Shoreline

The train that took him to her building left 15 minutes after the hour, every hour, from 5 a.m to midnight, three stops, 22 minutes. It would pass 5 dimly lit tunnel access doors, bad poetry, the occasional rats running on the pipes, continuing other parts of the city. He made his way up the station stairs, leaning into the wind sucking into the tunnel, arriving on the street, four blocks up, past the Armenian chicken joint and the Starbucks where he used to work. The scent of sycamore trees and magnolias always grew stronger as he approach the front steps. Her windows were on the second floor, third and fourth from the right.

He thought about it for a long time, going over there tonight. This time he’d knock on her door and tell her everything. Would she invite him in? It was getting late and he had to work tomorrow. It’s not a good thing that he knew where she lived. She should’ve never contacted him. All these years later, Caitlin never told him about her. This grown woman was his daughter. What confusion and shame, everyday a wave of both, and some guilt to go along. Back at his place, looking out his studio window often to see if she’d be braver of the two. He would play out scenes, buying her lunch, walking her down the isle, holding a grandchild. Her birthday was last week, the date engraved in his memory from their first meeting , now 3 months ago. He’ll just mail the card tomorrow, but that’s chicken shit, he can just deliver it himself, he thought. Tomorrow, he’ll try again tomorrow, he’ll see her then.

John Muir

He'd told us he was tired of living, said he wasn't gonna do anything stupid.  We know he spent a few nights with some backpackers on the John Muir just outside the park, on the north end, said he didn't say much, didn't eat much, shaved his mustache every few days, leaving his chin strap beard intact.  He disappeared one night after dinner.  Evidently he'd had his pack ready and no one noticed.  A crew working the trails said they saw him on the other side of the valley sitting on some boulders. Said they saw a man with an orange backpack, couldn't make out any features.  They called out to him.  He waved back.  His skin was dark.

It's been a few months now.  Alice is set to sell the house. He'd left her the house in an unofficial will written on a yellow legal pad.  His Cuban neighbor notarized it, I've had him notarize a few things for me, only charged me $10 each time. 

So he left her the house?

Yeah man, left it Alice and the kids.  Said they're  welcome to keep it or sell it.  She's to humble and good a person to take advantage.  She put it on the market yesterday, asking only what's fair.  Her family took his German Sheppard, kids kept all his books, paintings, art supplies, and costumes. 

Did you know motherfucker'd been a firefighter, something like 8 years. 

Yeah, I knew he'd had some mental issues, probably job related, his bi-polar shit, or sometin' else.  Spent a week in some hospital with drunks and meth addicts.  I knew he was gettin' sobered up, got in some deep trouble at work, threatening to kick some guy's ass, captain or lieutenant I believe.  He didn't elaborate much. Had to quit or get fired.  Had a chick for a while, seemed like a lovely gal, thick accent, gorgeous.   Told me he’d only said them three words to one other woman, I'm assuming he meant his ex-wife.  They're fucking friends now, him and his ex-wife, how bout that shit?  I can't stand my exes, both of them.  

When you seem him last?

First Friday art fair down town, picked up dippin' again, big ass plug in his lower lip.  Dude goes out and gets a new tooth to cover up that gap, then goes back to dippin'.

Tough shit to quit I guess.

Yeah, I rarely saw him over the summer last year, always at a meeting, or mowing, or whatever he did for cash.  He was still datin' that chick at the time, told me how guilty he felt for not having or making time for that gal, always tired and short on cash, he said.  One of the paintings was hers.  Alice took it over last week with a few other belongings. 

You think he's dead?

Nah, he knew the park, been there numerous times.  Some of his fondest memories lived there.  He'd go on about the stars, the trails where he'd hardly see people for days, the bald mountain tops, and the boulders piercing above the treeline.  Loved tellin' the story of Dan and his avocados, leeche fruit, and condensed milk cans.  Evidently Dan never disclosed the contents of his bear canister. 

What kind of canister?

Bear canister, you know, those little plastic barrels they make you carry to keep your food away from the bears. Fuckers are heavy. Any case, Dan was struggling to make his way up a set of switchbacks, so they split his load among himself, Nick, and Greg, leaving Daniel with only his extra clothes and water. 

Said they stopped  an hour later to rest.  Fucker opens his pack, pulls out Dan's heavy-ass bear canister, says "what the fuck is in here?".   Apparently they all gathered around, witnessed him pull out a can of condensed milk, a multi-spice canister, three avocados, and two cans of leeche fruit! 

