Chapter 2: Living and Being

Reflections

I was no longer Spencer Devereaux, high school jock, soon-to-be Marine. I became Inmate 82793. My indoctrination into life behind bars was brutal, to say the least. I will spare you the tragic details. Yes, I was beaten to a pulp, starved, threatened, raped, beaten some more, and then I got so sick I nearly died in the infirmary. And that was just my first six months.

It soon became apparent that my life as I had known it—was over. So, simply put, I quit living. Sounds stupid but that is exactly what you do. I stopped dreaming, worrying, feeling sorry for myself, feeling anything at all—and just started being. I became like a robot. I didn’t think, I just carried on with whatever the task was before me, sleeping, walking, shitting, walking, eating, walking. Awareness of self and others, even the passage of time, just stopped.

Then I was taken in by an interesting group of old-timers. Was it pity? Yeah, probably. Did they offer me salvation? Hardly. These guys were hard. I mean harder than concrete and tougher than leather. It began when I found myself being pushed/led to a different part of the cafeteria. I was made to sit at a table surrounded by some scary-looking characters. For the first time since I could remember I stared around me with something akin to interest while I ate.

Introductions were made and words were spoken. I wasn’t being coddled and sheltered here. I was informed very bluntly that I was a major fuck-up and that if I didn’t un-fuck myself immediately, I was going wake up fucking dead. And every time I blinked or looked away, somebody would reach over and slap me across the head so hard that I saw stars. I woke up quickly and began learning the lessons they taught. It was age-old wisdom that I have long since realized was not exclusive to prison life.

The lessons were not hard. They were brutal! I learned all about pain. It was my motivator. They taught me about Being. That is—how to be present at all times. Call it situational awareness, attention to detail, mindfulness—Hell, throw in a little ESP too and that is what was pounded into me, day and night, relentlessly. I learned to use all my senses and expand my awareness beyond my peripheral boundaries. They drilled me at meals to study and remember every detail around me, to recognize intent by just the look in someone’s eyes or their posture. I was shown to anticipate actions and have reactions programmed into my subconscious to act upon instantly.

And they taught me how to fight. Not Boxing or wrestling or MMA. This was down-to-earth scrapping. Dealing instant and overwhelming violence to your enemy in a manner that puts them down and keeps them there. I learned to use anything and everything at my disposal. Anything was a weapon if you were creative and focused. Be it in the showers, commons, kitchen, laundry, library, church, or your own cell.

As I immersed myself further into the concept of Being, I found that I slept less but rested better. I became more efficient in every aspect of myself. By sleeping only 6 hours I found time to quietly exercise in my cell, performing the many and varied calisthenics and isometric resistance exercises they instructed me in. I became hard as concrete and tough as leather. When someone pushed me, I didn’t push back—I put them down. And they stayed there. Punitive segregation (PSEG) became routine for me. I never considered it punitive despite its intent. Rather, I relished the isolation and used the time to further my reflections and exercises. Living was a weakness, easily preyed upon by the predators. Being was to become invincible. Being was power.

PRESENT

It was more than just a party site, I discovered. There were several natural hot springs that appeared to emit from deep within the ground on the west side of the smaller canyon. I first noticed the steaming streams that crossed the trail as they meandered their way into the west fork tributary that would become the Copper River. I noted the disturbed earth and foliage and followed Travis upward until we found the first pool. It was clearly dug out in a rudimentary fashion and expanded so that a small group could gather in it. There were several stumps and fallen logs set about it along with discarded beer cans cigarettes, and assorted old items of clothing, shoes, and other trash. An old single-bed mattress lay rotting on the slope below the pool.

The trail continued on for 50 more yards where I found the second and third pools. They were not nearly as well established and were grossly littered with old tires, cushions, broken-up wooden furniture, and a few worn-out folding chairs. Travis disappeared and reappeared as he followed his giant snout about the area.

I noticed several No Trespassing signs posted as I made my way up to the springs. All had been defaced or torn down. A handwritten notice painted onto a piece of plywood was nailed to a tree proclaiming: NO HIPPIES ALLOWED. Someone had crossed out the first word and wrote NAKED over it diagonally. I chuckled as I returned to the main trail, considering what I should do about the whole thing.

