“Er, that’s unnecessary,” says Budge quickly. “Thanks anyway.”
Are you shittin’ me, mister? Such a photograph would be disastrous. I’m supposed to be in Boston, not Iowa. This evidence could be used for blackmail! I wouldn’t put it past her to pull such a stunt.
Once they’re back in the car, his soon-to-be ex gleefully capitalizes on the incident.
“Whatsa matter, Budgie? ’Fraid to be in a snapshot with me? ’Fraid I’m gonna send a copy to your girl-friend?”
“No, it’s not that …” he begins.
She cackles with laughter. “Yeah, yeah, right! What a liar! Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”
Budge doesn’t reply. He hasn’t forgotten her willful ways and wiles. She became quite an expert at making him squirm. She had a knack for rubbing it in whenever he made a fool of himself. She never failed to assert her superiority, the ultimate example of which was for her to walk out on him. No, he can’t trust her, and henceforth he never will.
We wind up picnicking in Winterset’s community park just as the mosquitoes come out. We’re totally alone, even though the gates don’t officially close until an hour past sundown. What would re-knit these frayed vibes between us would be good old-fashioned sex on the good old-fashioned grass, but when I make the suggestion, she says nothing doing.
Instead, we stroll over to a covered bridge that has been relocated across a swale. It’s a nice enough bridge, but there’s no water running beneath it—the original stream is probably on the far side of Madison County—so the verisimilitude lacks an important ingredient, although I’m pleased to see the structure thus preserved.
The following morning, after a good night’s rest (and no further sexual importuning), Budge finds himself restored to excellent spirits. His companion appears equally refreshed, and it’s a good thing because the plan is to drive out of Iowa, then tackle the length of Nebraska and into Wyoming—a distance in excess of six hundred miles.
Speeding across the prairie, Budge feels as if a weight has lifted. He studies his soon-to-be ex-wife as she drives.
She’s not a bad egg. Definitely a little over the hill, but look who’s talking. My presence on this trip must be reaffirming to her that she’s made the right decision. I was a second-rate husband. She can do better, although it may take a little time. But that’s where she excels and I don’t: she has the virtue of patience, whereas I have the vice of needing instant gratification.
Their conversation is cheerful and nonconfrontational. Budge is determined to steer clear of the previous day’s contention. By noon, they’re in Lincoln, Nebraska, where they stop for lunch at a restaurant called Lazlo’s. For starters, they order beer samplers which consist of six six-ounce mugs of local brew—honey ale to darkest stout. Draining one after another, they trade discriminating pronouncements, a procedure that offers ample opportunity for good-natured agreement and disagreement. The fact of the matter is they’re both getting ripped.
Blurred, it’s the most sociable of meals—deli sandwiches they commend to the stars—and a generous tip is added to her credit card receipt when they get ready to leave. He’s glad to see her so relaxed, for it portends an argument-free afternoon.
Unstressed and in good humor, they return to the road. Budge is behind the wheel.
We zoom into another time zone before we know it. I-80 makes for a spectacular passage, and my map-reading co-pilot promises that toward the end of the day we’ll be rewarded by the distant Rockies.
Windmills pumping water; long-horned herds; the eponymous Pine Bluffs; hillocks and small buttes. Progression from prairie to plains unfolds in mauve grandeur. Visible from every quarter is the Great Platte Valley.
Budge notes that Nebraska is a fine state for rest areas—unlandscaped turnouts that appear regularly, to the relief of his bursting bladder.
These rest rooms contrast with those of other states because they don’t aspire to be more than what they are. Neither grimy nor spotless, they uphold a middling standard that complements the interstate system. They may or may not be attached to a visitors’ center; either way, there’s always plenty of parking space and the shortest of walks to what’s being stopped for. The traveler can also study excellent dioramas and plaques, and the official state highway map, free for the asking, features first-rate topographic detail.
On a bluff overlooking the Platte, stretching his legs, Budge studies the route of the former wagon trains. Though he’s a century and a half late, he imagines their slow, snaking progression, in contrast to the vector-like rumbling behind his back.
