The Swan of Tuonela: A Life in the California Desert

By Cal Stevens

This book is essentially an autobiography of a man of Finnish descent who was born and lived most of his life in the desert of eastern California. The old Finnish folk tale concerning a swan and the musical rendition of that tale by Jean Sibelius play important roles in this work. Here I have rendered as accurately and as plausibly as possible the most memorable adventures of this fictional man. Some of the chapters are based on actual events, whereas others have been invented. Each episode is almost a short story in itself.

The main character and the other people whose stories are followed in this novel were not exceptional in any way, but they and their descendants are among those forming the basic fabric of American society. These people were in charge of their own lives, made their own decisions, and made no excuses. They lived in a rarefied culture, and most were very individualistic. They were no less ambitions and intelligent than those who lived in the great cities, but their lives, of course, were very different, and in some ways more interesting.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cal Stevens
• Release date: Apr 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370443796

Cal Stevens

Cal Stevens grew up in Sheridan, Wyoming in a family involved in ranching for generations. After graduating from Sheridan High School he got degrees in Geology at the University of Colorado and at the University of Southern California. After that he taught Geology at San Jose State University for many years, teaching his last classes in 2005.Besides writing "On the other side of Brokeback Mountain", he has written several short stories about cowboys and ranch life available on the website cowboyslives.com

Book preview

THE SWAN OF TUONELA

A Life in the California Desert

By

Cal Stevens

Copyright 2017 Cal Stevens

Revised 2018

Cover by Robert Magginetti

The moving hand writes and having writ, moves on. Neither all thy piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all thy tears wash out a word of it. (From the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam)

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 1514366983

ISBN 13: 9781514366981

Library of Congress Control Number: XXXXX (If applicable)

LCCN Imprint Name: City and State (If applicable)

CONTENTS

Living in the Desert

Growing up in Darwin

Early Childhood Education

Mine Exploration

Bored in Darwin

Body Building

Teenage Years in Lone Pine

Lone Pine High School

Leena’s Legacy

Ball Game at Diaz Lake

Hiking and Fishing

Sex Education

The Fabulous Talc Mine

The Service

Basic Training

Assignment to the OSS

Life after the Service

Mike’s Wedding

Ice-fishing in the Sierra

Murder on Owens Lake

Fifi

Fight at the Last Chance Bar

Jaakko’s Death

Exploring the Naval Air Weapons Station

Emma

Living Alone

Hike in the Desert

SWAN OF TUONELA

Living in the Desert

I looked at my calendar again. Yes, it is Tuesday, July fourteenth, and it is already past noon. So why, dammit, hasn’t my old buddy, Mike Badly, gotten here yet? What does he expect me to do while I’m waiting for him? Am I supposed to just sit here scratching my ass? You see, he should be here by now because for the last five years, ever since his wife Becky died back in 2000, he’s come to visit me at my old mining shack out here in the desert every Tuesday morning, always arriving before noon. What could be the problem today?

With that question in mind, I decided to go out onto my porch to see if Mike was anywhere in sight. I walked to the door and opened it, letting in a blast of hot air. I then pushed the screen door aside and stepped down the one small step onto the porch which put me just to the right of my old, wooden rocking chair. From behind the chair, a small, gray lizard, the only living thing in sight, scampered across the floor.

I looked down the dirt road leading from my cabin to the main highway about a mile away which connects the little town of Lone Pine to Death Valley to see if Mike was on his way. I noticed that the desolate desert was shimmering in the heat, distorting the shapes of all objects in the distance; the Joshua trees, especially, appeared to be bouncing around erratically. The sky was a hazy blue and cloudless. There was no wind, but every once in a while, there was a breath of air. Then, all of a sudden, a dust devil appeared on the rocky slope down from my cabin. Slowly, it began moving toward my road, carrying a cloud of light brown dust, dirt, and desiccated fragments of dead Joshua trees twenty, maybe thirty, feet into the air. It hovered over the road for a few seconds before it moved on and dissipated.

