Chuck Wants to Be A Cowboy

      I blame myself for what happened when we arrived at Lone Pine, California. 

    Imagine a very small town in the middle of nowhere, well, actually in the middle of the desert. Surrounded by the Alabama Hills, whose only claim to fame is that Hollywood used to shoot Westerns there back in the day. 

    We were headed to Lone Pine for only one reason--to stay at the Dow Hotel, built in the 1920's where the likes of John Wayne, and Gene Autry and Roy Rogers had stayed.

    Because I am a big fan of Roy Rogers. 

    I'm not sure how this obsession happened. I remember as a kid that I watched Roy Rogers on TV. He was the good guy and always got the bad guy. He was married to Dale Evans. His horse was a beautiful Palomino named Trigger, who was so smart he often got the bad guy in his own adventures. And, of course, there was the dog, a German Shepherd named Bullet.  

    The show featured a song that went "Happy trails to you, until we meet again . . ." a tune that is emblazoned on my memory. It ran on TV from 1951 until 1957. I must have watched the re-runs. Before that the Roy Rogers radio show ran for 9 years. 

    Roy Rogers (not his real name) was known as the "King of Cowboys". He made over 100 films. Somehow all this information and all my positive feelings got transferred over into Chucky. Not sure how, but it must have in order to understand what happened next. 

    The hotel was sweet. Everything I'd expect--photos and giant poster board images were there. 

    

    Even the cute little outfit Dale Evans used to wear.

     The entire place made us feel a little goofy. Dan couldn't resist pretending he was a cowboy himself and posed with Roy, with John Wayne looking on. Some of the crazy stuff you do on vacation!

    We were assigned our room and my only disappointment was that we weren't given the Roy Rogers room, which we passed on the way to our room. 

    "It is reserved," they said. 

    "Can we, at least, peek inside?"

    "Sorry."

    I was disappointed. although I don't know what I expected to see in there. Roy Rogers, himself? (With Dale and Trigger and Bullet.)

    We settled into our small room (I suspected all the rooms were on the small side or quaint as they advertise in the literature). 

    We left Chucky snoozing on the bed, with plenty of food (of course), and we went across the street to this wonderful mom and dad like cafe for dinner. The food was down home and delicious. Afterwards, we took a long walk up and down the Main Street, returned to the hotel, and came back to an empty room. 

    What?

    How the heck could that rascal cat have gotten out of this room. One door only. Locked. One window only. Closed. 

    We both plunked down on the bed. I looked at Dan, and he looked at me. 

    "We have to go over everything we did," I said.

    "He didn't even eat his dinner." Dan was right. All his food was still there where we left it. Stranger than strange. 

    "We both left the room together. He was on the bed. I saw him," I said, recounting my last memory of Chucky before we left to go across the street.

    "But I came back," Dan admitted.

    "That's right. For your jacket."

    "Could you have . . ." I asked.

    "I must have . . . " 

    "And then he . . ."

    "I'm sorry. I was rushing around so much, I didn't even notice."

    The bottom line was--he'd escaped. 

    "Okay, so where did he go?" My thoughts were in a whirl.

    Dan started pacing the room. He stopped. 

    "The Roy Rogers Room," he shouted.

    "Of course." I knew he was right. That's where I would have gone if I were a cat.

    We didn't have far to go. The Roy Rogers reserved room was right down the hallway. 

    "But how did he get in?"

     We were stumped for only a moment.

    "One of the clean up crew must have gone in there for something and left the door open . . ."

    We reached the room. Dan grabbed the doorknob. It turned. We barreled in and prayed we weren't interrupting anything that might just happen in a reserved room.

    There Chuck was perched on the bed. Looking like an authentic 1940's cowboy star. Totally enthralled. In his glory. Minus the hat and boots, of course. I ignored him for the moment.

    "Look at this room." Roy Rogers this and Roy Rogers that filled every nook and cranny. 

    "Do you hear that?"

    "What?"

    "The Happy Trails song is playing in the background." 

    Dan picked up Chuck. "Well, at least you got to see the room," Dan said. 

     "You can hear that song, right?"

     "If you say so," Dan said rather noncomitedly. 

    Sometimes too much of a good thing can actually be a bad thing.  For the rest of the evening I couldn't get that darned tune out of my head.

     

    

Chuck and the General Sherman Tree Scandal

 

    There are such things as sacred trees. In Sequoia National Park, in the southern Sierra Nevada Mountains (which are over 10 million years old), in California, giant Sequoia trees still live and breathe. This park, established in 1890, protects over 404,000 acres of forested mountainous terrain--most of it wilderness area--which means you can only get there by foot or horseback. 

    I was obsessed with seeing the sequoias in person. I wanted to stand next to one. I wanted to touch the bark. And I wanted to hear all the stories. They are legendary trees. 

    Dan and I (and, of course, Chuck) decided to visit California in the summer. Seeing the sequoias was number one on our list. Chuck was all in. It meant being outside. I also suspect the Chuckster had a secret desire to do more than just sniff one. 

