North of Lone Pine, California, past the only stoplight,
the two local bars, and a bit further beyond the ice cream shop, sits the
turnoff to the Old Depot Road. Tucked away and easy to miss is a battered and
fading sign that reads “Narrow Gauge Road.” But nobody actually calls it that.
If you see the town’s graveyard on the right, you know you’ve gone too
far.
No matter which direction you face while on the Old
Depot Road, there is only beauty. Stretching
north and south for miles on either side is the Owens Valley. Looking east are the Inyo Mountains, home to The
Cerro Gordo Mine. Looking west is the mighty
Sierra Nevada with Mt Whitney, the tallest peak of them all peeking shyly from
behind her smaller sister peaks.
All this makes the Old Depot Road, from the cattle guard to
just before the dogleg, a nearly perfect place for Mom and her cousin Jeanne to
take their almost daily walks with their dogs.
Only nearly perfect. “Too much
traffic,” Jeanne sighs when the inevitable one or two vehicles drive by.
Usually a resident at the depot or a camper in search of whatever it is that campers
seek. “It’s as bad as the four-oh-five”, she says referring to Interstate 405
in Los Angeles just a few hours away.
Mom and Jeanne know this road better than they know their
children. The Old Depot Road has bordered their family’s backyard for what is
now six generations. It was along this road that they grew up. They heard the trains
whistle. Family members worked and lived in the Inyo Mountains and on the
railroad. This is where they learned to ride horses and later where they
learned to drive.
Every step holds a story. “This is where the car races
used to start.” “It was right over there where the deer jumped the fence and
scared us nearly to death.” “This small collection
of graves is called the Pioneer Cemetery.
It’s been out here as long as my grandmother can remember.” “This was where your Mom threw the rock at
the truck and smashed the back window.”
“When was that?” I asked, looking over at my Mom with the, ‘ah-hum’ look. Jeanne thought for a moment then said, “I
think it was Tuesday.”
Evidently, one of the kids living at the Old Depot was driving
too fast. Mom, worried for the dogs, threw a rock at his truck to slow him
down. “You just have to know how to communicate with people,” Mom said blowing
off the incident. She then yelled
“Over!” Dogs and humans moved over to
the side of the road making room for a truck that was slowly rolling by. The kid, he was about 35 years old, waved at
Mom and Jeanne through the broken glass. They waved back. “Free dogs!” Mom
yelled, and in unison, we all moved back into the middle of the road and
continued walking. “Just too much traffic,” Jeanne sighed.
If it’s not raining or “too damn cold,” Mom and Jeanie
are inspirationally consistent on going on what they refer to as their “Death
March.” From time to time others will
randomly join. Maybe a daughter who moved
back home, again. Or a granddaughter on
vacation from school. Or a family member. Or a neighbor who has nothing else better to
do in the late afternoon.
As a periodic guest on these walks over the years, I have
enjoyed watching the evolution of their lives and the world through their eyes.
Along this road world events have unfolded, family and friends have come and
gone and the passage of time is marked by the gait of the dogs. Starting off as pups leaping shrubs and
chasing rabbits in the open fields until after some years, preferring to walk at
a more leisurely rate or perhaps sniff at something on the side of the
road.
Important decisions are considered, reflections and
insights are shared during the Death March.
Plans are made for the summer garden, tips are shared on how to manipulate
Excel spreadsheets, and local politics are debated in the context of world
politics and more frequently than not, it is difficult to separate the two.
And there is always the ever-riveting debate over butter
vs. Crisco. A topic that pops up as a major discussion item right around the
holidays. There is of course no right answer. The accord between Mom and Jeanne
on the matter is that much like gender, it is a choice. And as with all choices
there are consequences. And while one should not be judged for their choices,
people do in fact judge.
There are also those moments during the march that only
two people who love and know one another well can share: silence. Walking together, surrounded by beauty, each
in their own thoughts either remembering the past, enjoying the present, or
wondering about the future.
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