The end of October is fast approaching, and the wind has a chilly bite to it. Golden leaves dance across the browning lawn. This morning a few flakes of the year’s first snow fell from gathering clouds that dispersed before noon. The air carries an aroma of wood smoke from the Bitterroot Valley where open fires are still permitted. The cottonwoods’ brown leaves make a sound in the breeze like a shaman’s rattle. Halloween is less than a week away.

In a few days there will be ghosts and goblins haunting the streets of Missoula. Of course some of these tiny spirits will be dressed in disguise. Baby Yoda is popular this year as are Spiderman, firefighters, robots, cowboys and the occasional Batman (no Robin anymore). But, few of the revelers will find their way to our door as our house is at the rear of a dead end street where there are no street lamps to light he way.

It is scary back here. It even gives me the willies to walk on the rutted dirt road at night with the bare branches reaching out to scratch me and grab at my clothing. There are also occasional bears, skunks and raccoons that wander around the neighborhood. It is not unreasonable to imagine more mysterious and possible dangerous creatures slobbering and shuffling through the night. It is not for the sake of religion that the next door neighbor has a cross above his door and braids off garlic hanging next to the kitchen window.

Still, there might be a few trick-or-treaters that make their way, with adult guardians, to our door expecting a handout. It would be prudent to have some Reese’s or Kit Kat’s available rather than offer something healthy like raisins or apples. These specters will be, hopefully, after sugar not fiber; chocolate not blood. 

Sheila, asked me what Halloween was like for me “back in the day.” The question brought back some bitter memories that still bring a tear to my eye.

As a boy, I lived on a farm in the country about six miles from the western Iowa town of Mapleton. My parents were quite conservative, perhaps a side effect of belonging to a Pentecostal branch of the Lutheran church. Or, maybe it was because they were of German heritage. It could have been they were opposed to the idea of Halloween and candy from strangers. 

My friends, who also lived on farms, all seemed to have parents who loved them and would take them into Mapleton or one of the other small towns in the area on Halloween to participate in the activity known as Trick or Treat. But I could only vicariously participate on the day after the event.

One of my school mates who went to the same one-room school would brag about how much candy he acquired on Halloween and describe in some detail about the tricks played on people who either did not open their doors or refused to give up any loot to the threat of Trick or Treat. Kenny talked about soaping windows and hinted that he took part in a nastier retribution that involved putting a paper sack filled with hog manure on a porch, setting it on fire and watch the victim try to stomp the blaze out while covering his shoes with pig dung.

My gullibility left me in awe of the stories until later, when I was about forty, I realized the little bastard was probably lying.

My father, while unwilling to drive me a measly six miles, a trip that would take less than twenty bloody minute, so that I could join my friends, waxed nostalgically about Halloween when he was a kid. 

There was a bell on a tower at the fire hall that was rung every day a noon. On the day after Halloween the volunteer chief found the bell upside down, and when he went pulled on the rope he found himself under a shower of shelled corn.

When a teller opened the doors of the local bank, he found a Holstein waiting in the lobby.

A Model T rested on the roof of the town hall.

He also told me (when my mother was out of the room) about his high school years when upperclassmen would entice younger students to come with them as they drove through the countryside looking for isolated outhouses to push over. The night ended with a freshman being shoved into an open pit.

Ah yes. Great fun.

In the large garden on the farm my parents grew a lot of vegetables, but pumpkins were not among the fall harvest. Instead there was squash, lots of squash of many varieties. Acorn was always my favorite but I also liked butternut, zucchini, buttercup and bon bon. But there was one that I dreaded called banana squash. The color was a sickly gray with dull blue stripes. The banana squash grew to be a rather large size and lying in the dirt they reminded me of an old man’s head with graying skin and blue veins standing up over the scalp.

The baked banana squash’s flesh was stringy, watery, and bitter. It was my father’s favorite and during the fall and winter seasons we ate it at least once a week. 

One autumn my mother decided to make a jack o’ lantern for my sister and me. Since there were no pumpkins, she picked out an especially large banana squash and started to carve it with a butcher knife while we looked on in horror. 

The end product was not what a carved pumpkin was supposed to look like. It was actually more frightening than a jack o’lantern as it more resembled an old man’s head that had been savagely attacked by a mad butcher. The mauled squash looked so bad that even my mother decided that it would not work as a Halloween decoration, so, of course, we had it with our evening meal.

It looked like it would be a typical Halloween without a jack o’lantern, but, on a rare trip to town, Mom stopped in the Five and Dime in Mapleton and spied a cardboard and paper pumpkin that had a candle inside. The cost was not too dear, a mere twenty-five cents, and it seemed that it might be the ideal substitution for the disaster with the squash.

She brought her purchase home and put it on the front porch table where it could be seen from the dining room. When it was getting dark, she lit the candle and went to prepare supper which probably included banana squash.

Just before we sat down to eat, my sister, who was about five at the time, came screaming into the kitchen with the news that the front porch was on fire.

Well, it wasn’t exactly a blazing inferno, but the wax of the candle had melted through to the wooden table and it had started to burn. Even painting the table top could no hide the circle that was left after the fire had spontaneously extinguished itself.

There are no children around us anymore, no one to go out with on the night of Halloween, but we do have a sack of candy waiting, our favorites of course. And, by god, we have a real jack o’lantern painstakingly carved out of a pumpkin, a real pumpkin.

We loved our place on Third Street, not only because of its location, but it was a newly remodeled half of a duplex with a beautifully landscaped lawn in front and a private back yard enclosed by a high cedar fence with charming wooden gates. The back lawn was surrounded by a stone patio with an umbrella covered table where we would eat many of our meals in late spring, summer and early fall. To one side was a studio apartment with a covered area that had out door furniture where we could escape the rare rain storm and the more common hot summer sun and drink shandies during happy hour.

Catie, the young woman who owned the place treated us like we were her parents. She kept the landscaping plants in top shape and the lawns mowed. She made sure that the windows, inside and out, were washed each spring and the carpets were cleaned at least once a year. She and her new husband, Johnnie, always took time to talk with us, making sure that we were comfortable. We became quite close to them.

But, even though at our age we should have known, nothing lasts forever. We kidded ourselves into thinking that our blissful life on third street could go on indefinitely. After almost five years at that address, Catie had to sell the place. She’d moved to the East Coast to be closer to her family, and managing a property from long distance was too difficult, plus she and Johnnie were looking to buy a new property in which they could live.

In the real estate boom of 2021, the complex was grabbed up immediately. We’d thought of buying the place for ourselves, but the skyrocketing market quickly punched a hole in that idea. A realtor friend advised us not to invest now, as did our financial advisor. 

The new owner, before closing, made an appointment to inspect our half of the duplex for 7:30 in the evening. The hour came and went as did another hour. We fully expected that she’d gotten tied up and would schedule another time to look at our place, but a bit after 9:00 there was a knock at the back door. Without waiting for our answer, she walked in. 

I said that we’d been expecting her much earlier. Her reply was “Oh, we just got to talking to a neighbor.” She did not engage us in conversation nor did she introduce the man that came in with her. She just walked around, taking photos with her cell phone. Her friend at least complimented us on our art. She barely spoke.

The next morning, after the chilly and rude visit, we agreed that we’d better start looking in earnest for another place to live. We were even more uncomfortable when we found a key lock box attached to our front porch. 

Sheila then found an AirB&B link that was already advertising the unit next to us and the studio in back. The new owner named the place Hip Strip Suites after a popular area that was three blocks away. Soon our private backyard was invaded by strangers and the landscaping was almost entirely ignored. Our lease was not to expire until the next May, but home did not feel much like a home anymore.

