Gettin’ Old, This Adventure Called 'Life' Continues, However…………..

[Sassy]

Thanks for sharing, Gary.  Very special...

[sparks]

  The adventure......getting old....etc

Next week, the wife and I are going to sign adoption papers for her grand daughter......

We've had the little gal since she was born........four years ago.............crack baby.......

I think I posted some things way back then.

The little gal is doing very well now........

And now I'm trying to figure out what the word retirement means.

Pics on the way......





sparks

[rick91351]

  The adventure......getting old....etc

Next week, the wife and I are going to sign adoption papers for her grand daughter......

We've had the little gal since she was born........four years ago.............crack baby.......

I think I posted some things way back then.

The little gal is doing very well now........

And now I'm trying to figure out what the word retirement means.

Pics on the way......

sparks

Lord Bless You Guys.......

From Rick and Ellen

[Redoverfarm]

  The adventure......getting old....etc

Next week, the wife and I are going to sign adoption papers for her grand daughter......

We've had the little gal since she was born........four years ago.............crack baby.......

I think I posted some things way back then.

The little gal is doing very well now........

And now I'm trying to figure out what the word retirement means.

Pics on the way......





sparks

   Way to go.  She will help you maintain your youth.

[Gary O]

"She will help you maintain your youth"

Boy, is that ever a fact

...and, they're great garden tenders

[Gary O]

When I was about 10, we'd moved down the road a bit. It was at least close enough to town to be able to ride my bike to the hardware store and replenish my stock pile of BBs, and there were more kids, kids a couple three years older than me, kids that had a bit more savvy about important things, things like guns, cigarettes, and wimin.
Man we terrorized that little neighborhood. There was only six of us, but seems it was more like twenty at times.
Life was pretty good.
We commandeered a little leanto shed across the gravel road from our house, and there we'd meet, sharin' whatever we brought. Actually, I couldn't wait to wake up every summer morning...and sometimes I didn't.
Both folks worked, and my sister was supposed watch me, so there were long stretches of times, if I scheduled things just right, I could technically have just been company droppin' by.

Then things got different.

I was makin' a rare appearance at home....hunger, and noticed Mom's car was in the drive.
Then Dad's car pulled up.
I was fiddlin' with some meat and bread when Dad came in the door.
Then he just busted out bawlin'.
My mind did a little WTF? As I'd never seen him cry before.
Grampa had died.
Well Geez, he'd been wasting away in the nursing home for months...no surprise. But seems that was my Dad's only link to some sorta ethereal security.
Next thing I know, a few weeks later he's goin' off on how this orphan kid was such a great little guy.
'Bout then I had another of those WTF? Moments.
So here comes this kid.
Dad shows him around, then he's gone.
Dad was like that. Not around much. It worked for me, but now this damn kid. Nice kid to boot.
A little too nice. Like the replacement kid on Lassie.
Yeah, the first kid, Jeff, was great, then they replaced him with a kid appropriately named Timmy. Then the show went south, all sappy and effed up. But, right here most of you readers are going 'What?'

So this kid is my shadow, Dad's fair haired boy, and I'm guessin' I'm his guardian.
One of the things us neighborhood kids loved to do was play king of the trees.
Douglas fir trees are plentiful in NW Oregon, and huge. They can reach 300 ft in height, and these were not the exception.
Three or four of us would pick our tree and race each other to the top. Whoever would get to the point of being able to bend the top over and touch the tip first was king. The best part, however, was not being king, but just camping there in the limbs, letting the wind blow us back and forth. Folks woulda crapped their pants if they'd known what we were doin'.
Well, little Randy (my personal Timmy) wanted to climb.
I became a bit evil right there, and cautioned him that climbing those trees were not the same as yer everyday apple tree...but in the tone of lure and enticement.
The little guy was doin' quite well, as doug fir limbs are rather close together...hell you could almost walk up them. Then he musta made a misstep. I heard some yelling, and some thumping sounds. Then I caught sight of him flopping from one bough to the next.
Kathumping all the way to the bottom.
Seemed like he took forever.
Thing is, there's about 20 feet of no limbs at the bottom, and he was in no way gonna grab one'a those boards we used to start our climbs. So he landed in a little Timmy heap, on his shoulder, in the bed of fir needles.

For another evil moment I sat at my treetop, kinda hoping he'd not move, at all, ever.

But the little bastard just got a dislocated shoulder and some bruises....and a new guardian.

Things sometimes just have a way of workin' themselves out.

