Roger has been my friend since Thanksgiving weekend 1990 when I met him in the ghost town he was caretaking. Recently separated from my husband, I had long wanted to explore Death Valley and the surrounding desert, and as I had no invitations for turkey dinner, I felt this was the time to do it. I spent four or five days exploring some lonesome spots, Ballarat being one of them.
Triple A marks populated towns in the same way it marks ghost towns on its maps. One never knows for certain whether one will find live souls or a few abandoned buildings when one ventures into a town marked on a Triple A map. I have often wondered if its cartographers have not revised remote sections of the California map in many decades, simply transferring the names of now-deceased burgs onto current maps.
Whatever the reason, I ended up in Ballarat on the Friday following Thanksgiving, 1990. I had long looked at my Triple A map and wondered what went on in Ballarat. This was my opportunity to find out.
On that November afternoon, I met Roger, a very quiet man who appreciated silence, so much so that he would enter abandoned mines to attain absolute stillness. He once told me that even in such an environment, someone who is used to the constant din of modern life will still hear echoes of urban noise within his head, like the sound of the ocean caught inside a conch shell. With time, though, that inner chatter dies and true silence emerges.
Roger and I exchanged addresses, and over the years, we have exchanged hundreds of letters. One of the most beautiful gifts anyone ever gave me arrived from Roger in the spring of 1991. Through a soft rain, I had bicycled home from work to find Roger's package at my doorstep. In the gentle, golden light of early evening, I opened the box to find it filled with desert plants. The smells of the sage and juniper filled the room. I was instantly transported to the desert after a rainstorm.
In the 17 years I've known Roger, he has found two wives, both of whom started out as pen pals. Roger and I, however, have maybe made physical contact only once or twice. A pat on his back. A touch to his shoulder. That sort of thing, but nothing more.
Like many men in rural areas, Roger is a jack of all trades. All about the extremely strange town of Randsburg--which bills itself as a living ghost town--are the fruits of Roger's labor. Hand-crafted weather vanes. Signs painted for the general store and for antique shops on Main Street. Tile work here. Concrete work there.
He once had a tiny house he purchased for $5,000 in Red Mountain, but his "commute" to Randsburg--a three-mile walk over the mountain to his workshop in town--became too difficult. He told me he wanted to give the house away to a deserving artist, but instead someone approached him about buying it. Never overly concerned with money, Roger probably gave the buyer a deal. He now lives in a room off his workshop, fitted with a galvanized container that doubles as a sink and a bath tub. Here is another testament to Roger's resourcefulness and simplicity, traits I greatly admire about him.
Once upon a time, Roger had two pickups from the '50s, but he sold both when he moved into town. He now drives a tractor from the year of his birth--1953--once a week to the Randsburg General Store to pick up groceries. As the store is a little more than a block away, the tractor's seven-gallon gas tank only has to be filled once a year. Aaron and I drove to Randsburg last weekend to see if Roger was OK, since I had not heard from him for many months. During that visit, Roger fired up the tractor and let Aaron and me ride it around his back lot. "This was one week's worth of gas, huh, Roger," I teased.
In all the years I've known Roger, I have only visited him six times. Otherwise, we have known each other through letters alone, as Roger doesn't have a phone or Internet service.
Though I had last seen Roger about four years ago, when Aaron and I approached him outside the building he's remodeling and living in, he was not surprised. His expression didn't change. He spoke in his slow, deliberate way, unphased. I commented on how long it had been since our last encounter, and he said, "And maybe it was only a day ago." I told him I was happy to see that he was still "on this planet." He said he was glad I was still here too.
Roger's limp is worse than I remember. I once asked him how the limp had developed, and he matter-of-factly informed me that someone had shot him in the leg, but that he deserved it and so had not had the bullet removed. As Aaron commented when I told him this, "An old-fashioned sense of justice." Indeed.
I care about my friend, and I wish he would take care of his leg. But I also admire this about him--his dedication to his principles, how he lives his life in accordance with his philosophy. He is a man of integrity. He lives by his own code, and I respect that, even though his code may not be mine.
Roger, a most remarkable man.