During this period, Sheila was recovering from a total knee replacement. So, in order to get her out of the house, we took to going out each afternoon at about 4:00 to cruise the city, looking for areas that we might like. In the course of a couple of weeks, we became rather discouraged. We found no neighborhood that could compare to our Third Street location. We also were “impressed” with the number of trailer parks in and around Missoula.

We engaged a realtor and had family and friends looking for us. It began to look grim, and I began to wonder if we might have to move out of Missoula, maybe even Montana. But then it became obvious that this rapidly inflating housing market was not just local or even in the state. It was happening all over the country.

Whilst I was wringing my hands with despair, Sheila was working hard, looking at different links on the Internet for rentals and possibly something for sale in which we would not have to empty our entire equity.  She found a place in the neighborhood, a tiny house on a narrow lot. The back of the house faced a sketchy looking alley, and the rear gate was secured by a heavy chain as well as an industrial grade padlock. There was also a tiny building that might have served as a garage, but the door was blocked by trash and dried mud. 

The interior of the house smelled of mold with a hint of urine. There was a small room to the right of the entry that held a double bed and an old, beat up guitar that hung on a nail driven into the pasty, yellow wall. Cracks covered the ceiling as well as peeling, tan paint. There was no furniture in the room as the bed took up most of the area. 

The rest of the house got worse as we walked toward the back. Needless to say, we spent little time exploring the rest of the place. 

The situation was becoming depressing. An old town house looked for a few days as if it might become available. It was a vacation rental, but the owner was rumored to becoming weary of cleaning up the place after each guest departed. But, then she decided that it was much more profitable to continue the short term rental rather than having a tenant even on a month-to-month basis. As it was, the home would not have been large enough for half of our furniture.

Then, in late November, just before my birthday, Sheila found a house for rent that had been advertised for only one day. It looked too good to be true. A two bedroom house with a rear, detached studio, plus a two car garage. The utilities were not included and the lawn upkeep was up to the tenant. It also was in a rather upscale neighborhood where the rent might be prohibitive. Nevertheless, we contacted the property manager and made an appointment to see the house the next day.

Devan, the manager met us on time and unlocked the door to the old, nineteen fifties sort of place. The kitchen looked brand new and there was a recently installed wood floor that continued into the very large living area. At the end of the room there was a huge stone fireplace and a large, thick wooden beam extended down the length of the ceiling to the kitchen. 

Aside from the kitchen, the rest of the house was built like an old lodge with built-in pine wooden drawers and obviously do it yourself closets. 

Mount Jumbo can be seen through the back windows of the house we’ve been in for over four months, and it has been covered with snow for most of that period. There are several hiking trails through the area, but no one is allowed on the paths during the winter. The slopes are protected so that the elk can move freely in their winter habitat. The animals are not visible every day, but one day there were at least eighty of them. They might not be apparent to those unfamiliar with the mountain, but if one is familiar with the broad white belly of the mountain, little brown dots might be discovered, and if one has binoculars, those dots turn into elk.

We now live in the area of Missoula referred to as the “Rattlesnake” named for the stream that runs next to our house. It is a parklike setting with woods, trails and a few wild animals. What it doesn’t have is a close, locally owned grocery store like Orange Street Food Farm which was just a couple of blocks from our old residence on Third Street. Nor is the ROXY, a community owned movie theater, within easy walking distance. The same goes for the two bakeries, the two pubs, the stationery shop or the independent book store. However there are no ambulances, fire trucks or police cars racing by at all hours. There are no Alaska, Delta or other airliners flying over our house. There are no smokers next door coughing their lungs out and no aid cars showing up to attend to those residents of the rehab center who need help getting their lungs back into their chests. There are no loud parties that last until three in the morning across the street.

We do have the following: bears that wander close to our bedroom window, deer that have worn a path through the snow on our lawn, owls that can be heard asking for our identification, ducks splashing in the creek, Bohemian waxwings flitting through the bushes. Half a mile from our house, just after we moved in, a mountain lion killed a deer. 

Sheila put out some bird feeders that hang from the roof of our porch as well as a bar of suet. We couldn’t have them at our old place and were looking forward to seeing chickadees, finches, and perhaps waxwings crowd around the feeders as the winter might make it hard to find natural food. The food stations were up for over a week, but the only thing that came was a cheeky brown squirrel that stretched its body down from the roof to feed on the suet. A couple of days later two chickadees investigated one of the feeder, but apparently the seed wasn’t good enough for the little bastards. We never saw them again.

Now, in late April, the snow has finally disappeared (I hope), and the lawn is turning green. Buds are starting to leaf out on the trees. We’ve been able to sit outside next to Rattlesnake Creek and enjoy our late afternoon drinks before starting dinner. Sheila just told me that a bear got into a garbage can a couple blocks away. Maybe we should be nervous, but we are rather excited about the possibility of seeing a bear. A mountain lion, not so much.

So, we are quite happy in our new home, but, hopefully we are aware that nothing lasts forever. Enjoy it while we can.

Brilliant yellow butterflies float above the tropical plants in the yard below. Another specimen lands on the small hedge next to Sheila. This one is black with a vertical, white stripe with an orange dot on the tip of its wing.

It is late morning and the air is sultry under a partly sunny sky. The humidity feels like a balm on my old, desiccated skin made even more parched by the dry, winter air of the Montana winter. Here, near the Pacific Ocean the warm air carries the scent of endless varieties of vegetation. Palm trees with hanging coconuts line the drive, banana trees wave their great leaves, date palms tower above the dusty gravel road, palmettos squat in the yard. Other palms with a spray of thin, variegated blades guard the steps leading to the lower drive.

Palm trees are abundant, but they do not dominate the landscape. A papaya tree with broad leaves and hanging, orange fruit stands next to a steep, grassy hill. An iguana clinging to the trunk, nods its head up and down, appreciating the possibility of an early lunch of leaf salad with fruit for dessert.

The air also carries the sounds of birds, most of which are inconsiderately hiding in among the leaves of the palms and a huge tree next to the patio. Yesterday a tanager with a large red spot on its back deigned to light next to our pool and serenade us during meditation. Later, a neighbor pointed out a large, round, black bird with a scarlet gullet sitting on a branch, a guan.

Several doves can be heard cooing in the distance, and black birds screech in the marsh. Still, there are a lot of hoots, screams and chirps that come from the trees and bushes that remain a puzzle.

Later, a black headed vulture landed in the yard below, possibly looking for my body. Finding nothing upon which to dine, it laboriously flapped its silvery, black wings making many low passes until returning to its watch in the sky.

Our little casita, about five miles outside the beach town of Jacó, Costa Rica, is relatively isolated sitting on a mid level elevation between two other such small lodges. There are enough plants and bushes so that we can use our own swimming pool to go skinny dipping, an activity in which we can engage several times a day, and once before retiring to bed at night. The pool is also joyously refreshing upon returning from a jog.

Actually, at my age (80 next December) it is not a jog, more a slog, which is a messy gait somewhere between lurching and stumbling.

The gravel road where this clumsy traverse takes place is just about a football field’s length from the casita. It is a tertiary arterial with little traffic, and once past the two buildings there is a broad expanse of grass and small bushes on either side. There is little maintenance and hence, there are many dips and ruts left by vehicles that traveled the road during the rainy season. But, there are very few cars or trucks, and the scenery is terrific, great for a slow jog.

The thought of our icy driveway in Montana a month ago quickly was replaced by the appreciation of the balmy tropical morning as I plodded on the gravel. The road took me through a small grove of palms that waved their fronds at me as I approached another small community of tiny houses, many of which were empty, awaiting weekenders from San Jose or vacationers from the US and Canada. A young blonde woman, dressed in clothing that suggested that she was not a Tica (female Costa Rican) was shoving a stroller with a small child inside. She was careful to avoid eye contact with this old fart as he came gasping and wheezing down the road.

