Tim the Bull

Sequestered Ice

Summit of Mt. Langley

Sequoia National Park

U.S. Geological Survey Bench Mark

Mt. Langley Summit

My parents gave me a compass for my 13th birthday. It wasn't a cheap cereal box compass with air bubbles and a plastic needle always pointing toward Arizona; it was a real compass, a sturdy, dependable, life-time guarantee compass. My father made a comment when I unwrapped the gift. "This is so you'll always find your way," he said, "especially with women." Everyone laughed. I laughed, too, but I'm not sure what my dad meant. They also gave me a book called "Be Expert with Map and Compass." I read every chapter and learned about things like magnetic North and true North and orienteering and interpreting contour lines.

I found some maps of Santa Cruz County in my parent's closet behind the box containing my mom's vacuum-wrapped wedding dress. I unrolled the maps on my bed. Then I lost myself in the details, the demarcated hills and gullies, the undulations along West Cliff Drive corresponding to the indentations Monterey Bay made along the coast, the forested areas surrounding UC Santa Cruz.

For several weeks I studied the maps carefully. I noted the designation "B.M." in many remote areas on the maps. I consulted my Map and Compass book and discovered that "B.M." stood for Bench Mark. Bench Marks are placed in prominent locations all over the United States and often are found on summits. Like the one pictured above, they are small, metal plates fixed into the ground with the elevation and other information inscribed. Their location is shown on maps.

"Look, Jay! Look!" I told my older brother, Jay, one night. "There's a bench mark above Wilder Ranch up the coast. Let's go check it out!" Our dad was enthralled as well. "I wish I could you join you!" he said, "But I have to make a trip out to the dump." Funny, my dad was always making trips to the county dump.

Next morning Jay and I packed a canteen and some space food sticks into a backpack and rode our bikes (without helmets, of course) up Hiway 1 North toward San Francisco. We also brought the maps and my compass (having read the book, I was now an expert with map and compass). When we reached the bridge over the creek by the prominent bluff, we pulled over and leaned our bikes against a barbed wire fence. A prominent No Trespassing Under Penalty of the Law sign stood nearby. "Don't worry," Jay side. "Those signs are put there just to keep people out, so it's no big deal."

We helped one another through the barbed wire. We were now free to roam! I whipped out my compass and placed it on the map and made the proper calculation to account for magnetic North. I made some notations in a notebook with a little catechism pencil then told Jay, "That way!" while pointing up toward the bluff. It was a mile yonder. Off we strode under a blue sky with the sound of distant waves pounding the coast and the subtle but acrid smell of brussel sprouts wafting over from nearby farms.

We waded through the knee high grass and made steady progress toward the bluff. Periodically I paused and took a reading with the compass. "Yep," I reassured Jay, "We're going the right way. The bench mark is on top of that bluff for sure." We ran our hands through the foxtails and tossed the little stickers into the air and watched the wind carry them away. Soon we noted cow patties with increasing frequency. We picked them up and threw them like frisbees. They disintegrated on impact. Sometimes we flipped them over with our tennis shoes. The pincer bugs underneath would scramble for cover. We flicked the bugs with our fingers.

"Hey," Jay suddenly said, "Be quiet. Don't move. Stand up slowly and be very still." There was deep fear in his quiet, commanding voice. "What?" I asked. Then I saw it. I saw them. A herd of about 100 cows stood facing us. They were the big, brown kind, the kind with pink flaring snouts covered with flies, the kind that looked comical but at the same time unpredictable and threatening. And that is what frightened us. It was like being at a clown convention. We dared not draw attention to ourselves.

"Back up slowly," Jay instructed. However, we realized that additional cows had move in behind us. "My God!" I told Jay. "They seem to be organizing!" Some, the ones on the outskirts, ate mouthfuls of grass, others swished their tails, some chewed their cuds. Some simply stared at us without blinking. Those were the ones that really scared us. "What are they thinking? What are they planning?" I asked Jay. We were surrounded. There was no escape.

Then, in the midst of the herd, we saw the bull. The brown cows lowered their heads and parted as the bull regally approached. He was black and shiny and huge, and his maleness hung unabashedly between his hind legs like a dangling pestle.

