Trust Me: Worry Goes West, #2

PART I

OBLIVION, MONTANA

CHAPTER 1: HALF USED-UP

"New things come and old things go,

But it all looks the same to Joe."

Cowboy’s Lament

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Exhaust fumes drift through the cab of our truck. Snow-chilled air flows in the open windows. Frog steers. I stare up dogleg curves toward a high mountain pass. We level off near the top at ten thousand feet.

Two months we’ve been in and out of the clouds with this half-dead pickup. It’s a land of giants out here in Montana. The truck whines through second gear—up past huge boulders, twisted pines, chunks of blasted rock, dark marsh pools.

October’s early snow is gone, except for a few white patches scattered across rock slopes so vast and strange it all could’ve plopped down from Mars.

Straight ahead the sun reflects red-gold against a granite crest. Past those rocks our road cuts down the northeast face of Yellowstone Park and goes through Red Lodge, an old frontier town near our ranch.

Nothing new. It’s the same run we made each week through August and September. But I come from the flatlands of north Florida. I still can’t believe I see this stuff for free. Back home I’d be waiting in line to buy a ticket for thrill rides tricked-out to look like this.

There it was, see. A two-arm cactus, Frog barked to be heard over the buzz from our loose muffler. Sky-high and black, facing a red sunset like this one here. ‘Cept it was a picture on a magazine.….. Ya hear that?

I hear.

I spotted that cactus from a Seven-Eleven checkout line. In Los Angeles, he said, pointing his finger at our windshield like it was a TV screen or something.

Frog’s eyes zero in on me. He’s supposed to be driving. I left town for that sunset. Figured I had to live in it, he shouted. Then he let off the gas for a moment of quiet. Tricked me.

Tricked you? I asked.

Cactus ain’t satisfied ‘til it lames ya up. Remember that. I doctored needle sores and snakebites going on thirty years. Come spring I’m headin’ south. Maybe this time for good. He emphasized ‘good’ by mashing the power pedal again. The muffler roared. Here came the next cloud of fumes.

Where ‘bouts? Florida? Vegas? I yelled to be heard, a bit late because Frog backed off the gas and the racket had stopped.

Frog clinched his jaw, adjusted his crooked hat, then raised a can of spit off the floor and added a brown blob to the day’s stash. Shee-it, friggin’ dingbat, he muttered.

I never heard cowboys curse like you, Frog.

You ain’t been ‘round long enough to comment, son. You’re better than you started out, but don’t get carried off. You ready? Here goes. He spat again in the direction of the can.

Yesterday I told Frog how I won five thousand dollars one night in Reno after traveling with a pair of lesbian bikers from L. A. He reacted the same as now- like I never spoke.

Frog re-wedged the spit can into a hole on the floor, then downshifted to a dead stop. It was time.

We’re at the pass. Even in summer here the way is plowed through a north-face snowdrift. This white chill box, with ten-foot glaciers on both sides of the road, comes right before what’s known as the Yee-Haw Freefall, one long string of switchbacks that dumps traffic from this mountain face back down onto planet earth.

Opposite the valley below us stretched a monster range of saw-toothed, magnetic Rockies. It’s one of those drop-jaw sights that confound newcomers like me.

After digging around under his seat, Frog located a nest of wires attached to a dusty CD player. He tugged the stuff out, blew on it and tossed it in my direction.

Here, he says. You know the drill. Don’t start till I give the signal.

Full blast? I asked.

What d’ya think?

Windows? I cranked my window completely down.

That’s it. He cranked his too.

We never go fast. Even so, the high October winds turned my face cold before the first turn. Our descent to the valley works like this: Frog’s faded red pickup, with FORD on its tailgate re-painted to read FROG, starts rolling carefree down the mountain in neutral. We’re pulling a trailer full of horses like we do on most return trips.

At the first sharp turn there’s a dirt pullover. It arcs back onto the pavement in fairly short order. No need to worry about flying off the mountain into thin air because the rutted overlook is secured by a thin split-rail fence three feet from the cliff’s edge.

What we do is drift off the road into that narrow space and skirt the cliff for a view into oblivion, straight down to nowhere... then Frog hits the gas for a dusty re-entry onto the down-sloping highway. A little hump at the road bounces the horses every time. We get to hear them complain.

Right now we’re nearing the top turn-off. Frog raises and drops his right hand for the attack— which means I push the CD PLAY button.