At approximately one mile, where the road became narrow and started a steep climb, I turned around, began my return. About two hundred yards back up the road, I was distracted by a noise off in the bushes. There was no time to think about the possible venomous snake that might slithering around on the side of the road. I’d tripped over a small rock (no doubt rolled there by the snake) and crashed onto the sharp gravel.

My appearance was that of someone who’d been tossed off a train. Both knees were scraped and bleeding. The joint where my right arthritic thumb meets my wrist was sprained and lacerated. My right shoulder was scraped bruised and there was a hematoma on my right bicep. Somehow a hole was torn in the back of my shirt. On the bright side, I’d avoided hitting my head.

As I dragged myself to my feet, the first thought that came to my mind was, “thank god that young woman did not see me.” The second thought was, “how can I hide this mess from Sheila?”

Eventually, I came to realize that no matter how long I hid in the trees, Sheila would at last see this, her bloody husband. So, I tried to look manly and even a bit proud as I limped back toward the casita. She did not yell at me, but still looked horrified at the blood running down my legs and arms. She did not once use the words “stupid” or “foolish.”

Instead of lecturing, she used kind and caring words as she helped me peel off the bloody clothing and shoved me into the shower. And, after applying band aids and an ace bandage, we quietly, and with no recriminations, discussed the possibility that I might raise my awareness to avoid injuries that are more serious now then they’d been in the past, even ten years ago.

Here’s the thing though. It has been becoming increasingly apparent that activities in which I have frequently engaged are becoming more hazardous as I age. And, even small injuries have consequences and take a much longer recovery time.

This latest spill brings to memory of old people falling when we were children. Most kids, like me, probably thought, “so what? I fall all the time. Falling down is part of the games we play. We might cry and moan, but eventually we get up and continue to engage in our roughhousing.”

Of course, children don’t stop to think about how much further adults have to fall. Nor do they realize the frailty of old people. Kids don’t think about the fact that active growth also shortens the recovery time of injuries.

Shit, I only have come to lately realize these facts in the last few years, and I am still slow to admit that my physique is fading before my eyes. My mirror ignores the atrophy of my upper body and the expanding waist line. My eyes glance over the spider veins on my legs without registry.

Three years ago, while cleverly wearing cowboy boots on ice, I slipped and broke a bone in my left hand. Yes, it hurt. And, like my fall here, I was shocked at how hard the ground is, whether ice, cement or even gravel. The surface is unyielding.

I have been bucked off a horse and knocked down on a football field. I’ve crashed on a bicycle and fallen while ice skating (always been a horrible skater). I’ve tumbled down stairs, tripped on a tennis court, and found myself flat on my ass on innumerable occasions.

When did the ground get so hard?

Here, in the North Cascades of Washington, we were the deep winter of January with thick, long icicles hanging from the cabin roof to the ground. Next to the back door one of the pieces covered the porch light giving a bright glow to the icicle. From the cabin snow covered the floor of the woods making it almost impossible to get to the river. The trees were decorated with clumps of white. The front yard and hay field sparkled with diamond chips when the curtain of clouds parted for the sun. 

The quiet around the cabin and in the woods is deceptive. The sounds are different from in the city where quiet can be the absence of traffic noise, the sirens of emergency vehicles or the thumping of a life flight helicopter. Of course one can’t hear those sounds in the woods, so at first it seems silent.

It takes time for the ear to acclimate to the difference between the constant mechanical racket of the urban scene and the more comforting voices of nature in winter.

The first thing I hear is my own breathing as I stumble through the deep snow, a sound usually masked by street noise at home. I am amazed at how loud the bellows of my lungs can be as I explore the woods.

Next I notice the crunching of my steps as my boots break through the ice layer on top of the snow. Then I hear the scrunching sound of the snow as it is compressed by my weight. That noise brings back a childhood memory of being so cold as I did my chores in the winter on the farm. My feet were numb and the scrunch of the snow made me more miserable with each step.

Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch. Puff, puff, puff.

In the woods behind the cabin I am not cold with my insulated boots, long underwear and a thick parka. In fact I am overdressed and start to sweat under the many layers of clothing as I trudge through the deep snow on my way on a deer trail that might eventually lead me to the Methow River.

After stopping to rest and let my breathing return to normal, my hearing starts to tune into the world around me. My ear changes stations, retunes to a different sort of music as I decide if it is possible follow the increasingly narrow path left by the white tails.

A raven laughs at me as it flies from tree to tree, maybe not music, but the rough croak of the black clown makes me smile. 

A flutter of tiny wings draws my attention as the raven gets bored and looks for something more entertaining than an old man floundering around in the snow. Out of the corner of my eye I detect a tiny body flitting from branch to bush. The song of the little bird is not a snide laughter but more of a giggle. The call of the black capped chickadee. Chicka-dee-dee-dee.

A nervous chatter attracts my attention and I see a black squirrel dash across the snow and up the side of a Douglas fir. From its safe station far above me, the furry critter scolds at me, telling me to move along, mind my own business,

I take the advice and continue to puff and grunt as I again advance a little farther. After a few yards I stop again. It isn’t easy going.

The raven returns to mock my progress.

Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch. Puff, puff, puff. Another twenty meters and my body asks to stop for another few minutes.

The river is close enough now that even with my shoe leather ear drums I can hear the song of the moving water. A stream is a chorus of drips, splashes, babbles, shushes, bubbles, roars and even a few yelps. It is an opera, dramatic with a grand story of transformation that never ends. The aria is without words, but the story reaches deep inside to those who listen carefully. It is a tale that started with the first drop of rain and will continue long past human ears.

My breathing is back to normal, time to move on.

Scrunch, scrunch scrunch. Puff, puff, puff. The firs become thicker, the shade has sheltered the snow, and the slight trail becomes even more difficult to discern. I only make a bit of progress,  maybe ten meters, when my labored breath masks the sound of the river. With some reluctance I stop and reconsider. The sun will soon set, but perhaps I can reach the river if I put in a bit more effort. 

I don’t move. I am still a bit out of breath and I won’t get far unless I am more rested. Maybe I am just lazy. Still, as I start to breathe a bit slower and easier, another sense presents itself other than sight and sound. A damp fragrance comes to my notice as air moves through my nasal passages. It is an ancient smell, one that my coarse haired, cave dwelling antecedents would have found immeasurably important—the smell of water.

Of course, water, by itself has no odor. However, I am convinced that the nose is able to distinguish between dry and damp air. It is this forgotten ability to detect humidity that allowed my progenitors to find water during their wandering through arid plains, mountains and valleys. This hypothesis, of course, is my own and remains untested.

Humidity in the dry air of winter isn’t the only hint of water that tickles my nose. There are subtle bouquets that enhance the sense of the nearby stream. There is an organic touch to the slight humid ventilation through my nostrils, one of decaying leaves and another of fish. I also smell mud. These are not unpleasant odors, but add a vibrancy to the air, one that gives life to the water and the rocky bed of the stream. 

In the dead of winter the smell and sound of the river harmonize to sing of life and the promise of spring.

I am encouraged to continue.

Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch. Puff, puff, puff. The snow gets deeper and the path that the deer have packed down becomes more narrow and veers off under some low fir branches hanging heavy with snow. Dipping down low to cross beneath, the wind gets playful and dumps a load of snow on my back. Unfortunately the parka that would protects my neck and head has slipped down, and cold icy water trickles down my neck. The track beyond is barely visible. The desire to reach the river’s edge is being replaced by a wish to avoid the deep drifts that now form a formidable barrier. 

The raven fires away in disgust and the chickadee is long gone as the sun starts to disappear behind Lucky Jim. With some reluctance, I turn around and abandon my effort. As darkness rapidly approaches, the temperature drops, and the sweat around my neck starts to feel like an ice necklace.

