A Savage Solitude: No Manuals for the Quiet
Part 1: A man searches for solitude on the Pacific Coast Trail but finds isolation has its challenges.
Life provides its own bit of entertainment, and I try to capture the conflict and joy that arise from what we experience every day. My stories offer a brief respite from this crazy life, and I hope you enjoy them. There’s something new every Friday.
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The Piano Man Chronicles is a two-year anthology project. Every two weeks, you’ll see a story surrounding the fictional novel PIANO MAN (You can read about PIANO MAN below the story). Some stories are small three-part serials. Others will be from guest authors.
By Vince Wetzel
“I don’t really know how I feel about this,” Laura said from the driver’s side of her parked Subaru. “I’ve just read so many things about bears and mountain lions, and other creatures up there. I only want you to be safe.”
While Laura’s brow was furrowed in anxiety, his was as light as the air from her parking spot in the Emerald Bay parking lot above Lake Tahoe. From the passenger seat, he drew a breath, placed a reassuring hand on her knee, and tried to express his sincerest confidence.
“I know you feel that this is an unsafe adventure,” he said. “But I have a knife, I have bear spray, water, and other provisions to get me through the next three days and 42 miles.”
He didn’t dare compare himself to Cheryl Strayd, the author of Wild (portrayed by Reese Witherspoon in the movie), who traversed ten times this far, some of it without boots. Laura would say Mark was gaslighting her, he thought. Instead, he leaned in and gave her a reassuring kiss before exiting the car and moving to the back to grab his pack.
“Well, I’ll be at the Donner Pass Trailhead ready for you when you get out of the wilderness,” she said. She’d be staying at the Truckee hotel in her preferred relaxation mode, sitting outdoors and reading. She was ready to dig into her copy of Piano Man by Thomas Eberle. He was, too, but his was on his Kindle.
“Wait until I call,” Mark said, boosting the 30-pound pack on his back. “I don’t want you to wait prematurely.” With one more kiss and hug, she squeezed him more tightly than he did her. “I love you. I’ll see you in three days.”
And with that, Mark headed up the trail toward Eagle Lake, then up to the California K Section of the Pacific Crest Trail. The entire National Scenic Trail stretched 2,653 miles from the Mexican to the Canadian border. The slight stretch of Mark’s route was known for its panoramic views of Lake Tahoe.
Mark needed this time. Having turned 50 and with both children on their own, he felt a sense of emptiness. Unlike the transition of being a father – bam, here’s your baby – there weren’t many manuals on how to refocus priorities after the kids left. He hoped this hike would help put it into focus. Mark had trained for this hike for a few months, carrying weights in his pack up the steep hills outside his home in El Dorado Hills. He’d camped with minimal provisions. He was ready.
As Mark reached Velma Lake, he was at an elevation of 7,000 feet and breathing heavily. He made good time up the Eagle Lake Trail to the Pacific Coast Trail, just under two hours. It was as good a place as any to sit in the peace of solitude to have a sandwich and move forward toward Richardson Lake, his preferred end destination for today. That would give him six hours and 10 miles of hiking.
Mark bit into one of his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches he had prepared. This trip wasn’t too far, so he felt he didn’t have to totally rough it. He also brought a couple of cans of condensed soup, several protein bars, nuts, and three bananas. He also packed a two-pack of Hostess cupcakes, an indulgence for sure, but it would be his reward as he walked the final mile into Truckee.
“Hey friend,” came a voice from behind, startling Mark so much that he coughed up the last bite of PB&J. “Boy, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
Turning, he saw a tall man, his body taut and in shape, with an unkempt beard that looked as though a chipmunk was clinging to his chin for dear life. The man smiled broadly as he got closer and offered his hand. He wore dirty hiking pants that were torn in a couple of places, and carried a tall walking stick.
“Hi,” Mark said. “Where are you coming from?”
“Tehachapi,” the man laughed. “Yeah, I started this thing way down South. I think I’ve been walking a couple of months now.”
Mark’s eyes widened. No wonder the man had the look and smell of someone who hadn’t seen a shower in weeks. Mark decided to keep his distance.
“I’m Mark, I’m only hiking a couple of days to Donner,” he said, offering his hand.
“Carl,” the man said, and shook it. “I’ve come across a few folks, so it’s always nice to see a new human.”
“I bet,” Mark said. “I plan to hike another six miles to Richardson if you want some company for a while.”
Carl’s smile widened, and Mark thought perhaps Carl had forgotten a toothbrush. Mark didn’t know if he’d regret hiking with Carl, but it would be a story to share. Plus, some company might be safer against wild animals. After all, Carl had survived this far.
As they hiked across the train for the next six miles, Carl shared his adventures on the PCT, including seeing a mountain lion from about a quarter mile away. At one point, he had run out of food, and for a day, until he got to the next town, he had spearfished using his walking stick and his knife, affixed with duct tape.
“My tent is a mess,” he said. “There are rips, and it’s no better than sleeping outside. I’ll probably get another one when we get to Truckee.”
When they finally reached Richardson Lake, Mark offered to set up camp with him for the night. He had an extra can of soup, and he could tell him more stories. Carl was appreciative, almost breaking down in tears at the kindness. Mark wondered if the trail had affected Carl in ways that would take a therapist years to unpack. There was a manic loneliness to him. Is it true that you begin to crack without interaction with other humans, especially in such a desolate wilderness?
“I’ll collect some wood for us to make a small fire,” Mark said, allowing Carl some extra rest. After all. He’d been on the trail for so long, he’d appreciate the opportunity to rest from employing his survival skills.
