Another lunch with Duane

There's a freakish rain this morning. It never rains this late in the Spring. Maybe it'll put a dent in the drought, but I doubt it.

Duane is standing under the shelter when I roll up to the visitor center at Space System Labs. He's looks to be in hiking shape: tan, tall and thin. He is beard is trimmed. His hair is still long and pulled back. Except for the nerdy, rimless glasses, he'd look more like a biker than someone who's responsible for the well-being of a spacecraft headed for Jupiter.

He climbs in the car and grabs my hand. "How's the life of the retiree?"

"Aside from all the late night partying, things are good."

"I can see that," he says. "You're looking worn out. How's the leg?"

"Good," I say. "Not as good as it once was, but it gets me where I want to go."

"And where's that exactly," he demands ironically.

"Lunch of course."

We drive over to the Hawaiian burger joint in Montrose. We're both hungry. I order the Kilauea: half-pound burger, barbecue sauce, bacon, onion rings and jalapenos. He gets the Mauna Loa: half-pound burger, swiss cheese, avocado, bacon, onions and jalapenos. We split a side order of nachos; one half with no cheese.

While we wait for the food he talks about the latest dreary events at the Lab. Business as usual there. Bright prospects are still thwarted by the familiar foils: managerial mendacity, sacred turf and studied ignorance. I feel a perverse pleasure in knowing that millions are still being wasted.

I used to think someone would find out. Now I know what I could have never known when I worked there. Our old boss, like his peers and their bosses and all their peers and their bosses right up the food chain, is merely a creature of a social order that rewards a focus on number one, cynical reckoning and a preacher's gift for painting a grand vision while cementing a dreary status quo. Progress is what slips between the cracks. In the good-old spacebiz, creativity and innovation are merely mouthed offerings at the Church of Ersatz Hope and Progress provided for the sunday-morning comfort of the space-besotted minions who might otherwise wake-up and revolt. I keep these misanthropic thoughts to myself because Duane is a good man who subscribes to the NASA promise and there's no virtue disabusing someone of a sustaining optimism.

The nachos arrive. We dig in.

"Looks like you've been hiking," I say.

"Yea. I did 60 miles on the Santa Monica Mountains Crest Trail. I've got to get in shape. I'm taking some Scouts over Agnew pass to Garnet Lake. "

I am filled with a deep and abiding respect. I could no more lead a dozen thirteen-year-olds into the Sierras than step up to the keys and bang out a version of the Pathetique. For Duane this is merely second nature. Life is rich in reasons for modesty.

"Got any hikes planned for this summer?" he asks.

"I got my JMT reservation."

"No shit sherlock!" he says with a whack of the table. "Good for you! Happy Isles?"

"Mono Meadows."

"When?" he asks pensively.

"September. September 2nd."

"Got a partner?"

"Nah. I'm going solo."

"Son of a bitch. I'm gonna do that someday."

Our food comes. We eat quickly.

I point with a french fry for emphasis. "I now have a schedule with shakeout trips. I'm calling them ORTs."

"Cute," says Duane who runs operation readiness tests for a living.

"First hike is in just a few weeks.  The passes should be clear by then."

"Where you going," he mumbles with a mouth full of burger.

"I was thinking about Cottonwood Pass or maybe Rae Lakes or Piute Pass."

He chews for a bit then swallows the last of the Mauna Loa. "I've wanted to hike Piute Pass. That sounds very cool."

"Want to go?" I ask.

"When exactly?"

"I'm retired. Exact is no longer in my vocabulary."

He checks his phone. "How about leaving Wednesday the 18th. Get back Sunday. I could take a couple of vacation days."

"Really?"

"Yea. We gotta do this."

---

The last vestige of any rain has evaporated hours ago. I'm in the back. I've got my legs up and my eyes closed. I hear Lilalee come in the front door. I watch her shrug off her purse with a weary look and come around back. "Bitch of commute. Well don't you look like the happy slug that ate the tomato."

"Duane and I are gonna hike Piute Pass on the 18th."

"That's great! I hope you'll be happy knowing that I'll be back here slaving away trying to save humanity. Besides, I don't like you're hiking alone."

I tell her she worries too much.

"For a guy that's supposed to be so smart, sometimes I wonder."

So do I.