On the Trail

People with titles rarely let you forget that by virtue of their titles they’re somehow a notch above. Unless your wealth and status in the community exceeds theirs, doctors and dentists rarely say, "Oh, just call me Joe." A judge never says "Forget ‘Your Honor,’ it’s Harvey" and even long-retired military personnel expect "Hello, Colonel!" over "What’s up, Freddie?"

Even the original Wizard of Oz never suggested his minions call him the Wiz.

My vinegary, octogenarian second grade teacher was called Miss Higgins for so long that generations of students believed she’d been born without a first name. Although rumored to have been a teacher since the last Ice Age, she detested small children. In her case "Miss" seemed as titular as "Dragon Queen."

Some people are known by their style: Mr. Cool, Princess of Punk, Lover Boy, Fashion Queen.

Then there are those titles that define occupations: he’s a glassblower, she’s a trapeze artist, he’s a snake charmer, she’s a lap dancer. I used to know this tall aristocrat-wannabe named Ursula Shunbeggas, who was in the habit of introducing people by their pedigrees, academic achievements and career milestones. To wit:

"Gloria, this is Millicent Pickleford, of the Kennebunkport, Maine Picklefords; Vassar 1967; her dissertation became a best-selling self-help book; and she’s the first woman to walk barefoot across Death Valley in summer to test her ‘Soul-to-Sole’ theory.

"Millicent, this is Gloria. She uh-uh-um, she’s the little person who lives next door. But she has this really, really great dog."

And there you have it. All my life I’ve wanted to be a Somebody or a Something, and I wind up notable for being short and spending most of my time at the other end of a great dog’s leash—a dog whose primary claim to fame (in my jaundiced view) is her unswervingly obsessive pursuit of the perfect potty spot.

"Well, bask in the reflected glory," my erudite wiseguy friend Cole Eidinger suggested.

Of course, our society loves to label people—even the bad eggs and oddballs. "He’s the most prolific serial killer in recorded history." "She’s the world’s hairiest woman." Well, I don’t feel so bad about my lack of recognition in light of that. Be careful what you want to be known for.

Then there’s the other side of the coin, being unjustly labeled or lumped in among others until your sense of anonymity threatens to consume you like some rapacious Florida sinkhole.

This was brought home to me recently during a conversation with a park ranger who was providing demographics on park users in the Santa Monica Mountains National Recreation Area.

"You Sierra Club-types are in the minority nowadays," he said. "More people train for marathons and mountain bike competitions in the mountains than hit the trails to study butterflies, look for migratory birds, wildflowers or waterfalls. Trail usage today is more about exercise than nature study."

He said "You Sierra Club-types" the way a logger might say "You tree hugger-types." It did not have a flattering ring to it.

Besides, as much as I admire John Muir, I’ve never belonged to his Sierra Club or any other outdoors group. I don’t like crowds on hiking trails, and you can’t be a club member if your temperament seems anti-social.

On top of that, the ranger seemed to be suggesting I was some kind of a relic, a dinosaur with a dog-eared field guide ponderously schlepping through the mountains—the Miss Higgins of hiking trails, ornery and outdated.

Boy, this wasn’t a pretty picture. This was not the kind of distinction I was seeking.

"I am not a Sierra Club type!" I informed the ranger hotly.

"Whatever," he said, and drove off.

Seeking sympathy, I recounted this to my friend Cole, aka Mr. Smart ’n’ Sassy. Life was short, time was running out on my quest to be known as a Somebody or Something, and here I’d just been told that as a quiet-craving, solitude-seeking nature lover I’m out of style and out of the loop.

"It may well be true that the world will remember you as nothing more than a diminutive anachronism," said Cole with feigned solicitude, "but in my heart you’ll always be the short person with the really great dog."

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