by T. R. Kelly
“Few of my people have ever seen the hidden lake and its outlet,” Wilhelmina said. “The creek provided the fondest memories of my youth.”
Mikko’s relationship with Wilhelmina deepened and flourished. Two years later, the two were married near a community retreat they built on the sandspit. The Finns and Wilhelmina hand-peeled and milled every log, forming sturdy pole trusses. They bound the poles with resilient reeds gathered from the lake shore and caulked the gaps between the logs that made up the walls with gray mud scooped from the lake’s outlet.
The men cleared a level area on the beach and cut cedar shakes for the community cabin. A few of the larger bolts, tossed into random piles on the sand, rolled into the lake water and floated toward the outlet, eventually finding their way into the main section of Minnie Creek. Mikko later discovered them floating in his farm’s diversion pond several miles below the lake. Not only did the woods adjacent to the lake have an ample supply of cedar, but the creek also served as a transportation system that carried the valuable wood to the homestead. Mikko, Anders and two other families soon established a milling area near Mikko’s farm, complete with a makeshift drying shack and a small loading dock. The shipwrights-turned-farmers were suddenly and unexpectedly in the cedar-shake business and were now deluged with requests from friends, neighbors, and the merchants in North Fork, particularly MacTavish & Oliver Mercantile. The Finns also anticipated the increasing demand for roof shakes in towns along the planned railroad that would head southwest from Sedro Woolley and skirt Mikko’s original homestead.
“We need more of your cedar in our store,” Oliver said. “I will pay you to widen and improve the trail to the lake in exchange for exclusive sales rights to your shakes and bolts. The trail would enable a steady flow of material without having to rely on the creek.”
“I recognize your proposal will also increase my business,” Kurri said. “It is I who should be grateful to you.”
“A wider trail also will bring more visitors to the lake,” Oliver said. “If you wish, our company will enhance the community grounds and assist with other buildings you deem necessary.”
By 1889, the commercial cedar-shake undertaking had moved a few miles north to the Bald Mountain Valley, where Gustaffson was the manager for their expanding processing business with financial partner Henry Oliver. Wilhelmina and Mikko Kurri became hosts at the lake retreat they named Madrona in honor of the two swirling, sturdy, peeling-red madrona trees stationed at each end of the curving sandspit that defined the boundaries of the community.
The couple soon added their own little cottage down the sandy beach from the larger resort. Wilhelmina’s flower and vegetable garden stretched from the cottage to the base of the northern madrona, where Mikko’s wicker swing hung from a knotted branch. Wilhelmina’s extended family, expert fishing and hunting guides in the region, regularly arrived with supplies and surprise gifts. The visits and exchanges became so frequent that Kurri petitioned the county representatives for a United States Postal Service station at the lake. The request was approved, largely because one of the voting commissioners in Seattle was an associate of Wallace MacTavish and had spent more than a few nights at the resort.
“Madrona, Wash.” was proudly embossed on postal stamps and became a much-desired Cascade oasis; invoking warm, vivid experiences for those hardworking people desiring a respite from their routine lives.
Chapter Thirteen
6 p.m., Thursday, February 3, 1982
The prospect of Ronnie Garcia on the same Seattle basketball team as Linn Oliver weighed heavily as I darted out my back door after a quick dash home.
A tough but marginal high school player, Ronnie was two years ahead of Linn in school. A couple of gym rats, they were friendly competitors for years and part of a core group that showed up for full-court buckets on Wednesday nights and Saturday mornings. Things began to change during Ronnie’s senior season, when he took to calling Linn “Headlines” for the amount of media attention Linn received. I heard rumors the two had drifted further apart after Linn suffered his knee injury in the woods. Everybody knew that Ronnie and Linn were choker partners that summer; one stretched the main winch line to the farthest point on the setting while the other wrapped individual choker cables around each log and secured them to the winch line. Since the day the winch line snapped, whipped across Linn’s knee, and sent him to the hospital, I never saw them together again.