That shit set hem off, everyone else was only carrying dry food, nuts, and water!  Said he made his way to the cliff and threw each one as far as he could. 

So he's in Yosemite? 

Around there, got a letter from him a few weeks after he left, postmarked from Tuolumne Meadows, that's how I knew where he'd gone.   Alice said the park service put a boot on his car then had it towed.  Said he'd left me the car but I'd have to go out to California.  I called the impound yard in Bishop, said I could pick it up after paying the fees and provide the title or a notarized document saying it was mine.  Two thousand  aint' a lot for that little car, besides, it would be fun driving back from California.  Alice said she found the title earlier this week. I'm flying out next week.  

Can I come? 

I don't see why not, but you might have to take another flight unless there's still room on mine. 

You flying to Oakland?

SFO

So we gonna go lookin' for him too?

Negative, he's a grown man, he'll come down if he want's.  He can have his pity party up there, but I've known him for a while, this is no pity thing, told me he'd do this someday, just want's to be alone, sleep under the stars or some shit.  He's a grown man. 

Think we can stop at the Grand Canyon on the way back?  Never been there, it's on the way, right?

Sure.

Yellow

Manzanita trees look more like bushes, a red and grey mosaic of thick smooth bark with  thorns and small leaves,  their moisture and color shunted to the center of each leaf, spanning every shade of brown and green. Thousands of them cover the eastern and south facing slopes of hills and mountains, tougher than the ponderosas and junipers on the western and north facing slopes. They take the brunt of the afternoon sun and it's dry air.

Tall yellow grasses in the arroyos bellow start wet each morning, drying every hour until they’re as brittle as paper.  The ground bakes by the minute, hot air from valleys, washes, and gullies starts pushing its way upslope. 

At 3 o'clock, latent heat kicks in and every living thing has given the air all  the water night deposited. A thread of white smoke rises from small slow moving flames in the gully below, eating grass as it slowly moves uphill. A gust of wind pushes it faster, then faster. The flames grow taller than a man.  Their  scalding heat igniting grasses and rodents 10 - 15 feet ahead, then 20-30 feet ahead.

A blackened animal thundered across a dirt road paying no attention to the men in yellow helmets. Scurrying under the brush it found a utility pole and ran up as fast as it could.  It’s singed body collided with the electric transformer at the top, a loud pop and a flash of light. The singed bobcat fell back to the ground.  The men continued.

Breakfast

An employer once gave an exhaustive address about something I could care less about.  Values or some abstract garbage that has nothing to do with the value of our labor, only the landfill bound bullshit we'll be pumping out every hour, day, week.  

Then he asked us if we wanted to be the pig or the chicken.  I looked around and most snapped out of whatever daydream they'd been gardening. You see, the chicken provides eggs for breakfast, but the pig gives completely of himself for one meal, bacon, ham, sausage. 

I raised my hand

Yes, you in the back. Pedro is it?  

I was Pedro to him. Sure, whatever.  I stepped up to the mic. 

I'd be the chicken. I'm sure it's got a collective bargaining labor contract and benefits providing for its protection and welfare since it will produce far more food and participate in more breakfasts than the pig.  

He thanked me for my remarks. 

A few weeks later I discovered the plant was closing down, moving to Nicaragua in a few months.  Apparently Nicaraguans agreed to be the pigs for breakfast.  They'd do what we do for 3/4 less what we get paid.  

But the standard of living down there is much less, claimed Jerry, his real name was Gerardo, but he wants to be Jerry.  Hell, I could live like a king if I moved down there. 

So, Why don't you? 

Shit, I can't just pick up and move man... Terry and I just bought the house last year.  

Yosemite

It could've been any number of lakes with any name in that wilderness, but this one was on their trail.  They sat by the shore, their shoes off, packs still strapped, watching the clouds.  They were far from the last person They'd seen, days possibly, and nothing felt better.  

It was the last week of July, 2006.  None of them had wives, children, ex-wives, PhD's, or mortgages yet.  Antonio told himself to remember that moment of complete peace as he watched the ice cold lake breath, lapping his feet with glacier water, clouds above growing then disintegrating, the pines and sequoia's swaying against the enormous blue rocks.  He felt small. 

The thought of never returning crossed his mind, as I'm sure it crossed theirs.  

