Trick of Light

by Hunt-David

  We follow 101 through Sonoma County, past meadows edged by produce stands, vineyards lining the hills, then we follow the Russian River as far as Cloverdale, where we fork west on 128 toward the Anderson Valley.

  As we cross this splendid land of vineyards and orchards, I tell Sasha about the curious lingo spoken here. Dubbed Boontling, it's little more than a special vocabulary of a thousand or so words developed in the last century by residents, many of them sheepherders and apple growers, as a way to communicate without being understood by strangers.

  "A secret language?" Sasha asks, fascinated.

  I nod. "That was the idea. People here were suspicious of outsiders. But with all the articles that've been written, there's not much secrecy left. Few people speak it anymore. It's become more of a tourism attraction than a private code."

  Sasha loves my examples of Boontling, how a pay phone is called a "buckey Walter," sexual intercourse is "burlappin'," a cup of coffee a "horn of zeese."

  Sasha smiles. "I bet I know how they came up with burlappin'."

  "How do you think?"

  "Someone saw a couple screwing on a roll of burlap."

  I laugh. "Good guess, Sasha! You're probably right."

  After passing through the towns of Boonville and Navarro, we follow a romantic winding road through an ancient sequoia redwood forest that takes us finally to the coast. From here it's just a few mile north to the Mendocino Headlands, alive with heather shimmering in afternoon light.

  I've been here only once before, back in the eighties when I was an art student. That time too I came north with a boyfriend. It was autumn. Jeremy West and I hitchhiked up from San Francisco, bedrolls on our backs. We settled into a cheap room, then spent the weekend wandering the bluffs above the ocean, he with his sketch pad, me with my camera, both of us trying our best to capture the extraordinary beauty.

  I still have the photographs I took that weekend, of the spume and spray of waves as they crashed against the cliffs, of seals sunbathing on rocks offshore, shots too that I took of Jeremy as he posed in a wonderful brooding windblown-hair-across-the-forehead Heathcliff manner.

  He was an exceptionally handsome boy, talented and troubled. Though I didn't love him, I found him enormously attractive. That weekend in Mendocino was an idyllic time. On the bluffs we picnicked on local cheese and bread, smoked pot, then made ecstatic love in the clover. At night, wearing thick-hooded sweatshirts to repel the chill, we wandered the bluffs again, cuddling one another, gazing at the moon and stars, while Jeremy swooningly cried out great chunks of poetry in French, rhapsodic verse by Arthur Rimbaud.

  A few weeks later, back in San Francisco, we broke up. Jeremy quit school, then headed to New York to seek his fortune as a painter. Two years later I heard he was living impoverished on the streets of the East Village. A year after that I learned he'd OD'd on heroin.

  As Sasha and I drive into Mendocino, memories of that earlier visit flood back. As we pass gray shingle houses and steep-roofed Victorians embellished with gables, I share my memories with Sasha, describe my feelings of sorrow and loss when I heard Jeremy had died.

  "He painted tigers, Sasha. Huge magnificent striped tigers slinking through the forest or crouching in high grass. In those days no respectable Manhattan gallery would show such work. Gallery directors thought it was trashy, fit at best for tourists. To be noticed back then, you had to paint like Schnabel or Basquiat. Jeremy was devastated. He had this huge talent but no sense of fashion. He told his friends he'd rather risk death taking drugs than paint to suit the marketplace."

  Sasha listens well. He says he hopes coming back won't make me morose.

  "Not at all," I assure him. "For three reasons. One, you let me talk about it, so it's out of my system. Two, I'm here on a mission. Third, I'm here with you."

  Sasha beams as we turn into the drive that leads to our gleaming clapboard inn. We check in, unpack, bathe luxuriously in our private whirlpool-tub-for-two, make love on our king-size bed, then go out to explore the town.

  We acquire a map, browse the boutiques, strike up conversations with sprightly shopkeepers. We obtain advice on restaurants and nature trails and where to rent a bike.

  "The locals have an air about them, don't they?" Sasha says. "Like they should be envied for having figured out how to live here in paradise year-round."

