Signs (Kid Stuff)

They’re everywhere.  Even on the edge of nowhere.  

Signs on the interstate are as common as stones in a quarry.  They tell us where to go, not to go, when to go, and how to go.  Maybe the American need to think independently is the reason why the cruise control is habitually set three or four notches faster than the post.  Maybe there's a bent to add just a little bit more for good measure.  After-all, if some is good, more has to be better.  Maybe something else.

Some signs resemble life.  They get busy, lose their focus, and end up doing very little all that well.

Some follow in life’s footsteps. 

  And some imitate life.  Or is it the other way around? 

 And then there was this sign. 

 It’s size was maybe 5 inches by 7 inches and it was attached to a metal studded “T” fence post.  There were many such signs posted.  Maybe 100 feet apart, the signs ran straight line on the edge of a campground in Yellowstone National Park.  Two hundred yards back were all the comforts of American society – toilets, electricity, and fast food to name a few.  But those comforts quickly disappeared along with any evidence of tourists as the row of signs came into view.  Bears had been seen from a distance the day before, so the little signs gave pause.  And an old saying resonated:  “A mother with cubs can be a most dangerous encounter.”  But that was quickly dismissed – not a mini-van driven by a soccer mom running late for practice anywhere to be seen.  But seriously, how likely was it for the bears to abide by the rules and stay on their side of the line anyway?  And so the decision was made to go forward.  Besides, it just feels good to break a rule every once in awhile.

    

Well, not a hundred yards further, and a loud report broke the calm of an otherwise completely peaceful walk through the woods.  A few seconds passed.  BOOM, BOOM, KA-BOOM - in quick succession.  And there was no doubt as to what was happening – Park Rangers were doing bear control back toward the campground.  Explosives were being discharged intent on scaring off a bear before there was a human encounter.  Small problem – they were probably funneling a 900 pound juggernaut of teeth, claws, and fury straight towards an encounter with a 170 pound tenderfoot.  Well, before the final repeat stopped ringing in the silent distance, images began playing out in my mind of an incensed bear crashing through the sparse stand of lodgepole pine.  Then dead quiet………..shattered by the chatter of a chipmunk.  And the synapses began firing like a 4^th of July finale: 

“Climb a tree.”

“No, play dead.”

“Are you kidding me!  Make eye contact and back away - slowly.”

“Stay calm.”

“Get out the bear spray.”

“Ya know the bite of a Grizzly can crush a bowling ball.”

“Stay calm!”

“The tree can’t be too big or the bear will come right up after you.”

“Bug spray.  Bug spray.  All we have is bug spray.”

“No.  No.  No.  Make yourself look as big as possible.  Lift your backpack over your head.”

“You idiot!  That’s for bobcats!”

“Stay calm!!!”

Well, by the time that little debate ended, the bear, if there was one, was in another state.  And soon a calmer, yet equally intense, discussion emerged.  Confidence insisted that the chase continue, while apprehension argued for the better part of valor to be discretion.  Nevertheless, a compromise was fashioned whereby the boy could grow but the man could remain secure.

Perhaps the lesson to be learned is that the conversation in and of itself is to be embraced, instead of being shunned as it has in the past. 

But in the end, this is what stuck:  Rebellion (Psalms and Prayers)       

Moonbeam (Kid Stuff)

One of the recurring themes that I find in my quest for treasure is ghost towns.  Now, history books would tell us that some of these places died because the gold ran out.  Others because the railroad changed course.  And still others came to rest because someone of vision died and their dreams were buried alongside.   But my experience says otherwise.  There is little doubt that each resident left town one by one for whatever reason and simply couldn’t find their way back.  The word “remote” just doesn’t do these places justice.

And so it was with a deserted town somewhere in Montana – empty, save for remnants of lives left behind to slowly decay.  Desolate, save for the questions left behind.  Who were they?  Why were they here?  Where is that cache anyway?  Well, poking around resulted in no answers, and soon a larger question presented itself – which way out?  The way in had been dusty and further than anticipated.  And so east and west were the only other options – west being a very narrow, potholed road.  East, more inviting, but in the wrong direction.  Well, two cowboys were mending fence just across the little valley on the road east.  They were the only people I’d seen since gassing up back on the Interstate so I decided to ask them for advice.

