" ... my foolish resentment faded away."

Jan. 14, 2018

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from Coast Trails

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Chase had various encounters with other people in his ' Trail ' 

adventures. Some, which will be shared in future posts, can

stand alone as ' small ' stories. Here we find Chase on the 

mostly barren coast, north of Lompoc, California. Another

vignette brimming with vivid narrative; " a black and eyeless

adobe " suddenly comes alive with " a whiff of tobacco; "

philosophy; " there is much virtue in 'might'; " character;

" brilliant nose...had a guileless tone...weak in mouth and eye...

buttoned and safety-pinned into a long overcoat and loud in

enthusiasm; " and kindness; " ...Chino's load was lighter by..."

Three paragraphs rich in the exposition of human interaction

not with the eye of an dispassionate observer, but as one

who merely seeks to share, and understand; with an enthusiasm

born from an appreciation of life. Note that we are reminded

subtly of Chase's English heritage belied in the admission

of his " white enameled cups and plates. " Chase was a regular

' high tea ' drinker even on the trail.

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" I returned to the coast by sundown, and pitched camp on the bluff beyond

the creek. Near by was a black and eyeless ruin of adobe, the old ranch-house

of the Espada. After getting my supper I walked over to inspect it. As I passed

the doorless entrance of one of the rooms I caught a whiff of tobacco, and

a voice from the gloom hailed me with, " Come on in partner, lots of room. "

I hope I am as good a democrat as the average man, but I confess I was a 

little nettled at the cordiality of this greeting, evidently from a brother tramp.

However, I put a good face on it and entered. I could see nothing but the red

tip of a cigarette and the twin high-light of a brilliant nose; but the voice, in

which I was invited to sit down on a box which I should find by the door,

had a guileless tone, and even a hint of timidity, and my foolish resentment

faded away.

So we sat and exchanged judicious explanations; or rather, I sat and he lay,

for he announced that he had gone to bed ( no elaborate ceremony, I suspect).

I could tell that he was a man of fair education, even before he confided to me

that he was the son of a well-to-do Ohio farmer, and had thrown up good

prospects when the wanderlust caught him, twenty years before. I could but 

admire the philosophy of his conclusion: he " thought sometimes that he might

have made a mistake. " There is much virtue in " might. " After all, to the actual

bad there is always a possible worse, and still beyond that there lies a whole

unknown region of superlative. 

I invited my neighbor to breakfast with me, and looked forward with some

curiosity to the meeting by daylight. He proved to be a tall, middle-aged,

pathetic man, weak of mouth and eye, buttoned and safety-pinned into a long

overcoat. He was loud in enthusiasm ( genuine enough poor fellow, I have no

doubt ) over my camping appliances. The little sleeping-tent was a marvel,

only possible because extant: almost more incredible were my white 

enameled cups and plates; and he became incoherent over the coffee, and could 

only express his admiration for all in such impressive generalizations as 

" Well I call this living! " or " Don't that knock you, now? "

When we parted Chino's load was lighter by my duplicate set of enamel-ware

and my half supply of coffee. " 

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