Paralysis

Why it should have been unexpected, I am not sure, but action seemed next to impossible.

It was the warmest day predicted for the rest of my stay, and I’d turned down an offer to go hiking with Pam because I told her I’d planned to rent a kayak or something to go out onto the lake. This did not happen, nothing much did, I was supine. I’m also feeling a bit paralyzed at the thought of writing this entry.

Pam had caught me heading across the parking lot for the toilets, and addressed me as Salome, which I rather like. I said I’d planned to hike the following day, as the forecast was considerably cooler, but she had plans in Bend. She was wearing her hat with all the buttons. I was looking at the group of people who were congregated under a shelter erected just for them by the resort, who I had quickly learned were PCT thru-hikers. The Pacific Crest Trail passes just a mile or so from here, and the resort accepts deliveries of supply boxes for them, so many of them stop here on their way from Mexico to Canada. Twenty years ago I had known some people who hiked the whole trail, and had been a “trail angel” for them as they passed through Oregon, so I knew the culture and common ‘type’ very well. They did not appear to have changed at all, by the looks of them. Pam said she also did some trail angel-ing for them every year. They even gave her a trail name, which only hikers get. They give them to one another, and you rarely learn their real names. She told me hers was “Flair.” I laughed because, I admit, it was perfect. I hope you’ve seen Office Space, and if not, you should.

One of these PCT hikers had made me wait quite some time for the toilet, and yet could not acknowledge my presence when she finally emerged. This is a chronic condition amongst them. I didn’t see any of them acknowledge Pam either, although a nice worker from the resort sure did, as she brought her utility vehicle to a screeching halt to chat with us about our day in a very enthusiastic manner. For that matter, I never heard the hikers address one another, so when they did, it must have been in very subdued voices.

I headed back to camp, wondering what was wrong with these thru-hikers. I grabbed a book, and laid myself down to read and look up at the trees. This is the view to my right, and today’s featured photo is the view to my left. And that’s almost all I saw the whole day.

I read until I dozed off, and when a cool breeze came up, I moved myself in for a view from Janet’s couch, and picked up another, non-fiction book. I was supremely comfortable, and the utter lassitude I felt convinced me that I had no real interest in paddling on a lake in the heat, when I couldn’t dip into its cold waters. Especially when I’d have to pay thirty bucks for the privilege. Decisively rationalized.

So the day was just me, the gnomes, and the thru-hikers, whenever I went to the toilets, or the grill for lunch. I discovered that no matter how openly I directed my gaze at them, not a one would ever look at me. The hikers, not the gnomes. The gnomes had more expression in their faces than did these strange automatons who were, after all, fulfilling a life’s dream in one of the most beautiful places in the country.

Luxuriously sprawled across Janet’s middle, I continued The Philosophy of Nationalism, published in 1923 by Charles Conant Josey, Ph.D. originally as Race and National Solidarity–no doubt out of print and more racist and right-wing extremist than even racist, right-wing extremists would be able to stand. I find it fascinating to read these early 20th century books, and notice how many words we don’t use anymore, because they represent things we don’t ever think about. Did I ever mention that I passionately love language?

Dr. Josey informed me that: “The injurious effect of internationalism on the development of character has been pointed out. It destroys race and national consciousness, which we have found to be a source of power, ambition, and sympathy. Instead of providing an environment in which the weak have favorable conditions for development by drawing strength, courage, and ambition from the group, it tends to limit the number of strong and forceful personalities to the number of biological variants.”

“In a moral sense its effects are also bad. Egoism, individualism, a love of ease, and an unwillingness to assume social obligations, all get from the ethics of internationalism a sanction that can but act as aggravating causes of these undesirable tendencies in man.”

Oh well then. The thru-hikers (now and twenty years ago) are simply internationalists. They are indeed weak, powerless, unsympathetic egoists with a love of ease, and an unwillingness to assume social obligations. He goes on to say that “For bonds of race and nation will be substituted bonds of economic interest. For struggles between nations will be substituted struggles between classes.” Enjoy how far bonds of economic interest get you when things get really serious, you little cogs. I cannot imagine any of my former hiker friends using the word ‘character,’ and especially not ‘duty.’ I have a bit of trouble with that one myself.

For the old-fashioned-sounding ‘internationalists,’ substitute ‘globalists.’ This doesn’t mean these hikers are running multinational corporations, no, just working for them and unthinkingly agreeing with all of their goals.  They are no more gifted in intelligence or conscience than the workers here, that is plain to see; they are exceptionally milquetoast-y and mealy mouthed in person, in fact. They know that if not for their network of friends and family who have expedited their college educations in IT and healthcare or managing NGOs or government departments, they would never be able to rise above what they consider to be the abysmal position of a wage slave. But with white collar slavery, and the right clothes, and the right Body Mass Index, they feel like they are above the Abyss, though most precariously perched on the edge, as they obviously do sense. And as far as the PCT goes, one of my former thru-hiker friends told me that what she looked forward to most, was being able to eat for five months without the constant fear of getting fat.

And as far as the housekeeping staff and grill workers, and all their unaccountable friendliness, well they are the dreaded working class, and thus don’t deserve to be looked at, and hopefully, won’t even exist in time. Those of us staying at the American flag-bedecked “resort,” are included in the fear and loathing. Allow me to clarify: all these people, me, the hikers and housekeepers alike, were white. How did Dr. Josey know, a hundred years ago?

I dozed off again. After that, it was happy hour, and I cracked a beer and began reading my French novel, in French, out loud at the picnic table. I figured if Joe can sing, I can spout Michel Houellebecq’s Soumission to the trees. It helps me stay in practice. I had fantasized, I admit, somehow running into a charming française up in the wilderness, and causing her great delight with my excellent accent. Silly.

And yet, I will tell you now, this is exactly what happened the next day. On my way up the access road to try to find the trail, a PCT hiker was coming down to the resort, and I asked her the best way to find the trail. She looked startled, began to talk, and upon hearing her accent, I switched to French, and so did she. She gave me detailed directions, in French, offered to let me take a picture of her GPS, which I politely declined, and when I happily wished her bon chemin, she looked genuinely surprised if not a little pleased, and wished me a good day. Bonne journée! And yet, when I got back later and saw her at the camp store, she pretended not to recognize me, stared straight through me, even after I quietly sang out Salut!, just to make sure. The sickness is international, indeed.

But I did find the railroad tracks. And as I stood next to them and watched a train come out of a tunnel, I feared being blasted by its horn, so I waved to indicate my awareness of its presence. As the engineer (do they still call them that?) came level with me, he hung out the window and gave me the Hawaiian surfer wave. Thanks…train driver guy!