Now, I call them “cowboys” but that’s just me.  They had the right hats and the right boots and leather vests.  But no horses.  What they did have were some bad-ass trucks that just had to have names like Crusher or Thunder or Rambo.  Well, they were polite enough not to laugh when I rolled up in my silver CRV but the initial look on their faces said it all – “What the heck is this guy doing out here?”  Anyway, really nice guys.  Said they worked on the Circle Sky Ranch – 80,000 acres.  They debated for a minute about snow pack but quickly dismissed it and decided that the best route to Great Falls was east.  “Just watch out for rocks in the road.”

Now a wiser man might have gleaned a few “red flags” in that brief encounter and backed out through the entrance.  But the part of me that stalled somewhere before that age when a boy becomes a man was thrilled.  And off I went.

The first hour or so was through small valleys of rolling green pasture, sprinkled with trees and carved by streams. Simply beautiful – almost idyllic.  But not a soul to be seen.  All the man-made structures seemed to have been abandoned long ago, leaving one to ponder what went wrong.  

A narrow slot canyon seemed to form out of nowhere.  Just barely enough room in the bottom for the roadbed and a bustling stream to run parallel.  I was beginning to understand what my friends had meant by “rocks in the road”.   

But it was the rocks over the road that gave me pause and the part of me that stalled somewhere before that age when a boy becomes a man was beginning to get a little bit on edge. 

Well, the little canyon spit me out on a high plateau of rolling grassland.  There were pockets of drifted snow here and there.  And the road became arrow straight toward the horizon. 

Occasionally a fence line would be crossed and the accompanying rumble of the cattle-guard affirmed that the Circle Sky had been left far behind.  And still, not a soul to be seen.  The runoff from the drifts crossed the road at the low points and after fish-tailing and coming within a breath of getting high-centered a few times, the initial thrill had long since been replaced by an echo of wisdom past:  “You can survive your first mistake.  It’s the second one that will kill you.”  Not very reassuring as the mistakes seemed to be adding up – the big one just hadn’t hit yet.

Well, eventually I was reassured by a column of dust off in the distance that gave witness to a tractor and plow.  And not long after that a ranch-house with any number of bad-ass trucks parked alongside.  Then the little town next to the highway that my friends had promised.  And off I went.  

So, lessons learned:  Always fill the tank when leaving the Interstate.  Distances on a map can be deceiving.  Distances to the horizon can be deceiving.  And some roads just shouldn’t be tackled by drivers who name their vehicle Moonbeam.

Rugs (Kid Stuff)

Pockets of the mind.  What’s all there?  Some moments, years past, play out as clearly as those of the current hour.  Yet, vast stretches of time on either side of that event remain dark and dormant.  Sounds, especially music, can awaken long lost memories.  And the soundtrack from movies can create a mood that makes a scene come alive although it depicts places and events that are completely foreign to the viewer.  Aromas, powerful yet intangible, can evoke memories just as strong but equally difficult to hold. 

And then this treasure presented itself while chasing in Wupatki National Monument in Arizona.

The site immediately triggered images of tiny Indians, some riding proportionately small horses.  And toy cowboys as well.  All mixed together with soldiers made of green plastic in an old shoe box.  Next, a collection of Lincoln Logs in a metal canister along with a very select few marbles.  And finally, most importantly, came the rugs. 

Throw rugs would be gathered from around the house and piled together on the living-room floor.  Kneeling, I would mold those rugs into shapes that my mind would almost magically transform into landscapes of never ending features.  Sometimes mountains and plateaus.  Sometimes plains and valleys.  Sometimes canyons.  Then stomach prone, upper body supported on elbows, my hands would reach out and place those tiny plastic figures in positions of adventure.  Horsemen racing across the plains.  A lookout on the tallest peak.  Fortifications nestled in a narrowing ravine.         

Standing next to that ancient pueblo perched on edge of that arroyo brought back memories that are now held dear, not to be lost again.  An age of innocence was recaptured.  A time when I allowed the little boy in me to simply do little boy things.  No questions of right and wrong.  No self-condemnation.  No judgements.

And for a brief moment, I allowed myself the privilege of looking past the pueblo and on to the dry steppe that melded into the distant hills.  A toy Indian was taken from that ragged, old shoe box, mounted on the fastest horse, and placed far out on the plain.  And before my very eyes a wake of dust rose in the distance.