Leaving Alaska (Part 2)
Jul 16, 2023 by Charles Burrall
In Seattle I visited John Bach ("Yohann") and Bruce and Martha before driving east to Montana--Jenny and Dave, Dewey and Charlotte, Ralph and Sue, but somehow missed the infamous Butch Ginsberg, despite repeated calls and attempts. When I visited Cooke City, a place that held so many tremendous memories, a strange thing happened, at least in my mind. I went into the Ma Perkins Cafe at night to see if any of the "old people" were there. Sure enough, some were. Mort was still there tending bar. Kathy ("Tex"), incredibly, in her ten-gallon cowboy hat was still tending bar as well after all these years, and Kathy Tollifson, who I hardly knew before, was there and recognized me. She was getting married that very weekend at the Range Riders, and she invited me to come. But all of this is immaterial. What mattered was this:
I leaned at the bar counter, alone, and looked around. It was all the same--all exactly the same. The jukebox, the pool tables, the bar counter and stools, the walls, windows and decor, all the same. Even the people were the same. They hadn't gone anywhere but get older. For me, everything was different. Everything had changed. It was something that, long ago, I had left far behind. Not only was it impossible to go back. I didn't want to. The Cooke City days, wonderful that they were, were gone now, and so were many of the people. It was necessary--imperative, in fact--to move on.
I slept on the ground in my sleeping bag under the stars outside town out at Fox Creek Campground. It was the third week of September, and the night was clear and cold. A gazillion stars covered the night sky, and I remembered that first summer out west, in '77, a bunch of us went out under the stars in Yellowstone Park, climbed a high ridge at night, in the 8,000-foot plateau of Yellowstone, and lay flat on our backs, gazing up into the sky. I remember being amazed with the number of stars you could see. It was astounding how many there were. Never had I seen anything even remotely like it ever before.
The Yellowstone fires had destroyed much of the forest in 1988. I stopped on the way through and looked at the damage. It didn't appear at the time as though it would ever look the same again as when I saw it for the first time in 1977. Bill and Betty were there. Vicky had married Mitch. Mitch had lost an arm in an accident at his sawmill over the winter. Rick was running the filling station. Jack Williams was almost gone. Pat and Darrell were still there. When I woke up in the morning I made the decision not to go back into Cooke City.
There was no point in going back. I had seen Cooke City. There was nothing else to do and no one else to see. I got up, packed my sleeping bag, checked the oil, and hit the road.
I figured I'd make as straight a line for South Dakota as I possibly could. There was a friend and a place I needed to see. The friend could be there or not, but the place would always be there, and the place was what I had to see. I drove out through Sunlight Basin, had breakfast in Cody, then out over the Big Horn Mountains. I stopped a few times in the Big Horns. It was a bright, sunny day. Late September. Buddy Boy, my dog, was thankful for it. The rivers were flowing clear and the leaves were starting to change. There was hardly anyone on the road. Stopping, walking down by the river, watching the fall colors with no one there, there was a strong, temporary feeling of solitude, as though everybody was East or West, but that was where I was headed.
I travelled over the mountains and down the switchbacks and made my way over to I-90 straight across to the turnoff on 16 down to Newcastle and the Black Hills. It was sunset as I was heading down through eastern Wyoming. The truck was running beautifully. No problems all the way across.
I made Custer in early evening and pulled into the Skyway for supper. It was quiet but little had changed. The restaurant was still the same and so was the bar. It was a nice familiarity. I had a cheeseburger delux and a cup of coffee, then asked the waitress when I paid my check if she knew my friend.
"Yeah," she said. "He was in here last night."
"You know where I might be able to find him?"
"He lives outside town, but you can't call him. He doesn't have a telephone."
"That sounds like Carl."
"His uncle lives in town. He might know where he is."
"You mind if I call him?"
Following the advice of his uncle, I checked out one of the local taverns that had a live band and was hopping with activity. Again, it was strange to be back in this old environment. It was like going back through time. Once through the tavern, and there was no sight of Carl. I went out into the parking lot. I stopped someone who I thought was him, but it wasn't. I went back into the bar.
It was crowded and dark, with cigarette smoke and a loud band. Young people, and people my age were sitting at small tables and drinking pitchers of beer. At one time, twelve years ago, I was drawn to this. But now I felt detached, passing through. Those days were behind me. It was all such a big deal to reflect upon and accept.
Then I saw what sure enough was Carl. He was standing over at one end of the bar with his back to me, long blond hair tied in a pony tail down his back, a sloppy T-shirt, cutoff blue jean shorts and black tennis sneakers. He didn't remember my name, but he remembered my face. When he saw me, he lit up with recognition, but he still couldn't remember my name.
