Tim's Tales from the Road
Tim's Tales from the Road
We awoke the next morning late. The painful reality that our bodies were protesting our lengthy experience not only from the dance but a subsequent lay over at one of Dustin's friends didn't help much. Colton woke me up. "Get up, we got to get going." I groaned, rolled over and tried to remember the night before.
Dustin’s friend Shane was in one word, a trip. A straight construction worker, he made Marky Mark look anorexic. Dustin had convinced us to go to Shane's two room apartment and it was already long past midnight. Dustin went in ahead of us and woke him up. Shane seemed easy going and glad to see us although it took him a moment to get himself in gear. As we sat in his living room as the early morning hours fell, one by one, I could see that Dustin and Shane were deeply bonded.
With blond hair and a reserved quiet, the contrast of Shane and Dustin was impossible to ignore. As we sat drinking Kokanee beer, I learned that Shane rose early to trek his way to the local rivers and the streams. He was of the water and his movements were dedicated to the sounds or white river rapids and the gurgle of slower eddies. Shane was determined to make a fisherman out of Dustin and now the two of them were inseparable. Rising early in the morning to ply every place within a hundred miles of Walla Walla, their lives were dedicated to the search of where the fish might reside.
Picturing the quiet still of near dawn air and the fellowship of the men with the poles and I placed Dustin in that picture. I couldn't imagine Dustin silent that long. Yet as they told their war stories of this fish and that river, they took me far away from where I sat. I wondered of the conversations these two must have had. In the silences of dawn, as the cast line disturbed the water, I considered those one or two words spoken that could fill up an hour. I knew there was a strong foundation of respect between the two of them. Each so different from the other. And I knew that those same casts brought back much more than a rainbow trout or a still baited lure. With each lunge into the current their harmony became tighter and their understanding for the world and of each other greater.
Dustin somehow saw deep inside Shane and it was he who made sure that Shane saw 'A River Runs Through It'. A love story that only a fisherman could understand. A tale of Montana and of the ballet of line and the dance of fly. Dustin, himself in need of a good friend, knew the way to Shane's soul and as they watched the movie together in the simplest fragment of time, the tale was a gift from one heart to another. A gift that produced tears in the eyes of the take no prisoners, don't bullshit me Shane.
The same Shane, who in the midst of one of Dustin's most serious health scares, was the only one who would rush him to the local hospital. As it became obvious that the situation was becoming quite life threatening, Shane found himself confronting his own fears. About life and death. Powerlessness. Losing a friend. And, about a companion in need who was in a crisis he might not survive. A friend he desperately wanted to help but couldn't.
When the nurse asked Dustin if he knew what was wrong with him, Shane lost his composure, "He's got AIDS!" he yelled before Dustin could respond to the nurse. Then, Shane burst into tears. The whole hospital staff probably already knew Dustin's health history . It was a small town, Dustin was a regular there and he wasn't exactly keeping it a secret. But the other patients and family members in the emergency room certainly got an education. Dustin was taken to another room and he was diagnosed with shingles while Shane remained alone in the emergency room waiting area. Weeping. And waiting. Waiting for his friend and praying that his best fishing buddy would be ok.
Eventually Dustin's condition stabilized and at the doctor’s suggestion, the nurse came to get Shane and led him back to where Dustin lay. The staff of the hospital was compassionate toward their patient and his friend. Some bonds are unquestionable. And they don't require further explanation.
Once again I found myself facing the Blues. Not far from where I'd said goodbye to Dallas the day before, Colton, Dustin, and I rode in his jeep as we climbed up and over Oregon Butte and quietly drove through the towering stands of Ponderosa and then, gaining elevation, the Spruce. The Blue Mountains which straddle the Oregon/Washington line are named for their unique color against the horizon. They rise up gentle and majestic against the high desert of Oregon and the Palouse in Washington. Tan, gold and a thousand shades of brown abruptly halted by these blue hills. "It’s the Spruce," Colton says interrupting my thoughts, "That's what makes them look so blue."
