by James Galvin
“By afternoon when I come home the road was a slop-trough of grease. If I’d slipped off the road into the unpacked gumbo, it would have sucked the truck under till it was floating on its running boards. I had to keep momentum to make the hill, or I would have had to back all the way down, a couple of miles, and try again.
“About halfway up the grade I see them again, Ferris and his son, though neither was what you’d call recognizable. They was covered head to foot in thick red mud. Their truck was about fifty feet from where it had been that morning, off the road, like a sinking skiff.
“They was driving a steel fencepost into the mud, chaining up to it, and hand-winching with a come-along, then jacking out the post again and gaining about three feet with each repetition of the operation. They only had about a mile and a half to go to attain the junkheap. They looked downright aboriginal in their mud suits.
“It wasn’t so much that I knew if I slowed down I’d never get up the hill, or that if I left the road to try to pull them out I’d be as stuck as they was. It was just that there are limits.
“This time I just left them there.”
II.
Frank said, “I guess we do ride a lot. Some ranchers have tried to get away from horses with ATVs and helicopters and such. But it turns out you can’t raise cattle without using horses. Not in this country anyway. Horses are cheap, low maintenance, reliable, and they’ll go places no vehicle can. Just the kind of places cows like to go.
“So we ride all summer, checking the herd. We move the cows from one pasture to another on horseback, of course. Gathering in the fall entails a lot of riding. We ride when we brand in the spring, and when we sort and pregnancy-test in the fall.
“Sometimes right after haying we get a little free time. That’s about the only time of the year where there’s a space with not much to do before gathering, winter feeding, and calving. Then we like to take a little time off and go horseback riding.”
Full, the reservoir looks all right: a mirror Sheep Creek dies in, timber straight and still along the edge, and sky swimming through its face.
Drained of water, the reservoir that used to be a hayfield is a barren gravel pit with the dead creek laid out in the bottom of it.
Just below the outlet Sheep Creek resurrects itself in an instant. It leaps from the outlet into boulders, tangled willows, and tall grasses. Below the gunsight rock outcrops that pinch the valley into a waist, Lyle’s haymeadow opens like a proper afterlife.
In spring the new grass grows in standing water. At sunset the white mirror-light shines through the grass. That’s when the beaver ponds light up, too, and the rising trout make bull’s eyes on the surface.
A doe that has been drinking lifts her head to listen. Done irrigating, Lyle heads home across the shining field. He has a shovel on his shoulder that looks like a single wing.
The water we count on is the runoff from high snows gone underground. Some years the rain we get wouldn’t fill a thimble. All our streams and springs come from melted snow. After a mild winter the streams are weak by August, so you need a bad winter to have a good year.
A contour map of America shows a heart-shaped basin covering several western states, from southeast Oregon and Idaho down through Nevada and Utah, the real heart of America, where cold air sinks in and fills, like a reservoir of air, until it rises to the spillway and pours through Divide Basin and South Pass like water through a pitcher spout. Only it isn’t water, it’s all the wind in Wyoming. Snow that settles on open country soon rises into the wind and falls again into the deep timber of mountain ridges where it will be safe. The prairie is often scoured when there’s ten feet of snow in the woods.
Ditches they built in the twenties and thirties with dynamite, slips, and mules gather several streams up on Deadman and divert them into the reservoir. Someone has to go up there in the spring and shovel snow out of the ditches to get them running and keep them from washing out. Water is saved behind the dam till they run it out to irrigate the Colorado Plateau. The snow that was saved in the timber is saved again in the reservoir. They sell the water.
In Lyle’s meadow a system of ditches girdles the hillside, delineating hay from sagebrush hills. Ditches fork like nerves to reach every part of the meadow. A wooden flume vaults the creek, water crossing water, to irrigate hay on the far bank. Lyle made hay over forty years. It snowed and flooded the meadow. He cut the water off and cut the hay. He saved the hay in the barn. It started to snow again.
