From a spring high in the mountains of Southern California the Rio Chio River twists in a lazy stream through rocky mesquite patched foothills past cactus and diamondback rattlers coiled in the heat. At the foothills the spring becomes a river of clear spring water winding over polished mica flecked rocks toward the broad plain above the Los Angeles suburb of Sierra Madre.

A local wag recently wanted to bottle Rio Chio water and sell it to the French, seeing that they were having problems with domestic production. The city council buried him under an avalanche of zoning laws, environmental impact statements, and half-veiled threats, to the surprise of the entrepreneur who'd advanced the idea half in jest. The ill fated plight of Rio Chio spring water, was the lead story of the Los Angles Times which Harold Fenton was contentedly perusing one spring morning while the river bubbled past the edge of his lawn.

"Harold I wish you would put that paper down and talk to me." Andrea commented, rasping her toast with her knife.

Harold raised his eyes above his half rimmed reading glasses and eyed his wife with caution then he slowly set the paper down on the serving table.

"That's better," She said. "I want to talk about something important." Andrea smiled, a quick shot.

"Important?"

"Yes. Well, I do consider my transportation important.  I need a new car."

White thunder touched him.

"A man can take only so much Andrea, and I've taken all that I can." Harold replied firmly.

"Harold, what are you talking about."

"You know what I'm talking about. You do not need a new car."

"Don't be silly. I must have a new car. The Buick is nearly three years old. I'm ashamed to be seen in it."

"You mean the ash trays are full."

"That is such a tired joke. And besides, you know that I don't smoke, and it's time you think about quitting. You aren't getting any younger. Those pipes of yours are disgusting."

"Worried about the old meal ticket, eh?"

Andrea's eyes widened as she scanned along her nose at her husband who was grinning at her as he sipped his coffee.

His last statement deserved no comment, in her mind, and that is exactly what it would get. Andrea was a fine looking woman of thirty-two, with flashing brown eyes and black hair which fell in silky ringlets about her shoulders. She was used to getting her way. She'd always expected a lot out of life. The sweets of living had come easily and early. In eleven years of marriage her social desires hadn't concerned Harold.  Something was changing.

Harold had always ignored Andrea's whimsical social life and focused dead center on his job. It had worked for them. His job didn't manipulate him. He was in control.  Being senior engineer at the Pasadena Research Center entertained him. It gave him plenty of time to keep his mind in outer space, literally. Presently, he was involved in analyzing the returns of a robot satellite as it sped past Saturn. Thinking of work, his eyes instinctually sought the infra red scan of Saturn which lay on the coffee table.  There was comfort there.

As he glanced aside he could feel her eyes on him.  She was giving him the silent treatment, a treatment he liked far better than the noisy outburst she had just indulged in.  Harold did not like squabbling, and this breakfast spat irritated him. He wondered if all Andrea thought of him was a vehicle for the satiation of her material wants. Giving himself a mental kick, he realized that he couldn't condemn her if she did. But, of one thing Harold was sure, and that was that a new Buick was a want and not a need. Competing with the Hendersons up the block held no interest for him. If Mary Lou Henderson could coerce her wimpoid husband into buying her a new chariot every other year that was great for her. But that was not something which Harold would stand in his house. Not anymore. Harold was changing.

"Mary Lou Henderson's husband just bought her a new Lincoln. I don't suppose you noticed?" Andrea needled.

"No."

"It's baby blue with a navy blue crushed velvet interior," Andrea said.

Harold suppressed the urge to vomit, the coffee had tasted good until that moment.

"That's surprising, I'd thought she'd have it slathered with leather." Harold blurted out, not disguising distaste for Mary Lou Henderson's avaricious nature.

"Oh, it's not like those fancy Italian jobs. They're so complicated. Anyway, I don't like foreign cars. My father always told me to buy American. It's good for the economy."

"I guess spending money is good for the economy."

"Of course it is, dear. I'm glad you understand.  Spending money is what America is all about. Now be a sport and let's go looking for cars Saturday. You know, peek in the windows of the dealers and such. It would be nice, the two of us together. We do so little together these days. But enough of this chatter. You better get going or you'll be late for work."

