Cheyenne in Memoriam

I first met Cheyenne on a wet day in the fall of 1991 in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. My friend Steve had seen an advertisement for free puppies and wanted to see them, so I rode along. Following the directions, we arrived at a decrepit trailer featuring a junked car in the front yard. No one answered our knock, but a sign taped to the door said that, if we saw a puppy we liked, just to take it. Turning around, we walked over to the junked car, beneath which the puppies had taken shelter. Leaning down for a look, we found a litter of puppies huddled together. One of them, bolder than the rest, came forward and sat on her haunches. Looking up at us, she raised one of her paws in salute. Though I didn’t know it at the time, in the years ahead I would become very familiar with that gesture.

They were all extremely cute, and Steve and I stood out there in the rain for a bit just looking at them. The others continued to huddle back beneath the car and, after awhile, the bold one joined them. That was the problem: they seemed so dependent upon one another that Steve just didn’t have the heart to separate them. And so, we finally gave up and left, leaving the puppies to their fate. I thought that was the end of it until a week later when Steve called saying he had decided to get one of the puppies after all. He picked me up and we proceeded back out to the trailer.

When we arrived, we again found no one at home. The sign was still taped to the door however, and so we went back to the junker in the front yard. Only one puppy remained to greet us—the bold one. The rest had either fallen prey to coyotes, been run over on the nearby highway, or had simply been adopted. This time there was no hesitation; we scooped the puppy up and headed back to town. Steve drove while I held the shivering puppy beneath my jacket to warm her. Though she was nervous, she didn’t miss a thing with her pointed, upright ears that took in everything around her. As she grew, the tips of her ears would eventually flop over, as if they were resting.

Cheyenne became a frequent visitor at our house. Steve and I worked opposite shifts at the Coast Guard base in Sault Ste. Marie, and so, when he relieved me, I would go over and pick Cheyenne up. When we arrived home, our dog Bear; who was only a year old, would give me a dirty look and slink off. But it did her no good to hide. Cheyenne would immediately seek her out, and then the play would begin as Cheyenne relentlessly attacked the Bear, all the time snarling like a wolverine.

At first, when Cheyenne was still small, the Bear delighted in attacking her. We would take them to a field and there, the Bear would run in great arcs, building up speed until she moved in for the kill. Cheyenne would try to hide, but the Bear would swoop in and grab her by the hind leg. It looked like something you see on the wildlife shows filmed on the Serengeti Plains. As Cheyenne quickly eclipsed the Bear in size, the game became more of a sporting proposition.

A few years down the road, the time came for us to leave Michigan. We were being transferred to California. We weren’t sure when, if ever, we would see Steve and Cheyenne again, so we said our goodbyes. Time passed, and the Bear and us thought we had seen the last of her playmate. Then one day, the phone rang. It was Steve, informing us that he had been transferred to a ship out of Seattle. He couldn’t keep Chy, and he wondered if we might take her. It didn’t take long to agree to that and, before we knew it, Chy was a part of our family.

Eventually, we moved back to Alaska. There, Cheyenne and the Bear thrived on long walks and hikes. Cheyenne and the Bear were very reliable around real bears, and that was a good thing on Kodiak Island, home to some of the largest bears in the world. Once, while hiking down a narrow trail through the alders on Kodiak, we encountered a monster bear. Cheyenne and the Bear, walking ahead of me, spotted him first.

I hadn’t noticed a thing, but they caught the scent and stopped dead in their tracks. Following their gaze back over my shoulder, I spotted a gigantic brown bear staring at us from the alders, 20 yards away. He was so big he looked like a tool shed with fur. It could have been a touchy situation, but the girls never moved a muscle—just continued to stare at the bear. After what seemed like an eternity, the brownie melted into the alders without a sound. We continued on our way….

As the years went by, we moved from Kodiak to Fairbanks and on to Juneau. By then, Cheyenne had grown from a small bundle of fur into a magnificent, stately creature that emanated a sense of dignity and intelligence. Though Chy was the alpha dog wherever she went, she always deferred to the Bear, who I think she looked upon as a surrogate mother. She was always protective of the Bear, especially around other dogs. Sometimes, if she thought there was danger from other dogs, she would deliberately place herself between the Bear and the threat.

