Summers In A Tent

Announcing Summers In A Tent, Gordon Bunker's third book is now available in paperback and Kindle formats on Amazon.com. In a clean prosaic style, these delightful and heartfelt tales recount the sweetness of his childhood adventures camping with his family on the shore of a pristine New Hampshire lake. Not to mention occasional junkets to Maine and Canada. This is living in the great out of doors for months at a stretch, heaven for a kid. Recollections of his family’s experiences together are at times laugh-out-loud funny, at others, poignant truths as only a child can see. Bunker shares stories of running barefoot through the woods, picking blueberries, catching fish, falling out of boats and coping with days of rain; and the awkward foibles of growing up. Through it all, his love of nature and love for his family develops, and important life lessons are learned.

Gingerbread Cake

At the grocery checkout I swipe my credit card in the reader, tap the “OK” button, and the pleasant fellow hands me my receipt and then stuffs a box of cookies in one of my bags.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“A box of ginger snaps. They’re free!” he replies.

I wonder what’s the catch. My dad once told me, “There’s no such thing as a free lunch.” And he was right, so I doubt there could be any such thing as a free box of ginger snaps. I look at the fellow and raise an eyebrow.

“Yes, they’re free,” he says with a broad smile. “We just opened our 365^th store, and to celebrate we’re giving everyone who makes a purchase today a box of cookies.”

“Well, thanks very much,” I say, gathering up the bags. “Free cookies, how cool is that?” On the way to the car I wonder how many times could this opportunity be worked - you know, buy one mushroom at a time and get the free box of ginger snaps - before they call security. Tempting to find out, but no. I like these people, and want them to let me in the store the next time I need groceries.

Cookies around here are not a good idea. Once the box is open, things slip past the point of no return and I have great difficulty eating just a few. So when I get home I stuff the box on the shelf and largely forget about it. Until one day, oh look, there’s the box of ginger snaps, and it just so happens I’m making an afternoon cup of tea. I take the box from the shelf and open it up, and find for store-bought (or in this case store-give) they’re pretty good.

No surprise, they go fast. Later that afternoon I go for another cookie, and boo-hoo, they’re all gone. Just kidding! The box lasts a few days, but a point in time comes when there are no more. And sniff, it’s again time for tea and I’ve gotten rather used to a few (O.K., more than a few) cookies along with it. Bummer. Sipping the boring, lonely cup of tea, I get thinking about making ginger snaps. But past experience tells me as much as I love eating cookies, making them is a pain. Way too fussy, all those little balls of dough, and trays going in and out of the oven, and if you space out, that trayful is burned and so on.

Flash! A bolt of inspiration to make a gingerbread cake hits me. The last time I had gingerbread cake was at The Tea House, served warm, with fresh whipped cream on top… oh my. And making a cake is more my style.

I consult the source of all truth and find a recipe. It calls for a 9 x 9 pan and I actually have one. This must be a sign. Moving on to the ingredients, most already reside in the kitchen, except for ginger, molasses, and a fresh lemon, so they go on the list. And I decide to get another pound of butter. Winter’s coming on, so ‘tis the season for having some extra butterfat on hand, and in turn, on mid-section. On the way to the store I decide to use fresh ginger instead of powdered. Fresh is always better, right? So I buy a gnarly brown rhizome of ginger, aka the root.

I get home, it’s a grey afternoon. O.K., I’m all set. A gingerbread cake is in my immediate future. I lay out all the ingredients. But how much ginger root equals one teaspoon of powdered? Going back to the source of all truth, everyone says the same thing: do not substitute ginger root for powder, or visa versa. Apparently the flavors can be quite different. But I didn’t get any powdered ginger and I do not want to go back to the store for just one item. Ugh.

Ah, but there’s The Spice Lady. Her shop is within walking distance and getting out for a stroll would be good. It’s cold and raw outside, the air smells like snow. I bundle up and head out, take a new street and discover a whole little sub-neighborhood I never knew about.

