by Ivan Doig
While my tongue was wandering around that way, though, and my fingers were trying to solve the bootlace situation, which for some reason began halfway down my boots instead of at the top where I was sure they ought to be, my mind was not idle. Cowboying, teamstering, river pigging: all this history of Stanley’s was unexpected to me. I’d supposed, from my distant memory of him having been in our lives when I was so small, that he was just another camptender or maybe even an association rider back when this range was occupied by mostly cattle instead of sheep. But riding along up here and being greeted by the elevation-minded sheepherder as an expert on the Two: that sounded like, what, he’d been one of the early ranchers of this country? Homesteader, maybe? Fighting that forest fire of ’10: must have volunteered himself onto the fire crew, association rider would fit that. But dosing all those sheep: that sounded like camptender again.
Then something else peeped in a corner of my mind. One boot finally in hand, I could spare the concentration for the question. "Stanley, didn’ you say you been to this cabin before? When we got here, didn’ you say that?"
"Yessir. Been here just a lot of times. I go back farther than this cabin does. I seen it being built. We was sighting out that fenceline over there when old Bob Barclay started dragging in the logs for this." Being built? Sighting the boundary fencelines? The history was skipping to the most ancient times of the Two forest now, and this turn and the whiskey together were compounding my confusion. Also, somebody had put another boot in my hand. Yet I persisted.
“What, were you up here with the Theologic—the Geologic—the survey crew?"
Stanley’s eyes were sharp, as if a new set had been put in amid the webs of eyelines. And the look he fastened on me now was the levelest thing in that cabin.
"Jick, I was the ranger that set up the boundaries of the Two Medicine National Forest."
Surely my face hung open so far you could have trotted a cat through it.
In any Forest Service family such as ours, lore of setting up the national forests, of the boundary examiners who established them onto the maps of America as public preserves, was almost holy writ. I could remember time upon time of hearing my father and the other Forest Service men of his age mention those original rangers and supervisors, the ones who were sent out in the first years of the century with not much more than the legal description of a million or so acres and orders to transform them into a national forest. "The forest arrangers," the men of my father’s generation nicknamed them. Elers Koch on the Gallatin National Forest, Coert duBois on the Lolo, other boundary men who sired the Beaverhead and the Custer and the Helena and so on; the tales of them still circulated, refreshed by the comments of the younger rangers wondering how they’d managed to do all they had. Famous, famous guys. Sort of combinations of Old Testament prophets and mountain men, rolled into one. Everybody in the Forest Service told forest arranger stories at any chance. But that Stanley Meixell, wrong-handed campjack and frequenter of Doctor Al K. Hall, had been the original ranger of the Two Medicine National Forest, I had never heard a breath of. And this was strange.
“My sister is Mandy,
she’s got a dandy.
At least so the boys say."
I woke with that in my ears and a dark brown taste in my mouth. The serious symptoms set in when I sat up in my bunk. My eyes and temples and ears all seemed to have grown sharp points inward and were steadily stabbing each other. Life, the very air, seemed gritty, gray. Isn’t there one hangover description that your tongue feels like you spent the night licking ashtrays? That’s it.
"Morning there, Jick!" Stanley sang out. He was at the stove. “Here, better wash down your insides with this." Stepping over to the bunk, he handed me a tin cup of coffee turned tan with canned milk. Evidently he had heated the milk along with the coffee, because the contents of the cup were all but aflame. The heat went up my nose in search of my brain as I held the cup in front of my lips.
“No guarantee on this left-handed grub," Stanley called over his shoulder as he fussed at something on the stove top, “but how do you take your eggs?"
“Uh," I sought around in myself for the information. “Flipped, I guess."
Stanley hovered at the stove another minute or two while I made up my mind to try the death-defying trip to the table.
Then he turned and presented me a plate. Left-handed they may have been, but the eggs were fried to a crisp brown lace at the edges, while their pockets of yolk were not runny but not solidified either. Eggs that way are perfection. On the plate before me they were fenced in by wide tan strips of sidepork, and within a minute or so Stanley was providing me slices of bread fried in the pan grease.