    I did my research and was not shy about sharing the facts. We were on our way to the park. It was a beautiful California summer day. "Did you know," I said to Dan and Chuck, "that sequoias belong to the cypress tree family? They are the longest living organism on earth. They can live up to 2200 years or more. How's that for a startling statistic?"

    "Pretty impressive," Dan said.

    Chuck snorted.

    "Their bark, which is a bright red brown color, is about a foot thick which makes them disease and insect resistant. Also, fire resistant."

    "The bark feels spongy when you touch it," Dan added.

     I hadn't heard that. We were riding along for what seemed like hours, steadily gaining altitude, literally climbing a mountain, and about to see our first sequoia tree. Our tour guide Jeff was looking for a good parking spot. I was making a video, trying to capture all the trees that we passed.

    "Look. Look there." We passed our first giant sequoia." The bark of the tree was reddish. The trees themselves were wide in girth. Majestic looking. I was getting more excited by the minute. 

    Fast forward . . . in the park, we were in a kind of tree wonderland. 

Trees surrounded us: sequoias, redwoods--a distant cousin, lodgepole pines, sugar pine, red fir. We could get close and touch them. I took a moment and issued a silent thank you to the man who made it possible. John Muir. He believed it was important to protect the wild places in nature. He founded the Sierra Club. He is often called the "Father of our National Park System". He led a movement that resulted in Yosemite becoming a National Park. 

But the tree we were headed for was the most famous tree of all--the General Sherman Tree.

    This tree--as measured in 2022---is the largest tree on Earth by volume. It grows in the Giant Forest with five of the ten largest trees in the world. 

    As we got closer, the path became busier. Visitors, like ourselves, with backpacks and binoculars and cameras, crowded the path. To appreciate this natural wonder, you have to crane your neck back and look up--a long ways up. General Sherman is tall and wide. You have to step back to see how big it is. 

  

        Most people come to gawk. To take a photo of it. I had a different idea. It's hard to experience the tree with people milling around, talking and laughing.

    We decided to go around to the back of the tree. 

    You have to imagine General Sherman stands in all its magnificence as it has stood for 3,200 years. A wide expanse of land surrounds the tree. A gate made of logs surrounds the entire area so there is no way you can get close to the tree. The gate not only protects the roots but it prevents people from carving their names in the precious bark. It was quiet in the back. Deserted. Perfect.

    Chuck, believe it or not, was on his best behavior. I wasn't sure if he was more interested in General Sherman, however, or in the squirrel who was scampering near General Sherman.

    "Let it go," I said to Chucky. "That area inside the gate is the forbidden zone. General Sherman is a national landmark. You can get into big trouble if you try to go near it.

    My best approach was to distract him with interesting information. "Sequoias can drink up to 160 gallons of water a day. Now prepare to be amazed. Most plants get their water through their root system. But in these trees, the roots are not deep, they run sideways, so the roots can only provide about 60% of the water they need. The other 40% comes from the air."

    Dan interrupted. "What do you mean?"

    "Sequoias and redwoods can only grow in very wet areas--near an ocean, a stream, where there's a lot of fog. Their leaves literally have to pull the water out of the--" I stopped.

    Near the base of the General Sherman tree, an orange and white cat who looked suspiciously like Chuck, was sniffing the bark. 

    "Chuck, do not sniff--"

    He stopped sniffing. That much is true, but then he leapt up onto General Sherman, his claws latching onto the bark.

    I couldn't believe it. "Chuck."

    With no hesitation, he started to climb up General Sherman. One paw reached up and grabbed on. The other paw reached up.

    Sniffing was bad enough but climbing was an outright scandal. 

    "We have to get that cat down from that tree!"

    "Just give him a minute," Dan calmly said.

    Luckily, there was no one in sight. It was amazing how no one came around to the back of the tree. 

    "Does he actually think he's going to climb to the top?"

     Chuck took his third step. His fourth step.

    "How tall is it anyway?" Dan asked.

    "275 feet," I choked out. 

    "Well, Chucky has a long way to go."

    Suddenly he stopped climbing. 

    "Do you think he's stuck?" I asked.

    By this time, I'd had a chance to feel the bark on these sequoias. Dan was right when he'd described it as spongy. Had Chucky's nails somehow become embedded in that spongy substance, and now he was clinging there for dear life, hoping to be rescued?

    "Come on, Chuck," Dan called in his best fatherly voice.

    Chuck gave a little shake as if he were shaking off some kind of voodoo spell that had taken him over. Then with no preamble, he jumped to the ground and flew back, his paws barely touching the earth, through the danger zone. One second he was clinging to the tree, the next he was sitting, grooming near our feet, as if he hadn't done the worst possible thing.

    "Chuck--"

    Dan touched my arm. "If you're going to tell him off, don't waste your breath."

    Well, Dan was right. I decided to change tactics. "What did General Sherman smell like?" I was more than a little jealous that Chuck had gotten close to this historic tree when I'd had to admire the General from a distance. 

    "A tree," said a snarky voice.

    But it wasn't Chuck's voice. It was Dan's. 

    I gazed down at the Rascal Cat who always dares to do more than I'll ever do. I guess that's why I take him places when I travel. I often call him my alter ego, and I guess he is!!