The Spice Lady has powdered ginger and I buy a little packet of it. And we talk about making curries, something I’ve been procrastinating over for a long time. After expressing my enthusiasm on the subject to Vic, two, count ’em two years ago, she gave me a lovely mortar and pestle for grinding the whatevers to make curry, and well, it hasn’t seen any use. Yet. Anyway, the lady who is The Spice Lady has a few pointers to get me on my curry journey, like first I’ll need to come up with a recipe. So I put the packet of ginger powder in my pocket and go home. By the time I get back it’s more the time to cook dinner than gingerbread, so I put all the ingredients away.

The next day I pull them all out. Again. This is when I discover the plastic bagful of brown sugar is hard as a rock. Oh c’mon! There is however a trick of putting a slice of apple in the with sugar, seal it up and put it in the fridge. For a few days. I look in the fridge and find I do not have any apples. At this point, no way am I going to the grocery for an apple. Desperate times call for desperate measures, so I moisten a piece of paper towel, stuff it in the bag, seal it and put it in the fridge. And put all the other ingredients away. Again.

I check daily on the sugar. Day one: hard as a rock. Day two: hard as a rock. Day three: slight signs of softening. I look at the lemon. It’s not as perky as it was three days ago. The time is now, I gotta make my move. I take the paper towel out of the sugar bag, dribble a bit of water directly on the sugar, seal it and put it in the sun on my work table. While I’m at the computer trying to figure out which word comes next, I mess with it. I poke at it, push it, twist it. In all, I worry it to death and with the help of old sol, by mid-afternoon I have a bag of soft brown sugar.

I get all the ingredients out and go to work. I am on a mission.

Standing there with the mixer going, the butter, eggs, sugar, and molasses splatter around in the bowl. We’re on our way. Hmm… I’m wearing a dress shirt. No apron. I don’t even own an apron. I think of my dad. He’d come home from work in his jacket and tie, pull in the garage and immediately start tinkering with something under the hood of the car. Having a propensity for old British and French iron, there was always something needing tinkering, and the tangle of odd bits and pieces called an engine was always a grimy, oily mess. This would drive my mother crazy. “You don’t do the laundry!” she would sputter. He’d look up and pretend to wipe his hands on his jacket, and grin. The apple falls close to the tree. A good blob of what’s flying around in the bowl landing on the front of my shirt will total it. But I do not stop and change shirts. No. Nothing will stop me now.

Glancing at the recipe, it says, “Preheat oven to 350 degrees.”

Haven’t done that yet. I hope the oven works.

Gordon Bunker

The Left

A Sunday ago I rode the R1200R to Cedar Crest. This is a ride I do often, 100 miles for a cup of joe. I know the road well, I clear my mind.

There’s a coffee shop in the village where motorcyclists hang out, and a certain amount of “mine’s bigger than yours” goes on in this crowd. That’s a vibe I’m more than happy to skip, so I go to another place, easy to miss, tucked on the end of a little strip mall. The place is quiet, the coffee is good, I like the people and they like me. I’m almost a regular and almost always the only motorcyclist. Over a cup I peruse the latest car mags. No motorcycle mags, must speak with the proprietor about this oversight.

Heading back to Santa Fe, north of Golden past the old Ortiz Mountain Ranch the road is straight as an arrow. I pass a few slow moving cars, but not at an exceedingly fast pace. There may be a Karmic component to speeding tickets so when the road is boring, a.k.a. straight, or when I’m passing through a village, relaxed is the pace. This way, I save up my Karma points for the curves and I can let it rip. Can’t remember the last time I had a close call with the law in the curves, so it must be working.

In a moment I see three other motorcycles have also passed the cars and are reeling me in. In a triple-digit flash they are right on me. I keep a constant and moderate speed and hope they pass. I don’t like leading a parade, or being any part of one for that matter; unfortunately they hang on my tail.

The road then climbs into the Ortiz Mountains. It’s a steep grade and some delicious curves lie beyond. I decide to see what these nimrods are all about and grab a handful of throttle and open it. The BMW pulls hard, I check the speedo, I’m doing 80. Sixty in here is cruising, 70 is quick, and 80 is my limit. When I had the Ducati, it was 80 through here every time. That was then, this is now. Up the grade the three bikes are with me. Still climbing, it’s a sweep to the left, then a right. I pull some distance on them. A wicked little grin of, I admit, smugness creeps across my face. Another left at the top of the pass, and then the road descends in a right, and drops yet more quickly into the mother of all lefts.

