With his grizzled whiskers and the resonant timbre of his
voice he could have been Sam Elliot's brother. He was 60 if he was a day, dressed
in scruffy cowboy boots, jeans, and western hat, and a shirt that looked like
one of the old H bar C or Panhandle Slim work shirts that my grandpa wore in
the 50s. The shirt was a heavy weave, too heavy for the warm summer days of
late. There was a little tear in the shoulder seam and more than one stain down
the front. He smoked a cigarette outside the old log hotel’s open front door
and cast a look every now and then at his aging yellow Labrador retriever.
Last night he hadn’t acknowledged us, although we passed him
in the bar and hallway often enough. He helped himself to beers from the big upright
cooler. Finally he gestured for a whiskey and settled into the leather chair by
the fireplace to read a book while the dog slept at his feet. We stepped over his
dog and sidestepped his outstretched legs to get through to the outdoor deck,
but he acted as if no one else was there at all.
The log hotel advertised itself as haunted, and we like to
stop at haunted hotels. We booked room 17, the room where the long-dead lady
who wore lavender perfume sometimes still walked. The rich, dark wood stretched from floor to ceiling.
That night I lay in the log bed, not sleeping
and not smelling any lavender. The
windows were thrown open to let in the night breeze, and through the screens I
could see the deer wander into the yard, crook their long legs, and curl up by
the creek that ran behind the hotel. The
hotel proprietor had told us with pride that the creek never froze over in
winter, never flooded, and never changed its level.
We’d eaten dinner in
the log hotel dining room (appropriately called “Logs”), and the yellow lab had
dozed outside in the grass. His partner
in the worn western shirt stood smoking, rocking from foot to foot and looking
out across the little town. In the dirt parking lot robins, mountain bluebirds,
and Western tanagers scavenged for pine cone seeds and insects in the waning
Montana sunlight. Man and dog ambled into the tall grass, scattering the birds
but not the two deer near the church. The deer are so tame in the little town
that they don't run away. They blink languidly at people and dogs, kids on
bikes, slow-moving pick-ups, and they keep nibbling tender grasses and flowers.
The next morning at breakfast he was walking the floor,
helping himself at regular intervals to the coffee pot. When he emptied the pot, he made a fresh one.
It was our topographic map spread across the table that attracted his attention
and must have announced that we weren't swift travelers. That got him talking.
"They call this ‘the treasure state,’ you know. Montana's
full of gems and precious metals. The
treasure runs everywhere in currents and pockets and twists and turns all
through this earth. They found two foot
gold veins once, but there's smaller veins right beneath your feet, the size a
man could easily handle.” His fingers
traced a few paths on the map, and he nudged a plate of toast to the side. “If I find even a 4-5 inch vein right in
there,” and he pointed vaguely, “well, I'll be OK. I’d get a couple young guys to help me haul it
out."
The hotel was his "headquarters," a place with a
soft bed and endless cups of coffee. The
Scapegoat Mountains in the southern part of the Bob Marshall wilderness area
were his gold hunting grounds. Many days
it was just him and the dog, grubbing about in the rugged landscape, then
resting on a rock or against a tree, the sound of birdsong and the wind their
only company. Oh, he’d be alright, he
told us again. One of these days soon
he’d hit that vein.
"It takes some doing, you know, and you have to be
careful out there. I like a .44 myself."
He tapped our map briskly. "Be careful where you two are going, and be sure
to carry your bear spray." When he
said "bear spray," he nodded at us and sounded just like Sam Elliot
if he were to say "sunset" or "horse thief,” each syllable enunciated
nice and slow. "Up there in the Yaak, lots of people hide out. They’re off the grid. Take this pretty scenic route, ok, and be sure
to stop at Liquid Louie's." He
seemed to regard the bar as the last and greatest outpost of civilization. It
warranted as much description as the elusive caches of gold deep in the earth.
We loaded our bags into the car and thanked him for his time
and conversation.
“Now,” he said mysteriously, his eyes glinting in his leathery
face, “I’m not running a business or anything, but if you’re not in a hurry I
could take you to my mining grounds . . . for a little fee.”
We drove past Liquid Louie's, a most unprepossessing-looking
dive, at 10:40 in the morning. We didn't stop.
