Trail Angels and Devils

By Terry Larson

Another season for the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) hikers began as usual at the Mexican-California border a few miles south of the town of Campo, California. Little did the early hikers know what they had in store for some of them. Somewhere up the trail, a killer or two was waiting to strike with the intent to kill, for unknown reasons. Who would have thought that such animosity could prevail along a famous trail designed for innocent outdoor recreation? Who was it they had to fear? Was it the Trail Devils, a gang from the town of Mojave that was camping next to the trail for the summer for the purpose of harassing the hikers and young bikers? Or was it a Trail Angel, a person dedicated to helping the logistics of the hikers? Or, perhaps, it was the hired ranch hand who patrolled the trail to guarantee nobody abused the easement rights of the TJ Ranch property in Antelope Valley? Or was it someone else? Would the hikers traced up the trail make it to Canada, including the man possessed to be the first to go all the way up and back to the Mexican border, or would they meet death by the time they got to the Tehachapi Mountains? Who was gong to solve these mystery deaths, the sheriff deputies out of Mojave, or was it going to be someone familiar with the trail?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 23, 2001
• ISBN: 9781477172704

Terry Larson

Terry Larson was born in Glendale, Calif. in 1931. He graduated from San Fernando High School and then from UCLA with a B.A. degree in meteorology in 1953. He was employed at N.A.C.A. at Edwards, Calif. in the same year and fully retired from the site in 1995 as an aerospace engineer, working on the Space Shuttle program. He is now happily retired and writing mystery and science fiction. The parents of two boys, his wife Jean and he reside in Tehachapi, Calif.

Book preview

Copyright © 2000 by Terry Larson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-7-XLIBRIS

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

Contents

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

EPILOGUE

This story is dedicated to those who challenge the Pacific Crest TraiL

1

Tentatively opening the door just wide enough to look into the dim light, he noticed that the room was almost empty. Glad that he couldn’t see a waitress, he ambled up to the bar where he intended to buy a pitcher of beer and then go sit at a table at the end of the darkly lit room.

What’ll it be? the stern, red-faced bartender asked.

How about a pitcher of Bud?

You got it.

Oh yeah, I need two glasses.

After pouring a half a pitcher of nothing but foam, the bartender, shaking his head, emptied it and started again. You got an invisible friend, or are you a two-fisted drinker? he asked, as he wiped the bar with a gray-looking towel after the still excessive foam spilled down the sides of the pitcher while he studied this tall, well-built, but disturbed-looking individual.

What? Oh, I see what you mean. Neither. It’s like my buddy is a little late. Hanover Tross brushed his long, scraggly hair out of his freckled face before picking up the pitcher and two steins and heading over to the table. Glancing at his watch, he saw that his friend Steve Speedman was already ten minutes late. Slowly pouring himself a glass of beer, intent in minimizing the froth, he leaned back in his chair with a first real sense of satisfaction since being released from the Wasco State Prison two weeks ago. Thanks to a loan from his rich uncle in San Francisco, he was able to rent an old 26-foot mobile at Smitty’s Desert Haven, only six blocks from the Mojave airport. Just that afternoon, almost beyond his pessimistic belief, he had learned that he had been hired as a guard for Aerolite, a private experimental aircraft design company located at the airport.

Lost in his thoughts, he gave a start when he heard, Hi Handy. It’s good to see you, buddy.

Hey man, you’re so late, I forgot you were comin, he said, smiling at hearing his nickname again, not giving any thought in how he earned it by being the ‘handy’ guy around when someone wanted to make a drug buy.

Steve Speedman, or Speedy, as his friends called him because of his glib tongue, gave Handy a friendly punch on the shoulder before sitting down. A frail-looking individual of medium height, he nevertheless was appealing because of his highly intelligent features and warm smile. Gee, it’s good to see you, Handy. I couldn’t believe it when your uncle called me and said you were going to rent a trailer here in Mojave.

Oh, it was Uncle Charlie that told you? he said as he poured Speedy a glass of beer.

