Montana TR- Holy Water

(Almost done. I'm writing these things on my days off but these 12
hour night shifts make me feel like Charly in "Flowers for Algernon".
I can see my intellect and creativity fade as I get more and more
tired. And yes I'd like a little cheese with this whine. A Norwegian
Jarlsberg would be nice.)

After a short restocking mission in Big Timber we struck up the road
that runs through the valley cut by the main stem of the Boulder.
There was a string of Forest Service campgrounds that we wanted to
check out. First we had to pass through the vacation home
developments. Actually nice enough places, smallish wooden, metal
roofed structures. I don't think the metal roofs would save many in a
fire though. Many were built in minuscule clearings with trees only a
few yards from their walls. They will certainly be lost if (when?) a
big conflagration comes roaring down the valley.

The first campground at Falls Creek was nice but from the number of
the cars it looked as if it might be full. We decided to drive
farther. We drove past the beaver pond I had fished the previous
Wednesday and then past the first of four church camps that are in the
valley. The river here was crowded with fishermen, dozens of them.
Each riffle and pool had at least one guy standing in it. The next
campground was also crammed. All the spots taken. After almost getting
broadsided by some barely controlled ATVs we headed further up.

The next campground had the trailer and tent sites segregated. It too
was almost full, although there was one tent site. Its concrete picnic
table was smashed and bent, an obvious victim of highly energized
vandals, and the whole site lying open and exposed to its neighbors.
We claimed it by turning a camp chair upside down next to the fire
ring. Mason had already gone off to look for kid friends. He found
them, most of whom seemed to belong to a group that had crammed two
pop ups and a tent into one site. The same folks had a small border
collie. It was wandering around off leash. A nice enough little dog
but it seemed to have a rather vacant look in its eyes. Our dogs of
course had to set up a hue and cry over its presence. The little dog
didn't seem to notice. She just stared vacantly into space. The owner,
sitting next to the smudge pile that was the campfire, yelled
something like "Misty, get the **** over here". Misty didn't seem to
notice. She just kept on staring. Now the owner was getting madder.
"Misty, god damn it, come back over here". Misty maybe deigned to
glance back over her shoulder, but then returned to her soporific
stare. At any moment I expected the owner to come and claim her but
obviously he decided that he had "done his duty" by cursing at the top
of his lungs and turned face to his smoldering campfire and beer.
Jacci and I started to realize that the situation in this campground
wasn't going to work out. We folded our chair and loaded it in the
car. Mason loudly protested. He was suffering from compatriot
withdrawal, he'd had no other kids to play with for a week. And while
the gang of kids had so far ignored him, he obviously felt they
contained possibilities. But when the littlest girl, a blond about 3
feet high, ran by shouting "You're dead. I killed you" that was
enough. We promised Mason that the campground we would set up in would
have other kids and if it didn't we wouldn't stay there. As we pulled
out Misty stood next to the kids. Its probably a trick of memory, but
in my mind's eye I see the dead, incurious look not only in the little
dog's eyes but also in the kids' eyes as we slowly rolled past them.

It had started to rain. It looked darker up the valley so we turned
back, meaning to check out the first campground. When we got there it
had yet to rain there. A quick search soon revealed that most of the
"campers" vehicles we had seen there actually belonged to fishermen.
There were three secluded campsites lying empty, next to the river.
One had been occupied by pigs, the fire ring full of partially burned
drink containers and other refuse but the other two were clean. We
chose the one nearest the water. Mason went off to look for "friends".
Just as we finished pitching the tent he came back. There were no kids
in the entire campground. So we would leave, right?

Um. no... But you promised... But the other campgrounds are full...
But you promised... But this is one of the nicest campsites we've ever
seen... But you promised... I'm sorry but we're staying here... But
you promised... I know I did, but I've changed my mind...You lied...
And he was right, I had.

The conversation continued at a louder level for a while, in the
campsite and up and back from the car as we unloaded it. It ended with
Mason zipping himself into the tent and me feeling like another
dysfunctional father, an uncomfortably close kin to Misty's owner.

But the campsite *was* lovely. Surrounded by tall slender pines, the
river ran in a rocky channel alongside it. Two mountain peaks, one
across the river and one just downstream framed the location. And
whoever had used it last had kept in scrupulously clean. Very
important in bear country.

There is a nice aspect to childhood and that is that a normally
curious child can't stay disconnected from his immediate environment
for too long. After a while Mason made his appearance and we made
mutual mumbled apologies, engineered by Jacci.

http://fishskicanoe.tripod.com/geopi.../IMG_0038a.jpg
The Camp Site

We still had a few hours of daylight left. I suggested a trip up to
the beaver pond to try for some brookies. When we got there the sky
was darkening, clouds rolling up over the ridges to the south west. I
hooked and landed a brook trout on one of my first casts and then it
started to rain. Mason and Jacci headed back to the car but I stuck it
out for a while, hooking and releasing some more 8 inch trout and
getting throughly soaked in the meantime. Finally giving up to
incipient hypothermia (kidding, but only barely) I climbed into the
car and we proceeded up the road to check out the river farther
upstream. Most of the other fishermen were gone and the campgrounds
were looking moistly bedraggled. We passed Misty's campground and
checked out the scenery. We wanted to see what the USFS cabin at
Fourmile was like. The road deteriorated the farther we went. One of
the church camps, Methodist, was impressive. Large buildings, in
ground pool, several lighted basketball courts. There also was a
stretch of river that must have run through one of the camp's
properties, as every fence post had a Biblical verse on it. It looked
almost as open as the Meadows on the West Boulder, fishy as hell. Then
we passed the Hell's Canyon campground and then finally the Fourmile
cabin. Smaller and more isolated than our West Fork home, it was less
appealing in ambiance.

We crawled our way back down the valley in a renewed spate of rain,
this time accompanied by peals of thunder. Again we passed the
Methodist camp. I wondered, looking at the posh setup, whether they
were having steak and lobster tonight in the dining hall. I could
imagine the unseen Lutherans, their camp still miles up the barely
adequate road, dipping into their hotdish with maybe some Lime Jello
Marshmallow Surprise for desert. If it was a special night they'd have
potato chips.

We got back to our tent just before the rain did. We huddled inside
arranging sleeping bags and pillows. Then, to the sound of raindrops
on nylon, we fell asleep.

Geo.C.

"George Cleveland" wrote in message
...
(Almost done. I'm writing these things on my days off but these 12
hour night shifts make me feel like Charly in "Flowers for Algernon".


wow. talk about your "pearls before swine"...

yfitons
wayno(ever considered submitting some of your work to "gray's"?)

George Cleveland typed:
Almost done. I'm writing these things on my days off . . .
snip

Jeez, George. It's going to be tough submitting my measly offerings with you
and Roger raising the bar. It may be work for you to write these, but from
this end it's a damn good way to spend some time. Thanks!

BTW, I especially enjoyed the "but you promised" discussion between you and
Mason. Ahhhhh, memories....
--
TL,
Tim
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http://css.sbcma.com/timj