A Voice From the Hinterlands

Floyd's Lesson

            In January 2007 I interviewed a dying man in the VA Hospital in Sturgis, South Dakota. His name was Floyd Tetrault and he’d lived his life ranching and running livestock fairs in the Black Hills and Northeast Wyoming. But now, at age 82 he had emphysema and was on oxygen full time. He sat in his bed with a bottle of oxygen and wedged a pinch of Skoal inside his lower lip. His brain was trained to feel alive with nicotine in his blood. 

 I remember Floyd struggling to get his breath, the fits of coughing. But he still had his smile. He looked me in the eye.

“I’ve had a long life, and it’s been a good one. I got to do some things I enjoyed. I got through school, married a good woman, got into some work. And I had some success. I invented a system where we could artificially inseminate 10,000 head of cattle in a day. I filled up a whole freight train with cows I’d raised. I had a good family, and a wife that’s been an angel to me. Sometimes I feel like I could keep enjoying life forever, but I know that’s impossible now.” 

A nurse came in with a tray of food. Floyd ate the dessert and tried to open the milk carton. He had me open it because his fingers were weak. He asked the nurse to bring a cup of coffee with sugar. He liked the taste of it. It felt good to drink. 

Floyd asked me about my life, what my dreams were, what I wanted more than anything. I told him I want to be a writer. “This country is full of stories. A likeable young fella like you could take a notebook up and down Main Street in any town and find enough characters for a book. You have no idea the power you’ve got when you come in a room and start asking questions. You ought to get out there and do it! Folks have got to take a shot at what they want in life.” 

 

Six months later, in another town, I read Floyd’s obituary. Now, when I’m walking around Laramie, he comes to mind.  And yes, I am taking my shot at life. 

Whar We Fought the Bahr

Met up with some friends in the Beartooth Mountains in July.  Had a black bear snoopin 'round our camp.  We threw rocks at it and made it leave.  It came back FOUR more times.  Finally we threw enough rocks that it left.  Then we left too.  These pictures from the Beartooth Highway show were the fightin' occured, up at Glacier Lake in Montana, about 100 feet shy of Wyoming.  The last picture shows the lake where we camped on the right side, and shows the best view of the glacial valley, though there's hardly any glaciers left.  The pictures are taken in Wyo, but the mountains shown are mostly in Montan....

Chris Hepp: Coming into the Country

My neighbor Harry's grand father was Chris Hepp.  Here, Harry tells of a family portrait of the Hepps, who homesteaded in Kearney, Wyoming in 1879.  :

"Now this picture here, that was my uncle Karl, and the next one was my aunt Elsie, and that one was my mother, and my aunt Clara, and my aunt Lora, and that was my grandmother down on the ground.  Them saddle horses that the kids is settin on cost ‘em a little money back in those days.  And they've got some nice saddles too.  Karl married twice, my aunt Elsie she married a fella named Fred Gray, course my mother married Gus Olson, Clara married Tom White, and Aunt Lora married Emil Benson.  This is right out from the house on the south side, and this little building here was what they called the cellar house and it was below ground there, where they stored all their goods that they canned—they didn’t have any deep freezes then.      We lived in the big house, and we had to keep a fire upstairs in the cellar house cause underneath was a cellar where they kep’ all their canned stuff, you know.  The main house was just like any other house, it burned wood or coal, there wasn’t any electricity.  My grandfather and my grandmother built that place.

"When he come up from Larmy, he traveled with OP Hanna, who started Big Horn. They were good friends when they left Laramie, but by the time they got to Big Piney and Little Piney where my grandmother’s place was finally at, he stopped cause he wasn’t getting along with Hanna, they were on the outs for one reason or another.  He wanted to go around where they later built Sheridan or farther north, but when they hit Piney Creek he stopped off there, and that’s where he homesteaded then.

"He tried to put up some fences and build some buildings.  They had to have something to live in, and something for stock. Last time I drove in there a few years back, I drove in there and there was the old barn, and then they had another building a big building for the sheep to keep em in when they was lambing, and that was still there. 

"My Grandfather was quite a moo-sician.  He was the one that passed on the musical ability to the family that come along. He had a deal rigged up to hold a mouth harp so he could play it there, and then he’d play a guitar with it and make better music out of it.  My granddad used to come over from Kearney and play at dances at the big dance hall here in Big Horn with his accordion, they had a hell of a time.  That was about the only fun that the married people had back then, there wasn’t any movies or any TV, dancing is what they got some entertainment out of.  My grandfather learned his music from just doing it.  He had the talent for it.  My grandmother wasn’t from music or anything.  All the music abilities that was in the families later it all come from my grandfather.  Mt sister Inga was the one that had the best musical ability. God-damn she could really pound things out on a piano.  All I could ever play was a God damn mouth harp a little.  And I bought me a horn you know to make music, and I never did get to where I could make any music out of that son of a bitch, I just used it. 