The thought of a warm stove and a book hijacks my desire to reach the river, and begin my trudging journey back toward the cabin. Perhaps I will try again another day.

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It was just getting dark as the sun slipped behind Lucky Jim, the mountain across the valley floor from the cabin, but the driveway to the cabin from the highway was covered with snow. About a foot had fallen over the course of the day before we arrived. A pair of vehicle tracks could be seen underneath the top layer, but it was difficult to know what the total depth was. It remained to be seen if Jilly, our Jeep, could get up the hundred yards or so to the front deck without getting stuck. The thought of having to haul our packs and supplies through the deep snow in the gathering cold darkness was not appealing.

Yes, the snow was deep, but the combination of four wheel drive, all terrain tires and my excellent driving ability made the trip from the highway to the front of the cabin a piece of cake.  Now we had to find the key to the front door. We’d neglected to ask anyone and assumed that it would be in the lock box on the garage, but, after crawling through the snow to the side building, the key was not to be found.

We called several in the family who might know where to find the key, and as to be expected in this day of instant communication, no one answered the phone. Eventually we had a few texts containing a variety of answers, but no one actually seemed to know where the cabin key might be located.

Sheila has never been one to wait around for a problem to magically solve itself. She grabbed a shovel and cleared a path to the front door where she found the door unlocked.

The cabin was ready for our visit with dry wood in the box next to the stove and a pail of small sticks and pieces of bark for kindling. Waste paper was inside the stove, ready to light. Within minutes a warm fire was blazing. 

There was still a small, Douglas fir Christmas tree next to the front window with colorful, home made, paper chains wrapped around the boughs. Through the windows long ice sickles could be seen hanging from the roof. Shots of Jim Beam and Pendleton whiskey welcomed our arrival.

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2021. A new year. A new start after a really shitty year, probably the worst year I had since I returned from a short stint with the Marines as a Navy Hospital Corpsman in the last century and ended up in the St. Albans Naval Hospital in Queens, New York with a hole in my left lung caused by tuberculosis. I would spend nine months there before transferring to the VA Hospital in Madison, Wisconsin, to have the diseased part of my lung cut out with another six months of recovery and rehabilitation.

In 2020 our lives were being threatened by a rogue virus that jumped from an animal to humans in China and, with incredible speed, became a pandemic. COVID-19 was soon discovered to be especially dangerous to old people like Sheila and me. Almost a year later it was found that 80% of deaths related to the corona virus were people 65 or older. 

2020 was also the year of a presidential election where the loser, Donald Trump, trumped his long history of lies by claiming that the election was rigged and that he, not the legitimately elected Joe Biden, had won by a landslide. Online conspiracy theorists jumped on his band wagon with vicious support that goaded a faux paramilitary in Michigan to attempt to kidnap the governor and planned a follow up by storming that state’s legislature with more armed fools.

It was also the year of social unrest with the murder of Floyd George and the Black Lives Matter movement. There were counter protests with armed right wing extremists like the Proud Boys, the Oath Keepers and other militia groups. Destructive riots in Portland and Seattle went on for months.

We faced personal challenges with worries about family, and the death of a dear friend. Other loved ones became seriously ill with possible terminal outcomes. Personal isolation, mostly in our own home, brought loneliness and interfered with sleep, creativity and the thought process.

With the turning of the calendar on January first, we were somewhat comforted with the news that vaccines are being developed and distributed that will potentially end the nightmare pandemic of COVID-19. We also had a new president to be inaugurated soon. Hope began to be something reasonable to behold.

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More snow fell over night and it was still falling. The temperature was ten degrees and the cabin was cold. There were no embers inside the stove from the night’s fire. 

Looking around for some paper to start a new fire, I could only find a few pieces in an empty cardboard wine carrier. But, the kindling was dry bark. The small bit of paper fired quickly and soon the bark was lit. A few small pieces from the wood box slowly caught and soon larger pieces were aflame. With a few puffs from the wooden and leather bellows, a proper fire began to warm the room.

Sheila had started the Mr. Coffee and a rich aroma added to the early morning ambiance. We sat down at the table where we began our daily routine. First we wrote on yellow legal pads our Morning Pages, a stream of conscience exercise where we write as fast as we can, putting down anything that comes to mind. We ignore grammar rules and spelling. Just write to fill both sides of a sheet. Then we tear our finished product up into small pieces and throw them into the fire.

The writing ritual sort of clears the junk of complaints out of the way and makes our minds ready for proper thinking and creativity. Maybe.

We have a friend who had been doing the Morning Pages for years. She admits that, during some dark periods in her life, she has filled both sides with “fuck, fuck, fuck——.”

Next we sit next to each other on the sofa next to the stove where we ask about the past night. How did we sleep? What dreams did we have? Then we read something. The content varies. It could be something from a Buddhist periodical, a poem, even something as mundane as an article on the Internet. Opinion or news.

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We call ourselves isolated, but at the cabin we have a great Internet connection. If we can get to the road, we are equidistant from Mazama and Winthrop, a mere seven miles. However, there are no next door neighbors, no one walking past on the sidewalk or in the alley. The only visitors are whitetail deer who frequently stroll over the foot bridge behind the cabin on their way from the river to the stack of alfalfa at the end of the drive.

The snow had let up to only a few flakes after breakfast when we pulled on our boots and coats to go out and shovel. There was about a foot of new accumulation, but the snow was piled high on either side of the paths that lead to the wood shed, the garage and around to the front of the cabin where the Jeep is parked. We used scoop shovels rather than the small snow shovel. The snow needed to be tossed over to the side rather than plowed.

The sky cleared as we shoveled and the sun was bright enough to hurt the eyes as it reflected off the pure whiteness of the landscape. The sun and exertion made it necessary to take my jacket off as I started to sweat. It was hard work, but it felt good as I built a rhythm into the loading of the scoop, tossing the snow and lowering the shovel for another go. I tried to remember to alternate sides so that my back would not become strained.

Scoop, lift, toss. Scoop, lift, toss. Scoop, lift toss.

I’d not had much to use my upper body in the last several months after the gyms closed in March due to COVID-19 restrictions. I grieved little when my access to the health club was denied. I hated going to the place. 

It’s not that I loath physical calisthenics, but the workout at the gym seemed pointless with nothing accomplished at the end of two hours. There was not a sense of productivity in working with the weight machines or doing workout training in a room with other old farts. Jogging on a treadmill seemed equally as useless. After a workout I usually felt like I’d lost a couple of hours of my life and had nothing to show for it.

Shoveling snow was different. Looking at a cleared path, sweating from the effort, I could see that something had been accomplished. It felt good even though I was quite certain that the cleared trail would be covered soon with another layer of snow. For now it was a good job done well. 

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It was August and in most parts of the country the weather was warm; there were huge wild fires in California and other parts of the West. The Midwest was under a siege of steamy, hot air punctuated by violent thunderstorms. But, in the northern Rockies of the US, specifically in the Bob Marshall Wilderness, the nights were chilly, cold enough that frost formed on the tents at night. 

A couple of weeks before our trip, the guests received a letter advising them what sort of gear and clothing to bring on the trip. Not wanting to deprive anyone of a cocktail before dinner, the outfitters suggested that guests could bring alcoholic beverages, but cautioned against bringing an amount that would be too bulky or heavy to pack. They reminded guests that 35 pounds was the limit, including clothing, long underwear, sleeping bag, air mattress, fishing equipment, binoculars, books, and so on. 

Oh yes, there was also on the our packing list a reminder to bring towels and a mild soap that would not pollute the wilderness. So, it seemed reasonable that the guest could expect that a portable shower be available so that, after some of the hot, dusty days, the guests could at least wash off some of the dirt and sweat that accumulates over several hours of riding. My expectations were not met. It seems that we were either expected to use the river for bathing or go without.