[rick91351]

It has been a rough last week.  I lost my dad and my best friend I ever had! 

From having a wonderful week before.  Thursday, May 3, 2012 we sorted and hauled cattle up to the range and turned them out on our Forest Service Permit.  I never remember turning out such a fine set of cows, calves and real nice two year old bull.  I hauled a couple cows over here to our valley property and put them on pasture here.  I took one over to the cattle auction to sell Friday.  Then chased the cattle truck up to the Prairie.  When I came down as soon as I got in cell phone range I called dad at the Assisted Living and told him everything and got him all caught up. 

The following evening I called over there and because of a client falling down they could not let me talk to dad.  The following morning I called to talk to him.  They had just found him when he did not come out for breakfast.  He had passed away in his sleep.  The night caregiver reported on her chart at 04:15 George was snoring.  When we got over there about 15 minutes latter and went in to his room he looked so natural.  Ellen and I sat there and talked until the others started showing up.  I was so expecting dad to open his eyes and say, "If you get the hell out I'll go to the can and get dressed and come out and we can talk."         



George (Dord) Gordon Russell 1915-2012 George (Dord) Gordon Russell 96, of Nampa, Idaho died peacefully Saturday, May 5, 2012 in his sleep at a Nampa care center. Truly, his passing was a surprise. George, known by family and close friends as Dord, lived a full life where he loved to explain, "When you've seen the world literally go from the horse and buggy to the moon and back you have seen a lot."

George was born July 11, 1915 to George William Russell and Ethel (Jones) Russell on a Russell family homestead near Kuna, Idaho. When old enough to travel, George and Ethel returned to their homestead at Smith Prairie, Idaho. George was raised there until his parents divorced in 1925, when he was 10 years old. He and his mother followed an aunt to Seattle where he attended school until the eighth grade and, as was common in those days, dropped out to find whatever work he could. He supported himself and his mother by both delivering Seattle papers and working at the stables. When his mother remarried when he was 15, he returned to Smith Prairie, Idaho. The Prairie, with its family ties and its way of life, was center to him.

Besides helping with the family homestead, he rode several years for the Smith Prairie Cattle Association and worked around the many sheep ranches of Mountain Home and Bruneau. When the work would become scarce there, he would often train polo and cavalry horses and work at the Boise Riding Academy and Stables. On October 22, 1936 George married LoRene Alice Dodd in Mountain Home, Idaho. They returned to Smith Prairie where they continued to ranch and farm until 1942. It was then that George and LoRene moved to Seattle to join the war effort. George became a welder in the shipyards and later trained and tested to become a rigger. He always explained that he liked that job a lot better even though it was outside in the Seattle rain. He loved splicing and working with the lines and he would grin and say "And it paid more!" And while there he even found time to work with the race horses at Longacres, especially when Lou Crawl from Idaho came to Seattle.

When the war was over, George suddenly announced to LoRene that they were selling out and returning to Idaho. When they returned to Idaho, they purchased a farm on Eagle Island. True to his livestock heritage, he and LoRene wintered sheep there for Gabaola for several years. In 1952 they sold that farm and moved to Meridian. There he found employment at Idaho Pine Co. However, true to form, he soon found himself looking for another farm. In 1954 they purchased a farm off of Maple Grove where George farmed and milked cows while continuing to work at the sawmill. Idaho Pine closed for a period of time and reopened as Meridian Pine and George became self employed hauling bulk wood shavings and wood chips to dairies, feed lots, and chicken farms.

In 1965 George and LoRene purchased the homestead and the cattle grazing permit at Smith Prairie which they leased out the ground and grazed their cattle up there in the summers. Though they never returned there to live, they loved dreaming that some day they would. George loved to return there just see what was going on. In 1967 he sold the property on Maple Grove and bought eighty acres at Kuna. There, beside trucking, he was a member of the Hereford Association and raised registered Hereford cattle. They sold the ranch at Kuna 1977 and downsized and semi retired to Nampa. In early 1980's he bought another property at Smith Prairie. In 2000. George sold the small farm in Nampa where they were living and moved to a small acreage on Willow in Nampa. There he had a horse or two, and never missed a livestock auction if he could help it. Even into his eighties, George remained very active, loved to help others, and loved his family and friends. To the end, he always had a love for babies and children. And of course always loved to talk livestock.