With nothing better to do, I walked out beyond the turnaround in front of my cabin to the place where the dust devil had crossed the road. No evidence of that event was left. It was as though it had never happened.

As I walked back toward the turnaround, I looked ahead at my cabin, a lonely, rectangular box, the only structure breaking up the monotony of the gently sloping alluvial fan mostly covered with large, angular rocks. Only the one, small cottonwood tree in front of the left side of the porch ameliorates the bleakness of that scene. When I got closer to the cabin, I observed that the original white paint applied to the trim was beginning to peel, exposing the dark brown wood underneath. It doesn’t look very good, I said to myself, but who really cares? Certainly not me; I’m way too old to worry about that now.

***

But back to Mike. Even though he, like me, is approaching eighty-five, he’s still in very good health and evidently likes to drive out from Lone Pine where he now lives to visit me. I think he comes mainly to talk although he claims he only wants to bring me the groceries and other items I’ll need for the next week and to pick up my mail which is delivered to the Post Office in Darwin. Also, about once a month, Mike tells me he wants to take me to town so I can do my own shopping. He says I should have to do it myself once in a while so I can appreciate what a pain it is. I really doubt that’s the reason, however, since he also always wants me to stay with him overnight. I suspect that like me, he gets lonely living alone.

Mike’s a terrible creature of habit. Not only does he always come on Tuesday, but upon his arrival, he also always says something like, Well, if it isn’t old Pekka McLeod. I didn’t think you’d still be alive.

And I always reply, I wish you’d call me Pete, and you better watch it. The angel of death is hovering over you right now.

Mike is much more considerate of me than is necessary. I tend to suspect he still feels a bit guilty about how he gained control of the now abandoned Fabulous Mine that we, including my deceased twin brother Jaakko, developed years ago. Regardless, not only does he bring me the necessities of life, but he also has taken it upon himself to make my life more enjoyable in other ways. For instance, he often brings me a new CD because he knows I must have classical music playing when I’m alone. He’s seen I have all sorts of Bach, Brahms, Chopin, Dvorak, Mozart, Tchaikovsky and, of course, my favorite, Sibelius, since I’m of Finnish descent. Therefore, he usually picks out something he thinks I wouldn’t have. Even though most of the oddball CDs he brings don’t appeal to me, I always thank him profusely and play them at least once or twice before they’re permanently retired.

Mike generally sticks around all afternoon so we can have a beer or two and talk. And before he leaves, we usually take a hike to look at the now abandoned Fabulous Mine for old time’s sake.

***

Last week Mike arrived a few minutes before noon as always. I met him in the driveway where we gave each other a hug and uttered our usual greetings. We unloaded the groceries he’d brought, and I took in the mail he’d picked up for me in Darwin. As we were putting the groceries away, he said, Since I think your diet relies too much on red meat, I’ve brought you more green vegetables than usual. So, to show some appreciation, I hope you’ll say, ‘Thank you Mike for being concerned about my health.’

Well, okay. Thank you Mike, I said. But anyway, I don’t think red meat’s going to kill me. It hasn’t yet, and I’m sure I’m good for another five years. You can’t convince me there’s anything that beats a rare cheeseburger.

Mike didn’t answer, but instead he presented me with a new set of CDs featuring an obscure opera entitled Anoush composed by an equally obscure Armenian composer named Tigranian. He said, I have this musical Armenian friend in Fresno who told me he really liked this music, and I thought you might like it too.

Mike himself had not listened to this opera, so he went on to say, I’d like to hear it. Why don’t you put it on?

Okay, I said, but first why don’t you sit down? I’ll get us a couple beers and while we’re polishing them off, you can fill me in on all the news from Lone Pine. Once that’s out of the way, I’ll put on the music and we can relax and listen.