The Sunday morning sunshine was bright and the colors of everything clear and full of contrast. Some of the Aspens were changing and the dried underbrush full of reds and oranges. As Colton drove, we passed by the western towns of Tollgate, Elgin, and Wallowla. The latter two nestled in deep valleys with wide open skies and cattle grazing through green pastures. These spreads, the last of the old ranches, are quickly becoming an endangered species as cattle prices plummet and the only profits in the industry are raped by the packing houses and the feed lots.
As we drove, each place was special to Colton and he described homesteads he might someday like to have as a 'small farm'. Having no desire to ranch, though horses are second nature to him, he would just like a small farm. Yet, I know that Colton does indeed own a cowboy hat and that he is a good rider. He just doesn't wear that hat much claiming, "I'm a farmer, not a cowboy!" I have never seen this rule. The one which must indeed be stated in the Farmers Almanac. Page 44, section 5, line 2, "Cowboys wear cowboy hats and farmers wear John Deere hats." As the landscape rushed by, I thought hard on this.
I suppose that like anything, Colton just wearing that Stetson hat a little more often, would eventually produce a change of attitude. He'd find that it does suit him. He with those dark features and the white smile. I'd point this out to him but I'd just get one of those smiles that he is famous for giving someone who he considers being just a bit silly. Best not to push it. Best not to see how deep that pragmatism lies. His baseball hat makes him look handsome enough.
At Lostine, we took an abrupt right and started making our way up into a narrow valley that became first a deep gorge and then a canyon. Signs along the way warn of flash floods and avalanches. Everywhere we saw tell tale indicators of places where the road had already washed out. We glimpsed many white tale deer and once again, I was overwhelmed with the pristine beauty around us.
Our destination was "a short hike" according to Colton up near the Eagle Cap wilderness area. A place called Maxwell Lake. "If we get done in time maybe we can head over to Hells Canyon...", he never finished.
If I had had the good sense to look at the map he was studying, then I would have just shot him right there on the spot and got it over with. But Dustin and I listened contently to his tour and monologue of what we were seeing. We trusted him. He was our friend. Unaware and ignorant of what we had in store for us, we took his lead and knew that our day would be memorable. Ignorance is bliss. But as Dustin and I would soon become painfully aware, ignorance, when it comes crashing down on its victims, is never pretty.
Colton parked the jeep and we grabbed some water and made our way to the trail head. The only one who had any food was Dustin and it consisted of three granola bars. The air smelled clean and sweet and as we started off, we immediately crossed the wooden footbridge that straddled French Creek. Under us the water rushed clean and cool and the mist from the rapids rose up and wet our faces. We followed Colton and the trail rose immediately up from the bottom of the canyon floor.
Somehow, it never occurred to me, that considering how narrow the canyon was, it would be difficult, if not impossible to go on any sort of hike without seeing some physical strain. There was nowhere to go but up. Or as Dustin was found of saying at the end of every other sentence, "Straight up".
I am an experienced hiker. I understand topography well. I knew better. I should have questioned, said a few "yeah, buts..." But I didn't. I trusted Colton completely. I followed him. Blindly. And, excited to see the scenery that he hinted which he had in store for us, it never even occurred to Dustin and I that we were in the palms of a mad man. The mad man Colton. He, the man who runs five miles every morning. And who in spite of this, smokes as many cigarettes as Dallas. I didn't know it at the time but with in a few minutes the fantasy of crushing that little 'heartlight' of his, extinguishing his necessary addiction, would be the inspiration that would keep me chasing that tight ass of his all the way up the mountain. While Dustin threatened to permanently pass out behind us.
The first mile was painful. We hiked deep in the shade of Cedar and Spruce and Aspen. The trail at this point was hidden and the switchbacks were few and far between. We were aware that we were climbing and although I have spent the last few years sitting in a truck, I was in good enough shape that the exertion felt refreshing. Dustin did equally well. He and I climbed together while Colton took off bounding up ahead of us like some Irish Setter who just can't stand to stay still and enjoy the view.