  In fact, I tell him, Mendocino's not quite as dreamy as it looks. In the back country, I tell him, just out of town, there're plenty of troubled people: paranoid marijuana farmers who grow and harvest pot on public land, ready to shoot anyone they think might be poaching their closely guarded crops; militias composes of equally paranoid survivalists, racists and religious fundamentalists, who, coming home from work, pull on fatigues, then practice maneuvers in the forest.

  "It's an explosive California mix, people who hate the government, believe its agents will take away their guns, living side by side with zealous ecoterrorists who pound steel spikes into redwoods to tear apart loggers' chain saws. Winemakers, llama farmers, tax protesters, Second Amendment nuts, countercultural artists, as well as folks who just want to live 'off the grid' and school their children at home. They're all here coexisting precariously in paradise."

  After a rest back at our inn and a good dinner, I persuade Sasha to join me as I change into working-class garb — jeans, boots and denim work shirt with white T-shirt peekabooing through my open collar. Then I ask him to drive us six miles further up the coast to Fort Bragg, a blue-collar town where I hope to obtain some information.

  We choose the Paradise Saloon, a noisy redneck lounge on the main street, the kind of place working men and women might congregate Friday nights to drink, dance, blow off half a week's pay. There's a crummy neon sign outside, loud country music within. The entrance reeks of cheap beer. A couple of grizzled old guys with bloodshot eyes inspect us as we enter. Not hard to tell what they're thinking: White girl, black boy — oh oh!

  Sasha, I'm pleased to note, is a good performer. He drops his accent and physician's manner, becoming a likeable, new-immigrant escort to my petite, outdoorsy wildlife photography enthusiast. Objective: See if we can buy a few beers for local hunters in exchange for information on the G.G.C.. Pretext: We're interested in discovering if there's some way I can get a photographic crack or two at one of Mendocino County's famous 150-pound tusked wild pigs.

  We settle in low-key at the bar, waiting until the place gets used to us and we to it. After fifteen minutes I decide we've chosen well: the Paradise is friendly, its clientele a mix of locals and down-market tourists with lots of give and take between.

  Confident our presence isn't an intrusion, I casually nudge Sasha in the side, our signal to start talking about my desire to do some animal-stalking photography. After a decent interval, Sasha turns to Joe the bartender (serious demeanor, drooping mustache, samurai topknot hair) to ask where we might get some good advice on local wildlife-watching opportunities.

  Joe ponders, squints, peers about, finally gestures across the room. "See the guy over there — one with the bushy beard in the lumber shirt sitting with the blonde? Name's Hank. Little rough around the edges, but nice enough. Talk to him. Tell him I sent you over. He does a lot of hunting, so he can probably help. Or else steer you to someone else."

  We thank Joe, finish our beers, order two more, then carry them across the room. Figuring Hank will feel less threatened by a female, I take the lead.

  "Joe up at the bar said you could maybe give us some advice. Mind if we buy you a round?"

  Hank, eyes blank, searches my face, scans Sasha's, then studies mine some more. Finally he grins.

  "Sure, sit down," he says. "Pa always told me— 'Son, never refuse a friendly offered drink.'" He sticks out his hand. "Hank Evans. This here is Gale Hoort."

  We introduce ourselves; then Sasha summons the waitress. Hank and Gale both go for refills of the local ale.

  I chitchat with Gale, trying to work up a quick bond. She's about my age, her nails are groomed to
the nines and her blond hair shows dark roots. She tells me she works as a haircutter and hopes to open her own salon in another year. When she hears I'm a photographer and asks what kind, I tell her I do mostly catalogue work.

  Meantime Hank and Sasha are talking baseball.

  Hank turns to me. "Your buddy here sure knows the game."

  "Did he mention he thinks a double play's a 'double cross'?"

  Lots of laughter, another round of beers, more bonding leading to that warm, cozy, alcohol-haze feeling you sometimes get talking with strangers in a bar.

  When there's a break in the conversation, Hank asks Sasha what he can do for us.

  Sasha nods at me. Hank turns his head, then slowly, deliberately lowers his eyes to the level of my tits.

  "My hobby's wildlife photography," I tell him, feeling as though he's stripping me to the waist. "We hear there's lots of wild game around. Thought maybe you could tell us where to look."

  "Sure, there's plenty of good hunting if you know just where to go," he says. "What kinda game you interested in?"