August 3, 2001 the love of his life LoRene A Russell passed away. George continued to live by himself a for several years. His family however found they had to move him into assisted living where he was very well taken care of in several valley facilities, the last being Ashley Manor on Middland in Nampa. He loved to talk and was very quick witted clear to the end. The family wishes to thank the staff there for the care and love he received. Also thank you to XL Hospice who were fantastic with their care for George and updates and concerns for the family. Truly his passing was a surprise to all of us. Many thanks to all of you! George is survived by his son and daughter in law William B. and Sue Russell of Truth or Consequences N.M. His almost daughter Linda Nicks of Colorado Springs Co. His son and daughter in law Rickey Lee and Ellen M Russell of Nampa, Idaho. Along with grand children and great grand children covering a host of states. Dad / Dord / Grandpa you will be so missed! He was preceded in death by his wife of 64 years LoRene A Russell and his 101 year old brother Jack Russell of Laurel, Mt. who passed away last year. A viewing will be held on Wednesday, May 9 from 5-7 p.m. at Summers Funeral Homes, Ustick Chapel. Graveside services will be held on Thursday, May 10 at Morris Hill Cemetery at 2:00 p.m. Arrangements under the direction of Summers Funeral Homes, Ustick Chapel.

[Redoverfarm]

So sorry to hear about your Dad.  I am sure he was proud of you for carrying on his legecy and his passion.  We are never prepared for the passing of loved ones but it sounds as if he lived a full rich life.  Take care.  My prayers are with you and your family.

[Gary O]

The value of rare precious things is immeasurable.
It's a precious thing, a best friend.
It's a rare precious thing when he's your dad.

Rick, it sounds like your were his best friend too.
Having a son for a best friend, well now, it's hard to imagine things getting better than that.

Well done, sir, well done indeed.

[MountainDon]

So sorry to hear of your Dad's passing Rick. There's a big hole there now. Take care. All our best to you and Ellen.

Don & Karen

[Sassy]

My thoughts & prayers are with you Rick & your family.  Sounds like your dad enjoyed his life. 

[NM_Shooter]

That's a bittersweet story.  God bless him and your family too.

-f-

[ColchesterCabin]

Rick ksorry to hear about your loss. I know the hole is current and deep but hopefully the thoughts and prayers of those thinking of you in this time, assist in some of the healing process....

[rick91351]

String Trimmers, Global Warming and Cow Pies

Because of certain events in the last week or two like a death in the family, then before that there was rain, rain then hot temps and high winds.  More trips up to the ranch than I think I really did.  So in other words we were far behind.

I woke up to the fact that the weeds were about to take over in couple places we cannot spray or do not spray.  No!  Strike that thought!  No, not about spraying, but the weeds.  They had taken over.  So after we finally got our garden in.  We plant mainly anymore  just a salsa garden.  With lots and lots of tomatoes and peppers then some the summer squash and cucumbers.  I decided it was time to attack the weeds. 

I first had to run to the gas station and with a 2.5 gallon gas can for two gallons of gas to mix with two cycle oil.  Not really a can, I do remember those however.  Just old verbiage and nouns are hard to.......  Anyway this one is plastic and it does have the old spout.  Once again thank you Mr. Government for making life safer and simpler.  Have you actually tried to fill a chainsaw from one of those new gas cans?  It is sort of like needing someone to help you tinkle when you have both arms broke at the same time.  These new spouts and cans are a far worse danger than the old ones were ever made out to be.  They are going to spill more fuel and cause more fires than any of the old ones.

Two gallons of gas and two cycle oil worked out to about $10.00.  Remember when you could..........?  Actually two gallons of two cycle gas for most people is like a whole summer and fall with a normal sized city lot and dispose of some when snow flies in the winter.  Rick and Ellen go through that fairly quickly with two acres here and the ranch up there.  We heat mostly with wood.  Last year was 100% with wood.  So I very seldom let the fuel get old and stale.   

So it was time to unbury the string trimmer from the corner in the tool shed.  The head was full of line and there was even a fresh spool hang on the wall.  I think Ellen was outfitting me for action.  Can you remember when you got string trimmer line next to something and it would snap off.  Then you had to pull the head all apart and find the end of the string and rethread it and on and on!  Well that was aggravating.  However it at least gave you a break.  One to stop, rest your back and re-thread.  Not so with the new lines today.  You run them wide open and for a whole tank of fuel and the head just happily spins and dispenses line whistling and humming and thumping and a line never breaks. 

