knocked on the door of the building marked “Central Administration.” Being hailed in, I faced a youngish man with a leathered face, a receding hairline, and a nicely-developing beer gut, sitting slouched behind a desk. On the desk was a sign, “Assistant Superintendent.” But from under the desk stuck out a pair of well-used, and well-oiled, work boots, and the hand he waved me in with was clean but heavily callused.
“Sir, I was headed for Alaska, but I saw those mountains. Any chance you have work for me? I’m strong and not too bright, and I can do most anything.”
“Well (that word seemed to be the way to begin any sentence in these parts; sort of a front-end punctuation mark, like the inverted question mark in written Spanish), we filled our Trail Crews last week, but I had some Eastern kid quit on me this morning, so I do have one place open, and tomorrow is Monday, and Billy Jiggs from Driggs has got to take a crew up on the Hidden Falls Trail. Would you mind working in the woods? You’d have to spend some time in the mountains.”
“Well (by now I had become similarly speech-affected), I guess I could do that, if you really need somebody.” I am certain he saw right through my affected nonchalance; eagerness must have been all over my face. He tried to suppress a grin.
“Then you’re in luck, and we have a deal, young pardner, as long as you are not on the run or some kind of dope fiend, and can sign your name. Just throw your gear over in the bunkhouse, and we can fiddle with Uncle Sam’s paperwork tomorrow, early morning. If you’re hungry, there’s probably some cold pancakes left in the kitchen”
And, as I was backing out the door, he added, “Oh, yeah, by the way, what’s your name, so I can tell Billy.”
I carried the Gladstone over across the dusty yard, seeing nothing more animate than a pair of Levi’s-clad legs sticking out from under a Chevy truck, and hearing nothing more than the sweet whang of Hank Williams’ “Your Cheating Heart”, emanating from the truck radio, accompanied by occasional and desultory metallic clangs from under the chassis.
The bunkhouse differed from the other buildings in that its logs were painted white. The screen door banged behind me, and I was immediately standing in the ‘dining room’: concrete floor with several long white wooden tables with detached white wooden benches; sugar bowls, salt and pepper cellars, and metal napkin dispensers on each table, enough seating to hold twenty or twenty-five hungry people. The kitchen was off to the left, through a door and a large serving window, and what I could see of it looked like a major outfit: enormous cast-iron stove, steam-table and commercial dishwasher, big fridge and freezer, metal counters. The place was quiet and seemed deserted; no meals were served on Sundays.
A round, tousled head peeked out from behind the kitchen doorjamb, and a refrigerator door clunked behind it.
“Hey, whacha dune? Nice morning, huh?” This around a mouthful of pancake.
“Just getting in. Was in Rock Springs yesterday. Terrible place. Name’s Steve. Going to work trail crew.”
“Hi, I’m Dick Robbins. Chicago (this pronounced just as in the old song: ‘Chicken in the car and the car won’t go. And that’s the way to spell Chicago.’). Want to go fishin’?”
The rest of Dick emerged from around the jamb. He was slightly above middle height, brown hair and eyes, round face, stocky but solid, and moved with fluidity rather than in bursts, kind of rolling smoothly along.
I learned, once I was able to interpret the strange speech (“moo’n pitcher,” “chorkorlit”), that Dick was indeed from Chicago, and was at the University of Colorado in Boulder, where he was majoring “in skiing and girls,” working as a short-order cook to get by. He thought Chicago was what was left over after they had made the beautiful Rockies, and, after he got expert enough in skiing and girls, his further ambition was to fly airplanes, big airplanes, for the United States Air Force (and, indeed, he did become a Strategic Air Command pilot, spending his career in such garden spots as Minot, North Dakota, flying the B52’s). Dick was nothing if not decisive. If it could be climbed, skied, fried, flown, or gently sweet-talked, Dick Robbins was your man for it. It also seemed they had Smile Disease down there in Colorado as well as in Wyoming, and Dick had a bad case of it.
“I got my private pilot’s license this year. Maybe we can go flying some time out of the Jackson airport. Should get some wonderful bumps from the thermals in front of the mountains. Fly up to Yellowstone. Fly over the Falls. Take some girls. But today we got to go fishin’.”
There was a phrase in my Western novels I really liked: “A man to ride the river with.” It took me only about five minutes to figure out that, if there was such, Dick Robbins was it. Nothing rattled him and his good humor. He took reverses and obstacles in the same easy stride as he took good fortune. If there was a tool, he knew how to use it. If there was a problem, he would give it some thought and then go ahead and fix it.
“Let me go upstairs and drop my gear, and I’ll be right with you.”
“Doncha warnt some pancakes first?”
“No thanks, Dick, I had enough pancakes this morning at the Silver Dollar to last me two days. Check with me in the morning, though. I could be ready.”
I went up the wooden stairs at the side of the kitchen, and adjusted my eyes to the dim light under the log eaves. Twenty or so metal bedframes, with mattresses, slipless pillows, and Army blankets, were lined along the two longer walls. Open white-painted wooden lockers, most with clothes on hangers and shelves, stood at intervals and on the inside short wall. Two large windows let light in through the fourth wall, and shaded bulbs were hung from the peaked ceiling. A large, white-painted washroom was at one end, with sinks and mirrors, Johns, and showers. There were about a dozen towels on the hooks. I found what appeared to be an empty cot, threw down my Gladstone, and sat for a minute, thinking how far I had come in four days, and how far I had come since the snow in Hoback Canyon just several hours ago. I thought about the Mountain Men, seeing this country for the first time, as I had seen the Tetons just this morning. I wondered if it had felt to them as it had felt to me, and if it had changed something nameless inside them as well.
A soft and liquid voice issued from a cot in a dark corner. “Hi, my name’s Larry. From Montana. The Flathead Rez. We’re goin’ fishin’, if you want to come.”
“Yeah, great, Larry, that’s what Dick said. I’m with you.”
“Great. Jim too. He’s got the car.”
Larry rose soundlessly and effortlessly from the bunk, all five and a quarter feet of him, dark straight hair and dark, dark eyes, and big knotted shoulders. I followed him back down the stairs. His soft footfalls were barely audible; my clumsy boots clunked behind him.
Dick was sitting straddling one of the benches, still chewing pancake, one in each fist. As we went over to him, the bunkhouse door blew open and in came the Wild West Wind.
“Hey. Let’s go. Ready? Get a move on, the fish won’t wait all day. C’mon, it’s past eleven o’clock already. Be dark soon. Head ‘em up. Hi, name’s Jim, Jim Burdock. Let’s go. Bang bang. We won’t know what’s there if we don’t go look.”
Jim was
