a photographer meets a man on a hiking trail
3,413 words/ 11 minute read
by Andrew B. Hurvitz
On a Wednesday morning, last March, in our house in Woodland Hills, California, my parents were seated at their usual table in the kitchen overlooking the pool. Red tulips had returned under the bay window. Spring was here.
“Where are you going?” mom asked, her voice hoarse from oral surgery, Earl Grey tea dripping down her whiskered chin. Dad was reading the Daily News.
“Hiking,” I shouted.
“A Hispanic man drove 80 miles an hour through a red light at Victory and Topanga and killed a woman and baby crossing the street. Victor Gomez, 54, was arrested at the scene,” Dad added.
I had been walking, sneaking, escaping to the front door. But from their chairs they could see down the red brick tiled hall lined with floor to ceiling glass windows, potted plants, and an open tread staircase, added in 1972, the year before I was born. Those same stairs went up to my wood beamed bedroom, carpeted in pink, and a brown and yellow bathroom.
“I’m going for a hike. I told you last night, I told you again this morning. I’m taking my camera. I should be back around 1,” I said.
“Where is this place? A woman alone on a trail, you better be careful,” my mother said.
I took the 101 to Thousand Oaks and exited Borchard Road onto winding Wendy Drive whizzing past sixties stucco ranches and many churches (Church of Glory, Church of the Nazarene, Agape Christian, Latter Day Saints, St. Matthews) a residential and ecclesiastical gathering marching all the way to the end at Satwiwa Native American Indian Natural Area, with trails, oaks, mountains and many mile wide vistas.
Hiding beyond the mountains was the Pacific.
I sat in the car, put on my sunscreen and my canvas khaki sun hat.
My legs were pale. Did they look 49? Would any man know my age it if they looked at my legs? Why was I thinking of them?
I had my water bottle, mosquito repellent. My phone was charged. My camera with wide angle lens and leather strap went around my neck.
I was uneasy. I had taken my medication. I had a few glasses of wine the night before.
Lexipro? Cabernet? Me?
Seeking calm and tranquility I traversed anxiety. I got out of the car, locked it three times and said to myself: “The car is locked.”
I set out to walk, promising myself to ignore my phone, to only look through the camera lens.
I concentrated on nature: oak trees and yellow wildflowers. The ridge was gentle, the vistas enormous. There were several trails: one went higher, one went lower, one went around and I took that one.
And that has made all the difference in this story.
I was the only one around, on a loop that went on for a mile or so. The only human in sight. I walked and photographed and took in deep breaths.
Then, after 20 minutes of euphoria, I got panicky. I thought I was lost, my old agoraphobia came in. I stopped on the trail, crouched down and took some deep breaths.
What if I fainted here?
What if I ran out of water?
What if I got bitten by a snake?
I walked more and found some stables with horses. And a fenced yard where a few brown mares trotted around. They were content and calm equines, manes blowing in the breeze, muzzles up and muzzles down, without worry, free of humans, unsaddled and unbridled. They wandered and meandered, like free horses do when controlling men don’t ride them.
A group of middle-aged guys rode their bikes past, they were all dressed in spandex and helmets, and vanished before I could take a photo.
What were they doing here on a Wednesday morning? Didn’t they work? They provoked my anger, resentment, fear.
When Ryan and I were married we lived in Studio City on Valleyheart Drive. I worked at Greystone Entertainment on Laurel Canyon. But he stayed home, “writing screenplays,” but on most days riding his bike.
“It’s how I think Katie. How I get my ideas. Biking is work, research, inspirations.”
Men.
I walked down the trail to the Satwiwa Native American Indian Cultural Center, a wood house with solar panels near a dry creek. A female park ranger smiled at me. She understood. I went inside to look at the gift shop and use the restroom.
When I came out something beautiful, walked in.
An astonishingly handsome blue-eyed man, shirtless with shaved head, and carved physique. He wore running shoes, banded cotton shorts, lime green sports watch. Sweat poured off his forehead. He must have run far. He grabbed a cold bottle of water, a candy bar, dropped four dollars on the register, and bit into the chocolate like a TV commercial.