Bill McMurray had done virtually nothing but snowshoe back and forth to Deadman between 1948 and 1972. The new water engineer had it all planned out to work hard at the start and get ahead of everything that needed paint or repair. Ray figured when he got a little older things would take care of themselves. He could stay drunk all the time and just read the clocks and turn the wheels on the ditches and dam, which is more or less what happened, only it all happened sooner than expected. There was a period between the hardworking part and the giving-up part where Ray actually tried to moderate his drinking.
One August morning Ray woke about five o’clock with the shakes. Margie was a sleeping mountain next to him in the bed. Nothing could have waked her, but he didn’t want to start the day with his usual snort, so he dressed and went out without making a fire or coffee. The air was cold and the sun had not risen above the side of the valley below the dam. The grass was frosted and Ray could see the absolute white where his breath left him for the air.
He went down to the shop and gassed and oiled the chainsaw without making too much of a mess. He loaded the saw and then himself into the pickup, and his little stock dog, Linda, jumped in over his knees. He started the engine without revving it and let the truck roll gently down the hill away from the house. He could barely see through the dog’s noseprints on the windshield.
He stopped the truck in the deep meadow grass by the stream below the dam and got out. The grass was white, more like fine bone, and knee-deep. It was like standing in ossified clouds. Ray lit a smoke and watched Sheep Creek, what was left of it, tumble over rocks and stumble into pools, all the water he had gathered from Deadman in his ditches, all the snowmelt he’d laid claim to and saved, then had to turn loose and start over again, shoveling snow out of his ditches in spring.
Ray made an expansive gesture outward with the hand that held the cigarette, and said to no one, “Here we go…” Then he made the gesture again and repeated, “Here we go.” He walked back through the deep, white, breakable grass to the truck and climbed in. Linda jumped in and resumed her post, forepaws on the dash, nose pressed to the glass.
He drove down the draw to a stand of lodgepoles that had died just his side of Lyle’s fenceline. Ray figured if he hauled a load of firewood in and split it for the kitchen stove, that would be worth a drink, maybe even in Margie’s eyes. He fired up the Homelite and quickly felled six good-sized trees, all close together so he could back right up to them for loading. He cut the motor on the saw and listened for a minute, then set it down on a stump.
He unsheathed his double-bitted axe, and within half an hour of regular chunking, he had the limbs off all the trees he’d cut. He put the axe away and bucked the tree trunks into sixteen-inch lengths, stopping to sharpen the chainsaw once with a round file, being careful to give each tooth the same number of strokes to keep the chain cutting straight. Then he threw the blocks into the truck bed. They made a level load, which Ray didn’t like. He liked a full load, but the hell with it; it was ten-thirty and he was getting pretty thirsty.
He drove the load home and started splitting and stacking the pieces neatly. Every time he swung the axe up over his head, the dry wood fell obligingly in two. He was more than half done when he saw something shiny embedded in one of the split halves. He took out his pocket knife and dug an old bullet out of the wood. The bullet must have struck the tree when it was young since there was no scar in the bark. It had healed over like new. Ray studied the slug. It was an old .44-.40, most likely, no, certainly
, from his father’s Model ’73 Winchester that was up in the bedroom closet. The rifle that jammed that time the bear came after him.
Then Ray thought it couldn’t have been. App didn’t go around shooting trees, and he would never have missed what he was shooting at. Then Ray figured it out.
The bullet had blown completely through the animal, probably a deer or elk, and had sunk into the tree, which must have been a sapling, since the bullet was near the tree’s center. Ray counted rings. They added up. The chances of anyone else discharging a Model ’73 Winchester that long ago and right there weren’t worth considering.
So the bullet had blown through the body and lodged in the sapling; the sapling healed and grew into a tree and died. Ray felled it, limbed it, blocked it up, and split it, and he had found his father’s bullet in the tree’s heart. He slipped the mushroom-shaped chunk of lead into his shirt pocket and headed up to the house.
Once they put Hazel in the hospital because she couldn’t catch her breath it was a matter of little time. Dad and I would drive Lyle down every day, and Lyle would sit beside her bed and comb her hair with a comb he’d brought. Dad cussed out the nurses for not opening the windows when Hazel asked for fresh air. Hazel mumbled half-coherent words about never giving up, about how love is everything. Lyle combed her hair every day. Death took her asleep.
