Recently retired from the California Department of Education, Andrew Laufer is writing a book about his life including periods as a butcher's helper, food service worker, construction laborer, animal research assistant, seasonal fire fighter, and janitor. In his youth, he hitch-hiked up and down the coast and out to Colorado numerous times providing context for hundreds of short stories.
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Raining in the Trees, Age 23
Raining in the Trees, Age 23
One summer in my early twenties, I worked as a firefighter for the U.S. Forest Service, stationed atop a remote mountain in Northern California’s Mendocino National Forest. Our crew of seven included two Native Americans from the nearby reservation town of Covelo and an anthropologist hired to locate ancient tribal camps and artifacts scattered across the wilderness.
Life on the mountaintop was simple and quiet. With few distractions, exploration became my favorite pastime. Martin, one of the Native firefighters, and I often took the Forest Service roads deep into the woods. On one trip, we looked up to see two eagles locked in midair, talons entwined as they spiraled downward in a fierce territorial battle. At the last moment, one broke away and flew off, leaving the other circling in triumph.
The anthropologist, Rory, usually worked alone. He would return almost daily with arrowheads and fragments of tools—silent evidence that Native Americans had once lived and hunted in those same forests. Inspired by his discoveries, I began taking long solitary hikes, letting the stillness of the wilderness speak for itself.
One afternoon, clouds rolled over the mountain, wrapping the peak—about 5,000 feet high—in thick, shifting fog. Visibility dropped to only a few feet. The gray mist distorted shapes and sounds, blurring time and distance until I lost all sense of where I was. Then, suddenly, I froze. Ahead of me loomed what looked like a bear rising on its hind legs. My heart pounded—until the fog shifted, revealing nothing more than a ten-foot tree stump.
Laughing with relief, I turned and spotted a towering pine tree nearby. My father and brother, both nature lovers, had often told me that old trees held a kind of wisdom—that Native Americans would lean against their trunks to absorb their strength and spirit. Curious, I stepped beneath the drooping boughs and pressed my back against the rough bark.
From beneath the canopy, I watched the clouds drift through the forest. The fog swirled and parted, forming ghostly shapes that seemed to move among the trees—like spirits of the people who had once walked this land, still searching for something lost to time.
Then I heard it: a faint pattering. Droplets of water were falling all around me. The moisture from the clouds had condensed on the pine needles, gathered into beads, and dropped to the forest floor. It was raining—but only beneath the trees. Outside the canopy, the air was dry.
It was raining in the trees, but not in the open.
And in that moment—surrounded by mist, history, and silence—it felt utterly magical.
~ Andy Laufer
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