I filled it with fresh fuel and gave the rope a pull.  Half hoping that the starter rope would not pull.  But the big old Husky-var-na trimmer roared to life.  And I commenced the spring ritual of mass string trimming.  Plus this gives me an opportunity to make my carbon footprint larger.  That seems important to me right now as I struggle with who am I?  This after the loss of my father.  Strange at 60 years old I now seem to be wondering just who the heck I am.  He was always there, even though the last couple years his short term memory was gone most the time.  He was still dad and my mentor and the family leader.   Now it is just me, well there is Ellen, but she is a girl.
   
I started in the Idaho Power easement, a wasteland of cheatgrass and foxtail this time of year.  It is most likely 25 foot wide and 120 foot long of which we really can not do anything with.  I own it, I pay taxes on it.  However I really cannot put a shed on it, I really can not landscape it.  It is just a dry part of my lot.  Idaho Power has to be able to get in there in the event of line or transformer repair.  It does serve as a good no mans land between me and my neighbor to the west.  Strange as I think of it. I have my yard fence there.  (Chain link, tall and stout.)  Then there is the easement, twenty five feet of no man's land.  Then there is the fence on the property line.  Then when the neighbor built his house he also installed a chain link corral for his five or six kids and growing family.  Plus this time of the year with all the foliage there is in my yard.  Landscaping which would make a landscape architect pass out, hardly with envy.  That, as well as the neighbors landscaping which looks a little more professionally done.  So if you are in my yard do not try to escape to the west.  I spent a day there string trimming the easement  Well it seemed like a day but closer to an hour.  Well long enough to run out of both fuel and string.  I stopped for a cool glass of water and to check my e-mail before I went out to conquer a few thistles and wild ash trees with the sprayer and the Agent Orange.  When I had finished defoliating my little portion of the world, and before protestors arrived on the scene, next on the agenda was string trimming a cattle corral.

The cattle corral where also there was an an over abundance of cheatgrass and foxtail grass and hidden down in them were these carefully disguised cow pies.  The weather being warm and if you have ever or never been around cow pies or the leavings after a cow does it's thing.  I might need to explain cow feces is thin not watery thin but a little thicker than.....well if you are a concrete guy lets say about a eight or ten inch slump.  If you are a cook it it is sort of like a thick cake batter or pie filling.  The hot sun and weather sort of crusts it over.  It looks hard yet the inside remains remarkably fresh. 

If you were in a pasture environment when you were a kid.  (There were more of us then, than now by a long shot.)  Spring arrived and off came the shoes.  As a kid the first thing you figured out do not step on the honey bees with bare feet!   They will sting you and somehow get their stinger into the most calloused feet.  The next thing is just because cow pie looks hard does not mean it is.  Just because the top may be brown and hard looking, it is a trick do not go there.  That is insulating that soft gooey center.  I am sure that universities have studied the time it takes to set up firm.  Those findings would be set into a step chart table with humidity and ambient temperatures.

I do not think anything pulls your mind back into reality of the moment, as when you sort of have your mind in coast.  You do not have the Agricultural University's chart in hand.  No, you are just doing a mundane thing of weed whacking or string trimming.  You think you are in full control, the motor is running at a full open.  Fittingly making the largest carbon footprint it and you can possibly produce.  The trimmer's head is happily spinning and dispensing line, whistling and humming and thumping.  Suddenly your safety glasses are green and you can not see.  Your hands and face are moist and green, you and your clothes now smell like cow pooo-pooo.  You cannot believe it, and true to human nature you have to look and then take a second look. Like what caused that?  Did I hit a cow pie?  No silly, remember if cows could fly.  It was just a good thing you were not looking up.  Or your mouth was not open! 

Then another thought came to my mind.  What if dad in his passing and he and his old cowboy and mischief friend.  My great uncle Bob Simmons just dropped in for the moment.  Not that I think stuff like that occurs.  However I could not help from thinking of Dad and Uncle Bob standing in the yard watching and laughing and Uncle Bob saying,  "By golly Dord he did it."                 

[Gary O]

Dang, I miss a couple days and look what happens.
I'm gonna get home tonight and read this.

[John Raabe]

A great and honoring little story Rick...

My dad is gone now too. And what remains are those oh so real memories of the natural moments we shared doing a simple activity - cutting the grass, or looking into the stream for trout. Of course we all thought those moments would last a lifetime (and I guess they did).

