The Road to Tassajara Isn't Paved (Part 3)

A smell of straining engine wafted in through the open windows.

Wayne peered at the rpms.

"What gear are you in?"

"Creep," I said.

"I think you'd better put it in a higher gear or we'll overheat."

"But, then I have to ride the brake."

"Just put it in 2nd," he instructed. "I have a feeling the road is going to get better."

"You saw the sign, right? Danger?"

A stream of water ran down the mountain near the sign. Mounds of gravel filled in the washed out areas replacing what had been packed dirt. There was evidence of recent (possibly within minutes) rock slides.

"This reminds me - " I began.

"Of what?"

"Being on a horse whose foot slipped over the edge of the trail 3000 feet above a rocky chasm in Ladakh."

"No scary stories about heights! You know I don't like them. And watch that rock!"

"What if this road just keeps going?" I wailed.

"It has to end somewhere."

"What if it's closed or what if they're just building it now?" I demanded, pointing to a stack of orange and black striped wooden sawhorses heaped around another blind curve.

"Keep your hands on the wheel. Look, we're getting down into forest again. I think that's a good sign."

"Do you?" I said, as we skidded nearly sideways through mud and gravel for several hundred feet.

A bit farther on another sign appeared, one featuring a hiker with a staff and a pack on his back. The number 13 was painted in white on the rock face. The forest thickened. A solitary figure appeared, jogging slowly uphill towards us.

"Oh, look, a person! Now, we can get directions!" I cheered.

"Absolutely. I have no problem at all asking for directions," Wayne said. "None."

I stopped the car and leaned out the window as a tall, slim young man wearing a watch cap and navy blue sweats jogged up.

"Where are we?" I asked.

"I was hoping you could tell me," he smiled.

I gaped. "Is this the road to Tassajara?"

"Yes. It's just down there," he pointed, "About 500 yards."

"Really?" Relief flooded me,warm as maple syrup.

"But, it's closed now."

"Closed?" repeated Wayne.

"Yeah, until April 1st. There was a sign. We're on retreat."

"Closed? But, we're here for meditation instruction," I said. "We drove all this way. We risked our lives."

"You'll have to come back in April," he said.

"What if we don't make it back before dark?" I whined. "What if we're stranded?"

"Oh, you'll make it," he smiled. He inclined his body from the waist and formed his fingers into the anjali mudra.

"Namaste," he said, and jogged off.

"Fucking namaste?" I said to Wayne. "That's it?"

"I think he might have at least offered tea," Wayne commented.

"So, now what?"

"We turn around and go back."

I drove the car to an obvious turn-around where other cars were parked. There was a stone path and a long, low brown building, wrapped in mist. Shadowy figures moved about.

"So much for the monks," I said.

"Yeah, and I'm driving ," Wayne said.

We bounced back up the mountain in silence. Wayne seemed less concerned with his personal safety once he was behind the wheel.

"Watch it!" I growled occasionally. Dusk fell and the sky purpled as we barrelled along, the cavernous ruts easier, somehow, to negotiate. We slid and slipped, but the boulders remained suspended miraculously above us; the road intact.

"You know," I said. "I think we had our Zen experience."

"We're still having it," Wayne said, "Now, shut up, please, I need to concentrate."

"Fine!" I said, "but, I still want that pine cone."