We know now that it was all an evil plot. Colton would get a half a mile ahead of us and then stop and grab a cigarette while we chugged on below. I half suspect that as soon as he felt he was out of our sight he didn't actually hike up that hill. He ran up it. And then he would sit for twenty minutes resting and smoking. When we finally caught up, out of breath, the rested bastard would do it again. Meanwhile Dustin and I just kept taking one step in front of the other as the Christmas Special song goes. Somewhere between mile two and mile three, nearly out of breath and with Dustin claiming to see stars, the three of us met a forest ranger on his way down off the mountain. Not just any forest ranger but THE forest ranger. Whatever breath we had left, he took away.
He wore the basic green outfit that those boys are inclined to wear so that people like us who are so out of breath and inclined to be seeing things will know that he is indeed with the Forest Service and that we ain't seeing anything. Or as Dustin later put it, "That one is real Baby". The forest ranger stopped in the middle of the trail studying us as we stopped in front of him. All I could look at was his legs. They were huge. It occurred to me that if I was going to sprain my ankle now was definitely the time to do it. I stared at a point somewhere between the ranger’s waist and his huge calves and was totally lost in thought. Thinking. What a trip off the mountain that would be. The hell with the lake. Let the Ranger take me up there himself. Once I'd healed. After a few months at his cabin.
"Tim, you ok?" It was Colton.
"Oh yeah, just catching my breath." I answered looking up.
The ranger grinned at me and I realized that his uniform included a badge. The last thing that I needed to see. I imagined the call to my parents. "Mom, uh I've been arrested....for....uh...." That was just too awful to imagine. Smokey the Bear never mentioned that aspect of starting fires. I could only imagine how you put them out.
We sat and talked for another minute but I think that Colton was worried that Dustin and I were going to follow the ranger back down the mountain so he said "Well, we better get going."
I looked at the ranger and he seemed to read my question.
"The trail gets pretty steep up there..." and he pointed up. I could have sworn he was pointing at the sky. Dustin and I looked at each other with alarm and then looked toward Colton who was already disappearing out of sight.
"He's a dead man," Dustin said, referring to Colton.
The ranger laughed and then we turned and started heading on up the trail. Before I rounded the next corner I stopped and looked back, as Dustin kept on hiking ahead of me. The ranger had stopped and was watching us. He smiled and turned and started down the mountain. And it was all I could do to follow the lead of that damned Christmas special song. Just put one foot in front of the other. Up. I didn't tell Dustin about the ranger watching us. It would have killed him.
In the beginning, Dustin and I were lost in our own conversation. As we made our way through a small stream we ignored our lungs and our legs. He shared his dreams and his losses. That he was living with HIV now for over eleven years and that one by one all his friends were gone. He spoke of the places his life had taken him and that he occasionally considered all those "what ifs" but that he also accepted things as they were and that he loved life and that he wanted to get as much of it in as possible.
Dustin told me wonderful stories. About dancing and music. Fishing. Shane. His gifted love of making people look good and the hand sewn items that he made for his clients and his friends. How his reputation was spreading in horse circles and I asked him if he could make something for Dallas because my cowboy is so picky about his cowboy shirts. Dustin laughed and said yes.
As the elevation increased our conversation decreased. The trees became smaller and the shade less plentiful. We met another group of hikers, all of whom were in great shape. Four guys without shirts and one cheery faced young woman. They greeted us with open smiles and how do you do's and we did likewise. Everything seemed alive with the last fragrances of summer and nature. Spruce and Fir. Pine and Alder. Huckleberry and Tamarack.
Colton once again vanished far ahead of us and the switchbacks became severe. The trail got hazardous. We played tag with the tree line and rock faced walls rose up on one side of the trail while thousand feet drop offs plunged off the other. On one of these high sections of trail, Dustin and I encountered a party of hikers on horse back. Seven of them.