I am my mother’s son entirely in this respect: I believe good food never made any situation worse.
I dug in and by the time I’d eaten about half the plateful, things were tasting like they were supposed to. I even managed to sip some of the coffee, which I discovered was stout enough to float a kingbolt. Indeed, I swarmed on to the last bite or so of the feast before it occurred to me to ask, “Where’d you get these eggs ?"
“Aw, I always carry a couple small lard pails of oats for the horses, and the eggs ride okay in the oats."
Breakfast made me feel restored. "Speaking of riding," I began "how soon—"
"—can we head down the mountain." Stanley inventoried me. And I took the chance to get in my first clear-eyed look of the day at him. Stanley seemed less in pain than he had when we arrived to this cabin but less in grasp of himself than he had during last night’s recounting of lore of the Two. A man in wait, seeing which way he might turn; but unfortunately, I knew, the bottle habit soon would sway his decision. Of course, right then who was I to talk?
Now Stanley was saying: "Just any time now, Jick. We can head out as soon as you say ready."
* * *
On our ride down Stanley of course was into his musical repertoire again, one minute warbling about somebody who was wild and woolly and full of fleas and never’d been curried above her knees and the next crooning a hymnlike tune that went "Oh sweet daughters of the Lord, grant me more than I can afford."
My mind, though, was on a thing Stanley said as we were saddling the horses. In no way was it what I intended to think about, for I knew fully that I was heading back into the McCaskill family situation, that blowup between my parents and Alec. Godamighty, the supper that produced all that wasn’t much more than a half a week ago. And in the meantime my father had introduced Stanley and Canada Dan and Bubbles, not to mention Dr. Al K. Hall, into my existence. There were words I intended to say to him about all this. If, that is, I could survive the matter of explaining to my mother why the tops of my boots gaped out like funnels and how come my pants legs looked like I’d wiped up a mountainside with them and where the tail of my shirt had gone. Thank the Lord, not even she could quite see into a person enough to count three tin cups of booze in him the night before. On that drinking score, I felt reasonably safe. Stanley didn’t seem to me likely to trouble himself enough to advertise my behavior. On the other hand, Stanley himself was a logical topic for my mother. More than likely my father had heard, and I was due to hear, her full opinion of my having sashayed off on this camp jacking expedition.
A sufficiency to dwell on, and none of it easy thinking. Against my intentions and better interests, though, I still found myself going back and forth over the last scene at the cabin.
I had just handed the lead rope for the black mare and everloving Bubbles up to Stanley and was turning away to go tighten the cinch on Pony’s saddle. It was then that Stanley said he hoped I didn’t mind too much about missing the rest of the counting trip with my father, to the Billy Peak lookout and all. “I couldn’t of got along up here without you, Jick," he concluded, "and I hope you don’t feel hard used."
Which of course was exactly how I had been feeling. You damn bet I was, ever since the instant my father volunteered me into Stanley’s company. Skinning wet sheep corpses, contending
with a pack horse who decides he’s a mountain goat, nursing Stanley along, lightning, any number of self-cooked meals, the hangover I’d woke up with and still had more than a trace of—what sad sonofabitch wouldn’t realize he was being used out of the ordinary?
Yet right then, eighteen-inch pincers would not have pulled such a confession from me. I wouldn’t give the universe the satisfaction. So, "No," I had answered Stanley, and gone on over to do my cinching. “No, it’s all been an education."
TWO
This will mark the fifteenth Fourth of July in a row that Gros Ventre has mustered a creek picnic, a rodeo and a dance. Regarding those festivities, ye editor’s wife inquires whether somebody still has her big yellow potato-salad bowl from last year; the rodeo will feature $140 in prize money; and the dance music will again be by Nola Atkins, piano, and Jef Swan, fiddle.
