So.. I signed up for the Virginia City Writer's Retreat" today, for next weekend. Very excited to attend my first such workshop. In celebration, I'm posting one of my favorite stories... don't know that it would be my "best" writing, but it's still my fave. So, enjoy! (Sorry, no pics this time... )
60
Miles of Bad Road
“Sixty
miles of bad road”, that’s what Dad
always called this stretch of dusty, serpentine washboards between Hungry Horse
Dam and the headwaters of the south fork of the Flathead river. While closer to 50 miles, he always figured the
extra 10 were racked up while weaving back and forth across the road to avoid
the largest of the potholes. However,
the hazards and history associated with getting from here to there were the
last thoughts in my head that July morning.
They had been eclipsed by visions of gold and silver while I
contemplated my chances at fame and fortune; specifically, my chances at
winning the gold buckle at the upcoming rodeo in Columbia Falls.
Having
dropped Dad and the packers at the remote Meadowcreek trailhead on July 1st
to start packing hay into elk camp for hunting season, I was headed back up to
get them a week later. Of course, it
always took hours to get to the trailhead thanks to my “granny” driving
as my brother Tim always called it. But
today, I had no intention of taking such a leisurely jaunt up the valley. And, even though I was two hours late getting
started, I still figured I could make it on time.
Now
mid-July in Montana is never mild. You
either get driving, cold rain, or grasshopper dry and furnace hot. Or both, depending on the day. So far, we’d been on the receiving end of
Sols’ most powerful rays but that was rumored to be ending. However, with no sign of that reprieve in
sight, I took the empty stock truck around the left turn of Hungry Horse dam
and began my dusty trek south. For the
first leg, I made good time. The miles
were racking up in a nearly perfect ratio with the dust layers that caked on my
damp skin. However, as I came around the
sharp turn of Lost Johnny bay, my time schedule took its first hit. Lying across the entire road was a load of
logs - with no loader in sight.
Apparently, a good ol’ boy had decided to get serious about cutting and
selling firewood by getting an old Peterbilt log truck and hauling large loads. But, he forgot to get serious about safety
and the rusted cables he’d used had snapped, spilling his whole load.
When
asked about time, he replied “Wal, Ah figger Ah can get the loader down ‘ere in
a coupla hours an’ be loaded back up by supper time.” As if this was a speedy recovery. Well, up here I suppose it IS, but that
didn’t help me none. So,
exasperated, but glad I wasn’t further along, I retraced my steps north and
elected to head up the east side by way of Martin city. An
hour later, I was once again ten miles into my trip. Of course, by this time, I’d already gone
nearly forty! And the dust collected in
the interim, mixed with the streamers of sweat, had caked into a mud worthy of
any beauty regime. But, I don’t think it
was improving my rugged good looks quite as much as advertised.
As
I waltzed Mathilda up the road, I hummed the little ditty for which she was
named. Loud, a little slow, but rock
solid, Pop had said the ancient stock truck reminded him of what waltzing with
a “Mathilda” would entail. So, whenever
one of the boys had to guide her through the serpentine curves on the reservoir
road, he said he was “Waltzing Mathilda”.
Now, with the two o’clock sun beating down, and my schedule clock
ticking away in my head, I increased my speed to try and make up time, while
simultaneously digging into the cooler for some refreshment.
It
was, of course, about now that some yahoo in his red Expedition came screaming
around the corner at Murray Creek. Now
driving a loaded stock truck, for those of you haven’t seen one, is a bit like
steering an elephant on roller skates.
While mine was empty that day, it was still akin to riding a crate on
wheels. Jerking the wheel a fraction too
late, on a contraption a mite too slow, resulted in the racing Expedition
driver being around the turn and out of sight as Mathilda’s tires grabbed the
soft shoulder and slowly pulled the truck to the right. As the roll started, it felt a bit like a fun
house tunnel in slow motion. Culminating
in a soft but decisive landing on her side, the wreck was the ultimate symbol
of my smashed plan.
After
a short bout of stomping, swearing, and generally having a temper-tantrum, I
decided to continue on up the reservoir.
I could have headed back down, but I figured it made more sense to catch
a ride to the trailhead where Dad and the crew waited, and avail myself of his
“experience”, although I knew that I was in for more than just a lecture over
the debacle. So, resigned to missing the
rodeo, I started walking north.
As
I trudged along the inner edge of the curve at some little no-name creek after
dragging myself out of the overturned cab, I was distracting myself from the
heat and dust with daydreams of caramel milkshakes and air conditioning while
sharing a burger with my girl at the A&W in Columbia Falls. So immersed was I in my fantasy, that that
the first warning huff didn’t penetrate.
The second one shot clear to my core.
Frozen in mid-stride, all thoughts focused on what I’d heard, the only
movement was my eyes, darting back and forth trying to identify the location of
the sound – and the slow tilt of my body sideways as my raised foot started to
drag. Quickly losing my balance and my
nerve, I completed my step with a pivot on the lowered limb to glance
cautiously behind. Sure enough, there
stood an angry sow grizzly. As if to
reinforce this tardy realization, she gave a third huff-growl and emphasized
her ire with a hop forward.
Columbia
Falls High School, while small and “rural”, never-the-less was a first rate
“educatory facility” – or so Grandma always believed and told anyone who’d
listen – and even some who didn’t. I
wasn’t entirely on board with her assessment, but I did have to admit that the
administration did a bang-up job on safety instruction. They had, in fact, had a ranger in to teach
“bear safety” during spring quarter.