Well yeah, Handy. Speedy hesitated and then said, I think he sort of wanted someone to be around for you. He was just being the good old uncle.

Handy rolled his eyes, leaned back, stretched his arms over his head before saying, Yeah, I guess, man. His uncle had always tried to be kind to him ever since his parents split up and he had departed what was left of his home. Maybe that was the problem. Being the good uncle, wanting the best for his only nephew, he also wanted him to be a cut above his parents. Well, he had rebelled at fitting that description. He had tried to play the role of being a good kid the first fourteen years of his life. It was after that when his parents, through their excessive drinking, began serious squabbling that he rebelled and fell into the wrong crowd. At first it was only a matter of smoking a little pot. Later it got to the more expensive stuff. After dropping out of high school he found that his job at Burger Star didn’t nearly pay for his needs even though his folks let him live with them. Soon he was selling the stuff. Finally after leaving home shortly before turning 17, he was making more money than his habit required. He remembered how he used to fantasize that he was a big shot as he drove his new Acura around town. His luxurious lifestyle had abruptly ended when he was pulled over that night right after turning eighteen, while completely stoned and found in the possession of over two-hundred grams of rock cocaine. He was lucky. As a first offender he was paroled after only two years.

He was also lucky that he had a friend like Speedy. He had known him ever since he and his parents moved in next door when they were both in the third grade. The boys had been inseparable those first few years. It was only after he had begun associating with the druggies that their friendship waned. Even then, Speedy was always there when he needed help. More than once he had used Speedy without any thought of returning the favor. He often thought of that during his years at Wasco. He had to admit that he had become jealous of his friend. Graduating in the top two percent of his class at Bakersfield High School, Speedy had gone on to Cal Poly to get a degree in aeronautical engineering. Then he got an engineering position with an aircraft company at Edwards, California, just 20 miles from Mojave.

Now, thanks to Speedy and his uncle, Handy had a job in Mojave and his own place to live.

Handy continued, I wondered how you found out that I lived in Mojave. I was like really spooked when you called me that night and said you lived here too. Then I thought, man, old Speedy is good, but he won’t be able to get an ex-con a job in this town. Like, wow man, I about dropped when you told me you arranged an interview for me. I gotta thank you, man.

You needn’t thank me, Handy. I only arranged for the interview. You were the one that impressed the security outfit that you’re worthy of the job.

Yeah, but you must of put in a good word for me.

I only told them the truth—that you’re a good man who just happened to get caught up with some bad habits, but that you’re going to be a good boy now.

Handy shook his head back and forth. I wish you hadn’t promised things like that. How do you know what I’m gonna do. Like, I don’t know, myself.

I only know that I have confidence in you that you’re going to amount to something.

Well, thanks, man. I hope you’re right.

How do you think you’ll like your job?

Outside of workin at Burger Star, I’ve never had a job, Speedy. I guess I’ll like it. Like, I only have to work twenty hours a week, and I don’t have to do no manual labor or nothin like that.

I know that they don’t pay much for that kind of job. Maybe if you put in a good performance, they’ll make it a full time one. Then you’ll make a decent living.

Handy laughed and said, At nine bucks an hour I ain’t gonna get rich, Speedy. But at least I could pay my uncle back.

If I may ask, what are your obligations with the law people? I know that there must be something, since you got an early parole.

Within thirty days, I gotta show that I’m doin some public service work. I gotta do like 40 hours a month for a year, I think. My parole officer will tell me what I gotta do.

Now was the time for Speedy to bring up his well thought out suggestion: You know what, Handy? You probably remember what a nut I am about hiking. Well, anyway, on weekends I still like to hike. I’ve done a lot of it on the Pacific Crest Trail, which crosses the Tehachapis just to the west of us. I know a little bit about the Pacific Crest Trail Agency, which is federally mandated to support the trail and its activities. In fact, I helped last year by working on a section of the trail for four days. Never worked so hard in my life. But it made me feel good, working in the fresh air and helping to make easier going for hikers. I’m not saying that you should do that, but I know of another job that might interest you.

