Montana, Day Seven: Bequests

Next morning, as planned, our hosts prepare to depart. This superb campsite is ours for today and tonight; tomorrow we leave.

But first, we lend a hand with breakfast: stoke up the fire, grill massive amounts of smoky bacon, scramble a few dozen eggs, and toast stacks of English muffins.

After eats and cleanup, Martinsquats on his bootheels, stuffing barware into a nylon sack. He tips his white straw Stetson back and looks Jim in the eye.

“You live in Missoula, too, don’cha Jim??”

“That I do, Martin. That I do.”

“Well, why don’t we just leave our table and propane stove for ya? You can bring it to us when you get back. And take all this food we brought. We’re just going home.”

There’s a stomach-boggling amount: big industrial packs of cold cuts, cheeses, mustard, mayo. Package upon package of sliced bread. Loads of fresh fruit: cantaloupe, apples, oranges. A knee-high carton of granola bars. Candy. Musta been one wild trip to Costco.

“Martin, that’s so generous, but we’re only here one more day ourselves—”

“Nonsense. Take and have.”

His beefy friend Guy is poking through grocery bags. He holds up a green net sack.

“Here’s them Key limes we brought for drinks! Looked all over for ’em!” He tosses them back in the bag. “Well, you folks enjoy.”

He’s opening tubs and sniffing. “Whooo. Some stuff went bad.”

He carries the offenders—yogurt, sour cream, guacamole—and blops them directly on the campfire. Still in their containers. Dumbfounded, I dart upwind of the heap of burning plastic.

They do things differently in Montana. When I later look it up, though, I find that “the destruction of combustible material by burning” is not prohibited in The Bob.

And Don and Jack will later shock Ro and me by pulling down the gigantic plastic tarp and making a huge smelly smoldering bonfire of it. Weren’t gonna pack it out, I guess.

But how can we hold anything against these kind people who’ve been so good to us? Who offered warmth and shelter and food and wine and lively company?

Jim gets their Missoula number and address, a group photo is snapped, we hug and wish each other well. The riders mount up and head out on the trail.

Martin and Sharon, though, board their tubes at the water’s edge and shove off. Waving goodbye with wide toothy smiles, twirling and swooping in the swollen river, they want another trip down the middle of her near-death experience. I don’t want to watch them, but I do, through my fingers. They emerge hooting and spinning and grinning downriver.

The Red Rapids. Some people make it through.

•••

Things quiet down. Our final day in camp.

We’ve been talking quietly for a while when somebody spots a red-haired man in the river. He’s in his thirties, well-built, bearing a towering backpack, trying to cross the wide and swiftly moving river at a deep point nerve-wrackingly close to the Red Rapids.

We call and motion to him. “Don’t ford there! Come back this way! It’s easier!”

But he proceeds—doesn’t seem to get it.

“Can we string a rope to him?” I ask.

We scramble for lengths, tie them together and toss it to him, but he doesn’t use it. It’s only then we notice the string of eight skinny boy backpackers gathering on the opposite bank.

Don coils the rope back in and heads toward the horse trail. What’s he up to?

As the man reaches shore, Don gallops down with one of the last beers from the cooling dam. He offers it to the man, who refuses.

“Thanks. Can’t do that now.”

This ginger hunk of muscle introduces himself as Alton.

“I’m on duty. These teens are part of a program for troubled youth. Each one’s had difficult personal experiences, and The Bob helps them become self-reliant. It’s why we can’t use a rope. They have to cross on their own. We’ve been back for three weeks, clearing and repairing trails for the forest service. And folks like you.”

“Well, thanks,” we say. Alton chuckles and peers back at the river.

Choosing a slightly shallower ford, he wades back to the boys and lines them up at the lower end of the rapids, just above the treacherous place.

One by one, they make it to our shore.

“Can’t we give them some granola bars?” Lauren asks.

She flies up the hill and brings down the knee-high box.

Hungry as they are, they must wait for permission from Alton, who is helping his co-captain over. Jake’s having a difficult time.

When at last they stumble onto shore, Alton gives the granola go-ahead.

The ravenous boys rip into the sweet snacks.

Suddenly we realize how much food is left—ham, cheese, bread.

“Come up, come up and get something real to eat!”

Less than twenty-four hours earlier, we’d received unbelievable bounty. That was joyful, but more joy to bestow it right away, to see these half-starved teenagers wolf down vast quantities of ham, cheese, bread, canned peaches, applesauce. They squeal when they see the fresh fruit—cantaloupes, apples, oranges. For weeks they’ve lived mostly on ramen and pasta.

When we pull out the leftover huckleberry-raspberry pies, they nearly weep.

They are as grateful as we were last night.

We pull out the Story Tarp, which is now covered with sharpie-ed images of our trip. To a man, they sign it.

When it’s time, we bid them farewell. Off they march in glee and vigor, following the very trail taken by our benefactors a few scant hours ago.

•••

The afternoon unfolds in peace and quiet. Jim and Ro reteach me cribbage. We play awhile, a friendly game. They’re kind to the rookie.

Jim unfolds himself from the camp chair, takes up the sole remaining fly rod, saunters down to the beach, makes a few casts.

For the last several days, in his big chef’s cooler Mike has secretly transported turkey, cranberry sauce, and Stove Top stuffing over the river and through the woods. He’s planned a campfire Thanksgiving. As he readies the fire and his cauldrons, I chop onions, my eyes already moist.

The last of the scotch is gone, but I remember the twelve Key limes. Our hosts also left us sugar. Hmmm. I look around. There’s still some un-“num-nummed” vodka. Ro and I make simple syrup over the fire, squeeze every drop from the limes, and mix delicious vodka gimlets for cocktail hour.

The young ones amuse themselves building their own little campfire.

It’s a delicious, profound August Thanksgiving, bellies full of turkey, faces sticky with s’mores. I produce the wax lips and mustaches my husband sent with me for a photo op. What the picture captures is the spirit of the child still living in Lauren, Derek, Dominic, and Uncle Jack.

“Hey, where’s Seidlitz?” asks Jack suddenly.

“Don’t know,” says Jim. ‘But I know him. He’ll be here.”

We review the Story Tarp. Jim fishes deep into sunset.

And for once Ro and I can completely relax, because Jack and Mike gave us a touching gift that brims our eyes with relief: earlier in the day, without our knowledge, they rode one of the rafts over the dangerous rapids. Tomorrow morning they’ll take the other over it. Ro and I can skip the fearsome Red Rapids altogether and walk the trail, meeting them on shore beyond. There we’ll load both rafts and take the last five miles more leisurely. We might even float.