Almost no sound at first, a slow build-up; but as we swerve toward the rail, a rising crescendo trumpets our arrival, sounding the opening bars from Frog’s 2001 Space Odyssey digital soundtrack. Top volume! "ba-Baa…… BA-BAAAAAA!!!!!

And we’re off, orchestrated into the adventure of a lifetime where another world calls your name in Dolby stereo. You can feel your insides vibrate. It’s overpowering.

But completely unnecessary considering the drop off and the staggering view in front of you right then.

Not for Frog. He needs that high-volt kicker.

Once on a Saturday we were doing a run down the mountain after hauling horses and hay to the dude ranch up top near Cook City. I asked Frog, Why go all symphonic instead of sticking with normal music— Willie Nelson, Hank Williams? He raised a brow, said nothing.

Next trip a week later, I ask the question again. He answers. It ain’t normal cause it AIN’T normal, that’s why. Normal kills!

Frog’s been all normaled out. Up here in the most beautiful place on earth. Imagine that. So, what do you do next when you need a jumpstart, something besides busting out your eardrums or nearly driving off a cliff?

Turn to booze. That’s the ranch remedy. Called ‘Going on the Road’. You leave your perfect horse and scenery; take one or two less than perfect companions; come home a week or so later with a fresh outlook and a mind-numbing hangover.

Most cowboys avoid doing this road trip alone because friends get worried. Left behind, they tend to act suspicious and gloomy when you return. Especially if you start calling everything except your own horse and truck all those assholes. That kind of lonely talk can get you kicked out of the bunkhouse.

If Frog really is taking a trip this spring, I wonder who might go with him? Besides him being so alluring and charming, spring’s a busy time for ranch work. Other people tend to stay put.

No matter, I’m enjoying the cowboy club. I love everything about it. So I play by the rules whatever they are. I got no gripes with the bunkhouse or anything else out here in Montana... near these troublesome Rocky Mountains.

THUMP!! YANK!...... DAMN! Flat tire! Frog complains as he lays hold to the wheel. Me, Frog, and our heavy load wobble back and forth down that narrow decline.

‘Keep the trailer away from the cliff, Frog,’ I’m thinking to myself. Four horses start kicking and snorting back there. I busy myself by trying to push both feet through the floorboard while I’m grabbing at my door.

Frog did the rest. We’re finally stopped, still in the road. Both of us are out to check the damage.

That tire again, says Frog, joining me at the right front wheel. Dry-rot. The thing’s missing chunks of tread in three places. The rest of it looks like Dustin Hoffman’s 200-year-old makeup job from that movie, Little Big Man.

Got a spare? I ask him.

Not yet.

SLAM!!... One horse explodes a complaining kick to the side of the trailer.

We’ll check Doug’s if he’s still open. Here, shoot it with this stuff- see what happens. Frog tossed me a can of ‘_IX a _LAT’ he’d dug out from behind the seat. Compressed glue. Appeared to be trash, with the expiration date and half the writing worn off. Frog went back to stop those noises coming out of the horse trailer.

Works fine, Frog! I yelled.

Frog returned to the driver’s door and slid into his seat. Let’s go ‘fore it gets any darker. You hungry? I am.

You wanna check that tire? I asked.

He almost looked at me, but drove on instead.

Twenty minutes later we pulled into Doug’s recycle yard on the other end of Red Lodge. A tractor-trailer cab sat lit up in the bay entrance with two guys working on the motor. Our tire was low again.

Doug here? Frog calls inside.

He’s in the back. Whatcha got?

Nothin’. Need a tire.

Haven’t seen ya around.

Got a fresh hand here from the ranch. This is Matt.

You here for long, Matt? one of the men asked as he walked over wiping his hands with a red grease rag.

Can’t really say.

Let me tell you anyway. Come around once in a while, that’s okay. But don’t make it a habit.

Why? Are you shy? I asked. Later I came to know this man as Jack. He’s a local trucker, well known but not liked by all in the region.

Some people mistake this for a hangout, he continued. They like to drive the forklift. Shy?... Right, that’s me.

Hey, Doug! Frog yelled into the back of the large metal building. The ceiling was a good twenty feet high with racks of tires and other supplies arranged in rows clear to the top. Heat blowers cranked out air non-stop.