—GROS VENTRE WEEKLY GLEANER, JUNE 29
I HAVE to honestly say that the next few weeks of this remembered summer look somewhat pale in comparison with my Stanley episode. Only in comparison, though.
You can believe that I arrived back to English Creek from the land of sheepherders and pack horses in no mood to take any further guff from that father of mine. What in Holy H. Hell was that all about, him and Stanley Meixell pussyfooting around each other the way they had when they met there on the mountain, then before it was over my father handing me over to Stanley like an orphan? Some counting trip, that one. I could spend the rest of the summer just trying to dope out why and what and who, if I let myself. Considering, then, that my bill of goods against my father was so long and fresh, life’s next main development caught me by entire surprise. This same parent who had just lent me as a towing service for a whiskeyfied geezer trying to find his way up the Rocky Mountains—this identical father now announced that he would be off the English Creek premises for a week, and I hereby was elevated into being the man of the house.
"Your legs are long enough by now that they reach the ground," he provided by way of justification the suppertime this was unveiled. "so I guess that qualifies you to run this place, don’t you think?"
* * *
Weather brought this about, as it did so much else that summer. The cool wet mood of June continued and about the middle of the month our part of Montana had its solidest rain in years, a toad-drowner that settled in around noon and poured on and on into the night. That storm delivered snow onto the mountains. Several inches fell in the Big Belts south beyond the Sun River, and that next morning here in the Two, along the high sharp parts of all the peaks a white skift shined, fresh-looking as a sugar sprinkle. You could bet, though, there were a bunch of perturbed sheepherders up there looking out their wagon doors at it and not thinking sugar. Anyway, since that storm was a straightforward douser without any lightning and left the forests so sopping that there was no fire danger for a while, the desk jockeys at the national forest office in Great Falls saw this as a chance to ship a couple of rangers from the Two over to Region headquarters for a refresher course. Send them back to school, as it was said. Both my father and Murray Tomlin of the Blacktail Gulch station down on the Sun River had been so assiduous about evading this in the past that the finger of selection now never wavered whatsoever: it pointed the pair of them to Missoula for a week of fire school.
The morning came when my father appeared in his Forest Service monkey suit—heather-green uniform, side-crimped dress Stetson, pine tree badge—and readied himself to collect Murray at the Blacktail Gulch station, from where they would drive over to Missoula together.
"Mazoola," he was still grumbling. "Why don’t they send us to hell to study fire and be done with it? What I hear, the mileage is probably about the same."
My mother’s sympathy was not rampant. “All that surprises me is that you’ve gotten by this long without having to go. Have you got your diary in some pocket of that rig?"
"Diary," my father muttered, "diary, diary, diary," patting various pockets. "I never budge without it." And went to try to find it. I spectated with some anticipation. My mood toward my father hadn’t uncurdled entirely, and some time on my own, some open space without him around to remind me I was half sore at him, looked just dandy to me. As did this first-ever designation of me as the man of the house. Of course, I was well aware my father hadn’t literally meant that I was to run English Creek in his absence. Start with the basic that nobody ran my mother. As for station matters, my father’s assistant ranger Paul Eliason was strawbossing a fire trail crew not far along the South Fork and the new dispatcher, Chet Barnouw, was up getting familiar with the lookout sectors and the telephone setup which connected them to the ranger station. Any vital forest business would be handled by one of those two. No, I had no grandiose illusions. I was to make the check on Walter Kyle’s place sometime during the week and help Isidor Pronovost line out his packstring when he came to pack supplies up to the fire lookouts and do some barn cleaning and generally be on hand for anything my mother thought up. Nothing to get wild-eyed about.
Even so, I wasn’t prepared for what lay ahead when my father came back from his diary hunt, looked across the kitchen at me, said, "Step right out here for some free entertainment," and led me around back of the ranger station.
There he went to the side of the outhouse, being a little gingerly about it because of his uniform. Turned. Stepped off sixteen paces—why exactly sixteen I don’t know, but likely it was in Forest Service regulations somewhere. And announced: "It’s time we moved Republican headquarters. How’re your shovel muscles?"
