The Journey Part 29

SPEAKING OF COMPASSION

So here I am, once again at the Paradise Valley Café, having just dropped Bev, Leo, and Shawn off at the trailhead. I will see them again in five days, which left me with a familiar refrain/problem: where was I going to park for five days? I was determined to boondock it for all five days, thus saving money not wasted at an RV park, but determination and actualization are two different things. Where was I to go?

While I pondered that question, and while the group organized their backpacks for the five-day push, a white Jeep pulled alongside us.  A guy got out, maybe fortyish, asked if I was Bill, and introduced himself as Richard.  Turns out Richard runs a hostel, of sorts, right across the street from where I was sitting.  He had heard of me, came over to offer his property to me, for as long as I needed a parking spot, said it was a real pleasure to meet a fellow angel.

I again have no words.  Richard, three years ago, was retired from the military, taking care of a disabled vet, wondering what the heck he was going to do with his spare time during COVID.  He thought of a bed and breakfast.

He was sitting outside one day, noticed all the hikers coming by, carrying big backpacks, tired, hungry, so he invited some of them in for dinner and a safe place to pitch their tent . . . and he was hooked.  This is his first year of full-time angel duty, just an open house all day, every day during the four months that hikers come through this area, serving good food, serving a smile, serving compassion, and I’ll tell you what, I get goosebumps after talking to a person like Richard, and it makes me damned well want to be a better person.

He and I have talked some in the two days since I received his offer, and we both agree on one thing: doing this angel thing is the absolute best decision either of us has made in a very long time.  People thank us for what we are doing but, in fact, it should be us thanking them. I feel honored to be helping these wonderful people. The joy it brings me has no monetary value and yet it is priceless to me.

ANOTHER DAY IN THE LIFE, NO TIME STAMP THIS TIME

Wednesday, April 26, 2023, Bev and tramily somewhere about fifteen miles from me, up on the ridge, plodding along towards the highest mountain to date, Mt. San Jacinto, over ten-thousand feet.  Me, sitting in what feels like the desert, elevation just short of five-thousand.

The dogs and I rise at six, as is our norm.  I wipe cold water over my face, under my arms, in a few other select areas, and call it a sponge bath.

Attach leashes, head out for the first of many walks with my two best four-legged friends.

Three angel trips to Idyllwild today, 34-mile round trip each, met and chatted with people from New Zealand, Australia, Denmark, Germany, Scotland, England, Montana, Michigan, Oklahoma, and Virginia. “Met and chatted” does not do it justice; a bond was formed with each one of them during the trek up to that mountain town.

In-between those journeys, I took the dogs for two more walks, sat and chatted with a young woman from Quebec, learned all about her life on a farm, spent time having some get-serious discussions with my host, Richard, shared some pretty personal stuff with him, and he with me, because what else would two complete strangers talk about shortly after meeting? No fluff for us, friends, we get right down to it, the two tours in Iraq, the alcoholism for yours truly, the dreams and conquering of demons, and damn if it didn’t feel good to have a gut-check talk with someone who isn’t about to judge.

Chatted with another young woman from Australia, who I nicknamed “Dazed and Confused,” and she loves it now when she sees me, knowing that names like that are given out of respect and, yes, love.

Met an incredible Trail Angel up in Idyllwild, Cindy by name, unselfishly giving of her time, doesn’t charge a cent for all the rides she gives, doesn’t believe in making money when doing good deeds, and I feel like she and I formed a similar bond by the end of the chat and oh, wait, I met the Town Mayor, Mayor Max III, a dog, famous among hikers, in town for only an hour and I was fortunate to meet him, one of the nicest, most forthright politicians I have ever met.

Saw the sunrise, saw the sunset, and thanks to my guardian angels, if they do indeed exist, for the chance to live this day, in this place, with this mindset of thankfulness.

TESTING MY RESOLVE AND HYPOCRISY

We need to call ourselves out now and then, don’t you think? Call ourselves on our bullshit, ya know?

It’s easy for me to call out the Catholic Church, for example, on their sexual abuse legacy and hypocrisy, or to call out certain politicians for their “united America” bullshit, all the while dipping their hands in the pockets of corporations, but it becomes a bit tougher to look in the mirror and say, to myself, that I damned near stepped over a line I had drawn.

Trail angeling is supposed to be an unselfish act of helping others who need it. Otherwise, why call it an act of an angel? I have ranted about this in the past, about a certain “angel” group which charges $75 per person for a ride from the airport, a meal, and a place to pitch a tent.  They are an LLC, which last time I checked was a corporation, and they make a profit from what they call angeling.

I have no problem with them making a profit. I have no problem with being an LLC. But I do have a problem with calling themselves trail angels.

To my way of thinking, if you are profiting from helping someone, you just left angel behind and said hello to Daddy Sawbucks.  Do I think it’s all right to accept donations for gasoline? Yes, I do, because with the price of gas these days, very few angels would be able to afford to be angels if they didn’t get reimbursed for fuel. But I know some angels who even profit on the gas scam, asking for far more than the cost of fuel.

Which leads me to today.  A young woman, who I made reference to earlier, from Quebec, told me she needed to go to urgent care in the city of Hemet, some twenty miles away, twenty very windy mountain miles away, a forty-mile roundtrip. She asked me to not only drive her there but wait for her while she had x-rays of her ankle taken, and then drive her back. The whole thing was going to take 21/2 or 3 hours, and it was going to use up probably five gallons of gas in the bus.

The stage is now set. I felt sorry for her, and even though I had no desire to make the difficult trip down off of the mountain, I agreed to do it.  There was no mention of gas payment; I never mention a price when helping someone, and never will.

The trip was made, the x-rays could not be taken because of medical snafu b.s., and the trip was made back up the mountain. I delivered her back to Richard’s Place, she got out of the bus, and went inside.  No thank you. No gas money. No nothing.

And I was immediately pissed!

And I’m ashamed for being pissed.

Don’t size me for angel wings quite yet. I don’t think I have earned them.

What was my motivation for helping that young woman? Payment, or a good deed?

There are times when self-reflection is not a whole lot of fun.

BALANCING THE SCALE

Just an addendum to the last section; I’ll make this quick. I woke up this morning still feeling less than I want to feel about myself, first thing on my mind making reparations of some sort, balancing the damned scales so I’m at least batting .500 for the last twenty-four hours, so while my host, Richard, attended a funeral, I painted his white picket fence and his picnic table, both badly in need of a coat of pain, and me badly in need of a shinier coat of arms.

I’m not sure if that makes things even, but I feel better as this day comes to an end.