Montana

What Are the Chances?

Bear with me here . . . This story is entirely true.

The pilot comes on over the intercom letting us know we will be landing at Bozeman in about thirty minutes. That’s good, I think. It’s a three-hour flight and about 2 hours and 20 mins ago I quit being comfortable. I’m not a small guy, but I’m also not the starting power forward on an NBA team. Coffins have more room than freaking plane seats. My Airpods were out of juice and the Asian woman beside me must have taken a vow of silence or something. I can’t understand why she didn’t want to talk to the unshaven, long-haired, fidgety guy who can’t afford to buy a skull t-shirt with sleeves on it. I can read the tea leaves though, even with her having on a mask. Forgot mine. Whoopsies.

We do something like landing, I guess. For this pilot, he must been reframing the process as a ‘controlled fall.’ My head bounces off the ceiling and he hits the breaks hard enough to cause my liver to try and escape through my belly button. Don’t look at me for comfort lady. You had your chance to talk about SEC football and heavy metal music. The pilot dithers on, welcoming us and telling us the weather is clear and sunny. I look out the window and confirm his meteorological skills. I’m sitting close to the front and my row-mate bolts ahead defying plane disembarking etiquette.

There is an older lady on the row across the aisle getting up and starting to struggle with her bag and carry-on. Her face reddens and she is clearly embarrassed. There is a family with four kids hovering behind her and I know she can literally feel the pressure of everyone’s impatience. I look at her and say, “Ma’am? Ma’am, let me get that for you.” I lay on the Ma’am and South Carolina drawl thickly hoping it sounds disarming. She isn’t worried about how I look or sound. “Oh my, yes! Thank you so much! I’ve sat too long. My legs just need time to work.” I grab her suitcase and pick it up and look behind her at all the standing passengers, bags in hand, faces set like they’re in Pamplona and the bulls will be unleased on them any moment. “You’re fine. We can all wait a moment.”

I let her walk ahead of me while I carry her bags and mine. We get to the off ramp and people stream past us. I set her carry-on down and hand her bag to her. “Do you have anything at luggage claim? I can carry this stuff for you there.” She says she does, and I offer to take her carry-on for her. “You are just an angel. God sent me an angel. I’ve been worried the whole flight about how I would get off the plane. My legs don’t work well if I sit too long. You’re just my guardian angel. I have a friend meeting me here to help, but I was so worried about getting off the plane.”

How could she know? How could she have any idea of what she just said to me. What she just caused to come alive and squirm in my soul? A wheelchair full of memories and struggles slowly rolls into my mind’s eye. “Wardy? Wardy. Help momma up. My legs just aren’t working well.” Of course, momma . . .

She is still flustered. I forget how easily people are intimidated and stressed out at the prospect of being a public spectacle. I saw my mom endure it for years and now I’m pissed as hell at all of the people who were behind us. I think litigating in criminal and family courts for a decade has caused me to lose my intuition on what is acceptable to say or do to strangers. “Sir, isn’t it true that you snorted two Adderall and beat your kids the night you caught your brother in bed with your wife?” I can’t properly articulate it, but the things lawyers say to people we don’t know kills off some social boundary most people have. I reign it in though.

“Oh, thank you. God sent you. I was praying on the plane my legs would work.” I’m dumbstruck at how perfect the words line up to words I heard my mom say 7-8 years ago. I hope I don’t look like a beached fish. She is smiling now and talkative. She asks, “So where are you from? Why are you in Montana?”

Chuckling, I say “Why am I here? I don’t really know. I’m hoping to find out if that makes sense. Originally I’m from a small town in South Carolina called Orangeburg.”

“Oh. My mom is from Orangeburg.”

The words take a second, but finally they sink in. I look around nervously for Mr. Anderson. Surely, I’m in The Matrix. Then I think I have rescued a crazy person. She is just trying to create some connection. South Carolina is 2500 miles from here. That’s part of the beauty of the trip for me. Everyone and everything is 2500 miles from here, or they were supposed to be.

