The early morning hug goodbye. Muscular forearms, sawdust covered wranglers, and a dirty baseball hat. Him leaving. Me staying.

I sat waiting on the front porch for the inevitable disturbance of the peace. The creaking driver's side door as Skylar jumped into one of his most recent acquisition; the latest in his series of beat to shit trucks. Gunning the motor, he smiled while carelessly dropping his lunch cooler on the floorboard. Then he was off.

Skylar never uses the driveway. It limits him.

The smooth, graded gravel road just doesn't allow for the maximum amount of thrashing of his four-wheel drive. By trekking across the stumps and dodging the tall swaying Ponderosa, he avoids being ordinary. Sometimes I think he wouldn't know what to do if things came easy and the ride wasn't abrasive.

I watch as he circles the shed, makes a hard right, and drives straight through the brush. Somehow an intersection with reality forces him back to the main drive but not until his only other choice is the cliff that looms ahead and an express elevator ride down to the river. With Skylar it's usually a rough landing.

I remain standing on the deck as he gains traction. I watch as the dust rises. His rig picks up speed. Long after he has vanished down the road, the dust begins to settle. So much energy expended in such a short distance. I feel exhausted just thinking about it. Sitting down on a bench facing the river, I realize that motion is far easier to watch when it doesn't define someone you love. Motion is far easier to embrace when it isn't carrying the object of your affection rocketing toward some unseen future possible tragedy.

I've known Skylar for years now. Ours is a difficult to define relationship that sparked over the Internet, briefly hit real time dating and lately settled into roommatehood and friendship. I've always been addicted to danger. Thus my attraction to Skylar shouldn't come as any surprise.

My other roommate and fellow trucker Mikey describes my addiction to Skylar as similar to banging your head repeatedly against the wall. And realizing you've learned to enjoy it.

Skylar's charisma is compelling. Surrounding him like a desert mirage, his pure buckshot halo and his energy transcends appearances with the simplest flicker of subliminal seduction. Blink and you miss it. It's that sunburst of wholesome energy that catches you off guard. It's what gets everyone hooked.

And those damn eyes. His eyes that look straight through steel and mess with the best judgments of gut reactions. Those soft brown doe eyes that hypnotize, beckon beguile, and entrance. Darting yet calm, intense yet reassuring, his gaze has this strange power. No matter how screwed up the situation, how hopeless the moment, when Skylar looks at you and laughs at the impending doom, one can actually sense the ridiculous nature of worry. Maybe his laughter at fate isn't realistic and maybe the resulting lack of judgment created by the hypnotic power in his gaze isn't always healthy but the diversion of the moment is so worth it. The result? I'm a conflicted Skylar survivor.

Heavy on the conflict, light on the common sense, I see myself sitting at some weekly Conflicted People's Anonymous Meeting. Chain chewing my gum while constantly shifting my weight on uncomfortable folding metal chairs, I once again try to explain the unexplainable logic of my addiction.

“Hi. My name is Tim and I am a Skylar addict.”

“Hi, Tim!” the rest of the addicts respond.

“You see fellow addicts, sometimes I'm not even sure I need to be here. I mean what's not to like?

When I'm running around with Skylar, I embrace a never-ending willingness to throw all my cares to the wind. Letting go of the tediousness of my routines. Dancing carefree with risk. Laughing at the hopelessness of everything. What's wrong with that? Where's the harm? What's the downside? Hanging with Skylar feels like the ultimate in acceptance and unconditional love. As you're dying in that addictive power.”

Everyone claps. They've been there too. They know. They can't help themselves either.

They, like me, are always wanting more of an invisible something no one can really put their finger on. Wanting more of an indefinable something that their intellect is telling them is neither sustainable nor healthy.

We are not alone in our quest. I've witnessed the same struggles in the natural world. Recently while traveling through the northwestern corner of The Great American Outback, the complexities of nature's unique interpretation on the properties of companionship and camaraderie caught my attention. The landscape between Denio Junction, Nevada and Lakeview, Oregon echoes the most extreme versions of desolation. Framed by distant, blue ridgelines, the desert canvas foreground barely contains a sea of sage, the open spaces giving contrast to the rocky outcroppings.

At one point along highway 140, I encountered several herds of wild burros and mustangs. Ragged, with premature thick winter coats, their presence reminded me that even in the harshest extremes, life stakes her claim. Stopping, I watched the herds, and noted their behavior. Once upon a few centuries ago, I knew the animals I observed all came from oceans away, imported horses and burros that toiled in the settlement of the west. Not truly indigenous to North America, they, like me, adapted to whatever surroundings permit their existence. Marveling that amidst so many hundreds of miles of unpredictable wilderness, those original escaped and set loose animals were able to find one another and survive, I felt quite moved. Even more amazing, under nature's endless assault, they were able to stick together.

Standing alert, ears forward, they bunched up and watched me for signs of danger. Pawing and snorting, the horses continuously scanned the deserted horizon and paced nervously, never turning their backs to me. I identified the leaders from the followers and noted those whose role it was to interpret the signs among them. Those animals charged with endlessly watching for hints of danger amongst the elements, kept the others in the clan safe from harm.

Hundreds of thousands of square miles of open range and endless sky contained virtually no other visible trace of life. I stood taking in the sheer magic of the American Outback. The vast landscape swallowed everything.

Getting back into the vehicle, I considered the natural behavior I'd just experienced. I wondered how creatures find one another amidst so much space. The elements make such encounters daunting. That animals and people find companionship and embrace commonality against such odds seems miraculous. The dangers of getting caught in hostile terrain unprotected and alone, seemed to parallel those of pursuing loyal and trustworthy companionship. The art of determining who is predator and who is safe is not just relevant in the American Outback, but mirrors the metaphor of finding companionship in other environments. The challenge is found in distinguishing between those traits that should compel and repel us.

In the natural world, I know that some animals never receive the full acceptance of the herd. Some animals are banished, left behind, or must seek new companionship. In entering a new herd, there are litmus tests of strength, fitness, and resolve before acceptance is granted. In the human herd these tests are more subtle. People dart in and out of our lives without pause. Who sticks and who moves on is an intangible dynamic that few can translate.

An actor friend recently commented on the transitory nature of those who've appeared in and out of my life. His observations forced me to pause and examine how we as humans run in our packs. Intrigued that so many people moving through my life seemed transitory, he asked how I was able to let go so easily. Didn't I miss them when they exited stage left? Didn't I wish to keep the herd contained?

Explaining that my background in trucking is just as much about accepting a constant parade of good-byes, as it was about embracing hello, I tried connecting this philosophy with the transitory nature of life. Aside from family, very few people spend their entire lives running with the same pack. We come into each other's lives. We depart. The long-term companions are the exception. In trucking this is just far more pronounced and accelerated. But in the mirror of our lives, unfortunately many predators will always threaten our quest for safe passage.

The relationships we form, much like the relationships found in nature, are not just convenient nor are they optional. Often, the interactions we experience are key to our survival and growth. Unfortunately one of the most difficult tasks we face is determining which interactions are beneficial and which are detrimental. That any of us find lasting companionship and security amidst the hardships of our natural environment seems the greatest miracle.

