Osprey
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3694
Registered: 5-23-2004
Location: Baja Ca. Sur
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A fiction piece about the Kumeyaay Indians of Baja California and San Diego County
The Cave at Duck Lake
I never learned who dreamed up this trip to hell. Late July, drive to Vegas? Somehow it seemed it had all been planned hundreds of years ago;
Kahlia, her Mom and Dad, me, her uncle Ernie all cool and comfy whizzing down the freeway in $200,000 dollars worth of use-friendly motorcoach.
The trip was to “get to know me”, literally pass judgment on whether or not Kahlia and I could get married in September as we had planned. The girls
would shop and lay around the pool, lunch, munch and gab their way through Caesar’s, the Belagio, some other Vegas watering holes while Kahlia’s dad,
uncle and I would breeze over the Utah line for some fishing up in the cool, cool pines of Duck Lake.
Conrad, Kahlia’s four year old son stayed behind with an aunt in Spring Valley. There must have been one or more heated meetings about him being on
the trip or not being on the trip. His tiny but influential presence traveled with us in the coach and was undoubtedly responsible for the Death Row
silence in the coach from El Cajon pass to the Nevada state line.
I met Marie Kahlia Arrongo at a party in Mission Beach. We were both pretty drunk, wound up in the pool, later in the darkened game room; soon we
became an almost everyday thing that has lasted almost seven months now. Kahlia told her folks about our plans just three weeks ago and except for
one lunch at the casino and one dinner at the Arrongo house this would be our first talk with the family about a wedding.
Muriel “Nano” Arrongo and Kahlia took a nice room at the Excalibur while the three “boys” would hang out in the motorhome at the adjacent RV park.
The family Arrongo, a part of the Vieja band of the Kumeyaay tribe of Indians, had come a long way with the phenomenal success of the Candlewood
Hotel, Casino and Country Club just off highway 67 near Santee, California.
As we all passed through the Excalibur casino to check out the girls’ hotel suite, down the endless rows of slots and video poker machines I watched
Bud and Ernie appraising the machines, the action, checking out the competition.
Kahlia hadn’t told me much about the tribe, the business. She didn’t know much, didn’t seem to care beyond her monthly TA, tribal allotment. She and
hundreds of casino babies like her, all over California, are set for life --- failing a cataclysmic change in fortune for all Californians she’ll get
a little over $100,000 a year now and increases over time as profits allow.
On this little fishing trip the family hoped to find out if I was just in it for the money like Zorin Hertz, Kahlia’s first husband. At the outset
the whole family loved Zorin; young, smart, trim and athletic, Kahlia said he was a perfect gentleman most of the time. When he got drunk, broke his
wife’s jaw, then her wrist the second time, there was a short powwow one night in the casino counting room just three short days before Zorin and all
reminders of him, except his son, vanished forever.
They all should have known – big surprise; Kahlia is five feet seven inches, no movie star, she weighed then, as she does now, a good 185 pounds.
It’s something we just don’t talk about. I’m 240 pounds myself – so far they like my big belly, my red crewcut, the fact that I don’t smoke, don’t
drink much, I’m Irish Catholic. They watch with guarded enthusiasm when I romp and play with Conrad as though he were mine.
Little Conrad and I seem to have some special kind of connection I can’t explain. We seem to be able to communicate on a non verbal level.
Sometimes, for no reason, he looks at me and I just hold out my arms; the look in his eyes just before I pick him up, hold him to me, tells me
something or somebody, sometime held back the love he needs. His need is palpable. It is hot. I can feel it through his tiny shirt, on his hands
touching my neck.
My thing with Conrad is a first. I’m having lots of firsts; my first trip to Utah, first time riding in a motorhome.
“Kevin, Kevin, you take the first leg, drive this big thing up to Utah, then I’ll take it up the mountain.” Bud said as he shook me gently awake.
It was 4:35 in the morning, the little LED temp gauge showed it was already 89º outside. We stopped for breakfast in St. George. We would get
fishing licenses at the lake. It was quite a climb. The Cedar mountains were making us welcome. The sudden and powerful pop-up thunderheads tried to
challenge the big bus, the high-tech wipers, the low-tech aborigines. These modern Indians had at their command more than enough horses under the
hood to conquer the weather, the thin windy road and the mountain.
