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Chinook

 

Only a whisper breathed as well-oiled leather strips rubbed together on the saddle rigging when the man shifted his weight to account for the steep decline as he carefully descended at a precipitous angle. Years of riding herd for the brand had honed his instincts to perfection; there was a yearling in the brush below. He could actually smell it. A cougar had been on the prowl, of late, so the cowboy was tensely on guard.

He shook his head at his own realization.

“Smoke,” he said aloud, talking to his horse, “I think I’ve been doing this kind of work way too long.” The dark gray steed with black dapples nickered softly in reply, carefully picking his way around rocks on the treacherous slope. The animal was intelligent and surefooted; a good thing, too, in this particular situation. The pair made a good team.

Of course, the rider would not have it any other way. Yes! He rode for the brand; but, he was married to the boss, his wife, who had inherited the Colorado ranch some years earlier. His love of the mountains, the freedom they offered, held him, as did a boundless love for his mate. The man had discovered true peace and a lasting happiness under the cerulean abyss of the Rockies.

After another twenty minutes, the calf had been rescued, secured to the saddle between the man and the horn. Another half hour, back to the top and on to the herd and this yearling would be safely home, among friends. The work could be lonesome, at times; it required skills of many kinds and a love of nature. The mailman had no lock on rain or sleet or snow or cold or dark of night. This was man’s work and this was one man who enjoyed it. Life was good---now.

Having grown up on the flat white sand beaches of costal Florida and thinking of himself as quite the surfer-boy in his youth, he had enlisted in the army the very day after high school graduation. His girlfriend of three years had gotten pregnant; the baby, she admitted, was not his. He became bitter at the betrayal by someone he loved so dearly and had fled the best, and quickest, way he knew how, swearing to never look back. Never, it turned out, could be a very long time; sometimes, much too long! Youth, of course, has not the life experiences necessary to understand such convoluted mundane subtleties. Only time will tell!

The boy had served several tours in the army, graduating to Ranger. His cold rage, seething inside, caused by the deceit perpetrated by the girl, made him an ideal candidate for sniper school. A keen eye, cool demeanor and quick reactions served him well in his new-found pursuit. A clear target in the illuminated crosshairs at over a half mile, a deep breath, partially exhaled, slowly, holding half of it, then, with just the right fingertip pressure applied to a cold steel crisp trigger-pull---and…Boom! The unsuspecting victim vaporized in the scope’s vision, even before the shooter heard the thudded report, muffled by a highly efficient silencer on a custom recoilless rifle. The concentrated talent of the “hunt” he found exciting; the final kill, anti-climactic.

He was not proud of what he did; he was robotic, apathetic toward it, uncaring. Almost as though he were an observer of an event executed by another. Life had no meaning; neither his own, nor that of any other. The routine was simple in commission, complex in intensity. He would be awakened in the black of night, suit up, board a transport, be briefed in transit by a wraithlike spook in civilian attire, a dark suit, oversized trench coat, large brimmed hat to cover his features, a dead voice devoid of human inflections and cold like an icicle bone finger without flesh scraping along a bare backbone, then, a long jump into darkness over some desert, jungle, ocean, city, find his way in clandestine stealth and camouflage to the mark, isolate the express “item”, sanction it, undetected, evade and escape to rendezvous for extraction and---Have a nice day! No questions. No thought. No guilt.

Sometimes, getting out was unromantic, uneventful and, almost boring, certainly laughable. Like the time he took a cab to the consulate, walked through the gate, bags in hand, enjoyed a feast of culinary delight and finally, rode to the airport in an embassy limousine carrying the credentials, along with the immunity, of a certified diplomat. The “who, what, when, where, and why” were irrelevant; only the how mattered. And, that how was himself. He was alive, outside, but, dead, inside; a leper to his soul, a cancer on his spirit. Later, upon reflection, he should have been appalled, even afraid, of what he was becoming. But, in the moment, deference precluded virtuous contemplation of right or wrong. He only---existed. No black or white, up or down.

He had seen more than one man’s share of war and carnage. All the evil of a normal lifetime could not equal some of the surreal scenes he had observed, and, been a part of; he was no longer so innocent. He had gone away a boy; a man had returned. His ex-lover had been tragically killed in an accident a year after he had enlisted. Losing her as he had after high school had devastated him; he was cold to the very soul of his being and subsequently, because of his rage, had evolved into an expert sniper, without conscience, in service to his country. The culpability for what he was doing came when news arrived of her untimely death; he was numbed to the marrow of his bones. Now, he finally admitted, there would be no reconciliation. Not ever!