Sitting back in my Conflicted People's Anonymous Meeting, I know my relationship with Skylar is based on a complex chemistry that is not definable by mere physical attraction. No one can escape the reality that he is very attractive. But attraction can only transmit the dynamic of sharing space together so far. I know the basics. We have similar interests. I feel good when I am around him and he feels the same around me. We both require enormous motion in our lives. Yet I hope our compatibility is grounded in something more than the collision of mutuality on colliding dot.com profiles. Is it our spiritual kinship? Our mutual energy?

To folks like me who devote their lives to home, stability and the illusion of security, Skylar's world seems unfathomable or easily dismissed as irresponsible. Materially, he has nothing. His bank accounts teeter toward the negative. Skylar's life is easily packed into cardboard boxes and his roots are neither firm nor deep.

From the nods all around me at the Conflicted People Anonymous meeting, I know I'm not alone. Skylar's ability to stay forever in the present is a quality that many recognize as valuable. He doesn't lay awake at night worrying. And in the end, since he can't take to the hereafter any of the trappings of our society's material quest for dominance, what's the point of accumulating it?

Maybe it's the blue collar Zen he emotes. Weighing what's really important, Skylar doesn't see my chronic trucker weight gain. He doesn't judge the monthly power company disconnect notices or really care that once again tonight's dinner is inedible. From a distance his acceptance feels complete and unconditional. When Skylar walks across the room and rubs your shoulders giving you a hug, the moment is pure.

Until he asks if you want to go wreck your truck 4x4ing because he already thrashed his last week. And for a brief second, you actually consider it. No one is immune from his free wheeling spirituality. No one.

I know that I am not alone. Others are also captivated by his charisma. At the local lumber mill where he works, I've seen the men working on the line brighten at his smile. The mill becomes this small universe unto itself as the logs of pine, cedar, and fir are debarked, sorted, sawed, and finally, shipped. Skylar's lightness of being filters down among the sawdust. He stands above his coworkers, yet he is also a part of them. Looking down from the catwalks, nodding to others pulling the green chain, faces brighten under his attention. Basking under the crush of the woman working the saw, Skylar's influence extends across gender and past authority as he dismisses the favoritism he gains without effort from his supervisors. Everyone in his path feels Skylar's charisma and whether they acknowledge it or not, they are pulled by its gravity. They bask in the temporary relief from a mundane existence and the simple joy he reflects. They follow his direction simply because it's impossible not to.

As carefree and simplistic a life as Skylar leads, there is a troubling reality equated with all his energy. Mainly that energy does not just happen, appearing out of nowhere. It has to come from somewhere. Energy, the basic building block of life, is the study of conversion. And in this case, Skylar's boundless energy is completely made possible through the expenditure of the energy of others.

The very energy that allows Skylar's world to be so chaotic, freewheeling, and compelling is made possible by his conversion of the stable energy he finds around him. For the most part, the fuel of his renewable resource, his perfect freedom does not come from within but rather it comes from countless others. From people just like me who don't realize that the energy they are so drawn to is in fact their own converted power. And quite frankly, I doubt he realizes it either.

The assault was simply brutal. Working our way straight up the south face of Saddle Mountain, I stopped every few feet to regain what remained of my breath. My heart was pounding like a jackhammer and it was difficult to focus. Up above me, Skylar seemed unfazed. Pulling out my digital camera, I pretended to take some pictures. It was a perfect decoy. Snap photos and concentrate on breathing. Breathe, damn it breathe! My heart pounded. I saw stars. I quickly turned and looked higher up the mountain. Hopefully, Skylar wouldn't suspect I was on the verge of entering the next life. I waved and turned, pretending to take more pictures.

Looking out over the ridge, far to the South, Mt. Spokane made a sizable dent in the horizon. To the east, framed by the Selkirks, Lake Pend Oreille seemed enticing yet distant. Albeni Falls Dam separated the deep waters of the lake from the shallow warmer waters of the river downstream.

Above me, all I could hear was Skylar singing, accompanied by the wind.

Singing?

How could the prick be singing in the midst of this climb? No one should have the luxury of extra breath. No one should have any extra concentration to remember song lyrics. No one should have an easier time hiking up this mountain than I. Especially considering the angle at which we challenged heaven. I put the camera away and resumed my painful climb. Rocks gave way and tumbled away beneath me. The trail was non-existent. The route skirted rock ledges and straight up scab-land. Straining my neck, I looked up. Straining my courage, I looked down. I strained everything else with every further motion.

I cussed myself.

For once, this insanity wasn't Skylar's idea. It was mine. What in the hell was I thinking?

Rednecks the world over know that the three most dangerous phrases uttered by men begin with, “bet ya can't,” “watch this,” or, “race ya!” Once uttered these words propel horrible and uncontrollable forces into motion. Tow bills. Hospital stays. Darwin Award nominations. This idea, my idea, to climb Saddle Mountain seemed to be a combination of all three phrases. Was I nuts?

Saddle Mountain lies across the Pend Oreille River from my home. When not on the road, I sit and write under the shadow of that mountain. Often in mid-sentence, I find myself looking out on the river or staring at the silhouette that gives the peak form. In winter I trace the ascent of the snow line. In spring I watch for the last melting of the snow fields. In fall, I marvel at the transcendence of mountain from solid green to yellow, orange, gold, and lime. In summer, I foolishly consider the view from the top. Until now, I've never attempted the climb.

Looking up, I could no longer see Skylar's figure against the rocks and sky. Now gaining elevation above the last trees, I kept my center of gravity low and tested each step. I swore I'd never again attempt anything so stupid.

Twenty minutes later I finally made it to the top. Surprisingly, the top of Saddle Mountain formed a level area where several ridgelines intersected. Beneath us three small lakes sparkled, hidden from those below.

For over a decade I'd gazed at the peak never guessing that the mountain held such perfect jewels captive. It's amazing how we can look at things straight on and not see them. Yet change the angle, adjust the view, or step out from the familiar, and suddenly things appear out of the shadows. The big picture happens. Clarity transforms confusion and blindness into something much clearer than it's been in the past.

Oh, and did I mention the road descending from the summit? The one I discovered only at the end of our cross-country, stair stepper assault? Gently dropping off the opposite side of the summit from where we now stood, the road affirmed my questionable judgment. Our trail breaking, heaven bent trek straight up the mountain had been completely unnecessary.

Long story short, I was dying up here for nothing. Reading my thoughts, Skylar looked at me pointing at the road with an eyebrows raised look that properly translated said, “So you were planning on telling me about this road when?”

I distracted him with my best Julie Andrews imitation. Swirling around with my arms outstretched, I mouthed, “The Hills are Alive.” I'd have sung the lyrics but I still didn't have any breath left. I wouldn't have it back for an hour.

“Mr. Anderson,” Skylar interjected with a beaming grin, “You're not well.”

“And you're not even breathing hard.” I panted. “What's wrong with you.”

“I, Mr. Anderson, am in shape.”

The summit was spectacular. Abandoned Forest Service lookout pillars marked the former tie downs of a ranger's perch during fire season. On top of the mountain nothing stood tall enough to break the wind. I considered the wild gales the area is famous for, especially during our violent, often tornadic/microburst thunderstorms. Visualizing how much higher the old fire lookout must have been, I couldn't imagine living full time, swaying tens of feet off the ground. I figured the job description was three parts adrenaline to one part pure terror as they watched for lighting strikes and forest fires while dangling on the mercy of the wind.