After I’d retrieved the beers and brought out chips and salsa, Mike filled me in on all the major events having taken place in Lone Pine and the other towns in Owens Valley during the past week. This amounted to one fight in the Last Chance Bar in Lone Pine between two young drunks, a couple of domestic disturbances, and several rumors of illicit relationships. Most of these events involved people I didn’t know, but that didn’t really matter. I enjoyed hearing something about local events that are never covered by the L.A. TV stations I tune into out here. Also, since it was football season and both of us are dedicated USC fans, we discussed and dissected all the important plays made during the previous week’s USC football game. Mike is especially fanatical because, according to him, one of the coaches is some distant relative. Although I’ve always doubted that, I’ve never actually questioned him about it.

A little later, during a lull in our conversation, I put on the first Anoush CD. From the beginning, the music with its odd Middle Eastern tonalities, the likes of which I had never heard before, intrigued me. I realized immediately that this opera was something well worth listening to. However, it was hard to concentrate on the music while we continued talking about football and the good old days before the Second World War when we were young, carefree, and happy.

We polished off that first beer in no time flat, but on my way back to the refrigerator for a second, Mike said, I’d like to stay to have another drink with you, but I need to get back to Lone Pine.

Come on, I said. Why don’t you just sit for a while? I’ll cook up a couple hamburgers with cheese, and we can have some of those extra vegetables you brought.

Mike, however, was adamant. I have to get back to meet somebody; sort of a lady friend. I promised her I’d be there by four o’clock, and it’s already three fifteen.

Yeah, I know, I said. You’re trying to make me think your lady friend needs a little loving, and you just can’t wait. I think you’re trying to make me jealous. Well, Mike, it won’t work. One of these days you’ll find me with a lady out here when you come for a visit. That’ll show you.

Mike looked dubious. What’s going on in your addled mind? You can’t even remember what it was like, and you wouldn’t have any idea what to do if you did get the chance. You with some woman out here in the desert? It makes me laugh. If there ever is a woman out here, it’ll be a care giver hired to make sure you can find your way to the toilet.

Fuck you, you obnoxious, over-privileged bastard, I answered. You never could keep up with me.

Well, you can stew about that all you want, Mike said. I’m off. Bye. Hope you don’t die before I come back next week.

As he walked out the door, I yelled, You are a bastard, and you know it. I’ve just about had it putting up with all your crap.

Without answering, Mike got into his car and started out toward the highway, leaving behind great clouds of dust. I was still fuming well after the car disappeared out onto the highway.

Afterwards, when I began to think more rationally, I said to myself, Getting into such a dither is ridiculous? Mike is a friend, a really good friend. Then I laughed. Actually, it’s fun to get all hot and bothered once in a while. It breaks up the monotony of life if nothing else.

With that thought in mind, I nestled down in my favorite chair now feeling much better. Since I’d not been able to concentrate on Tigranian’s music while talking with Mike, I got up and started Anoush over again from the beginning. This time I planned to listen to the whole opera uninterrupted.

As the music began, I started reading an outline of the story printed on the accompanying brochure. It was a typically operatic story but cast in a Middle Eastern cultural setting. According to the author, Anoush was a beautiful girl who fell in love with a handsome young man named Saro. As was customary, Saro and Anoush’s brother, Mossy, had a wrestling match before the wedding. Also, according to tradition, the brother should win, and the two men would be bound together as friends forever after. However, Saro got too caught up in the match and threw Mossy to the ground. This disgraced Mossy who, to salvage his honor, would have to kill Saro.

Realizing what he’d done, Saro fled into the mountains. Mossy followed him and eventually caught up and killed him. When Anoush, who had been following Mossy, came upon the body of her dead lover, she was overcome with grief.

That story, like that of most operas, seems overly dramatic, but I found the music to be very interesting. It was well after dark before the opera concluded with Anoush’s scream as she dives off a cliff to her death. After that I sat for a long time, listening in my mind to some of that strange and somewhat disturbing music.