Travis suddenly froze at the trail where it divided. His low growl chased all thoughts of the hot springs from my mind. Suddenly he barked and bolted further down the canyon trail, disappearing into the dense trees and underbrush. Cursing, I stumbled after him, wondering what could have set him off. A few minutes later I caught a whiff of smoke and found my awareness expanding as I stopped and took in every scent, sound, sight, and feeling from the surrounding area. There was definitely someone further below, deeper in the canyon. It was a small fire and I could smell hints of food cooking.

Several loud warning barks came from nearby and almost as suddenly, the startled cry of a man’s frightened voice. I raced forward and soon found myself in another small clearing right at the base of the cliffs that marked the end of the west canyon. A small waterfall plummeted from above and entered a large pool before spilling away into the tributary bed.

I spied a ramshackle tent pitched right up against the wall of the cliff and the campfire burning within the boundaries of a tight ring of rocks. A metal grate was set over half of the ring supporting a small skillet and blacked coffee pot. Most startling was the figure that had backed himself well into the pool trying to escape the vicious clutches of my overreacting mastiff whose tail was wagging excitedly from side to side as his loud barks echoed through the canyon.

“Go away!” He cried out in a shrill stuttering voice. “You devil monster! Go eat someone yer own size!”

The figure was an old man who struck me as being straight out of a cartoon, somewhere between Yosemite Sam and Miner 49er. He stood maybe 5 ½ feet tall and wore a pair of patched-up old overalls and a dirty denim shirt. A ragged leather bush hat sat low over his dirty gray head and a grungy beard fell to his belly.

Travis replied by standing up on his hind legs and then stomping forward with another loud bark accompanied by a splash as his paws landed in the water at the pool’s edge. This brought another startled shriek from the old man as he fell backward and landed on his backside with the water coming up to his chest. His frayed hat fell from his head and began floating away towards the stream. I moved to retrieve it but Travis lunged over with a bounding leap and caught it in his massive maw. Water flew everywhere as he danced about with his new treasure.

The old codger’s outrage peaked as he staggered back to his feet. “That’s mu hat you bastardy brazen brute!” He screamed, waving a fist. Then he noticed me and his eyes widened with further shock.

“Dat yer beast?” he cried, “call it off! I ain’t done no wrong by it! And give me my damn hat!”

I turned, trying to maintain a neutral expression, and ordered Travis to surrender the hat. The big dog looked at me and I could see the rebellion in his eyes as he held his ground. “Give now!” I growled and his ears drooped slightly in response.

“Lass es fallen!” I barked in German. His ears drooped further and he submissively lowered his gaze as he sulked forward and dropped the grimy hat by my feet. I should’ve expected the charade as I reached down to grab it. Standing tall he suddenly shook himself violently, drenching me with stream water in his utter rebuke of my authority.

With another curse, I turned away and shook the hat in a feeble attempt to dry it before presenting it to the old man who cautiously stepped from the pool dripping. His eyes darted back and forth between me and the biggest dog he had ever seen.

“Travis won’t hurt you,” I grumbled in greeting, “he just needs to work on his social graces a bit.”

The man grumbled as he snatched his hat from my hand and plopped it back onto his balding scalp. He continued to grumble to himself as he turned to his small fire and tended it. I did not have to analyze further. I recognized the subtle inferences gleaned from my subconscious and conscious observations. They were like small clues that I was able to draw upon for my conclusions and responses. But even without heightened senses, I knew immediately that I liked this old man.

I turned towards his fire but stood apart as he went about his chores of shuffling his pots and stirring the coals. There was a stump of wood near the ring that he clearly used for his seat but he squatted instead as the flames began to rise and offer heat for him to dry himself by. Eventually, he subtly lifted his gaze to me and then looked over toward the stump without a sound. I acknowledged him with a nod and quietly walked over to seat myself. Travis finally contained himself enough to join me and settle onto his belly beside me. He panted quietly as he watched the old hermit’s every move.

“My name is Carter,” I said finally, “I apologize for my dog’s behavior. He meant no harm by it. He can be an idiot sometimes.” That earned me a grunt from my host and a glance from my pet. “Is this your, uh, claim?” I had to struggle for the term even as I spoke.

“Aye,” he growled back, “this is my claim! I staked it! It’s mine!” He seemed to spit each word as he spoke, never looking up to face me. He waved his arm weakly about the stream and pool. “I works it. It’s mine!” His gaze wandered over to a stack of bags near his tent as well as several buckets, mining pans, and screened frames.