Virga is when rain falls and fails to reach the earth, beautiful and useless as the vista it elaborates. Most angels aren’t allowed to touch the ground. We pray for real rain to save the pasture; when it doesn’t come we pray for rain to keep the timber from burning. Dry lightning pokes at the timber’s green dress. Almost every summer there’s a major forest fire somewhere near. Every year we don’t disappear in fire we pray our thanks. The summer Lyle died, fires in Yellowstone four hundred miles away smoked us in so we couldn’t see the barn from the house. The sun was gone for weeks. It never did rain, though all summer long flotillas of sheepish clouds sailed in and tried to look like rain. They turned dark and sexual. They let down their hair, like brushstrokes on the air, like feathers of water, like the principle it was named for, sublime indifference its gesture, its lovely signature over us.
When I built my own log house in 1980, Lyle wouldn’t help me, though he was still healthy then. He wasn’t sure I had it in me, and he didn’t want the responsibility. What he did was answer all my questions. He explained each step, how to do it and what to watch out for, as I went.
He said there were a couple of trees over on his place that would make good top logs, and I could have them if I wanted. It wasn’t really an offer, it was an order. I said I already had logs cut for that. He shook his head and said, “Not big enough. You have to put the biggest log on top.”
“Why? Do you need that much more log to hew down flat and notch to take the rafters?”
“No, you have to do it that way because that’s how the old-timers done it. The biggest log goes on last.”
Once I had the top logs on and had them hewed (trying to work the broadaxe from the elbow like the driveshaft on an old steam train, the way I’d seen Lyle do it), Lyle came over to help me figure the pattern for the rafters. I ripped them out with the handsaw.
It took the two of us, one on each side, to get the first two pairs of rafters nailed to the ridgepole. I was thinking about that. I said, “Lyle, all the buildings you’ve made by yourself, without any help from anyone, I mean … how did you get the first two pairs of rafters nailed without someone to hold them up for you?”
Lyle thought a moment and said, “You know, Jim, I’ve often wondered that myself.”
LYLE, 1974
1/1 Worked in shop—changed batteries in Dodge—fed horses. Several cars on road today. Nice day—18 am soon up to + 28.
1/2 Worked in shop—finished draw pull for Don Ruth. Started a pulley for grindstone. Light wind and snow all day—snowed 2 or 3 inches.
1/3 Cleaned chicken house am. Played with motor bike pm. Strong winds—sunny am, cloudy and snow flurries pm. 2 cars on road today.
1/4 Baked bread am—over to Galvin’s for lunch—windy but warmer—several cars on road today—think some of them are poachers.
1/5 Went to reservoir am—started to go to Sand Creek but road blowed in. Water line froze up so Ray and I built a bonfire on it—no luck. Windy + 18 high.
1/6 Worked on grindstone. Windy day ___________
1/7 _______________________________________
1/8 Washed clothes am. Worked in shop pm. High wind am. Some snow pm.
1/9 Took pickup over the hill—changed the tank on the freezer—snowing and some wind—about 6" snow. Cold.
1/10 Worked in shop trueing up grindstone. Cold and windy.
1/11 Started working on Ben’s desk. Cold today—up to 4 at noon, – 18 at 8 pm, light north wind all day.
1/12 Worked on desk—one car on road today— – 10 this am. Warmed up to + 20 this pm—fair wind.
1/13 Baked bread am—Frank Lilley visited pm. Windy but warm—up to + 30 pm.
1/14 Went to Laramie—Oscar gave me 2 pr. Elk hide gloves for Christmas—1 pr. lined—one unlined—sure nice. Windy but warm—above 30.
1/15 Worked on desk. A coon trying to get in chicken house. Set a trap for him. Nice day.
1/16 Worked on desk—coon hasn’t been back—Ray came in afternoon. Windy.
1/17 Worked on desk all day. Windy.
1/18 Roy Brown came up and bought the last of the hay, $45.00 a ton. Several cars on road today—2" snow last night—windy but warm, + 28.
