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'Time of the Child' is a marvelous blend of despair and redemption

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'Time of the Child' is a marvelous blend of despair and redemption

A village “on the western edge of a wet nowhere” populated by men who drink too much and women who smile too little. Throw in cows, an addled priest, an abandoned baby and a thick cloud cover of shame and you have the elements for a quintessential Irish story.

So quintessential, in fact, I’ve held off reading Niall Williams for a long time, despite hearing raves about his work. My skepticism, it turns out, was misplaced. I’ve just emerged from a Niall Williams binge with a belated appreciation for his writing, which invests specificity and life in characters and places easily reduced to clichés.

Time of the Child is Williams’ latest novel, a companion piece, rather than a sequel to, his 2019 novel, This Is Happiness. Both books are set in the rural village of Faha — a town in the far west of Ireland whose inhabitants, we’re told, possess “the translucent flesh that came from living in an absolute humidity.”

Time of the Child takes place in the weeks leading up to Christmas 1962 and opens — and closes — on a set piece of Mass at the parish church, where most of the village gathers. In between lies a story that feels, at once, realistic in its rough and comic everyday unfolding and mythic in its riffs on the grand themes of despair and spiritual redemption.

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Jack Troy is the town doctor and central character here. He’s a melancholy contained man who, we’re told, “carrie[s] himself in a manner that [the townspeople of] Faha might have summarized as Not like us.” Dr. Troy lost his wife and then the older woman he unexpectedly fell in love with, who’s now also dead. Keeping house for him is his 29-year-old daughter, Ronnie, the eldest of three sisters; the one who remained at home.

Ronnie, too, is a semi-enigma to the townspeople: Our narrator tells us that “Added to [her] reserve was not only the screened lives of all women in the parish at the time, but the marginal natures of all writers, for Ronnie Troy’s closest companion was her notebook.”

Dr. Troy has become haunted by despair and by a particularly heartrending question: “Why does no one love my daughter?” The answer, he fears, is his own glowering presence that may have repelled one especially promising suitor.

Inspired by what we’re told is a “mixed fuel of … brandy … [and] a parent’s fear of the unmade world after them,” Dr. Troy, uncharacteristically, resolves on a bizarre scheme to make things right. As the saying goes: “Man plans, God laughs.”

Instead of unfolding the Troy family narrative chronologically, Williams layers it on top of other simultaneous storylines, all of which are graced with language as bracing as salt spray from the chill Atlantic. We follow, for instance, the wanderings of Jude Quinlan, a 12 year old “on the rope-bridge between man and boy.”

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Jude’s father drinks and gambles and his mother, Mamie, possesses “the anxious look of one married to an instability.” Listen to how Williams moves fluidly from the mundane to the wider lens of the numinous in these snippets from an extended passage where Jude helps to unload a van full of Christmas toys for the town fair:

There were toy soldiers, kits for flying gliders, … skittles in a net, balls, bats. … dolls of one expression but many dresses, …

For Jude, carrying everything from the van … was as close has he would get to handling any of these things. He had no resentment or bitterness . Rather, from nearness to the marvelous something rubbed off on him …

The other thing, the one that only occurred to him years later when he would recall what happened that day, was that what he was carrying out of the van that December morning was his childhood.

For those who believe in such phenomena, Jude will be the instrument for bringing a miracle — a Christmas miracle complete with a baby and a virginal mother, no less — into this story. The other miracle here is a literary one: Time of the Child itself, which gives readers that singular experience of nearness to the marvelous.

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They planned a simple day hike in Yosemite. Then they got lost in the snow

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They planned a simple day hike in Yosemite. Then they got lost in the snow

On May 20, 2016, my wife and I visited Yosemite National Park. Before we set out on a trail, I talked to a park ranger. I told her that I was looking for a picture of water reflecting the trees.

The ranger, a third-generation Yosemite employee, stated that Lukens Lake was one of the most beautiful places in the park.

“I think you get the best views in the park,” she said.

Highway 120 had opened the day before, and it was only a one-mile hike from the highway-adjacent trailhead to the lake.

We’d been to Yosemite before. At that time, I was living in Long Beach in a high-rise on Ocean Boulevard. I had an airplane and I flew us into Mariposa-Yosemite Airport. We rented a four-wheel drive van and stayed in Mariposa. The next day, we drove over and hiked to the lake.

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Between a Rock is a Los Angeles Times series that shares survival stories from the California wilderness.