The first night after the long ride into the wilderness, I could not stand to be around myself. Dirt was caked around my neck from the dust thrown off the trail, and my body smelled like a used gym sock that hadn’t been washed in months. Flies that landed on me became nauseous and dropped to the ground, begging to be killed.

It was bad enough that we lost all modesty. We stripped to our underwear and took clean clothing and towels down an area that was somewhat hidden from the rest of the camp. It was our hope that no one would decide to go exploring and find us as we attempted wash the day’s accumulation of dirt and sweat from out bodies.

It was late afternoon, and the sun was still strong enough to provide a little warmth as we stripped to our underwear. What was unexpected was the bitterly cold water, and the slippery rocks. No one seemed to be looking, but it would have been a pitiful sight to behold. The freezing water and the slimy rocks made us move like rusty robots as we carefully tried to keep our balance. The glacier fed stream was saturated with minerals and our soap seemed to be made out of wax. It took effort to get the smallest bit of lather.

Nevertheless, we persisted and eventually managed to get a film of soap on our bodies. Sheila was smart enough to bring shampoo and kind enough to share it with me. In spite of the hard water, the shampoo lathered nicely, and I could almost feel the grease and dirt peel away from my scalp.

When the time came for rinsing, we both paused. Then, together, we plunged into the icy cold. The shock was immediate. I thought that I would never breath again, but then, as we sat down to dry on the sun warmed rocks next to the river, the feeling was almost one of euphoria. 

The second bath was two or three days later after another day of riding and at a different campground. This time our tent was well distanced from the others, and our bathing spot a bit more secluded. The water was just as cold but deeper. Remembering the painful steps on slippery rock I chose to use my grey jogging shoes to protect my feet. Unfortunately, the rubber grips did nothing to keep me from sliding around while the river current did its best to knock me over. 

Sheila, on the other hand, seemed to have developed a compromise with the river that allowed her to gracefully bathe in the icy water. She seemed to move with a an elegance that belied the treacherous underwater stones that, in spite of my shoes, threatened to dunk me. 

I floundered around, nearly falling three or four times, until I could find a place to stand without wave my arms around like the vanes on a windmill. Then, I tentatively dipped the soap in the water and rubbed the wet bar on my chest. Again, the feeling was as if I was trying to buff my skin with a candle. There was a sequence of repetitive movement: dip, rub, dip, rub, dip rub. After several minutes of the seemingly useless activity, I declared myself clean and reached for Sheila’s shampoo. 

My hair and beard were not yet wet, so putting the shampoo bottle on a rock, I formed a scoop with my hands and dumped water on my head. The freezing cold sent something like an electric current through my body resulting in a seizure sort of dance. My carefully balanced position came undone. 

As the realization dawned on me, the peaceful valley was disturbed by my loud exclamation of, “Ah Fuck!” Then came that brief moment when there was nothing but shiny, silver bubbles around me. The cold at first shocked me and filled me with panic as I thrashed around, but then I noticed that the water was not as frigid as I thought. I calmed down and stopped flailing with my arms and legs. Slowly I gained uneasy purchase on the slippery rocks and stood up and wiped the water from my eyes. When my vision cleared I saw my naked wife laughing at me, not with me.

A minute later a water fight ensued.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The sun had yet to rise above the eastern ridge, but I had to get up to pee. I crawled out of the tent and walked to the edge of the bank above the river. Other than the bubbling sound of the water there was no sound. The air had a wonderful, clean scent, the sort of smell that is not encountered in the city. The bouquet of dry grass, of crisp, clean air.

The monochrome of morning twilight was slowly giving away to some tinges of color. Although there were still a few stars above, there was a small rim of gold on the eastern ridge, just below a dark, navy blue. To the west, the flat granite face of a mountain was turning a shade of maroon. The tips of a range further beyond were a burnt ochre. The river’s shimmering surface began to show hints of blue and green. 

The glow of a campfire and the smell of smoke pulled my attention away from the emerging day. Faces looked orange, illuminated by the flames, and low voices came from the wranglers and a few guests as they sipped the early morning coffee.

Sheila popped out of the tent, and we walked over to join the others. 

The conversation was limited to mumbled one or two syllables.

“Mornin’.”

“Mornin’.”

“Humph.”

“Coffee?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.”

There was a two gallon coffee pot propped up on stones so that the flames came directly in touch with the vessel. Our arrival coincided with the start of the boil. The aroma of the fresh brew wafted across our noses as we grabbed our cups. Chris hoisted the pot off the fire and poured the coffee for us.

Truth be told, it looked like mud. With each sip came a generous serving of grounds. If a cafe served coffee such as what we were drinking, it would be returned for a fresh cup. The consistency and strength of the campfire coffee would cause Seattle to crumble. They don’t like to chew their coffee.

On the other hand, no one complained about the cowboy version of the morning wake-up cup. Everyone came back for a second or even third serving, and Will had to dump more fresh grounds and fill up the pot with river water. A second pot was ready by the time breakfast was ready. 

Later, after breakfast, several of the guests tried their luck with their fly rods. We watched as Wayne walked along the side of the river until he stopped at a fork in the stream where the water had been divided by a small island. He gracefully pitched his line back and forth, extending the reach with each effort. The leader with the fly, when it landed to Wayne’s satisfaction, floated the surface for a few seconds before a trout snatched it. The fish was the first catch of the day.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The days were lazy for the most part. Will made sure that we had three meals a day: a hearty breakfast, a sandwich with fruit for lunch, and a more elaborate meal in the evening. Over the course of the week my weight must have increased considerably since the most exercise I had was short walks and riding a horse for an hour every other day. Reading, drawing or napping don’t use up a lot of calories. 

The last day was a long one. Right after breakfast we took down our tent and folded up our cots to take to the area where Chris was again supervising the loading of the pack animals. It was still early in the day, and he wasn’t as impatient as at the beginning of the week. The last thing that he would pack would be the portable toilet.

While there was no shower, there was a place where those in need could unload in private. It was a small, grey tent with a flap for a door. Inside there was what looked like a white bucket without a bottom placed over a hole in the ground. Inside the hole was a large plastic sack to hold the waste. And it stunk.

The crapper was so uninviting that my clockwork bowels were put on hold. I avoided using that  awful facility for three whole days, but eventually I had to face the unpleasant fact that I couldn’t hold it for the entire week. 

My curiosity could not be denied. I had to ask about the bags of shit. Did the crew surreptitiously pull the plastic bags out to be carried all the way back to be disposed of outside the wilderness area? Was it burned? What happened to those packages of offal after we left the camp.

The answer was simple enough. The crew just buried the sack where it was. 

I was relieved.

The ride back to the staging area took seven hours. There were a couple twenty-minute breaks, but mostly we were on our horses for the entire time. When we at last arrived at the paddock, my body was so sore and stiff that I could hardly dismount. Then I had to drag all of our crap to the truck, but the outfitters came with a reward. We each were handed a can of ice cold beer.

But, the adventure was not yet over. The roads had not improved over the week. The first part of the drive was slow as we crossed over pot holes and washed out parts that a normal car would have found difficult if not impossible to traverse. The second half of the drive back to Augusta was better. Only occasionally did the truck slide on the loose gravel. There were no ruts and only a few pot holes.

About a mile outside of Augusta the gravel gave way to a paved road, and the truck’s dashboard indicated that a tire was low in pressure. It was not particularly worrisome. The same signal had appeared before we left Missoula, but after taking it to a tire dealer it seemed that it was a false alarm.