“Really? Your mom is from Orangeburg? Orangeburg, South Carolina?”

“Yes. My father was in the Air Force and stationed at Shaw Air Force Base in Sumter. He got set up on a blind date with a beautiful nurse from Orangeburg with midnight-black hair and bright green-eyes. He eventually married her. My mom. I grew up in Laurens for a while before we moved to Colorado. Dad is alive and 90 years old. He still does cattle drives for people like in City Slickers.” She laughs at her reference.

I’ve been struck dumb and make a joke about Curly and Jack Palance. My brain is fogged over. The farthest I’ve ever been from home and I find . . . home.

“Sarah! Sarah! Over here!” She waves a woman over. She says to me, “This is the friend I am supposed to meet. Sarah, this is Ward, he’s my angel.” I introduce myself and we talk for a few minutes more. I say my goodbyes.

I start looking for my own suitcase. I think about the utter inexplicability of life and what occurs. I think about coincidences. I think on signs and signals and omens and twists of fate. I think of my mom, who was also a beautiful lady, with midnight-black hair and bright green-eyes. The anniversary of her death is two weeks away. I’m out here alone . . . or am I? Thank you, Momma. Thank you for saying hello.

Montana part deux

The Wrong Mountain

So, this may come as a shock to many people, but probably less of a surprise to those within the first degree of familiarity with Ward - I’m kind of a dumbass. My dumbassedness stems from a defective consequence predictor. I just don’t consider outcomes as well as I should. Actually, that’s not true, I see them clearly, I just don’t give them much weight. I have great confidence in my ability to save myself from myself.

I woke up yesterday morning and wrote. The post yesterday was part of that, but I’m writing a lot of things I’m not posting. Anyway, I finished writing, shared the story, and decided to go walk up this mountain next to me. I was determined to leave my phone, but in a moment of responsible clarity, I decided to let some people know where I was going. I texted a friend the post about mom then I told her I was leaving my phone and going hiking. Then I texted my Uncle and told him I was going to go hike for a bit. “I know you think you’re a badass or something, but you’re a wussy (he said a different ‘-ussy’ word) compared to a bunch of shit in those woods. Don’t get eaten by a mountain lion.” Damn he knows me.

I started across a field, navigated some steeper terrain, and came across a fence. This was not some hurricane fence, or a tightly boarded up fence, or a tall fence, or an electric fence. It was three metal wires stapled to some old, half-rotten, wooden posts about every 10 feet. To me, it screamed, “Climb over me.” I listened. Whoops.

I start off across another field and look down to see a huge mound of poop. My initial thought was Yogi had a hell of a pick-a-nick basket. Probably ate the people with the picnic basket, too. But then as I kept walking (kind of a dumbass), I saw several more mounds and realized it was just cow dung. No cows were about, but the hundreds of mounds were not caused by an army of grizzlies. I felt better. Onward and upward.

Soon, I came to a dirt road that wrapped around the mountain. I take off on a jog and start heading up. The views are breath-takingly stunning and for a moment I regretted not having my phone. I keep climbing. At one point, I see a house through a thick copse of trees. I store that info in some far away piece of RAM in my mind and push on. The road curves again, and I see the house more clearly. An unmissable sign says, “Slow Down. Dogs run out into driveway.” Ok. Well, mountain lion, dog, bear, whatever, I have zero desire to be tasted, so I turn back. I head down and veer off the road and onto a spot with fewer trees. I start back up the mountain and make it about 20-30 yards when I think I hear a horn. I ignore it and walk a few more steps then definitely hear a car horn. I turn and see an old Jeep Wrangler bouncing through the brush towards me. I think, “Shit.”

The jeep pulls up feet from me and a 50ish year-old white guy looks out from the window. I note that his hands are not on the steering wheel. He looks at me hard. He’s pissed. I say out loud, “Uh-oh.”

“What are you doing here?” He must not have read the post from yesterday. I don’t know what I’m doing here.

“I was looking for the meth lab. Do I have the right mountain?” So, did I mention I’m kind of a dumbass?