Andrea began clearing breakfast dishes from the table.

"I don't want to be late for work, do I?"

This question Andrea ignored, deigning the answer obvious. Harold had given up expecting her to answer questions which would be minutely painful. She wasn't a woman who cared to deal with discomfort. As Andrea filled the dishwasher Harold slipped into his leather jacket and picked up his motorcycle helmet. Andrea intercepted him at
the carved oak front door by the black metal spiral staircase which led to their loft bedroom. She bussed him on the lips, then pulled herself slightly back.

"Now darling, don't forget, Saturday."

He nodded his head slightly while her words echoed in his head. Saturday, how could he forget Saturday? As he looked into her eyes he wondered if Andrea ever thought about anything but her desires. Reaching back into his memory he couldn't think of a single time in which she had not been scheming for a new car, fancier vacation, clothing—of course clothing. Who could forget clothing?

"No, I won't forget Saturday," Harold said, then spun on his heel and stalked to his motorcycle parked in front of the garage.

There was a always a new dress, house, plant, gardener or something. She amazed him. Now it was a new car, the ultimate suburban status symbol. Twenty-five cool ones, at least. Looking into the stucco garage he observed the present Buick. Its silver gray paint still shiny, the chrome was polished, and the seats had taken on the comfortable used conformation. At three years old the Buick ran just fine and wasn't even paid for. A new car would mean higher payments. No stopping that woman, no.

Suppressing a desire to walk back into the house and tell Andrea to go to hell, Harold climbed onto his Harley Davidson, turned the key and started the motor. The big 1200 CC knucklehead sent a rumbling vibration through his body.  Andrea's wants weren't all that funny. They had everything
people needed, actually more. When he thought about it he seethed. She had no right to control him so blatantly.

With a lurch he engaged the clutch and the cycle catapulted out of the concrete driveway. Turning down the hill he relaxed amid the aroma of the Eucalyptus trees lining the street. He relished the trees, savoring the odor in the pleasure of the moment. His pleasure heightened as he erupted into the mass of traffic on the foothill freeway.  Twisting the accelerator back hard he blasted through the traffic, using the emergency lane as his own private highway. He watched the speedometer rocket past a hundred, and let loose a roar of freedom.

Harold hurtled past hard determined men and women racing down the concrete canyons towards their daily struggle to wrest a living from the social organism. Harold regretted that only a few found the enjoyment he did in flat out speed. In the faces of his fellow contestants for the dollar Harold could see a grim ferocity proclaiming their unrelenting drive to succeed turn to stark terror as he blew his Harley down the line at a hundred and twenty.

Yes, they had to compete with madmen like him if they wanted the real rewards with life. But, there were a few who competed with him... a few who defied law and social order in order to experience the throttling thrill of adventure, who would come charging up the line in an E type Jag or hopped up Mercedes or Porsche and challenge him for superiority of the road. Those were moments of transcendent joy.

Back at the house, things were different.

"So, do you think Harold will buy you a new car?" Mary Lou asked, pouring artificial sugar liberally into her coffee.

"Of course. We'll squabble a bit, but I'll get my way.  I always do."

"I give you credit. You make the best out of a conventional relationship. I suppose there is some satisfaction out of simply outsmarting a man. One gains a sense of superiority from it, Right?"

"Sure... but it's not as easy as all that. Harold's not dumb. He keeps me on my toes. Still, he puts all his energy into his work, where it belongs. He really is quite quaint.

I like it. There is no reason for him to have to bother with human things. All he has to do is stick to his computers and satellites. He's very good at technical things."

"That must be nice. To be married to a man who is good at technical things."

"You make it sound positively lewd."

"I do?"

"Yes, you certainly do."

"Good, because that's how I meant it. Lewd like screwed."

Andrea broke into a laugh which shattered across the room. Outside, the gardener, a young Mexican worked, pruning the roses. The early spring morning sun illuminated his glistening, sweating body. Both women watched through the leaded glass for a moment, daydreaming... what if? Life in L.A. fit them to a T, nice clothes and money, that was what life was all about.