Over here! At the desk, a clear voice answered.

Frog and I made our way past stacks of feed, fertilizer, random snow blowers, lawn mowers, spreaders— you name it. We rounded a corner made from stacked dog food and boxes of windshield wash. There we were in Doug’s office, one big desk against the wall where some space was cleared.

A slim, sandy-haired fellow about six feet tall, maybe fifty years old, motioned us to come close while he finished a phone call about a load of discarded store-shelves to be picked up that night.

Doug hung up. I guess I can store ’em in the wheel shed. Frog, you visiting or you need something? He stepped smoothly around the cluttered desk and shook Frog’s hand with a good-natured smile.

How about a used front tire real quick. We’re on our way to the ranch with some horses. Lost it on the pass.

Doug nodded. Let’s see what I have for you. How used do you want it?

Bout half, it don’t matter. And we need a muffler clamp.

Okay. First let’s check the half-tire pile, Doug called, having already passed the other side of the dry dog food. You ready? Doug moves quick.

CHAPTER 2: PRETTY REG’LAR

"When it snows in Montana, do what’s right."

Regulations: Pony Express

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The Savage Ranch, called the Bar-S because of its S brand, is located about ten miles north from Doug’s re-cycle, garage, and U-Haul business in Red Lodge.

This puts the Bar-S somewhere above the south border of Montana, that south border being at least a mile or two above the north edge of Wyoming— if you believe the Montana road signs. The signs are placed just right when you remember the speed limit in the state used to be whatever you want. With cruise control set at a hundred, road markers needed time and distance between them.

Sign spacing for high-speed living used to be perfect here before the feds airdropped high tech radar to the local cops and told them they better use it. At low speed the road signs became confusing. But it’s not the signs’ fault. It’s important to note this problem with change. People in Montana are very aware of it, and they don’t encourage it.

We drove our load of horses through the ranch’s outer gate around ten o’clock after a quick meal at the Red Lodge Cafe and Lounge. Not too quick— the café waitress isn’t pushy, and Frog needed to inspect those new electronic poker machines down by the toilets.

The best thing about the food here, Frog brags, is they don’t change it on you. You’ll always see somebody familiar in the Cafe. They have a big mural, full of buffalo and mountains. I mean this is Montana. I really like it, and I like Frog too.

It’s been a long time since I liked so much all at once. I guess I’m a little juiced on being here instead of in New England— someplace I’ve never been, but where my wife and kids ended up. I miss them. Not all the time like I did at first.

We instructed the horses to stay put in the trailer while we ate our dinner in town. We bedded them down when we got home. Oats, hay and water- that’s all it takes. Comfy, not too fancy. Snorting in the oats, splashing in the bucket. You know right away you’ve served the perfect meal again.

Life can get pretty regular on the ranch. Even disaster and crisis can start to feel overly familiar when you see enough of the same kind. Some, like me right now, take comfort in routine living.

Ranches that still carry on cattleman traditions are managed by men of the present day. When one owner was asked to explain the undaunted, wandering spirit of his rowdy ancestors, he gave today’s answer: I wouldn’t know. I grew up on this ranch, worked hard and don’t leave if I don’t have to. There’s a peculiar world out there right now. I went to Hawaii once. Everything was too close. Made me feel hemmed in. I like it better out here. When you’re in the perfect place, what’s the point leaving? We’ve got what we need…. except water sometimes.

The Savage Ranch is one of those old family spreads. I had no idea I’d end up riding horses and working cows for these people. I didn’t know where I was heading when I hitched a ride with Frog this summer off the Missouri River Bridge.

I found out later that bridge was about as far east as the man driving his beat-up old truck ever went. He was on a mission into hostile territory. Another thing I learned—Frog offering a ride to a nomad like me was going against his rules of good sense. But it happened, because here I am.

Lately I’ve had to trust hindsight, since my planning ahead for stuff stopped working. In case you read the last story I told, you won’t be surprised at my talent for running straight off a cliff. If I can leap before I look and manage to survive, anybody with no brains can do the same. But get ready—if you do try, you might find yourself all of a sudden out on the highway going who knows where. It’s not for everybody.

I should know. I wake up some mornings from a dream where I’ve been holding on at the edge of a precipice by my fingernails. I look at my hands. My fists are clinched tight and indecisive bitching echoes through my brain. That’s why I like being here at the ranch right now where chores are steady.