Yeah, what’s that?

Well, I don’t know what you know about the trail, but it goes all the way from the Mexican border near El Campo, California to about fifty miles, I think it is, north of the Canadian border.

Handy put down his empty glass. Whoa man, that’s a long ways.

Over 2,600 miles and a lot of it uphill. Anyway, every year, what they call the through-hikers start from one end of the trail and hike clear to the other end. Say if they’re leaving from the Mexican border, they’ll periodically leave the trail and resupply at places with post offices such as Warner Springs, Agua Dulce and also here in Mojave. In fact, in this area the hikers have the option of resupplying and resting either at Mojave or Tehachapi. Either way, they have to leave the trail and either hitchhike or walk into town. Now when these hikers reach one of these places, they’re usually tuckered out and often times in the need of some sort of assistance, like rides, or recommendations of places to stay or eat. Sometimes they just need to know, say, where to buy fuel for their camping stoves. That’s where public assistance is needed. Well, guess what? Traditionally, they have people that provide this assistance. They’re called ‘Trail Angels.’ I’m sure that your parole officer would consider that your being a Trail Angel would fulfill your public service requirements. What do you think?

Handy shrugged his shoulders. Like how could I be a Trail Angel? Wouldn’t I need wheels?

Yeah, you would. It just so happens that I’ve got an old junker that I haven’t been able to sell. You could borrow it, and I would help pay for your gas. You wouldn’t be doing that much driving. What do you say?

I can think of worse things to do. But why should you pay for the gas?

Speedy had an answer: "Think of it this way. I would be sort of a Trail Angel, too. After all, the little I would be putting out for gas money wouldn’t compare to the aches and pains I got from busting my butt when I worked on the PCT last year. Besides, we might be able to take the expense of the gas off our income tax.

Oh yeah, I wouldn’t know—like I never paid income tax before.

One other thing I forgot to mention: If you’re a really nice Trail Angel, you could transport water to various spots on the trail. This happens to be a very dry section of the trail, and the hikers love to see those jugs of water.

Handy shook his head again. Now that sounds like work. I don’t know about that. I never hiked, you know. What about them snakes and bears?

You have to worry some about Mojave Greens and not be careless with your food so that you entice a black bear to make you a visit. But believe me, you’re safer on the trail than you are walking along some highway.

If you say so, Handy said just before swallowing another gulp of beer.

By the way, this job doesn’t really last very long. You see, it’s only the through-hikers, usually, that you will be catering to. And they only will be in the need of this service during two, approximately six-week periods of the year.

Oh, yeah? When’s that?

The guys going north will be coming through from some time in mid-May to not much after the 4th of July. The guys going south will be coming through centered around the last weeks in September, I believe.

Handy was starting to look more disinterested. Why’s that?

Because of the snow conditions of the Cascades and Sierras and the length of the trip, they have only a small window for their departure dates. See what I mean?

Yeah, I guess so, Handy said, perking up some. So, you’re saying this job will only take up my time for about three months of the year?

I’m afraid so unless you are willing to do a little trail work, like in the spring and late fall months. But at least the first six-week period is coming up in a few weeks. You could at least start with that.

Yeah, I guess so, Handy mumbled.

Well, if you want to do it, I could make some contacts next week and see if the town is in the need of a Trail Angel. I’ve heard that the Trail Angel that I know of might be leaving town shortly.

Sure Speedy. Why don’t you do that. Thumbs up.

Good. First thing Monday afternoon after work, I’ll start making some inquiries. Okay? By the way, let me pay for the beer.

Handy quickly reached for his wallet. Are you kiddin? All you’ve done for me. It’s on me, man.

2

Handy, glancing at the clock, saw that it was only 6:20, but he was wide awake. He liked his working hours: 8:00 a.m. to 12:00 p.m., even though he had to work weekends. Nevertheless, he still habitually woke up between 6:00 and 6:30 every morning. It must have something to do with having to get up at 6:00 every morning while at prison.

