Nobel Poor No More

The Gladiator cruises down US 395 into Alturus, California for fuel and much needed ice in the coolers. Brook has things under control, my presence will only muddy the decision making process. Fine by me, dire situations are a foot… Little Debbie coffers are empty and the convenience store is not an approved vendor. This land must be ruled by the Hostess family cartel, not a freaking Oatmeal Crème Pie in all of Northern California. I must set out on my own. With the winds kicking up and few domesticated campsite options Brook has little patience for my trivial predicament. Far greater concerns have priority over the need for crème. Brook and Teresa are campers, but not savages. Teresa has basic standards like all urban explorers should require: lockable outhouses, picnic tables, and BLM signage providing assurance of public lands. (Nothing like waking to an AR-15 wilding rancher on edge.) I must focus on the pie!

Rural decay is in plain view across Alturus. The town promoters make no attempts at hiding the plight. No longer is this a war to defeat decay, the drive left these people decades ago. It is a war of containment here on out. Oh Wood Guthrie, would you have given voice to these souls? I catch the glimpse of a woman asking politely for change. She is a professional, not looking for a chance to get off the bottom to return home. She is home. The fog at the corners of her eyes tells me how the story of her kind will end. The angel of drugs and stiff drink provides a numb comforting pause to the constant reminder of consequences that can no longer be pinned to choice. Here are a few greenbacks cousin, now castaway into the happy darkness. Tired eyes are all around. This is a third world community in the first world. No social engineers combing the streets to report on generations of rooted country folk declining into further economic despair. No social workers sent from Sacramento to offer assistance. The rot is irreversible. Did their ancestors believed they were climbing the ladder of subsistence? Now their posterity seems to care not that the ladder is leaned against the wrong wall. Institutional acceptance of immobility.

These lands were meant for nomads following the herds and the seasons. The 18^th century Euro-American settler ethos anchored people to their land. Set roots and prosper the wilderness. Today this community, like thousands of others across America, is long fallow of modern economic prosperity. Industry is fluid, but our rural America is affixed to their lands as if they are mountains, streams, or lakes. It is difficult to identify the villain, victim, or crime in our dying rural communities like Alturus. “Oh damnit man! Where are the freaking Little Debbies in this forsaken land?” The store clerk gave no mind or no pity to my struggles, he didn’t even come up from his smart phone to point toward the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow… The site of crème pies nearly sent me to tears.

It’s The Ramhorn

Fueled up and snack cakes procured we head out toward the Northern California high desert for one last night in the grandeur. For tomorrow we enter Nevada. Miles off the state maintained tax funded road under the most massive of full moons Brook parks the Gladiator and quickly slips on his warm camping gear. He and Teresa wear the same full-body camouflage duck suits to keep out the early spring chill. They are the smartest two redneck imitators I have ever known, with more intellectual firepower than a bus load of Rhodes Scholars. “Where is your shotgun Brook?” If the People’s Republic of California would allow private citizens gun ownership, and not just cops and criminals, a 12 gauge in Brooks hand would make this a fitting picture of a well-seasoned game hunter. Alas, I am grateful we are not here to kill small woodland animals in the pursuit of sustenance or the desire of pleasure. Tonight the camp stove is Brook’s laboratory to create the greatest comfort hamburger to ever touch my lips.

Brook branded his concoction, The Ramhorn (in honor of the beautiful, secluded piece of BLM public land we are inhabiting tonight.) To keep the integrity of the mystery meal I will only reveal a portion of the receipt: bathed in bacon grease. Whether it was the moon, the elevation, the company, or the seclusion, The Ramhorn changed my perspective on kinsmanship in a few brief blissful moments… Bacon elevates all food, chasing dreams is ageless, and driving 1100 miles with one of my best friends while searching for nothing is what I have enjoyed the most. I sought out nothing yet the universe produced something for me: the bond of decades old friendship is worth continual effort. The effort these past few days bore wonderful fruits. Our friendship has strengthened through long conversations, dipping into nostalgia’s wellspring of bygone days, optimistically gazing forward to the future, enjoying a wedding full of old friends and celebration and blissful fellowship, and miles upon miles of windshield time through America’s outback.

Tomorrow sends us through Nevada toward Las Vegas… The land of strange. But that land’s story has already been told.