  "Wild pigs," I tell him.

  A smile spreads slowly across his face. "Best eatin' pigs in California," he assures me, lightly touching his beard. "Some round here like to stick 'em. Some like to mow 'em down with a .44. Myself, I hunt 'em with a bow and arrow."

  Sasha and I nod gravely.

  "Course the dudes up at the Goddess, they go after 'em with a pack of hounds. Hounds'll run old mama pig up against a trunk, circle her, yap-yap-yap till the shooters come. Then one of 'em'll blast her with a custom-made fifty-thousand-buck nitro-express elephant gun. Likely as not the dude'll take out a dog or two with her. No matter. At the Goddess they got hounds to spare."

  Jesus! I think. He's talking about the club before I even mention it. Subtly as I can, I ask Hank to tell me more about this "Goddess place."

  He explains: "It's a high-falutin shootin' club. Two thousand acres of private huntin' preserve — lots of quail, wild turkey, black-tailed deer. Then there's bear, wild pig, bobcat if they're lucky... plus sometimes they stock the property with exotic game."

  "What kind?" Sasha asks.

  "Mostly African," Hank says. His eyes, crafty now, are finally off my chest. "Gazelle, zebra, even once, I heard, a rhino. Illegal, of course, but no one's going to mess with those boys. They got it made. Should see the private planes lined up weekends on the county airstrip. Anyhow, no way you'll get in there. They got security you won't believe. Trip wires, electronic surveillance, armed guards on platforms so they can see you coming. Poach around the Goddess, you risk your life. Gun or camera — doesn't matter. I only know a couple guys ever got in there, then out safe again. They had a helluva time too. Bagged plenty of top-grade meat."

  Something about the way he imparts this last bit tells me Hank Evans was one of those lucky "couple guys." I study him as he confers with Sasha, outlining G.G.C. boundaries on our map to show us where we'd be well advised not to go.

  "Course there is a way or two in..." he adds, "for those willing to take the risk."

  He leers at Sasha, tempting him to ask. Sasha, I'm proud to see, continues to play his part, coolly responding that maybe Hank would care to go into that a little bit.

  Hank smiles at Gale. "Hey, honey! We got us a Mission Impossible team here! Gale's been in the Goddess. Ain't you, honey?"

  Gale tightens her lips and pouts.

  "She didn't like it much," Hank says, giving us another cryptic smile.

  Sasha, understanding that more alcohol is needed to further loosen tongues, beckons the waitress and orders another round.

  While this is going on, Gale leans toward me, then cups her hand around my ear. "He's cute," she whispers, giggling, indicating Sasha. "I never been with a dark man. Is it true — what they say?"

  Since I know she doesn't mean to be offensive, I giggle in return.

  Two more rounds of ale and Hank's ready to confide. He leans forward, lowers his voice. The three of us lean forward too, so our heads are close.

  "Tell you a secret," Hank says. I can smell the brew on his breath. "I not only been inside the Goddess, I'm one of the few outsiders killed game on the property. Not just once or twice. Lotsa times," he boasts. "Last visit, bagged me two doe with the bow and arrow. Beauties both of 'em." He closes down one eye to show canniness. "See, if you fire off a gun, they'll hear and come after you. I mean hard. They don't give a shit. They'd as soon shoot a poacher as plink a squirrel in there. There're stories around about them catching folks, setting them loose, then hunting them down. You know — 'human game.'" Hank pauses for effect. "Maybe true, maybe not."

  Sasha and I nod sagely.

  Hank continues: "They got a huge perimeter, so what they do is bluff like when your poker hand ain't all that strong. Spread rumors the Goddess is impregnable, that they got all this high-tech shit in the trees — infrared detectors, remote TVs, like that — when the truth is the place's so big they can barely cover it."

  I turn back to Gale. "Were you really in there?"

  This time she admits it.

  "They snuck me in," she says, "dressed me up like a boy when they needed waiters for this banquet affair. The catering company was short of guys, so one of my girlfriends at the salon made me up. Did a pretty fair job too. Got me in, anyway."

  "Oh, she was cute," Hank says. "Should have seen her. Sideburns, mustache and the sweetest little boy-butt I ever saw!"

  "Why waiters, not waitresses?" I ask.