I left the truck in the garage and swung my 1972 Volkswagen bus south toward Interstate 5. The bus was a gutless but comfortable old friend. I never needed to go fast or corner on a dime. It carted dozens of amped-up players, hosted mobile chalk talks, transported boxes of jerseys and balls, and served as a portable hotel room for out-of-town coaching clinics. The players razzed me about my ancient tapes but most young passengers couldn’t wait to rummage through the cluttered glove box to find a favorite.
Well, I don’t care if it rains or freezes
’long as I got my plastic Jesus
riding on the dashboard of my car ...
The Montlake Gym near the University of Washington campus is the cornerstone of Montlake Playfield, a gem of an urban park, complete with a football field and outdoor tennis courts that once boasted the smoothest surface in the city. The familiar brick structure sits tucked away on the shore of Portage Bay and across the Highway 520 concrete causeway from the luxury yachts belonging to members of the exclusive Seattle Yacht Club.
The gym sits a few a few blocks from Hec Edmundson Pavilion, home to the Huskies and the drama that is Division One college basketball. Montlake’s modest basketball court attracts a radically different type of player from the collegiate crowd across the bay. I played in a few Over 30s leagues there years ago, back when my knees had discernible cartilage. Pickup games typically include no-name gym rats, former high-school showstoppers, and aging Huskies looking to break a weeknight sweat. Teams of knee-braced warriors appear nightly, resplendent in tattered tank tops and scuffed-up sneakers. It’s a stark contrast to the button-down shirts and high heels found in the boardrooms at the nearby yacht club or the silky, shiny warmups covering spotless uniforms donned in big-time college arenas.
At Montlake, there are no realistic hopes of making headlines; no frantic reporters racing from a jammed-packed house to beat deadlines with an exclusive story about the next can’t-miss superstar. Linn Oliver was a celebrated former blue-chip prospect, one of a very few white kids from the Northwest invited to prestigious national basketball camps during his high school years. Every player in the recreational park leagues like Montlake secretly wanted to discover what Linn Oliver had that he did not. Opponents cranked up their intensity level when they played against him. I’ve seen this peculiar athletic stage render an intriguing combination of pent-up curiosity and runaway testosterone.
Since his forgettable last days on campus at the University of Washington, the Montlake Gym was one of the few places Linn Oliver was still consistently referred to as “The Cheese.” He told me he wished the nickname would go away, along with the chronic pain in his right kneecap. Still, he wanted to play, and there was always a game at Montlake.
I aimed the bus into the parking lot, under one of the light standards that needed new bulbs. Inside, Fool’s Gold walked through the motions of a lazy layup drill at the far basket, its team members far too cool to actually break a sweat before a rec game. Ronnie Garcia was not on the floor.
A familiar kid with a smooth shot nailed three shots in a row from the left corner. Austin Ragsdale was a decent player and a likeable logger from Aberdeen I’d seen in a state tournament. He was a close friend of Linn’s; the two had roomed together one year at the UW. Linn brought “Rags” to a couple of our practices at Washington High during winter break. As I approached, I said, “Guardin’ Austin is just exhaustin.’”
He stopped his next shot in mid-motion, held the ball at his waist, and squinted in my direction. “Coach Creekmore. I’ll be darned. Been a while since I h
eard that kinda talk.” He tugged up his droopy brown sweat pants and extended his right hand.
“Good to see you, Austin. Wasn’t sure if you would remember ...”
“You’ve got to be kidding, Ernie Creekmore, coach of Washington High Fighting Crabs? I’m sure a lot of the guys in here’ll spot you.”
I hesitated and looked away. “Because I lost a state title game with Linn Oliver? And, that’s former coach.”
“Not what I was gonna say. Linn said you did things the right way. ‘Sides, I bet you’re back into coaching soon.”
I faked a snort, but I knew I wanted back in to the game I loved. The smell of the gym, players preparing to run the floor, refs asking for the game ball. I loved it all. I refocused on Austin as the game’s referees strutted to midcourt and summoned the captains from both teams. “Say, you heard from Linn?”