 Like all intelligent creatures, Chy had her personal quirks. Until the end of her days, she liked to raise her paw and “shake hands,” just as she had the first time Steve and I met her. She also loved to be hugged, and she was so long that she would practically wrap herself around you. I guess what I’ll remember most about her was the sense of intelligence and tranquility that emanated from her. When you looked Cheyenne in the eye, she always seemed to be thinking about something. She had, what I’ve heard referred to, as an ‘old soul.’

In the end, our magnificent Cheyenne was dying of cancer. By now, we had moved back to California and leased an old Victorian house. There, in the darkened parlor, Chy lay in her accustomed spot, with her back up against the wall, slowly ebbing away. Now her ears drooped completely, and her fur came out in clumps. Much of the time, I would stay up at night taking care of her and the Bear. Finally, I looked into her eyes and knew that she was imploring me to help her. 

The time had come. And so, on a beautiful California morning, we drove Chy to the vet. On the way, she sat in the back of the car and looked around, all the while maintaining her usual dignity. She knew this was her last ride, she was too intelligent not to. I held her as she was injected and told her I loved her. I felt a shudder pass through her, then she was gone.

That was exactly three years ago, but it seems like yesterday. A year and a half later the Bear died too. I think about them often and, sometimes, when I start to miss them too much, I’ll look at their photos and recall the years we shared together. I don’t believe in an afterlife; for me there is only this life—and death. But sometimes, I catch myself wishing I were wrong because I know, if they could, they would be waiting for me. Take care old friends, as long as I live, you'll live on in my memory.

Labor Day Redux

Labor Day finds me hiking up the erroneously named Beaver Pond Trail. Unfortunately, it turns out to be nothing more than a vague path through the brush that eventually leads to a dried out, cow-pie laden stock pond. No self-respecting beaver would be caught dead in a place like this. Encouraged by the sound of gunfire from farther up the hill, I decide to retreat and try my luck on Slate Mountain…twenty minutes later I’m headed up the trail. Less than an hour ago, when I passed by, there were eight or ten cars parked here—now, I have the place to myself. I pass a small butterfly on the trail, desperately flapping its wings in a futile attempt to warm up. Hopefully, any rattlesnakes lurking about will also have a case of frostbite.

5:15 PM: late for a hike but there’s no one else on the trail—just the way I like it. A subtle breeze blows down the mountain, causing the limbs of a juniper tree to rub together with a sigh. The overcast sky presses down upon me. No wonder everyone left; it’s a day only Poe could appreciate. Moving slowly up the trail, I pause to glass the mountainside looking for…what? I’m not sure. A mule deer, maybe a mountain lion or coyote—perhaps even a Bigfoot. Who knows? After all, this area is reputed to be prime habitat for them. I stare through the binoculars, willing the creature to appear. The minutes tick by as I study the terrain.

My concentration is broken as somewhere far overhead the dull roar of a jet intrudes upon the silence. Reminding me, once again, that my sense of isolation is illusionary. After all, I’m in Idaho’s Bannock mountain range. Pocatello to the north, Salt Lake City to the south; cowboys and cowgirls all over the place—not to mention their cows. By my standards it’s civilized, even genteel. What do I expect? Impatiently, I watch the jet disappear over the northern horizon. Eventually, the silence returns.

As shadows lengthen, the mountains close in, brooding and watchful. They know more than they’re saying—I’m sure of it. Shrugging off the feeling that I’m the one being watched, I resume glassing the slopes. Finally, my patience is rewarded. Far up the mountain, I spot a black bear standing up. For a moment I watch, spellbound as the bear stares intently at something farther up the mountainside. What's he looking at? Struggling to remain still, I marvel at the bear's composure. He doesn’t move a muscle; I’m impressed. Five minutes later, when he still hasn’t budged, I’m less impressed. A closer look, and my bear proves to be nothing more than a burnt tree stump. I’m not surprised—it’s not the first time this has happened.

