Roy told Stacey that his partner hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before, so he was going to wait a few hours and then call and invite him over for lunch. When John arrived, she would be there waiting to explain ‘things’.

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Unfortunately, John did not pick up his phone.

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Roy drove over to his friend’s apartment and found the note Johnny had left for him.

Roy stood there, frowning down at his buddy’s message and feeling more and more uncertain as to the wisdom of trying to help the two of them to reconcile.

His fireman friend could do a lot of stirring and drowning between then and Friday.

He used Johnny’s phone and called Stacey back.

The plan had changed.

He told the girl to just show up at the Station right before the start of their next shift on Friday.

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Blue skies and sunshine accompanied John Gage as he drove through the San Joaquin Valley.

He stayed on California Highway 198 all the way to Three Rivers, where he had lunch, gassed up and bought provisions—which included replenishing his Land Rover’s supply of fire wood.

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The relatively short drive up to the parks’ Ash Mountain Entrance took almost a whole nother hour.

The steep, winding, twisting roadway, with a dozen switchbacks and a Speed Limit of 15mph, accounting for the slow progress.

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As he drove along, the scenery kept changing.

The chaparral in the foothills gradually gave way to groves of blue oaks.

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The oak groves were eventually replaced by Alpine meadows and brilliant splashes of color from all the blooming wildflowers.

The photographer couldn’t help but grin. He was getting ever nearer to the land of BIG trees and BIG canyons.

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Along the way, John saw a few does with their fawns and bears with their cubs and even a photogenic red fox that stuck around long enough for him snap its picture.

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At the park, HWY 198 turned into the General’s Highway.

It was ironic that The Eagles “Peaceful, Easy Feeling” was playing on his 8-Trac as John approached the parks’ Ash Mountain entrance.

“Johnny!” Tammy Greyson greeted him at the Ranger Station check-in. “Haven’t seen you up here since last Fall. Whoah! You’re gonna need a bigger pair of sunglasses to hide that black eye!”

“Not really trying to hide it. Just don’t like squinting. Three nights. Four days. I’m gonna be sleepin’ in my car.” He passed her the camping fee.

“Good idea. The bears are out of hibernation—and hungry!” Tammy handed him his park permits. “Plus, it’s still pretty cold up here at night.”

“Sam still at Lodgepole, and Malcolm still up at Cedar Grove?”

“Yup! Want me to radio them and tell ‘em you’re coming? That way, they might actually be there when you show up, this time.”

“Sure. Thanks, Tammy!”

“No problem. Enjoy your stay!”

“I always do!” John assured the girl with a grin.

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Sequoia National Park and Kings Canyon National Park border one another.

A person couldn’t see much of either of them in just four days and three nights. Especially since 80% of the parks is only accessible by hiking, or on horseback.

The other 20%, the drive up to—and through—tourist destinations, he’d seen a half a dozen times already.

His mission, this trip, was two-fold: replace the pain and stress with a ‘peaceful, easy feeling’ and bring home a frame-worthy photo of the towering giants—at sunset.

Finding his quarry would be easy.

The Sequoias’ deep, rich, cinnamon-colored bark and towering 200 foot plus height, sort a’ caused them to ‘stand out’. Plus, there were all those maps and sign posts.

The ‘stirring and drowning’ segment of his combined task would not be a pleasant one, but he was determined to see it through, too.

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The posted speed on the Generals Highway was a whopping 25mph. He turned right onto Lodgepole Road, which took him up to the Lodgepole Ranger Station and Campground on the banks of the gushing Kaweah River.

John visited with Ranger Sam Dirksen for a few minutes and then drove through Sequoia National Park, and half-way through Kings Canyon National Park, to the Cedar Grove Visitors Center at the very end of the Generals Highway.

John had joined in a Search and Rescue operation for a lost hiker a few years back and he and the park rangers had become—and remained—friends ever since.

Especially Ranger Malcolm Chartier.

He and Malcolm had really hit it off. They quickly became the best of friends—not to mention fishing buddies.

