Wyatt, Richard

by Fathers of Myth

  “Very funny.”

  Feeling kind of sick from all the jelly donuts and potato chips I had eaten the day before, I stand in line to get my boarding pass from an e-ticket that hopefully is waiting for me at the desk. While I am waiting in line, I scan the Delta ticket counter area for Kelly. She is nowhere to be found.

  I saunter over towards the departure gate, keeping my eyes open for Kelly. I stop by a little bamboo-like counter, where a small oriental man is selling cups of coffee and what looks like a Chinese version of a donut with bean sprouts.

  I pass on the pastry and pay for a large cup of what proves to be the most delicious cup of coffee I have ever tasted. The little bantam man at the counter bows as I pay, and I am off once again to the terminal gate.

  Finally, as I arrive at the departure gate, I see Kelly coming out of the ladies’ room, with the usual spit shine polish and smile. Actually, she looks beautiful.

  “I see you were able to make it before the plane left,” I call out to her.

  “Yes, I thought I would be fashionably late, just barely on time as usual,” she has a smile on her face and little bop in her step.

  As we look to find a seat inside the terminal, I look over and notice a man standing by a pay telephone. As he catches sight of my notice, he immediately turns around and acts out the appearance of reading a newspaper.

  That’s a strange reaction, I think to myself. The man somehow looks very familiar to me, but I continue the small talk with Kelly.

  Then it comes to me. The man at the pay telephone looks a lot like the man standing across the street from my apartment building yesterday morning, the one that had seemed to be watching me. In fact, he is wearing the very same kind of overcoat and hat. I look over at the pay phone again. He is gone.

  I decide not to say anything to Kelly about it. After the experiences the last few weeks with the unidentified stranger we keep running into, Kelly might think I am becoming paranoid.

  As if we are weightless, we fly above the clouds at 28,000 feet. The blue sky is like an umbrella over our heads, as we slowly pass white clouds hanging motionless below our feet. The clouds look like giant pieces of pillow stuffing, floating in the air.

  It would take around two and a half hours to land at the Great Falls airport. I figure this would be a good time to talk to Kelly about the bizarre encounter my father had forty years ago, with the same mysterious puzzling stranger we’ve recently been coming face to face with.

  As I tell her of my father’s encounter with the phantom-like stranger during the assassination of John F. Kennedy, Kelly’s face begins to take on the look of someone lost.

  “It can’t be the same man! Are you sure that your father…”

  “What? You mean, am I sure that my father knows what he is talking about? Did he really see this same man forty-some years ago?” I interrupt her.

  “Well, I just mean that it was forty years ago; forty years is a long time for anyone to remember a person that you’ve only seen once.”

  “Have you ever actually met this man or really seen him face to face, other than seeing him in photos?”

  “No, I’ve only seen him running away that one time in the woods. I will admit this though; just from the photos I’ve seen, this guy does have a face that is unique. Still, forty years is a long time to remember someone’s face, no matter how peerless their face looks.” Kelly appears to be very pleased with coming up with such a rational conclusion.

  “If you had witnessed his intense, penetrating, unearthly eyes for yourself, you would understand. You would feel the same as my father and I do. You would never be able to forget this man’s face for as long as you live.”

  As I look out the window through clearings in the clouds, the beautiful and impressive Rocky Mountains are unveiled beneath my feet. There can’t be anything more beautiful on earth, I think to myself. The captain announces our descent to the Great Falls airport.

  “For your safety, please fasten your seat belts.”

  I look over at Kelly as I fasten my seat belt. She gazes out the window, seemingly still in deep thought over our conversation.

  “You need to fasten your seat belt,”

  A little startled from my voice; she looks at me with a slightly confused expression.

  “Why, what’s wrong? I don’t like to wear my seat belt unless I have to.”

  “The Captain has turned on the ‘Fasten your seat belt sign.’ I point toward the tiny lit sign above us.

  At Great Falls we unload our luggage, cameras, and packs down in front of the Big Sky Airlines ticket counter. Kelly goes to freshen up, as I look at the map and decipher where we are going.