I had totally forgotten about dinner when all of a sudden I realized I was hungry. I felt stiff, having sat for so long, but with some effort I got up and retrieved a hamburger from my ice box. I then put the meat into a wrought iron skillet and turned on the gas. As the meat started sizzling, I rummaged around in the bags of groceries Mike had brought and pulled out some broccoli to chew on. While watching the hamburger gradually changing from red to a pleasant dark brown, I said to myself, This has been a good day. I hope Mike doesn’t take my grumpiness too seriously.

***

Today, however, is different. It is now one o’clock, and Mike hasn’t shown up. This isn’t like Mike at all. In the past, he always came at or before noon, or at least sent one of his sons to check on me if he couldn’t make it himself. I can’t imagine he would be so angry with me for calling him a bastard that he wouldn’t come. Over the years, I’d often called him that and worse, and he always laughed it off. No, there must be another reason. Not knowing what that is, however, is making me increasingly agitated.

Now I’m beginning to wonder why I hadn’t invested in a cell phone like Mike had suggested last year. At that time I remember I explained to him, I don’t think I’d ever use it. Besides, I don’t have the money.

Even when Mike said he’d pay for the phone, I declined his offer. Today I realize that was a mistake.

To stay busy and to keep my mind off Mike’s late arrival, I paced around through all four rooms of the cabin— the living room, the two bedrooms, and the kitchen— straightening up the furniture and making sure everything was in its proper place. I also swatted some flies buzzing around one of the windows and ushered an angry wasp out the door. I was looking for something but not finding anything that would relieve my anxiety.

So, besides becoming increasing frustrated, I was getting tired. With the thought that I should rest and relax, I went into the larger of the two bedrooms to lie down. This bedroom, which used to be Jaakko’s, is my favorite because it’s more spacious than my old room. As I passed by the three-drawer dresser, I looked at myself in the mirror on the wall above the dresser. Oh, how awful, I said to myself. I look like a dead man walking. My face has become terribly wrinkled. And look at my hair. There’s lots of it, but it is way too long and shaggy, and it’s sticking out in all directions.

Then I focused on my out of control moustache. I could work on it myself, but if Mike ever gets here, maybe he’ll give me a trim. From previous experiences, I know he’s not very good as a barber, but at least he would do better than I.

After having completed the examination of my face, I lay down on the old, double bed with its old-fashioned metal headboard to survey my surroundings. The room is rectangular, measuring about fifteen by twelve feet. Near the foot of this bed is a small table upon which I stash my watch and the contents of my pockets before I go to bed. The only other furniture in the room, besides that table and the dresser across the room, is a narrow, single bed and a small, straight-backed chair I generally sit on while putting on my boots in the morning.

On the wall next to my bed, there are several posters Jaakko stapled up years ago. One, given to my father by a friend, depicts scenes from the 1939 World’s Fair in San Francisco. Two others advertise rodeos Jaakko and I went to in Salinas in 1946 and 1950. A photograph of Jaakko and me dressed as Finnish businessmen, the identities we assumed during World War Two when we lived in Washington, D.C., hangs on the wall above the beds. The wall opposite the one decorated with the posters boasts a large picture window from which one can view the Sierra Nevada, now almost totally devoid of snow. Whenever needed, light is provided by a floor lamp near the bed and a bare, forty-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling. I’ve always hated that bare light bulb, but because of my procrastination, I’ve never gotten around to buying a shade.

Still thinking about Mike and tired of lying down, I got up to get a glass of water from my narrow, but utilitarian kitchen. In there I have a small refrigerator, a four-burner stove, a short counter covered with linoleum, the edges of which are curling up, and a sink. After grabbing a glass from the lower shelf of the cupboard Jaakko put up over the sink years ago, I poured in some well water I keep in the refrigerator and drank it all. I guess I must have gotten a little dehydrated from walking around half the day in this hot house.

That drink made me feel a little better, so I went into the living room and sat down in the comfortable, old armchair that Jaakko and I rescued from the Keeler dump many years ago. I again tried to relax and forget about Mike’s absence, but since that didn’t work, I went to the door. Upon opening it, I was met with a blast of hot air. Oh yes, it was going to be one of those scorching days. Then I looked down the road to see if Mike was on his way. Nope. There wasn’t any dust that invariably follows any vehicle coming up to my place from the paved highway. Obviously, he wasn’t close by.