[Don_P]

I was truly sorry to read about your Dad's passing Rick. Probably not the only one that sat up late with you the other night, typing something, erasing, screen goes out, refresh, repeat.
Grandad's pocket knife was passed on to me when I was 14. I can remember tagging along behind from earliest memory with the menfolk. That old knife, sharpened thin, one tip broken and reshaped, was ready for any task, opening sacks, cutting twine, scraping the manure off your boots or carving up an apple just plucked from the tree hanging over the road up to the house. It used to worry me. I'd lose it for a couple of years, and then it'd turn up again, I quit worrying long ago, it always turns up.

[Gary O]

A great read, Rick.
Nicely done.
Really went well with my coffee this morn.

...and Don, yeah, I still have grampa's Case knife.....somewhere

Cheers

[Gary O]

 

Mr Kilson

The old Kilson place was quite run down.
It was once a tidy little place, a couple out buildings, a barn, some acreage, a small filbert and apple orchard, and a cozy little house.
Now the orchard was all over grown, the barn needed a roof, and everything needed paint.
Us kids overheard folks talking about not seein' the ol' guy for awhile, so we volunteered to round up suma his chickens and fix him a meal.

He had a dozen or so bandy hens and roosters runnin' free, so it seemed a good sport, and for a good cause.
Took us all mornin' to snag one scrawny rooster, from under the house, but hey, we'd cook it up for the ol' coot.

Daryl tried to wring that bird's neck, but it was a bit tougher than the young hens we were used to.
Eddie ended up sawing on him with his case knife....took awhile. The ol' bandy just laid there on the stump, lookin' up like....'geezus man, end it'!
As we were pluckin' we swapped stories about how our folks would wring chicken necks. It was rather horrific for me, the first time I witnessed this.
Gramma, sweet gramma, was takin' these birds, the ones grampa I had fed for what seemed years, and was snappin' their heads off like no tomorrow.
Hens, the ones I'd named, were zippin' around, trying to fly, runnin' at me, floppin' down, then runnin' again...only they didn't have any friggin' heads!
There gramma was with a pile of hen heads, goin' after more.....didn't know this lady that cradled me to sleep for a nap most every day of my four years was so blood thirsty.
And those dang heads, starin' at nuthin'....it was my little nightmare of reality.....gotta eat, gotta kill to do that.
.....and watch out for gramma.

Anyhoot, we got the bird plucked and gutted. Then commenced to knock on Mr Kilson's door.

No answer.

We went around back and peeked in the kitchen window.
There was ol' man Kilson in his chair, TV blastin'.
We strode thru the kitchen and into the tiny living room.

'Hey, Mr Kilson?'
Nuthin'
'HEY!! MR KILSON!!'
Nuthin'

We got right in between the chair and the TV.
There we all were, Eddie with his bloody hands and knife.
Daryl with the bloody chicken.
All of us tracking in chicken blood.
And there was Mr Kilson.
His eyes had the same look of those first chicken heads I'd seen six years before.

[Gary O]

So I got busy yesterday.
Mowed and trimmed the lawn, did a couple delayed projects and generally did what geriatrics do (scatch, itch, burp, fart, grunt, while searching for what ever it was).
A few years back, I cut a huge hole in the back of our house and installed a french door....I love french doors.
I have a mini ceremony morning and evening, opening 'em up to hear the birds in the garden, and the angels in my head sing.
Also, they accommodate the moving of large items, large items like TVs and baby grands, and couches, and beds....and rather quickly, like when the offspring (spawn) discovers where we live, after discovering they 'just can't make it on our own'.
Yeah, quick exit, escape, hide.
Anyhoot, I now have a path from our living area, thru my den, thru the french doors, and onto the deck.
I usually sit out there, stoke the fire pit, sit back, sip, and watch my rhubarb grow, thinking profound things like, 'I should just bring the coffee pot out here', or 'ice chest, eueka!, I'll get an ice chest for the deck!' or thoughts of developing a spring loaded gizmo that an oldster can just set their belly (or sagging boobs) on and ease themselves down to do their garden tending.....actually I will develop this...Whamo here I come. Note to self; include boob rack...one for the ladies too.

Where was I (had to toss another piece of wood, carving gone awry, on the pit).
Ah, yesterday....even though I love the french doors, they are not screen friendly. So I zipped over to Home Dopey to get one'a those magic screens. It's a doorless screen that is somehow magic....the word 'magic' adding $19.95 to the 'but that's not all' price.
They don't have them.
I made my own...abra cadabra....presto...screen with a dowel for weight at the bottom...duh....$3.95
Now we'll be house fly free this summer.
The fly swatters will now become marsh mellow skewers for when the grandpuppies come over.

Today.

Today is father's day.