Looking west, I traced the Cusick Valley. Prior to Usk, the river turned north in a giant bend. Dissecting the grasslands, the broadest point on the waters of Pend Oreille River, competed with the Cusick flatlands for domination of the valley. Framed on all sides by mountains, the valley seemed like a fragile pearl with huge cattle ranches spread out like a welcome mat. Above the valley, to the west, the Kettle River Range silhouetted the slightest hues. Hidden between her ridges, I imagined ancient spirits of the Kalispel Nation keeping watch, guarding the valley.

Further north I could see the beginnings of the Gorge that frames Box Canyon. In the distance, some of the taller mountains rose up under the crown lands of British Columbia. Skylar and I were silent as we tried to pinpoint the tiny and distant familiar landmarks. The chipper mill at Usk. The huge newsprint factory. The lone espresso stand. The bridge separating the town of Usk from the Kalispel Nation. Everything seemed smaller. While at the same time the world seemed bigger.

To the east, the Selkirks jawboned their way south turning the Washington and Idaho boundaries into some state of confusion. Rising up seventy miles away, the farthest ridgelines of Montana's Cabinet Mountains rose like the back row of a geological choir.

I stood, feeling my pulse. I felt the wind. I felt the warmth of Skylar who stood inches from me. Finally, after a very long time, we spied the ranch that represented our home beneath us. The ranch felt microscopic. The window from where I write was indiscernible.

Skylar looked at me. “Sure looks small.”

I nodded. I wanted to say something smart like, “looks are deceiving” but I thought better of it.

And then it was time to go. Skylar insisted that we follow the road off the mountain. He felt sure that the newly discovered logging road would empty out near where my truck was parked on the other side of the mountain. Despite strong reservations, I followed.

As we began descending the mountain, everything tingled. The early hints of autumn reminded me that this view, along with the last moments of summer would soon be fleeting. I felt my knees ache as I followed Skylar. I began to question if he knew what he was talking about.

After a couple miles, we discovered that the old logging road didn't dump out where we parked the truck after all. Now miles further from our only source of transportation, I looked at Skylar. I so wanted to scream, “I told you so.”

I am not sure why men have such difficulty admitting defeat when they are lost. I'd like to blame it on ignorance, profound pride, or just plain genetics. And, I don't think men intentionally set out to get lost. I don't think we purposely strive to affirm the stereotypes, proving that our egos are larger than our brains. But when you are good at something, why not practice your craft and get even better? If your going to have DNA that simplifies the process of getting lost, why do just a half-assed job of it? Go for the glory! The extra value meal, super-sized with the complete experience package. If you're going to get lost you should include the search and rescue. The story in the paper. The helicopter ride back to safety. All summed up in the hilarious campfire tale told decades later. Repeated like a well worn trail to eager listeners hanging on every word.

Unfortunately, we weren't that good at getting lost. Yet.

As the sun set over the mountain, I explained to Skylar that the road was leading us miles further from the truck. We were going in the wrong direction. It would be dark soon. There were bears and cougars to consider. We didn't have warm clothes, food, or basic survival gear. We were unprepared. He stopped.

“What do you want to do?”

“I think we should go back.” Now this was the hard part. I wanted to yell, “I knew I shouldn't have listened to you. Now I have to climb this mountain twice.” Maybe I'd stomp my cowboy boots, sit down and pout.

Skylar smiled. “So? We just turn around and climb back over the mountain. And the problem is?”

I could feel both legs stiffening into a permanent Charlie Horse. My shirt was drenched. I was wearing lace up cowboy boots, the epitome of bad planning. I didn't want to hike back up to the summit. But I wanted to explore the remainder of Pend Oreille County on foot, in the dark, even less.

An hour later Skylar again beat me to the summit. The view remained breathtaking. Even from elevation of the summit, the fading sun was nearly extinguished. I did not linger. Scrambling down the steeper face ahead of me, Skylar quickly disappeared from view. The illumination from the setting sun was now completely absent. The wind kicked up. I shivered as I tried to find a safe course off the mountain.

Of all of the times I've listened to Skylar, been partner to his hijinks, and compromised my better judgment, I was certain that this time - at least this time he was not culpable. Over and over I repeated to myself the troubling reality that this was my idea.

A friend recently related to me a bumper sticker he saw on a beat up Chevy Blazer. At this exact moment nothing could better sum up my predicament.

“The ride's been lovely. But now I have to scream.”

Skylar sat across from me in a Spokane restaurant.

Tears.

His eyes were full of tears. His handsome face distorted in pain. Not a physical pain, but the gut -wrenching pain of a broken heart.

I'd never seen Skylar hurting like this. I'd never seen him cry.

The reality of Skylar's pain was impossible to counter. Vividly real, the inequity found buried in his hesitant words came in bits and spurts. Caught between moments of tears and composure, I waited as he gathered himself through his confusion. Skylar said he was in love and yet he'd been rejected for the same reasons he'd been pursued. Masculine, rough around the edges, blue collar and muscular, Skylar epitomized the all-American rugged fantasy symbol of independence, the ultimate outdoorsman. The very qualities that certified him as “authentic buff and tough” made him unacceptable for anything more serious. I felt completely hopeless as I listened as Skylar tried to make sense of his broken heart. Drop kicked square into the most unfortunate reality. He struggled to make sense of the parameters that simultaneously made him desirable and yet not good enough.

He'd recently been dating a Spokane professional and had fallen hard for the seemingly perfect mate. Yet, the target of Skylar's affections defined pretense. On the surface the man appeared considerate, affectionate, and down to earth. Yet as I listened, I heard themes of insecurity and cruelty. I learned about the stereotypical behavior of a shallow and dishonest man.

The boyfriend came complete with a fake age listed on his dot.com profile. Fake appearances of wealth. Thousand dollar suits tucked in the closets of an average apartment. Luxurious parties, wealthy friends and a jet setting lifestyle were contradicted by a used pick up truck and a working class family background. Style over substance, he originated from the same musical-chairs trailer park background as Skylar. Although Skylar might make a mighty attractive escort, the boyfriend was embarrassed of Skylar's humble place in the world. Maybe because Skylar's origins seemed a little to close to his own. His attention was directed toward Skylar for all the typical wrong reasons. His attraction did not stem from attraction to what Skylar represented. Rather, the social climber was purely driven by exchange rates of what status he could obtain with Skylar on his arm.

While the boyfriend gelled to Skylar's appearance, he was incredibly ashamed of what Skylar represented. Ashamed of his education, his job in the mill, and lack of trappings, the boyfriend missed out on the possible beauty of the man he'd had by his side. Introducing Skylar to his friends, he lied about Skylar's occupation, his living situation, and even his intentions. As they dated, the attraction seemed increasingly based on “the score” of having landed the newest, handsome muscle boy in town. When Skylar stood silent under the admiring gaze of the boyfriend's circle of friends, things were fine-as long as Skylar didn't say anything or worse, expect any real affection once the spotlight dimmed.

Furious at the pathetic predictability of the dynamics of human interaction, I struggled to find something meaningful to say. I sought magical words that might soothe the unfair indictment Skylar suffered for something he had no control over: Fate.

