Date: | Aug 9, '13 |
Location: | Islip Saddle |
Hike: | Islip Saddle to Islip Peak (elevation ± 1,500 ft) |
Today’s miles: | 7 miles |
Total Trip: | 7 miles |
Good sign: no other cars in the Islip Saddle parking lot. We'll have the trail to ourselves.
It may be August, but there's a chill. We're at 6,700 feet and it's gusty. I'm jittery with anticipation. I rush through Angel's stretches. Duane checks the map. I'm feeling like the 'old me' before L3/4 gave me the slip. We'll see if I can keep pace with Duane. He's just returned from a blue ribbon feat of leading a patrol of Boy Scouts on a 4-day trek over new Army Pass.
We cross the highway for the PCT marker at the trailhead. The PCT Herd passes here every May. By this point they may have been on the trail for 30 days and almost 400 miles. Most will zoom through this section enroute to Hiker Heaven, 60, poodle-dog-bush-infested, waterless miles to the northwest. Hiker Heaven is not quite celestial. It's a 2-acre backyard a mile off the trail in sun-baked Agua Dulce. The allure is strong. Thru-hikers are treated to a shower, laundry and a shady campsite. Hiker Heaven is one of PCT's 5-star resupply stops.
We're not likely to see any PCTers today. Not unless it's one of the rare and intrepid SoBos who take on spring snows in the north and fall draught in the south. Too bad. Seeing a SoBo PCTer on the trail is like seeing a star, in all their glory, on a red carpet. If we do see one, I would understand if they were too hurried, worried or preoccupied to chat. They can ill afford to fritter away the day with a common day-hiker. If they don't cover their mileage, they may run out of food, get caught in an early snow or be left behind by their fold of friends.
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| Looking south from Windy Gap |
"Ever hear the story of Charity? The one from Newcomb's Ranch?"
"Not really."
I'm pretty sure he's preoccupied and not too interested. It's been rough days back at Solar System Labs. We had talked it to death on the drive up. Like many of us, he bought into the NASA space myth. Poor bastard is cursed with a futile sense of mission. The mediocricrats are in charge. Who have thought that Colonel Cathcart and not Captain Picard runs the show?
The trail takes a gentle grade as it climbs above Big Rock Creek on the north slope of Mount Islip. It's a long, lethal slide to the bottom. I fight off an "I slip" thought worm and concentrate on a quiet broken only by the rattle of the Jeffery pine, our steady tread and the clack of our sticks on diorite.
We cover the 2 miles to Jimmy Camp keeping to our own thoughts except for the profanities of wonder as each new awesome vista comes into view. We grab a table. It takes me about a minute to feast on the smoked-chicken sandwich I made from left-overs. I wander around the camp trying to imagine what it must have been like when Indians traded here and Newcomb built his cabin.
We don't dally long. Duane is eager to go. We stop at Little Jimmy Spring. A steady little stream pours from a pipe into a half-barrel. It's said to be the most reliable water between Jackson Flat and Little Rock Creek. If Little Jimmy is dry, a PCTer has a 20-mile slog with only the water on her back. On a hot day that could be a very heavy 5-liters. We admire this little treasure without taking a sip since a good-size Rattler eyes us from the rock right above the pipe.
We follow the trail up across an old burn area to Wind Gap. True to form, a wind kicks up. I cinch down my hat and lean into the press of air. At the saddle we are treated to a dazzling southern view over Crystal Lake and descending hilltops into the basin haze. The wind swells to fortissimo, then pianissimo, then solemn silence. My eyes to water from wind and life's losses.
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| Lookout's Cabin, Mt. Islip |
Duane sits on a foundation and contemplates the horizons while pensively nibbling trail mix. After a bit I join him. He offers me some. "So what's this about Charity?"
I grab a handful. "It's probably apocryphal."
"Go on."
It was an off day a couple of years back. Before the injury. I had driven up The 2 to Vincent Gap and walked a couple miles east on the PCT. It was one of those days where you could see the snow on peaks above Lone Pine.
Anyway, on the way back, I stopped at Newcomb's for a burger. There were only few motors parked in front, and a few bikers were at a porch table with a bunch of dead Stellas. But that was it. Inside, it was quiet as a church. I grabbed a stool at the bar. The waitress was on the cordless ordering supplies. She was nice-but-tough looking like you'd expect from someone who gets a lot of unwanted attention. I didn't want to seem pushy or creepy, so I was looking around the walls at the beer signs and old license plates. That's when I noticed this old, sepia photograph off by itself at the end of the bar.
After she took my order, I went over to get a look. It was a photo of a young woman. Dressed to the nines. She held a fur in one hand and a dog in the other. Whoever it was had lived a life with privileges I would never enjoy.I was taking this snapshot of the sepia just as the waitress brought over my soda. She said she wanted to show me something. Then she came over and took the photo off the wall. "This will knock your socks off," she tells me and lays the frame face down on a dish towel. She turned back the frame stays and removed the back cover. There were a two pieces of paper behind the photo. She unfolded them carefully. The paper was really brittle.
That's not all. The waitress tilted up the sepia photo. There was inscription on the back. "For my now famous friend, Nellie C."
According to the waitress, who heard it from the manager, who heard it from the previous manager, the sepia belonged to old-man Newcomb. It hung in the lodge for a hundred years. Here's where it gets interesting. This is the story, more or less, as waitress told it.
Newcomb was an odd kind of recluse. He lived alone in the middle of nowhere, but liked visitors. On occasion he'd travel down to LA for supplies and to hangout in the bars and bordellos near Olivera street. It was in one of the bordellos that he took pity on a prostitute. Later he would explain that he had hired her, but when they got to their room on the second floor she broke into this pathetic sobbing. After some comforting encouragement, she told him she had fallen in love with a man who had promised to take her away and she was now pregnant with his baby. She felt her life was over.