Soon, he could no longer function in the position which had at first been his salvation; now, that very redemption had become his curse. He requested to be relieved of sniper duty; the army reluctantly obliged. He finished his stint behind a desk; his choice. They wanted him to train other young men in the art of surreptitious killing at long distance, but he had seen the elephant up close and personal; the beast had nearly trampled him, and now, he must slay the dragon; one step, then another. He was nothing, if not decisive; he had made his decision; he did not re-enlist. Without a plan, he drifted home, to---nothing.

After three months of boring existence, the Atlantic waves seemed tame and horrid memories haunted his waking hours while nightmares tortured his attempts at sleeping. Too much had happened. In a tragic dichotomy, his senses cried for action while his sanity screamed for peace.

Before leaving, he determined to visit his lost love’s parents. They had liked him and were as devastated as he at the way in which events had unfolded. The mother had often written to him while he was in the service; it was her letter that had informed him of her daughter’s death. He had purposely avoided them since returning. But, as he prepared to leave, once again, this time, maybe for good, he suddenly wanted to see them; his spirit demanded it. Finally, he relented to the necessity; perhaps to quiet his inner turmoil, maybe to satiate the guilt within his soul.

They greeted him in their living room, overlooking the back yard and swimming pool. A little blonde-headed girl of four played on a swing set, complete with slide and a tower with a ladder and a sandbox full of colorful toys. They had adopted their granddaughter; her father remained anonymous, even to them; that secret, their daughter had taken with her to that eternal grave.

They talked and he said the things necessary to his own well-being. When he left, her father shook his hand and clasped his shoulder, unable to speak; her mother hugged him tightly, reluctant to release him and left a wet tear-stain on his tanned cheek. He went through the back yard on his way out and paused to watch the little girl play. Secretly, he wished that she was his.

Curious, the child ran over to him and said, smiling expectantly, “Are you my daddy?”

He gently patted her head, noticing how much she resembled her mother, swallowed hard, and walked away. The wet tears on his cheek, this time, were his own,.

He left for California and the big surf; if that proved too inadequate for his tastes, the north shore of Hawaii beckoned with twenty foot monsters that could satiate any man’s desire for worthy challenge. If he should die, he determined to go out full speed, courageous. He had not yet begun to heal; his attitude was less than fatalistic. Just, realistic: Let it come.

Funny how things happen, though. He had learned many lessons and one was that life, like happiness, is where you find it. His discovery came as he trekked through the colorful Colorado Rocky Mountains on his planned journey to the west coast; and, it appeared in the form of a blue-eyed blonde beauty who personified freedom and whose spirit joined his own. She was the perfect complement to his true personality; it was mutual love at first sight. Soul mates!

He told her his life story, leaving nothing out. She listened sympathetically, did not judge, loved him for his complete honesty.

With her, he slowly learned to forgive himself, begin to breathe freely, again. He tethered the demons of Anger, Rage, Jealousy, Spite, Un-forgiveness, Revenge, Pride, and, he exorcised them, finally casting them out, back to the Hell from whence they came; and, good riddance.

Hope and love filled him. He became a changed man; for the better.

“And the truth shall set you free.”

Each Christmas, they sent a “care” package of little-girl goodies to Florida; it was her idea and she insisted upon it; he loved her all the more for her implicit generosity.

That first summer they had quartered just below tree line, south of Long’s Peak. He had built a sturdy, yet makeshift and improvised, yet, weather-proof and cozy, two room log cabin over a rushing mountain stream. He constructed the bedroom directly above the water and left a hole in the floor, covered by a sheet of clear plexi-glass, so she could watch the icy froth cascade beneath. Appropriated boulders served to wall a pool of sorts, filled by the stream. From the window, he would watch her frolic in the frigid water. The design was ingenious and the cabin and the pool remained for many years.

They downhill skied Breckenridge and Rabbit Ears Pass at Steamboat Springs and went cross-country around Dillon Lake at Frisco; they had kayaked on Lake Granby. Trout fishing took them to the Black Canyon of the Gunnison and northward toward Craig. They made love on a high secluded precipice near the summit in a copse of native evergreens to the undulating sway of Colorado blue spruce, stirred to rhythmic dancing by a late spring mountain Chinook.