O pioneers, O brave homeless westward-pushing heroes of the plains.
His co-pilot decides she’d like to take a picture of the magnificent valley, but can’t locate her camera. She makes a great show of churning through the contents of the car before suddenly realizing where it is.
“Omigod, I left it at the restaurant. We’ll have to go back.”
“Back to Lincoln? Are you kidding?”
“I’m serious. We have to go back. I don’t mind driving.”
“Look,” he says, consulting the map, “We’re more than seventy miles west of Lincoln. It’s too far and too late to go all the way back there.”
“It’s my camera, not yours.”
“I’m not saying that. Get the restaurant’s phone number off the credit card receipt, then give ’em a call.”
“Don’t tell me what to do!”
“I’m only suggesting a reasonable approach to your problem.”
“Well, I don’t like that tone in your voice.”
“Look,” he adds, “they can mail the camera to your sister in California. You’ll get it in a few days.”
“I don’t mind backtracking,” she says stubbornly.
“Well I do!” Budge is emphatic. “There’s absolutely no point in going back. We’ll stop at the next convenience store, and you can pick up one of those inexpensive disposable cameras to use until you get to your sister’s.”
Sheesh! You’d think we were arguing a point of life or death. All I’m trying to do is save gas and time, and solve her dumb problem. I think I’m on the verge of convincing her, but she’s reluctant to concede because I am who I am—the guy who wasn’t fit for marital duty.
At length, Budge’s wisdom prevails and they continue westward.
We pass beneath the Great Platte River Road Archway Monument—an odd species of eyesore, a covered bridge from hell. Inside, it’s supposedly pretty interesting—interactive and all that—but we’re in the rolling mode (as the sign proclaims, one of twelve thousand vehicles that pass beneath daily).
Late in the afternoon, they cross into Wyoming. Their goal is Cheyenne—not far beyond the border. Already the mountains are in view.
“Look at those Rockies!” he exclaims. “It feels like we’re finally in the West.”
Unenthusiastically, she nods her head. “I wish I had my camera,” she laments.
“Is that supposed to be a joke?”
“Oh, you’re impossible!”
Budge offers no rebuttal, figuring she’s in one of her moods. Earlier when they stopped for gas, she purchased a disposable ‘SnapShooter’ and also telephoned the restaurant in Lincoln to arrange for camera forwarding—which was fine with the manager—so she can’t really mean what she’s saying. On the other hand, she may be implying something entirely different: that she dislikes his presence and regrets having invited him along.
This thought makes him distinctly uncomfortable. It fills him with helplessness, considering their unavoidable companionship for the next three or four days. Momentarily claustrophobic, Budge points to the motel at the junction of the first exit to Cheyenne.
“This looks good.”
She honors his suggestion—can she be feeling the same thing?
Two beds chastely spaced. Ground rules well established by now, no need for verbal refresher. Enough food in car to make light supper. We sit at picnic table on motel grounds, in shado
w of classic 1960s motel sign (Fleetwood Motel, Air-conditioned Rooms, Reasonable Rates). Afterwards, drive to city center, park across from state capital. With new camera, I capture her in front of statue of Esther Morris, firebrand for women’s suffrage in Wyoming (first state to grant women full voting rights). Then proceed to walk entire downtown—empty but for us and a few cruising pickup trucks—and provision at Safeway five minutes before closing time. Then back to motel for much-needed showers and another night of … zilch.
Chapter Eleven
When Budge stirs to consciousness the next morning, his soon-to-be ex-wife is already dressed.
“C’mon, Budgie. Up and at ’em!”
“What time is it?” he yawns.
“It’s just six o’clock. We need to get an early start. Today, we’re crossing the Rockies, remember?”
Who dares disturb the slumbering author? Who has the temerity to interrupt his inspirational repose? Since when is the literary dreamer forced out of the sack at this ungodly hour?
“C’mon. Rise and shine!”