Newcomb was a something of a soft heart and offered to take care of her up in his cabin near Chilao Flats. It took some convincing, but she agreed to go. She packed her valise and left the bordello that day.
Her name was Charity Blake. No one knows if that was her real name. She was very pretty and probably not much older than 18. Charity wasn't just an ignorant farm girl. Some thought she was from a wealthy Philadelphia family and educated in private schools. There may have been a bad situation. She ran away with a man seeking adventure in California. She found it. He was prospecting in the Panamint Mountains and he left her at Harrisburg camp. That's when she made her way down to LA. Prostitution was a matter of survival.
They camped at Chavez Ravine a couple days while Newcomb outfitted his pack horses. The ride up to Chilao took nearly three days. When they arrived at the cabin, he hung a couple of blankets for her privacy. Later he split some logs and built her a partition.
He did his best to lift her spirits. He cooked their meals and kept a warming fire. He wasn't much of a reader, but did his best to read her the Bible. That ended when she interrupted him by reciting the very passage he was reading. She told him she rather not hear the Bible and that she no longer believed. One time, he found her reading a poetry book. She must have packed it in her valise. He arranged to get her more poetry. Years later, Newcomb would say she was appreciative but always distant and lost in her own thoughts.
The one thing that brought the life out in her was when he took her on hunting trips. She would help him spot game and gather acorns or mountain berries. She loved the mountains. She said they "redeemed" her. Once she became familiar with the area she began taking hikes on her own.
Newcomb was a well-known host to the herders and hunters who worked the mountains. He kept a sign above his door "Meals at all hours." As Charity became more settled, she helped out with the domestic and hospitality duties. She was always courteous and attentive to the visitors, but she stayed aloof. There were few ladies in the mountains and none with fine manners and sharp intelligence. She became the source of much speculation and talk. Word spread. It wasn't long before someone recognized her from Olivera street. The men started calling her "Newcomb's damaged goods," but never in earshot of Newcomb.
As the months passed and the baby grew, Newcomb became deeply attached to Charity. Some say he fell in love with her, but he was a painfully shy man unable make advances. It was just was well. He had no hope of Charity. She was trapped in her miseries.
On days when there were no visitors, she would leave before dawn and return after dusk. Newcomb was unhappy about her days alone. The San Gabriels were still dangerous; bandits and grizzlies still roamed the mountains. And, he worried about the baby. He warned her of the perils, but she was indifferent. She said the mountains gave her a sense of place and she needed her walks. Despite his insistence, she refused to carry a weapon.
When it was time for the birth, Newcomb wanted to take her to see a doctor in LA. She would have no part of it. She would have her baby in the cabin. And she did. It was stillborn. That was a crushing blow to them both. It's said the baby is buried behind the old cabin site.
At first, Charity lay in bed saying little, eating less. Newcomb did his best to bring her out of her depression. It was of no avail. Then, about two weeks after the birth, she left early on one of her hikes. At first Newcomb thought it was a turn for the better. But when she didn't return that evening, he began to worry. By the following afternoon he had suspected the worse. When he noticed, her old valise was missing, he immediately struck out after her. He found her trail and followed it east along a route similar to the current PCT. By the following morning he made it to the flats where Little Jimmy is today. It was there he found her valise. The contents had been scattered about including the sepia photo and the two letters. According to Newcomb, he found horse tracks that led off to the east. He gathered her possessions in the valise and went back to the cabin.
The next day he packed up supplies and set off to follow the tracks from Little Jimmy. He traced them down to the Mojave River, but was forced to give up the hunt when a monsoon blew through and washed the desert clean.
In the months and years that followed, Newcomb continued his search. He hired a bounty hunter who found a prostitute in Sacramento named Charity. Newcomb traveled there, but it was the wrong woman. No other leads ever turned up. A year later, he tried to identify the woman in the sepia photo; perhaps she had some information. He periodically ran missing-person ads in the San Francisco, New York and Philadelphia papers. After about a year, he received a letter from a fellow in New York who said the woman wasn't missing at all; she was Mrs. Nellie Lundgren from Dayton, Ohio. Newcomb wrote Mrs. Lundgren, but she never replied. After that he gave up his search, but he always believed Charity was still alive.
A decade later, Newcomb would build a small lodge for his guests and called it Newcomb's Ranch. He had the sepia photo framed and hung it in lodge. In the late 30s, the current structure was built and sepia photo was moved to its current spot and has hung there ever since. It's kind of a tradition, but few people notice which is why the waitress told me the story.
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| Taking in the view atop Mt. Islip |
Duane gives me a look of mock disgust. "I saw that coming. So what was Charity doing with the sepia photo and the letters?"
"No one knows for sure." But, I have my own theory. They were left and became tokens of a lost affection. Precious reminders of what once was, like amulets for sweet regret. I have a few of those myself. Little do-dads and photos that trigger 40-year old longings. It's unclear why I hang on to these sentiments, but I do.
"So who was the famous guy?"
I shrug. "No clue."
Duane pulls on his pack. "Too bad it didn't have a happy ending."
I think so too. Aren't we all a bit damaged? With time, hope restores most of us. Perhaps that's just sentimental, but I want to believe that Charity wasn't beyond hope.
We head back down through Little Jimmy Camp to the PCT. At Little Jimmy we pause for some knowing looks. There's now a hallowed feeling under the rustle of the tall pines. Time expands for a parade of lost adolescent longings, lost parents, lost places, lost times. These regrets are soothed by the indifference of the mountains and the next things that await down the trail.
We see no one else for remainder of our descent. A glorious day except for the last half-mile when my left leg starts to act twiggy. It's sort of worrying. I must work harder to get things right. Can't have that sort of thing happen on a thru hike.