Obviously the horses couldn't step aside for us so we scrambled up onto the low hanging rocks. As the mounted party passed, we realized that Colton was a direct descendent of Satan. One woman on a pretty bay Arab warned us that it was getting late and that we were still "hours from the lake...and the trail just keeps getting steeper from here." We thanked her and as each horse and rider passed us silently we nodded and they would nod back as their mount eyed us and the treacherous trail. The two young cowboys at the rear flashed us blinding smiles but we could barely see them. Dustin and I were too busy staring at each other in horror. "Steeper? Dustin asked me. "How can it get ANY steeper than this?"
We stared out over the valley and looked toward Eagle Cap. A peak which we were no longer looking up at but across at. The creek we crossed at the start of our little hike was now buried below us. Several thousand feet down. Straight down. And Colton, the lying sack of shit, son of a bitch liar had just told us on his last cigarette break as he stared down at us from the switchback above our heads that we were "almost there."
"You know he's lying to us," Dustin said. "We aren't anywhere near that lake. Sun'll be down in a few hours. We are going to have to kill him. You know that? We have to. Right Tim?"
I nodded. I didn't have the energy to speak. And once again I found myself considering the gang heading down. Especially the second cowboy from the last. I wondered if I could hitch a ride. It would be the cowboy way. Riding double, off that mountain.
Instead Dustin and I climbed off the rocks and looked out over the edge at the mounted party now on the switch back beneath ours. The look down gave us both vertigo and we leaned back against the cliff. "Whoa..." I said.
"Damned straight," Dustin said.
We sat there safe against the cliff and looked out across the valley. We studied the peaks across from us. The tree line and contour. The different color of rock and minerals catching the late afternoon sun. The bluest of blue sky. The telltale shadows of ridge line shade making its way down the canyon. Following the cycle of day and night and the in between state of shade. We deeply inhaled the cleanliness of the high mountain air.
"God, it’s so beautiful," Dustin whispered. And he was right, it was.
"Guess we better get goin' so we can kill the bastard," I said as I stood up
"Straight up," Dustin replied.
"That's 'Cowboy up' to you, pardner," I shot back.
"Whatever," was all Dustin said and we plodded on.
True to form, another half mile later the trail did indeed get steeper. Now as we got getting higher in elevation, we didn't talk much. Dustin had long ago quit with the wrist action and now all I could hear was his labored breathing. And my own.
We crossed an alpine meadow in silence and then the climb worsened and became steeper still. "I don't think I'm gonna make it," Dustin stammered and then we heard an echo and high above us Colton stood on a rock. His shirt was off. We couldn't see beneath his chest and it appeared that he might also be waving his underwear in the air at us. "The bastard," gasped Dustin. We squinted west into the sun and then he was gone like some hobbit playing with us. Taunting us.
"Why the hell are we doing this?" Dustin asked. He asked it to no one in particular. But to everything around us. To the sun. To the sky. To the glacial peaks. And to the high mountain breeze which fell down over the ridge and lifted our spirits and our hearts and inspired us to, between labored gasps, plot which method of Colton's impending murder would be the most satisfying. There were so many that gave us pleasure.
At the base of the last ridge where every step was like climbing four stairs at a time, Dustin stopped. "I can't go any further," he managed between desperate breaths.
"Yes you can, We are almost there. I know it. We have to be," I said against the hollow sound coming from way beneath us. The sound of French Creek and the wind. And sweet nourishing breaths which hardly filled my lungs.
"I don't think so. I don't think I can." Dustin managed.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
And as he attempted to look up at me, into the sun, I watched as his eyes rolled back into his head and he almost passed out. He was sure, alright. He sat down and put his head between his knees and kept breathing.
"Hey Dustin you going to be alright?" I asked
"Yeah...I just can't go any further. You go on. I'll wait for you here. Straight up," he assured me.
And I looked at him and though I had only known him for two days I loved the shit out of him. Studying him and watching his breathing, I knew I didn't want him to hurt himself or pass out.
"Ok, eat the rest of those granola bars and I'll catch up to Colton and see what there is to see." I turned and continued making those ever giant steps up. Each one a study in pain. I thought about Dustin with each step. His bravery for tackling the hike and the test of endurance it must have been. I considered his approach to his life and whether he thought of everyday as borrowed time and I wondered what it would be like to live under a double edged dose of uncertainty. Life is uncertain enough but I couldn't imagine what his view of it was.