Looking out the window, he saw, dismally, that the wind was blowing as it usually does in Mojave. He had heard that when the Santa Anna conditions occur, that is, when the wind blew out of the east, the wind speeds were generally much less and sometimes even calm. He couldn’t wait for that day. Glancing at the Tehachapi Mountains to the west, he could see a few low-hanging clouds obscuring their peaks. He also knew from local knowledge that meant that the wind was going to continue for a time. At least the wind speeds weren’t excessive as they were two days ago when they peaked out at over 100 mph.

He had thought long about the job of being a Trail Angel. In a way the thought of being anything connected with a religious term as that was disgusting to think about. Not being raised in a religious family and never seeing any evidence of pious people prospering any better than agnostics, the term angel to him only connoted a mythical goody goody being concocted by some ancient dreamer high on mushrooms. Nevertheless, the job of being one didn’t sound that bad. Driving people around town and back to the trail shouldn’t take much effort and, apparently, it would fulfill the need of his performing public service. He would have to fake being nice to these pampered people, but he could put on an act. In his mind anybody taking five months for a hiking trip was equivalent to being a lazy, but well-off person with nothing much to do.

Even if he didn’t get the job, he meant to get use of that car Speedy had offered him for transporting these primadonnas. He figured that all he had to do was fix it up mechanically to the point that Speedy was so impressed that he would at least loan him the car even if he didn’t become a Trail Angel.

Hearing the knock on the front door of his condo, Speedy opened the door to stare into the expressionless face of his friend Handy.

How in hell did you get here, Handy?

Simple, man. I walked.

What in the heck for?

Like I figured, you’d be in your pad this morning, and since it’s my day off, I figured I’d come over and work on your old car.

Well, come on in and have a chair. I thought I told you that I couldn’t get a hold of Mrs. Martha Morrison, the Trail Angel in town.

Handy plumped himself down on the sofa. I know. But, hey man, I got nothin better to do than fix up your old car for you. I like workin on cars.

Hey, that’s awfully cool of you, Handy. Even though I’m an engineer, I never learned how to work on cars. I don’t even have tools.

No problem. I brought mine. Left them next to your clunker.

Speedy went over to the thermostat to shut the heat off. You’re lucky that you found me home. I was thinking about going to the base and working for a few hours. We got a big flight test coming up next week, and I want to be sure that everything goes right. By the way, have you had breakfast?

Yep. Coffeecake and coffee. Thanks, anyway.

Just then the phone rang: "Hello Mrs. Morrison. I heard through the grapevine that you might be leaving Mojave, and I just thought that you might need a replacement for your Trail

Angel job… . Yes, I have a friend that would be perfect for the job. He’s only working part time and would be most happy to do the job… . Yes, he has a car—actually I can loan him my old clunker—and will be available the better part of the day, even on the days he’s working… Sure, we can come over right away if it’s convenient for you … . Thank you, Mrs. Morrison … What’s your address? … Got it… . See you in a few minutes. Bye.

That’s it buddy. I’m sure you got the job. Let’s go. You can work on the Honda later.

Mrs. Martha Morrison, an attractive woman with intelligent features and lively eyes, somewhere in her late forties, invited them into her cramped living room. After introductions she said, "Sorry for the mess, boys, but I got to be out of here by Wednesday. My son, bless him, is moving all my furniture and belongings to Oxnard. I’ve got to move there because of my mother; she’s living in a home there, but needs my help.

Now then, Mr. Tross, you’re the young man that wants to be the glorious Trail Angel?

Yes … yes maam, Handy mumbled, his eyes never leaving the floor and his face stolid with only a slight movement of his lips when he talked.

You see I’m an old retired school teacher, Mr. Tross, so I’m afraid that I have the habit of asking too many questions of people whom I deal with. But could I simply ask you why you want to become a Trail Angel?

Handy, visibly flustered, stuttered, I … . I … I guess I think it would be like cool.

