[pct-l] a boot tale

[Jason M.]

After becoming bored with posts about rangers and douches I decided to dust
off a story I threw together last winter. So gather round chillins...Uncle
Jackass has a tale to tell...

Now, Yogi Beer is a nice fella, good ol' Hikertrash in my book. If he
flagged down a truck near Rodriguez Spring, in 106 degree heat, he'd be
sure to yogi a beer for you as well. If you might be feeling a bit peckish
and low at Whitewater Hatchery, Yogi would slip away quietly to the parking
lot where picnickers were loading Igloos into mini-vans while their porcine
offspring texted siblings five feet away from them. He would return minutes
later with three flavors of beer, two cokes and a big shit eatin' grin on
his face.

"What're you so happy bout dude?"
" Got a woman back there's makin ya a footlong roast beef sand with
cheddar! It's so fuckin big I couldn't carry it all!"

Yogi is a frugal fella who couldn't be bothered by cubin fiber or carbon
fiber for that matter. This included footwear; $40 Wal-Mart shit kickers
were just fine for Yog'. After a long morning slogging through wet,
decaying, postholey snow on Fuller, Yog's boots began to show some
distressed stitching around the edges. When I pointed out the frayed fibers
Yogi shrugged, smiled broadly and chimed, "I've got a roll of duct tape."

So on we pushed, down endless switchbacks, fighting overgrown brush for
every step of trail. Down, down, down from the breathtaking highs of San
Jacinto to it's roots at Snow Canyon. Fuller had taken it's toll on us. My
gal, Molasses, had sustained a pulled thigh muscle postholeing earlier that
day. It had become more and more problematic throughout the afternoon. The
repetitive stress of walking downhill all day had left my ankle swollen and
unresponsive. Yogi's right ankle doesn't bend due to a metal pin holding it
in place, a souvenir of a motorcycle accident, and shin splints had swollen
his calf to almost twice it's original size. We had become the "walking
wounded" in the matter of an afternoon.

Our spirits were hangin low...belly of a stink bug low.

After draining the last of my tepid spring water from my Gatoraid bottle, I
limped over to the famed Snow Canyon drinking fountain for a refill.
Hanging off of the fountain was an unusual sight. A brand new pair of Asolo
boots. Scratching my head in wonder I began to think of the implications of
this aberration. Who in his right mind would leave a pair of $250 boots
just hanging around? I looked down at the state of my footwear and then
over at Yogi's. Yog' was leaning back against a boulder, cig dangling from
his lips, with an index finger poking through the hole that had developed
in his right boot.

I had heard before, "the tail will provide", but this was ridiculous.

Still a bit befuddled, perplexed, confounded; I sat down between Yogi and
Molasses and began pondering the portent of such a boon. Were these boots
up for grabs? Had some hapless hiker reached Snow Canyon, taken off their
shiny new boots, tied them with a neat bow of laces and declaired, "...wont
be needin these anymore..." and hung them on the fountain for a hiker down
on his luck? Hard to fathom...

Lighting my own smoke I took a second glance at my footwear. I would need a
new pair by Big Bear no doubt. And them Asolo's were some sexy footwear,
all sparkly and supportive. My aching ankle could sure use the
support...ah, hell.

"Hey Yog', go check out the fountain."
"I ain't gettin up man, might just sleep right here."
"No, really dude. Ya gotta check it out."

Groaning with the effort he rose and hobbled the five feet to the well.
"I'll be damned!" Yogi stood still for a moment, wiped some sweat from his
one good eye (he had lost an eye in an incident several years before - I
always got a kick out of tellin him to "keep an eye out for the trail"..."I
always do bro!"), shook his head and repeated, "I'll be damned!" He reached
out for them tentatively but withdrew his hand. Instead he returned to his
seat next to us.

By now I had told Molasses about the trail magic before us and the three of
us were in great debate of the boots providence. How had they come to be
here? Who might be returning to find their wayward boots? The boots weren't
just lying in the dirt, they were hangin from the fountain, surely they had
been left there on purpose. And so forth.

Now, Yogi is a nice fella, good ol' Hikertrash in my book. After our debate
Yog' turned to me and said, "you found'em dude, there yers."
"naw man, you need'em more'n me."
That's when Molasses showed her true brilliance, "what size are they?"

hmmm, good question. As it turned out, size 11, the same size that both
Yogi and I wore. "You take'm bro." "Naw, you found'm" and so forth.

Finally I convinced the man that if he didn't take them neither would
I...so he took them, and damn did they look good on his feet. Real sexy
boots I tell ya.