Like I was saying before, life on the ranch gets pretty regular. A good example: Frog parks his truck in the exact same place overnight— for ten reasons he won’t tell you. He doesn’t only like tradition; Frog needs it like he does his coffee. After we fed the horses and bedded them down, he tossed me the truck keys.

Park it on the bluff, Matt.

Next to the bunkhouse is a flat bluff, overlooking a fifty-foot drop off slope. You’d be hard put to scramble back up it should you slide down on your butt in a snowstorm. A dirt road at the bottom of that bluff curves off right toward the barn and ends up near a big metal building used for storage and equipment repair—‘the shed’ they call it.

‘Park it on the bluff’ means take the truck to Frog’s usual parking place on the ridge up near the bunkhouse; drive the front wheels over the cliff’s lip ‘til you feel you’re ready to drop. Then set the brake, find first gear, turn off the motor and let out the clutch. Just like yesterday evening. You want to be careful when stepping out not to step too far forward or you’ll end up sitting on the low road.

I’m turning out the light, boys, Frog announced from the doorway at the far end of the bunkhouse. Tomorrow’s the big drive.

Now you’re telling us? one of four other ranch-hands in the bunkhouse challenged.

I left notice yesterday, Frog answered. Where were you, Jose?

Here, like every day. Where were you?

On the mountain with Matt, guarding the pass. Trying to stop your wife from coming here again to collect your wages before you do.

Don’t talk about my wife.

Do we call it a night?

Okay. ......She’s fussy about money.

Frog nodded. Goodnight.

The light went out.

Before dawn tomorrow we had to saddle the horses for our final drive. Come late fall the cows get moved to winter range over near the foothills where there’s grass and natural shelter from wind and snow. That drive signals the end of the season. My other job here, being the last man hired, is to get coffee and food on the table before we start moving livestock.

I fried the last of yesterday’s grits to go with eggs and bacon. You can sizzle hardened grit-patties in bacon grease if you want, after the eggs are fried; but how much grease does it take to send you into the bushes real quick when you should be up riding? For me, not that much.

So I switch to oil when I can. Grits will crisp up in oil, same as with fat. Dinner, though, gets tricky. Sometimes I eat in town. Then the guys back at the ranch can fix steak the way they like it- fried. Western cooking takes getting used to, but I’m learning. Dishwater coffee is another thing. They like it weak here. ‘Good for them’ is my motto. I just boil more water and throw it in.

Frog’s been a good teacher for work. I’m a natural born rider- been on and off horses most of my life. I used to train racehorses in Florida at the track. But there we weren’t dealing with cows, open range and prairie dog holes. Frog doubled with me for a while until I got the hang of moving cattle. On this day’s drive to winter range I’d been trusted to ride a section of the herd most of the way alone; that is until we reached a place where we had to cross tricky ground.

At the bottom of some foothills we came to a series of dry gulches and dead-end canyons where cows like to explore for their own amusement. Cows with calves tend to separate and disappear into some of these because they know it’s a better route to nowhere.

Without me asking, Frog came up on my right and says to help him move some strays. Ken’s with him and will ride herd on my section for a while. At that point I’d been losing control of what I thought I’d gotten good at— me telling cows what to do and them wanting to follow directions. Almost like a bell sounded, one old cow looked at another, winked then ran off to where I couldn’t see what she was doing. The others laughed and were ready to copy her right when Frog and Ken Killkenny showed up to put down the rebellion.

Frog and I backtracked up a few mazes to retrieve the strays. Some cows had their spring teenagers with them. The youngsters looked at their mothers with less respect after realizing they’d been found out. They weren’t breaking free like mama promised.

It’s a sad moment for a cow-herder when he knows his role is to spoil young cow trust. But I like it. Frog and I both chuckled as we swung the ladies around and chased them back to the herd.

By day’s end all were tired and done for— cow, horse and cowboy. We sat around a spark-filled fire that night on our bedrolls with our sweat-rank saddles close at hand— those of us who hadn’t brought trailers with private showers. We cooked up food and hot drink; passed around a little whiskey; and fell asleep. The end of a season. My first.

As nice as it is to fall asleep tired, it’s irritating to wake up at dawn cold, even if you are in the scenic Rocky Mountain foothills. I’m past forty. My joints like warm soft beds. By the time we stoked the fire back up to temperature, the morning food was all eaten and we had to saddle up. I started moving fast to stay warm. The horses were anxious to get at it.