Meanwhile, at the institute, Harold stared out the windows, into the parking lot spreading outward surrounding and flowing around the smoked glass and stainless steel buildings. He found himself lost in trying to calculate the percentage of new cars in the lot. Firmly he realized that the percentage was going to be high. Sweating in the air conditioned room, he loosened his tie. All morning he'd been thinking of Andrea's demand, somehow he could get it off his mind. In the eleven years of marriage from the day they'd returned from their honeymoon life had been one acquisition after another. He was tired of it.

If there had been children it might had been different.  At first there had been the pill, then there had been some sort of female operation, then it was all over. All over but the fun as Andrea liked to tell him. Fun... he thought it was funny all right... Andrea's concept of fun kept her satisfied, but it filled him with a longing. He wanted to have a son but was caught up in a cycle of work and pleasure which excluded what he really needed. Twenty seven-percent!  The figure blasted into his head. Twenty seven-percent new cars... now that was something, everybody was getting what they wanted, except him.

He raised his hands toward the acoustical tile in a slow robotic movement. Everything had seemed normal when he had come back from Nam, sick of killing. Technically trained, he'd taken advantage of the G.I. bill, studied engineering, did what he thought he wanted too. College was where he'd met Andrea. God, she'd been knock you dead in your socks beautiful. Of course, she still was quite a sight with her aerobic courses and all. She'd joked with him that he never had a chance, and as the cars on the horizon moved snake like on the freeways he realized that it wasn't a joke. She'd always been the perfect, willful woman, who in her direct manner, had taken the pressure off him to make his own decisions. She took care of everything. Just like the army. He used to like it.

Harold realized that he had never done a thing on his own, ever, never made one single decision. Somebody had always been there, his parents, the army, Andrea, telling him what to do. He'd never made a real decision in this life. He'd just been swept along, like traffic on the freeway towards some relentless goal. A crooked smile touched Harold's face. His rebellious driving was his statement of freedom. It tasted so good, he wanted more than just the taste. He wanted to be free.

From that moment the rest of his life was going to be an adventure. Andrea was going to get the first surprise of her life, at least the first one from Harold. Harold was going to do what he wanted to do Saturday. Andrea could damn well go down and look for cars herself. Harold was going to be living the life of a free man. Suddenly, he was struck by a cold dread that he might make a mistake, that something he did might backfire—screw it.

A young leggy secretary in a sleek silver miniskirt shot down the hallway which abutted his office.

Harold eyed her through the class partition, following every contour and line in hypnotic sway. There was adventure out there, yes. Harold controlled his enthusiasm, he had business to take care of. Yes, he had to decide what to do this weekend. It was a monster weekend, a radical weekend.

It was time he made a decision for himself, dammit.

He would go into the mountains. He'd just take the trail at the end of the road and start climbing upwards.  He'd always fantasized about mountain climbing, Hillary, Mallory, the great ones. And why not? Weren't mountains what a man should climb, weren't they the test of a man. He'd heard about lakes in the hills where a man could just chase fat trout around and not be bothered by anyone. The thought of trout rolled in flour, spluttering in the grease of a frying pan, propped over an open fire, a lazy stream eddying down the valley caused him to salivate. He could smell the fish cooking. Yes, he'd do it. He'd go out and capture freedom—exquisite.

"Worried about the gray, hey?" Mary Lou laughed.

"I am not!" Andrea shot back, "Gray is quite distinguished. I do not approve of the worship of youth."

"And you, just past thirty."

"Age is nothing."

"Okay. Have you thought about the color?" Mary Lou asked, helping herself to one of the low calorie cookies from Andrea's wedgwood bowl.

"Of course I have. I'm tired of silver, so many cars are silver these days. My next car is going to be royal blue. It goes well with my hair... blue highlights you
know."

"Mind if I have another cookie."

"Of course not. Help yourself."

For dinner that night Andrea took the time to cook Harold what she'd told him was his favorite meal, microwaved chicken. Harold looked at the chicken steaming in it's microwave container and reflected on the vast ocean between his dreams and reality. Andrea was thoroughly modern, she had every gadget ever invented, the newest, the shiniest, the most chic. Microwaved chicken in tomato sauce, yuck.  Harold was thinking for himself. Pleasant.