"When Grandfather got older, why, they didn’t have any VA hospitals in them days, and he took turns staying at his kids’ places, stay with one for a few weeks or a month, then pass him on to another one. They couldn’t afford to keep him in a hospital.  He was staying with us and one day he got sick.  My Dad took him in to the hospital and by the next morning he was gone." 

Love Endures All Things-Even Smelly Toilets

Cleaning a toilet is probably one of the least glamorous tasks a person can undertake.  You can’t impress anybody. They’ll never put you on TV for it or take your picture for one of those shiny celebrity gossip magazines.  Cleaning a toilet is one of those tasks you just don’t see performed on the silver screen.  And yet it is something that people do all the time.  It’s one of those common things that real people do and the rich and famous never touch.  You’re mighty unlikely to choke on your own pride if you get down on your knees and scrub that ol’ porcelain bowl every now and then.

I am one of the billions in this world who’ve cleaned a few toilets.  When I was working at a guest ranch and getting paid for the work it wasn’t much fun, just something that had to be done.  When it’s my own toilet I don’t pay too much attention to detail, I confess.  But when it’s the toilet of the old man who lives across the hayfields from me, I scrub like crazy, and enjoy it. Somehow, friendship takes all the nastiness out of a chore. 

One day I went over to see my neighbor Harry, an 88 year-old widower.  I went in the back door like always, through the kitchen and into the living room, where he sits in an old vinyl chair with the stuffing coming out of it.  We hadn’t been visiting long when he said, “You know, I need to go in to town and get me something strong for cleaning my pot.  I haven’t cleaned it in a few months and it’s kind of gotten away from me. They ought to have some kind of spray that could clean that right up.”

Well, that was all the bait I needed.  Harry has been my neighbor all my life and I’ve never met anyone more loyal and honest.  He’s been keeping an eye on my family and our house for nearly thirty years.  So when I get the chance to help out Harry, I jump to it.  Things are getting a little tough for him, what with a bad knee and hip and arthritic hands, and a walker to keep his balance.  Naturally, cleaning the toilet got bumped down on his list of important things to do each day because he’s happy just to be getting back and forth between the bedroom and the kitchen. 

So into the bathroom I went, fearlessly.  The first thing I did was flush-it smelled like even that kind of routine maintenance hadn’t been done in a while.  Then I opened the lid to see just how tough my opponent was going to be.  It looked foreboding.  Some kind of chemical process involving bacteria that live in extreme environments had left a black film on the bowl.  Underneath this was a stubborn mineral deposit caused by all the iron in the well water meeting oxygen and turning into an indelible rust-colored stain.  My first efforts with the toilet brush showed what I was up against.  This was going to require more than just elbow grease.  I went to the cabinet below the kitchen sink and got out a bottle of Lime-Away that I had bought for Harry some time ago. 

About this time Harry was wondering what I was up to.  So he followed me in to the bathroom and sat down on a chair while I began the assault.  With a squirt of the heavy-duty cleaner I could see the rust stain beginning to fizz and loosen, taking off the sourness like a good friend's smile after a long, bad day.  Still, this was going to take a while.  I scrubbed.  Harry recollected:

“You know, we never used to have a pot in the house.  When we had to go we went out to the outhouse, summer and winter.  That was really tough on the girls, especially if they had to go out in the middle of the night in winter.  It was either that or use the old chamber pot.  When we got a toilet inside that sure made it nice.”

Suddenly I had a new appreciation for this foul sight that lay before me.  The toilet is a modern convenience, and it comes with its obvious drawbacks, like its tendency to get stained by all the dissolved minerals in Wyoming well water, and the need for replacement parts every decade or so, the occasional clog.  But on the other hand indoor plumbing brings relief in out of the cold, making long winter nights much more comfortable than they have been in all human history up to this time.

As I pondered this I couldn’t help but chuckle at the situation I was in.  Here I was doing one of the nastiest chores around, and yet I was enjoying it.  I knew that Harry appreciated what I was doing, and that made the whole malodorous affair something of a pleasure for me.  There’s nothing like friendship for bringing the generosity out of a person and making the world a better place, even if its one clean commode at a time.

Guanacaste, Costa Rica

 

1. Sunset at Ranch San Antonio

2. Trees under cultivation

3. Windmills near Lago Arenal

4. Olemar, fisherman with his day's catch from Rio Bebedero, an estuary

5. La Macha ("Blondie") at her Restaurant, Rio de las Piedras

6-7. Students at Rio Piedras School near Lago Arenal, site of first school-building project by Tab Barker

Trail Knowledge

When departing for a day's hunt, leave before sunrise and try to be the first up the trail.  Crossing frozen rivers on horseback and riding icy trails in the dark can be risky, but being the first in the country is the best way to get a chance at an animal.

