[Marxism] The Sex Books of Bear Mountain

["Hunter Gray" <hunterbadbear@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>]

NOTE BY HUNTER BEAR:

Now and then, a few discussion lists -- which can become too staid and
proper -- can use a bit of Sensible Spice.  Here's mine:

Jeff, trained as a mining engineer and a very key BLM [Bureau of Land
Management] staffer, came by the other day -- both to see how I'm doing and
to ask me to spend an hour or so on January 24 [2005] giving a King Day-type
talk on the Civil Rights Movement to their staff.  Of course, I'm always
glad to do this and was pleased in addition to learn that some people from
the Caribou National Forest will also be present.  Jeff is an inveterate
hiker and runner in these hills, always with his faithful dog, Stormy, a
Golden Retriever -- who a few years ago sustained a really bad rattlesnake
bite.  After rudimentary first aid, he packed her back down -- more than two
rough miles -- only to learn that Pocatello was out of anti-venom.  Salt
Lake, not far away at all by air, provided that in a hurry and Stormy
recovered.  Jeff did not kill the rattler.

After we quickly settled the details of my talk-to-come [I do this every so
often], I reminisced about old days with the Forest Service in Northern
Arizona.  Starting out as a 16 year old -- but claiming to be the legal work
age of 18 -- I helped fight extremely dangerous forest fires on the Coconino
National Forest out of my home town of Flagstaff.  The next summer fire
season, I was again "18" -- and was hired as a full-time regular Fire
Control Aid.  Fairly soon, I was also given occasional fire lookout work --
spelling off the old-time lookouts when they took a few justifiable days
off.  It got into my blood -- the isolation, the responsibility.  I also
grew to appreciate the old-timers like Bill Pratt, a Laguna from New Mexico,
and old family friend who served for decades on Mount Elden Lookout
immediately above Flag.  I replaced him on a number of  his days-off
occasions, traveling a long trail well before a rudimentary road was finally
constructed.  Bill -- like all of us who climbed so very high -- loved to
read the "Sun and Sky and Listen to the Wind."

Nap Naranjo, who for 17 years was lookout on very remote Bear Mountain,
rising above the
Blue River [south of Alpine on the old Apache -- now Apache Sitgreaves --
National Forest] liked all of those natural wonderments.

But he also liked some other things.

Like sex books.

Joe Janes, who had left the Coconino for the Apache, called me as I was
finishing my Master's work in sociology at Arizona State University -- I got
the first Masters in Soc ever given by that department -- and asked if I'd
be willing to spend a long fire lookout season on extremely remote Bear
Mountain. Nap Naranjo had retired.  I was glad to say Yes.

Before long, Darrell [the Assistant District Ranger] and Frank [mule
skinner] and I with my coyote [Kay-Oh-Tay-Good] arrived via long and tangled
trail at the fire outpost that was almost 9,000 feet above sea level where
the yellow pines were giving way to spruce and fir.  The lookout itself was
almost forty feet high with a ladder and the cabin sat at its base.  Number
9 wire, miles of it, provided some communication through an old time " hand
ringer" telephone and the fire tower had a fairly up-to-date short wave
radio.  Night lighting in the cabin was through Coleman white gas lanterns.
A drinking well and an outhouse and a garbage pit [into which a friendly
bear often fell and foraged] completed the basic arrangement.  Darrell
checked things for winter wear -- all basically OK -- and Frank unloaded my
blankets and wolf robe, groceries, a few books, and my .35 WCF Winchester
1895 lever action [whose long obsolete cartridges even in that far off time
were costing me almost a buck per on special order.]

They left to return to the base ranger station at Alpine, well to the north,
and I settled in.  I didn't have to settle far before I realized that Old
Nap hadn't left with exactly everything of his.  Several boxes, unnoticed by
Darrell and Frank, were piled in a corner.  Curious, I opened them -- and
found many years accumulation of books and magazines devoted very frankly to
Sex. [By the standards of today's early 21st Century, they were, I guess,
pretty moderate.]  But as attractive women literally leapt out at me, I --
suddenly once again an Explorer Scout in Monsignor Albouy's Explorer Scout
Troop -- abruptly stepped back.  [In my mid-twenties, I really didn't think
I at least needed that special literary stimulation.]