Motorcycles are just as adept at turning left as right, but many riders, most even, find one or the other less comfortable. It’s a funny thing. Lefts, in my case, spook the hell out of me. It’s completely irrational, but there it is. You can see it in the wear on my bike’s tires. On the right side the bulk of the wear is out toward the tread’s shoulder. On the left, it’s a bit closer to the center.

Going down hill the road surface is dropping away from the tires. The result is less available traction and the feeling in a curve, at speed, is a palpable airiness. This left is cut into a hillside so sight lines are limited, and it’s bound by a guardrail on the outside beyond which is a cliff drop into a canyon. All the while, the pavement drops like a trap door. The speed advisory is 35.

All things considered I usually take it at 40-45. This time, plunging down the slope at 80, I shut off the gas. For better or worse, one of the attributes of a high compression engine is a lot of engine braking; on the approach the bike slows, the curve comes up. I glance at the speedo: 65. At this rate, 95 feet goes by per second, a sobering thought. Things are happening quickly, I am in too deep to brake, and well beyond my comfort zone.

The engineering and design of this bike are the stuff of brilliance, superior to any other I’ve ridden (including the Duc), and this is especially apparent now.

Thank you BMW.

So little in life, today, requires any real nerve. I swallow my heart, keep my chin up, look into the curve and get on the gas, just enough to transfer load to the rear. I lean a sharp angle to the left. The bike hits a series of spots where the most recent layer of asphalt has broken away. The chassis twitches ever so slightly before the steering damper calms things down. Most of my weight is on the outside foot peg, my rear end is slightly elevated from the seat, my hands barely touch the grips, everything, including time, floats… ninety five feet per second… I stay on the gas, and I am around the bend.

I check my mirror, my followers are things of the past. The sweeter this is the greyer I get around the muzzle. The road straightens, and lo and behold there they are again. I grin. No smugness. Just satisfaction.

Gordon Bunker

Wheeler Peak, Elevation 13161 feet.

Kathleen, Tom, Paul and I are standing on the street. We’re loading my gear into the car, the sky is overcast and the first drops of rain fall. We leave Santa Fe shortly after noon. It rains steadily, all the way to Taos, at times coming down hard. We encounter high winds in the Española Valley. Turning off the main road for the Taos Ski Valley, in Arroyo Seco the rain changes to snow and we see accumulations of it on cars coming from the direction we’re going. Rain mixed with snow turns to snow which turns to heavy snow, and soon the road is covered and we begin to see vehicles off in the ditches. Even with the advantage of all-wheel drive, it is touch and go, we make way with caution. The windshield wipers are coated with snow and slap heavily back and forth.

After getting settled in the condominium we’ve rented for the weekend, we relax in the living room, share tales of past adventures in similar conditions and wonder if we’ll make it to Wheeler Peak, our objective for tomorrow. Tom looks out the window and exclaims, “Whoa!” We all turn to look. Visibility is zero, it’s whiteout conditions. Snow blows and drifts wildly in all directions. It’s not looking good for tomorrow, but c’est la vie, we have dinner, we have wine and we have each other’s company. Especially in the mountains a plan, in reality, is merely a suggestion.

The dinner Tom and Kathleen have brought is pure comfort food. Tom is the best cook I know, and I know quite a few very good cooks, myself included. Turkey meatloaf with gravy, rice with chopped peppers and corn, and a tossed salad with walnuts, sections of tangerine and a vinaigrette dressing. We take seats around the table, each of us expectant as children and dig in. Everything natch, is home made. Everything is delicious. For dessert, Tom treats us to a banana cake with cream cheese frosting. On second thought, the banana cake is better than delicious, it is sublime. As my friend Linda, one of the very good cooks says, “food is love.” With stomachs full and hearts content we fade, and turn in for the night.

I’m the first up in the morning. The sky is thick overcast, the light is dim grey monotone. The cloud cover however, is uneven. Perhaps it will break up. I make some tea. Sipping the steaming tangy liquor is a comfort. The rest of the crew gets up, all of us in our own morning fog, we stumble around. I brought ingredients for breakfasts. Tom and I set to preparing eggs, bacon, home fries and toast with jam; there’s coffee, tea, milk and oj. In short order we are sitting together for another first class feast. We are deep in the valley so even on a clear day it would take a while for the sun to appear. We postpone a decision on hiking until after breakfast.