Skylar certainly wasn't perfect. He wasn't a man of means complete with a precise wardrobe, letters after his name and escalating 401 k's that dizzied the imagination. He wasn't polished, groomed, or even aware of the appearances of appearances. Skylar was simply real. And that just wasn't good enough. His near perfect body, sincerity, and loyalty didn't equal status, power, or the right friends.

In the end, the only words I could manage were an affirmation of this truest statement. I restated my belief in the good intentions of the man who sat across from me. I reaffirmed my sincerest appraisal of Skylar's dedication to the subject of his pursuit, his loyalty, and his zest for seeing that which was important. And that which was not.

“Skylar, you deserved so much more. You deserved better. I'm so sorry because I know you loved him.”

Skylar sniffled. Wiping his eyes, he looked across the table at me. “I've got to go, Tim. I have to be back at the mill at 5 in the morning. Thanks for dinner.”

I followed him out to the parking lot. He hugged me and then jumped into his beat up, rusting truck. I waved and watched him pull away.

Later that night, I walked deep into the woods near my home. Far back in the stands of second growth timber an old-growth, burned out, cedar snag rises under the forest canopy. The old snag stands white and black, like a ghost surrounded by a nursery of Johnny-come-lately larches and firs. I sat down and watched the sky fade as I listened to the low- key thump of a grouse. In the distance, I could hear the softest breeze glide through the canopy.

Eventually the darkness overrode the last light of day. Standing, I stretched and began walking toward the house. In the darkness much of the form of the forest began to blend into a wall of blackness and it was difficult to make my way. Several times I was sure I was off the trail. I didn't know it at the time, but I was quite lost. Figuratively and literally. And that from a figurative perspective, it would be months before I emerged again from out of the woods.

As much as I had been a loyal friend to Skylar, his consumption of the energy of those around him was quickly escalating. His dance with the seductive man from Spokane had changed him. But, as I was about to learn, this dance of change began long before his dance with the seduction of the unobtainable. In my blindness, captivated by charisma, I'd been unwilling to recognize that Skylar, the person that I'd held so highly, was in many ways quite similar to the one he'd recently been most hurt by.

Over the course of my journey through life, I have often wished for a mentor. A guardian angel, unconditional sound board and bestest friend in the whole wide world sort of figure. I've even visualized this larger than life person. He is over six feet tall, built like a brick shithouse and he doesn't ever kick your ass in hoops, Monopoly, or out bet you in football. He always has the right answer(s) and can read your mind. He's the type of confidant one can tell anything to, even if it's way politically incorrect. He would be a non-judgmental presence, one full of perfect wisdom, and yet still possessing the humblest grace with his full complement of visionary gifts. In other words he is most likely a lesbian.

If I'd only had a best lesbian friend as a young adult, everything would have been so much smoother. Instead in my formative years I mainly bonded with horses. And insurance adjusters.

Being surrounded by cowboys and horse trainers as a boy and young man, I grew to admire these men who seemed to have such control over forces much larger than they were. The giant shadows they cast inspired my imagination and as I made my way through adolescence, I desperately wanted to find others who shared the same qualities as my role models. This got me into enormous trouble. But I am not alone in knowing the trail of destruction that loneliness can lead to. I just got a far earlier start than most.

I am a person whose key ingredient is motion. Mobility is an element figuring into nearly every search I've undertaken in my life. The search for a partner. The search for friends. The search for serenity. The search for the right search.

As a small child, I exhibited my love of endless movement long before many other traits. I rocked myself endlessly. I rocked on a rocking horse. I rocked myself to sleep. I rocked when I stood and I rocked as I sat. I rocked my hospital crib out of the post- surgery recovery room when my tonsils were removed and I rocked in imaginary cowboys and Indians pursuits until real horses taught me the joy of faster gaits and longer strides.

Motion was the one constant presence through out every act in my life. In later years motion helped me deal with my sexuality and motion would often be the strongest component in my friendships. In the end, it would be mutual motion that cemented my friendship with Skylar. But like I said before, I was in trouble decades prior to my introduction to Skylar. My father knows all about my disturbing dance with mobility.

Many of my former hometown associates used to think my sole purpose in life was the destruction of my father's vehicles. Dedicating myself to the pursuit of this selfless demonstration of father-son affection, I remain convinced that as a result of my teenage driving fiascoes, my father and I grew much closer.

Closer to murder that is.

Obtaining a driver's license increased my potential. Focusing on the creative artist within, I tapped hidden energies and reinterpreted impressionistic expressions. The privilege of driving not only expanded my limited horizons but for the first time in my life, I began thinking outside the box. Reforming metal, creating unclean lines, and challenging every possible automotive design theory, I took direction from my own chaos theory. Working in the abstract, I marveled at the unique expressions my art conveyed. My potential seemed unlimited. Unfortunately the expression of this talent did not take into account the repercussions soon to be visited upon my dad's liability insurance.

As my father will still testify, by the time it was all said and done, the 'Good Hands” people washed their hands of us. The “Good Neighbor” people were no longer so neighborly. And the “Own a Piece of the Rock” folks suggested they knew just where we could put that rock.

By the time I was twenty, I hit a milestone (among other objects). Proudly receiving a lifetime achievement award from State Farm insurance, I was prohibited from the further operation of any of my father's vehicles insured by State Farm.

For life.

State Farm does not give these awards to just anyone. My talents were quite exceptional. Oh, to relive those golden teenage years. Breathless adrenaline-tinged moments when I became intimately familiar with the possibilities and limitations of American Motors products, painstakingly recording each vehicle's shortcomings in accident report after accident report. I brought a real world sensibility to stale statistics. Noting the exact instant where gravity, inertia, or miscalculated braking distances prevailed, I excelled in proficiently describing these pertinent details. I felt certain that the groundbreaking results from my voluntary research opportunities might someday make vehicles safer.

For instance, I could recite the precise angle and height the typical parking curb needed to high center an AMC Concord. My research also proved that a Matador station wagon with fake wood grain siding could effortlessly overcome railroad crossing guardrails.

My analysis left no stone unturned. Testifying that a sub compact could indeed become a mini car when properly T-boned in an intersection, I also spun out these same vehicles in snow drift covered medians, and precariously balanced them in ditches. In the most concise language, I related to insurance adjusters on a regular basis the difference between a g force and an oh-shit force.

And not once was I even thanked for such sacrifices.

Amongst so many accolades and awards, my earliest achievement eventually became one of my most impressive works. Surpassing most other crash artist's interpretations of the perfect insurance claim, my creation entitled “Dances With Parking Garages” was eventually acknowledged as one of the most celebrated original works ever displayed in the Albany, Oregon State Farm office. Put simply, my creativity put the comprehensive back into the comprehensive portion of my father's formerly typical automobile insurance experience.

Every teenage male dreams of getting his first driver's license. Every teenage male dreams of getting his driver's license on the same day his parents leave for a two-week vacation. And as they leave, every teenage male dreams of his father handing said son the keys to his pickup truck along with his Texaco Card.

Now if I'd had a best friend to talk me out of what came next, today my life might be different. If I'd had a best lesbian friend, I'm sure she would have had the good lesbian sense to prevent what happened next. That fateful Friday night we just would have watched Parent Trap again. For the 12th time.