She opens the room door, blasting his half-opened eyes with direct sunlight, and goes out to the car with some of her things.
“I’ll be at the restaurant next door if you want to meet me there,” she calls.
The hint is for him to get up and get dressed quickly if he wants her to buy him breakfast. Hungry as he is—supper wasn’t very filling—this is an offer he can’t refuse.
Grumbling to himself, he pulls on his clothes and stuffs his sockless feet into his shoes. He didn’t have the energy to email Matty last night, much less download the ones he’s already written. This morning he hasn’t got the time either. He feels both guilty and annoyed.
Like I said, the bitch always has to have the upper hand. It’s a power thing. If she can’t call the shots, the shots aren’t worth calling. My insistence about the camera ticked her off. Now it’s payback time. She’ll come up with something to make me look inferior, and then she’ll rub it in. Just wait and see.
To his credit, Budge manages to put all negative thoughts aside as he wolfs down the Rancher’s Breakfast (four eggs with grits, sausage and homefries, plus a sixteen-ounce glass of orange juice). With each forkful, he’s more optimistic about facing the vicissitudes of the new day. As it turns out, it’s a good thing he is stockpiling carbs and calories, because his companion is considering a strenuous out-of-car detour.
“I’ve been looking at the map,” she says. “Here’s what I propose: we get off I-80 at Laramie and head southwest on Route 130, through the Medicine Bow Range, which is supposed to be really scenic. We’ll find a good trailhead along there.”
“A trailhead for what?”
Budge is playing dumb. He knows perfectly well what it’s for.
“Why, for hiking, silly.”
“Can’t we just drive to an overlook instead of taking a hike?”
“Really, Budgie! What a stick-in-the-mud you’ve become! You never hiked in the Rockies before. This is your big chance.”
“It sounds more like it’s your big chance.”
She looks at him quizzically.
“Well, yes, it is my big chance, and yours too. We’d be morons to pass it up. But if you want to sit in the car while I go on the trail alone, that’s okay with me.”
She’s running circles around you, Budge Moss! Do you have any idea how puerile, servile, and infantile not to mention senile—you sound? Buck up, lad, show a little backbone! Prove to her that you’re not a second-rate has-been. Prove to her that you can stand up to anything she can dish out, even at this late date.
“No, no, I’ll go with you,” Budge blurts. “I wouldn’t think of letting you hike alone.”
“Well, that’s much better!” she exclaims. “For a while there, I thought you were wimping out.”
They get in the car and continue driving toward the Rockies, which now rise from the plain like a series of disconnected, snow-peaked lumps. Foothills herald the range’s immediacy, their lower slopes velvety green-brown and capped by outcroppings that rise like jagged walls barricading the sky.
Turning southwest at Laramie, they’re rewarded by a forested series of switchbacks and hairpins. They wind through the rustic hamlet of Centennial and head toward Snowy Range Pass, where declivities and conifers shade pockets of old snow. Upward they continue through the heart of the Medicine Bow, not stopping until they reach a turnout with an observation parapet.
Getting out of the car, Budge is unexpectedly enervated. The altitude has knocked the wind out of him—he can barely stand up. It annoys him to see his companion unaffected. For him, the view is literally breathtaking.
“According to the map,” she is saying, “that big mountain over there is Medicine Bow Peak—12,013 feet. There’s a trail to its summit. The trailhead is just up the road.”
Oh Lordy, what do I do—cough, cough!—at this juncture? Sit in the car? Concede my inferiority? No, not in a million years! I’ll show her—cough!—that I can manage the thin air as well as she can.
Budge wills himself to acclimatize by breathing shallowly and evenly. By the time they arrive at the trailhead, which is beside a mirror-like snow-melt lake, he has banished most of the symptoms. They park and get out, and this time he stands with determination. A carved wooden sign announces the 6,000-foot, five-mile climb. Budge gulps; not fifteen minutes earlier, he felt like a basket case.
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” his wife asks.
“Sure, why not? Aren’t you?”
“It might take all day,” she cautions.