I couldn't help myself and whispered to Jay, "Look at the size of his..."

"Will you shut up, you idiot!" Jay retorted.

The bull had a brand on his rump. His horns were sharp like barbecue utensils. Steam rose rhythmically from his nose like a locomotive engine. I hadn't planned on meeting the bovine equivalent of Darth Vader. "Look," Jay instructed, "On the count of three, run!"

"One!" The bull was pawing the ground with his front foot, and the cows seemed to be swishing their tails more urgently.

"Two!" The bull was snorting, and the cows started mooing lugubriously in unison. It was their rally cry.

"Three!" The bull was charging.

Jay and I ran. We ran away from the bull and through a wall of cows. The cow bodies pressed against us. Their fur felt heavy and hot. The weight of their big bellies pressed against our ribs. It was like getting squeezed by a python. For one interminable moment, Jay and I couldn't move. We tried to push the cows away. It was hopeless, though. Their weight lifted us off the ground, and we waved our arms like we were treading water. We were essentially trying to stay afloat in a sea of smelly cows and their snorty respirations. Thankfully, one of the cows shifted its weight, and we squirted free to the outside of the herd.

We collected our wits then ran and ran. Jay looked back. "The bull is closer!" he screamed. "Don't stop, keep running! Keep running Jerome. You and your damn bench marks!" Suddenly, a pick-up truck approached and drove up along side us. It rocked violently and kicked up dust as it accelerated through the field. "Get in the back!" the driver yelled. Jay and I hopped into the truck bed. There was a rifle mounted on the inside of the truck's rear window. Once we were secure the driver sped off. We turned and saw the bull. He had missed us by inches.

The driver drove for a few minutes back toward our bikes, back to where our misadventure had started. He slammed on the brakes, turned off the car and jerked the emergency brake and jumped out of the truck. He marched around to where we sat. He was an older, bearded man with overalls fitting snug around his generous belly. He wore a baseball cap that said Copenhagen. It satisfies. His face was scarlet, and his nose was cratered with pock marks. His left cheek bulged, and he spat out liquid brown chewing tobacco. Some of it leaked down his chin and left a muddy brown streak in his silver beard.

"Now what in tarnation are you two trespassers doin' on my prop-tee?!"

Jay and I simply sat in the pick-up truck bed with our mouths open.

"Well," the man continued, "I just might right call the Po-leese if you ain't gonna answer me!"

"Um," I said sheepishly, "Please don't call the police. And please don't shoot us, mister! We were just out looking for the bench mark on that bluff over there." I pointed to the bluff.

The man squinted and stared where I was pointing. "Bench mark?" he said. "How do you know about the bench mark?"

"I've seen it on the maps," I told him. I took out the map and held it open.

The man walked over and looked at the map. "Well," he said. "Why didn't you say so? I know that bench mark. Put there by the U.S. Gee-oh-logic Survey back in 1934, elevation 165 feet, Santa Cruz County when Rosy-velt was pres'dent!" I thought he might poke a hole in the map as he pointed at the bench mark location with his index finger.

"So who's your parents?" he asked. " 'Cuz I wanna' know what parents in their right might minds would let there young 'uns go out wanderin' among my herd and riskin' their lives around Tim, the bull?"

Jay told the man our dad's name.

"Wait!" the man said, "your dad happens to be my doctor! Well, ain't that a soo-prize! This here's your lucky day! I know your dad. He's a right might fine man! He takin' good care of me and my old lady! He got me off the cigarettes!" He spat out more tobacco and wiped his chin with his sleeve. "I do know, though," he continued, "he's a good 'nuff man to knock some sense into his boys such that they would never have trespassed!"

I almost told him that our dad had wanted to join us, but he had to go the dump. Jay saw me open my mouth. He shook his head "no!" and I kept my mouth shut.

"Tell you what," the man finally said. "I'll take you and your poppy out here someday. We'll head up to that bluff, and I'll show you that old bench mark. Now you boys get yurselves home."

Jay and I rode our bikes home. Our mom made us quesadillas, the kind with the paprika sprinkled onto the cheese. We ate them all for lunch.