Growing up in the middle of nowhere can be a most frustrating experience. Especially if you're a young man coming to terms with your sexuality. I knew I was different. I knew that in this case different might not necessarily be a positive. I also knew that cleaning stalls and bonding with horses helped me process only so much of the turmoil I felt. I needed to find others of a like mind. Someone to talk to. Someone who understood. And I knew that being a preacher's kid, that understanding someone had to be at least a county away. Hopefully they'd be drop dead handsome, just as wild as me, but wouldn't know anyone in my father's church.

Here comes the motion bit again, the why of why I found myself 45 miles from home on that first Friday night after receiving my license, cruising the streets of Salem, armed with my father's Dodge Crewcab pickup, his Texaco card, and minimal common sense. Thus the S S Timmy Titanic began her maiden voyage, driving proud, confident and completely unaware of what lie ahead.

At first I thought they might be gay.

I didn't know where gay people hung out in Salem. But I'd seen this group of young men aimlessly walking the streets of downtown. I pulled over, slipped on my NIKE jacket and approached them. They smiled as I walked up to them. I couldn't believe my luck. Real live gay guys. Even better, they were hot, masculine and normal looking gay guys.

Approaching them I nodded. They struck up a conversation.

Unfortunately, I did not encounter Mr. Do Me Right Here Right Now in his tighter than tight Wranglers. Nor did I meet my new next best friend. Instead I met a bunch of guys from Campus Life. Men who were out looking for souls like mine to save.

They wanted to know did I know about this cool dude named Jesus Christ who was dying to be my new hommie, the ultimate friend. Did I know that I was a sinner and that if I just repented of my sins, I could be forgiven and have the coolest personal savior, namely one J.C. standing up for me. You know The Big Guy sent by the Almighty G Force.

As they witnessed to me on the sidewalks of Salem, I couldn't believe I was already busted. God was spying on me. Again.

I couldn't get into trouble even if I left town. I hadn't even sinned yet and already the rescue squad was in hot pursuit. How could I need the services of the G force if I hadn't even found my G spot?

“So, your name's Tim, right?” He shook my hand with one of those used car salesmen smiles. “What's up? Why are ya out so late on a Friday night?” The cutest of the Jesus witness guys asked.

“I just got my license and I'm sorta celebrating.”

“Hey that's cool. Congrats, man. But uh, you look pretty young though to be out on the town this late. You sure your parents are OK with you…”

“Oh yeah,” I interrupted so I wouldn't have to explain further. If only the man in the Izod Shirt with the perfect body wasn't trying to convert me to Christianity. Why couldn't he be some gay guy I could just talk to? The Campus Life dude looked wholesome and he was All-American and he had a blazing white smile and what was that? He'd just invited me to an all night Bible Study at the Campus Life Youth Center?

Oh God, no. No. No. No. I was completely not liking this. I'd left Albany on purpose. The nearest big city, representing the center of Oregon's political universe, was Salem. According to my parents, it was a completely Godless place. There weren't supposed to be any Christians left there. I'd gone to Salem because I figured that would be the last location God would look for me. Just this once, God didn't need to know what I was up to. Yet, here He'd sent spies to reign me in. I had no desire to attend to another Youth for Christ Bible study. I needed breathing room. I needed to talk to somebody who didn't consider masturbation a sign of demonic possession.

I looked at the cute guy who was looking at me as if he was reading my dirty little, Timmy just got sprung from jail, mind. He was my probation officer. I was the escapee.

“You sure you don't want to check out our Bible study? We've got popcorn and some old Bugs Bunny Cartoons and there will be some cool Christian babes there…”

Jesus, Babes, and Bugs Bunny? Now I knew for sure that this guy was not going to be jiggy with the fact I wanted to talk about Jonathan and King David; “Were they or weren't they?”

“Uh, I appreciate the Bible study invite but I already know that Jesus died for my sins. And I go to church every Sunday.” They didn't seem convinced. I upped the ante. “I've even been baptized in the spirit which my dad, whose a pastor himself, tells me hasn't happened to too many Lutherans. I can speak in tongues, pray in the spirit, and I have the gift of discernment. Next I am hoping to learn how to do Spiritual Warfare.”

That did the trick. The Campus Life dude looked at his friends and smiled at me. “Right on. You're a definite bro' in Christ. I bet we could have some righteous times praying in the spirit together. C'mon man, check out the Bible study. Its gonna be a great time, excellent fellowship and …”

I shook my head no. “Actually I need to get back home. I have horses I have to feed.” I reached out and shook their hands and got slapped on the shoulder.

“The Lord be with you” they yelled as I bolted for my dad's truck. “And with you too,” I thought as I prayed that God wouldn't strike me dead for lying through my teeth. The horses were long ago fed and watered.

Turning the ignition, I belted myself in, looked over my shoulder, signaled and eased my way into traffic. I circled the block as I tried to figure out where the gay people would be. In one book I'd read, the very guide that I knew I wasn't supposed to even know about, I'd poured through each page trying to find out everything I could about gay people. Reading passages about this love that “dare not speak” in the Benton County Library, I learned that some gay people like to hang out in deserted places. Very deserted place like parking garages and only late at night.

At exactly that minute, some one came down the book aisle looking for a book on radish sculptures right when I was about to find out the significance of the parking garage connection. I stuffed the book back on the shelf, terrified. I wanted to know the rest of the story, but I didn't dare venture back to that aisle. Still my curiosity was piqued. I had a starting point. Obviously, the answer to my search lay in parking garages!

I knew Salem seemed blessed with plenty of parking garages, and as I signaled to pull into the entrance ramp for the Liberty Street garage, I felt I was finally going to meet others like myself. Somewhere inside the garage, gay people waited to make my acquaintance!

I forgot about the Campus Life dudes. All I thought about, as my heart raced out of control, was that at last I was about to meet someone who could help me sort out all these impulses. Someone my hopefully my age who liked horses, the mountains, and maybe who might also still have their hot wheels collection.

Pulling further into the garage entrance, I slowed to a crawl. As I made my way up the first ramp, I noticed that the garage seemed deserted. I circled the first floor and ascended to the next level. Again the second floor was deserted. I circled and began to make my way higher and higher into the garage.

As I climbed, I became aware that the ceiling above me seemed to be getting lower. Leaning forward, I crouched over the steering wheel and looked up. I drove very slowly. Now I was certain that the ceiling was descending as I ascended. My gut tightened. I swallowed. I drove slower.

Certain that I'd cleared the low clearance bar upon entering the garage, I decided this had to be a mistake. Or better yet, an optical illusion. Obviously there was no way the roof could be getting lower. But as I continued to climb higher in the garage, the roof continued to appear lower. Now completely leaning over the steering wheel, I gazed straight up watching the beams of concrete just barely clear the roof. And then it happened.

A horrible metal kissing metal kissing concrete sound shattered the quiet. My face mashed against the windshield. And then I felt nothing. Well, actually not quite nothing. There was this disturbing hissing sound.

I knew I'd hit the roof. Leaning back in my seat, a completely indescribable and paralyzing fear overwhelmed my logic. I saw my father's face staring down at me from the pulpit. I heard my name in his next hundred and twenty sermons. The wages of sin is this!

I prayed. “Dear God, please let this be a terrible horrible dream. Please let my father's pickup truck be OK. Please.”