Once inside the town limits there was a noticeable growl, a sound that seemed to be coming from the street. After rolling down the window, the noise was quite loud and behind the cab. 

I stopped, and with all the grace of a man with rusty joints I gingerly stepped out of the truck and looked back at the left, rear wheel seeing a tire that was completely flat. 

Only a couple of blocks away was a gas station, but the garage was closed. It was up to us to get the tire changed.

The pickup, which we had borrowed from our daughter and son-in-law, was less than a year old. We had to borrow the truck because our Jeep had just blown the second water pump in two years. 

The spare tire was hidden and suspended by chains under the bed and needed a special crank to lower it to the ground. Brilliant idea, but not so great if one is stiff from riding a horse for seven hours.

I looked in all the obvious places for the crank and the jack, but, unable to locate them I turned to the vehicle manual. The book indicated that the tool box was located under the right rear seat. Well, what a fool I was for not looking there in the first place.

Lifting up the rear seat was not as easy as the book explained. There was a lock somewhere that held the seat in place, and the right side could only be raised if the the left side was pulled up. 

I pulled up the left side and found a tool box that was empty. By the time I got to the right side, the left seat had slammed down again and locked. Several tries later, I was able to pick up the right seat and found the tire-changing tool box, empty. Well, not empty. There was a nice, quilted car blanket inside. No jack. No crank. There were no tire changing tools in the truck.

Just in time, Sheila came walking down the sidewalk with an air compressor tank. She’d gone into the general store and asked if there was anyone in town that could change our tire. The clerk told her that the station across the street had just closed, but she would call to see if the owner would open up for us.

He did.

I used the tank to pump up the flat as far as it would go. The tire was completely deflated and the pressure in the tank could only do enough to get the rim off the ground. But it was enough to get the truck the half block to the gas station.

Instead of merely changing the tire, the burly mechanic removed the flat and fixed it. He said it was easier to fix the tire than to mess with the spare. Plus, he said, we would now have a spare if we needed it. But he warned against driving on these back roads with four ply tires. 

That was the end of our excellent adventure of packing into the Bob Marshall Wilderness.

After all the preparation, an entire morning of packing and waiting, it was still a thrilling moment to ride across the wooden bridge that crossed the Sun River and enter the Bob Marshall Wilderness. The walls of the canyon that housed the stream were steep, and the water that rushed below was clear but tinted an iron brown. The horses and mules took no notice of the height or the roar of the water, but then they’d been crossing this span for years by now in all sorts of weather and seasons. The riders, however, were excited. The wilderness beckoned.

There were weathered wooden signs that welcomed us on the wilderness side of the bridge and others that reminded us that bicycles, motorized vehicles and power saws were not allowed in the area. Only hikers and animals were permitted entry.

The air was warm, but we were shaded by tall firs and pines as the trail followed the course of the river below us as we continued toward the interior of the wilderness. It was a bit nerve wracking as my horse walked along the narrow trail on the edge of a cliff several hundred feet above the rocks and river. Ben seemed to take no notice of the height and kept following Rango, who plodded along following Chase on his mule. 

The sound of the leather parts of the saddle had a tranquilizing effect on me after a while. I started hearing nonsense songs that reminded me of riding when I was a kid riding on my horse, Paint, as I herded cattle. 

“Squeekity squeak, squeekity squeak. Pet the cat, pet the cat. Squeekity, sqweekity, pity the kitty, pity the kitty. sqweekity squeak, pay the bill, pay the bill . . ..”

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After an hour, Will on the lead mule, called for a break after the trail veered away from the river, there was a small clearing where we could stop for lunch. It gave me an opportunity to test my ability to dismount without assistance, an exercise that gave me a little more confidence. I managed to slide off my horse without falling down. It wasn’t the most graceful dismount, but I was pleased to not be sprawled in the dirt, or worse, horse manure.

The vet, although he’d been riding a month prior to this trip, managed to twist his hip as he got off his horse, and the physician needed two crew members to haul him off his mount. Sheila, with a little help from Brenden, slid off Rango without a problem.

The horses needed to be tied to a tree while we rested and ate, and Will showed me how to do a quick release hitch. Well, he tried to, but it would take a couple of stops before I finally learned the trick. Pull the rope around the tree, cross the line to the other side making a numeral 4, pick up the left point of the 4, make a loop by pretending to check the time on a wrist watch, pull the loose end of the rope with a loop through the loop of the 4 and pull end attached to the horse tight against the tree. 

“Simple, right?” Will asked.

I felt like it was advanced calculus.

Sheila and I retrieved our sack lunches from our saddle bags and found a fallen log where we sat down to eat. The bags resembled bandanas like the one on my neck so that the neckerchief could be pulled up when the trail got dusty. The first thing I pulled out was a rolled tortilla, but instead of retried beans or taco meat it enclosed something that looked like red sausage. Sheila was of the opinion that it was pastrami. It was something that was not supposed to be served at ninety degrees inside a tortilla. The red slab was extremely salty and tasted rather rancid.

Also inside the bag was a plastic sack containing bbq flavored corn chips, a container of M&Ms and a small, spotted apple. To be honest, I was jealous of Sheila’s lunch. She had the same wrapped thing, but she also had unflavored chips and a pack of peanut M&Ms. I admit, also, that I pouted and wondered if all our meals would be so mediocre.

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The group was called to order by Will, and we went to mount our horses again. Some of us found logs to step up on so that it was easier to get in the saddle, while others attempted to step up on the stirrups and pull their bodies over the horse. It was a matter of learning the coordination of using legs and arms rather than strength.

It took about an hour to get through this lonely part of the valley where the only wildlife to be seen was a bald eagle floating from one side of the burn to the other. The guests were momentarily distracted from the burned trees and hot day as they all shielded their eyes to watch the bird soaring through the blue sky. Even the wranglers were impressed.

It was time to head into an area called the “Big Crispy,” where the green, tall, shade-producing foliage gave way to a barren landscape of black and grey trees, victims of a forest fire several years ago. The trail, since it was no longer protected by shade, was dry and dusty. The mid afternoon sun was hot, and the top of my bald head became wet with perspiration under my cowboy hat.

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The verdant view of Pretty Prairie (yes, that is really the name) could be seen almost a mile before the riders reached the end of the burn. The guests had been told that the real scenery started after leaving the Big Crispy, and the change was like going from a black and white movie to full color. The green vegetation and blue color of the stream refreshed and beckoned us.

We rode for another mile or so after we reached the prairie that had not only tall grass, but several varieties of wild flowers such as asters with purple petals and golden centers, sunflowers, white daisies, multilayered petals of cream pearly everlasting with sunny yellow centers, lavender fire weed, and bright orange paintbrush to name a few. The number of evergreens was small, and they grew mostly alone, not in groves like we saw in the upper forest. Here also were scrub willows and small stands of birch with the spotted white bark and broad leaf maple. The spears of grass were not so green as they’d seemed from the distance, but were already turning yellow, gold and brown now in late summer.

We came to a small brook that flowed with clear water. The horses in front of Ben took little notice of the little stream, but he decided to study the situation for a bit before surprising me as he leaped across. Not expecting the sudden lunge, I almost got tossed off the back of the saddle. Of course everyone that saw the jump was quite amused, and I heard cruel laughter behind me. I thought I should deserve applause for my horsemanship. 

It was another mile and late afternoon when we stopped along the river. Will advised the guests to get their water bottles and come with him to the water’s edge where he used an ingenious device containing a bacteria filter and pump to refill our containers. My own container had to be refilled twice as I still had a lingering thirst and the unpleasant remaining taste of lunch remained.

It was announced, to my relief, that the spot next to the river was where we would spend the first night. Sheila suggested that we pitch our tent where we stood, on the bank overlooking the bubbling water, a few feet from the rough path that led to the stream. 