  Flight 1504 will fly us to Havre Montana, a little over one hundred miles south of Great Falls. We then board a little 8-passenger twin prop plane, which will take us as far as the tiny town of Red Rock, approximately fifty miles farther south.

  At the town of Red Rock we would rent a 4x4 vehicle and drive another fifty miles to the south, to the dinosaur site called ‘Mesozoic Park,’ right next door to the Missouri River.

  When I was about eight years old, I remember I would build a little imaginary city in the dirt, with little dirt roads and little dirt driveways, where my toy cars and trucks could travel. Yes, I would even have a little dirt airport, where I could land my very own personal airplane.

  The town of Red Rock somehow reminded me of that little imaginary city in the dirt. From the little window of the plane I see nothing but dirt and rocks; nothing but red desolate earth, for as far as the eye could see. The Red Rock airport was little more than a dirt field with two ruts occupying it, stretching out not more than a quarter of a mile.

  Already travel-weary, we choose to buy a drink or something at the tiny café that occupies a part of the only hangar of the airport. Inside, we find two tables and three bar stools. As we enter the café, a large old ceiling fan swooshes above us, with the sound of an old squeaky wagon wheel about to fall off the wagon.

  We each order a root beer and sit down. I begin to look around at the girly pinup calendars from the forties and fifties exhibited on the walls around us. Impressed with the high classed calendar exhibit before me I look over at Kelly, raise my eyebrows and smile. Totally unimpressed at the photographic harem displayed on the walls before her; Kelly shakes her head and rolls her eyes at my disgusting flaunt of pleasure.

  Even though I know Kelly is very tired, she is busy checking her list of camera equipment, making sure this trip would prove to be a professional and productive assignment.

  How could a woman be so beautiful, organized and professional at the same time? She makes me feel so inadequate. Of course my feelings of inadequacy are a small price to pay, just to have her here working with me, I decide to myself.

  At 1:00 pm, the lady at the counter says our rental car is ready. We have a hard, hot, and dusty road ahead of us, so we pick up our gear and head out. A man named Phil drives up in front of us with a red and white 1965 Toyota Land Cruiser, the dustiest vehicle I have ever seen in my life.

  “Here’s your car, sir.” He steps out of the car and slams the driver’s side door. A cloud of dust billows from the slammed door of the vehicle, causing Phil to disappear for a moment.

  “Ya see that door there, with the large dent in it?” He points over towards the back of the vehicle.

  “Don’t try to open the window on that door, cuz’ it won’t roll down for ya. Other than that, you’re gassed up and ready to go.

  By the way, I put air in the spare tire and it looks like it’s going to hold,” he adds confidently, as he throws me the keys.

  While I put our things in the back, Kelly excitedly jumps in the front seat, looking at the whole thing as a great adventure. I get in and turn the key. Surprisingly, the engine starts immediately and begins to purr.

  My eyes move up and down and my head turns back and forth ninety degrees in each direction, as I slowly make an inspection of the interior of our vehicle.

  My ins
pection quickly reveals to me, that the interior of this vehicle is still completely upholstered with the dust from the year 1965, as well as all the dust that has accumulated from each year since 1965.

  “This is so cool. Let’s get on the road,” Kelly says, with a big grin.

  “You’ve always wanted to go on an African safari,” I remind her.

  “I better try to enjoy this then. This is might be the closest I’ll ever get to Africa.”

  §

  SIX

  We leave the town of Red Rock behind, the Montana badlands stretching out before us. A great exhaust of dust boils up behind us, as we drive down the road of raw earth.

  According to the crude map Phil gave us, we are to drive due south till we run into the Missouri River. The first landmark to look for is Skull Creek. Finding nothing else but a dried up creek, will tell us we are heading in the right direction. Keeping this dried creek bed on our left, we are to continue south.

  After about twenty-five miles on a dusty red dirt road, a kind of oasis of cottonwood and willow trees should appear. Here, a fresh cold water spring bubbles up beneath the cluster of shade trees.