"I'm going hiking this weekend," he told her, watching her eyes dilate.

"You mean to do what?" she asked, archly.

"You heard me. I'm going hiking, I'm going up into the mountains and I'm going to tromp around, do some trout fishing and get in tune with..." Harold hesitated then released the word which hung on his tongue, "nature."

"The mountains! Are you crazy?"

"Not crazy. I'm not crazy at all."

"But you promised we could go looking for a new car, Saturday."

"I promised... I promised nothing. You told me to do it.  Well, I'm telling you what I'm going to do."

Cold black rage emanated from her eyes, waves breaking on a desolate coast. Nobody treated her like that—NOBODY!  She had her pride. He would learn. She would make sure of that! He would learn. Oh, he would learn.

Saturday morning, the sun ignited explosions of colors off the lake below. Harold massaged the tired muscles in his calves as he waited for the coffee to brew. The little Swedish  stove made a roaring sound and the coffee pot jiggled on a boulder as Harold mused. He wondered what Andrea was up to, then rolled his head back and laughed. A delicious taste of victory rolled through him.

Checking the rocky hillside for hints of the trail Harold decided to trace a path towards a creek trickling from the lake, about three miles distant. There he might catch a nice mess of trout. Enjoying the thought of a big German Brown rising to the fly Harold was jolted to reality by an explosion of steam from the coffee pot. The bubbling brew scorched his hand as he jerked the pot off the stove.  Swearing, he wiped his hand on his pants. Steadying, he waited for the pain to subside, then examined the wound. A light red swelling, but no sign of blistering, he smiled.

The pain felt good. He poured himself a cup of steaming, ground flecked coffee, satisfied with life.

Harold studied the rock strewn ravine below. He spotted a Coyote trail, on his way down. Harold descended through the loose rust soiled trail, padded by deer and coyote tracks.  Breaking an ankle or getting bit by a diamondback worried him; he had no way of contacting civilization. He was truly alone, man in the primeval desert. He wheezed, his conditioning concerned him. The extra twenty pounds of lard would be discarded. It was his choice.

From deep below in the canyon a flash of light blinded him momentarily. Slipping through crumbling soil he pulled himself to a stop by burying both hands in the ground for increased traction. Securing his position he stood erect and searched the arroyo below, the stream curling around ocher boulders, the grass growing on the banks of the silt laden deposits, yet saw nothing. He changed course, his senses heightened he was alert and curious.

Soon he found himself breaking into a sweat as the morning sun rose higher in the sky as he moved across the rocky desert soil. Within a half hour he'd moved to a rock ledge which had been cleaved by the stream, which descended sharply into the gully. The sound of water rolling over rocks, and the smell of sweet desert sage touched him. As he looked for a way to descend to the creek bottom he spotted a crack big enough for a man to slip through the rock and clamber down a small coyote trail to the stream bed.

Making his way towards the edge of the cliff Harold slipped, small gravel kicked out in a dusty flurry, and he was sent tumbling down the cliff face, cerulean sky...bouncing dust... then he slammed into the soft sand of the wash. Stunned, he lay flat on his back half immersed in the moist granular soil, the clear blue sky was still, holding wisps of dust in the dry air. He lay still, realized that he was alive... and happiness... there was no pain. Slowly, he raised himself up onto to an elbow then slid into a sitting
position.

"That was a hell of a tumble you took."

Shocked, Harold turned his head to see an old timer, gray bearded, slouch hat and gold pan, looking at him from ten feet away.

"Yeah, I guess so. I just wanted to get down to the water."

""You got there all right."

"Yeah. Well, this isn't the way I planned on it ending up."

"You from the city?"

"Yeah."

"Figures."

Harold looked hard at the old timer and asked, "You making fun of me?"

"Sure... but don't take it personal. You don't know how funny you look."

"And how do you think you look?"

"Don't be so damn sensitive. I know how I look... I look like an old crack pot. You okay?"

"Yeah, I think so.. I guess I should get up and move around and see if anything's broken.