Next, our tents and cots were distributed, and I was rather disappointed that we were expected to erect the tent ourselves. It wasn’t that difficult, but I was tired and feeling stiff and sore from riding most of the afternoon. There was a bit of self-pity in my aura, but it came even more evident when we went to put the cots together. They reminded me of a large Chinese puzzle constructed of canvas and aluminum tubes. It was embarrassing once we found how easily the pieces fit into each other.

In spite of my trepidations, based on the deplorable lunch experience, dinner was quite nice, meatballs with scalloped potatoes and mixed green salad. The surprisingly good meal restored my expectations of Will. The portions were large, so I passed on the dessert and from the look at the offering, it was just as well. Some kind of white slime with a glop of red in the middle.

The pack animals were turned out to graze with many of the horses hobbled on their front legs so that the more adventurous could not wander far. Surprisingly the horses that were shackled found a way to get around by stiffly moving with a modified canter, raising their front legs and propelling themselves forward with their hind feet. They would graze for 10 or 15 minutes, and then one of them would decide to hurry to another area in that inflexible hobbled gate.

The pack animals were turned out to graze with many of the horses hobbled on their front legs so that the more adventurous could not wander far. Surprisingly the horses that were shackled found a way to get around by stiffly moving with a modified canter, raising their front legs and propelling themselves forward with their hind feet. They would graze for 10 or 15 minutes, and then one of them would decide to hurry to another area in that inflexible hobbled gate.

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The mules needed no such limitations as they tended to stay in the area of the horses in spite of having the freedom to explore. Chis explained it was the mares to which the mules where attracted. He said that the mules would not wander too far as long as there was at least one mare close by.

The hybrids acted differently from the horses, and exhibited a delight in being released from duty by jumping, running and kicking up their heels. Every so often one of the mules would race down the bank to the river, drink its fill and then race back to join another as they grazed among the tents. They wore bells, so that the crew knew where to find them in the morning, and it was a comforting sound to hear them munching and the sound of the bells throughout the night. It was also the absence of bells that would awaken the crew to go out into the night and look for the pack animals.

When my nightly urge woke me, I found an Ansel Adams moon above the southeastern skyline, and the Milky Way extended itself across the night. Over the western edge was a broad splash of light that I did not recognize, but after a few minutes I realized that it was a comet. It was Neowise, the celestial body that had been on the news, but until now, I’d not been able to witness because of clouds, city lights or other obstructions. I was tempted to wake others, but then, in the chilly night, my enthusiasm would probably not be appreciated by others. In the end, it was a beautiful few minutes that I enjoyed by myself. I heard the river, smelled the clean air that was part of the magnificent night around me.

To be continued.

And now, the exciting conclusions to Dan and Jan’s Excellent Adventure.

Roughly a decade before Dan and I arrived in Twin Falls, Idaho, Evel Knievel had attempted to jump the Snake River near the city on a rocket propelled motorcycle, but failed as an unexpected wind blew the vehicle off course causing the daredevil to deploy a parachute. Mr. Knievel had had more fun than we were having on our trip as we hauled my junk from Kansas to Oregon in a rental truck pulling a vintage VW bus.

We’d been besieged by a number of mishaps that had delayed our progress including (but not limited to) mechanical problems with the truck, a blowout on the bus, bad motels and bad food. We were becoming as pessimistic as Afghan peasants.

Twin Falls appeared on an exit sign off I-84, the highway we took going east from I-15. It was the first town in Idaho that seemed to have a number of motels, but it soon became evident that Twin Falls was not really on the Interstate. Instead the city was on US 30 as a link that gave access to I-84. It was getting late, and, in consideration of our record on this trip, the dark road seemed to represent an invisible threat.

I was driving while Dan stared moodily out at the shadows in the fields next to the road. A sign proclaimed that the crops in the barely visible rows were sugar beets. Our bored conversation revealed that neither of us had ever seen a sugar beet. We speculated that they might be white.

There was nothing memorable about Twin Falls or the motel where we spent the night other than the next morning we noticed that there seemed to have been a fight in the parking lot. It appeared to have spilled out of a dingy bar called the Beet next door to our lodgings. A Dodge parked next to our rental truck had a smashed windshield and a broken mirror that hung off the driver’s door. Glass splinters were scattered all around, but a brief walk around revealed that neither the truck nor the VW were damaged.

The bar appeared to be open for breakfast, but we decided that we’d opt for the mini mart at the edge of town where we wouldn’t have to crunch our way across a parking lot full of broken glass. Inside the store we found a heated glass case with a few pieces of what might have been yesterday’s deep fried chicken and something that resembled greasy folded cardboard. We opted for coffee and granola bars.

I was driving, feeling tired and put upon while Dan was dozing fitfully when I looked at the oil pressure gauge and noted that the needle was resting at the low end of the range. After sneaking a look at Dan, I poked at the gauge with my finger, a desperate effort that I knew was useless. The needle did not move.

After due consideration, I decided that it was probably better not to mention the oil pressure issue to Dan. After all the truck was running and there was no reason to disturb his rest. The gauge was probably broken.

The traffic on I-84 again increased as we got closer to Boise. The Interstate ran along the southern end of the city, but it seemed that every driver in Boise decided to jam onto the highway at the time we were passing by. It was also at this point that construction and repairs to the road caused the driving lanes to be reduced to one each way. The vehicles slowed to a crawl with frequent stops. The distance between the first city exit and the last was no more than fifteen miles, but after twenty minutes, we were stopped and we had ten miles to go before we’d be at the western city limits of Boise.

Dan, still in the passenger side, looked over at the heat gauge and casually mentioned that the engine was about to overheat. I put the truck in neutral and gunned the engine which after a couple of minutes lowered the temperature a couple of notches. By that time we started to crawl forward again, but with the slow pace, the needle on the gauge started to creep up again. There was nothing to do but take the next exit, stop and let the engine cool.

There was stream rising from the grill by the time we pulled into a K-Mart parking lot, and the cab began to fill with the sweet smell of hot engine coolant. We both rolled the side windows down and got out to wait.

It was late morning and the sun was blistering hot on the asphalt. Rather than risk sunstroke, we ventured into the air conditioned purgatory of the box store. We were immediately informed by an announcement of a blue light special in women’s lingerie for ten minutes. Indeed, we could see a light similar to what might be on a police cruiser turning in an isle on the far side of the store. Women dragging small children were rushing in that direction.

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Dan and I were not tempted, but instead wandered over to the automotive section. That department, at the time, still had a large selection of floor mats, wiper blades, engine lubricants and, as luck would have it, antifreeze. We went for the K-Mart brand rather than Prestone, which was was twice as expensive.

We farted around for another half hour in the cool atmosphere of the store and returned to the truck. Happily, we found that the engine had cooled, but the parking lot had become hot enough that some of the tar was getting soft. The edge of our heels left marks on the surface of the asphalt and the smell of coal assaulted our noses.

After dumping some coolant in the radiator reservoir, Dan climbed into the drivers seat. He turned the key to start, and after a few seconds of making a suspicious groaning sound, the engine started. Dan turned his head and gave me a hard stare, as if I’d sabotaged the truck.

I said nothing.

He turned on to the surface streets parallel to the Interstate even though the speed was slow, but at least we could keep moving. The temperature gauge indicated that the engine was not overheating. We would have to deal with the odor of the coolant for the rest of the trip.

A few miles east of Boise we were able to get back on I-84 where the traffic was now light and continued that way as we crossed into Oregon and Pacific Time. We gained an hour, not that it made any difference. We were still way behind schedule, and Dan had to call his work to inform them that he needed to take another couple of days off.