This was how I knew that in order for this mama to be so put-out, I had
to be between her and something she valued, like a cub or her favorite berry
patch. Seeing no berries in sight, I
quickly deduced a cub must be in close proximity.
During
that same lecture on “ursus horribilis”,
I remembered hearing that running and screaming are poor options and my best
chance for survival was to slowly back away from the sow and her cub and offer
no threatening eye contact or movement.
But, my best friend Charlie, always maintained that you should run
downhill from a bear as they are incapable of running as fast down as they can
up. So, after weighing expertise against
myth, and calling on every internal resource I possessed, I turned and ran as
fast as rubberized legs would carry me, downhill towards the reservoir. If
my arms had been encased in blowsy linen rather than cotton short-sleeves, my
wind milling would have pumped gallons of water as my out-of-control legs
dodged boulders and craters, bowling me through alder and willow brush. My arrival at the tenuous safety of the
reservoir was sudden and dramatic. One moment
I was batting at branches as they slapped my arms and face, the next I was
pedaling over open water, into which I dropped like the proverbial stone. My flailing led to sputtering, but quickly
switched to a unique half crawl, half dog paddle technique which finally
propelled me a short distance from shore. Treading
water and gasping as quietly as possible, I strained to hear if the angry sow
had pursued me. While no grunts, roars
or crashing brush heralded an immediate arrival, the vision of a grizzly
crouching just out of sight and awaiting my shore landing, wouldn’t leave my
mind. So, with the same lurch and kick
technique, I began propelling myself south along the shoreline.
Even
a young man’s stamina has limits and eventually I was forced to find an opening
in the brush and pull myself on shore.
As I laid there gasping, I tried to find a silver-lining by noticing
that at least the caked mud had washed off.
As I waited for the sun to dry me, however, I gradually realized there
was no sun. Just as that understanding settled like a wet
blanket over my tired consciousness, I opened my eyes to see the silver-lined
cloud burst wide open, releasing torrents of cold water. Jumping
to my size 10 feet, I pushed and fought my way into the shelter of a giant fir
tree where I prepared to wait out the summer thunder-boomer. Just as I got settled, however, the rain quit
as quickly as it had started and the sun once again revealed its golden
face. Muttering under my breath about
the vagaries of weather, people, animals and life in general, I started the
short but steep climb back up to the road.
Sometime
later, I had attained the road and resumed my trek along its no longer dusty track. The sun had warmed and dried my clothes and I
was beginning to feel my spirits lift once again. Elevating my mood even higher, a battered
pickup truck pulled alongside and asked if they could give me “a lift for
distance?” Within moments I was comfortably
ensconced in the truck bed, atop a pile of dusty and well-worn camping
equipment. The bearded driver had
apologized over the arrangement, but there just wasn’t room in the cab, as it
was filled to bursting with a wife, two kids and their dog. Just happy to not be moving under my own
power, I settled in and enjoyed the view.
As
I reclined on a sleeping bag propped up against the cab, I watched the peaks in
Glacier Park, lying just north of the reservoir. They were magnificent today, with the dark
storm clouds hanging over them like Thor’s crown sitting on his dark brow, but
the sun’s rays illuminating the actual peaks, reflecting off the glaciers and
snowfields and sparkling like the “crown of the continent” they were named.
By
the time I was dropped off at the junction of the east and west roads at the
south end of the reservoir, I was even feeling optimistic about my arrival at
the trailhead. The family had expressed
their regrets at being unable to take me all the way to Bunker creek trailhead,
but it was another hour in the wrong direction, and they still had several
hours before they would arrive at their ultimate destination of Beaver creek at
the furthest point on the road. So, with
enthusiastic waves and the offer of a cold Coke, they left me as I turned and
begin the next leg of my far too eventful journey.
After
holding the icy can against my neck for a moment, I popped the top in
preparation for the refreshing treat.
The resultant refreshment was not how I had imagined. The impressive fountain of sugar-laden liquid
cascaded over hair and neck, running in rivulets down the inside of my t-shirt
and leaving my head, shoulders, arm and hand coated in a sticky and restrictive
glaze. Unable to spawn even the smallest
degree of surprise at this latest calamity, I just tipped the can to my lips
and drained the final two inches of soda.
Then I once again started walking – hoping for a rivulet of any sort to
come into sight so I could rinse off the coating.
It
only took a mile for the bees to find me, although once they arrived, I was
surprised they hadn’t shown up sooner.
After all, I did reek of nectar.
I was like a giant lottery win for them. With no way to cover up to keep them from
landing on me, I resorted to cutting several willow branches and using both
hands to brandish them about my head.
From a distance, I must have appeared as if I was batting at the voices
in my head. Which, apparently, is what
the few vehicles that passed me thought as they rolled up windows and hurried
past.
Nearly
ninety minutes and six miles had passed, when a young bohemian on an ailing
motorcycle finally stopped alongside and asked if I needed a ride. Even assuming that he had his OWN voices and
so wasn’t intimidated by my apparent, if invisible, entourage, I wasn’t about
to turn down his offer. So, after I
finished explaining that I needed to get to the end of the road – another 4
miles – he readily agreed to give me a lift.
Of course, that meant me sharing the bike and once I was aboard, I
realized that his personal aura was even more piercing than my own. Except, in his case, horseflies were the
horde that followed. And so, presumably
trailing a swarm of flying armies, we proceeded to the corrals where I found my
dad and his crew waiting.
After
watching me crawl off the ancient motorcycle and thank the long-haired Good
Samaritan, my dad looked me up and down and asked “What the hell happened to
you boy? You look like sixty miles of
bad road!”
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