The day beings from other planets (that think they are somehow my spawn) target my place, my beloved deck, my back yard, my toilet, my fridge, me, and zoom in to terrorize the daylights outta my kingdom. Grand kids with silly string, and humongous squirt guns that make Papaw do his jump-scream-cuss trick, and pets that crap, and parents with laugh tracks on self activating pull strings, and parents with tape measures, sizing up rooms for their furniture....
Bestowing gifts of wooden objects (they know I like wood) from exotic lands (China) that I'll feign putting in my curio (and toss them in my Jeep the next day for a thrift shop donation).

And they don't readily go away. After several hours, saying things like, 'we really should go'...my eyebrows twitch upward, I try to hide my glee, when my lady sez, 'oh, but it's so early' (the goddamn sun is setting!!)...but I realize that it's just intermission, and the stroke of midnight is still in the distant future.

So, after several hours, I'll do my customary thing, cracking the bathroom door open every twenty minutes and whispering, 'Are they gone yet?'

But this only after taking my dad to Brunch, and watching him smear syrup and butter around his mouth, then commence crying and drooling over how things used to be.

Today is father's day.....for whom the bell tolls.

This too shall pass

[rick91351]

Gary your Father's Day posting made me think of something I had written.  Why?  One you stated "the angels in my head sing".       The other you stated your dad "then commence crying and drooling over how things used to be."    Seems to me that is where I like to write the most, how it was.  Although I mostly eat high protein and low carbs.  So the syrup and what ever it goes with is sort of a stranger to me.  But I don't think where your dad is at is a stranger to me.   

Were They Angels and Why?

For the last couple months something has kept popping up in my brain. It was an experience I had in my mid or late teen years. My dad and I decided to make a trip to the Prairie in the middle of winter. One of my dad's buddies up there had came into a huge amount of railroad ties. Railroad ties were and are the prized fence post. The top of the heap. The king of fence posts. So we set out with one of the trucks. Dad for some reason had not tossed in a set of tire chains. Back then in the winter time there is one way into the Prairie. That was via Mountain Home and over Anderson Dam. It is still that way today however at times they do try and keep the road to Boise open but there is no guarantee.

There is another summer time road to the Prairie that that is called Cow Creek. It like the road to Boise receives no winter time regular maintenance. When we got to the Cow Creek Road dad noticed that there had been a lot of traffic over that road so he decided to go via Cow Creek. We made good time until the road became very slick and truck was going down the road side ways. We got straightened out, and kept going. We started to pull a hill and it was so slick we spun out. So we had no recourse without chains to turn around and go back. That is when we had a huge problem. We found ourselves stuck between two hills.

I had a new pair of boots, they were Danners and had these new fangled Vibrim waffle stomper soles. I got out of the truck and I could stand and walk very well. Dad on the other hand had just his regular slick soles shoes and five buckle over shoes. We talked it out and one of us was going to have to walk out. There is a friend of ours Greg Kundson that has a ranch just not to far out of Mountain Home. I was going to have to walk to the main road and walk or hitch a ride to that ranch and get help with a set of chains or something.

So I started walking, in no time I reached road. The first vehicle that past me threw on its brakes and backed up. It was an International – jeep – something pick up. A lady opened the door on the passenger side and asked if I would like a ride. I told them thank you I would. She scooted over and away we went. The seats were covered with folded canvas and real Indian blanket some how put together. The inside as well as the out side was neat as a pin. No farm dust or city stuff. Both her and the driver were older. Both had long, long gray or silver hair. They were very clean and well kept. We had a nice conversation to our friends ranch. But a couple things have always bothered me about this ride. While they were hardly from around there they seemed to know way more than they should. They said they were coming from Sun Valley – Hailey – Ketchum area. Seemed to be from Sun Valley. Yet they knew the ranch I wanted to go to. They seemed to know people from the Prairie. It was just sort of at ease conversation but how did they know?

They dropped me off as I requested and walked the short distance to the ranch house. I got Gregg and we went to Irlands and got a set of chains and off we went for the Cow Creek Rd. We almost got there and we met dad. Dale Knox was up there delivering fuel. He still had a few hundred gallons of fuel on his truck and had good traction and lent dad his chains. Knox and dad use to hunt together once in a while. So we got back to Greg's and chatted and headed on home.  Waste of time and trip or was it.....