The air is unstable and the cloud cover continues to break. Now individual clouds roil over the steep slopes. These are good signs, and the decision is made to climb Wheeler. Kathleen and Paul get into cleanup mode and we all hustle around, dressing, getting our boots on and putting our lunches and gear together for the day. And we’re off. Again, we are thankful for all-wheel drive. The road to the trail head is steep with tight switchbacks and is hard packed snow and ice.

Starting out on the hike, the clouds part and we are treated to sunshine, pure air and a deep blue sky. Fathomless, deep blue. We hike up the valley to Williams Lake in a fairy land of snow covered trees and mountain slopes, we have the trail to ourselves and all are in high spirits. The trail climbs a series of ancient glacial moraines, we crest the final rise and there’s the cutoff to the summit. Kathleen and Tom and I decide to hike the short distance to the lake and Paul opts to wait for us at the cutoff.

We are met with a small group of people, a man and woman sit close to one another off to the side. They stand up. We say hello and the woman says, “we just got married.” We offer our congratulations, and she exclaims, “just ten minutes ago!” With this we all break into hugs and handshakes and laugh and talk about how wonderful this is. They beam, they glow, it is inspiring to be in the presence of something so brand new, so full of hope. The couple introduces the Justice of the Peace, a friendly fellow, who like everyone else is in hiking attire.

“Anyone else want to get married?” he asks.

“Eventually,” I say. The question, and my answer pulls a string in me. It has been one of my life’s great hopes to be married, and one of it’s greatest failings that I am not. You don’t always get what you want, but for better or worse, there is hope. We say our goodbyes and well-wishes and are on our way.

Paul is waiting patiently at the cutoff, and we start climbing the steep slope to the summit. From this point onward, the nature of the trail changes entirely - this is no longer a pleasant little walk in the woods. Our elevation is well over 11,000 feet and we will climb another 2,000, all above tree line in the next 2.25 miles. “Taos,” as they say, “is a four letter word for steep.” Between the cold, the thin air and the extra exertion of hiking in snow, Paul has reached his limit and decides to turn back. With almost any other hiker I would insist we not break up the group and call it a day, but Paul is a seasoned outdoorsman and knows the area well. He turns and heads down, and suddenly, alas, I realize no one asked he stay out of what’s left of a very good Meritage until we get back to the casa. I couldn’t blame him if he gets into it.

Kathleen, Tom and I continue. Today I take the lead. Hiking the high peaks has always been very special for me. I find a pace, usually a slow one, which meets the conditions and rarely do I stop. Walking becomes a meditation, my footsteps, my breathing, the light, the burn in my legs all in synch. The last time I was here, more than a year ago was with R. Even then, things between us were beginning to disintegrate. I recently found photographs from that hike. It did me no good to look at them, old wounds just beginning to heal were reopening so I put them in the trash. I focus on the trail and place each step with care. When I get to the apex of a switchback I pause, look back and check on Kathleen and Tom’s location, I study their forms and gaits to make sure they are ok, and I look at the landscape and sky. I check the new direction of the trail and the terrain, my pulse has slowed and finally turn and continue up. Kathleen and Tom are strong and level-headed hikers. I feel safe with them, I know we can count on one another if the chips go down. These are key components in people to share the mountains with.

There is a moderate wind from the west. Clouds race over the ridge. We are in sun one moment and shadow the next. As life goes on and experiences accumulate, more and more I find our collective human endeavors look to be madness. So many things no longer make any sense, and being a part of it all is wearing on me. Here in the mountains however, I find peace and rejuvenation in the order of nature. Overall, conditions are favorable to reach the summit and we go on.

I am wearing light polypropylene gloves. Walking, walking, slowly, in pace with my breathing, I put my palms together to pray. The warmth where my hands touch surprises me. My body is putting out a lot of heat. I pray in memory of my friend Franz, who after a long life, died last summer. Franz and I shared many summits. He was a great and humble man, a great friend. I also pray for R, for her health, her happiness and her recovery. I meditate on my memories of these people, images of the times we shared flash through my mind. They are bittersweet, the memories which end in loss. Onward I walk.

