My grandson, Ryan, and my dog, Blue, are almost the same age. Ryan is just starting to find his path, but, at fourteen, Blue has run his. He is almost blind, doesn’t hear well, but has not lost his sweet disposition. There is medication to ease his pain, but the vet has said the humane thing to do will be to put him down. I want to take Blue up to the mountains, Black Heart Bar, and do it there. The vet, a friend of long standing, understands, breaks all sorts of regulations by handing me the necessary injections. I am grateful.
Ryan, who looks like me at his age—tall, gangly, wild curly hair, voice changing—asks if he can come. Blue has been a constant in his life. I say, yes, knowing there is no way I can prepare him for the grief ahead.
Black Heart Bar refers, not to the dark, heavy-timbered roadhouse on Route 50, but to a long stretch of gravel on the shallow Cosumnes River, near Lake Tahoe, where prospectors once panned for gold. My great-grandfather had staked a claim nearby and, according to family lore, had been wounded in a gunfight with claim-jumpers. When the El Dorado National Forest was created, his few acres along the river stayed in the family, one generation passing it on to the next. Any structures are long gone, burned in forest fires, never rebuilt. Even now, a summer cabin would too isolated to protect from fire or modern predators. It’s rough country
The road in from the highway is three miles of unpaved logging roads, so treacherous that nobody tries to pull a trailer, twice. But the site itself, a level, tree-covered shelf above the swift, cold water is perfect for extended summer camping. The only amenities are a sturdy deck, on which we can set up a large tent with netting for some protection from rain and mosquitos, and a long picnic table which serves as kitchen and gathering spot. Family and friends join us during the summer, their colorful tents mushrooming up at nearby clearings. There is plenty of room for all and endless forest beyond our small piece of property. Everyone brings their own provisions, but we share; there is always plenty. Some of our happiest family memories have come from the weeks spent there. But today, the lock that secures the steel gate across the dirt driveway has been smashed, the “Private Property” signs have been torn from adjacent trees. Loud music can be heard ahead.
I ease the Jeep down toward the river. As we come around the last switchback, we see three battered, pick-ups. Dirt bikes are parked close by. Six men and a couple of women, late teens, early twenties, jeans, camo jackets over sweatshirts, some neck tattoos, are gathered by a fire, sitting on round river rocks that have been rolled close. They watch us get out. The music goes off.
“Ladies, fellas, how you all doin’?” I say.
No response.
“You might have missed the signs, but this is private property.”
No one moves.
“I’m Ernie Sanstrom. I own this particular piece of forest. I’m here to do some work getting ready for the summer, so after your fire burns down, I’d appreciate it if you’d move on. There’s a nice public campground just another mile along the road you came in on.”
I keep my voice neutral, no hint at the anger I feel toward these vandals in my sanctuary.
Still, no reaction. Finally, one of the men lifts a hand like a kid in a classroom. Eyes swing to him. He draws a deep breath, pauses, and belches.
The group hoots, slaps thighs, and exchanges high fives.
“Excuse me,” the belcher says. “Were you talking to us?”
More laughter.
“Look guys, maybe it wasn’t you who pulled down the signs or broke the lock. I’ll give you a pass on that. But now, I’m letting you know this is private land and you’re trespassing.”
Belcher doesn’t bother to get up from his slouch. “Gramps, this here is the middle of a national forest. We’ve got as much right here as anyone. Even if this was private land, can you prove it’s yours?”
“Most people respect other people’s signs and locked gates.”
“We ain’t most people, and until you prove this is your land, we’re staying.”
In the stare-down that follows, three men stand. I hope the girls are impressed, because I am mostly amused by guys who try to look tough but don’t know which way is front of their ball caps.
“We’ll wait until you move on,” I say, and we climb back into our Jeep. The group never takes their eyes off us.
We start up the hill, but instead of heading out to the logging road, I turn onto the narrow track that switches back to the clearing where the deck is located, only about 200 feet uphill from the intruders.
“Granddad, what are we doing?” Ryan asks. “Aren’t we going for the sheriff or something?”
“These yahoos are here to drink beer and make some noise. It didn’t look like they’ve got any camping gear, so, when the sun goes down, they’ll get cold and pull out. They’ve got girls with them, so if they see us up here, they’ll likely stay longer than they intended, just to show they’re not letting themselves be chased off. I kind of like the idea of them freezing their sorry asses while we watch. Meanwhile, we’re high and dry on the deck and they’re down there near the water. It’ll be fun to see how they deal with the mosquitos.”
Ryan has met school bullies. He has also been tormented by forest mosquitos. His grin tells me he’s betting on the mosquitos. Blue stretches out on the deck, his tail thumping approval.
The hill above us is steep, too much for Blue, so I tie a thin rope to his collar to keep him from following while Ryan and I climb to the small spring higher up to clean out the well box and install a new water filter on the pipe that snakes down to the campground.
Suddenly, two, snarling, unmuffled dirt bikes claw their way up from the river, spewing leaves and gravel, cutting scars into the side of the hill. The riders arrive at our camp and spin loops in the dirt. One of the riders stops, his bike facing away from our jeep. He revs his engine, pops the clutch, and the rear wheel spins. Like bullets from a machine gun, small stones slam into the side of our vehicle.
Blue is on his feet barking. He charges unsteadily on arthritic legs toward one biker, but the rope holds him back. He is unable to sink his teeth into Belcher’s leg. Both riders come to a stop and look at Blue snarling, struggling against the rope to get at them. Then Belcher sees us as we scramble down the hill toward them and chops one hand down into the opposite arm and shoots a fist at us. They do a final loop and ride off.