Once on Kodiak, I was hurrying down a trail in the dusk of a winter’s evening when I looked up to see a huge, dark object looming up ahead. It had to be a brown bear, but what was it doing there? Occasionally, bears do awaken from hibernation during winter. And when they do, it’s best to avoid them since they're generally in a bad mood. My path wound around a steep hillside above a creek. I had no choice but to follow the trail. All was silent save for the crunch of my snowshoes. Hopefully, my slow pace would give the bear time to notice me. After what seemed like an eternity, the distance was halved.

Still, the bear did not move. It was getting darker and I could barely make him out through the swirling snow. One thing was sure: I couldn’t stay out there and freeze. The bear would have to move. Easing the safety off my .375, I carefully closed the distance. At thirty feet, I was relieved to find myself facing nothing more ferocious than a tree trunk protruding from the snow. Thankful there were no witnesses, I sheepishly continued on my way. Now, whenever I’m in the woods and it grows dark, I think about that evening. Still, it doesn’t pay to get too complacent. After all, my wife once mistook a sunning brown bear for a tree stump—you just never know….

Raindrops herald the imminent arrival of a storm. Time to get off the mountain. It’s not that I’m averse to a shower—I could probably use one. No, it’s the lightning I object to. Just the day before, I watched as clouds discharged enormous bolts of lightning onto the surrounding peaks. With this in mind, I reluctantly turn and start down the trail. Much later, the rain tapers off. Still overcast, the sky no longer holds the low, troubled clouds that threatened me earlier. I probably could have continued on my way. As I descend, the metaphorical nature of my decision does not escape me.

A mystery: pausing to rest, I notice that here the mountainside is littered with the bleached remains of defunct snails. Scattered about me is a profusion of calcified shells, their former tenants missing in action. What dreadful calamity, I wonder, could have befallen them, and why here? Only on Slate Mountain have I found such remains. Adding to the mystery is the fact that there are no living snails to be found in the area. Could an epidemic have wiped them out? Carefully, I examine one of the delicate shells. Tracing with my eye the graceful curve of its geometry, I marvel at the mathematical precision it manifests. I recall a line of verse:

To see the world in a grain of sand, and a heaven in a wild flower;

hold infinity in the palm of your hand, and eternity in an hour.

Like Blake’s grain of sand, my shell’s significance belies its small size. Though no mathematician [I barely scraped through college algebra], I have read of the Fibonacci sequence and the natural logarithm e. And so I realize that the structure of the shell I hold in my hand is predicated upon mysterious forces I can scarcely comprehend. How many generations of humans have trod the humble snail underfoot, unaware of the message locked within its shell? And if a shell the size of a dime can provide us with such startling insight into the nature of reality, what other revelations does nature reserve for those smart, and humble enough, to ask the correct questions?

I’d better watch out. If I’m not careful, I’ll find myself living in Sedona, an over-the-hill new-age guru busily engaged in crystal gazing and other esoteric forms of self-deception. The contemplation of nature is not without its dangers; chief among them the natural tendency of humans to conflate the mind of nature with the mind of man—they are not the same. Sometimes, as with the shell, the two intersect. When this occurs, it is a numinous experience. But in that moment, care must be taken lest we slip across the imperceptible boundary that divides our reality from some more mystical realm where the caprices of our mind hold sway.

Enough. This is supposed to be a hike, not Philosophy 101. With infinite care, I put the shell back where it lay; mindful of the fact that, in a few million years, someone [or something] else may find the fossil it becomes. Back on the trail, I find the tracks of a small mule deer. It wasn’t there when I went up—I’m sure of it. Kneeling, I place my hand on the track. It’s cool to the touch, the soil soft and damp. I consider the track, and the one who made it. Concentrating, I try to forge a bond between us, but nothing happens. By looking at the track, I can say with a degree of certainty the direction of travel, size of the deer, and how long ago it passed. But does this really tell me anything about the deer? What does it think? How does it view the world? These are considerations that must lie forever beyond my ken. Giving it up as a bad job, I head down the trail.