Oddly, this comment passes right by him, and he says, “Who are you?” Again, I can’t see his hands. This guy has the feel of a pissed off, old white guy who spends his days doomsday prepping and getting aroused by old copies of Guns and Ammo magazine. The kind of guy who has fantasized about an interaction like this so he can shoot someone.

I decide to get serious about not getting shot. “My name is Ward Cochran. I’m vacationing here from South Carolina and staying at the RV at the bottom of the mountain. I’m an attorney and a dad and I’m just going for a hike. I’m sorry if this is your property.” I immediately think, “That was freaking dumb. People want to kill lawyers more than trespassers.” Maybe I should explain to him that I just studied for the bar exam and now I know that deadly force isn’t allowed to protect property.

“I don’t give a fuck who you are.” Ok, he probably won’t care about the deadly force thing.

“Yeah, neither does my ex-wife. Again, my apologies. I’ll head back down.”

He seems irritated at my joke. Good. I’m getting a little pissed, but I also clearly see the missing person case that’s never solved. I hear my Uncle and my brothers, “Yeah. There was a 50/50 chance he wasn’t going to make it back. He’s a bit of a dumbass.”

“Did you see the no trespassing signs?” Again, with the questions. I just took a big ass test where I didn’t know all of the answers. I don’t need another.

“No, I didn’t.”

“So, you came over a fence then?”

“The fence told me to.” Ward. Ward. Ward. Shut the hell up.

His face turned red. He raises his voice a tad, “This is private property and I suggest . . .”

I decide to end this. “Sir, I am very, very sorry. I made a mistake. I will immediately start back down the mountain. If you want to call the cops, go ahead, but I’m leaving now. I apologize. Sincerely.” I turn and start walking. I hear the jeep start to move behind me and for a moment I think he may run me over, but nothing happens. I don’t look back once and head down the mountain. About halfway down I stop and let out the breath I had been holding. I decide to go all the way down the road and look for the no trespassing signs he mentioned. They were there along with a sign telling anyone delivering a package to text him and he will come down to get the package. His name was Ed Tompkins (I made that name up).

I keep walking and pass by a batch of mobile homes right outside of Ed’s gate. A few people are sitting outside at a table.

“Hello. Is that Ed Tompkins home up there? He ordered a male stripper.”

They look at me funny. I keep walking.

I sent a message in the group chat I have with my brothers telling them about the encounter. Duffie replies, “You have to stay on the accepted trails. Those people don’t screw around with their land.” Now someone tells me.

I reply, “He was pissy.”

Duff shoots back, “It’s because he’s been eating shitty Hellman’s his whole life.” Cochran humor. When it hits, it hits.

I decide to go kayaking and leave all that resentment up on the mountain. The girl who rents me the kayak is married to a guy from Sumter, South Carolina, but that is a story for another day. Swear to God, you just can’t make this shit up.

Happy first day of school to my York County people. Teach your kids to consider consequences! I’m off to see what today has in store for me. I think I’m going to try to get a selfie in front of some buffalo.

Montana Con’t.

I Can’t Touch

“You know, I hate this for you, but you make a really tasty Slim Jim thingy. I think, historically, that’s been your problem. Too yummy.” I look at the bison and he gazes back at me balefully. I can see his little, menacing walnut brain churning behind his beady, black eyes. He is certainly hashing out a plan to gore me. I take another bite of my Bison meat treat. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t make you delicious. Plus, someone has already tried to run me out of Montana. I’m not leaving just yet. I’m sticky.”