“Well, according to you, we’ve got plenty of time. I had originally thought that we’d be driving straight to California, but apparently we’re not. So let’s do the hike. There’s nobody else parked here. We’ve got the trail all to ourselves. And look! There’s not a cloud in the sky.”
It sounds a tad gung-ho, but I can’t help myself. I’m growing cockier by the minute. The challenge of climbing a real mountain is unexpectedly motivating, although a part of me is asking myself if I’m crazy.
“Well, okay,” she says with some trepidation.
They set out at a brisk walk along the edge of the lake to a high meadow dotted with wildflowers.
Just getting away from the road is a reward in itself. The soughing of the breeze, the scent of the jackpines, the gurgle of a rill, the caw of a crow, the aloneness of it all—these are what I’ve come for.
Their pace slows as the trail starts uphill. Soon it’s a rough, rocky climb—sometimes dipping, often twisting and backtracking, but inexorably gaining in altitude. Budge’s breathing grows labored and his outlook becomes less sanguine. Exhaustion forces him to stop and sit frequently. His companion hikes way ahead, and it galls him that she’s moving so effortlessly while he’s mustering every ounce of willpower just to get back to his feet again.
Each time I pause, I look around at the incomparable mountains cape, but then I catch a glimpse of my wife—far above, beyond the next trail-marking cairn—and look! she’s even picked up a walking stick, like a true alpinist. Focusing on the next fifty feet, I rise and propel myself forward. Up ahead, she’s sitting on a rock. Is she waiting for me to catch up?
No, she’s not. As soon as Budge draws near, she stands up and continues climbing. Up, up and up—a never-ending chase. His strength is pitted against hers, but his lungs don’t fill with oxygen the way he expects them to. The deceptive distances only makes matters worse. Cairns are twice as far away as they appear. Each succeeding rocky prominence looks like the summit, but the trail goes around it, not up, and beyond the bend, there’s another prominence even higher up, and that isn’t the summit either.
Yet it couldn’t be a more beautiful day. Budge is aware of how sunburned he’s getting.
We climb through mud fields, snow fields, shard fields, between strewn boulders that dwarf us, through desolate passages that show summit promise but deliver only another uphill increment. If it weren’t for the easily recognizable
rock cairns (each with a sharpened pole sticking up through the middle), we might never get to the top—or back down.
The terrain grows more difficult. Over and over we separately pause and advance—she’s stopping more frequently now—but the ridge we’re on just continues up. The tree line, even the scrub bush line, lies far below.
At the four-hour mark, Budge is scanning the next uphill.
“That’s the summit!” he shouts weakly. “I can see it from here.”
“I hope you’re right,” she yells back.
They traverse the final half-mile with Budge finally catching up. The mountaintop proves to be a heap of fractured boulders with a cairn at its apex and numerous initials carved on the pole. Marmots scamper about. Budge spots a pale blue butterfly but he’s too winded to point it out to his wife. The air is decidedly thin. As for vegetation, he sees nothing but lichens of varying shades and textures.
The view is … well, what do people climb mountains for? To be perfectly honest, the unimpeded panorama is only slightly more arresting than from anywhere else along the trail. But the sound of the breeze is unique. An explanation comes to mind that it might be the rustling of air molecules as they rub against each other. This is, indeed, the sound of the sky.
His wife takes snapshots with the disposable camera, omitting him as subject as per his request. As he sits and catches his breath, the thought occurs to Budge that their act of reaching the summit together ought to be expanded upon.
“Hey, let’s have a summit meeting,” he says.
His companion smiles wanly at what she must interpret to be his sense of humor.
“About what?”
“About us. I mean, is this trip of ours leading to something, like our getting back together?”
She shakes her head in disbelief. “You still don’t get it, do you?”
“Are you saying there isn’t a chance?”
“Look, Budgie. I have nothing against you. I was married to you for umpteen years. I just don’t think about that kind of scenario anymore. And I really wish you wouldn’t think about it either. We had our chance and it didn’t work out.”
Wrongful Reconciliation Page 13