Bud skillfully wheeled the beast up and up through cedars, scrub oak, right up to the quakies. Duck Lake, about 7,000 feet, looked picturesque and
inviting. At the lake the weather had the upper hand. The big coach remained a stolid symbol of power but now in the RV park with the ignition
switch off, the whole ramuda was hobbled for the night. Now afoot in the boat rental office we could see the blue-gray anvil of water and clouds
growing and blowing, chasing smart, timid boaters back to the safety of the dock.
We bought licenses and bait as though the day was sunny and calm while the raging super-cell shouldered its way down the nearby mountain slopes,
turned the little lake into a storm-tossed inland sea. The rickety old wooden dock was pitching and bucking as the wind was giving us a sign, pushing
us back toward the lodge office, away from the building waves. I thought any minute now the Indians would heed the warning, wait in the bus until the
storm passed.
I was wrong. As the whole armada of rental boats motored in we found our own 14 foot aluminum skiff bobbing and straining against the mooring lines.
Ernie pulled in the bow, Bud got the stern, they both gave me the “get in” glare. As a score or more of soaked and sorry fishermen staggered past us
on the bucking slips and walkways we somehow got all our gear aboard, Bud started the ancient 9 HP Johnson outboard, backed out of the slip and turned
directly into the rain, wind and spray.
Bud looked determined but concerned, still wearing the thin cotton short-sleeved shirt he wears around the house. Ernie, in the bow, had donned a
lightweight parka. Uncle Ernie and his parka were soaked by the second big wave, and when we began to take on more water I grabbed my seat cushion
flotation device with a deathgrip and prepared for the worst.
Ernie had his own deathgrip on the gunnels near the bow but he let go for part of a second, caught Bud’s eye through the rain and spray, pointed a
furious finger back toward the pitching dock.
In the coach c-ckpit Bud turned the key, the 240 horses were instantly untethered because we were all soaked, didn’t want to stand in the rain to hook
up the power just now. Some Indian cave. Ernie activated the pop-out controls and soon we were comfy and refreshed; dry clothes, cold beer in hand
seated in a custom leather booth ready for a fishermen’s feast. Bakery fresh bread and rolls on one platter, a selection of assorted sandwich meats
and cheeses was heaped on another. A complete array of garden fresh greens, spreads and spices put on the final touch. It was 11:45 in the morning
and we were all famished.
The interview had no memorable beginning. It started low and slow, in between sips and bites, Indian style.
“Kahlia show you the papers?” Bud asked.
“The papers? The papers? Oh, the prenuptial papers, from the attorney, yes, yes, she did, last week. I read the whole thing. I don’t have any
problems with the money---with the money, the house, the tribe, that stuff. I understand all that stuff and it’s pretty clear. I have some questions
about the boy, about Conrad. I might want to talk to the attorney about some stuff in there about Conrad, that’s all.”
They both sipped, chewed, nodded, looked at each other, sipped some more.
“You like construction?” Ernie asked.
“Well, I’ve done a lot of different kinds of work but hanging sheetrock in the southland lets me do piecework, work by the day, by myself, when I
want. I like that part. Sometimes I can make $250 a day for ten, twelve days straight.”
Bud said “You got a truck, did I see you in a red and white truck, an older one?”
“Yeah, an 86 Ford 150.”
The wind got under the pop-out, pushed the whole bus a little, made us all look up, look at the windshield. The rain was a real downpour now and the
lodge, the lake, the mountain were lost to us for the moment.
“The boy likes you.” Bud broke the silence.
“I like him too. He’s a special kid. We play around a lot.”
Bud said “I think he likes to be outdoors. Maybe he would like to go fishing, camping, go up in the mountains. You could take him if you had a
camper of some kind --- a new one, a four wheeler, a safe one, with a radio, emergency stuff.”
I just smiled, nodded, sipped and chewed.
“Kahlia loves the boy but I think she gets bored. She has other interests. She’s a good mother, she loves him but she likes to shop, be entertained,
talk on the phone. She’s on that phone ten hours a day.” Ernie said.