John set his sunglasses down on the dash and climbed stiffly out of his car. “Hey, Old Man!”

Malcolm greeted his grinning visitor with a bearhug instead of a handshake. “Good to see you again, City Boy!” he teased right back, with a broad, radiant grin of his own. He paused a moment to scrutinize his guest and his grin began to dissolve. Malcolm was an astute observer. But one would not have to be all that observant to see the pain in his fireman friend’s dark eyes. And it wasn’t just because one of them was really black and blue. “I usually see you when you are recovering from some sort of physical injury. But, this time, it isn’t just your bruised cheek. Your very soul has been shaken, this time. Go. Walk among the Old Ones. Spend the night up on Moro Rock. Then, come back tomorrow and we’ll talk over coffee and breakfast. You can ride up with me to measure the snowpack.” That said, the old Ranger turned and headed off in the direction of Sentinel Campground.

John just stood there for a few moments with his jaw agape. Then he turned and headed back over to his Rover.

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John left the U.S. Forest Service Office in Kings Canyon and drove back down to Sequoia.

The photo hunter parked at Sunset Campground, on the north end of the Giant Forest, and hiked into the cool, misty, magical woods.

Quiet.

Complete silence.

John studied the ‘Giants in the mist’ and smiled. Gazing up and up and up at the thousands of years old living, breathing behemoths was a truly humbling experience—one he knew he would never grow weary of.

The Giant Forest was a spiritual place. The ‘City Boy’ could feel the stress leaving him, almost like sweat pouring from his pores.

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After an hour or so of exploration, John found the perfect spot to take the perfect silhouette shot and settled in to wait for the sun to start setting.

John copped a squat and leaned back up against a giant Sequioa. Next, he pulled a pen and a pad of paper from his backpack. He tipped his head back and stared up at his impressive backrest. The big trees lowest branch was over a hundred feet in the air!

John winced.

Painful words…cutting words…killing words.

“Stacy never wants to see you—or speak with you—ever again!” he somehow managed to choke out, in a whisper. His vision gradually cleared and he began to write, sending the horrendous hurt he was experiencing out through his pen, and onto the paper.

The poet repeated the painful, distressing ‘stirring and drowning’ process—over and over and over.

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The sunset was spectacular!

The Sequoias co-operated and the photographer was confident that he had accomplished that part of his mission. He couldn’t wait to get back and develop the film.

In the meantime…He and Smokey had a lot more ‘stirring and drowning’ to do.

He stowed his camera equipment away and headed for his Rover.

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John left the General’s Highway and turned onto Crescent Meadow Road.

He followed it another 1.5 miles west to the Moro Rock Loop parking lot.

Moro Rock was just a quarter mile hike up from there, up being the operative word.

The massive rock’s granite dome towers 6,725 feet above the floor of the Kaweah Gorge.

To reach the top, visitors need to climb up 400 stone steps cut out of solid granite.

But the climb was always well worth the effort!

John reached the summit and set himself and his backpack down so he could just enjoy the overwhelming view!

The wind tugged at his hair. Stars began to twinkle in the vast twilight sky above him. It felt like he was seated on top of the world!

From up there, one could sure see where this section of the Sierra Nevadas got its ‘Sawtooth Range’ name. The not too distant peaks looked just like the spiked teeth of a handsaw. He sat there, staring off across at ‘The Great Western Divide’, a sub-range of the Sierra Nevadas that separates the Kaweah River canyons in the west and the watershed of the North Fork of the Kern River on the east. Many of its peaks are over 13,000 feet high, the tallest being Mt. Whitney.

John couldn’t stop smiling. The peace and serenity up there was palpable…and very much appreciated. ‘Definitely another spiritual place.’ The poet pulled his notebook back out and began to write.

‘The wind whispers ancient secrets. Voices, stilled eons ago, come echoing back. But their warnings go unheeded. There will be no reply to their immemorial message…’

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Following a half hour of site-seeing, John reluctantly got back on task.

His eyes stung. His heart hurt soooooooo bad. Hell, his whole being groaned in agony.