I take some pictures (selfies) and get back in my rented Toyota Forerunner to make the 14-mile loop around the National Bison Reserve. I am not talented enough to describe the grandeur of that place. It would take a wordsmith with far more skill than I possess. I try poetry. No good. I try prose. Failure. I can’t articulate what I see. What comes to my eyes in an otherworldly splendor of heavenly brushstrokes and infinite gradations cannot be replicated with man-made words. It possesses a beauty that is imposing, overwhelming, but welcoming. It blazes on the tips of all senses. Its shoulders are so high they brush the low rungs of heaven. Small silvery streaks of ice scar the grey faces of jagged, mountainous peaks. From high above the world, you look down on a grassland that is green and golden and sweeping, contoured with a perfection that not even the most beautiful human face could rival. Swarms of butterflies follow me as I meander alongside a river that lazily lends its bubbling soundtrack to my experience. Dragonflies dart to and fro, pausing in midair, then resume their ariel spectacle as if they can sense my spectatorship. I feel a moment's pang for all the artists and creators of the world. You’ll never top this. You cannot conceive of a greater beauty. You lack the . . . divinity. We are the stewards of this treasure. The curators of this masterpiece. At times I believe we are failing in our duty. We were chosen to protect. Are we?

I set my philosophical musings aside and visit a little longer with the bison. Then I walk down a trail, barely glancing at a sign that says to be wary of aggressive elk. You think I would pay signs more heed after yesterday, but I have always liked to touch the stove myself to see if it is hot. I don’t always learn my lessons, but when I do, I learn them the hard way.

I round a bend and sure enough, a big bull elk is sitting on the trail. I ask him politely if I can go around, but he feigns muteness. I take pictures of him, then I circumnavigate to his other side. When I am safely past, I back track and tease him for being so easily outwitted. It only occurs to me later that I’m the one who was inconvenienced and got off the trail. Who outwitted whom?

I hike about another 45 minutes and return to my vehicle. I leave the park and stop at a gift shop at the exit. I walk in and peruse the bison and Native American themed goods, many of which are quite lovely. I note the dearth of boiled peanuts and frown.

The woman manning (womanning?) the cash register strikes up a conversation with me, asking me where I’m from. “South Carolina. I live in North Carolina now, but I’ll never be from there.” We talk about travel, Washington, DC, and heat. I assure her that 90 degrees in Montana and 90 degrees in Columbia, SC, are two totally different things. Here, I run six miles and sweat some. Back home, I run a half mile and look like I fell in a lake. She sells me hard on Huckleberry flavored jam and syrup while I hear Val Kilmer’s voice in my head, “I’m your Huckleberry.” Then she helps me pick out gifts for the girls. I ask her, “Do you see what I see when you look outside? Does the beauty of this place still resonate with you?” With a look of surprise at the question, then a sad face, she says no, that she is used to it. I respond that I think the people of my state probably feel similarly with regards to the ocean. How many of us truly still feel awe when we see the Atlantic? I do. And the mountains of Montana. I hope that never leaves me. That awe is one of the finer aspects of being alive. I hope you all have some measure of it left in your souls. If not, cultivate it.

I drive an hour back to the RV. Along the way an old friend calls me. It’s Paul Newman. “Hey there! How are you doing? How are the girls?”

“Hey! Great! We are all great. We just spent a week in Garden City and Charleston. Now, believe it or not, I’m driving through Montana.”

“You alone?”

“Yeah. Just me. I’m hoping the solitude leads to . . . something. Hell, I don’t know, I’m just out here, just “being.” Writing, working out some kinks. I doubt I could find a date anyway.”

“It’ll be good for you. Traveling by yourself teaches you things. But anyway, mind if we talk a little business?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“First, everyone really misses you.”

“Well, hell. That’s nice, but I thought they might. I put on a good show; it’s fun to watch. Things were naturally going to get a little boring without me. Let me tell you about this guy up on the mountain here . . .”

“Do it over lunch one day. So, The NC Bar emailed me, and they want to know what I think of you. You must have put me down as a reference.”

“I did. I knew you would lie for me.”

“I’m not. I’m going to tell them the truth.”

“Whoa. Let’s not be hasty here.”

“Just be quiet. When the ancient Greeks went off to battle, the men had to choose another man to take care of their property and family while they were gone. Women couldn’t own anything, I think, so they chose a man. Could you imagine having to do that? To pick another man you trust enough to care for your wife, kids, and money while you were gone to war. I look around at the people I know, and there aren’t many at all I would entrust with my family. But you come to mind. You’re one of them. I would trust you. I would trust you with my family. That’s what I’m going to tell them.”

