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.