That trip was always sort of right of passage for me as I experienced my life. I had to get it done. Real man stuff or so I think or thought for a long time.  Now as I drive that road once in a while out to Mountain Home from the Prairie in the summer time. It never seems to fit. The distances seems to great from where we got stranded and the road. Because it seemed to be just a mile or so and I was on the main highway. US Highway 20. I no more than stepped off the Cow Creek Road and here is this pickup. This is what bothers me. I was a kid, I loved pick ups and cars and I could not ID this vehicle. It was a pickup. It was your typical metal cab – metal dash board.  But I never got a fix on what brand – make – or model. The man and woman both looked a lot alike. Both had long, long gray silver hair. Not a spot of dirt on their clothing did I notice nor their vehicle. When I started to explain were I needed dropped the driver the man seemed to exactly know where I was talking about. Our conversation was so smooth and friendly for just picking up a kid on the side of the road. They seemed to know the Irlands and the Davisons and Acurigucuis and Agurruis but they were not from there.

So the older I get the more I need to know for some reason were they Angels? If they were then why did they pick me up? If they were why did they not have a message from God. Why did they not say we have a message for you.....?  Not that I am bothered that they did do what they did.  But some things just do not line up from the place we got stranded and the time it took me to get to the highway.  They were right there.  Their cleanliness and friendliness was almost unreal.  The time it took to get it all done.....  It is just hard wrap my mind around it.......                           

[Gary O]

Dang, what a good read.
Thank you for that, Rick.

It sparks some thoughts of my own I had a few days/months ago, and I plan on pasting 'em right here.....and in my next book.
I've got a few hundred pages tucked in an unkempt file or two.

Now to sort/compile...of which I so hate

[peternap]

Rick....I've learned to accept those things in my life rather than try to explain them. They are what keep me believing  that there is a higher power.

No matter how bad or how bleak things get, something always happens to pull me out of it.

[Sassy]

Fascinating story, Rick - kept me glued to the 'puter   

[rick91351]

I was digging through some files the other day.  I wrote this about a year or so ago and shared it with Gary.........  Thought I would toss it on this pile.......  This evening I was thinking about all the traveling we used to do.  Seemed like we were always heading out to some place.  Now an over nighter in Salt Lake City, or Seattle seems as distant as the fourteen hour flight out Frisco to Hong Kong....  I would bet my passport has expired by now.... 

The Ferry to Bella Bella

I know not the name of the Canadian ferry we rode between Port Hardy and Prince Rupert.  I know not even the year.  I do know that we had to put in at Bella Bella a first nations village on the Inland Passage.  A First Nations person or native indian explained to me as we stood leaning on the rail of the ship watching the world go by.  We for some reason came together there on the rail he a little older than I and we spent hours talking about his world of logging and fishing, and mine as a locomotive engineer,  livestock and ranch.  Exchanging our worlds as we talked, we pointed out eagles and osprey.  Seals and what might be an orca now and then to each other.  He explained Bella Bella was only a flag stop on the route up and down the Inland Passage.  Meaning if there were passengers or freight for there they  would put in.  I do not think at the time there was a place to off load autos.  Little reason as there are no real roads into nor out of Bella Bella from what he told me.  In fact it is on an island.  Campbell Island I found out latter.

As the ferry put into the dock we were greeted by one of the most wonderful adventures I have ever over looked.  On the dock there was a huge metal stair way sitting there on the dock.   The back ground was village and Canadian Pacific green.  The foreground was not ground but  rather inland passage water.  Though I am sure there was play ground equipment some where at a school or park in the village however this was the happening at the moment place for the kids.  After all the big ferry was  coming to town, momma or dad or aunts or uncles, may be grandmother from Victoria would be getting off.  Indian children were hanging off the stairway.  Some hung up side down knees locked around pipes and iron supports.  Looking at the world up side down.  Coats and sweater and shirts hung down over there heads as they looked at the upside down wold.  Shouting and waving at us as we approached.  Some of the most daring boys and a girl or two climbed high up underneath almost to the top.

Dogs that had apparently accompanied the children and the adults to the dock were backing excitedly.   Some too excitedly for some of the other dogs and soon several dog fights started on the dock as if by command.  No one seemed overly concerned about the dog fights and the dogs seemed to be able too by nature sort out  their differences very well on their own.  With a few sharp bites and tugs and growls, yollows and whimpers it was all over with.  No one came running to defend their dog.  If any were really their dogs or they might belong to the village.  Dogs might like it as well when the ferry comes to town.  This seemed to be a raw real world.  One where one lived only because you were able to live life there.