He was perfect from every angle. His inverted nose was proportional to his prominent forehead. His jaw was covered in stubble. And his eyes were alive, like a Caracal, a wild cat, on the hunt, electric and darting.
I looked at him and he looked back at me. I looked away and he came close. My heart pounded.
“Is that a Fuji XE-3?” he asked.
“Yes, it is,” I answered, looking up at him. He smelled of musk and metal.
“I had one. Loved it. I traded it in for their GFX 50S. Medium format. Dumb move,” he said.
I knew the model. It was nearly $4,000.
“Can I hold it?” he asked, of my camera, and I said yes, and he took it off my neck, examined and caressed it with his hands.
“You run here often?” I asked.
“Yeah, every day. Twice a day, 7 miles each time. I bring my boys here before dinner. I make them run. Well actually Henry is one year old so I push him along and I run, but the other boy, Elvis, is 6 and he outruns me. Are you from around here?” he asked as he rehung the strapped camera around me.
“Woodland Hills. I came to shoot pictures,” I said.
He wiped his face with a white rag, and twisted his torso, fingers intertwined in front, stretching and rotating his hips. He went down to touch his toes, self-absorbed, tending to his exquisite physique. I was mesmerized.
My nerves directed my tongue.
“I think I have to start running. I used to do it in high school, like ten years ago,” I said, shaving 20 years off my age. How stupid and fake I sounded.
“Running is best for mental health,” he said.
Why mental health? Could he tell?
“Do you take pictures professionally?” he asked.
“Yes, I do. I mean I don’t always. I live with my parents, their caretaker. And I get jobs, of course, you know these days everyone is a photographer, but I learned my craft on film, in darkrooms, real photography with chemicals, not digital, but you’re too young to know what those are. But when the agency calls of course I work. Ralph Lauren, H&M, 7-11,” I said, lying, lying, lying.
“Fashion photographer huh? I need some photos. How much do you charge?” he asked.
“Charge? I don’t know. What do I have to charge as a professional?” I asked, stammering stupider.
“Do I need to contact your agency? Or can you just get paid by me and take my photo?” he asked.
He wanted to hire me!
“What do you have in mind. Do I need to rent lights or hire a stylist and makeup artist?” I asked.
“Hardly. I’ll go over to that wooden bridge and you take me standing there. And we go up to the stables and I put on a denim shirt, jeans, boots, and snap, snap; and then I change and put on running shorts and shoes and you get me flying past, snap, snap. Done. I mean only if you want to,” he said.
“I charge $1,200. But I will do you for $1,000,” I said.
“Fine, fine. Next week? That will give me time to get in better condition. Elvis is in school and Henry is with mom so if you want to look me up on Instagram, I’m LukeLonestar4390. DM me!” he said.
We went outside and he jogged off.
“Wait, wait. I’m Katie McCann! When I DM you’ll need to know my name! Katie!” I yelled.
And fast he went, on foot, pounding through a trail of dust.
At night I made beef stew for the folks and sat there and made conversation just like all other nights of all these years.
“Whatever happened to Kay Ogata you knew at Taft?” my mother asked.
“She lives in Calabasas. She has two kids. Her husband owns a plumbing company,” I said.
“Where did you go today?” my father asked.
“I went hiking in Thousand Oaks. Beautiful place. Indian lands. Didn’t I mention that?” I asked.
“You should have stopped by Aunt Julie’s place and said hello. Old woman alone in a house. Why she never sold it who knows,” he said.
“Who went to Thousand Oaks?” my mother asked.
“I went there!” I said, rising to start clearing the dishes.
“St. Julie’s is the church your Aunt Julie went to and your aunt was no saint. They wanted to deny her communion for divorce but she had connections in Rome,” my mother said.
“You always made fun of Aunt Julie,” I said rinsing the plates and stacking them in the dishwasher.
“She told me I was too old when I got pregnant with you. Very cruel. I was only 42. She said I would be dead before you were 40. Now you’re almost 50! And I’m still here. Can you believe it? Aunt Julie was always devout, prayed every day. That’s why she’s still alive,” she said.
“I know mom. And you’re seven years older than her and you don’t pray. And I know my age. Can you stop reminding me of it?” I pleaded.