"That is a good answer, Mr. Tross. It is what you can call a cool job. I think a better description, though, is that it is a very rewarding job. You get a chance to help people whom need immediate help. Not only that, you get a chance to meet interesting people and hear all kinds of fascinating stories about their adventures. Personally, I’m going to miss being a Trail Angel. The four years that I was involved in this work have provided me with many fond memories. It’s an experience I’ll never forget.

But do you know what is involved with the job?

A little from what Speedy here has told me.

Okay. Did he tell you that it’s best that you are a people’s person? That is, you should basically like people, be patient with them, and have a feeling of being a part of their adventure. I think that it’s important to make them feel that you’re helping them because you want to and not for some ulterior motive. You see what I’m saying?

Handy, still expressionless, answered Yeah.

Speedy, looking a little embarrassed, interjected, Handy is good at helping people. Why, without me even asking for help, he came over today to work on my old car.

Mrs. Morrison smiled and said, It looks to me that Mr. Tross is the right man for this kind of job, then. Let me run down all that’s involved with this work. The hikers will be contacting you, Mr. Tross. They’ll see your name listed as a Trail Angel from several sources, such as the local post office where most of them go to receive and mail food packages, besides signing and writing in the PCTA Trail Registry. Other Trail Angels will also have your name and pass it on to hikers who might call you about such things as giving messages to yet other hikers visiting Mojave. Or they may have questions about available motels, hostels, food markets, and the like. Your main job will be simply to transport them from town back to the trail out on Willow Springs Rd. Of course, if you wish, you can even put hikers up at your place, if you are so equipped and willing.

No, I can’t do that.

Well then, the other requirements will simply be giving them information, answering questions, and providing rides to remote locations. Actually, all kinds of fascinating things come up. I remember one time a young woman confided with me about her fiance, who was insisting that they walk twenty miles a day so that they could get to Canada by the first of October in order for him to go with his buddies to Australia for another hike. The poor girl had shin splints and looked anorexic. I was so mad that I convinced her that she should insist on hiking only about 15 miles a day—which she expressed as reasonable,—or that she was going to quit the trail and leave him. She later wrote me that she did just that. He was so headstrong that he wouldn’t comply to the shorter mileage. I still get letters from her thanking me for letting her see the light. She has since married a wonderful man that she met that same summer while her ex-fiance was still hiking up the trail. And, incidentally, he never did finish the trail or go to Australia.

Why was that, Mrs. Morrison? Speedy inquired.

"He came down with a terrible case of shin splints.

Oh yes, I almost forgot: if you’re a super Trail Angel, you might be interested in performing trail maintenance as well as caching water at various points on the trail. I’ve even done quite a bit of that myself.

I’ll vouch for that, Speedy interjected.

I don’t really think I would go for that, either, Handy said frowning.

"Well then, Mr. Tross, let me give you some information here about our town in case you don’t already know it all. I’ve got everything from motel rates and restaurant prices to annual town events and laws. I think you’ll find it very useful.

Do you young men have time to go to the post office in a few minutes? If you do, I can show you the register, and we’ll change the local Trail Angel’s name from mine to yours, Mr. Tross. Oh yes, that’s another requirement, Mr. Tross: Periodically, you should read the comments the hikers make so that you can be aware of any trail deficiencies or problems and relay them on to the person assigned to trail maintenance of this trail section. I’ll give you his name, address and telephone number before we’re through.

After a few more afterthoughts regarding job responsibilities, Speedy asked Mrs. Morrison how she got involved being a Trail Angel. She responded that it was in response to her husband’s love of hiking. "After he died I thought it was only fitting that I do something for the hikers. He had always wanted to hike the entire PCT, but being a working man, he never had the opportunity.

Over the years, however, he did manage to hike a couple segments of the trail. I never went with him, but now I wish I had when my legs were in better shape. When I see those fit people start up the trail, I sometimes get a terrible yearning to be with them. But I loved just being a Trail Angel, and I know that I will miss it so much."

Mrs. Morrison and Handy left for the Mojave post office while Speedy went to work at the base. She showed Handy the entries in the register. Standing there, reading several of them, continually smiling, she chuckled a couple times and nodded