  According to the map, the ruts in the road become more pronounced here, creating a path directly to the Mesozoic Park site, right on the Missouri riverbank.

  After driving five miles or so we locate Skull Creek, and just as the map says, the creek is no more than a big dried up ditch. We continue on, both of us enthralled with the barren expanse that surrounds us, stretching out to every horizon.

  As we drive along the creek bed, we see a lone coyote down in a coulee, about a quarter mile to our west. He stares at us passing by, as if he has never seen such a creature as this, rolling across the plains.

  Far off into the horizon in front of us, we can just make out what looks like a small green dot, in the lowland of the plains. As we slowly draw closer, the small green dot begins to turn into trees. The trees seem somehow alien in this universe of barren earth.

  Under the trees, a large shaded area with a small pool of water becomes visible to us, as we slowly drive by. Truly, this is an inviting little oasis. Because time is our prime concern at the moment, we drive on. We make a promise to ourselves to come here and stay awhile on our way back.

  It is 3:45 in the afternoon as we approach the gathering of trailers and small buildings, nestled next to some trees by the Missouri River. A large sign with the words ‘Mesozoic Park’ carved on a large slab of wood greets us, as if it were some kind of a primitive theme park.

  Before we are able to get out of our Land Cruiser, a man comes over to us, takes off his hat, and offers his outstretched hand.

  “G’-day mates, welcome to the Park. I’m Jeremiah James. I am the resident Paleontologist here at Mesozoic Park.” Jeremiah has a strong Australian accent.

  Jeremiah James looks to be a man in his forties. He is slim built with a rugged face. His long blond hair is tied back into a ponytail underneath a dusty and dirty Aussie hat. He definitely looks and speaks the part well.

  “I’m Matthew Brooks and this is Kelly O’Hara,” I tell him, shaking his hand. “We are from The Portland Herald. We called you about seeing the human footprint fossils.”

  “Right, we’ve been expecting you. Looks like you two have been eating a good bit of dust,” Jeremiah says, as he positions his hands on his hips.

  “I’d be obliged if you would come over to my tent and wet your whistle,” he offers enthusiastically.

  The great tempest of dust created from our vehicle now arrives from behind us, engulfing the little camp in a cloud of red powdery dust.

  Anxious to get away from the dust so that we can breathe again, Kelly and I quickly accept his invitation.

  “That would be great Dr. James. Just for a few minutes, though; we haven’t much time,” I inform him.

  “You just call me Jeremiah. None of that Doctor stuff round here mates. Follow me, mate. My tent is just a Kangaroo hop over there.”

  After fifty miles of choking down a massive amount of the Montana tundra, the beer that Jeremiah serves us in his tent tastes like an elixir of life. As the first swallow of cold brew slides down my throat, I am enraptured. It is only a stone’s throw away from an orgasmic experience.

  After a short while I am able to open my eyes and close my mouth, and begin a conversation.

  “How far are the fossils from here, Jeremiah?”

  “Crikey, just a push and a shove behind us mate. After you finish your beer, we can be there in five minutes or less. After we’re all finished lookin’ at dinosaur footprints, maybe Miss Kelly would like to take a nice shower. Hot or cold, whichever she fancies.”

  “That would be so wonderful!” Kelly sits up straight, her eyes beaming and shining

  “Then it’s all settled. All the comforts of home here at Mesozoic Park, and you’re both welcome to it.” Jeremiah is trying hard to be a gracious host.

  As Jeremiah has promised, the walk to the dinosaur fossil area is only a short distance away from his tent.

  The dinosaur fossils we encounter take us back in time. About forty million years ago or so, huge monsters walked through here, leaving images of the bottoms of their feet forever.

  Mesmerized by the prehistoric remains before us, for a moment I forget our reason for coming here, but Kelly’s voice summons forth my memory.

  “Where are the human footprints, Jeremiah?” she asks.

  “Right over here, Miss Kelly.” He points towards the ground ahead of us. We follow him about fifty yards down stream, across the old dried up riverbed.