Dan had been struggling with the hike since they started. He and Greg had bought top of the line packs and filled them with every REI accessory available.  Dan convinced himself he was in the early stages of altitude sickness.  He and Nick knew he had way too much shit in his pack. 

I can't do this.  His words just loud enough for them to hear.  

What do want to do?  

Um... He labored for words.  I just wanna take off this pack.  

Don't take it off shithead! You won't want to put it back on. 

Dan took off his pack anyway, they peeled it off, lightened his load, spreading the excess ballast among them.   He took Dan's bear canister.  Greg and Nick each took a compression sack.

They continued hiking for several hours under shade of old pines, over million year old granite, and into flowered meadows where the narrow worn trail was two feet deep in places, a slop of mud in certain spots, old footprints and the scent a wildfire some miles away. 

The evening soon caught up with them along with the punishing weight they'd taken from Dan's pack.   They stopped by a cliff's edge.   Antonio took off his pack, stuffed his lip with snuff and pulled out Dan's bear canister from his pack.  Why was this motherfucker so heavy?  

What the fuck is this?

Nick and Greg  walked over as he pulled out two cans leeche fruit, a can of coconut milk, and several avocados.  

Holy shit man!?

Greg and Nick broke into laughter.  Antonio handed his friends the avocados and walked over to the cliff, hurled the three cans of excess into John Muir's wilderness.  Dan just watched, never moved from his spot, no protest.  The others went back to their packs, pulled out Dan's extra weight, camera equipment, novels, clothes, a mini spice rack, and other knick-knacks. 

They ate the avocados, packed up and started their five mile trek up a stone staircases and switchbacks built generations ago.  They made their way into the dusk and eventual darkness, reaching a snow packed saddle.  Twenty mile an hour winds and a sign announced their next direction, another lake, 2 miles to the right in complete darkness. It was close to midnight. 

Nothing

Centuries ago

       You weren't here

Granite, then powder,

       Then nothing

Centuries from now

       You wont be here

Good day, sir

Gila

Marielena always saw things in her brother's bedroom at night.  They stayed away from hers.  From time to time she could hear them in his room, making noise, moving things, attempting to wake him. Sometimes one or two, a few times more, then nothing for weeks.  

It was always after midnight, usually when the train would pass, 3 a.m.  She could hear its haunting horn approaching miles away, getting louder and louder, now passing, then the clacking rhythm of train cars, a single cascading horn, now distant, softer and softer until the sound returned to the night, then silence.

She'd open her eyes and listen.  They'd bump things, move things around, wake him for a second, take part in his dream, scare him. Then everything would stop and he'd continue dreaming, talking in his sleep.

She heard them one summer night when she was 6.  Tired of hearing Noah's nightly 3 a.m. sobbing, she opened his door.  A long strip of light split the darkness, centered his room.  They looked at her, shadows darker than night, then scattered. She ran back to her room, covered herself, waited a few seconds and screamed.

Dad ran to her room, sat on the side of the bed and ran his hands through her hair, soothed her back to sleep.  He checked on Noah, his soft 10 yr old cheeks rising as he mumbled in his sleep. He crossed his forehead, "lord, make me an instrument of your peace... ", the prayer just loud enough for both. The air conditioner clicked on.  His freckles now larger, peaceful. 

A few nights later, after a furlough at their moms, she heard them again.  She heard Noah sniffle and cry, she was paralyzed, it was them.  They went on forever.  She could only count to 10, so she counted, very fast at first, then slower, then again and again until she fell asleep. 

That next morning she told her dad.  He'd heard her counting through the thin walls of their old home. I heard you counting last night, he said. 

She started to remember. Daddy, I'm sorry.  An apology for being up late, then the things in Noah's room.  The more she talked, she began to see the entire room, all at once, not just her father.  The cookie jar over the fridge beyond her fathers shoulder, their height markings on the dirty door jam, a dog bowl to the left, the droplet of water under the faucet, everything was in focus at once. Then she noticed a faint purple light behind his fathers head.  It would grow and shrink. 

She stopped, blinked and glanced around the room, blinked several more times, no change. She looked left, then right, her father was still in focus and so was everything else.  When she looked left it was the window, the salt shaker, the chain link fence across the street and the water tower in the far distance, to the right was the sink, back door, the dust on the screen, the window and the two flies hopscotching on it's glass.