I quickly closed the door to keep the heat out and sat down again in my armchair. This chair is now terribly frayed and full of holes through which the lining is protruding. I like it, however, and I often say to myself, If there’s anything in this house that makes life worth living, this is it. Ugly? Yes, but oh so friendly.

Feeling more comfortable now, I glanced around the room, assessing my various belongings. Next to the door is another armchair, also from the Keeler dump, that Jaakko had always sat in. Near the back wall is a small, wooden table upon which I pile whatever correspondence I receive. It is accompanied by four, straight-backed chairs that Jaakko and I picked up at a garage sale in Independence just after we moved into this house in 1946. In addition to that furniture, there are two end tables and a hutch in which I keep all sorts of precious items that bring back memories, both good and bad; a stereo system; and a small, black and white TV. On the floor is a fake Oriental rug Jaakko and I bought during our stay in Washington.

The room is illuminated during the day by light admitted through two large windows, one facing north, the other facing east. From the north-facing window, the ridge on which our old Fabulous Mine is located is visible. From the other, one can look down the alluvial fan on which my favorite Joshua trees grow. I looked out. Oh yes. There’s Jean, waiting silently, as always. She’s very graceful and seems glad to see me as I walk by. A little farther away are Mabel, Marlene and Madeline, the three sisters. They’re a rather austere bunch, but they’ll always listen to my complaints. Sometimes I hear them whispering to one another; maybe they’re trying to decide how to respond to me. Not much farther away is big Bruno, looking threatening and fierce. He’s always been pleasant to me, but I’ve often wondered why he looks like he’s ready for a fight. Is it that he’s the self-appointed guardian for the three sisters nearby? Maybe that’s it. However, he, like me, is getting old and may not be with us much longer. In the distance, there are other acquaintances, some whose names I can’t remember. Even farther down the slope there are lots of other individuals I don’t remember actually ever meeting.

Growing up in Darwin

Unfortunately, my previous pleasant thoughts were quickly replaced by my worry about why Mike hasn’t appeared. I’m perplexed. In the past, he always came for a visit on Tuesday, regardless of any possible inconvenience to himself. This makes me inclined to think something serious has come up. But if, for instance, something did happen to him, like having a heart attack, why hasn’t one of his sons come out here to tell me? In an attempt to put those thoughts out of my mind, I started to reminisce about our longtime friendship, extending back to our early years growing up in Darwin and during which we had numerous happy and sometimes frightening experiences.

***

When Jaakko, Mike and I were very young, the town of Darwin had long since seen its heyday, and the population had dropped to a few hundred. I knew, or at least recognized, most of the residents, but there were only four people who were important to me. They were: my brother, Jaakko; my friend, Mike; my dad, Ahti; and my grandmother, Leena.

Jaakko and I were physically identical, so most people, even our neighbors, had difficulty telling us apart until they got to know us. We both were slender and had straight, blond hair and pale blue eyes. Our personalities, however, were entirely different. Whereas I was a bit shy, reserved, and careful, Jaakko was very out-going and impulsive. Jaakko also had a habit of putting me down. He always dominated me and although I didn’t like it, I couldn’t seem to do anything about it.

Mike Badly had always been around while Jaakko and I were growing up and all during our youth, we three boys did everything together. Now that I think about it, I guess we must have made for a slightly unusual appearing trio; whereas Jaakko and I were physically identical with our blue eyes and exceedingly blond hair, Mike was dark-haired with jet-black eyes. We also differed in that Jaakko and I were always more or less wiry, weighing in at about one hundred eighty pounds at maturity, whereas Mike, who was always rather stocky, weighed well over two hundred twenty pounds in his prime. Like me, Mike usually gave in to Jaakko’s demands.

***

I remember Dad as a rather stern man