But I had a lot of other things at which to look.  Barely inside the Arizona
border, I could gaze directly eastward down into New Mexico's bloody Catron
County ["If you ever want to kill a man, get him into Catron and do it --
but never steal a horse or a cow."] Right close to Catron, I could see the
vast Mogollon Mountains of the Land of Enchantment -- and far to the east of
all of that, some hints of Albuquerque under the hazy Sandias.  To the South
directly lay the Clifton-Morenci copper mining district, with much smelter
smoke, and just to the southeast, I could see the omni-present haze from the
Silver City copper and zinc mining setting. To the north lay Escudilla
Mountain and sweepingly great forests. Westward from me for the most part
lay the White Mountains of Arizona and the great Apache reservations --
White Mountain and San Carlos.  Those reserves, too, had lookout firemen
with whom I frequently spoke.  Closer to me on the west lay Blue Lookout,
readily accessible by pickup, which was manned by one of my two [younger]
brothers -- a capable neophyte.

This was Lost Adams Diggings country -- the fabulous lost gold mine of
Legend.  This was Ben Lilly country -- hunted through and through by the
greatest Southwestern lion and bear hunter of the 20th Century.

And the sky was usually Bright Blue and the Clouds Big White Fluffies --
save when, after a very long dry spell, storms finally came and things grew
ominously and fascinatingly dark: followed by super heavy rain, big hail,
lightning strikes to the Four Directions, and brief and very cold weather.

Still, of course, I am Human and a Sociologist to boot.  In time -- perhaps
in fairly short time -- I browsed through the Books, especially at night in
the Coleman light, aware that these were hardly comparable to a cousin's
works of Honoré de Balzac which I had read surreptitiously at 15.

But my hands were full with my Work.  There were many fires to spot and
report that season. One young lookout on nearby Saddle Mountain  cracked up
because of loneliness.  I could handle isolation but, when John and Pete,
two kids from local ranch families came up to spend a few days with me and
do a little trail work, I was pleased to see them.  For their part, about 18
and 19 respectively, they were glad to see the literary remains of Old Nap
and moved with neither apologetics nor disclaimers toward those faster than
Coyote Good would grab his can of Skippy.

And the Coleman lanterns burned late and brightly.

When they left, after a few days of productive trail maintenance, they
wondered if they could take a few of the Books.  "Hell, yes," said I. "After
all, this is now our Little Lending Library in the Deep, Dark Woods."  They
grinned appreciatively and took many.

After Pete and John left, I saw no one for many weeks.  Later, at the end of
the summer fire season, several cowpunchers and others came by, ostensibly
to visit socially, but did take various items from Nap's boxes.  The news
was obviously getting around the Bear Mountain/Blue River country and with
much, much more than simply "deliberate speed".

And then, before long, I left -- for my first college sociology teaching job
at Wisconsin State College, Superior, and Eldri.  Then, about a year after I
had finished my Bear Mountain tour of duty, we were both on our way into
Mississippi and our Great Adventure.

I heard later, from Joe and others, that the Lending Library ran out damn
fast after I left.

My faithful coyote did not come with me off the Mountain.  He may not have
been classically literate but he was for sure telepathic.  When a young lady
coyote came by, Good got married pronto.


HUNTER GRAY  [HUNTER BEAR]   Micmac /St. Francis Abenaki/St. Regis Mohawk
www.hunterbear.org
Protected by Na´shdo´i´ba´i´
and Ohkwari'

In our Gray Hole, the ghosts often dance in the junipers and sage, on the
game trails, in the tributary canyons with the thick red maples, and on the
high windy ridges -- and they dance from within the very essence of our own
inner being. They do this especially when the bright night moon shines down
on the clean white snow that covers the valley and its surroundings.  Then
it is as bright as day -- but in an always soft and mysterious and
remembering way. [Hunter Bear]




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