I got to digging back through some of my writings and found this one that might fit what is happening today. It is fiction and the introduction explains how it reflects on people I have known, religion, politics and a changing world. Some of you may have seen this before. Attached is the Introduction and Chapter 1. There is more if you find this enjoyable.
This story is based on people and events that I encountered while working for the Forest Service from 1969 to 1995 in remote communities of Alaska, California and Oregon. It is a fictitious story, but comprises many experiences I witnessed with friends and others I have associated with over those years. In many ways my own story is incorporated into this. After leaving the Forest Service in 1995, I did consider being a caretaker on some remote place, until I met my second wife and my life changed for the better.
Even as a child traveling with my parents I would notice isolated places,
such as old abandoned farmhouses and wonder what the story was with
those places. Life in the big city and the maddening crowds never did appeal to me and I found solace in remote communities, but there was a certain amount of loneliness. Life has a way of bringing change and like most of us I went through the cycle with a failed marriage, job burn out and a few less than perfect moves. In general, it has been an education from the University of Life, but for some of us, who did not make the grade, or find proper counseling it ended in disaster or tragedy. The story location is eastern Oregon, made up of high desert country, scattered mountain ranges and remote communities. This area is larger than most of New England with a population of less than 2 people per square mile. What drives a person to end up here, besides the cheap price of real estate? In some ways this land represents many of the people living here. Desolate souls who don’t fit into the mainstream of society. People running away from something, maybe life itself. Many are single men who suffer from the
ills of society, divorce, mid-life crisis, war, mental disorders or depression.
Then there are the artists and writers coming into this country to find
solitude to achieve their great masterpieces. Whatever their reasons for ending up here, many of these people have come to resemble this land with weathered faces, missing teeth, some with unkempt hair and others with very little. The ranchers and loggers that originally settled this land are slowly disappearing because of environmental issues and economic hardships. Good paying jobs are few and far between, but there are seasonal jobs available, fighting wild fires or working on farms and ranches in the summer. A critical factor is the lack of medical professionals to cover this vast area, making people more dependent on each other for advice on how to cope with their physical and mental ills, and a changing world, or how to avoid it all and live in a state of denial. Most therapy sessions are held in the local tavern.
It is an unfair world and with age it becomes clear that change is inevitable and the words normal and perfect slowly fade from our vocabulary. Too much reality can drive us into insanity, so at times it becomes necessary to escape into fiction and tell about the ways life might have been. It’s a big job to come up with the details between the start and the finish, but at least we can write our own ending.
The End of the Road
Chapter One
Winter
A cold wind was blowing across the desolate landscape of eastern Oregon, as a light snow began to fall. Mark, along with his old dog Jack, retreated into the cabin with another log for the woodstove. He had just finished feeding the horses as the sun was setting. It was the middle of December, the days were short and the temperature ranged between a low of zero to a high of 30 degrees. He turned on the propane stove to heat up some coffee and relax before cooking some kind of dinner. After feeding Jack, Mark sat in his favorite chair with a cup of coffee, and listened to the radio. He concluded tomorrow would be a good day to go to town for supplies as there was not much in the refrigerator, except some leftover beans, a half loaf of bread, peanut butter, a few beers and some old wilted lettuce. The cupboards did not have much either, a couple cans of beans, a can of soup, a box of oatmeal, some spices, and dog food.
Mark was a caretaker on a remote 3,200 acre high elevation ranch used as summer pasture for cattle, but some horses remained here during the winter. The topography of the ranch was made up of open meadows feeding into seasonal creeks. There were patches of fir and pine trees scattered between the meadows with an understory of sage and rabbit brush. His principle duties included feeding ten horses twice a day during the winter months, making sure the water system worked, and maintaining some outbuildings and equipment. In addition he was required to keep bad critters and bad people, especially trespassers, away. The three mile road leading off the ranch to the county road had a gate on it, but had a history of having the lock cut off and people venturing onto the place to do as they pleased. He was compensated with free housing, a one ton four wheel drive pickup truck with a diesel fuel tank in the bed, and $500 per month. The four room cabin that he called home was located on the upper ranch facilities consisting of two barns, an equipment shed, a wood shed, corrals and a large water tank with a wind-mill. The only electric power source was a diesel generator. The ranch manager and his foreman lived on the lower ranch complex in the valley, where the cattle were kept during the winter and the alfalfa fields were located. During the spring and summer he could earn an additional $10 dollars an hour maintaining and operating equipment. This usually involved working in the alfalfa fields, doing road maintenance or working in the shop. He also acted as a fire guard during times of high fire danger in the summer and was responsible for maintaining and operating a 600 gallon fire pumper at the high elevation ranch.