After crossing the Snake River, we stopped in Ontario for gas at an Exxon station near the bridge. I filled the tank and cleaned the bugs off the windshield while Dan went into the minimart to get coffee. Thinking of the pressure gauge, I checked the engine oil level and found, with some relief, that , although slightly low, there was no need to add more. The stick did show that the oil was pretty dirty, actually looking like crude petroleum.

Dan came back with a bag of pork rinds as well as two large cardboard cups of coffee and handed me one before he hopped behind the wheel to take over driving. After climbing in on the other side, I sipped at the coffee and judged that it had been on the burner for most of the day. I left the pork snacks to Dan.

The last big challenge to the truck were the Blue Mountains of Eastern Oregon, but they were mere bumps in the road compared to the steep grades of Colorado and Wyoming. The truck, however, did not respond well to the climbing highway, and slowed considerably to the work load as semis crawled past us. Black smoke came out of the exhaust pipes while Dan poked his finger on the oil pressure gauge trying to nudge it into action.

It seems that both of us had noticed the inactive gauge, but neither of us had called the other’s attention to it. Why raise unnecessary concerns?

Having gone over a pass, the truck seemed to take heart in the downward pitch, and Dan let it have its way as it caught up with the semis that had chugged by us earlier. As he pulled by one of the larger trucks I looked up to see the driver giving us a baleful glance. He was probably thinking of how he would have to pull around us again when the next steep grade came up.

We stopped for food at a Denny’s off the Interstate in Pendleton, but parked in the lot of a nearby truck stop so that the truck had clearance with nobody parking in front or behind. Dan had pointed out earlier that, with the puzzling mechanism that attached the VW to the truck, it would be advisable not to reverse. So far, the strange hitch had held and there was no reason to give it a chance to fail.

The interior of Denny’s was delightfully cool, and we decided to actually eat in a booth rather than sit at a counter. There were few customers, and our food, breakfast specials that were served all day, arrived in small skillets. We were hungry, so we did not question the way the food came but dived in like a couple of starving dogs.

It was my turn to driver, and, in spite of the heat and the lingering odor of the radiator additive, I was rather cheerful. This would be the last leg of our long trip to Portland, and I was looking forward to off loading my junk as well as getting the truck off my hands.

I jumped into the seat and turned the key in the ignition. The engine seemed a bit hesitant, but, after a few stuttering turns, it started, blowing out the charcoal exhaust behind. Then the dark smoke became lighter, white, but not invisible. I put the clutch to the floor, shifted into low, and slowly engaged the transmission. The motor did not stall, and we started to creep forward. I pulled forward and did a u-turn at the end of he block and started back toward the on ramp. Then I spotted an old familiar looking VW bus sitting on the side of the road.

It took a couple of seconds before I recognized the bus as mine just as Dan sputtered.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!”

It took us twenty minutes to reattach the hitch and another ten minutes of double, triple and quadruple checking to make sure the connection was solid.

Dan and I looked at each other with tense relief after the truck started again, and I shifted gears as we pulled back onto the Interstate. Our minds were, no doubt and despite our lack of spiritual acknowledgement, saying the same thing.

“Please, please, please; just get us over these last two hundred miles.”

After a long hill just west of Pendleton, I-84 becomes a straight line that moves horizontally across a dry landscape with patches of irrigated alfalfa fields. The arid, flatness of the area, and the heat allows frequent winds to blow from south to north. There are signs warning drivers of occasional dust storms that can rise up quickly, and motorists are urged to leave their headlights on during daylight hours.

So it was that I found myself trying to drive in a straight line as a strong wind kept trying to force the truck off the right side of the road. It wasn’t a blinding dust storm, but tumble weeds and roadside debris dashed across the highway in front of the truck. It was tiring work, and to make matters worse, the coffee from Denny’s had passed quickly to my bladder. It had only been about fifty miles, but it was necessary to stop at the next rest area.

Blowing dirt got in our eyes and stung our faces as we ran toward the restroom. The wind overcame the pneumatic closer of the building and the door slammed behind us as we entered. As we left, it was an effort to open the door against the wind, and we faced the same beating returning to the truck.

It was a mistake to open both doors at the same time. As I wrenched open the driver door against the wind, Dan was bowled over by explosion of the passenger door. Our jackets flew out of the cab and danced across the parking area. It was by sheer luck that a fellow traveler was able to grab them before the coats launched themselves into the sky.

Once settled inside the truck and after we stopped coughing and blowing the dust out of our nasal passages, we were ready to continue. I twisted the ignition key, and nothing happened. The starter tried to turn the engine over, but the motor seemed frozen. The heat gauge indicated that things were not hot. The battery was good. We had filled up in Pendleton.

Dan explained the situation clearly.

“God damn it. Fuck!” And then, “well, wait a few minutes.”

“As if a miracle will occur,” I said, silently, to my self.

We sat in silence, except for the howling wind, for about five minutes.

“Okay, try it again, but for Christ sake don’t flood it.”

I could feel my face getting red, but I did not respond. With little faith, I turned the key.

Chug. Chug. Chug, roar. Roar.

We looked at each other with wide eyes. It was a miracle indeed. The truck had changed its mind, and we could go on.

Dan, “Let’s get the fuck out of here, and don’t stall it.”

I took no offense this time as I slowly pulled out of the rest area and back on to the highway.

As we approached the Columbia Gorge, the wind changed direction and the truck now had to labor against a gale that was bringing clouds from the ocean. The air became cooler and a few drops of moisture spattered against the windshield. The wipers smeared dirt and bug gunk across the glass. By the time we pulled into Biggs to get gas (roughly the halfway point between Pendleton and Portland), the sky was beginning to clear again, and the wind let up.

An attendant was walking up to the pumps (Oregon requires a gas jockey to pump the gas) as Dan was about to speak. I shut off the motor.

“I was just going to say, ‘don’t turn off the engine ‘.”

I knew that the attendant wouldn’t fill the tank with the motor running, but that wasn’t the point.  I hadn’t even thought of it.

Once again there was silence in the cab as the truck was fueled. After I’d paid inside the station, I found Dan sitting in the driver’s seat——-with the motor running!

He had a proud, shit eating grin on his face, but then admitted he had no idea that the truck would start again.

It was getting dark in Portland, but we were lucky enough to find a storage facility that was still open for business on Division Street. It was sheer luck. I had no idea where anything was in this city, but after two hours of labor, the truck was unloaded.

There was no point in trying to find the Jartran truck rental office, it was late, and it had closed at six. It would have to wait until morning, and the guy at the storage place said that there was a decent motel just up a few blocks.

We found the Star Dust Motel easily enough, but the vacancy sign wasn’t lit. Nevertheless I pulled in and parked the truck (with the VW still in tow) in front of the office.

“Don’t——,” advised Dan.

But it was too late. I’d turned off the engine.

Immediately, I turned the key.

Nothing happened.

There was a vacancy at the motel. In fact the place was almost empty, and, upon inspection of a room, it was obvious why. Although reasonably clean, the furnishings were old and worn. The bed covers were worn and the sheets were almost transparent. The selling point was not only the cheap price for the room; the clerk said nothing about moving the truck.

Epilogue:

The Jartran Truck Rental place was several miles south of downtown Portland and I had to buy a city map to find Barber Avenue. Getting from the east side is not easy now, but it was a nightmare for me as there was no such thing as GPS in the mid-Eighties. All the streets west converged on a single bridge over the Willamette River, and then came a maze of circles and turns to find another street that went south.

It was about ten in the morning when I finally arrived at the Jartran place where I immediately complained about the shape of the truck that I’d picked up in Kansas.

The man sympathized with me, but said there was nothing that could be done about my problem. He had no method of compensating me or giving even a partial refund. He suggested that I write a letter of complaint to the president of the company.

A month later I learned that the company had filed for bankruptcy and went out of business.