At that moment I’m happy I’m alone and my good friend, this older man who has been a mentor to me, can’t see my eyes well up with tears. I’m so moved I pull over and stop. I won’t get into this much, but I just spent several years with people I love telling me how awful they thought I was every chance they could. I have memories of it I’m out here trying to shake. I understand that behavior with divorce, I play that game for a living. It’s awful, but I get it. My relationship post-divorce is more bothersome. There was no need for cruelty there, but it came. That person, in a moment of hurtfulness, told me they wouldn’t vouch for me. To hear this person, one that knows my faults and missteps, one that I respect and love, tell me something so good about me? Well, I would have a better chance describing the indescribable beauty of the National Bison Reserve than I would the preciousness of that moment, the absolute pricelessness of his praise. I have never been prouder to be me.

“Ward, you there?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Listen, you’re kind of an asshole, but if you ever had to ask me for such thing, I’d die before I let you down.”

He laughs. “I know. I know you would. That’s why I would pick you. Let’s have lunch when you come back to town.”

“I’d love that. I’ll buy. And thank you. Thank you for calling me.” We arrange lunch and I hang up.

When I get to the RV, I decide to go for a walk. I end up hiking around the State Park and then coming back, putting on my wet suit, and walking to the lake. It’s very dark. I walk out onto a dock and jump in. The cold water is exhilarating as it stings my exposed skin, making me feel hyper alive. Swimming in the pitch-black inkiness of the lake sends a few slivers of fear up my spine, but I remind myself that this isn’t Lake Marion or Moultrie. Unlike those monster filled waters, I am probably the biggest thing swimming in Flathead Lake. They pull a 13-foot alligator out of Moultrie about every year, and growing up near Marion, you would hear stories of the underwater welders that worked on the bridge that crosses the lake in Santee, stories of them being underwater and feeling an odd pressure around their thighs or waists and when they looked down, they would see that they had been partially swallowed by a gargantuan catfish. The largest catfish ever caught there is 114 lbs. In Flathead Lake, the biggest threat is a 30lb. Lake Trout.

I swim in the darkness buoyed by fear and joy. I feel free, alive. The only light is the incredible white fire of the stars, shining like sparks from God’s own anvil. For the first time in my life, I can make out the Milky Way in the night. In a day filled with awesome moments, I find myself in awe again. I exhale the air from my lungs so I can sink. My feet don’t touch the bottom. I am at the mercy of the water, my swimming ability, and muscular endurance. I have me, but I also have the voices.

I think back on this summer and on all the ocean and pool time I’ve had with the girls. Lily wears a floaty and just motors around in oblivious safety. The big girls are doing their best to swim without any safety nets. In deeper waters, they tend to both latch on to me, still unsure of themselves. There are times when they find they are in deep water and out of arm’s reach. They get scared, “Dad! Dad! I can’t touch!”

I give them my voice. A voice I hope they hear their entire lives. “Relax. Don’t panic. It’s the panic that will cause you to drown. Doggy paddle. Think. Breath deep breaths. Now come to me. I’m here. Nothing is going to happen to you. You have to be calm. Don’t panic when you can’t touch. You can make it.”

I’ve spent most of the past three years not being able to touch. I would feel the anxiety and panic all around me, waiting. Waiting for me to lose my composure. Waiting for me to give up or give in. Waiting for a chance to drag me to the deep end and drown me. Moments like the one from today, the one where a friend with no obligation at all calls to tell me he cares about me and thinks well of me, those moments have saved me. Moments where a friend sends me a country song for inspiration, or a sends me a tin of treats with an uplifting message, or takes me to lunch with their spouse (both lawyers), or texts me before they sit in on a meeting with the Secretary of State to tell me they are thinking of me from hundreds of miles away. Those moments are my voices. My reassuring affirmation that I won’t drown. They let me know I can make it. Never underestimate how powerful your kind word of support can be to a friend. It can be life changing. It can be lifesaving. They have been for me. Because of them, I don’t need to be able to touch.