  Hank's happy to explain. "Stag function. Dancing girls, Asian strippers they brought in from the city. They even did this thing where a naked girl pops out of a cake. You know — like 'Ta-da!'" He thrusts up his arms to demonstrate the cake girl's exit.

  "You saw all that?" I ask Gale.

  She enlarges her eyes. "That wasn't the half of it."

  "What was the other half?" Sasha asks.

  "Oh, you don't wanna know," Hank says. "Got pretty down and dirty, didn't it, honey?"

  Gale nods. "I didn't like it at all."

  Since Gale strikes me as a girl who likes her sex as well as anyone, I wonder how down and dirty it could have gotten.

  "Drunk rich kids' games," Hank explains, lowering his voice. "You know, gang bangs, shit like that."

  I'm intrigued by the line Hank and Gale appear to draw between one-on-one screwing and group sex, which so greatly disgusts them. But I'm even more intrigued by my good fortune — steered by chance to perhaps the single most knowledgeable man in the county on the ins and outs of the G.G.C..

  This is just too easy, I think, until I realize it's one thing to have stumbled on Hank, another to get him to share his knowledge.

  Gale, excusing herself to visit the ladies room, is now table-hopping her way around the lounge. This gives me a chance to study Hank again as he and Sasha talk. He's a big meaty guy with a husky chest and broad back like my dad. His thick dark hair and bushy beard show streaks of gray, but more interesting, he has the dead-on gaze of a man who's been in combat. I figure him for mid-to-late forties, which would make him eligible for service in the Vietnam War.

  "Sure, I did 'Nam, two tours," he tells me when I ask. "Spec six. Ranger battalion. Lurp mission leader. Now that was a lot of fun!" he guffaws. "Been huntin' since I was a kid, but got to love it over there. Course it was a different kinda game you hunted, know what I mean? Kinda like what they do up at the Goddess. Once you get a taste of that, hard to give it up... least so they say."

  Sasha's appalled, but I nod to show Hank I understand. This is one angry dude, I decide, his anger free-floating, focused only when there's a target in his sights: rich hunters with expensive guns, politicians who betrayed the grunts, gun control enthusiasts, animal rights nuts, a doe innocently grazing in a grove of trees. Fair game is whoever or whatever crowds his worldview.

  When Gale returns she perches on his knee, circles one arm around his back and tugs playfully at the edges of his beard. I signal Sasha it's time to go. I'm nearly drunk, sleepy from the lon
g day's drive, anxious to crawl into our huge downy bed back at the inn. I hand Hank one of my cards. He scrawls his number and address on a cocktail napkin in return.

  "Next time you come up, gimme a call," he says. "Might take a look-see at some places we're not supposed to go." Big wink. "Best is middle of the week when they're not on high alert. Might get a crack at a wild pig if you're lucky. You shoot it, then I'll really shoot it, then Gale'll cook it, then we'll all eat it. All right! "

  * * * * *

  Next morning I get up early, take a quick shower, then walk into Mendocino in search of a bagel and ordinary cup of coffee. Returning to the inn, I find Sasha up. He's delighted I've brought him a double latte and croissant. While he munches and sips, he offers his views on our new friends Hank and Gale.

  "Hanks an example of you American walking wounded," he says. "Know what he does for a living? Works for a septic pump-out service. When you and Gale were talking he told me his routine. He drives a truck up to the back of a house, pries up the septic tank cover, sticks in a big hose, turns on the pump that sucks all the crap up into the tank on his truck, hoses out the tank, reseals it, then drives off to some state-administered environmental disposal place where he dumps the pump-out... then on to the next call. Which means that basically he spends his days dealing with shit, which may explain why hunting's become his life."

  I ask how he thinks Gale fits into this scheme.

  "I think she adores him."

  Sasha shaves and showers; then we go out to rent bikes. On the way he asks me what a Lurp mission is.

  "LRRP, pronounced 'lurp,' for long-range reconnaissance patrols," I explain. "They'd chopper guys in, a few at a time, deep into enemy territory. There they'd make themselves invisible, live off the land, check out what was going on."

  "Sounds dangerous."

  "The word they used for it was 'hairy.' A lot of those guys never came back."

  * * * * *