* * *
So here was my major duty of "running" English Creek in my father’s absence. Digging the new hole to site the toilet over.
* * *
Let me be clear. The job itself I didn’t particularly mind. Shovel work is honest sweat. Even yet I would sooner do something manual than to diddle around with some temperamental damn piece of machinery. No, my grouse was of a different feather than that. I purely was perturbed that here was one more instance of my father blindsiding me with a task I hadn’t even dreamt of. First Stanley, now this outhouse deal. Here was a summer, it was beginning to seem like, when every time I turned around some new and strange avenue of endeavor was already under my feet and my father was pointing me along it and chirping, "Right this way, Jick."
All this and I suppose more was on my mind as my father’s pickup vanished over the rise of the Gros Ventre road and I contemplated my work site.
Moving an outhouse may not sound like the nicest occupation in the world. But neither is it as bad as you probably think. Here is the program: when my father got back from Missoula we would simply lever up each side of the outhouse high enough to slip a pole under to serve as a skid, then nail crosspieces to keep the pair of skids in place and, with a length of cable attached to the back of the pickup, snake the building over atop the new pit and let it down into place, ready for business.
So the actual moving doesn’t amount to all that much. The new pit, though. There’s the drawback. The pit, my responsibility, was going to take considerable doing. Or rather, considerable digging. At the spot my father had paced to and marked, I pounded in four stakes with white kitchen string from one to another to represent the outhouse dimensions. Inasmuch as ours was a two-holer, as was considered good-mannered for a family, it made a considerable rectangle; I guess about half again bigger than a cemetery grave. And now all I faced was to excavate the stringed-in space to a depth of about seven feet.
Seven feet divided by, umm, parts of five days, what with the week’s other jobs and general choring for my mother. I doped out that if I did a dab of steady digging each afternoon I could handily complete the hole by Saturday when my father was due back. Jobs which can be broken down into stints that way, where you know that if you put in a certain amount of daily effort you’ll overcome the chore, I have always been able to handle. It’s the more general errands of life that daunt me.
I don’t mean to spout an entire sermon on this outhouse topic,
but advancing into the earth does get your mind onto the ground, in more ways than one. That day when I started in on the outhouse rectangle I of course first had to cut through the sod, and once that’s been shoveled out it leaves a depression about the size of a cellar door. A sort of entryway down into the planet, it looked like. Unearthing that sod was the one part of this task that made me uneasy, and it has taken me these years to realize why. A number of times since, I have been present when sod was broken to become a farmed field. And in each instance I felt the particular emotion of watching that land be cut into furrows for the first time ever—ever; can we even come close to grasping what that means ?—and the native grass being tipped on its side and then folded under the brown wave of turned earth. Anticipation, fascination. Part of the feeling can be described with those words or ones close to them. It can be understood, watching the ripping plow cut the patterns that will become a grainfield, that the homesteaders who came to Montana in their thousands believed they were seeing a new life uncovered for them.
Yet there’s a further portion of those feelings, at least in me. Uneasiness. The uneasy wondering of whether that ripping-plow is honestly the best idea. Smothering a natural crop, grass, to try to nurture an artificial one. Not that I, or probably anyone else with the least hint of a qualm, had any vote in the matter. Both before and after the Depression—which is to say, in times when farmers had money enough to pay wages—kids such as I was in this particular English Creek summer were merely what you might call hired arms; brought in to pick rocks off the newly broken field. And not only the newly broken, for more rocks kept appearing and appearing. In fact in our part of Montana, rock-picking was like sorting through a perpetual landslide. Anything bigger than a grapefruit—the heftiest rocks might rival a watermelon—was dropped onto a stoneboat pulled by a team of horses or tractor, and the eventual load was dumped alongside the field. No stone fences built as in New England or over in Ireland or someplace. Just raw heaps, the slag of the plowed prairie.