We probably got there around 9 a.m. It just seemed like a simple little walk. We had proper attire and day packs. I checked the weather. There was nothing in the forecast that day. It was nice. It was cool. In Yosemite Valley, it was probably in the upper 40s.

As the morning wore on, the clouds covered the sky. It got gray and dark. The light was perfect for photographs. And it started to snow. It was one of those storms the mountains generate. The snow was coming down thick and in big flakes. We got five inches in about 40 minutes. I spent about two hours taking photos around the lake.

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“It just seemed like a simple little walk. We had proper attire and day packs. I checked the weather. There was nothing in the forecast that day. “

I got lost in the photography. It was just so beautiful, you didn’t want to leave. But, we got hungry. We only had a snack bar with us, and we had left a couple days’ worth of food in the car.

But our trail had disappeared. About noon was our first attempt to hike out. The hike in was about 10 minutes. We hiked for an hour and found no outlet.

Lukens Lake is a short hike from Highway 120, or Tioga Road.

Lukens Lake is a short hike from Highway 120, or Tioga Road.

(Tom Setterlund)

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When we headed out from the lake, we kept going straight. We took three different paths, but we were still probably half a mile from the road. We didn’t remember dog legging coming out. You’re headed down the trail one place, and all of a sudden, it makes a 30-degree turn to your left. We didn’t remember the big turn.

I knew there was going to be snow on the ground, and I thought if people go there, there’d be a trail on the ground, but I didn’t think through that next day. We knew the road was due south of where we were, but there was no sun. You couldn’t tell where south was.

The last time we tried, I was exhausted coming back and was falling down. We decided it wasn’t safe to keep trying. It was getting dark.

We cleared out an area under a tree where there was not as much snow and rested.

It was somewhere in the low 20s. We had a couple of the Mylar sheets, which I now know how to use. We wrapped them around ourselves, but they didn’t work because we were covered in snow. We were wet. Instead of reflecting warmth, they were just reflecting the cold. To use them correctly, you need to take your clothes off and put them against your body. We would shiver until our bodies got a little warm and then fall asleep, and then wake up because we were cold, and then shiver again and fall back to sleep.

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I carry several fire starting tools, but I thought we were over 10,000 feet, where no fires are allowed. I have read about people in survival situations being prosecuted for making a fire.

I thought somebody would see our car at the trailhead, but we hadn’t gotten a permit for the hike because it was just a day hike. To stay there overnight, you need a permit.

What had happened in that storm, unbeknownst to us, is that Highway 120 had been closed again because of ice — nobody was going to see our car. I’ve since realized no one would care anyway unless you told somebody outside the park, and they start calling and said, “Hey, they haven’t checked back in,” or got a permit.

The next morning was sunny and we hiked out. Once we saw the road, we knew we were safe. The car was full of food, and we sat inside and ate for an hour. I don’t remember what we ate, but it was delicious.

Lukens Lake is a short hike from Highway 120, or Tioga Road.

Lukens Lake is a short hike from Highway 120, or Tioga Road.

(Tom Setterlund)

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On the road 50 yards away was a car upside down on its hood. The roads were all completely iced over, snowed over and closed. The first person we saw was the snow plow driver, and he told us there were a couple wrecks coming up. People were flying up there, thinking “Whoo, the 120 is open! I can get to the coast!” There was obviously no warning to them that there was ice on the road.

The rental van was four-wheel drive, but I creeped. I was going 5 mph down that road, hoping I didn’t slide off of it. Further on, I ran into a park ranger, and then he realized he was the only one who had a key to unlock the gates. He said, “I’m glad you guys made it out. It’d be a while before someone found you.”

I had made a lot of safety assumptions that weren’t valid. It made me realize that, if I’m going to hike in the backcountry, I have to do it in a safer manner.

I knew we had parked north of the lake. I had looked at the trail map, but I didn’t have a compass on me. I didn’t have any of the things I carry today. I now use an app to track my location that works offline using satellites, and I own a Garmin GPS emergency device.

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I had to change my approach to being outdoors. I started reading a lot more, I started carrying a lot more. There’s nobody coming to save you. Maybe they’ll look for a corpse in a week.

When it comes down to it, you are going to have to walk out.

Tom Setterlund is a retired safety engineer who spends his time backcountry motorcycling, mostly on fire roads in the San Bernardino National Forest. He also enjoys traveling with his pop-up camper wherever the road leads. His retelling is edited for length and clarity.

Do you have a California wilderness survival story? We’d love to hear from you. Share your close encounter here.

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