The vegetation was sparse and I knew that the elevation had to be pushing 8,000 feet. The wind came over the top of the ridge with greater force and when I finally made it to the summit, it hit me full on, with a great intensity. A chill ran down my sweat drenched clothes.
"Tim, I'm up here," Colton called. He was out of my view but he must have been watching me. I followed the sound of his voice which came from another small ridge and I scrambled up it to find him sitting it the sun and looking down into a small shallow valley. A valley which held a most beautiful treasure, an emerald green blue lake. The lake was surrounded by tall peaks. A place of echoes and stunted spruce and rock falls and in the winter, great snow fields. I sat down next to Colton and I could feel the heat from his tanned, shirtless skin. "Where's Dustin?" he asked and I told him that he had quit about 400 feet down.
Looking out over the lake below us, I heard the water of the creek which drained from that alpine purity pouring over the ridge. It was heaven. Colton stood up. "See that?" and he pointed northeast back over the ridge we had just climbed and he said, "That's Sacajawea. She's over 10,000 feet high."
I looked across the valley at the mountain and I could only say "Damn."
"She", a reddish orange peak which in the light seemed surreal inspired me. I studied the color and the landscape and texture of her rock faces and I thought about God and creation and it didn't seem that anyone else could have put together a scene so breathtaking. I followed the ridge line 180 degrees until my eyes rested south and they looked over to Eagle Cap. Above us a golden eagle let out a sharp cry which echoed off the rockface.
Colton hiked down to the lake for water and I went the other direction to check on Dustin and see if I could help inspire him up so that he could see the view. I climbed down to the edge of the ridge and studied the place I left him. It was vacant. I tried not to panic. Maybe he was pissing behind a low fir or spruce tree.
"Dustin," I cried and the echo returned to me and then there was nothing but silence and the occasional hollow sound of wind and creek and both.
"Dustin, You pretty little pansy...Where are youuuu...." The last word was lost in the echo. Still nothing. No sign of him. "Mr. Girlfriend, I am talking to you...Come out, come out where ever you are!!!" The stillness remained. He was gone. I giggled at my clever camp. Done solely for him, he would have enjoyed me doing this off the top of the mountain.
"Girlfriend..." I screamed one more time. I could imagine him emerging from behind the spruce tree doing that thing with his wrists answering me with a, "You called?" and then I knew that all would be right in the world. But there was nothing.
Except for the voices which I heard close behind me. I turned and realized that three college men, were watching me. I'd not heard them because the wind was in their favor. In that moment, my pride crashed off the 8,000 foot level of the Wallowa wilderness area and all I could do was sheepishly wave. It was much too late for recovery and I stood there 'deep frying' in my own juices, embarrassed and wondering at the same time where Dustin was.
They quietly walked past me and as the last one dropped off the edge of the ridge he turned and gave me a thumbs up. I almost fell over.
I sat down and said a prayer for Dustin. I hoped he wasn't discouraged. I couldn't imagine him turning back and heading off the mountain with out us. Unless he had some idea where the forest ranger might be. Then I'd have two people to kill. Colton and Dustin.
Then I heard my name called out with two distinctly different voices. Dustin's and Colton's. Above me. I jumped to my feet and returned up the ridge and they were both there. Looking out over Maxwell Lake. Her alpine treasure sparkling like some sort of fools gold down in that small basin. The day was complete.
I looked at Dustin and said, "You made it."
And he looked back at me and said, "Yeah I did. I got to thinking back there. How beautiful it was and everything. And that I was so close to the top. I wanted to see the damn lake. I wanted to say I did it. And I don't know," he paused and was silent. Then he continued, "I might not get another chance. I may never get this way again. I just don't…" He paused again and looked out over the big sky and the ridge lines and the lake and Eagle Cap, "I just don't know how much time I have."
I said the only thing that came to my mind, "I am glad you made it...Straight up!"