More Montana

Shadowboxing

There is only one fear I have (outside of some unimaginable catastrophe) that gives me any pause. Just a single, solitary cause of the heebie jeebies. And I’m talking about normal everyday fears like spiders, public speaking, the ocean, or the dark. I’ll eat a spider while swimming in the ocean at night and speaking to whoever, those things don’t bother me, but one thing does – roaches. And not some wussy German cockroach or something like that, no no no. I’m talking about one and a half inch long, sleek, glossy black, lightning fast, flying grotesqueries. All my people south of Columbia know what I’m talking about. We call them Palmetto Bugs. They’re like the bad guy from the original Men In Black movie and almost as large. I hate them. If I see one in a room, it dies or I die, and that game is played until completion. However, if I had to pick a number two fear, its driving in the mountains. Did I mention I thought Montana was a prairie state?

It’s around 2008 and Duffie and I just finished reading Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer. We are both swept away by the book and its momentum carries us to Mt. Mitchell, North Carolina, where we attempt to climb the tallest mountain east of the Mississippi. We Succeed. And fail. We get to the top, but it takes us around 9 hours. We start back down and realize we have gone down the opposite side of the mountain. We keep hiking hoping to encounter someone to help us because this is early March and its freaking cold. And we clearly saw bear tracks on the ice close to the top. We were unprepared and under-informed.

We come to a Ranger’s station and decide to huddle up and sleep for the night on the wooden deck. To our great fortune, a Ranger shows up after only a few minutes. He is an extremely nice guy, tells us this happens all the time, and offers to drive us to my car. We’re saved, but we’re about to have one of the most frightening moments of our lives.

We get into the Ranger’s truck, and he puts his foot on the accelerator like he’s trying to stomp a cockroach on the floorboard. We blast down the fucking mountain, down some gravel road with no guardrails and nothing but air and finality on either side of us. I feel the grab handle of the door bending as I freak the hell out. In a crazed moment, I think about hitting him, but realize he’s driving and we will all die if I knock him out. We seem on the edge of out of control, and I think he may be trying to scare us. Then he calmly points out my window and says, “Grouse.” Grouse? I don’t care about some half-assed chicken. I’m going to kill this guy. Grouse? I don’t give shit if a pterodactyl is sitting on the mountain. Get me out of this damned truck now!

He manages to get us to my car safely. I stagger out and look at Duffie who is equally pale and shaky. The Ranger pulls off and yells out his window, “You guys have a good ride home!” He gets the double birdie. Two grouse for you.

I don’t know if any of you have ever driven up Going to the Sun Road at Glacier National Park, but its mesmerizing and terrifying beyond measure at the same time. It’s a bright tincture of fear and exhilaration. It’s like the North Carolina mountain road we went down with the Ranger times eleventy-billion. It was by far the scariest road I have ever seen in my life. Planes fly at lower altitudes. It’s a road filled with sharp turns, sheer cliff faces, barely any guard rails, and cars coming from the other direction. It’s in the sky! It’s like driving on clouds. Hell, you can actually see clouds below you! The only thing that made it doable for me was that no one is really going over 15 -20 miles an hour, but outside of the pace, it was as fear inducing as anything I have ever experienced. Thank God I didn’t look down and see a cockroach on the floor. There would be no more Facebook posts from Ward to ignore.

So, my palms are still a little sweaty as I park the Forerunner outside of Loop Trail at Glacier National Park and hop out, grabbing my pack and locking the door. I’m pissed I keep forgetting chapstick. It feels like my lips are so dry and cracked they may fall off.

I am proud of myself for making it to the top and back down to the trailhead. I’m buzzing with coffee, fear, adrenaline, and adventure as I make my way onto the trail. The pictures I posted speak for themselves. Let me be honest – the park borders on unbelievable. It’s something out of Tolkien’s imagination. It almost can’t be real. It is no doubt the most stunning thing I have seen in my life outside of three newborn little Cochran girls. It’s consistently ranked one of the ten most beautiful places in the US, beaten out only by scenic juggernauts like Yosemite and Yellowstone. Again, man cannot make what I saw, it can only copy it. Something larger is at play.