Amid the kids waving and laughing, a few adults standing around chatting and the dogs barking and fighting.  A 1978 or so Ford pickup made its appearance.  You could only tell that this was a 1978 Ford pickup because of the general out line of rust.  It was rusted through in more spots than it seemed to be held together with.   Slowly it drove up to the stairway and the kids shimmied and slid down off the stairway with the expertise of a high steel worker or firemen coming down a fire-pole.  They mostly hid from the driver.  He was shouting something at them in some tongue we could not understand.  He got out of the rusty pick up he seemed to be the boss.  He too was First Nations as were the deck hands.  They wore jackets or uniforms from the Canadian Ferry Line I guess to look official.  No one seemed all that impressed and more a job requirement.     

Ropes were heaved to the dock from the ferry.   After tying the ferry off to the dock, the deckhands all joined together in the ritual of shoving the huge metal stairway to the boat.  And the pilgrimage ended for some.  As a few men and ladies all seemed to be First Nations People or indians where I am from.  They made their way down the stairs.  Most carried boxes.  Kids and adults were shouting and waving at friends and relatives as they made their way down the huge stairway.  On the dock there were kisses and hugs and handshakes and nods and grins.  There was a ocean going  kayak expedition that off loaded as well.  Brightly colored yellow kayaks and fancy bags and grips and water-tights and dry boxes and on and on was carried down the stairs.  They so looked out of place in this place.  A place of wool mackinaws, blue jeans and stout leather work boots.  It was a place of fishing clothes and rubber boots.  Not plastic boats and synthetic carry ons.  It was a place where people lived in nature as part of it.  It hardly seemed to be a place to be attended for a week or two by outsiders.  Their presence there almost seemed to profane the place.   It was a place that nature begrudgingly let the hardy stay and let a few really live there.     

When all the ceremonial colonial off loading from the sea going expedition was accomplished.  Then the pilgrimage started for others up to Prince Rupert.  All carrying boxes tied with rope, there seemed to be an absence of American Touristor luggage, soft sides, or rollabouts.  This was real travel in the real world for these people.  A place you left only if you have to.  It was Sunkist Navel Orange boxes from Florida and Ruby Red Grapefruit boxes from Texas, it was apple boxes from Winanachee. Washington.  All tied  with rope.  Half inch hemp or line from a fishing boat, or twine from some ones unpacking.    How many wives here would even think of going some where, anywhere without at least a matching set of Costco soft sides?  Oh the embarrassment here in the states if men were seeing their women off and women were seeing their men off with Sunkist Orange and Grapefruit boxes.

The lines soon were hauled in, huge doors on the ship slid shut and we were started to pull away from the dock.  I could not take my eyes of this picture of real kids, and real people and their real world.  Then suddenly something else started to unfold on the dock.  The rusty pick up as starting to leave and drive back up the dock to the island.  The kayak expedition was still taking up most of the dock.  One had its bow or stern turned to the pickup.  Hard to tell kayaks especially when you do not know them.    The pick up ran over the projecting kayak and just kept right on going.  Someone from the expedition now was running after the pickup as hard as he could run, shouting and waving his fist.  The pick up never deviated its speed but clearly was winning the foot race....

I have often wondered the outcome of that accident.  Do kids still climb and hang from the stairs at Bella Bella?  Do dogs still fight on the docks?   Does drugs and alcohol take it tole on the First Nations peoples in Bella Bella as it does across this whole continent and the countries with-in?  Or are they lucky enough to have missed it?  I do not know what the soul connection was to Bella Bella that day.  I do know I would not fit there if I were to return.  I am not a First Nations person.  But oh how it stuck to me.  Stuck deep in my heart.  Oh how at times have I wanted to return?  Something in me wants to get off that ship in my work boots, blue jeans, flannel shirt and a wool mackinaw, pull a wool watch cap down over my head and yes carrying a Sunkist Grapefruit box on my shoulder.

I step on that dock turn and walk up the dock to the streets and roads of Bella Bella.  I nod politely at the ladies, stop and joke with the kids and teens.  Talk to the men asking about their families.  You still married?   How was the hunt?  The catch - what is running?  No halibut; still early yet; yes?   Your working in the timber where?  Wow your are lucky fellow, thats good job!  Man hang on to it!  You here for just your days off?   When you due to be back?  How are the kids?  Any chance we play some cards and drink some coffee?  When the Sockeye return this year we go fishing then okay?  Any crab jobs on up the coast?  Early winter?  Damn chilly wind for now!

Yep!!  Damn chilly wind for now!