Muencherh

The forest was waking up, and so was Alan Marshall. The wild noises had become his alarm clock, and he rolled over in his sleeping bag and sat up.

Once out of the bag, he unzipped his tent and crawled out. Standing up, he stretched, then grabbed his washcloth for a quick dip in the fridged water of the nearby creek.

Alan was homeless, having been honorably discharged from the U.S. Marine Corps less than five months before. He was now using his skills, which did not translate to civilian life, to survive, living off the land.

Chased from every empty doorway in town, moved from every park bench, and disallowed to sit in the bus stop shelter to avoid the rain, he had resorted to the Redwood Curtain, high above the coastal city he had come home to. Homelessness, unhoused, living in the street, had no meaning to him as he started down the familiar trail as the sun busted through the treetops behind him.

Still drenched in shadow, he did not see the body as it lay across the path. He tripped over it and fell forward, landing on the ground with his arms and hands, stopping him from hitting face first. The body jumped to life, growing into an elderly Native American man who had been fast asleep.

“Muencherh,” the man said with an intonation of amazement.

“Sorry, dude,” Alan said as he stood up, wiping mud from the knees of his jeans. “I didn’t see you. You okay?”

The man smiled broadly and repeated the word “Muencherh.”

“Okay,” Alan said, unsure of what to do next.

He had seen the embers of a campfire the man had started at the base of the tree and knew the man had been there all night. Still unsure of the situation, Alan returned to the trail, proceeding to the creek.

As he dragged the clothe across his neck, he thought about the man. He mentally noted that the man wore very little clothing and no shoes, his gray hair was straight and clean, and he was not afraid of Alan or mad at being rudely awakened.

“And what the hell does Muencherh mean I wonder?” Alan asked as he wrung his washcloth out and headed back towards his camp.

When he reached the spot where the man should have been, he was gone, and where he had been laying, the earth was undisturbed. He touched the base of the tree, where the fire glowed, less than ten minutes before, only to discover the place to be cold.

Alan had seen some strange things in Okinawa and Kadena, not to mention Camp Hanson, Foster, and Futenma. Being alone and unable to learn if anyone else had experienced what he had, he retreated to his tent to lay down, drifting into sleep again, waking after the sun had completely risen.

Crawling from his tent again, he sat near its open flap and stared down the trail that led to the creek. He hoped to see the man once more, but he never reappeared.

By that night, Alan was uncertain if he had experienced tripping over the man or if it had all been a dream. While a small campfire heated dinner, he recalled the muddy knees of his jeans.

Alan Marshall moved campsites the following morning.