The next day at Whitewater, beer in hand, roast beef sand on the way, Yogi
was showing off his new kicks to Iceaxe, Socs, Birdman and Ido when a
tuckered out John Deer poked his head up from his mat and said, "Ahhh, you
found the boots." Have no fear dear reader, the boots were not John Deer's!
Nope, John had found one of the boots on Fuller Ridge, picked it up in the
hopes of returning it to it's owner, and shlepped it all the way to the
bottom of the ridge were he found it's partner laying in the dust next to
the fountain. Reuniting the lost soles he had hung them on the fountain in
the hopes that someone would return for them. Good ol' Hikertrash that John
Deer.

The trail is a strange place, an amazing lane where information travels up
and down the line with remarkable speed. Word had gotten back to us that a
hiker, Snake, had realized that he had dropped one of his boots on Fuller,
had retraced his steps for a mile or so, gave up on the boot and had left
the second boot in the dirt in disgust and de-feet. By the time that we
reached the Big Bear Hostel word had also gotten back to us that the
previous owner of them boots, Snake, had heard that someone was walking his
boots back to him. We were told by friends returning to the trail that
Snake had bored many a hiker with drunken boasts of how he was going to get
his boots back! They were HIS BOOTS! damn it. He had had every intention of
returning to Fuller Ridge to retrieve HIS BOOTS! just as soon as he could
arrange it. Hell, he'd even buy the guy a beer for returning his boots to
him, but god as his witness, he'd get HIS BOOTS back. Paid 250 bucks for
them fuckin boots, man...and so forth.

Now I have a feeling that Snake expected some scrawny 150 pound, gram
weenie, twenty-something college kid to hop out of the back of Gracin's
Suburban when we pulled up. We could see this 6'2" fella, shirt off, chest
puffed out, beer in hand, pacing back and forth on the porch, working
himself up for his confrontation. I do believe that word had gotten back to
him that Yogi had no intention of returning the boots...finder's keeper's
and all that. Snake was flanked by two of his buddies, one a beefy fella
that looked like he could hold his own and the other a hairy hiker who
looked as though he'd just as soon spork ya than look twice at ya.

I'm not a big guy but I've thrown and taken a few punches over the years so
I whispered to Yog', " I got yer back, bro."
"Me too," piped in our travel companion, Diamond Dave, who is a 6'6"
ex-pro-football player for the Colts.
And Yogi, well when I asked Yog' if he had trained before the trail he
said, "Sure, I bought me two pigs. Named one Bacon an th'other Sausage!" He
slapped his ample belly with a powerful hand, a gleam in his one good eye,
a pucker mark where a bullet had removed the other. "That was some tasty
trainin." Yogi was no stranger to violence.

Now, as I've said, I doubt that Snake had expected the likes of us to
disembark the white Suburban. Snake shrank back a bit as we stomped up the
steps of the porch. We stood there tense with adrenaline in our veins,
awaiting the confrontation. We were sizing each other up for the upcoming
melee. Uncomfortable moments passed...and passed...finally Yogi stepped
forward in his shinny new boots, smiled broadly, and offered his hand.
"I'm Yogi Beer, how ya doin!"
"Ahhh...those'r my boots, man..."
"Can't be, I found these boots hangin from a fountain in the desert." There
were a few more mumbled words exchanged and then Snake slithered away,
without HIS BOOTS! An hour later Snake handed Yogi his cell phone saying,
"Can ya tell my mom why your not gunna give me my boots back." No kiddin.

In the end Yogi accompanied Snake to the local outfitter to see if they
could buy Yogi a suitable replacement, but alas the outfitter's stores were
bare. Snake was unwilling to return to where Yogi had left his boots to
retreave them, and since he had repeatedly stated that he had always
intended to go back for his boots, this seemed a fair exchange. No go. So
two days later Yogi hiked out of town in some nice Asolos. A spring in his
step.

Fast forward a few hundred miles:
Sitting under some shade trees near the water pipe at the North Fork Ranger
Station, we were shaken from our repose by the loud blast of sirens and
frantic voices over the loudspeaker. Rangers were running to and fro,
vehicles sped from the compound at great speeds and a general sense of
bedlum had errupted."Fire! Fire!" At that moment who should come walking
up? Snake.
Yogi rose from his mat and headed towards the main building. "Where ya
headin, Yog'?"
"Gunna see if these fellas have any beer to lend"
"They're fightin a fuckin fire dude!"
"I wont get in the way."
Yogi sauntered up to the screen door of the main building, tapped twice on
the door, and looked back at me with his broadest smile.
"What'ya need man?" came the voice of a harried ranger.
"Y'all got a few beers I could buy from ya?"
"We're fightin a fire here!"
"Whenever ya got the time."
Yogi strolled back over and retruned to his mat. "Struck out, huh" says
Snake.
"We'll see..."
Two minutes later the ranger emerged from his bunkhouse with three beers
and two Cokes, handed them to Yogi and then hustled off to fight fire. Yogi
got up, walked over to Snake, handed him a beer and said, "no hard feelings.

Good ol' Hikertrash, that Yogi Beer...and damn did he look good in them
boots.

Jackass