When I get to the ridge I wait for Kathleen and Tom. Wind compresses as it flows up the slope, and streams at high speeds over the ridge. There is a large cairn covered with rime ice on the windward side. I am cold and my feet hurt. Despite the exposure, this is the time to stop to put on more gear. Stripping off my wind parka, the cold instantly turns to flames stabbing at my torso. Kathleen and Tom arrive and start bundling up. I yell and hoot at the wind and hustle on my heavy fleece sweater and hat. On goes my wind parka, the hood goes over the hat and then I don windproof mittens with fleece liners. Tom says he may not make it to the summit, his hands are cold enough they are giving him problems. He waves his arms around to get circulation to his hands. I help him fasten a buckle on his pack. “The summit is just up this ridge,” I shout. Adjusting our stances constantly to the wind, we three look at each other and decide to go up.

The way is shrouded in cloud which glows in the sun directly behind our view. We can see one or two ice covered outcrops of rock, the trail then fades into the mist. Otherworldly, the ice glistens. Neither Kathleen or Tom have been on the summit, so I encourage them go before me. I want them to have it first. I watch their forms as they go ahead, picking their way with care into the clouds and the light. I reflect on our friendship.

Last winter when things with R were going around the twist, Tom once pulled me aside. “If there’s anything you need, just let us know.” This is all he said. It’s all he had to say.

And one night I called them. “I need you to cook dinner for me,” I said.

“Well, come on over then,” said Tom. The relaxed ok-ness of dinner and company with them that night was the salve to my ravaged heart. Every once in a while in life, we find people who are steady at the helm, who are there with us through the thick and the thin. This is our greatest good fortune. It is immeasurable.

I watch Kathleen and Tom climb, solitary figures, yet together. There is the bond.

When we reach the summit we give each other a three-way bear hug. It has been a test of body and will to get here. The experience is rare. We hunker down behind a wind break made of stones, find some warmth and have a bite to eat. The clouds break and we are treated to sun and views. This is not Mount Everest, nonetheless, we are on top of the world.

Gordon Bunker

Mistaken Identity

“Jeff,” the man says to me.

I am standing alone in a crowd on the plaza. The guitarist on stage cuts quite a figure. He is very tall with dreadlocks pouring out from under his black cowboy hat, and has just advised the audience he doesn’t sing and for this reason his music has no lyrics. He suggests we make up our own words and sing to the person beside us, whether we know them or not, and if we do know them, we can sing dirty. He laughs. The audience does not. So, ok, he’s got a way to go at being a stand-up comic, but it turns out he does know how to jam on that guitar.

However, I am alone, to a profound degree. Everyone here is a stranger. I’m here to listen to the music and don’t have any plans on singing.

“Jeff,” the man says again, this time with added emphasis. He’s standing ever so slightly in my space. He is not someone I can see myself singing to. At all. But his demeanor is friendly and he’s searching my face for recognition.

“You, or me?” I ask, as it’s not clear if he’s making a statement or asking a question. It occurs to me this may be his pick-up line. Just walk up to a person and pretend they are someone you’re looking for and if they respond with interest, well, you go with it. What do I know? And it doesn’t bother me that a man may be trying to pick me up. How I look to any particular person doesn’t threaten my sexual identity. Despite all I’ve been through with women causing me to at times wonder why I’m still interested in them, bless their hearts, I am. So I stand there calmly and look at him.

“You. Are you Jeff?” he says. He puts his hand out and I take it and we shake hands. His hand is warm and soft and he has a firm grip. This is the first physical contact I’ve had with another person in days. I am acutely aware of the absence of and the longing I feel for physical contact.

“No,” I say.

“Are you sure?” he asks, smiling.

“Yes,” I say. It seems this is a less than intelligent question. Knowing what your name is, or what your name is not when someone asks you seems like a basic to me. Something a person generally does not need a second chance to get right. Likely he’s just trying to keep the ball rolling.

“You look just like him,” he says. “You’re sure you’re not Jeff?”

“Yes,” I say.

