of my shirt in itchy streams. I stood on a street corner counting up the money I had left, which was a buck-eighty, and then I limped up Sunset to Western and caught a city bus going into the park.
6
IN 1938 THERE WAS ALREADY AN OBSERVATORY at the top of Griffith Park, and a Greek amphitheater and an aerodrome, but as soon as the bus started climbing north of Hollywood Boulevard we were in empty hills grown over with manzanita and chaparral, and steep gullies thick with oaks and big old sycamore trees. Even now, most of that park is still undeveloped, still rough country, but back then it looked as if it was unchanged from when Indians had walked those ravines. I was in a black mood about the way things had gone that day, and when I saw how wild the park was I began entertaining a little fantasy about living like an outlaw, camping in the park, and coming down into town to rob a bank now and then. I was thinking if I had my .22 with me to shoot rabbits and threaten bank tellers, Iâd be all set.
When I stepped onto the bus I hadnât made up my mind whether I was going up there to find the horse stable Lee Waters had told me about or to find a place to camp, but partway up the hill I caught a glimpse of what might have been water in one of the ravines, and I guess that was when I made up my mind I was camping out. I yanked the cord, and the bus pulled over to let me off, nowhere close to anythingâjust trees. The driver didnât remark on this, which I took to mean I wasnât his first cowboy looking for a place to spend the night.
It was a relief to be away from concrete sidewalks and under the shade of those big old canyon oaks. And a shock, almost, to hear quiet for the first time in two days. Once I left the road and hiked down into the gully, there was almost no traffic noise, no rattling streetcars, no buses whining through the gears, no muttered voices through cheap hotel walls, just a lot of bird chatterâCalifornia birds, their strange songs not the ones I recognizedâand the understory buzz that crickets and grasshoppers make, and every so often the dry rustle of a snake or a squirrel or a gopher moving off through the brush. I think that may have been the point at which I realized Iâd been taking such things for granted my whole life.
The water turned out to be not much more than a stagnant thread, scummy with algae, but I found a couple of deeper puddles I could dip my hands into, and I was thirsty enough it didnât matter to me. I drank some tepid, fusty-tasting palmfuls, took off my shirt and hat and sluiced water over my sweaty head and chest, and then took off my boots and soaked my feet. The sun hadnât quite set, but the gully was in deep orange shadow, and the air at the bottom of the ravine was cooler than it had been in the city. Sitting with my sore feet in water, my chin resting on my bare chest, I just about went off to sleep. So I found a level spot with plenty of leaf duff, rolled out my blanket and lay down on it, and then, the way it happens sometimes, I was wide awake, staring overhead into the crewelwork of dry oak leaves while the sky slowly darkened.
I should have been making a plan for the next day, but what I thought about was the dead man, his open eyes examining the night sky, and it wasnât far from there to my sister. The stars came out slowly. The only constellation I recognized in the wedge of sky above the ravine was Aries. Finally it got a little chilly, so I sat up and put on my shirt and walked barefoot into the darkness to take a piss. When I lay down again and rolled up in the blanket, I guess the long day finally caught up with me, because I stopped thinking about anything, and when I came back to the surface it was gray morning.
The oak leaves over my head were faintly moving shadows. I looked up into them a minute, listening to the quiet rustle, and then woke all the way up and turned my head and saw what Iâd been hearing,
6
IN 1938 THERE WAS ALREADY AN OBSERVATORY at the top of Griffith Park, and a Greek amphitheater and an aerodrome, but as soon as the bus started climbing north of Hollywood Boulevard we were in empty hills grown over with manzanita and chaparral, and steep gullies thick with oaks and big old sycamore trees. Even now, most of that park is still undeveloped, still rough country, but back then it looked as if it was unchanged from when Indians had walked those ravines. I was in a black mood about the way things had gone that day, and when I saw how wild the park was I began entertaining a little fantasy about living like an outlaw, camping in the park, and coming down into town to rob a bank now and then. I was thinking if I had my .22 with me to shoot rabbits and threaten bank tellers, Iâd be all set.
When I stepped onto the bus I hadnât made up my mind whether I was going up there to find the horse stable Lee Waters had told me about or to find a place to camp, but partway up the hill I caught a glimpse of what might have been water in one of the ravines, and I guess that was when I made up my mind I was camping out. I yanked the cord, and the bus pulled over to let me off, nowhere close to anythingâjust trees. The driver didnât remark on this, which I took to mean I wasnât his first cowboy looking for a place to spend the night.
It was a relief to be away from concrete sidewalks and under the shade of those big old canyon oaks. And a shock, almost, to hear quiet for the first time in two days. Once I left the road and hiked down into the gully, there was almost no traffic noise, no rattling streetcars, no buses whining through the gears, no muttered voices through cheap hotel walls, just a lot of bird chatterâCalifornia birds, their strange songs not the ones I recognizedâand the understory buzz that crickets and grasshoppers make, and every so often the dry rustle of a snake or a squirrel or a gopher moving off through the brush. I think that may have been the point at which I realized Iâd been taking such things for granted my whole life.
The water turned out to be not much more than a stagnant thread, scummy with algae, but I found a couple of deeper puddles I could dip my hands into, and I was thirsty enough it didnât matter to me. I drank some tepid, fusty-tasting palmfuls, took off my shirt and hat and sluiced water over my sweaty head and chest, and then took off my boots and soaked my feet. The sun hadnât quite set, but the gully was in deep orange shadow, and the air at the bottom of the ravine was cooler than it had been in the city. Sitting with my sore feet in water, my chin resting on my bare chest, I just about went off to sleep. So I found a level spot with plenty of leaf duff, rolled out my blanket and lay down on it, and then, the way it happens sometimes, I was wide awake, staring overhead into the crewelwork of dry oak leaves while the sky slowly darkened.
I should have been making a plan for the next day, but what I thought about was the dead man, his open eyes examining the night sky, and it wasnât far from there to my sister. The stars came out slowly. The only constellation I recognized in the wedge of sky above the ravine was Aries. Finally it got a little chilly, so I sat up and put on my shirt and walked barefoot into the darkness to take a piss. When I lay down again and rolled up in the blanket, I guess the long day finally caught up with me, because I stopped thinking about anything, and when I came back to the surface it was gray morning.
The oak leaves over my head were faintly moving shadows. I looked up into them a minute, listening to the quiet rustle, and then woke all the way up and turned my head and saw what Iâd been hearing,
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