Her slender little brown body started shaking and he reached for her, held her as close to his chest as he could, his arms a warm blanket as she sobbed and shook.  He sat there with her for over an hour, her body relaxed, her sobbing now a soft little snore. Her cereal now soggy.

Is she ok? Noah asked as he came into the kitchen.

She's tired, mijo. Are you done cleaning your room.

Yeah... What happened? 

She's just tired, buddy.  Noah walked over and ran his hands through her hair and kissed her warm forehead, joined the embrace.  

You wanna watch something? 

Dad, I thought we were going to the library.

Not now buddy, she needs a good nap.

They made their way to the dirty old grey couch.  He lay her next to him, covered her with a throw blanket, pulled his son next to him.  Karl Marx joined them at the end of the couch, continued gnawing on his foot-long rawhide bone.  He never left their side.  

Outside a warm breeze pushed away the morning chill.  A lawnmower, several birds, neighborhood dogs, kids walking to the pool, and the rest of the world continued about their business. 

Paris Unicorn

Mari wants to go to Paris.  She's six and infatuated with all things French and all things unicorn.  I explained to her that unicorns are hard to find these days.  The best place she could probably find one is in Paris or somewhere in the French countryside, probably on the northern coast standing gallantly with that cold breeze whipping up their mane and rainbows sprouting all around. 

When I dreamed of my little girl many many years ago, she looked just like you. She was an artist.

I told her this, she smiled.  Her cheeks turned red, then continued with her rant.

I like more stuff than Noah.  I like purple, and butterflies, and Audrey Hepburn in Paris. 

She has on an Audrey Hepburn t-shirt her momma bought her.  She's a perfect blend of my ex-wife and I, my dark features, olive skin, my nose, my tarahumara cheekbones with mom's almond eyes, button chin, and slender little physique.  I should put her in a convent as soon as possible but I'm not gonna deprive some moron 20 years from now from the misery of her tantrums and fiery stubbornness. 

My first dance with her was in Ms. Gordy's house many years ago, a sweet woman with a big heart, Mari was only weeks old.  I was married then, I was love with my daughter, and my new life.  Many years from now I won't regret a moment I spend with little Mari.  I'll discinegrate into an inevitable eternity dreaming of my little girl, an artist. 

Organ Mountains

I used to sit on the levy of the small ditch behind my parents two acre property and watch the tall blades of dry grass bend with the cold January wind on cold evenings when silence was a premium. Beyond the property was a gated desert where I once found partially decomposed Mexican pulp fiction novels in a large crater in the sand.  I visited that hideout dozens of times, mostly to read, daydream, or to lay on the soft sandy rim, waiting for a jackrabbit to cross the sights of my .22 . 

Beyond the desert was the larger levy of the Rio Grande, then the old highway that once led to Albuquerque.  Further off in the distance was the warehouse and factory plant of a salsa company claiming its fame to being from El Paso.  It was neither in El Paso or Texas.  Beyond all of that, directly to the north stood the Organ Mountains, purple, blue, magenta, and various shades of orange in the daylight's last minutes.

The cold air and wind burned my cheeks and nostrils as I stared at the mountains through the tall yellow grass.  I could see everything all at once.   Nothing entered my mind. Clouds built above the mountain range, dissipated, then dissolved into the dark skies of space.  

I know this place. I sleep here, where jackrabbits scamper and dogs bark at ghosts.

Viejo

Joe never cared for holidays while he was married, they were a pain in the ass, more money spent for posterity's sake, money he didn't have.  Awww you shouldn't have, she says. Thanks for thinking of us, they say, I can't accept this, they'd wince while unwrapping.  

Bullshit, take the god-damn garbage!   

It cost me the price of owning a new pair of shoes or paying my cable bill.  He gave because he had to, she wanted him to, and because that's what everyone did, and that fucking $200 birthday cake for a 4 year old, what was that all about?

None of that mattered anymore, not here, not at the Shadybrook nursing  home of Farm Road 971.  Here he could crap his pants, smile, and know some semi-illiterate with a GED and 4 months of technical school was gonna wipe  his ass and change his diaper. He was a mean son-of-a-bitch to them, all except for one, Norma. 

Norma Gutierrez had been working here far longer than he'd been involuntarily sequestered by his son and his short-haired-pixie-cut bitch.  His son was a doctor, paid Joe's room and board at the Geriatric Inn, but useless to him otherwise, more concerned about saving his marriage to that woman and her affinity for the nightlife with other men.  They're just friends she'd tell him.  She convinced him to have an open marriage.  His son bored him with his complaints.

