Ancient Eyes

It was going to be a long trip. When I had mapped out the route from Kalispell to Denver, the map said that it would be roughly fifteen or sixteen hours to drive. Of course, I was heading down right before the Fourth of July, so who knew what it was actually going to be like. The whole reason for the trip was to go to a friend's wedding. Things became more complicated because Deb had to travel to Austria and France before the trip to Denver. When Deb landed in D.C. on her return trip, she found out that thousands of flights had been canceled due to weather, and because of the backlog, it appeared that it would be a couple of days before she could even fly. Luckily, we had a friend who worked in the airline industry, so he had been checking to see if there were any options for her. We had decided that if all else failed, I would go to the wedding by myself, and she would simply fly home.

    Five in the morning arrived too quickly when my alarm went off. I rolled out of bed, took a shower, and got dressed. I had packed everything the night before, so I simply grabbed my backpack and suitcase and walked out to the car. Hints of light were showing, the sun coming up from behind the mountains. My mood, though, was dark. I had been doing outreach the previous few days, attempting to be there for individuals because of Scott's murder the prior Sunday at the hands of two teenagers. I was mad. I was pissed. I had seen it coming for a while. Leading up to Scott's death, I had contacted different organizations, including the Montana branch of the ACLU, and had been met with a proverbial dial tone. As I began driving, my mind wove too and fro, up and down, mimicking the road I was traveling down. Who else could I contact? Would they listen? Would they be willing to do anything? Why the hell had I even moved out here in the first place? For what? The only person I was fooling was my goddamned self. I was just an outsider, making a fool of myself, and had drug my wife along for the show. There was not a damned thing I could do.

    In silence, I sat in the car, my eyes staring out ahead of me as trees flashed by. Before long, I was driving on I90 and then exited at Columbus, where I turned South onto Route 78 and headed towards Absarokee. This route was definitely longer, but I had no idea whether I would ever be in the area again during my lifetime. I passed through little western towns, including Roscoe and Simpkins Place, before passing through Red Lodge. At Belfry, I turned right and continued on what eventually turned into Route 120 at the Wyoming border. As I drove, I thought about Scott standing under the old railroad trestle, where I had seen him the last time before he died. Other interactions that I had had with him came to mind, the darkness of time having not erased them yet. Faces came to my mind. Patty. Dennis. Sheri. Sunny and Donkey. Jimmy. Paul and Maria. I kept driving, and the faces continued to appear and then disappear. I had been part of a community. They had welcomed me in despite not knowing me. They had loved me, and I had loved them.

    As I continued to peer out the front windshield, it suddenly began to rain. The rain dropped slightly at first, kissing the windshield until suddenly, it was a downpour. I turned the windshield wipers on medium and pressed the brakes to slow down. Driving through Wyoming, the rain came down in spurts. I glanced through the passenger-side window, then the driver-side window, and I was surprised by how green everything was. In my experience, everything was different shades of brown by this time of the year.  I peered through the windshield and saw the beginning of another mountain range. It was the following scene that unfolded that simply took my breath away. Travels that I had made up to this point had allowed me to see things, including the Andes Mountains of South America, the Sierra Nevada Mountains of Spain, the snow-capped tips of the French Alps, and the volcanic island hills of Portugal. What unfolded in the following moment simply was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. The sun was shining down from blue skies onto the mountains. A large rain cloud had formed in front of the mountains. The result was that gold and greens were shown vibrantly from the prairie and the slopes of the mountains.

I pulled over and began taking pictures. After each picture, I would look at the phone to see if I had captured the beauty. The images simply did not do justice. 'Man, I wish Deb was here with me to see this,' I thought to myself. After a few more pictures, I pulled back onto the highway and continued down the road. A mile or two further down, I passed a turn-off that would have taken me to those mountains; the name of the road was Chief Joseph Scenic Byway. Glancing over, I realized that in those couple of miles, I had driven past the rain cloud, and now the sun was shining down on the valley that sparkled with greens, browns, and golds that seemed to be magnified on the tips of the long grass.

    Ten minutes later, I drove into Cody, pulling into the parking lot of Buffalo Bill Village Cabins, where I had booked a room for the night. After checking in, I pulled the car around to where my cabin was. Putting the car in park, I stepped out and looked at the place that I would be sleeping in for the night. The first thought that came to my mind was that it looked as if I would be sleeping in a rustic shed from Home Depot. 'Well, it could be worse,' I thought to myself. Opening the back door, I pulled out the backpack and suitcase and then opened the door to my 'cabin.' Inside, there was enough room for a double bed and a TV stand. Just past the bed and around the corner was the bathroom. 'Snug,' I thought. I stepped outside again, closing the door behind me. I looked at my phone, trying to figure out where I would get dinner. It said that just down the street was a brewery that had four point eight stars and advertised having food. 'Great, it is close, and I can just walk to it.' I began walking, and five minutes later, I was at the front entrance. The building was huge. I walked in and looked at the bar area. For as big of a building as it was, the bar only took up an 8th of the area. I walked to the bar, pulled a stool out, and sat down. Picking up the menu that was on the bar in front of me, I glanced at the beer list: Wyobreeze Hard Seltzer, Double Twisted Imperial IPA, Quitcher Bitchin' American Wheat. 'Whatcha hav'n,' the bartender asked. I looked up at him. The man was looking at me through thick aviator glasses. He had a trucker hat on, a thick horseshoe mustache that seemed to be glued around his mouth, and an American flag-printed t-shirt. 'You know what, how about getting me a glass of the Much Obliged Hazy,' I responded. As he turned to pour the beer, he asked,' You wanna start a tab?' 'Yeah, sure. Do you have a food menu?' I asked. ' No food today. Food truck is closed,' was the response. 'I guess I will just go ahead and close out,' I responded. 'There's a five-dollar minimum,' came the drawl. 'Guess I am starting a tab,' I countered like sly gambler at a poker table. He finished the pour, turned around, and placed the pint of beer in front of me. 'Water's 'round the corner,' he finished. I pulled out my phone to see if Deb had texted. Seeing that she had not, I dialed her phone and called her. We chatted for a while, and she said that it looked like she might be able to catch a flight the following day, but she did not know for sure. After a few more minutes of talking, I hung up with her. Following a lot more work than what should have been necessary to close the five-dollar tab, I stood up and turned to leave. Walking out, I began thinking about where I might go to distill the taste that was lingering in my mouth. I definitely needed to eat something. Looking down at my phone again, I decided that a burger would do. After finishing my meal at Blanca Tatanka, I ended up back at my snug little cabin for the night.

    Sliding into bed, I texted Deb good night and that I would talk to her in the morning. Laying there, I began scrolling through the phone. Remembering suddenly, I began searching through information regarding someone whom I had read many books about. John Jeremiah 'Liver-Eating' Johnson. For anyone who is not familiar with the man, he was made famous by Robert Redford in the 1970s movie, 'Jeremiah Johnson.' The real-life person had spent much of his life in the very area that I had driven that day. In the time that he roamed the area, he was known as a trapper, scout, soldier, and whiskey peddler, among many other things.  Reading his biography on Wikipedia, I realized that he had been buried in Cody. In fact, his grave was on the other side of town. The plan had been to leave around four or five in the morning and head towards Denver. I decided, though, that I wanted to see Johnson's memorial. So, the plan was that I would wait until seven thirty to get going.