“Nah but heard another guy on our team was trying to track him down. He’ll probably blow in the door sometime in the first quarter. Like Tuesday night. He changed in the bathroom, pulled on his jersey at our bench and was on the floor for the opening tip.”
“Anything different about him that night? How’d he play?”
The officials waved players to midcourt, impatient to start the game. One shouted again for a Fool’s Gold captain. The other practiced his two-handed toss in preparation for the jump ball.
“Where’s Garcia?” one of Austin’s teammates asked. “It’s time to rock ‘n’ roll.”
The stocky player, nicknamed Sweater for his body hair, looked around the gym. “I guess I’m your captain again tonight.” He reluctantly jogged to center court as the designated leader. The two captains slapped hands.
I stared at Austin. “Ronnie didn’t make it Tuesday night?”
“Nope, didn’t show at all. Anyway, you asked about something different. When I saw how tired Linn was, I told him to take the night off. The team we were playing was easier than a third-grade crossword puzzle. But Linn wouldn’t hear of an early exit. Said he wanted to loosen up for a game later in Bremerton. Christ, get on a boat to Bremerton?”
“You thought he was serious about going all that way to play in another game?”
“Said some team at Silverdale Community College needed bodies.” He stopped stretching, and yanked his sweatpants, one leg at a time, over his bulky high-tops. “Can you believe that?”
I walked with Austin to the sideline where he fired his warm-ups under a metal folding chair. “Did Linn say anything about how he was feeling?”
“He said he got a new drug for the knee. Made him crazy sometimes, but it helped him sleep better.” Members from both teams shot us hurry-up looks, eager for play to begin. The official scorer made a whirling motion with his finger.
“But how’d he look?” I asked.
“He always seems whipped, Coach. Like nothing’s in the tank. He’s working all day at the Shell station, then driving to hoop games at night. I just hope he doesn’t screw up somebody’s car at work.”
“C’mon, Rags,” Sweater yelled. “Ref’s gonna give us a T if we wait any longer.”
As Austin jogged away, I said, “Did you ever hear Linn talk about a girl named Holly?”
“Nah, doesn’t ring a bell. Barbara, but no Holly.”
“Do you think he left in time to catch the ferry?” I asked.
“Should have,” Austin said over his shoulder. “He knocked down three long-range bombs and was out the door before halftime. But, hey, stick around. He should be here. You can ask him yourself.”
I hung around until midway through the third quarter, but Linn did not show.
The hour-plus ride home did me in, thanks to the perpetual roadwork in south Everett. I pulled into the driveway and noticed a package under the light on the front porch. I took the box inside. It was a small white carton from an auto parts store. Ripping off the tape, I found it was filled with crushed Dungeness crab shells and a yellow piece of binder paper with a barely legible message blotched in black ink:
It’s been five years, but it seems like yesterday. Thanks for the memories, asshole.
I slumped into the couch, clutching the paper in my hand. As I eased my head back on the cushion, I noticed a set of car lights moving slowly up the street, stopping in front the house. I stood and squinted through the window, trying to make out the model, but the car pulled quickly away.
Chapter Fourteen
Noon, Friday, February 4, 1982
Three days and still no word. Dr. Robert Oliver left a message on my home phone saying he was catching the next flight from Phoenix. It was time for me to dig out my ferry contacts and learn more about Linn Oliver’s evening boat ride across Puget Sound.
Willie Colegrove was the type of player a coach tried to keep on a team. Wild Willie couldn’t shoot a lick and was too slow to guard an old nun in full habit, but he could fire up a locker room like nobody else. He’d show up ready and on time, had a non-stop motor, and was more than willing to tell Larry Bird he had no game. Nothin’, man. You got nothin! Like many other alumni, he returned to witness our 1977 state championship game.
Willie became one of four family members to land a job with Washington State Ferries. His dad worked the San Juan Island run out of Anacortes when the kids were in school, and the family still lived in North Fork. When the children left the family home, the folks moved to nearby Guemes Island, where the dad skippered a nine-car county ferry, and the mom operated the community store and boat lift. I dialed her there.