"Harold rose and tested his weight on each foot. His legs seemed to be fine. Moving about slowly, Harold examined the old man from the gold pan to grizzled beard. The old timer was a surprise, Harold didn't figure people prospected this close to L.A. anymore. All the prospecting he'd read about was being done by bulldozers and dredges, by big operations. Modern technology had taken over the gold business. But, this old-timer looked like he'd walked right out of the 1890's gold pan and all.  Interesting.

"Can I help you?"

Pretending to be surprised, Andrea looked at the car  salesman with open innocent eyes. She eyed him, dressed in a gray suit, lavender shirt and maroon tie. She quickly judged him tacky. Just as a car salesman should be.

"We'll see. I'd like to see the new Buick Park Avenue, a blue one."

Looking at Andrea, the salesman knew he had a sale, and with the sale often came more, when unattached woman were around. This he wouldn't mind, this dark haired number looked pretty wild. The salesman felt high, a primal animal on the hunt, a lot of good things could happen here.

"I think we might have just what you are looking for.  Come with me. Let me show you a little beauty which just came in."

Andrea followed the salesman, he was a good looking forty, pock faced, big nosed of Italian decent. She liked the way he walked, it seemed that he had a self confidence about himself which Harold didn't exhibit. She felt good walking alongside him. They made their way across the polished tile floor to the main showroom where the stylish blue Park Avenue was parked. Outside, curious onlookers stared at the couple, the attractive brunette in the beige two piece suit, and white nylons and the slick car salesman with the ready smile. Andrea liked the feeling she got standing by the car. It was as if she was on display, not just the car. As she ran her fingers along the liquid smooth finish of the front fender, the salesman leaned towards her and remarked, "You wanta take a test ride?"

"Oh, in the display car?" Wouldn't that be quite a bother?"

"No bother is too great for a pretty lady," a confident smile accented by straight teeth, startling blue eyes piercing beyond.

"Well, yes.. that is why I came down here, after all. A ride would be convenient."

As Harold sat at the small rock circled campfire, the old timer cooked a mess of fat trout in his sheet metal frying pan. The odor of cooking fish touched Harold and his hungry stomach rumbled. Overhead the blue Southern California sky promised more heat. Only a few misty wisps clung to the valleys and mountain tops on the horizon. The old timer's burro grazed in a small meadow twenty yards away, its' halter trailing in the grass. Looking into the miner's deeply creased face, Harold wondered what his past was; why he liked to be alone in the mountains... why, he was as he was.

"I suppose you're wondering about me. My name is Mick McCormick, and I've been wandering' these hills for nigh on forty years. That is ever since the end of the World War. I gotta claim up here, and I pan for gold a little. I gotta make enough money for supplies and such... A new blanket for the burro now and then, a new hat, a little ammunition. I don't need much."

"That's a change. Seems like everyone else in the world is out for all they can get."

"Seems that way to me, too. But, I don't bother with people much, anymore. I like it out here... It's clean, pure and honest."

"Sure... that's something. But don't you get lonely, don't you ever want human company?"

"Human Company? Oh, I suppose so. But as I get older it doesn't seem so important anymore. Anyway, if I want someone to talk to... Jenny there is about as good as any," he indicated the burro with his spatula. "But once a year or so, I go into Los Angeles to sell gold and pick up supplies.

I get enough human company there. I don't know if you've ever been to Los Angeles, but a man can get a full year human contact there in a real short time. People everywhere, just rushing around all in a hurry like the world's gonna end tomorrow. Why they get so excited I can't understand.  They just buzz around that city like some big bee hive."

"Yeah, I've seen it all. Hell, I live right in the middle of the mess. I worked for a company in Pasadena.

Sometimes... sometimes the retrace seems pointless to me, too. I guess that's why I'm up here stumbling around the mountains."

"Pointless... That's the word for it. When I think about things, and out here I got plenty of time to think, I wonder about it all. You know, when I was young... before the war, I was married. Back then everything seemed very important, I mean... Well, I'm talking too much. I'm an old fool, who lives the way he does and don't care much about people."

"You're not talking too much. You're talking sense...Talking about things I should have thought about long ago."

