“So Shelly, you won’t be able to reach me for a few days,”
said the barista as he placed a bagel breakfast sandwich on the Panini
press.
“I’m going back to Shenandoah.”
Change was in the air.
Summer slowly was turning into autumn.
Our barista had hired a new barista who picked up one of his shifts at
the café this week. The Dolphin had a
new, safe parking spot with a newer pearly white rear door. As the events unfolded, the decision made
itself.
“Cool! Who you going with?” Shelly asked.
It was a busy morning at le café: three employees behind the
bar and patrons filled the four tables against the wall opposite the coffee
bar. These patrons were eating, waiting
to eat while sipping their coffee or behind a laptop computer trying hard not
to be distracted by the conversation about to take place.
“Myself.”
“Really? Do you want
one of my dogs? Do you have a gun?”
“No, no…I’ve done this before. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure? How will you protect yourself?”
“I have a hunting knife, some pepper spray…oh, and my
redwood staff.”
“Isn’t that where you saw three bears?” Monroe interjected
as she pulled shots of espresso.
“Yep!”
“You should take my gun,” Shelly pleaded.
“This is the second time I heard you try to pawn off that
gun,” said a voice from behind a laptop.
“I’m not taking it,” said the barista. “Bears like me. I’m
one of them.”
“What will you do there?” asked the patron who ordered the
bacon, egg and cheese bagel—which now rests on his plate, cheese melted in
front of him. The cheese was smoked Gouda—a
favorite of both Shelly and the barista.
“Read, write, hike…pick the guitar…speak with the oracle.”
“That means smoke a lot of pot,” Shelly said as she motioned
her fingers to her mouth as if she were inhaling a joint.
“No, no,” said the barista. “I have prepared some questions
for her. I will look for her under the
waterfall where I plan to swim.”
“Are you shittin’ me,” the patron asked.
“Yeah,” the barista said.
Although he really wasn’t.
~~~~~
Who has a couch in their car, but not in their apartment?
The barista, of course. He pondered this idea as he lay stretched on the
Dolphin’s foldout couch in Shenandoah the next morning, a stone’s throw from
the Appalachian Trail. The air was at least
ten degrees cooler in the mountains than the city. A gentle breeze penetrated the camper and was
a treat for him to breathe in deeply. As
his seven spice chai tea steamed before him (nine spices if honey and whiskey
are to be counted), the barista picked up his acoustic bass guitar and played
the following set of original songs:
Vagabonding
Music Spell
Cupid Blues
Mirage
Purgin’ the Blues
Burlesque Pirate
Grass-Stained Heart
Stinky Joe
Three little birds jumped and chirped outside the Dolphin’s
screen door as he finished playing and singing.
A joyful smile crossed the barista’s unshaven face.
Mid-morning he arrived at the park ranger station to look
for maps and acquire a stamp for his national parks passport. He bellied up to
the counter.
“I’m looking for a nice, quiet swimming hole,” the barista
said.
“Well, we don’t call them swimming holes,” the
thick-moustached ranger said. “But there are places to get your feet wet.” His last sentence might as well been
accompanied with a wink.
The barista was in luck.
The ranger highlighted a circular hiking route on the
barista’s map, and then marked an X in at least six spots along the way for the
barista to cool off in the mountain water.
Near
one of them may be the oracle, he thought.
~~~~~
The heat of the sun warmed the cool mountain air. Each step along the trail warmed the barista
from the inside, forcing a mild sweat.
In his backpack was a water bottle, at least three different granola
bars, a pita loaded with hummus, tomato and fresh basil, a hand towel, a long
sleeve shirt, a notebook, pen, lighter, pepper spray and homemade popcorn. He could not find his hunting knife, but
carried his redwood staff as a cane. If
his mountain boots and beach shorts clashed, it could be argued that his blue
bandana and sporty shades tied his attire back together. He practiced pranayama
yoga breathing with each step: Inhale,
pause…inhale, pause…inhale, pause…exhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaale.
Back in the Dolphin laid two books the barista was reading
at the time: There is a River: A Biography
of Edgar Cayce and Visions and
Prophecies, from the Time-Life volume Mysteries
of the Unknown. Ideas of a sixth sense fascinate the barista. For the past decade he held a preference for
working in, rather than working out. Does
he hold the potential to travel through time in his dreams, as Edgar Cayce did?