Opening my eyes, I unbuckled my seat belt and slid out from behind the wheel. Standing on my tiptoes I looked at the roof of my father's pick up truck. I couldn't believe my good fortune. The roof was completely untouched. I began to laugh. Plenty of space separated the roof of the truck from the concrete beams overhead. This was all just a very bad dream.

Returning my attention to the truck, I opened the driver's side door and peered into the cab. I am not sure how I missed it on my initial exit stage left, but now something was completely wrong. As my eyes traveled across the bench seat, I saw the unmistakable evidence that a firewall seemed to have exploded all over the seat. Lifting my gaze, I looked through the windshield. A view that seemed to crack and distort before my very eyes as safety glass shattered into a million crisscrossing lines. My father's windshield resembled the most amazing stained glass window…Way better than anything anyone at the building committee of Faith Lutheran Church had imagined.

Looking across the crumpled hood at the huge cement pillar that I'd just driven the truck into, the hood now resembled a frozen in motion tidal wave. Closing the driver's side door I began to tremble as I walked somberly around the front of the truck. The pillar was buried about two feet into the hood. Radiator fluid poured out everywhere. The hissing sound continued. Walking around the pillar, I inspected the damage to the right side of the truck. The right front tire seemed to be looking toward heaven with this lifeless expression like dead people get in movies. The wheel appeared shoved up against the passenger door, and as I tried to open the door I realized that it was jammed.

I began to accept the potential reality that my father's pickup would never be driven again, an accomplishment completed less than 24 hours after receiving my license. I was good.

What was I going to do now? I was shaking. This simply could not be happening. Walking back to the driver's side, I shut off the lights. I removed the keys from the ignition, and I began walking down the ramp, level after level. On the long exodus out of the garage, I spent the whole journey, looking up at the ceiling. Which, on closer examination seemed quite high, with plenty of clearance.

Upon exiting the parking garage, I began walking aimlessly while trying to come up with a plan of action. Rounding a corner, I suddenly found myself face to face with the Campus Life dudes. They were as surprised to see me, as I was to see them.

“Tim, wassup! Ya had second thoughts about the Bible study?”

I shrugged. Totally unprepared for this reunion, I finally managed, “Actually, could one of you guys…I mean would you mind possibly giving me a ride. I'd pay you for gas and all.”

“Back to Albany?” the blond one asked. “That nice ride you drivin' choke on ya?”

Avoiding eye contact, I nodded. “You could say that. I don't think it's going anywhere tonight…and I still have horses to feed.” I lied again but I was so screwed now, all I wanted to do was get back home.

“Well I'll give you a ride.” The man in the Izod shirt offered his services. “But first, don't ya think we should just go pray and lay hands on that rig and see if the good Lord won't bring it to life? Maybe we just need to call the other Triple A into action. The Holy Spirit, the Father and the Son. The Big Guys upstairs can give you a lift, a tow and jump start.”

I groaned. It took all my restraint not to roll my eyes. I didn't want these guys to see what I'd just done to my dad's truck. We weren't just talking mechanical difficulties but body work, tire work, and windshield replacement. Worse, I was sure that if they witnessed my demolition job, they'd get some prophetic words of wisdom, know that I was gay, know that I was looking to meet other gays and that helping me out of the jam I was in meant a one way ticket to hell. For all of us.

Eventually I got my ride home. The Jesus Dudes and I did a lot of praying and I got to sit next to the Izod guy and he told me all about how he came to know the Lord. We asked the Lord pretty please that I wouldn't end up grounded for the rest of my life and that I was able to get my father's truck fixed before my parents got back from vacation.

Upon returning home, I immediately bribed my sister five bucks to “let me tell mom and dad.” I got the truck towed, the insurance adjuster's opinion, and then supervised as the truck was farmed off to the various specialists it would take to rebuild her. The truck was scheduled to be ready for pick up the Friday before my parents were to return home. I rejoiced in my good fortune and cleaned the house like I meant it so that everything would appear perfect upon their arrival back home.

Unfortunately, my parents came home from their vacation early. The truck was still in the shop. My sister narc'ed. I nearly got to meet Jesus.

And when it was all said and done, I still wished I'd met someone who I could talk to. Someone who understood what it was like to be gay. A young, good natured, perfect bodied cowboy who like me believed in God and who wasn't a freak. Oh yeah, and I wished I'd met someone who was still allowed to drive.

Since that first mishap, there have been numerous other collisions. The search for companionship and friendship has normally involved road trips. Often the desire to fill the ache of loneliness resulted in terrible decisions and blind action followed by blinder trust. Just to have someone to share the miles with, who understood the difficulty of being stationary, many times resulted in compromises of incredible consequences. I often wonder that if I'd only fully understood the magic yet dangerous pull of commonality and companionship, if I might have avoided some of those endless wrecks. I'd like to think I would have, but honesty forces me to admit that regardless of what my head knew, my heart would have always propelled or pulled me in the same directions as before.

The road that zigzagged west out of Ione, Washington immediately turned to shit, graveled and washboard rough. I sat in the middle. Skylar drove my pickup, a questionable decision on my part. Another friend, Preston, rode shotgun.

We were headed to Smackout, or Smackout Pass as the official sign back in Ione labeled it No one knew exactly where we were going. Once on the forest service road we discovered that the informational signs were not much help; shot out, altered, or completely, non-existent. We felt our way up the mountain. I didn't know where we were going or what the view from Smackout might be. I just wanted to see where the road led.

Sometimes, I wish I understood my insatiable curiosity and wanderlust. What genetic trait lies behind needing to know where every road, trail and crossing leads? If only I could understand why each vista must be seen. This need for “touching the fateful face of the unknown” is the greatest frustration for those not so inclined. Recently on a trip across Western Montana's Highway 200, a kind and usually patient man I was dating threw up his hands in disgust as we wandered.

“Tim, where are we going?” he finally asked.

I shrugged as we crossed Bull River where it empties into the Clark Fork. We were traveling east through a deep gorge with mountains guarding our progress on every front.

“What do you mean, you don't know?” His confused expression betrayed his belief that every journey must have a destination.

“Just that. I don't know where we're going. I've always wanted to travel this direction during early fall. Maybe we will go to Plains or Thompson Falls. Or hey, would you like to see Flathead Lake?”

A disturbed look of shock spread across his face. “You mean we don't have anywhere in particular we are going?”

I shook my head no. He grew quiet and uneasy. Reading his thoughts, I tried to explain the wonder of such unorthodox discovery. "I mean, it's not like we're lost. I just wanted to see this highway. I wanted to share it with you. I don't really care where we end up. Wherever we find ourselves at the end is fine. I just wanted to travel this way. Together.”

Looking over at him, I knew this type of illogical thinking confounded him. It confounds most people. Yet in spite of his doubts, he kept driving, silently enduring all my breathless exclamations of the beauty of Montana. After a few miles he relaxed and began to enjoy the mountains and the mile markers.

Like me, Skylar never worried about destinations. Our problem was that we didn't know when to stop.

We easily lost track of time, miles, and the gas gauge with little or no difficulty.

Today as we switchbacked our way toward Smackout, chaperone Preston kept us on the straight and narrow. Under his guidance, there would be no spontaneous trips to British Columbia and don't even think about crossing the Columbia River. Provided we even got that far.