“Stay out of that park. I don’t think it’s safe for you to go hiking alone,” my father interjected.
“Oh, you’re going to love this. I’m going back there to take pictures of a man I met there today! He’s a very handsome model and actor and I’m going to photograph him!” I said.
I showed them Luke’s Instagram. My mom put on her glasses and looked with disapproval at his shirtless photos.
“This isn’t a nice story. You got yourself picked up by a very smooth operator. What line did he use on you?” my mom asked.
“Do you think this gorgeous guy, 30 years old, model and actor with a famous wife and her own show on HGTV is going to have the hots for me? Look at me! Look at your fat, middle-aged, nearly 50-year-old daughter, who lives upstairs and cooks your meals, and does your housecleaning and medical runs. Do I look like Luke Higgins’ dream girl?” I asked.
“How do you know all that about him? Did he tell you all that today? What man blurts out all that private information to a woman he doesn’t know?” my father asked.
“It’s on Instagram! Instagram is the font of all knowledge. Google Luke Higgins and Carla Brioni,” I said.
“Who? Who are these people?” my mother asked.
“Show us how to use Google!” my father demanded.
“Never mind. I want to go upstairs and take a shower,” I said.
Later at night, snuggled in bed, I reviewed Luke’s page. He was a graduate of USAF Flight Training Academy. A certified physical fitness instructor. He was married to a gorgeous chef and had two adorable blond boys. The family kept a prop plane at Camarillo Airport. In the winter they skied in the Sierras. And in the summer, they went to stay with her family in Sardinia. All summer long.
His photos proved it.
He was the paid endorser of many athletic brands: cashmere sweaters, nutritional supplements and running shoes.
I felt insignificant and inconsequential to even look at him online.
I went into the bathroom to take my last pee before sleeping. And then I cried as I washed my face thinking of Luke and his life and that bed I slept in alone.
Wednesday, October 28th was a cloudy day, the kind they predict a week ahead in Southern California, warning of bad storms that never make rain.
Getting out of the house was an ordeal. As usual.
They had to know where I was going, know what time I was returning, and they went back and forth in their own arguments about who took what medicines, and their wishes about the dinner I would make that night.
“You should make that beef stew you made last week. It was delicious. Where did you get the beef?” Dad asked.
“Whole Foods,” I said.
“Whole Foods! Are you crazy? They charge a fortune! You better not shop there,” he said.
“I spent maybe ten bucks for beef. And we all ate very well,” I answered.
“Ten bucks!” he said.
I filled up their protein shakes, fluffed their couch pillows, laid out the remote control for the TV. I folded a beige mohair throw for my mother, smelling it for urine. I put their mobile phones in the phone basket and turned on the indoor and outdoor cameras so I could monitor their house and activities from my phone.
“Don’t open the door for solicitors. And don’t answer any text calls from people you don’t know!” I said as I walked out of my eternal entanglement.
And then I was in the presence of God, a cool God, a fit God, a gymnastic God who jumped over fences, sprinted across fields, dropped on the ground for pushups and stood up on the hill posing and flexing.
He laughed, he spit, he smiled, he joked. He said he hated work, loved being a dad, loved his wife. He had many toys: a 1978 red Porsche convertible, a 1967 Harley Davidson, a 1971 twin engine Piper Comanche. He met Carla at a fashion show in Dallas, she got pregnant that same first night, he married her two months later. Balenciaga photographed their Corsican honeymoon for a 2014 campaign.
He had three guns at home, kept them safely locked up, of course. He had two German Shepherds, and his wife was a Judo instructor.
“You have every base covered,” I said.
We shot for about two hours. Time flew.
We walked to my car. I put my camera gear into the trunk. And he paid me $1,000 in cash.
“Thank you so much. It’s been a complete pleasure. I feel honored. I still have to honestly say I don’t know why you picked me. How did you know I could even take a photo?” I asked.
He just shook his head. He patted me on my shoulders as if he believed in me. In his presence I was lifted up.
“I go by instinct,” he said.
His cryptic terseness seemed earnest. He truly believed in me. Maybe my flaws were an asset.
If only I had his self-esteem. His surplus of self-confidence was so great he could loan it out without interest, just give it away for free.
