float then go get Pat.”
Pat has also same morning left Crater Lookout and started down a 15-mile trail, at dawn, 3 A.M., and will be waiting 2 P.M. at foot of Thunder Arm—
“Okay—but I’ll take a nap while you do that,” I say—
Tsokay with old Tokay—
We ease into the float and I get out and tie the line to the bit and he heaves my pack out, now I’m barefooted and feel good—And O the vast white kitchen full of food, and a radio on the shelf, and letters waiting for me—But we’re not hungry anyway, a little coffee, I turn on the radio and he goes off to get Pat, 2-hour trip, and suddenly I’m alone with the radio, coffee, cigarettes, and strange pocketbook about a used-car hero salesman in San Diego who sees a girl on a drugstore stool and thinks “She has a neat can”—Wow, back to America.—And on the radio suddenly it’s Vic Damone singing a tune I had completely forgotten on the mountain to sing, an old standard, hadnt completely forgotten it but no work over, here he goes with full orchestra (O the genius of American Music!) on “In This World,
Of ordinary people,
Ex-tra-ordinary people,
I’m glad there is you,”
—holding the “you,” breath, “In this world, of overrated pleasures, and underrated treasures,” hum, “I’m glad there is You”—Twas me told Pauline Cole to tell Sarah Vaughan to sing that in 1947—Oh the beautiful American music across the lake now, and then, after choice amusing charming words from the announcer in Seattle, Oi, Vic sings
“The Touch of your hand
Upon my brow,”
at middle tempo, and a gorgeous trumpet comes in, “Clark Terry!” I recognize him, playing sweet, and the old float moans gently on her booms, mid brightlight day—The same old float that on choppy nights blams and booms and the moonlight ululates the water a splashing sheen, O hoar sorrow of the Last Northwest and now I have no borders more to go and—The world out there is just a piece of cheese, and I’m the movie, and there’s the pretty singing trap—
56
Rapple trap me, if it aint them old mountains stickin clear up from the lappylap lapis lazuli lake-shore, with still old Spring snow on em, tops, and those woe moreful ole summery clouds pinkmopping the Emily Dickinson afternoon of peace and ah butterflies—Twitting in the brush is bugs—On the float, no bugs, just the lily lap of the water on the underslaps of booms, and the constant pour of the kitchen tap which they had plumbed to an endless mountain stream, so let it run cold all day, so when you need a glass of water there it is, tune in—Sunshine—hot sun drying my socks on the hot warped deck—and Fred’s already given me a new old pair of shoes to get down on, at least to a store in Concrete to buy new shoes—I’ve hangled their nailpoints back in to the leather with big Forest Service tools in the toolhouse barge, and they’ll be comfortable with the big socks—It’s always a triumph to get your socks dried, to have a fresh pair, in mountains and war
Angels in Desolation—
Visions of Angels—
Visions of Desolation—
D e s o l a t i o n A n g e l s
And by and by here he comes, old Fred and the boat and I see the little puppet figure beside him a mile away, Pat Garton the Crater Mountain lookout, back, gasping, glad, just like me—Boy from Portland Oregon and all summer long on the radio we’ve exchanged consolements—“Don’t worry, it’ll soon be over” it’ll even be October soon—“Yeah, but when that day comes I’m going to fly down that mountain!” Pat’d yelled—But unfortunately his pack was too heavy, almost twice as heavy as mine, and he’d almost not made it and had a logger (kind man) carry his pack for him the last mile down to the creek arm—
They bring the boat up and tie the little rope bit, which I like to do because I used to do it with vast hemp cables around freighter bits as big as my body, the big rhythmic swing of loops, with a little bit it’s fun too—Besides I wanta look useful, still getting paid today—They get out and from listening to his voice all summer I look at Pat and he looks like somebody else—Not only that but soon as we’re in the kitchen and he’s walking beside me suddenly I get the eerie feeling he’s not there and I take a good look to check—For just an instant this angel had faded away—Two months in desolation’ll do it, no matter what mountain’s your name—He’d been on Crater, which I could see, right on the hem of an extinct volcano apparently, snowbound, and subject to all the storms and shifts of wind flowing from any direction down there along the groove of Ruby Mountain and Sourdough, and from the east, and from my north, he’d had more snow than me—And coyotes howling at night he said—And was afraid to go out of his shack at night—If he’d ever feared the green face in the window of his Portland suburban boyhood, he had plenty masks up here to mince in the mirror of his night-hooling eyes—Especially foggy nights, when you might as well be in Blake’s Howling Void or just an oldtime Thirties Airplane lost in the ceiling-zero fog—“Are ya there Pat?” I say for a joke—
“I’ll say I’m here and I’m ready to go, too—you?”
“All set—we got another stretcha trail to make down the dam tho, damn—”
“I dont know if I can make it,” he says honestly, and he’s limping. “Fifteen miles since sunup before sunup—my legs are dead.”
I lift his pack and it weighs 100 pounds—He hasn’t even bothered to discard the 5 pounds of Forest Service literature with pictures and ads, tsall stuck in his pack, and on top of that a sleeping bag under his arm—Thank God his shoes had bottoms.
We eat a jolly lunch of old porkchops re-heated, wailing at butter and jam and things we didn’t have, and cup after cup of strong coffee I made, and Fred talks about the McAllister Fire—Seems so many hundred tons of equipment were dropt in by plane and’s all strewn over the mountainside right now—“Oughta tell the Indians to go up there and eat,” I think to say,
but where are the Indians?
“I’m never gonna be a lookout again,” announces Pat, and I repeat it—for then—Pat has an old crew cut that’s all overgrown from summer and I’m surprised to see how young he is, 19 or so, and I’m so old, 34—It doesn’t disturb me, it pleases—After all and old Fred is 50 and he doesnt care and we fare as we fare and part forever as we part—Only to come back again in some other form, as form, the essence of our 3 respective beings has certainly not taken 3 forms, it just passes through—So it’s all God and we the mind-angels, so bless and sit down—