Joe saw her sucking off someone, another doctor probably, or maybe that Hobbit looking fellow, a friend of hers who'd come over while her son was at work.  She was deep-throating this fella' in the back seat of an Audi behind Halcyon coffee bar.  He saw her, she saw him.  She sat up.  Put on his coat, kept walking, drove to the hospital, his son's pick-up truck still in the parking lot, confirmation.  

Norma was good to him, didn't bullshit him.  When his sister died, she held his hand for over an hour while he cried himself to sleep.  She kept unwanted visitors away, uploaded his favorite liberal-pinko podcasts, always fixed the mistakes the young attendants made, like that wacky time one of them accidentally clogged his catheter with a soiled tampon and yanked out his Foley bag.  She changed his channel to Fox News in the day room.  He belittled her nit-wit narrow minded small town ideology.  She played a joke oh him, but what's an old bed-ridden man to do when hearing the same honky bullshit he's heard for decades? 

Norma wheeled him back to the television lounge after he'd promised to be nice to old redneck Steve Hillard. He was an Iraq War Veteran, you know?  

He referred to any brown skinned person without a Mexican accent as Haji, even Dr. Sidhu, who was clearly Indian.  

His fat family of hunting-camouflage-dressed buffoons came every other Sunday.  His son and daughter-in-law would pretend to engage while the fat children would clumsily pound their sausage fingers on tiny cell phone screens and occasionally look up in disgust at the rest of us.  

Embarrassing to watch, it ended in 15 minutes, then they'd waddle out, climb into their enormous pick-up truck tattooed with various conservative stickers hating one racial group or another and head to the slop trough at the Golden Corral or some other vestige of "Texas" charm, license plates and hubcaps on the wall, the smell of Wal-Mart and bacon.

Joe promised to be be nice, after all it was almost Thanksgiving.  He could tell by the plastic cornucopias and the fake orange and yellow leaves.  He hadn't been outside in months.  He liked the sweet smell of gardenias in the spring, the cedar trees outside his window in the summer, and remembers the smell of wet mesquite in the desert dawns of his youth.

In a few weeks it'll be Christmas again, new plastic decorations, lights, and shitty music.  

Taxidermy

His mom bought a yellow head parrot from field workers one summer morning.  Most of the men were illegals, migrant workers from Mexico.  They were a small uniformed outfit of long sleeve plaid shirts, dirty jeans, boots, and sweat.  They were part of the rotating groups working the cotton and jalapeno fields behind their house during summers. 

That same day a grass-fire had consumed a large portion of the nearby desert and had worked its way into the fields behind the government housing neighborhood where Guicho and his family lived.  It was a small community of single story identical homes filled with characters like the next Mexican heroine addict who'd sun tan nude on his front lawn until police would wake him.  Dona Guadalupe and her fat middle-aged daughters who sold Mexican candy and snow cones from their kitchen, Guillermo and his two middle aged brothers who still lived with they're aging mother and owned several well polished loud motorcycles, and the Whites, the only African-American family in town, beautiful black cars and suits on Sunday, government housing.

Guicho was friends with Jeremy White, their only son.  Jeremy's large breasted older sister was in high school. She would later become an object of obsession for the local teenagers. When he was five Guicho used to ask Jeremy lots of questions, why is your skin so dark, why do your sister's chi-chis keep getting bigger, are you good at basketball? 

One June morning Guicho's mom kept the kids and Jeremy in the house, locked all the windows and turned off the A/C , keeping the wildfire's smoke from coming inside.  After a marathon of The Price is Right and shitty Mexican soap opera's the smoke cleared enough for mom to start up the A/C and a knock came from the front door. 

It was the hombres who'd been working the fields behind their house.  Guicho recognized one of the younger men from Dona Guadalupe's house.  They were all smiles and chattered in Spanish with his mom.  It wasn't the typical slowly enunciated slang filled border Spanish, it was fast, almost a song.  They had a bird with them.  They were drunk.  

His mom closed the door, ran to her bedroom and returned with some money.  She gave them a 20, everyone smiled.  She closed the door and jogged over to them cradling a badly burned one eyed yellow head parrot. They crowded her and fell in love.  It tried biting the kids.

Guicho's mom named it "periquito curro", they figured the "curro" was after the catlike purr he'd do after he'd say the first part of his name.  They just called him "periquito culo", which translates to "Little Ass-hole Bird".  