It's best to ride a horse if you want to get on top of the high windblown ridges where the elk feed.  Elk have four powerful legs that lend them a great advantage when it comes to traveling fast in steep terrain.  Horses do a lot to compensate for our two-legged weakness.

Elk like to stay up high where they can see a long way.  If any predators appear, they can simply disappear over the ridgeline and into the timber. 

Elk can smell you from miles away if the wind is blowing towards them. 

Elk make a chirping call to indicate safety.  You can make a similar sound by blowing through a "Cow Talker", a device made of rubberbands and plastic.  If you happen to spook the elk, you can blow your Cow Talker and the elk will stop and look toward the direction of the noise, presenting a good target.

If you want to shoot a 30-06 rifle at an elk standing more than 200 yards away, you can't actually aim at the animal.  If you do, you'll miss.  Instead, position the elk below the crosshairs.  As the bullet falls along its explosive trajectory, it will drop into the elk.

If the wind is blowing, take a shot and watch where the bullet hits.  If its blowing hard, say 40 to 50 miles an hour, you might have to aim 5 feet to the side of your target.  If the wind is blowing in gusts, just keep shooting.

If you kill an elk, use a knife to remove its tasty legs from its not-so-delicious head, spine, and belly.  Load the meat onto bags slung atop a horse.  Anything you leave behind will be a feast for ravens, coyotes, wolves, eagles, and many other animals, not to mention insects and bacteria.

When cutting the elk into pieces, never cut toward yourself.  The femoral artery in your leg can empty your body in a few minutes' time.

Tighten the cinches.  Load the elk onto the horse.  Tie a diamond or a box hitch to secure the load for the long ride back down the mountain to the trailhead.  Tie it tight.

Riding home gives you plenty of time to study the constellations and watch the sparks coming off horshoes.  Pick a constellation over the trail and follow it home.  If you are hunting in December, Orion works will lead you to the east for the first few hours after sundown.

Seeking a face to face interaction with the creatures that sustain you can be tremendously satisfying.  We will always be part of the food chain.

Niagara

At water's brink

currents seize eyes

and throw them over the edge

tumbling

to a roaring

vaporous abyss

We are awed

by premonitions

of death awaiting

International Exchange and the Big Umbrella Theory

Somewhere on the track between Buffalo and Rochester the girl across the aisle suggested that we get something to eat in the diner car.  We got up and walked to the end of the car, passing into that dizzying space between cars where the floors move in opposite directions and send one grasping for handrails.  She told me her name was Hannah just as the automatic sliding door began to emerge from its slot in the wall, intent on closing no matter what stood in the way.  I tried to slip through and was in the midst of telling her my name when the door panel pinned me in the threshold, with half of my head and chest on either side.  I was trapped!  We were both so surprised that neither was sure what action should be taken to free me from my misfortune.  I fumbled for the button and the door slid back into the wall.  With the pressure off my chest I was able to collect myself and reply: "My name is Greg.  It's nice to meet you."

In the diner car she paid for a chocolate chip cookie with Canadian money remaining from her trip to Toronto.  I bought some salted almonds and a bottle of water, and we found a clean booth with the autumn colors sweeping by the big window.  Sitting across from her I saw that she wore a stud in her nose and a Star of David earring.  I knew she was Australian from seeing her passport during the customs check at Niagara Falls, but she spoke without the accent I'd anticipated.  Now she mentioned South Africa, Israel, and India as former homelands, claiming relatives in all hemispheres.  She traced her lineage to a diaspora of the previous century-her father's Russian family fleeing the holocaust in World War II, seeking refuge in South Africa.  Her features also spoke of an exodus: the dark hair and olive complexion of her mother's India paired with the clothing, posture, and style of her Western youth.  She talked of living in Sydney, but she could just as easily been from a polyglot city like Vancouver or Los Angeles.  With each smile she collected more of my interest, for I recognized that she was pretty, and that by listening to her I would surely learn something.      

We settled down into a long conversation ranging from Chinese history to American Border Police, democratic schools and living in Wyoming, what we think about, what we hope for, what we want to create.  She had a great interest in conservation and community, with concerns nearly identical to those of young Americans at university.  I would not have assumed that two young people from opposite sides of the earth would be so familiar with each other's concerns.  We wondered how the ideas had come to cover the earth.  Perhaps twenty years ago two academics from Australia and America had met in an airport and had a conversation, then gone home to share the results with their countrymen, so that today two kids on a train in western New York could meet and understand one another.  She believed that civilizations had an ability to share knowledge without direct communication, perhaps by exchanging ideas through an unseen higher consciousness, causing people across the world to independently arrive at the same conclusions at practically the same time.

