Armed with a dog, and a map, and a plan

Northward, past scenes so compelling they assume the quality of a picture postcard: chalky white peaks against a gleaming sky. Blossoms of gold on the desert to the east. Abandoned shacks, like abandoned dreams, tilted toward rolling mounds of sand.

It is before the snow and the rain, days of mixed clouds and sunlight, stabs of illumination that pierce through gaps in the gathering clouds. They highlight the changing colors of autumn’s leaves, adorning the high ground in shades of amber and coral, flouncing their beauty like schoolgirls at a prom.

Barkley spots a clump of trees ahead and barks his insistence to pull over. He wants to wander and sniff the faraway. “I can’t believe that he knows about rest stops,” I say. “He’s one smart dog.” “He’s not quite a dog,” Cinelli says. She sees his IQ as higher than that of a Texas politician, but not quite as high as a PhD in astrophysics.

A rest stop caretaker saunters by and stops to pet Barkley. “You’d be surprised what people travel with these days,” he says. “They bring cats, birds, lizards, turtles, snakes, even fish. I’ve seen them all.” I notice he has only half a mustache. The left half. I wonder why, but I don’t ask.

On Highway 395, Cinelli suddenly says, “Turn there!” She points to a road that veers to the west. I turn abruptly, causing Barkley to skitter across the backseat. He grunts his annoyance.

Cinelli is the map reader. I have charted out a vague course and leave the specifics to her. Twenty-two miles west is Markleeville, at the end of a road that snakes steadily upward to 5,501 feet. It is narrow and precipitous, lacking any kind of guardrail to protect one from plummeting to a grisly death, body parts scattered everywhere, cougar-feed at best.

“It’s gorgeous!” Cinelli says. “Take a quick look!”

It is like asking that couple in “Open Water” to admire the ocean scenery while they are under attack by sharks. I dare not glance away from the winding pathway, or eternity will grab me by the behind. Later, at a stop, I will observe the view, a vast canvas of sunset sky and of mountains that fade into deepening shades of blue, then merge into a dense horizon.

Founded in 1861 by Jacob Marklee, who was later shot dead in a land dispute, Markleeville has a permanent population of 65.

There is one motel, one gas station and one public telephone in a small cluster of life that also includes a general store and the Wolf Creek restaurant. When I tell Sandy Matlock, the motel owner, that the key to the front door doesn’t work, she says it doesn’t matter, there’s no crime in Markleeville.

Living in L.A., I am naturally suspicious of a town without crime, peril being an element of urban culture. But then Sandy adds that sometimes bears come down the road and break into places looking for food. Not long ago, one wandered into the Cut Throat Saloon, which is a part of the Wolf Creek restaurant.

“All the drinkers fell off their bar stools,” a waitress says, serving up a steak so massive it covers the plate.

“I still don’t know whether it was the beer or the bear that knocked ‘em down.”

No sound breaks the stillness of the icy night we spend here. We feel the coming of snow in the air, the overwhelming presence of a new season waiting at the edges of the forest. Stars never seen in the city fill the sky, so bright in the absolute mountain darkness that one can almost comprehend infinity.

A woman clerk at the only store in town shares the Markleeville silence. She says few words. “Um” is her most common response as she sells snacks and fishing gear to large, bearded men in hip boots.

“Do you have flashlight batteries?” “Um,” pointing. “It’s cold outside.” “Um,” nodding. “Do you carry fine wines, preferably a nice 1984 Blanquette de Limoux?” Silence and a glare.

“You keep poking at people around here,” Cinelli says, “and someone is going to stick a fishing pole in your ear.”

I ask Sandy why she left her hometown of El Monte to come here. “A bad marriage,” she says. It is none of my business exactly how that led to a mountaintop town with neither a symphony orchestra nor a Wolfgang Puck. I can understand, in a way, how the peace of isolation might beckon. Loneliness is relative to contentment.

Barkley loves Markleeville. He barks at the moon and sniffs the wildlife. If a bear should wander from the woods, he will greet it, tail-wagging, while the beast stands on its hind legs and stares in confusion. Our friendly little dog knows no enemies and experiences no dangers. Every living entity is his friend. We can learn from that.

After a breakfast of biscuits and gravy, mountain fare, we head off again, leaving the trees and the starry nights to a place in memory, secure in its permanence.

(To be continued.)

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Al’s column appears Mondays and Fridays. He’s at al.martinez@latimes.com