"Straight up!" he answered and his version sounded better.
The next morning Colton and I went into downtown Walla Walla and had breakfast together in an interesting place called The Merchants. The building was an old restored multipurpose establishment with a bakery and various delicacies. It seemed fitting that the weekend should end in such a historic setting.
Colton had been forgiven for putting us through such an ordeal and lying to us about it. He kept saying, "If I told you the truth you never would have made it," and as he ordered breakfast for us, I walked around the building thinking about those words. Looking around at the history and aura of the place I wondered if he was right. Would we have made it? That eight mile hike in which we climbed over 4,000 feet up and then came back down. In one grueling afternoon. I wanted to think that there was something more that inspired us to put one foot in front of the other. Something besides the pleasure that choking the living shit out of Colton would have provided if we ever caught up with him. Maybe it was the group picture of the three of us that we took. One of us holding the camera in front of an outstretched arm, our faces hot and flushed. Imperfect. Eyes squinting into the sun. But testifying in our faces that indeed we did make it. And that we wanted the world to know it. For we might not come this way again. Any of us.
My mind wandered from the hike to the dance and then to the change that fall represents. I wondered where Dallas was and if his trip was going smoothly. I considered the challenge I was facing in returning back to school to finish my degree and the dreams I have of doing something where I am never far from trucking and my first love. I considered Dustin and his life force and the energy he lets loose wherever he goes. I considered all of these things and more.
After breakfast, Colton took me to one final place. The cemetery. We walked among the plots and eventually came to the Italian section of the cemetery. There, amongst the weathered headstones of Italian heritage where first cousins who had once been married to each other now rested together, were buried stories which remained alive. Stories of early Italian settlers who had faced discrimination and hardship and misfortune.
I thought of one of the pictures on the wall in Colton's home. The portrait taken of his great grandmother. Her five children. And his great grandfather who had just passed away from tuberculosis. Laying in state in a coffin. The eyes of her children were soft and they seemed only partially aware. But it was in the eyes of his great grandmother where I saw the story. This woman who did not speak English and who had five children to raise. In a country that sometimes didn't want her kind around. In a landscape where the living is hard. With a religion that some considered of the devil. And I remember, her wild eyes and the ghost of fear which was overwhelming and visible and I thought as I paused in front of her headstone that she had done just fine. She had bravely faced some mighty big fears and triumphed over them. I considered, as I knelt in front of her grave that cycles repeat themselves. And that maybe Dustin and that turn of the century woman would have gotten along just fine. Different stories. But the same.
Colton and I continued walking around the grave markers, he the narrator and I the listener and like the dishes at the potluck, each one had a story associated with it.
"This person did so and so and I think you would have liked him, oh and he...well now he was interesting..." that laugh would come from Colton. The laugh of life that I love so much. Even when its coming from a switchback above my head. Then he continues..." and there is my so and so who once did...."
He keeps talking and his voice becomes lost and hollow as I notice two graves near the rest of the Italians. They seem to have Italian names. But on both headstones there is an interesting inscription. It says simply, under their names, "Born in France".
Later that day as I returned towards Spokane, leaving the Blues in my mirrors and the city of Walla Walla, I thought back on that cemetery and those headstones. Especially the ones which said "Born in France". I couldn't help but think of the irony of those poor souls who were so adamant about making sure that everyone who passed would know such a trivial thing. Making sure that even in death their bold proclamation set them apart. They had not come from Italy. They were born in France.
As the harvested and spent wheat fields flew by my window I thought that they were the ones who had missed out. Those so proudly holding onto such trivialities in death. To be known as Italian, even if just an adopted one, I couldn't think of a nicer complement. To be of such a noble and proud people. To be from such an accepting tribe. To be of those early Walla Walla settlers lying there resting in the shadows of the Blues.
Near the places where the valley becomes range and the range becomes scab lands and the scab lands become the Blues. And eventually the Blues become the Wallowas. Where the land changes from gentle rolling hills to the peaks rising from the valley floor. Peaks that rise high and touch the wide open blue western sky.
Straight up.
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