I hiked around 9 miles, with the first 4.5 miles rising 2500 feet. I’m in fairly good shape and it was still brutal. I only saw one other person going up the mountain; most people were headed down. You park all the way at the top at Logan Pass, hike down, then buses take you back to your car at the top. Pfffft. Cheating. I hike up and back down like a real pain glutton.

I stopped and took pictures until I realized there is no end to that process. As soon as you put your phone away, another of God’s pastorals appears and you need more pictures. At some point you have to abandon the notion of a ‘perfect’ picture. They’re all perfect in some way.

I cracked open the trail mix and ate some jerky. I drank a bunch of wadder and said “How y’all doing” to every single person I passed. I wore a Gamecock t-shirt proudly and was exceedingly happy that I saw zero Clemson attire during my whole trip. I was alone, free, and at peace.

And I kept thinking about some things Crystal had said to me the day before.

Meet my Airbnb host, Crystal, who has given me permission to write about her. Big mistake.

I knew I would like her before I ever made it out to the RV because when I sent her a message about hoping to have a Walden Pond moment out there in Montana, she immediately texted back, “I think my RV will afford a few opportunities to ‘live deliberately.’” Quoting Thoreau off the top of your head is something I find terribly endearing.

When we met, we found out quickly that we had some commonalities, but none regional. She grew up in Southern California, then went to art school at Queen’s College in New York (I believe). A New York artist - this bodes well for me, lol (if you know, you know.) She lived in Paris, Germany, and recently returned from Egypt. We talked about some recovery stuff, then I listened as she talked about metaphysics, spirituality, mediums, actual physics, and Egyptology. She is a certified aromatherapist and had (or has) plans to open an alchemical kitchen. We talked about identity politics, corporate evils, elitism, and how to best train dogs. She urged me to eat organic food and frowned when I said I drank diet soda. It was hard for me to keep up. I’m rarely out of my league when it comes to breadth of knowledge or references, but she was outpacing me.

She spoke smartly about money and investing and her business model with Airbnb. At one point, she let me use her washer and dryer to do some clothes and I went into her house, where she is framing off another room. She is framing, not some contractor. She is doing the work. I looked at her and was like, “Who the hell are you? You are really, really impressive.” She had a sense of humor and easy nature, although she told me she had a temper at times. She offered to transfer my laundry while I went kayaking and then laughed when I said I had my little black panties in there (I really did.) She said she had been married before and could handle it. I like it when people don’t take things so seriously and have a sense of humor. She used some frankincense and myrrh on my laundry. I think that smell will always remind me of her and her home now. I love the memory of smells.

We talked about our pasts and how we get better as people. She told at me one point that I didn’t have three daughters, I chose them. Some inner desire of mine made that happen. She said we forge our own realities because of our beliefs, and that deep inside, inside ourselves, lay the underlying causation of all that happens to us (Crystal, if I’m butchering this, I apologize. I tried to take notes). What solidifies into our reality starts within us, what is important to us deep down. She called figuring all of that out ‘shadow work.’ She gave me a book by Seth called ‘The Unknown Reality.’ I read the preface and first six pages while writing this post. It delves into precognition and unconscious choices we make before we knew we were making choices, and projections we made to suit ends we may not even be aware of now, today, consciously.

Crystal is a creative in every sense of the word, and at time when I had lost some faith in that persona archetype, she has breathed new life into my own creative life. My reality is what I focus on. I think I agree.

As I traipse up the mountain, I do my shadow work. I am trying to figure out where I am and why. How has my focus and inner workings created the reality where I now find myself? What underlying truths to Ward can I pinpoint? I come up with some things - one certainty and one I am still trying to convince myself is true. I reach the Granite Chateau which is the midpoint of my hike and start back. It’s just as beautiful going down as up.

