This is a piece I wrote for the Pink Minute paper edition in January 2006.

Shelf Road looking East. Photo by Mario Gonzalez via Facebook

My friend Todd and I are kicking it on Shelf Road. We’re following his two weimaraners and talking about his Pastease company, the subtle energy flow of the trail and lamenting the new pooper scooper invention, DISPOZ-A-SCOOP, Patent # 5280978. Sure it’s convenient, and spares hand-to-poo contact, but empty it doesn’t fit in any of your pockets and if filled and forgotten aside the trail, it reclines boldly as an ironic testimony to novel genious and half-assed responsibility.

When it comes to dog shit disposal, I say, flick it with a stick, stack rocks into a mighty cairn, or dig a shallow grave and give the dog’s last meal a proper funeral. But add a brown plastic bag, wire and colorfully labeled cardboard signage,
then the only thing missing from, ‘Ventura Countywide Stormwater Quality Management Program,’ are the bright and boldly stamped words “PROPERTY OF.” That’s Todd’s idea. He makes the cutest nipple stickers.

It’s distracting, but whatever. Shelf Road is a fine little hike, park at either end and stroll round trip for an hour or so, take in the sunny views of the Ojai Valley, and share pleasant “hellos” with other walkers. It’s no big sweat.

But this day is different. We aren’t half way from the Gridley Road gate when we hear a lone voice reporting from down in the oranges.

“Is someone calling for help?” We listen again, and definitely hear a man’s muffled cry calling from the forest of Valencias below. “Help…… help” the voice calls twice, then is silent. That’s surreal, and unexpected.

Between the trees I can see an old farm tractor, but I see neither body nor movement. Todd shouts back, “Do you need help?” But there is no answer until a few seconds later when we hear the voice again, calling in a hauntingly strong but
stationary manner. Someone needs a lift.

The hillside at this point is quite rough, steep and covered by a thick, scrappy chaparral. We continue on a bit looking for a place where we can barrel down into the grove. The voice keeps calling and I meddle with the what-ifs of the situation.
Just keep walking. Someone else can handle it. I’m afraid. It could be a bear, an OSL attack, or perhaps a phantom. Whatever, I’m going down into that grove and see who or what is calling for assistance.

Todd dials 911 on his cell, and I dial the local popo and immediately get transfered to dispatch. We’re in a race to describe where we are on the trail. That yonder road that leads up to the grove from Grand Avenue is probably Mercer, but
I’m not 100% from this vantage point. Ah, the vistas!

“We’re walking along Shelf Road and someone is calling for help down in an orange grove,” I boast. I see the house where they had that great New Years party that launched us into 2005. Snap back. I’m standing on a little berm at the side of
the trail looking down into a grove, talking to some headset at 800 South Victoria that doesn’t even have a computer screen map of Ojai to help me reference where we are. I want to shake my fist at the sky and cry like DiCaprio.

This is Ojai, a village, a town, a quirky mix of powerful women and lazy boys, a place where lost wallets are returned full of cash, and you never lose your lover, you just lose your turn. And the voice keeps calling, “help… help.” So I start
down the hill which is a slighter slope at this point, with softer grasses and fewer prickly things. The dogs grin and bound into the bush, they are in full adventure mode. They sniff things in this unknown world beyond the trails edge and pretend
to flush phesants out of the thicket. Todd follows, each of us nearly sprinting down the hillside. We’re talking to cops, on important business, oh you know… heros.

I get down to the level, I’m in full rescue mode. Gimme a challenge, I can take it. My adrenals are churning, “Let me call you back,” I say to the dispatcher and hang up. I side step a clump of poison oak like an enemy combatant. No matter,
over the stone wall, through the ancient leafless avocados trees and into the back of the grove. My Skechers can take it. “Help, help,” from off to the left. “Where are you? I’m coming.” Impatience competes with apprehension. I’m dreading blood,
crumpled limbs and rabid squirrels. I press on till I see the tractor. It’s one of those old red tractors, spotted with rust and big rubber tires in the back with opposing tread ridges for mud traction and little ones in the front with parallel tread for good tracking. A little trailer hitched to the back holds a small bunch of orange tree limbs. And there he was, grandpa farmer on his side with his right foot wedged under the big wheel. “What happened?” I huff, realizing that I’m getting some good exercise today. “I got my foot caught under the wheel. It rolled
a little when I got off and it just knocked me down and pinned me,” the old farmer groans.

It’s not everyday that you run down a hill into an orange grove and liberate a farmer from under his implement. But there are few things I find greater pleasure in than sensing the opportunity to serve and jumping on it. Which is precisely the
mission of the Pink Minute: I’m listening, I’m aware, call me, I can help.

This is Ojai’s gift: the typical is the extraordinary. Like anything I can do (see Seven Things – other side) I can handle  this. Todd is right behind me and he’s in good shape. He works out at the end of Fox Street. He does 50 pushups a day and he likes to help.

The old man is practically crying “ooooooh, oooooooh,” and struggling to pull his foot free. Todd appears from between the trees, still on speaker phone with 911, “Help me push,” I tell him. The old guy is wailing “ooooooh, ooooooh, almost,
almost, I can’t pull my foot out.”

Ben Mercer - Ojai's Oldest Farmer

With both of us pushing we’re able to roll the tractor back far enough so he can slip his foot free of his shoe, which remained troublingly trapped and helpless beneath the massive treaded tire. The man struggles to his feet, wiggles his toes, refuses medical attention, announces that he’s 98 and his name is Ben Mercer. He climbs on his tractor, and drives away.

Later that day I ponder the relevance. And I realize other Ojai folk are calling for assistance. And with each Pink Minute I’m here to remind my community, I’m just around the corner, watching for sunset and ready for your call.