It took a while for the tightness in his throat to ease up enough for him to speak. “Stacy never wants to see you—or speak with you—ever again!” he echoed, slipping his flute from his backpack and freeing it from its suede leather carrying case. Then he drew a deep breath, pressed the wooden instrument to his lips and began to play, sending the pain and sorrow he was experiencing off on the wind.

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About a mile below, at a campsite in Kaweah Gorge, a young couple was sitting at their crackling fire’s side, locked in each other’s arms and gazing, dreamily, into its dancing flames.

Suddenly, the sound of a flute came wafting down from the granite dome above.

The notes were pure and clear and carried to them on the wind.

The young woman blinked her tearing eyes. “So beautiful…and sooooooo sad.”

Her companion nodded.

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‘Stir and drown again.’

“Stacy never wants to see you—or speak with you—ever again!” John kept saying, and playing, until those words no longer caused his eyes to water, his throat to tighten and his heart to hurt…quite so much.

The embers were dying and the ashes were cooling…considerably. He cut his fellow campers some slack and put his flute away around midnight. But he sat there for a few more hours, under the starlit ceiling of his awe-inspiring, all-natural amphitheater, drinking in all the peace and serenity. The fireman’s smile returned. ‘Talk about breaking up the automatic workings of conditioning…’

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John descended the dome in the wee hours of the morning, but still managed to get in a couple hours of sleep before heading off to breakfast with Malcolm.

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The ‘City Boy’ arrived at Cedar Grove at sunup.

As promised, over coffee and breakfast, the two friends talked.

Well, actually, John did all the talking.

Malcolm just sat there, listening and frowning. “That’s just plain cruel!” the Ranger declared, once his young friend’s narrative had ended.

“It’s my own fault. I should have taken the time to get to know her, first. We just met a little over a month ago. I don’t think either of us really knew each other.”

Malcolm’s frown turned upside down. “That’s what I like about you, John. You’re the genuine article. What you see is what you get. It doesn’t take an eternity to figure that out. In fact, it took me about five minutes, and I could see the sort of person you were. More importantly, I could see the sort of person you weren’t. My parents were together for over 45 years and yet they both went to their graves without ever really ‘knowing’ one another. A month…a year…45 years. It’s not about the time it takes. It’s about taking the time to really SEE the other person. I’m tellin’ yah, you can see all you need to see in five minutes…or less. You’re a good man, John Gage! And, if that girl couldn’t ‘see’ that, well then…that’s her loss, not yours.”

John managed a sad smile. “Thanks, Malcolm.”

Several minutes of silence ensued.

“Yah know, I’m beginning to think I’m never gonna find the right girl,” John sadly surmised. “Maybe it’s time I give up trying…”

“Maybe you should,” Malcolm surprisingly agreed. “Maybe you should stop looking…and just let the right girl find you?”

There was another bout of silence as the paramedic pondered over his pal’s advice.

Malcolm rose stiffly to his feet. “C’mon! We better get crackin’. This isn’t like some big city riding stable. Those horses aren’t gonna saddle themselves.”

“Horses? I thought you government guys would all be drivin’ snowmobiles, by now.”

“What would a city boy like you know about snow and snowmobiles?”

“Hey, I just spent two weeks in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Believe me, I know plenty about snow and snowmobiles.”

“Yeah? Well…Those dang machines are much too noisy. I prefer one horsepower. I call it ‘quiet snowmobiling’.”

John laughed.

“As you may have heard, the Sierra Nevadas didn’t get its usual snowfall this winter. The Forest Service is worried this year’s fire season may be a bad one. The bright side is, that’s what makes baby Sequoias! To lessen the danger a little, we plan to have a prescribed burn, once things green up a bit more. You be sure to come back in a week or so and I’ll put you to work. Besides, fishin’ season’ll be open by then. I tell yah, the brook trout are just layin’ there in Lewis Creek—just waitin’ for the two of us to catch ‘em!”

Gage couldn’t help but grin. “That’s what I like about you, Malcolm. Like all true fishermen, you’re a good liar.”

And it was the old Ranger’s turn to chuckle.