Gaining elevation, the foliage grew lush as stands of birch competed with maple, fir, pine, and larch. Soon the Pend Oreille Valley disappeared behind another ridge and we were locked deep within the shelter of the foothills of the Kettle River Range.

Driving skillfully, Skylar talked about his recent decision to attend school and his desire to get his life on track. Listening carefully, I noticed change. Skylar mentioned unsettling new aspirations and goals for his life. Deeply stunned by the reproach of his boyfriend, I read between the lines as a “newly improved” Skylar seemed to come to life. Suddenly the boyfriend's hobbies were Skylar's hobbies. He was dressing differently. Running with different friends. Listening to his monologue, I wondered if Skylar still sought to gain the approval of the one who'd rejected him. I supported Skylar getting an education but the other directions his life had recently taken seemed complete contradictions. I was seriously concerned.

Was this the same Skylar who constantly bragged about the fact that no one was ever going to change him? How could a man, who two months before hated firearms with a passion, now hang out on shooting ranges? He didn't even own a rifle! And since when was Skylar actually conscious of what labels he wore? My ears contradicted years of previous interaction, Skylar no longer seemed as endearing. What seemed so blatantly superficial to me about the Spokane boyfriend actually impressed Skylar. He was dropping by the friends of his old boyfriend and trying to move into that circle. Skylar now chased the fleeting approval of those whose opinions were the most irrelevant.

The road became treacherous as washouts and wash boarding brought our progress to a crawl. I hung on and listened, occasionally putting my hands on the dash to keep from kissing the windshield. I considered our friendship and wondered how we came to have so much history together. I knew that we were both transient souls, that motion defined our existence and that few people understand such restlessness. But was that it?

Yet I also knew that at times our mutual frustration with each other meant that some of our journeys were solitary. Was this the beginning of another one of those episodes? Skylar could be completely undependable and his lack of patience could be exasperating. At times I wanted to pull my hair out at his just passing through attitude. He was always in need of a bailout, transportation, a place to crash, and sometimes, even clothes to wear. As my mind raced, I couldn't ignore the fact that on a basic level Skylar always knew that he could depend on me. But I never knew if I could depend on him.

As he continued his narrative other conflicts began to surface and run through my thoughts signaling troubling revelations I couldn't avoid. Things were unraveling. When Skylar was present and accounted for, I always felt good around him. And who can't help but love someone that as they give you a hug hello, says softly, “do you know you're my hero?” I mean how sweet is that?

Now I wondered how sweet it really was. The words manipulation and sucker began to float through my mind. While Skylar related the latest in his never ending series of plans he'd mapped out for his life, I knew that something was very different in our friendship. And that something was very wrong.

I loved him like a brother. That type of closeness also meant that I saw Skylar beneath the carefully constructed layers, that I saw through his internal rationalizations, and that sometimes I saw the impending disasters long before he did. Warnings were always futile. Advice was never seriously considered. The only time he seemed open to outside consultation was during the rescue operation, the bailout that always came with his endless moves, regrouping, and new plans.

With a start, I became aware that the entire length of my friendship with Skylar, I'd been operating with a permanent containment zone constructed around us so that his disastrous affects on me would be minor. For years I'd carefully constructed barriers that would ensure that any of Skylar's toxic spills would have minimal opportunity to spread in my direction. All at once I understood that my entire relationship with him always came equipped with a disaster readiness plan, escape options, detox zones, and evacuation routes. Contingencies were always ready, in place, to minimize any long-range affects Skylar's actions could have on my security.

As we rode, I once again discerned that trouble lay ahead on the horizon. I didn't want to see the darkness, but it was impossible to ignore. I hung on tighter, not wanting to hear what I heard. Skylar seemed in a confessional type of mood. He related that marijuana could be bought on the street in Spokane for about $45 an eighth, then resold for $75-$80 up in Pend Oreille County. The more he spoke, the more I learned about the ins and outs of the local controlled substances economy. From a first-hand participant.

I didn't know what to think. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Drug use is abhorrent to me. Federal laws had recently changed and within days anyone convicted of any involvement in the transportation and distribution of controlled substances would lose their Commercial Drivers License (CDL) for life on the first offense. No ifs, ands, or butts. Skylar had a CDL. I had a CDL. All of my roommates and most of my friends had them. I saw my containment zone go up in flames and I realized that Skylar's recent actions could not be laughed off as just another momentary lapse in bad judgment.

What if Skylar got in over his head? What if drug people came to the ranch looking for him after he got in too deep and pulled one of his famous disappearing acts? His recklessness and his lack of concern and inability to recognize what a big a deal this was completely shocked me.

I am not naïve, but I've managed to keep a great distance between those individuals who use drugs and myself. In this day and age, that distance becomes ever fleeting with the more people I know. I've never been high. I prohibit any drug use up at the ranch. As much as I try to understand why someone would choose to find artificial relief from the day to day tediousness, I can't.

Skylar began to rationalize his involvement. That he didn't use. That he only was involved for the supplemental income. That he was going to “get in and get out.” That he was somehow different from “them.” I realized as I listened that someone I'd trusted had completely jeopardized everything I'd worked so hard for.

His motion, his constant spinning, was one thing. All the failures, then endless trivial pursuits often financed by others could be forgiven. But this latest direction was such a complete slap in the face, I felt totally betrayed. I fell silently into misery.

As we climbed higher up the mountain, I thought again about the wild burros and horses roaming freely through the deserts of Nevada and Oregon. I considered nature. Remembering that animals of like needs eventually find one another and come to depend upon each other for support and survival. How in the natural world, safety from predators is found in mutual support. And how in the natural world, those who venture out alone are seldom successful.

I remembered the beauty of those wild horses as they ran unencumbered across the wide-open basins. I saw the passion in their flight, the simplicity of their freedom, and the poetry of their motion. I also knew that in his own rough and tumble way, Skylar had similar qualities. The wildness in his eyes, the fleeting and temporary nature of his presence was equally untamed. Just as in the wild, I felt a very real threat hindering the security of my own herd and just as in the wild, I wondered if I might have to shun Skylar for the very real danger he now presented to all of us.

The road got rougher and I held on tighter. In a sense I wanted to grab Skylar and shake him out of his stupidity. But I knew such efforts were futile. He already had all the answers and no one was going to tell him what course to set. I clenched my teeth trying to see a way out of this predicament but none was forthcoming. I remembered my imaginary Conflicted People's Anonymous Meeting and the nature of how I got here. It seemed obvious but up until now I'd missed such a simple truth. We often love most that which provides the greatest conflict.

In my thoughts I again saw the loneliness of my own youth. Recalling how overwhelming and alone I felt, that once familiar tightening in my gut returned. The melancholy ache that seemed to ghost everything reclaimed old territory. Fearful that I'd lost a loyal partner in crime, I wondered if this might be the end of my best friend relationship with Skylar. Maybe our mutual dependency was changing and he'd find a new pack to run with. Or maybe he'd be running solo. Whichever path he embraced, I knew that I couldn't follow in his direction, especially if the drug trade was involved.

Being naturally protective, I wished him no harm, and no ill will. But I could not accompany him on this journey if it continued in its present direction. I could not sanction someone who didn't respect me enough to respect my boundaries and who was so reckless as to jeopardize even those he purportedly loved. Words like trust and faith and disappointment hung suspended unanswered in the air.