Hannah said that the problem of western culture became clear to her on a rainy day in Sydney:

"I was on my way home from university, and I'd just walked up the stairs from the subway to the street.  It was pouring rain, windy, and cold.  There was a big crowd of people all walking.  Some of them had little umbrellas, some of them had big umbrellas.  But a good number of us including me had no umbrellas at all and were completely drenched from head to toe, while these people with big umbrellas stood all around us.  Then I looked into restaurants and shops and saw they were bright and warm.  There were plenty of dry places to go inside and wait until the storm passed, but they were all nearly empty.  None of us could go in unless we wanted to buy something.  I looked at a young woman walking next to me with her big umbrella, seeing that there was plenty of space for her to shelter me as well.  I thought to myself, she should offer to share her umbrella with me.  All of these people should share their umbrellas so we could all be dry.  But that's not the way people think.  Everybody is trying to survive as individuals, and as long as that's true, there will always be people who are cold and wet without any umbrellas at all."

Hannah wrote her email address on the back of my Amtrak ticket.  We went back to our seats and I struck up a new conversation with the elderly woman sitting next to me.  I reached into my suitcase and got out my map of the United States for Hannah to look at.  She studied it for twenty minutes probably, until she folded it up and handed it back across the aisle.  Then pulled the hood of her sweatshirt over her head and fell asleep.  I said goodbye when I got off at Syracuse but she didn't wake up. 

Outside on the platform the conductor asked me if I'd gotten her number.  He was a young guy and his name was Jeremy and he'd watched our whole conversation from the far corner of the diner car while reading his Bible.  He looked sharp in his uniform and conductor cap.  He asked me why I was getting off here in Syracuse if she was going to New York City.  He said I should go find her when I went I got to Penn Station.  I said I would think about it, but didn't plan on staying in New York very long.  Jeremy said that he'd voted republican last time but wasn't going to vote at all next election.  The president wanted to cut Amtrak entirely and build more roads.  He said it would be a shame, because the trains provide a better experience and are better for the environment even if they run a little slow.  I felt that he was right:  There are no diner cares on the interstate.

Above Chicago

I awoke on a jolting bus to see the sillhouettes of distant skyscrapers appearing out of bright morning haze.  As we approached the city the buildings took on more definition, showing that their existence was more than a mirage.  Then the bus windows were filled by storefronts and foundations which gave rise to mountains of steel towering towards the zenith.

With train ticket in hand, I ate a sandwich outside of the station, watching people smoking ciggarettes and listening to city sounds, turning my gaze skyward and counting the floors on the towers with jumps of my eyes.  One building had about 140 levels of black reflective glass, which would have been hard to count save for the slight variations provided by someone working on a desk, and a few floors higher, the shape of a flourescent ceiling light.  I knew this was the Sears tower, and it occured to me that perhaps I could get to the top and back in time to catch my train. 

Crossing a bridge over the Chicago river, I walked beside a man with an expesive suit and shiny black shoes.  He clutched a mobile phone and fervently coached an associate on how to handle a business transaction while waiting for the traffic signal to change.

Getting to the top of the Sears tower involves walking through a revolving door, placing your belongings through an xray screening, walking thorugh a metal detector, paying a fee, walking through a maze of hallways, watching a film of the building's finance and construction, then walking through an exhibit to get to elevator, where you crowd among fellow sightseers for a 60 second trip that lifts you 1,400 feet skyward. 

At the top the doors opened and I rounded to see a view of the sky and the roofs of buildings.  As I approached the windows more and more of the city came into view until with a glance down could take in thousands upon thousands of cars, people, buildings, streets, and the shorefront of Lake Michigan.  This was the view east.  To the northeast lay a crowd of buildings nearly as tall as the Sears tower.  Some of them released puffs of exhaust from holes in their roofs, like immense chimneys.  To the north and west sprawled the suburbs with their snaking turnpikes and frenetic traffic.  To the south I saw a river flowing under girded bridges and Chicago dissappearing beneath a hazy overcast horizon.   There was no sign of an outer boundary, as if lake and city covered all the earth.  I was witness to countless events that could not be resolved individually, yet I could see how they had all accumulated to give rise to this tremendous phenomenon of economy and architecture and human endeavor.

Someone called the tower an artificial mountain. 

Far below I could discern an man wearing a white shirt, talking to a companion on a street corner.  I could see this person so clearly, yet I knew he was unaware of the eyes looking down from above.   I laughed at myself, understanding how we can never really be assured that no one is watching over us.

Friends-Wisconsin

Mikey was saying, "Siba siba siba siba!" and pumping his fists.

Los Lahners

Tombo gives a kiss