Realizing their mistake, the men returned the following day to ask for more money.  It's a yellow head bird, they said.  It's worth a lot more.  They wanted $80.  Guicho's mom closed the door.  Guicho's dad opened the door.  They must've missed his beat up 1985 Ford Ranger in the driveway or realized what time it was.  They left without $80. 

The years rolled by in cliche montages of 90's music with the little fucker causing all sorts of mischief, learning new words and earning its name as "Little Ass-hole Bird".  When it wasn't in it's cage or on it's tree, a beautiful six-foot perch cemented Mexican ceramic pot, it claimed the 3 foot space in front of the hallway bathroom, trying to perforate the feet of anyone who approached.  Periquito Curro died while Guicho and his sisters were back-to-school shopping 15 years later.  

They found him on the cage floor.  Their mom ran whaling to his palace sized cage and picked up the stiff bird. They crowded her, embraced her tiny frame. 

Let me take him to Mr Letbetter! He'll mount him for you and you can keep him forever, Guicho sniffled trying to sooth her. 

Skeptical at first, she agreed, and resumed crying, rocking her baby. The girls rolled their eyes. Guicho dumped out Sophia's new shoes out of their box, placed the bird in the box and stuck it in the freezer. 

The next morning, after dropping his sisters off at school, Guicho went across the highway to the wooded neighborhood to Mr Ledbetter's home, an artsy red-neck friend of their dad's who'd retired from the University where Guicho went part-time.  Mr. Ledbetter had 5 acres, 24 enormous pecan trees, a rickety 1920's pier and beam house with a rusty metal roof, 3 large German Sheppards, 12 strange metal sculptures randomly scattered on the property, an enormous rat infested workshop, and no kids.  

Guicho had been mowing his lawn and doing random yard work for him since his father left 8 years ago.  The week his dad left Mr. Ledbetter came over with a generous gesture. I'm not gonna give you a hand-out, I'm gonna give you a hand-up.  How's 100 bucks a month sound? 

Yes, sir.

Mr. Ledbetter dabbled in everything from raising Emu's for meat and eggs, making homemade moonshine, and selling hand-made Mexican metal lawn decor and Mexican-Indian crafts at the local flea market, but the pecan trees he'd planted 25 years ago were the only thing that brought him any reliable extra income.  Guicho knew he hunted and had done some taxidermy in the past. 

How much you got? He asked Guicho.

30 bucks

I'll need at least 50 just to get all the stuff, but i'll do it for 30 to help you out.

Thanks Gary, I really appre... 

You can mow my lawn to pay off the rest.

Mr. Letbetter cocked his chin at the bermuda and crab grass jungle behind him.  What a dick. 

I'll do it this weekend. 

Mr. Ledbetter took the shoe box and closed the door.  Titus, the older dog, growled at him, the other two escorted Guicho off the property.

Two weeks later the animal Guicho's mom had been grieving returned mounted on an ultra varnished piece of driftwood with wall hooks.  The one eyed yellow-head parrot had his neck extended upward, tongue hanging out, with the left wing extended downward.

What's he pointing at? They asked.  Why's his neck twisted?  It looks like someone's choking him.  How much did you pay him? Their mom started crying at the absurd animal, ridiculously posed and stuffed. Her cries slowly built into hysteria, laughter. Everyone joined in, she went back to her TV show.  

Guicho mounted the bird over the trashcan.  Covered in soot, Little ass-hole bird survived a fire that destroyed their home 5 years later.  He found it in a box in the garage of his mom's new house while helping his sister prep for a garage sale.  

You remember this thing? He asked her.  She laughed. 

Search

Night before last someone's son, or brother, passed away in a fire.  He was 39. We found him in the back bedroom by the window, supine, legs curled beneath him, head tilted back, empty eye sockets staring at a ceiling that's no longer there, mouth open, swallowing a 1,000 degree concoction of carbon monoxide and cyanide, telling his brain to release enough adrenaline and endorphin to endure the last few seconds of his skin boiling. 

10:30 am a cadaver dog helps us locate the remains.  

A breeze replaces the smoke with a scent of sweet grass and fresh cut hay.  It was a gorgeous morning, just hot enough to feel like summer, deer in the pasture behind his house, longhorn cattle grazing, birds chasing off a grackle, I whistle a tune by The Rascals, "it's a beautiful morning... "