As leave the park, I pull over and soak my feet and legs in the chilly river. I splash the water on my face and neck. I taste the water and it’s clean, and crisp, and delicious. The clearest water I’ve ever seen. Clearer than any river, ocean, gulf, or lake I’ve ever seen by a magnitude. I pilfer a handful of rainbow-hued rocks that line the bottom of the riverbed for the girls. I wonder how long it would take the river to float me back to Flatbead Lake.

I arrive at the RV exhausted, then eat, and sleep. I wake up the next day, call a friend, text some others, nap, then decide to go out and play more for my last day. After kayaking, hiking, and running (my old guy Montana triathlon), I say goodbye to Crystal. We talk anthropology, physics, and she tells me that we base our reality on our beliefs. Smoke is rising behind us in a massive cloud. I told her that the people who rented me the kayak said it was from a kid throwing a rattlesnake on an electric fence. Sheesh, Montana sounds like South Carolina.

We talked more; I talked about growing up. Then I told her all about the women in my life. I looked behind me at the big, billowing cloud of smoke and said, “That’s Dad back there, looming, casting his shadow, and here,” I point the opposite way into the sunset, ”Here are the women of my life, my mom, grandmas, aunts, daughters, and friends. It’s a clear dichotomy.”

She looks at me, “Some physicists now believe there are many dimensions, many realities, and all the things and scenarios and lives you can imagine are happening at once. Your dad is there, so is your mom and grandparents. In different worlds. When you do the shadow work of healing yourself, you are healing your father, too. He is somewhere and he feels it.”

I look at her, more than a little emotional, and say with warmth, “Seriously, who the fuck are you?” Her commentary is one of the more moving and hopeful things I have ever heard. I write it down right then so I never forget the words, “Healing him, too.” She goes on to tell me I should record my dreams in a voice recorder when I wake up, and I should write down my impressions of my writing while I am writing - two excellent ideas. She accepts me for a writer like its just a fact. Just because I say I am. She tells me she is very happy I came to Montana and that it feels like I belong there. I tell her it has been utter magic. I promise to return next summer, hopefully with the girls, and she seems really pleased at the idea. We embrace, take some pictures, and I say, “You’re not losing me. I have your phone number and we are friends on Facebook. I think we will see each other again” She smiles and walks off. If we focus on it, it will be our reality. I know she agrees.

I go run around the path that wraps around the lake one last time and say my goodbyes to the mountains and water. I stop by a tree and shadowbox, working up a sweat. Some men loading a boat stop and stare at me, and I feel like a dumbass, but keep boxing anyway. While I shadowbox, I also keep doing the shadow work. Rehashing my conclusions I came to on the mountain. It’s simple what I figured out, what the reality I create is about – being a dad. Its what I focus on and what is important to me. I’m ready to be back to it. The thing I am trying to convince myself of is that I’m a writer. I feel like an imposter sometimes. I need to project my own worthiness and ability to tell a story.

I walk outside the RV around 1:00am and think about the closing lines of The Prince of Tides by Conroy. Where Tom Wingo wishes that all men were apportioned two lives, so he could love both women he had fallen in love with during his lifetime. I look at the Milky Way, at the infinite stars, and feel astounded yet again. At that moment, I hope that Crystal is right. I wish for infinite lives, and all the possibility I see if all the scenarios I could imagine were true. Lives where the people I loved were still healthy, alive, and present. Where we didn’t hurt each other or leave each other or use each other to heal ourselves.

I look up and see a shooting star zig-zag through the night sky and evaporate. I’m so blown away by the spectacle I say out loud to no one, “What the fuck . . .!” I turn around scanning the skies when on the opposite side of the heavens i see another comet. I freak out a little over the rarity and the beauty of the celestial display. I remember something else I thought to be true while up on the mountain - I will never stop being amazed at being alive. I love the mystery and magic and unanswerable questions.

“But it is the mystery of life that sustains me now. I look to the [south], and I wish again that there were two lives apportioned to every man - and every woman.” Goodbye, Montana, and goodnight. Goodbye, Crystal, and thank you. My journey continues tomorrow as I fly to Chicago and look for deep dish pizza. And wonder if it’s possible to die from chapped lips. Godspeed.