It was not quite sunset, and Mark stood on the ridgeline and looked across the natural beauty of the Sierras. Acres and acres of land and trees were in front of him. He drew several deep breaths. It was all so beautiful. Would this be his next chapter? Could he see himself hiking more of these trails, or hiking across the majority of the PCT as Carl was doing? Probably not, but Carl was inspiring, if not a little odd.
Cradling enough fallen branches and other timber to make a nice fire and cook their soup, Mark made his way back to their camp, satisfied with the day’s hike. He’d gone ten miles, met someone, and now was going to spend the evening in the wilderness.
He was content.
As he approached their camp for the night, he noticed the contrast between his pristine tent and the tattered nylon of Carl’s tent. That’s what countless miles will do. Carl was sitting on the ground, his face buried in his hands. Something was unnerving about him. He looked primal, almost like a bear foraging for sustenance.
He looked away, then toward his tent, and saw his pack open. When he looked back at Carl, Mark noticed why it looked strange. Carl was eating his Hostess cupcakes, the ones he planned to reward himself with at the end of his journey.
“Hey, Carl, why are you eating my cupcakes?” Mark asked.
Mark looked up, chocolate crumbs in his beard, smiling like a kid who discovered his favorite toy under the tree.
“I just was so hungry, and figured you’d have a good snack,” he said. “I probably should have waited to ask, but I couldn’t wait.”
“But, I had special plans for those cupcakes,” Even as he said it, Mark felt like a selfish prick. This dude probably hadn’t had any junk food since he got on the trail, and here he was upset over an unhealthy treat. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to snap.”
“No, I get it. I just thought since you offered me a can of your soup, you’d offer things too. I overstepped. I’m not used to this hospitality on the PCT. Normally, my butler is a raccoon who is waiting for me to go to sleep.”
Now, Mark felt like a real asshole, but still, he couldn’t help but feel violated. There was still decorum and respect for personal property on the trail, wasn’t there? He wasn’t dreaming that, right? He tried to shake it off and resumed building the fire while Carl sat back.
“I wanted to meet a bear,” Carl said. “I want to stare one in the eye and see who would get the better of the other.”
“Most likely the bear,” Mark said.
“Maybe,” Carl said, and he believed it. “With my spear, I think I could take it down. I’ve killed a couple of rabbits. There’s nothing like killing for your food on the trail.”
As the night wore on, and the light flickered across Carl’s face, Mark grew more and more uneasy. There were stories of other encounters with people along the trail. None of his experiences turned out well. And each one had wronged Carl in some way so that he would call them “asshole” or “motherfucker” by the end of his tale.
Mark resolved not to be around for that turn. He’d wake up early and head out before Carl woke up. He felt sure he could put enough distance between them tomorrow that, when he camped, Carl would be far enough behind. Going to sleep that night, Mark listened to the night, wondering what creatures lurked in the night, and equally concerned with Carl.
In the middle of the night, Mark heard rustling in the other tent before the words made the hairs on his body stand on end.
“Oh, Mark, just wait. I’ll kill that bear and make a blanket out of its pelt so we can sleep under the stars, you and I.”
Part 2 is coming July 17!
About The Piano Man Chronicles
Piano Man, written by the fictional author Thomas Eberle, is a creative spark that connects a wide variety of stories, like a quiet ripple. I am writing three‑part arcs that introduce new people, new places, and new turning points, but the shared thread is how this one book nudges something in each of them.
Some characters read it.
Some argue with it.
Some only know it because someone they love won’t stop talking about it.
But for all of them, The Piano Man becomes a spark — a moment of reflection, change, or connection.
Guest authors, such as Sandolore Sykes JC Wesslen and Andrew Robert Colom are contributing their own takes on the story, creating a wide world of literary interconnection. This project is meant to feel like wandering through a neighborhood at dusk, catching glimpses of lives in motion. You’re not following one plot; you’re following the echo of a story inside a story, watching how art lands differently in every life it touches.
The Birthday Party Underground
When washed-up rocker Cole takes a pity gig at his nephew’s birthday party, he expects juice boxes, tantrums, and the slow death of his dignity. What he doesn’t expect is applause, cash, and a new career path—one paved with glitter, chaos, and the occasional piñata-related injury.
Welcome to the children’s party circuit, where the princesses aren’t Disney-approved, the clowns have criminal records, and the magicians might be dabbling in more than sleight of hand. As Cole dives deeper into this surreal subculture, he finds himself entangled in illicit rendezvous with moms (divorced, married, and morally flexible), navigating the drug-laced underbelly of suburban affluence, and dodging emotional landmines disguised as balloon animals.
But beneath the costumes and confetti lies a question Sam can’t escape: Is this his second act or just another detour on the road to self-destruction?
Eberle’s Piano Man is a tragicomic romp through the absurdity of reinvention, where the music never stops, but the consequences keep piling up. Sharp, irreverent, and unexpectedly tender, it’s a backstage pass to the party you never knew you wanted to crash.
“A rock ballad wrapped in confetti and regret. Eberle’s prose is as sharp as a broken guitar string.”
— Javier Stone, author of The Last Encore
“Thomas Eberle has written the most unwholesome children’s party novel imaginable—and I mean that as high praise.”
— Mira Caldwell, author of Suburban Gothic
“A hilarious, heartbreaking descent into the party circuit’s glittery underworld. Think Almost Famous meets Bad Moms with a dash of Hunter S. Thompson.”
— The Sacramento Tribune