Successful hunting trips on the high plains desert up Wyoming way put antelope steaks on the grille. He turned out to be somewhat of a rock hound and found a small copper deposit on a far northern hillock from which he took a few samples as souvenirs and, then, left the discovery undisturbed, as he had found it, for another adventurer to unearth at a future time. Elk and mule deer from down along the blood-red Sangre de Cristo range kept the larder supplied over  long, cold winters. There was rock climbing in Colorado Springs’ Garden of the Gods Park where up- thrusts from sixty million years ago provided adventurous challenge. Rocky Mountain National Park, above Boulder, enticed them on numerous occasions.

She was an avid painter and captured the essence of mountain beauty in oil; he loved photography and snapped vista photos enough to fill a gallery; most of his pictures were of her, his first love. He sold framed panoramic photos and she peddled canvases at various venues through shops around the state and at street fairs, festivals and flea markets. Estes Park, Grand Junction, Divide, Telluride, Durango, all were home to the pair at one time or another. They went sight-seeing and panned for gold; they did not find any of the yellow stuff but pulled enough silver from a shallow stream below Leadville to provide provisions for nearly a year.

They spent six weeks hiking a piece of the Great Divide. They rode part of the Continental Divide on horseback on that trek; she was an excellent rider and he praised her diverse equestrian talents. She shrugged off his accolades in her humble manner and said that she had learned to ride as a kid and loved horses. His surfing days were behind him; his adventure with his golden goddess was ahead. Love was true and the future clean and the past was buried. Life was good!

In three years together, they were inseparable except for the twice yearly absences she insisted upon. She would tell him good-by, say she would return in a week or two, and go. He respected her space; did not infringe. Each time, she returned as promised. He did not question, only dearly missed her in her absence. The reuniting interludes intensified their love relationship.

Then, one summer, out of the blue, she invited him to come with her; he accepted, immediately. The trip in their old red Jeep took two days.

They had gone generally southwest and whether they were still in Colorado, he did not know; she was secretive about their destination; he did not worry at her playful duplicity with constant inquiries. Civilization thinned; mountain majesty intensified.

Three hours after they ran out of any semblance of a trace or, for that matter, even a deer path, she ordered him to stop on the crest of a hillock. Below stretched a valley reaching, it seemed, to the far blue Pacific Ocean. Mountain peaks to the north, west and south touched a cerulean sky studded with white cotton cloud puffs that resembled haystacks; the silver thread of a rock-strewn river ran through the range; white water cascaded brightly, tumbled and churned against boulders, adding significant drama to the placid scene.

Gray smoke curled from a massive stone chimney on a huge house located in a copse of dark evergreen trees at a distance he guessed to be about a mile. Black dots grazed across the lush plain as cattle fed; many head of beef.

He soaked it in, luxuriating; he felt as though he belonged here, like this was where his heart had always been. It was breathtakingly beautiful! Picturesque. Perfect. Truly, tranquil.

He found it exhilarating. His spirit relaxed and he felt total peace.

“Looks like home,” he allowed, absorbing the sublime panorama.

“It is,” she cooed. Her smile matched his own.

“It is?” He echoed, stunned, searching her crystal blue eyes.

“Um-hm!” she said, reveling in the awe-inspiring beauty. “My home.”

He stared, unbelieving. She had never even hinted.

“Those yearly trips?” He questioned, already knowing the answer.

She nodded, smiling coquettishly, like she had a further surprise for him.

He started to speak; she placed a slender finger across his lips to shush him.

“And,” she began, trepidation in her voice, “your home, too. If you want it.”

In her subtle offer was a questioning tinge of hope for an affirmative response.

Leaning over, he softly kissed her lips. “If you’ll be with me,” he said.

She hugged his neck so tightly that his breathing became threatened.

She whispered in his ear, “The three of us will be very happy here.”

His eyes widened. “You mean, you’re…” he began, smiling.

She nodded. Then, “I just wanted to give you a chance to say, ‘No’.”

He kissed her passionately. “How is that for a ‘Yes!’?”

 

“And, the truth shall set you free.”

                                                                   *****

Scottish writer, Sir Walter Scott, enlightened us about the tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive. A full-length mirror might be the best review of the gullible and the trickster, simultaneously. Only self-truth will win the day!

Live true; live free! Always! Amen? If you dare! Amen! It’s easier. Again, Amen!