Carl was happy to see me. He was just the same. Exactly the same. He hadn't changed a bit. It was as though no time at all had passed. He was in the same place, was dressed exactly the same as when I had left the area twelve years before. The words that Jake had said to me when we were on the mountain, back in 1977, were coming true: "You're not like Carl," he had said, "not like the others. He's not goin' anywhere."
Carl hadn't gone very far. He invited me back to his place, and he was still living exactly as he had been twelve years before. He lived on the outskirts of town in a log cabin on a piece of land he had bought. No electricity. No running water. Wood heat. Amidst the other things, an occasional framed photograph of the days on the peak hung on the wall, small pictures, so you had to get close to see them.
I slept on the couch, and the next day, Sunday, September 24, Carl and I climbed the mountain. It was good to go back again. The mountain was beautiful. I had forgotten how beautiful it was. The Cathedral Spires opened up in spectacular view. The Needles. From the top, the back of Mount Rushmore four miles away. The trail was just the same. The mountains and geography had not changed. The thing that was different was the cabin at the top was no longer there. The Forest Service burned it down in 1981. All that was left was the flat spot of ground where the cabin existed and the stone foundation in front that held up the front wall. The fire tower was there and we climbed up to have a look.
The sunset that night was beautiful, spreading north and south on the horizon in all the splendor of the great West. I could see twelve years back to when I first saw that sight. It was a fitting conclusion to my time out west, a fitting conclusion to the days of my youth.
I stayed up on top after Carl went below. He had work responsibilities the following morning. I watched the sunset until it paled and faded in the night sky. At the fire tower on top, carved and etched in the wood, were the initials, insignias, and dates of past travelers through the '70s and '80s. It was just the same on top. Nothing had changed. The land looked just the same.
I went down below and gathered some firewood and, on the flat spot where the cabin used to be, built a fire. It was good to be alone on top. I built the fire up and stretched out my ground cloth and sleeping bag about on the spot where I had slept twelve years before. The night slowly darkened. I stared into the fire, alone with my thoughts. I listened to the wind move through the trees. It was time to move on. I would miss the West. And I would miss those days, the good parts, forever.
I had two good days with Carl before moving on. He showed me some pictures of when we were all together on the mountain. He had one of me naked, taking a cold shower under the "dripolator." Carl had gotten married in the early '80s, but it didn't work out, and they split up shortly thereafter. He said for awhile he was looking into Christianity, but later realized it wasn't for him, so he went back to how he was before. Carl, to me, had not changed a bit. He was just the same and living just the same. Whatever it is that makes us grasp at opportunity when it comes our way, or go out and make an opportunity happen, Carl had not done. He had his piece of land with Ponderosa pine. He had his cabin with no running water. That was all he wanted. He had given up and settled. He wasn't reaching for anything.
I leaned at the bar counter, alone, and looked around. It was all the same--all exactly the same. The jukebox, the pool tables, the bar counter and stools, the walls, windows and decor, all the same. Even the people were the same. They hadn't gone anywhere but get older. For me, everything was different. Everything had changed. It was something that, long ago, I had left far behind. Not only was it impossible to go back. I didn't want to. The Cooke City days, wonderful that they were, were gone now, and so were many of the people. It was necessary--imperative, in fact--to move on.
I slept on the ground in my sleeping bag under the stars outside town out at Fox Creek Campground. It was the third week of September, and the night was clear and cold. A gazillion stars covered the night sky, and I remembered that first summer out west, in '77, a bunch of us went out under the stars in Yellowstone Park, climbed a high ridge at night, in the 8,000-foot plateau of Yellowstone, and lay flat on our backs, gazing up into the sky. I remember being amazed with the number of stars you could see. It was astounding how many there were. Never had I seen anything even remotely like it ever before.
The Yellowstone fires had destroyed much of the forest in 1988. I stopped on the way through and looked at the damage. It didn't appear at the time as though it would ever look the same again as when I saw it for the first time in 1977. Bill and Betty were there. Vicky had married Mitch. Mitch had lost an arm in an accident at his sawmill over the winter. Rick was running the filling station. Jack Williams was almost gone. Pat and Darrell were still there. When I woke up in the morning I made the decision not to go back into Cooke City.
There was no point in going back. I had seen Cooke City. There was nothing else to do and no one else to see. I got up, packed my sleeping bag, checked the oil, and hit the road.
I figured I'd make as straight a line for South Dakota as I possibly could. There was a friend and a place I needed to see. The friend could be there or not, but the place would always be there, and the place was what I had to see. I drove out through Sunlight Basin, had breakfast in Cody, then out over the Big Horn Mountains. I stopped a few times in the Big Horns. It was a bright, sunny day. Late September. Buddy Boy, my dog, was thankful for it. The rivers were flowing clear and the leaves were starting to change. There was hardly anyone on the road. Stopping, walking down by the river, watching the fall colors with no one there, there was a strong, temporary feeling of solitude, as though everybody was East or West, but that was where I was headed.