Hiking with me is not for everyone, that’s why I tend to go alone. For those who measure the success of a hike by the miles covered or the peaks conquered, my slow, contemplative approach holds little charm. Besides, I’m not that sociable to begin with. Nature cannot be properly appreciated en masse; it’s best experienced alone. Anyway, I’m always watching the ground, looking for tracks. Once again, the hike grinds to a halt when I spot a spent rifle cartridge half embedded in the trail. What past tragedy does this represent? Picking up the bent, corroded case I see that it is a .223—very popular in these parts for shooting what are vulgarly referred to as “varmints.”

This generous and inclusive term is applied to a variety of animals: foxes, coyotes, gophers, ground squirrels, etc. These and others are all fair game to the varmint hunter, who sanctimoniously looks upon his task as somewhat akin to a civic duty. Not only does he [or she] get to satisfy his thirst for senseless killing, he can then claim with some justification that he is making the Great American West a better place to live—for ranchers and cattle. To be fair, this particular round might have been expended on some other sporting proposition: a rock, sign or beer bottle—the possibilities are endless. Dropping the case, I continue down the mountain. In the distance, gunfire announces the presence of another Good Samaritan busily engaged in civic improvement.

Now the wind grows colder—gravedigger’s weather. The leaves blush scarlet as, beneath my feet, a caterpillar makes his way across the trail on what may be his last journey. Soon, winter will clasp the land in its icy embrace as the winds howl unrestrained across the Great Basin. Later, the age-old cycle will begin anew. The snows will melt, revealing the remains of winter’s victims, the fallen ones. The carcass of a mule deer emerging from a snow drift, or a nondescript pile of feathers trapped in the corner of the wire—the pathetic remains of creatures that, just the season before, felt the wind upon them as I do now. And yet, in the midst of death’s pathos, the sharp insistent cry of new life will be heard as the wheel of existence turns over, once more. Without realizing it, I have reached the trailhead. For now, my journey is over.

Somewhere in the New West

It's a brilliant fall day in southern Idaho. True, it's not Alaska, but as an involuntary immigrant facing a protracted stay, it could be worse—just ask Solzhenitsyn. Ahead of me, a good old boy in an enormous Dodge pickup impatiently revs his engine as we wait on an endless stream of pickup trucks crossing the intersection. In a land awash in trucks, his ride stands out. Sure, it has all the usual appurtenances one needs and expects: a CB, gun rack, and a profusion of rodeo stickers on the back glass, nothing remarkable there. Perhaps it's the custom paint job that draws my attention; a glossy, cerulean blue that puts the sky to shame. No doubt it is a beautiful truck; a work of art meant to warm the heart of any red-blooded redneck, like me.

Sitting behind him in my Subaru Forester, I temporarily succumb to an acute case of truck envy. In Idaho, anyone in a Subaru is automatically persona non grata, an invisible entity to be ignored, if not pitied. Even the normal rules of right-of-way seem not to apply as gigantic pickup trucks and SUVs routinely cut the less fortunate off. Oh well, no hard feelings. Once again, before the light changes, I slip a last, admiring glance at the object of my desire. It is only then that I discern a small, though disquieting, detail. As the truck roars off I can't help but notice, through a noxious cloud of diesel exhaust, that the pin stripping across the tailgate has been painted to resemble strands of barbed wire....

Barbed wire! Of all the motifs one might choose to represent The West, barbed wire is definitely the most ironic. I'm sure the truck's owner thinks it looks cool. After all, half the biceps in the state are wrapped in barbed wire tattoos. Still, I find it a curious choice. Particularly so when you consider that, just four generations ago, the great-grandfather of the man in that truck was undoubtedly cursing the day wire was invented. In that long-gone era, barbed wire was widely viewed as the straw that broke the cowboy's back. A final, insurmountable restraint imposed upon what had been an exuberant, if brief, existence.

Now, a sort of western Stockholm syndrome prevails. Through some perverse logic, the invention that ushered out the old way of life has come to represent what remains of the West. And while we may not lament the passing of the Old West as it actually was, we are surely the poorer for the absence of that romantic spirit of possibility that it represents. Settling back in the seat of my station wagon, I amble off into the sunset, just a few miles north of the trail where a generation of emigrants, mad with gold fever, once followed the sun west to their promised land. Maybe the wire hasn't completely killed the spirit of the West. Perhaps, as long as we are free to move about the lonely, wind-swept plains, it never will.