1/19 Worked on desk—saw a coyote chasing a rabbit across the hill—going for all he was worth. Windy all day but warm, + 30.
1/20 Snowed 6" last night. Worked on desk all day—no wind but getting cold tonight—down to – 22 at 9 o’clock.
1/21 Ray was here today—brought the mail and some milk—a real nice day, + 14 at six am, up to + 32 pm. Getting windy tonight. Worked on desk.
1/22 Same old thing—windy and warm.
1/23 Same old thing—windy as hell and snow flurries. + 28.
1/24 Same old thing—windy as hell— + 32—a pickup on road today.
1/25 Same old thing.
1/26 Lots of tourists running around today—Warm and windy + 38.
1/27 Worked on desk—snowed 4" last night—east wind and cold today, + 4 tonight.
1/28 Patched overalls and done some cooking—snow flurries and light wind, + 28—wind rising tonight.
1/29 Broke the shuttle carrier on the sewing machine—hope I can make another one—clear day up to + 28 some wind.
1/30 Went to town—Ray and Margie were here for supper—sure nice to have someone to eat with—East wind tonight and + 4, snowing some. Started repairs for sewing machine.
1/31 Went to reservoir for dinner—almost had to shovel to get back. Windy and snow moving—up to + 25—guess I’ll have to start using the snowmobile.
2/1 Worked on desk—have it nearly cleaned off—a tourist on road today. Clear and windy, up to + 20.
2/2 Ray, Jack, and Ki were here pm. Baked bread and worked around house am—in shop pm making part for sewing machine— – 8 this morn, + 32 at noon.
2/3 Cleaned chicken house, Frank came and stayed all day—windy am, quiet pm.—warm.
2/4 Finished part for sewing machine and it works—pulled a guy out of the snow, he tried to give me $10.00—no wind but cloudy and cool, up to + 20.
2/5 Worked on desk—done some sewing and loafed—cold and windy—some snow flurries.
2/6 This day wasted. Windy and cold.
2/7 Worked on desk—the wind blew like hell all day—up to + 22. The white cactus in blossom tonight.
2/8 Worked on desk—windy and some snow flurries, + 30.
2/9 Sig Palms and three other game wardens visited today. Worked on desk putting it together. Windy and warm, + 37.
2/10 Baked bread and worked on desk—windy and snow flurries, 28.
2/11 Three cars on road today, damn tourists wasting gasoline, guess they think
there’s no end to it, damned fools. Windy and warm.
2/12 Worked on desk in am—walked over to pickup in pm—put on new license plates, warm and windy, up to 38—windy as hell tonight.
2/13 Worked on desk am—Ray and Ki were here pm—I sawed some wood. Warm nice day.
2/14 Worked on desk, windy—colder and snowing.
2/15 Worked on desk am—got out the Ski-doo and checked it over and went over the hill. Had about 4" snow.
2/16 Baked some pineapple kolacky am—worked on desk pm. Nice day and warmer + 22.
2/17 Worked on desk—2 cars on road today—they can only get this far. Cold, some wind.
2/18 Went to town, saw some elk over the hill. Ray and Jack were here for supper. Cold and windy, + 4 this morn.
2/19 Sanded the desk and put on another coat of varnish—Windy; not very warm.
2/20 Patched overalls.
2/21 Baked bread and washed some clothes am—remodelled a shirt pm. Cold day + 10
2/22 Just tinkered around—windy and cold. – 16 am, + 10 pm.
2/23 53 years today, patched underwear am, overalls pm—snowed some this morn and was cold, but cleared and warmed up to + 3 this pm.
2/24 Put the third coat of varnish on desk—windy but clear and warm + 38.
2/25 Don Ruth came today, Stayed all day, I didn’t get a damned thing done. Warm and clear.
2/26 Didn’t do anything today either, Jesus I feel tired and lonely. Warm day but windy, + 32.
2/27 Charged batteries in Dodge and fed the horses—put the last coat of varnish on desk, looks good. Windy and colder, snow flurries.