Years ago my dad’s good friend Russ and his wife went to Spain and stayed with relatives, who invited the neighbors over for dinner and to meet them. One of the neighbors apparently looked so much like my dad, it spooked Russ. Really shook him up. With seven billion people out there, a good probability exists each of us has at least one twin. So whatever he’s up to, this fellow’s continued inquisitiveness is ok.

He stands there, still friendly, and I stand there, still friendly. Perhaps he is actually looking for me, and he has the wrong name. But I’ll stick with my response, as is. “Well, ok,” he says and motions to leave.

“Good luck,” I say, and he walks away, continuing his hunt for Jeff, or someone.

It’s been nice to have contact with another person. For a moment I wonder what may have happened had I said, “yes,” or “I could be, for you.” After all, I could become a Jeff, or maybe I am Jeff. Saying yes might have rattled the man, or we might go out for drinks and have a good time and then he’d invite me over to his place. Or not.

Given the mysterious nature of life, there’s a slim chance I’ve simply been living in a dream named Gordon all these years, or the hospital made a mistake with my birth certificate and no one noticed the slip. What would Jeff, p.k.a. Gordon be like? Maybe he’s the coolest guy, financially secure, and after a glorious career designing prosthetic limbs for children, he becomes a Buddhist and his wife of many years loves him even more. A whole new persona might be fun, might be a relief; the possibilities are endless. But Karma can be a funny thing, and standing here by myself listening to the music and being honest is the way it is. And it might rack me up a few good points.

Later, the man walks by and greets a group of people gathered by the monument. Both men and women, they’re all talking and laughing and smiling, and they recognize the man and welcome him into the circle. I look at them. None of the men looks remotely like me, to me. None of the women do either. Hey, I knew a girl in school named Mike, so one of them could be Jeff and the man’s perception is a little off. Or it’s my perception that’s off. Maybe the guy with the pot belly, grey frizzy hair and blue mirror wrap around sunglasses is Jeff. Or maybe Jeff hasn’t shown up yet. Maybe he’s on unexpected business in Guatemala. Or maybe a priest is giving him the last rites in some E.R., and he’ll never show up. A lot of things can happen to a person.

Gordon Bunker

The Spring

There are few things as basic and satisfying as dipping your cupped hands into the water bubbling from a spring, capturing a small amount of it, lifting it to your mouth and drinking.

My friend Therese and I go for a slow hike in the Sangre de Cristo mountains. Slow in that it’s not a ten-or-fourteen-mile-to-some-high-summit-in-a-day kind of hike. It’s more of a meander, time and miles are unimportant, we get out our cameras and look and listen, take pictures and hang out. We’ve been to this place on the mountain where the water bubbles up, but that was months ago and when we come upon it now I am taken by surprise. In all my travels in the woods, I know of only three other springs. They are very special places, and encountering one is always cause for celebration.

 “Look! The spring!” I exclaim. This essential of life, here, in its most natural, unadulterated form. Water pouring forth, on and on and on. Who knows where this water’s been or how long it’s been underground - could be thousands of years. I completely forget my manners, peel off my pack, and barge right in. Kneeling into the little place, I scoop up mouthful after mouthful. My hands begin to ache with the cold. Finally I look up, drops of water falling from my chin, and there’s Therese standing on a nearby rock, watching me. “Oh! This is delicious!” I say. “Tastes like the Earth… pure… stone…” Therese smiles and nods. “…would you like some?” I ask. (Duh.)

“Yes,” she says. I make way and Therese nestles in and takes a drink. “Delicious!” she says, adding, “it’s sweet!” And we trade places a few times and then fill our bottles and enjoy. We agree, this is the real thing, and visit awhile with this place. Water from the spring trickles down the slope through moss covered rocks to a nearby brook. Sunlight filters through the trees. It’s quite cool in this little glade so a patch of sun to sit in is welcome.

Granted, most of the water we drink has acquired a load of impurities by the time it gets in our glass, so the dozens of ways we purify it exist for good reason. But as we add layer upon layer of complexity to what is simple, for all we gain, there are things, perhaps less tangible which become distant or lost. Out of the built-in connections we have to an ancient past, the simple things in life, if we allow them, touch us deeply. When we encounter and partake of them, the taste is sweet, it is sublime.

Gordon Bunker