  There, right before us, we find eight ancient footprints. They look to be footprints made by smaller feet and with a shorter gaited walk than an average man has. No one says a word as we all stay locked deep in thought of the meaning of this discovery, and the impact it might have on the world. Finally, I break the silence.

  “They must have had small feet in those days, Jeremiah. Either that, or these are footprints of children.”

  “They look small when you first look at them Matthew, but when you look a little closer you can see the real reason they look different. Go and give ‘um another glance; tell me what you see.”

  Kelly and I look again at the footprints in the solid sandstone. All I can see is old small footprints. Then Kelly comes to the rescue. She turns to me and smiles.

  “What? Do you see something I don’t?” I ask with my palms pointing up.

  “Matt, the toes; count the toes.”

  I look down again at the human fossils before me. Let’s see; one, two, three four. These footprints have only four toes; one large toe and three little ones that follow. Astonished, I quickly turned to Jeremiah.

  “Are these human, or something else?”

  “We’re pretty sure they’re human, Matt,” he responds patiently.

  “Then why only four toes?” I ask in defiance.

  “Well mate, we believe that when this bloke here was strollin’ down the river; for some unknown reason, his small toe didn’t dig down in the mud deep enough to make a print. Or maybe after the prints were made, mud somehow filled in the little toes’ prints. It’s human all right, don’t worry ‘bout that none. After 40 million years or so, any footprint will change on ya.” Jeremiah gives his best scientific evaluation.

  “You’re the expert Jeremiah. You know what you’re talking about. I only know one thing for sure. I am way out of my league here. I hope you’re filling your camera with pictures Kelly; Lloyd has got to see these footprints.”

  “Don’t worry Matt; I’m getting it all down on film.”

  Kelly’s camera hums, as she repeatedly captures the preserved ancient footprints on film. A whispering breeze begins to play in the trees above us, as I continue to gawk at the prehistoric human footprints in this abandoned stream bed.

  As Kelly carries on with her work, I look over my surroundings. This landscape hasn’t changed much in forty million years, I think to myself. This Montana countryside still seems
to be attired with a prehistoric landscape. As I circle around, I notice a figure standing atop a knoll a few hundred yards away from us. From this distance, it appears to be a silhouette of a man wearing a hat and large long coat.

  “Jeremiah, is that someone from your camp looking for you?” I announce; eager to be of assistance.

  Jeremiah rises up and turns around. He takes off his hat, using it to shade his eyes, looking toward the hill I am pointing.

  “Sorry mate, I don’t see a blamin’ thing!”

  I look again up to the top of the knoll, where once the figure stood. Now no-one is there. I shrug my shoulders and began to follow the others back to camp.

  As we hike back to the little village of tents and outhouses, Jeremiah invites us to supper and to stay the night. Since it is six o’clock in the evening, it seems ridiculously late to drive back to Red Rock now. Kelly and I decide to accept Jeremiah’s gracious offer.

  Inside Jeremiah’s tent we are imprisoned in darkness, except for the light-emitting lanterns, positioned to reveal our presence. The tent, our home for the night, is an army green World War II tent, which seems to be as big as a city block.

  Two dinosaur-digging associates of Jeremiah’s help seat us at a table in the middle of the tent. Eight or so propane lanterns give light to the beautiful spread before us. The reflecting, flickering light of the lanterns makes the china and wine glasses look as if they are some sort of dancing jewels on the table.

  We are many miles away from any real civilization, yet we are treated to a sumptuous feast. Fresh campfire bread and trout caught that afternoon. To wash it down, a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon is uncorked. Enjoying such unexpected creature comforts in the middle of nowhere seems so surreal.

  It is as if Jeremiah went to a major department store in Great Falls, purchased some kind of luxurious tent kit and is allowing us to be the first guests to use it.

  As we finish our dinner and relish another glass of wine, the conversation turns back toward the human footprints we beheld. Jeremiah begins to expound upon the discovery of the human footprints.