As the truck pitched and the road become unforgiving, my unsettled thoughts bounced in countless directions. I speculated what my life would have been like had I known a friend like Skylar when I a young man. The isolation of growing up on a small horse ranch might not seem so bittersweet in retrospect. Would such a friendship have carried a tremendous price? Skylar hadn't graduated from high school, and since adolescence he'd worked in a never-ending series of dead end jobs. After so much expenditure of energy, he had nothing to show for his efforts but wild stories and wilder times. Had I been his running mate back then I might find myself in a similar position now.

The tug of peer pressure is enormous in one's formative years. Skylar could be persuasive, and while as an adult, I usually became the voice of common sense, as a young man I most likely wouldn't have stood a chance against his charisma. Thinking back to my own exploits, I understood that as much as I'd longed for a best friend like Skylar, that such a best friend might have been the worst possible gift. The Good Lord had answered my prayers.

It just wasn't the answer I was hoping for.

All those years of solitude set my dreams solid as concrete and helped sift the various characteristics that would later enable me to carefully choose the influence my companions had over my life. Education, wealth, and status became secondary to the more important qualities. Energy, values, loyalty and how friends viewed the big picture in the world scored higher. As a young man, I might have wavered as I struggled to find my way. As an adult, I fought for that which was important and rejected that which seemed to be a compromise.

Now I faced the harsh tangibility that I could love Skylar while at the same time hating everything he was beginning to stand for. That the two feelings could exist, side-by-side, and that neither was less valid seemed like another translation of the conservative mantra of hating the sin while loving the sinner. I cringed at the thought that something so complex could be described in such thoughtless terms. It wasn't that easy. Skylar had wonderful gifts. He created color in our lives while making those around him feel special, loved and important when he directed his charm their way. But he also had another side that seemed destined to make bad choices and let others suffer the consequences for his actions. Both descriptions were accurate.

Skylar interrupted my thoughts. “This is it?”

We were at the unmarked summit of Smackout. Looking around at what was supposed to be Smackout Pass, I wasn't impressed. The scenery wasn't much to look at-resembling nothing as memorable as our other adventures. I saw no sweeping views and no amazing vistas. I witnessed nothing breathtaking. Instead what I saw was just a slight saddle cradled between two abrupt mountains. The view was neither spectacular nor dramatic. If there was anything notable, maybe it was man's unmistakable footprint. Ahead of us a wide swath cut through second growth forest. In the middle of the abrupt clearing, giant power lines dissected the landscape. Under the long sway of the lines, clear-cut vegetation marked man's interpretation of expediency rather than his desire to tread lightly through the environment.

Surprised by the unremarkable view, I echoed Skylar's question. “This is it?” I expected much more. Something dramatic. Something grand or terrifying. I wasn't expecting a wide spot in the road that screamed anticlimactic. I learned much later that Smackout Pass got its name in 1905 when two old bachelor squatters met another party on what was to become Smackout Road. The bachelors were on a journey of nearly 70 miles over treacherous primitive mountain roads. They confessed they were on their way to Northport because they were “smackout of baking powder.”

As we began our descent, I watched Skylar as he hummed a tune from a Disney cartoon. He seemed unaware of how perilous his life was becoming. On the outside he appeared the same happy go lucky, carefree, untamed spirit. But some of his recent decisions could have long range consequences. In this case, living for the moment might just cost him greatly.

As his friend, I felt the connection between the road we traveled and the paths of our lives more than just a little bit ironic. Up until now, I'd felt he needed our friendship. And perhaps he needed our friendship now more than ever. But I was smack out of options. I could explain how stupid his course of action, but why bother. He wouldn't listen. He was too stubborn and independent to listen to anyone else. I argued with myself about intervention, but in the end, I internalized my anger, my frustrations, and my solutions. Skylar needed to ride this one out alone. All I could do now was stand back and watch whatever outcome came his way. Protecting myself from the consequences of his choices, I worried that I might have to set new boundaries. I worried that a horrible, unforeseen and untamed storm might soon smack out my friend when he was most vulnerable. Or most deserving.

Later that night, exhausted, we found our way home. We'd covered nearly 200 miles of back roads while staying within the boundaries of only two counties. As I reflected on the mileposts of the day's journey, the evening took on a sort of golden glow. I knew the fleeting sense that this was one of those final summer moments that ends a little too prematurely. The beauty was there all right but a sense of pain lingered over that sunset. The regret that the end of summer brings filtered softly across the windshield and diminished into a sense that it was too late for a recount. This was the score of our summer.

Long after everyone went to bed, I lit a candle and sat in the window sill watching the lightest clouds drift over the stars. Overhead, the night sky seemed to be a messenger of a future I could not read. Staring at the flickering candle and the shadows created on the wall, I knew the dance of flame, if left unattended would eventually extinguish itself. All flames have their time tall and proud before their power dims. The energy of those flickering images is never destroyed. The energy is never lost, just converted and transformed.

Leaning back against the wall, I again looked out on the river and watched the first autumn fog begin to form in gentle wisps across her smooth as glass waters. In that looking glass likeness, high above I could see reflections in the stillness of the river. A man siting in a window lit by candles, pondering the future. Another man's reflection overtook my own. I saw Skylar backing his pick up truck into the river and using it as a diving platform. I heard the sounds of laughter, of summer motor boats, and the beauty of shirtless perfection. I saw us together exploring back roads, hiking Saddle Mountain, and dreaming dreams of perfect lives. Wishing upon our stars and never really believing for a second that they would land on our lives and turn perfect.

But more than anything, under that deep night sky on the cusp of the changing seasons, I saw a reflection in the waters of the Pend Oreille. A mirror witnessing the seasons of life. I knew that my friendship with Skylar was not the first friendship in the history of mankind to hit a junction. I knew that I was not the first person to document and ponder the rocky roads, stumbles, and questionable choices of a loved one.

I remembered again that early summer morning when I'd watched Skylar leaving for work at the mill. He with his ripped tank tops and sawdust covered wranglers, broken only by his blinding white smile. I heard the sound of his cooler hitting the floor, saw the dust storm as he roared to life. I relived the memory of me standing on the front deck watching his departure.

Him leaving. Me staying.

My dance with motion had come full circle. The pain and joy of the same moment was not lost on me. The uncertainty and sadness and relief I felt gave me serenity in this unmet hesitation. I encircled all the conflict I saw swirling and made my peace. I hated Skylar's actions while loving the one who created them. I embraced anger while acknowledging empathy. I felt loved while feeling betrayed. I savored how Skylar made me feel but hated what his doe eyed attention let me become an unknowing party to. I accepted that all of these emotions could be true and valid at the same time. But I wondered about my position come tomorrow. Each day would have its own challenges and already this one seemed beyond my abilities to see my way through its nuances. Tomorrow would just have to wait.

I sighed. Something good had to come out of this, but what? My exhausted mind could find nothing earthshaking or life changing to chalk up to these events, except I knew that as a result of today's journey, Smackout now had additional history. That a hundred years from now, my story and Skylar's would become a part of this additional silent witness. A witness held forever sacred by the towering firs, ponderosas, and larch.

The only thing I didn't know, as I quietly snuffed out the candle and bid good night to the world, is what that history would be.

Author's Note:

© 2002 Timothy Anderson