I worked on his photos for a few days, but honestly, I didn’t have to do much, for the raw material of Luke Higgins was superb. All the physical enhancements on him were his own.
I went into Instagram and reviewed my pathetic page with 49 followers and compared it to his 176,000 followers.
That old feeling of worthlessness came over me, the sensation of lifelong loser. That sinister, bullying voice in my head belittled me: fat, divorced, failed, old maid, childless, unemployed, emotional, undirected, lonely, depressed, medicated, self-pitying, below average, pear shaped, pimpled, dependent, childlike; controlled by your parents, caretaker for your parents, babied by your parents.
“You live in your childhood bedroom and you’ve never amounted to anything!”
Why didn’t I kill myself? Why didn’t I drink or do drugs? Why didn’t I murder my ex-husband?
I even lacked the ambition to destroy myself.
I thought of the thousands of homeless people who slept in cars, under bridges, on bus benches. People in dire straits who didn’t have sympathetic and generous parents.
Everything I had was given to me: a three-million-dollar home in Woodland Hills to inherit, the low property taxes, the money my parents would leave me.
I cursed my good fortune as a silent killer who took away my free agency to live a fulfilling and independent life.
I sent Luke a link to the edited photos. A week later there was no answer. And I waited but he never responded.
Again, I went into sadness and imagined him with his gorgeous wife laughing at me, poking fun at the fat woman from the park who lustfully photographed him and thought she had made a friend with perhaps the most handsome man she had ever met.
Months went by and he never responded to my messages. I tried to contact him on Instagram but his page had been removed. Or more likely, he blocked me.
One day Aunt Julie called me up from Newbury Park. I’m sure she heard something sad from my parents about my state-of-mind.
“Why don’t you go to St. Julie’s? They’re having a women’s spiritual meeting. Monday evenings 7-9. You might meet some nice people and also find some comfort. You can eat dinner with me beforehand,” Aunt Julie said.
I started to cry.
“I don’t need God. Thank you for your call. What I need is a man who appreciates me. Someone like Luke Higgins,” I said, confident that my delusion and citing of a stranger’s name would not register an iota of recognition in her.
“Did you say Luke Higgins? The Luke Higgins who lived on my street and was married to Carla Brioini the HGTV star?” she asked.
“Yes, yes! Don’t tell me you know him too. If you see him, Aunt Julie, pardon my French but tell him and his bitchy wife to just fuck off!” I said.
“Honey, honey. Luke Higgins had the most adorable children and a loving wife. I don’t know if you heard: he shot himself to death a few days before Christmas. Horrible story. He had everything and he was suffering from very bad manic depression. A beautiful man. Heartbreaking,” she said.
“Oh, my God! My God! No, no, no!” I screamed.
“Nobody expected it. I see Carla walking with her boys past my house, pushing the youngest in a stroller, the most stunning family, without a dad, and I think what a tragedy, what a loss,” she said.
“Katie, drink the tea. You’ll feel better. Do you want some Bushmills?” my father said, hovering over me, now tending to me the way I tended to him.
“Dad you must think I’m ridiculous. I didn’t know this man but my heart breaks for his family. And I feel guilty for thinking he was ignoring me when he was only dead,” I said.
My mother had gone to bed. I sat in the den with my father, just as I had for nearly five decades, searching for meaning in the death of a stranger I idolized and invented a story of.
“Do you think this man was strong because he had muscles and a beautiful wife and hundreds of thousands of people followed him online? You didn’t know him. You met him at a park and took his photos. The most perfect people are often the most fucked up,” he said.
Maybe I was better off than Luke Higgins, luckier in many ways, and had yet to realize it.
I have not since returned to the Satwiwa Native American Indian Natural Area. Nor have I wanted to. I think of him and imagine saving his life. Meeting him again and resurrecting our brief conversation.
But what could I say even if I could go back in time? There was nothing dismal or hopeless in his life. He had the best life, the best of everything.
I could go on and on and talk and talk but I have to go downstairs and fix them lunch. I bought some organic turkey, provolone cheese and sourdough bread. I think I’ll make them sandwiches and heat up a can of pea soup.
END
Here in Van Nuys 