When we reach Blue, he’s having a seizure. The exertion has been too much for him. He looks at me as I cradle him, unable to do anything as life ebbs from him.
I hold him for a while before I wrap him in a blanket and rest him on the deck. We had come to the mountains to give him a gentle, loving departure. But this was the end he would have wanted, not a needle, but giving his life defending us.
Down at the river, there is laughter. It is too much.
I put on my worn denim jacket, pull on thick, leather gloves, and grab an axe and curved pruning saw from the Jeep. I want to act while fury still burns within me. I don’t have time to explain to Ryan.
“Stay here. I’m going to cut some wood.”
“Granddad, we brought dry wood with us, remember?”
“I remember,” I say, as I head down the hill.
Belcher and his friends watch in disbelief as I walk through their trucks to a clump of brush near the river. It takes only a few minutes to cut down the small trees and drag them to a nearby log. The axe is sharp. I’m skilled, needing only a single swing to cut through most limbs. Each blow of the axe reverberates, loud, primal, through the still woods. I leave the twigs and small branches where they fall and stack the rest. The wood is green, heavy, and I’ve cut enough to require two trips. I look into the eyes of each of the yahoos as I walk back past them, daring them to say anything. Before, they had only seen a white-haired, old guy. Now, they see an angry man armed with an axe and are silent.
When I return for the second armful, much of what I had left is missing. I say nothing, gather the remaining few pieces and head up the hill.
“What a dumb-ass,” Belcher says when I am almost out of earshot.
I ignore the comment and stack the wood against a tree, about halfway between them and us.
Ryan is wide-eyed. “Granddad, what were you thinking? Those aren’t guys to mess with. And, why would you cut wood that’s too green to burn?”
“Clearing away some of the brush along the river was one of the things we came to do. I wasn’t going to let those pissants stop me.”
I can’t tell if he considers me bold or reckless.
But when I say, “Give me a hand, I want to grill some steaks,” he glances over to the blanket covering Blue, back at me, and his face turns red.
“How can you think about eating at a time like this?” he demands.
“Who said anything about eating? I’ve got a better plan.”
He looks at me, confused, then, as tears flow, he storms over to sit beside Blue’s body.
I build a fire and toss a pair of T-bones directly onto the burning logs.
Flames lick at the meat, fat drips and burns, and smoke, heavy with the aroma of sizzling steak, floats down toward the other campground where it is likely the only food is pretzels and beer.
“Come on, Ryan. It’s time to go.”
“What do you mean?” Ryan fumes. “You said we were going to outwait those guys.”
“I have a better idea. Let them think about how hungry they are while we have dinner at the Black Heart.”
He just stares at me. Clearly, he thinks I am turning tail and running. He climbs into the Jeep and slams the door. I lift Blue into the back.
I pause when we are close to the yahoos. Their fire is dwindling. They didn’t have the foresight to bring wood with them or the tools to cut more.
I call down, “Back in about an hour. I want you gone by then.”
“They’ll just steal all our wood and use it to keep warm,” Ryan says.
“Could be. There’s plenty more. I’m not worried.”
Ryan is sullen, confused. Knowing we were better prepared, he had been excited about the idea of a showdown to see who would outlast the other in the cold night. But Blue’s death has angered him, and he wants to attack the yahoos in the dark, to hell with the consequences. But I am avoiding a confrontation and he is disappointed, embarrassed by me.
At the road house, we go through the motions of eating, not tasting the food. Ryan doesn’t talk, won’t listen to what I want to tell him, and goes outside as soon as he has eaten.
I sip coffee and look at a ball game on a screen above the bar.
When he returns, he sits at another table, morose. I’m sure he wants to know what we are going to do next, but, like me at his age, is too proud to ask.
Finally, I say, “Let’s go,” and head out to the Jeep.
He climbs in, happy to be going home, and slumps against the door.
But when I turn in the wrong direction, he sits up. Then I turn off the highway, onto the logging road.
“Where are we going?”
“You didn’t think we were going to let those assholes kick us off our own property, did you?”
“What are we going to do? Have you called the sheriff?”
“No need for the sheriff. We’re capable of handling idiots like them.”
He goes quiet. But now, it is not the silence of shame. It is the fear of what waits ahead.
“Come on, Ryan, have some faith in your grandfather.”
He says nothing. The forest is black. Our headlights illuminate grotesque shapes–gnarled trees and boulders–along the road. Danger seems to dance in the shadows.
We turn off the logging road onto the narrow track to our property.
Ryan is tense, glued to the window, expecting to be ambushed.
We pull into where the Yahoos had been, their fire now embers. I smile at the thought of them trying to burn the stolen green wood and standing in the smoke to ward off mosquitos.
“How did you know they’d leave?” Ryan asks.
“That wood I cut? Poison oak. You know how you break out in a rash just by brushing past it? Now, picture them handling a stack of wood and a pile of trimmings, dripping with sap. Somewhere, there’s an emergency room dealing with eight idiots whose faces are puffy, eyes swollen shut, skin starting to ooze in severe rashes. Must hurt like hell. I’ve heard you can even get blisters in your lungs if you inhale enough smoke.”
As he imagines the scene, his cold smile matches mine.
“Granddad,” he says, “Let’s finish what we came here to do. There’s a place that overlooks the river that Blue would like.”