"Don't worry about it. Thinking about all that much just frets a man up something awful. Here have some trout."  The old timer shoveled the trout into a tin plate and handed it to Harold.

"You know, if you want to, you can join me in a little panning, and later I can show you where I caught these trout. Sometimes I like a little company. I don't see many folks out here."

"Sure, that sounds fine." Harold said as he savored the sweet trout and relaxed in the morning sun.

It wasn't that Andrea felt guilty. She never had trouble with guilt. She had signed the papers for the car and the experience in the motel had been something marvelous. She had found the salesman quite passionate and not just about making a sale. His blue eyes still lingered in the background of her memory, they'd seemed like ice.  Well, Harold was a cold fish and deserved what he didn't get. That was all there was to it. She'd get Harold to sign the papers, too. There would be no problem about that. 

Harold could be disagreeable, but he would always, always, do what she wanted. She parked the new Buick in the car port where she'd always kept the old one. The car just felt good... powerful and right.

When she awoke Monday morning Andrea was surprised to discover that Harold hadn't come home. It was the first time he'd ever surprised her. She called the Institute at 9 am. only to find that Harold wasn't at work. After some hard thinking she decided to call the police. She figured that Harold had probably hurt himself tromping around in the mountains. The fool. It was so stupid of him to go up alone.  She couldn't understand why he had become so willful. The mountains were full of rattlesnakes, maniacs, and who knows what. It was on the TV all the time. Harold was definitely
going through a mid-life crisis.

She called the police, just after nine and got through to a Lieutenant someone or an other. The Lieutenant asked her where she thought he had went, when she realized that she had no idea. Thinking for a moment, she hesitated, then just as he started to ask another question, she informed him it couldn't have been far, Harold was on foot. Didn't they have helicopters and such for these things? Harold had a position, and Andrea was not against bullying a little. The papers for the car had to be signed.

Later the police sent a squad car to the house, and two investigators in suits came to the door and asked if they could interview her. She led them into the living room and made tea for them. The taller, younger one, a handsome young man of 29 at most, did most the questioning. The older, a forty year old man with a crew cut and sagging jowls sat in Harold's chair, drinking tea, taking notes and looking very official and serious. The young investigator told her that they had helicopters out looking for Harold, and that she shouldn't worry. The young investigator assured her that they would find him. His words heartened her long after the investigators had left, the older clutching a recent photo of Harold astride his Harley which Andrea had provided him.

Andrea recalled the young officer's gray eyes and dimples,

and smiled.

All Monday, Harold and the old timer worked the black sand deposited in a bend of the arroyo, hidden beneath scrub trees and sheer cliffs. They could hear the chopper churning up the mesquite in the distance, but paid no attention.  Harold was awed by the nuggets which they pulled out of each pan. Already, he'd filled the leather pouch the old timer had loaned him, and he was working on another. It was hard for him to believe there was so much gold up in the mountains. He'd thought it had all been taken out of the land during the gold rush. The old timer explained that the gold was in pockets, and as erosion cut into the mountainside deposits, nuggets of gold were released into the stream bed everyday.

"Don't you want to find the pocket?" Harold asked as his eyes watched the chopper disappear behind the northern ridge of mountains.

"No, I'm not a pocket miner. I just like to pan. Placer is good enough for me. Besides, I've enough gold for one man or ten for that matter."

"Enough Gold. Don't you dream of what you could do with a fortune."

"My dream of fortune? My life is my fortune. I have everything I need. I'm healthy, my own boss, and live where I want. Greed is a madness of the masses, a blindness which destroys everything which has real value, friendship, trust, and love."

"You think money so terrible?"

"No, I don't think money terrible, it is what people make of it. The grasping and posing sicken me. In the city it just seems like all people are out to do is make a buck.  The amount of friendliness you get from people depends on how much you're worth to them. I'll stay up here, thank you.

Harold digested the thought, looked over his pan at the old man and said, "I can see why you don't like the city.  You know, sometimes, I've thought about just leaving it all behind."

A quick shadow of a smile passed between them, then Mick replied, "Sometimes leaving it all behind is more than just a dream."