The barista wondered as he wandered. After two or three miles along the circuit
hike, the barista noticed a stream paralleled the trail. It flowed in the same
direction he walked—southeast at the time. Small pools accumulated water, but
not nearly enough to swim. He stopped, sat on a log and watched the water. He
wiped his forehead with his towel. He drank some water from his bottle. He
snacked on the pita and polished the meal off with some popcorn. He then stretched and coaxed his body off the
log with his redwood staff and began to walk again.
One of the moustached forest ranger’s X’s was about to mark
the spot: Rose Hill Falls. The barista
came upon the falls from the top. The
stream cascaded down about ten or fifteen feet into a pool of water nearly six
feet deep and twenty in circumference. The trail started down into the gorge,
but about halfway from the water it returned back up. The barista continued
down the slope. When he reached the bank he rock-hopped between the pool and a
second, smaller cascade. He set his pack on a boulder on the opposite bank from
which he came and took a deep breath.
Like much of Shenandoah, Rose Hill Falls was calendar-worthy.
The barista surveyed the scene. Splashing water dominated the soundscape. With few hikers on the trail, peace and
privacy prevailed. The sun peaked through the trees, though most of the scene
was shaded. He found a pebble and tossed it into what he hoped was the deepest
part of the pool. It slowly fell far enough to where the barista deemed it
safe. Small, finger-length fish moved about. No sight of snakes or other
unwanted creatures in the pool. He temporarily relieved his boots, bandana,
sunglasses and shirt of their duties and placed them by his bag on the
boulder. Squatting on a rock next to the
pool the barista slipped into the water feet first.
So determined the barista was to soak in the mountain water,
he never thought to check the temperature with his fingers, or feet. An intense chill shot up his spine and across
his scalp as he submerged completely. The waterfall was muffled. Adrenaline
rushed through his veins. His gasped as
he returned to the water’s surface.
“Woo!!! That’s friggin’ co-old.”
The barista stood in the pool and the water reached just
under his arms. He kicked his feet up and began to float as his breath slowed
to a more relaxed pace. The jolt connected him with the mountain. He was
enveloped and remained in the pool undisturbed for about ten minutes.
Climbing out of the pool, the barista sat on the sun-soaked
boulder and dried his face with his towel. He could feel the cells in his body
vibrate from the effects of the frigid water. His mind was clear, nearly free
of thought. That was until he thought about the oracle.
The barista knew a traditional oracle is a person who can
verbally answer questions posed in a “yes-no” manner. He also knew that he was
the only person at Rose Hill Falls at that moment. What he didn’t know was if
any souls happen to be floating about and if they could play the role of an
oracle. Sitting with his legs crossed and his eyes closed he began to throw out
questions to the universe.
Was it a good idea to
come here?
Yes.
Am I on the right
path?
Yes.
Should I continue to
dream of owning a cabin in the woods?
Yes.
Should I act on that
dream soon?
…no.
A hesitation in the last answer gave the barista a reason to
pause. He tried his best to clear his mind and pose the next question that
popped in his head.
Should I have stayed
with the cinnamon girl?
…no.
Am I meant to have a
womanly companion?
Yes.
Is it someone I have
already met?
Silence. The barista wondered if his allotted number of
questions were up.
Am I to have a child?
More silence. The barista asked one final question before
resting.
Did the thief who broke
into the Dolphin last month rip off my hunting knife?
Yes.
~~~~~
The third sunrise gave the barista notice that his time in
Shenandoah was nearly up. He begrudgingly returned power to his reception-less
mobile phone to acquire the knowledge of time. In Visions and Prophecies the barista read:
Albert Einstein showed that past,
present and future need have no fixed status. In theory, at least, it is
possible to perceive them in varying order—future before present, for instance
(p. 9).
He brewed some chai tea for the road, tightly secured the
items in his camper, rolled down the windows and blazed down Skyline Drive.
The trip to the mountains refreshed the barista, but he certainly
was not ready to leave. But le café beckoned. Routine beckoned. He took comfort
in the thought that his routine was less routine than the average person’s
routine, without trying to prove it.
Returning to his couch-less apartment less than an hour
before his afternoon shift he packed his bag for work. He dug up a tape measure
so he and Shelly could rearrange the machines behind le café bar. While digging
through his toolbox the barista was taken aback. Staring him in the face was
his lost hunting knife.