We all took a big bite, chewed and looked at our plates, looked at the windshield and finally at each other.
Sweet Fancy Moses! This isn’t about Kahlia, it’s about Conrad. They want a nanny. They don’t trust Kahlia to raise the boy by herself, she doesn’t
have any brothers – they want the influence of a man, they want a man nanny. The camper, the camper is the carrot on the stick. Jesus. It was never
about the money. Their dilemma is the paper, the paper and the boy. They don’t want Kahlia to lose control, lose the boy, ever. So they want
someone who will give total love and devotion to the boy but without a chance of having Conrad in his life if and when things go wrong with Kahlia.
I guess what just happened at the dock was part of the test. To see if I had courage – maybe to see if I had common sense; to see if I was an
independent thinker who wouldn’t put himself, and others, in harms way while some careless daredevil called the shots. I could say I was showing
respect for my elders, for their decisions, not questioning their knowledge of the area, the lake, the elements.
Ernie put down his peacepipe (the pastrami, swiss, roasted chilis, endive, red onion on Russian rye sandwich), excused himself, left the council fire
to use the facility down the hallway from the lounge. Bud and I showed the required decorum by barely breathing while he was gone. When he returned
I put my sandwich down, wiped my hands, put my elbows on the table and went off the high board.
“I’ll sign the papers. I’ll sign the whole thing. When I do I’ll have to tell the boy. It’s not fair unless he knows. Without the part about him
and me I could be like a father to him, give him what he needs but if I’m just hired help with no lasting ties to the boy I’ve got to tell him, he’s
got to know the whole thing from the gitgo.”
“I have an uncle too. His name is Earl, he lives in Oregon. He’s a wise old bird. He told me sometime I might run into people who would test me.
He also said a lot of people have trouble telling others what they want. It’s because they don’t know what they need.”
“The thing with Zorin has made you a little snakebit. You’re nice people, you just want the best for Kahlia and the boy. You haven’t thought the
whole nanny or father thing through. When you’ve had the time to do that, tell me what you need.”
It was full dark when I heard the shower pump motor clicking on and off. It was just a barely audible hum. I looked out the window through the
darkness and saw the lights of two other camper units in the park. The rain must have stopped. I had no idea how long I slept.
“Kevin, you feel like a steak? They got good steaks here at the lodge.” Ernie said.
We took the last booth in the restaurant, took in the woodsy, cheerful atmosphere; the usual big fish, little fish, fish that got away talk around the
room. There was also lots of chatter about the storm, what it had done, what it might do to the fishing in the morning.
Bud said “Kevin, I talked to my brother. We don’t need the papers. We think you’ll be a good father to the boy. We want what Kahlia wants, what the
boy wants. You can work the construction or not, it’s Okay. Ernie says he knows a guy in Escondido at the Hummer dealer who has always been a friend
to the Kumeyaay. When we get back we’ll all go over there, the whole family, drive some different styles, colors, see if you all like this one or
that one. I’ve seen the dealer video on em’. They’re very stable, very high clearance but with good crash test results. Not easy to roll one of
those big, heavy things over.”
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David K
Honored Nomad
Posts: 64493
Registered: 8-30-2002
Location: San Diego County
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Mood: Have Baja Fever
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Thanks Osprey... Baja Bernie will like this, too!
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Martyman
Super Nomad
Posts: 1904
Registered: 9-10-2004
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Thanks Osprey Nice Read
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bajalera
Super Nomad
Posts: 1875
Registered: 10-15-2003
Location: Santa Maria CA
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Entertaining story, Osprey.
(Sheesh! Only three words, and one of them was "Oosprey."
[Edited on 4-24-2008 by bajalera]
\"Very few things happen at the right time, and the rest never happen at all. The conscientious historian will correct these defects.\" -
Mark Twain
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Oso
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 2637
Registered: 8-29-2003
Location: on da border
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Mood: wait and see
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As always, a good read. Many Kumeyaay and Kwapa (Cocopah) are related. The latter, here in Yuma, also have a casino and a new hotel. I assume they
also get a TA, but judging from the cars most of them drive I seriously doubt it's anything like six figures.
All my childhood I wanted to be older. Now I\'m older and this chitn sucks.
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