“Coach Creekmore, you just made my day! Tell me you’re comin’ to Guemes.” I immediately pictured the squatty woman with the raspy delivery, the product of years of Winstons and Wild Turkey.
“No, ma’am, I’m not, but I sure would like to. Some fine fishin’ spots on the west side of your island.”
“You got that right, Coach. Couple from Victoria rented a kicker boat this morning and hooked a twelve-pounder ’round noon. Real shiny blackmouth. Say, are you coachin’ anywheres?”
I took in a lot of air and let it out audibly. “I gave up coaching at the school a few years ago. Didn’t see any more Colegroves coming through the ranks. Mostly scouting now. There’s talk about helping with a county all-star team, but that’ll be down the road.”
“You were always good to them, Ernie. I will always be grateful for that. A little sassy to the parents, though.”
It was time to curb the cordials. “Mrs. Colegrove, I was wondering if you might know Willie’s work schedule? I heard he recently moved to one of the Seattle runs.”
“That’s right. WSF moved him from Mukilteo last month. He’s working swing shift on the Storm. Call the main number in Seattle to get the boat rotation. You don’t want to get on the wrong ferry.”
“Thanks. Say, is the Storm running to Bainbridge Island or Bremerton?”
“I’m sorry, Coach. I could’ve at least told you that. Willie’s on the Bremerton run.”
**
A cold wind whipped through the canyon of Seattle buildings, clearing the sky of winter rain clouds. The majestic Olympic Mountains dominated the horizon, seemingly rising from the saltwater west of the Kitsap Peninsula. A few private boats bobbed in a light chop among huge international freighters and container ships in Elliott Bay. I paid my car-driver fare at the curb and took my place in the Bremerton line at the south end of the parking lot on the pier. Vehicles loaded several minutes late for the 4:20 p.m. sailing, but the views of the Seattle skyline and Puget Sound eased driver anxiety. A deckhand directed the bus up the ramp on the starboard side, where I jerked the hand brake and climbed the stairs to the galley.
“Willie Colegrove?” I said to the cashier over the heads of two twin boys in matching soccer sweats who couldn’t wait to purchase a greasy bag of popcorn and two small sodas. The kids dropped handfuls of sweaty coins on the counter.
The cashier frowned. “Second mate’s office. Port side.”
Roger that.
Willie huddled over a green picnic-style table su
rrounded by light brown wall lockers piled high with gym bags, heavy coats, and boots. He glared down at a piece of binder paper and held a black CB-like microphone in his right hand. When he spoke, his voice streamed from the speakers throughout the vessel.
“Will the owner of the black BMW with the California license plates parked in the center section near the stern please return to your vehicle and secure your alarm. Folks from California—no one is stealing your designer sunglasses. The motion of the ferry activates your alarm.”
“That’s our Willie,” I said. His pudgy cheeks accentuated a wily smile. He stared, trying to recognize me in an out-of-place setting.
“Coach! How ya’ doin?” He landed a roundhouse handshake then slapped me on the shoulder. “Whadda doin’ on this dump?”
We grabbed an empty booth near a window in the passenger cabin and reminisced about old times and former players. Willie graduated from high school before Linn Oliver enrolled. Like other hoop fans, Willie followed Linn’s career and was interested in his whereabouts. He knew nothing of Linn’s disappearance—until I told him. Linn’s car had been towed off the boat and sat in the Bremerton parking lot for a few hours before the state patrol ran the plate. By that time, the Storm had begun its return trip to Seattle.
“You gotta be kiddin’ me, Coach,” Willie said. “I can’t even believe this. I remember the night and the car, but I never saw Cheese. It was a cold, nasty crossing. One of the worst I can remember.”
“Bad enough that waves came over the bow?” I asked.
“You bet. Badass wind blowing like crazy. Boat was really rockin.’ Lotta people losing their lunch. A seagull nearly shattered a window on the starboard side. Thing scared the snot out of a family from Poulsbo coming home from Seattle Center.”