There was no work left to do and no cattle to round up. They were still hanging out though, some wanting to follow us home after they’d tried hard to lose us yesterday. So we got to chase ‘em a little for sport. It warms everybody and ‘gives you gas to get home’ as Jose puts it. Off we all went back to the ranch. Some paused for fence and gate repair along the way. A few bee-lined it when they got clear, not too different from a maverick.

I stuck with Frog. He wanted to check a windmill water-station while we were out here. We started with blue skies overhead, but by the time we’d reached the windmill a gray cloudbank had moved in from the west. It was turning cold; the wind started to blow.

Snow by afternoon, Frog commented. "Let’s get done and head home.

We’ll close down this station next week, he said; "drive up with the truck. She’s one of the old ones. Take a look. Not many of these wooden windmills left. They blow down or fall apart. But this sucker we keep going. Windmills are markers; they tell a lot about a ranch.

I always stop here. You could take this old thing, chop it into firewood, put in a newfangled pump and you’d make everybody happy, he said, except me and a couple more. C’mon. Let’s go get warm.

Frog guessed right. It had been snowing two hours already by the time we spotted our ranch buildings in the distance. The barn came out of nowhere looking small through the all-white world that engulfed us. Distance had given way to flat. The only sounds we’d been hearing were horse sounds and creaky leather.

The horses’ breath, the white ground, the snow melting in the horse’s manes and around their ears all blended together. Frog and I had ridden, not speaking, not feeling cold, fixed in our saddles— until coming out of nowhere we clomped onto the wooden floor inside the barn. We were back.

Dark and light replaced snow. I was numb on the inside like after waking from a sound sleep. I dismounted. My feet hit the floor. Suddenly my toes felt frozen. Frog and I both did a shuffling tap dance next to our steaming horses before blanketing them and walking up and down the barn floor to dry off. Outside was turning to night.

The big sliding door had been left open to the snowfall. Watching the storm from inside the barn, you could see the outside bulbs light up a solid white curtain between the wooden interior and the stormy world beyond. The snow that a few moments ago had been like a warm blanket now looked like a blank barrier. I chilled at the thought of leaving the barn. But we had to get a move on.

Hey, Frog, we’re still going into town tonight aren’t we? By now we had our horses cooled down and fed. The saddles and bridles were dry and hung.

You check who else is coming, he called from the tack rack. Tell ‘em we’re leaving. I’ll meet you at the truck.

We made a final check on the animals before walking into the snow again. Frog rolled the barn door shut. Better clean up first, I said. I was still matted down from our snowy ride.

We did that for the horses. Let’s get ahead of this storm.

I hurried to the bunkhouse. Everybody there was packing to go home tomorrow morning. This job was over till spring roundup. A few said they might come to town, but most were staying inside because of the weather. Jose was talking about his wife back home. He had some advice—You watch Frog, Matt. He gets to town, but he don’t always bring ya back.

So here come me and Frog again, edging into the cab of his truck at the top of the bluff, ready for town. Try the starter, Frog. See what happens.

He turned the key. Nothing. Too cold.

When are you getting a new battery? I asked. Winter’s here.

You call this winter? You ain’t seen nothin’. Not even a preview. This hill’s good for now. I oughta know, right?........ Right?

I signaled the charge.

Frog released the parking brake, turned the key, pushed in the clutch and shifted for second gear. Now, he said in a calm voice. We both rocked together, forward— once, twice. On the third rock the truck moved ahead and started over the slope. We picked up speed. Halfway down, the bottom looked like it would hit us in the face. Frog popped the clutch and the motor came to life with a catch and a roar, followed by a little back tire boogie in the snow.

We angled to the right at the bottom of the bluff to pick up the service road. The left front lurched, slid some then held. Frog knows that truck all right. We’re almost to the highway when the heat kicked in. Hank Williams playing this time, followed by a swig from a little medicine bottle of Tequila in my coat pocket. Town’s next….

Where do we start, Frog?

There’s only one bar far’s I’m concerned.

CHAPTER 3: SNOW-BOUND

"If you don’t know what’s right- so what."

Sir Galahad

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‘Two roller-dome tank and feedlots,’ that’s what Frog calls them, plus one steakhouse