A Screenplay
ACT 1 – BASTARD RIDGE
EXT. OLD MOUNT WILSON TRAIL; EARLY MORNING
FADE IN on the porch of the restored historic LIZZIE’S INN, a landmark establishment at the trailhead of the historic OLD MOUNT WILSON TRAIL, where, starting in 1864, mule packs loaded with building materials, telescope parts and other necessities would start their nearly eight mile climb to the building site of the MOUNT WILSON OBSERVATORY. A MIDDLE-AGED HIKER sets off on the trail and soon catches up with another hiker who’s clipped a small cow bell to their backpack that rings rhythmically, reminiscent of the sound of mule packs of yore, or the cow bells of the HIKER’s native Switzerland, although admittedly not as loud. Soon the MIDDLE-AGED HIKER veers off the main gently-graded trail. The cow bells are seen and faintly heard a few minutes later in a LAWRENCE OF ARABIA shot, a tiny moving dot in the mountainous landscape.
We hear huffing and puffing, scraping and stumbling, as the HIKER trudges up the aptly named BASTARD RIDGE. We meet GASTON, a small plastic figurine snuggled in the shoulder strap of the hiker’s backpack. He’s the loyal buddy–modeled on the classic Franquin comic strip creation Gaston Lagaffe–who accompanies the HIKER on nearly every outing.
GASTON: You okay there big boy?
HIKER: (catching his breath) I’ll live…(breath) I think.
GASTON: Are you sure about this? They don’t call it the Bastard’s Ridge for nothing.
HIKER: Bah! How hard can it be?
MONTAGE, the hiker’s boots battling the steep incline, the rutted user trail, the smoggy Los Angeles basin, GASTON napping? The beat of footsteps, counterpointed by accelerated breathing, some stumbling. Finally we reach a bench. We’ve arrived at JONES PEAK. We take in the view.
ACT 2 – TWENTY-ONE VIEWS OF WILSON
EXT. OLD MOUNT WILSON TRAIL; LATE MORNING
After a much needed refueling break the HIKER resumes his ascent, continuing straight up the ridge to HASTINGS PEAK, opting once more for the rougher road instead of the connection to the OLD WILSON TRAIL.
GASTON: (Humming an old French marching ditty) Un kilomètre à pied ça use, ça use/Un kilomètre à pied ça use les souliers/Deux kilomètres à pied ça use, ça use/ Deux kilomètre à pied ça use les souliers/ And so on…
HIKER: (VO, to himself) Why am I doing this again? Have to keep drinking or I’m going to cramp up. What if I skip the last two miles, the fire road bit? Who’s going to know? Gaston?…Okay. Fine. Carry on. Next stop, lunch with a view.
GASTON: (continues to sing)…Huit kilomètres à pied,,,
A final near-climb to reach the Mt Wilson Toll Road leaves the HIKER near dead. He takes a nap on top of a huge boulder settled on the shoulder of the dirt road before tackling the last two miles. The heavy rains have left mounds of mud, piles of rocks and trees torn out of the hillside blocking the road. Patches of snow cover the path as the road contours the mountain to the east-facing slope, the shaded side. A deer darts off in the distance. The last mile leaves the road to switchback more directly through a patch of chaparral that burned just last year. Amidst the charred remains of manzanita and laurel bushes we cross paths with a couple of hikers on their way down.
GASTON: (still singing) Trente kilomètres à pied…HEY. BONJOUR.
DESCENDING HIKER #1: Hey. How’s it going?
HIKER: Inaudible(panting heavily).
DESCENDING HIKER #2: You’re so close!
DESCENDING HIKER #1: So close! (Over their shoulder) HAPPY TRAILS!
ACT 3 – LA DESCENTE/DOWNHILL, YELLOW
EXT. MOUNT WILSON TOLL ROAD; AFTERNOON
Revitalized by lunch calories and a cup of hot tea, having refilled his water bottles at the Cosmic Cafe, the HIKER starts the familiar, easy, but long descent to Eaton Canyon in Altadena on the Mt Wilson Toll Road. A thin cloud layer announces the front end of a storm due to hit the region in the next day or two. The pace is brisk but not fast–legs are battered from the brutal climb earlier in the day. This is a path the HIKER has traveled a dozen times or more, he has the landscape memorized but the harsh alpine climate keeps reshaping it. There is always something to notice, something that was different last time, something that wasn’t there last time, or something he hadn’t noticed before, like those yellow reinforced concrete posts that line the mountain side of the fire road at regular intervals. There is also plenty of thinking time. We come across a MOUNTAIN BIKER pedaling uphill.
GASTON AND HIKER: How’s it going?
BIKER: Great. How are you doing?
The BIKER doesn’t break his stride; he’s barely breathing hard, despite the incline. The HIKER watches him quickly disappear behind a bend in the road.
GASTON: Don’t even think about it.
HIKER: Think about what?
GASTON: Getting a mountain bike.
HIKER: I’m not. But, see how quickly they can ride up a mountain?
GASTON: You mean how quickly HE can ride up a mountain. He’s twenty, twenty-five max, and in perfect shape.
HIKER: Right. But with training…Hey, wait a minute. How did you know?
GASTON: Know what?
HIKER: Just now, you knew what I was thinking.
GASTON: What were you thinking?
HIKER: The mountain bike?
GASTON: Hah, Yeah. I know everything you’re thinking.
HIKER: (puzzled) what?
GASTON: I’m your best friend; I know everything you’re thinking. It’s perfectly normal. Like right now, you didn’t say anything but I know you need to pee. Am I right or am I right?
HIKER: Yeah, I do. WTF? That’s creepy. You’re creepy.
GASTON: Not really. I can tell because you’re walking faster and looking around for a good spot.
HIKER: (shakes his head) Isn’t it time for your nap? (He ducks behind a large cedar by the side of the road).
GASTON: You start riding a bike, I’m staying home.
Eventually, GASTON dozes off, lulled by the rhythmic bounce of the HIKER’s gait cushioned by soft dirt that has been recently plowed and leveled by a John Deere parked on the side of the road. At the HENINGER FLATS CAMPGROUND, he rests just long enough for a last cup of tea and energy bar, on a bench overlooking the San Gabriel valley. The grass has grown tall all around the empty campsites. The sun peaks through the clouds. There’s about an hour left before sunset and they’re two and a half miles from the Eaton Canyon trailhead. He gets up and regrets having sat down. That fast, joints and muscles have stiffened. On the edge of the campground, he spots A DEER FAMILY, MOM, DAD and TWO YOUNG ONES, grazing. He thinks he recognizes them from the last time he came through. MOM and DAD look up, perk their ears, evaluate the threat.
HIKER: Hey there! Just me. Walking by.
DAD returns to grazing while MOM stays alert, until the HIKER waves and walks on.
Leave a Reply