Big Hands


It was almost the end of my shift when the car pulled in. A Latino man was driving. A man of undetermined heritage wearing a big straw hat was in the passenger’s seat.

When I asked, Are y’all here for the trail? the man wearing the big hat said, I’m from [nearby town].

I’m not sure if he thought he’d get special treatment because he was a local, but I immediately replied, There’s a $5 parking fee.

As he began fumbling for his money, he told me his friend (the driver) was visiting from Mexico City, and he (the passenger) wanted to show him (the driver) the big trees.

There was something a little odd going on with the passenger, although I couldn’t quite put my finger on what. He was oversharing a bit (I didn’t really care where he lived or why he’d decided to visit the trail on that particular day), and while he was moving a little slowly, he also seemed somewhat frantic.

The driver never said a word, barely looked at me.

I collected the $5, handed over the day pass, and sent them on their way. I sat in my chair and continued working on the letter I was writing. I almost forgot I’d ever seen the guy wearing the big straw hat.

I became aware of someone standing in front of me, silently watching me. I looked up. There was the guy wearing the big straw hat.

He told me he was sad about all the dead trees.

I told him the drought had killed them.

He told me the trees at his place were dying too, trees he’d planted with his own two hands.

(I really don’t think I get paid near enough to be a grief counselor helping people work through their sadness at the death of trees, but I was trying to be polite.)

Then he asked why so many trees had been cut down in the parking lot.

I explained those trees had been dead or dying and had been deemed hazardous.

He pointed to a nearby tree that had been felled. He said the tree looked healthy to him. He wanted to know why a tree that seemed healthy to him had been cut.

I’m not tree expert. (That’s probably why I wasn’t hired to determine what trees in the parking lot needed to be taken down before they fell on a car or a person.) I don’t know specifically why the tree the man wearing the big straw hat thought was healthy had been cut down. I don’t even know why the man wearing the big straw hat thought the tree in question had been healthy. Presumably, the man in front of me wasn’t a tree expert either, since he hadn’t presented his credentials, verbally or otherwise. I can only guess that even if the tree on the ground looked fine, some sickness had been detected, and it was in danger of falling.

I’m fairly distrustful of the government, but I hardly think there’s a conspiracy in my parking lot to cut down healthy trees. What would be the point?

You’d have to talk to someone from the Forest Service about that, I told him in reply to his question about why the particular tree of interest had been felled.

The man wearing the big straw hat became more animated.

I work for the LA Times! he exclaimed.

(Oh yeah? In what capacity? I should have asked. But really, I didn’t want to engage him. I really just wanted to get back to writing my letter.)

He insinuated he could get to the bottom of this.

He said, I’m a writer. I have big hands! He held up his hands for me to see. They didn’t look particularly big to me. And what if they were? What’s hand size got to do with being a writer? Nothing, as far as I can tell.

And you know what else? he asked.

(If this man says something about the size of his dick, I’m going to lose my shit, I thought. That’s how weird he was getting–weird enough that I thought he might start talking about his penis.)

I love this place! He was really excited now. You let anyone around here doing anything wrong know that I will find out! he told me. Because I am a writer! And I love this place!

Ok, I said, and pointed out to him his friend from Mexico City leaving him behind, rapidly crossing the street and heading for the trail.

You better catch up, I told the man in the big straw hat.

He just stood there and looked at me, clearly wanting to rant some more.

I looked down at the letter in my lap, trying to signal the end of our interaction.

Finally (finally!) he walked away, but as he crossed the street, he continued to shout about being a writer and loving this place and having big hands.

Thankfully, my shift ended and I was gone before he returned to the parking lot.


I took this photo of felled hazard trees.

About Blaize Sun

My name is Blaize Sun. Maybe that's the name my family gave me; maybe it's not. In any case, that's the name I'm using here and now. I've been a rubber tramp for nearly a decade.I like to see places I've never seen before, and I like to visit the places I love again and again. For most of my years on the road, my primary residence was my van. For almost half of the time I was a van dweller, I was going it alone. Now I have a little travel trailer parked in a small RV park in a small desert town. I also have a minivan to travel in. When it gets too hot for me in my desert, I get in my minivan and move up in elevation to find cooler temperatures or I house sit in town in a place with air conditioning I was a work camper in a remote National Forest recreation area on a mountain for four seasons. I was a camp host and parking lot attendant for two seasons and wrote a book about my experiences called Confessions of a Work Camper: Tales from the Woods. During the last two seasons as a work camper on that mountain, I was a clerk in a campground store. I'm also a house and pet sitter, and I pick up odd jobs when I can. I'm primarily a writer, but I also create beautiful little collages; hand make hemp jewelry and warm, colorful winter hats; and use my creative and artistic skills to decorate my life and brighten the lives of others. My goal (for my writing and my life) is to be real. I don't like fake, and I don't want to share fake. I want to share my authentic thoughts and feelings. I want to give others space and permission to share their authentic selves. Sometimes I think the best way to support others is to leave them alone and allow them to be. I am more than just a rubber tramp artist. I'm fat. I'm funny. I'm flawed. I try to be kind. I'm often grouchy. I am awed by the stars in the dark desert night. I hope my writing moves people. If my writing makes someone laugh or cry or feel angry or happy or troubled or comforted, I have done my job. If my writing makes someone think and question and try a little harder, I've done my job. If my writing opens a door for someone, changes a life, I have done my job well. I hope you enjoy my blog posts, my word and pictures, the work I've done to express myself in a way others will understand. I hope you appreciate the time and energy I put into each post. I hope you will click the like button each time you like what you have read. I hope you will share posts with the people in your life. I hope you'll leave a comment and share your authentic self with me and this blog's other readers. Thank you for reading.  A writer without readers is very sad indeed.

4 Responses »

  1. It’s funny you mentioned this. I’m in the process of reading a book called “The Gift of Fear: Survival Signals that Protect Us from Violence” by Gavin De Becker. It’s really good. One of the signals that comes from a person who may intend to do you harm is giving too many details.

    My first thought was that one or both of them were running from the law. I have a rough idea of where you might be, and some people might consider the area a good place for “evasion and escape”. When he came up to you, I wondered if he was checking you out, to see if you seemed suspicious of them and might call the police. His reference to “big hands” almost seemed like a vague threat. But maybe I’ve just read too many mysteries….

    • The book you are reading sounds interesting, Sue. I will keep my eye out for you. Are you learning anything new from it, or is it just a rehashing of things you already know?

      Maybe the two men were running from the law. (They had a young boy with them too.) I couldn’t call the police if I wanted to, so he didn’t have to worry about that. I think they were probably methed up. There’s a certain sweaty look people get that makes me think meth. Something about the way the eyes shift too.

I'd love to know what you think. Please leave a comment.