I travelled over the mountains and down the switchbacks and made my way over to I-90 straight across to the turnoff on 16 down to Newcastle and the Black Hills. It was sunset as I was heading down through eastern Wyoming. The truck was running beautifully. No problems all the way across.
I made Custer in early evening and pulled into the Skyway for supper. It was quiet but little had changed. The restaurant was still the same and so was the bar. It was a nice familiarity. I had a cheeseburger delux and a cup of coffee, then asked the waitress when I paid my check if she knew my friend.
"Yeah," she said. "He was in here last night."
"You know where I might be able to find him?"
"He lives outside town, but you can't call him. He doesn't have a telephone."
"That sounds like Carl."
"His uncle lives in town. He might know where he is."
"You mind if I call him?"
Following the advice of his uncle, I checked out one of the local taverns that had a live band and was hopping with activity. Again, it was strange to be back in this old environment. It was like going back through time. Once through the tavern, and there was no sight of Carl. I went out into the parking lot. I stopped someone who I thought was him, but it wasn't. I went back into the bar.
It was crowded and dark, with cigarette smoke and a loud band. Young people, and people my age were sitting at small tables and drinking pitchers of beer. At one time, twelve years ago, I was drawn to this. But now I felt detached, passing through. Those days were behind me. It was all such a big deal to reflect upon and accept.
Then I saw what sure enough was Carl. He was standing over at one end of the bar with his back to me, long blond hair tied in a pony tail down his back, a sloppy T-shirt, cutoff blue jean shorts and black tennis sneakers. He didn't remember my name, but he remembered my face. When he saw me, he lit up with recognition, but he still couldn't remember my name.
Carl was happy to see me. He was just the same. Exactly the same. He hadn't changed a bit. It was as though no time at all had passed. He was in the same place, was dressed exactly the same as when I had left the area twelve years before. The words that Jake had said to me when we were on the mountain, back in 1977, were coming true: "You're not like Carl," he had said, "not like the others. He's not goin' anywhere."
Carl hadn't gone very far. He invited me back to his place, and he was still living exactly as he had been twelve years before. He lived on the outskirts of town in a log cabin on a piece of land he had bought. No electricity. No running water. Wood heat. Amidst the other things, an occasional framed photograph of the days on the peak hung on the wall, small pictures, so you had to get close to see them.
I slept on the couch, and the next day, Sunday, September 24, Carl and I climbed the mountain. It was good to go back again. The mountain was beautiful. I had forgotten how beautiful it was. The Cathedral Spires opened up in spectacular view. The Needles. From the top, the back of Mount Rushmore four miles away. The trail was just the same. The mountains and geography had not changed. The thing that was different was the cabin at the top was no longer there. The Forest Service burned it down in 1981. All that was left was the flat spot of ground where the cabin existed and the stone foundation in front that held up the front wall. The fire tower was there and we climbed up to have a look.
The sunset that night was beautiful, spreading north and south on the horizon in all the splendor of the great West. I could see twelve years back to when I first saw that sight. It was a fitting conclusion to my time out west, a fitting conclusion to the days of my youth.
I stayed up on top after Carl went below. He had work responsibilities the following morning. I watched the sunset until it paled and faded in the night sky. At the fire tower on top, carved and etched in the wood, were the initials, insignias, and dates of past travelers through the '70s and '80s. It was just the same on top. Nothing had changed. The land looked just the same.
I went down below and gathered some firewood and, on the flat spot where the cabin used to be, built a fire. It was good to be alone on top. I built the fire up and stretched out my ground cloth and sleeping bag about on the spot where I had slept twelve years before. The night slowly darkened. I stared into the fire, alone with my thoughts. I listened to the wind move through the trees. It was time to move on. I would miss the West. And I would miss those days, the good parts, forever.
I had two good days with Carl before moving on. He showed me some pictures of when we were all together on the mountain. He had one of me naked, taking a cold shower under the "dripolator." Carl had gotten married in the early '80s, but it didn't work out, and they split up shortly thereafter. He said for awhile he was looking into Christianity, but later realized it wasn't for him, so he went back to how he was before. Carl, to me, had not changed a bit. He was just the same and living just the same. Whatever it is that makes us grasp at opportunity when it comes our way, or go out and make an opportunity happen, Carl had not done. He had his piece of land with Ponderosa pine. He had his cabin with no running water. That was all he wanted. He had given up and settled. He wasn't reaching for anything.
But Jesus said to him, "No
one, after putting his hand
to the plow and looking back,
is fit for the kingdom of God."
Luke 9:62
one, after putting his hand
to the plow and looking back,
is fit for the kingdom of God."
Luke 9:62
