the poetrysheet
whimsy, subversion, bowling
Number 458, Jan. 30, 2004
A Special Place
Stranger: “Sometimes you
eat the b’ar. Sometimes the b’ar eats you.”
Dude: “I like that. What is it? Some kinda Eastern
thing?”
Stranger: “Far from it.”
—Ethan and Joel Coen from the film The
Big Lebowski
The dirt road lead up out of the campground through
stands of pines. About a mile and half up, it broke into a clearing. The sky
clouded quickly as a storm came in over the valley. I set my lean-to and hung
my pack on a limb about 100 feet away as it began to rain, steady and quiet. In
the night, a bear shuffled for about an hour, clawing trees. Thunder rumbled
through the peaks and rolled up the valley. The next morning, bear tracks in
the mud wound in circles under the pack.
As I arrived at the Black Rock ranger station, a
cyclist rode up. Steve was from Prairie Village, a suburb of Kansas City, and
had been living in Lawrence, Kansas, before he took off on a coast-to-coast
ride across the United States. He’d started in Seattle, riding across
Washington and Montana before dropping through Yellowstone and Grand Teton
national parks.
We shook hands, and he wiped his forehead with the
back of a gloved hand. He was a tall, good-looking kid with long blond hair. He
traveled sparely, with two small panniers on the bike, his fly rod strapped
across his handlebars. He was slender and healthy. A mischievous look plagued
his face.
Steve said he had worked part-time in a Kansas City
fly fishing shop. His wanted to fly fish for trout in every state he passed
through.
“You’re out of luck in Kansas,” I said.
“Dude, I know,” he said. “It’s my one failing.”
But he had one other. “I’m not always motivated to
buy a fishing license. I rode into Montana from Idaho, and there was a fine
river. Fish everywhere. I rode down the highway next to the river. I swear I
would have bought a license if I could’ve.
“But that stream was fat and sweet. I looked both ways
and pulled off the road and made about two casts. Hauled in the nicest fish, a
rainbow. And there he was—conservation agent, big as day.
“I couldn’t understand where he came from. I didn’t
even try to dodge him. He wrote me up and took me into a police station, where
they gave me one of those orange suits. Fortunately, the judge was in the next
day. I plead guilty, paid my fine—a hundred and twenty bucks—and went right
back to that river and snuck around some more. I never did buy a license. You’d
think, with all the money you pay, they’d at least pony a license when you
leave the jail.”
Except for that one incident, Steve said he had a
fine trip.
Today’s poem:
the kid rode for seven point three
before the bronc bucked him skyward
but that hand never came free
tied as it was by a boy
who stuffed snuff in his lip
and said he was gonna win
the kid’s arm spaghettied around
he tried, but that horse ran faster
and he fell under hooves
round they went, over manure,
dirt, skagweed, and shoe nails
laundry brushing over cattle fence
men on ponies didn’t stop that horse
a clown tackled him
and socked him one in the jaw
cut loose, the boy slid to the ground,
red cheeked, round mouthed
a rag doll brought in from the cold
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