The next morning Mark was up early to feed the horses, break the ice in the water trough and make sure the windmill was operating properly. By 8 am he and Jack were in the truck and headed into town. There were some patches of snow and ice on the roads, so the going was slow. His first stop before going into town would be at the ranch headquarters to fill the fuel tank on the truck, pick up some feed grain for the horses and check in with Sam, the ranch manager.
Usually once a week Mark would drive the 10 miles into the small town
of Mountain Valley, population 150. It consisted of a combination grocery and hardware store, a gas station, post office, small library, elementary school, a church and a tavern that also served as a restaurant with a limited menu of sandwiches, burgers and the soup of the day, which in most cases was the same as yesterday’s. The volunteer fire department had one fire truck kept in an old garage next to the tavern. Monthly meetings involved starting the truck, testing the pump and afterwards adjourning to the tavern. The fire chief was a retired logger named George, who was also the pastor for the local church. He had received his endorsement in ministry from a correspondence course recommended to him years ago by Jim and Jean, owners of the tavern, shortly after the previous pastor skipped town taking church funds and George’s wife. Some aging logging equipment stood among the tall weeds next to George’s house, mute testament to his thinking that some day he would return to the woods as a contract logger as he had done 15 years earlier. But now he got only a few log hauling jobs during the year with his old log truck.
Most residents here were older retired people, some societal misfits and a few people that actually worked. Almost everybody drove an old pickup truck with a dog or two in the back, along with few empty beer cans. Most of the houses in town were heated by wood and the yards had firewood stacked or piled in them along with a few vehicles, including some that no longer functioned. In addition, there were a couple of travel trailers parked on the sides of some houses, serving as a spare bedroom or home for relatives, such as the mother-in-law. The only law enforcement would be an occasional visit by a deputy sheriff whenever there was a disagreement at the tavern or when somebody drove off the road or died for whatever reason. It was a very conservative and anti-government community even through most people here received some form of government assistance, such as social security, VA benefits, federal pension, or some kind of public welfare. The only person that voiced a liberal viewpoint out loud was the librarian, a middle aged single woman named Gail, who worked two days a week when the community library was opened. Sometimes she would socialize at the tavern after work and argue with some of the good old boys about politics, telling them how narrow minded they were about their views on social and environmental issues. She would remind many of them that their education never went much beyond high school and their travels did not go much further than the county line. In general a good time was had by all and to show no ill feelings toward her they would offer her a beer.
When in town Mark always made a point of having a late lunch and a beer or two after doing his weekly shopping and picking up his mail at the post office. At the tavern he usually ran into his circle of friends, all about his age. There was Bob, a retired Forest Service employee, who wanted to do nothing more then hunt, fish, drink beer and talk about how bad his ex-wife had been. Then there was Randy, a disabled Vietnam vet with emotional problems, who was still fighting the war. Sometimes a recluse by the name of Harold showed up, who never said much and lived alone on some remote property where he had a mining claim. He was a grizzly looking big fellow with long hair and a beard. There was a younger guy by the name of Ted, who did a little of everything from cutting timber, seasonal farm work and fire fighting. He was probably one of the most sensible people in town. His wife was one of the teachers at the local school. The owners of the J & J Tavern & Restaurant, Jim and Jean, were an older couple. Jean did most of the cooking while Jim waited on tables, served the beer and tried to maintain the peace between customers . When Jim could not keep peace in the place, Jean would come out from the kitchen threatening bodily harm with a frying pan. In most cases it worked.
Mark usually timed his trip to town on one of the two days a week the library was open. He enjoyed reading, and usually chose a stack of books to take home to fill the long winter nights. Talking to the librarian was a side benefit. Gail seemed to listen to him and would respond in an intelligent manner, which was a lot more than the guys at the tavern did. She lived in John Day and commuted on the days the library was open, bringing a new supply of books from the main county library where she worked three days a week.
It was mid-afternoon when Mark left the tavern and started the trip back home with Jack in the passenger seat, a box of groceries on the floor and some horse feed in the pickup bed. It was snowing as Mark drove out of town and up the county road toward the ranch. He arrived at the cabin as the snow was coming down harder. By the time he unloaded the truck, started a fire, put the groceries away and fed Jack, he couldn’t see 10 feet beyond the front door. There is always a lonely feeling coming home to an empty cold house, especially in a remote place like this. He put his hat and heavy jacket on to go out and feed the horses and start the generator before it turned dark. While walking back to the horse barn he noticed the windmill was turning, but the pump was not working. He thought to himself that the gear on the shaft must have become loose again and figured he would work on it tomorrow if the snow let up.
Mark found contentment in his secluded environment, especially in the winter when he had time to read and perform the simple tasks of life. There was no TV reception here, but Mark could tune into a few radio channels in order to learn what the outside world was doing. A cell phone was his only way to communicate with the people in his world whenever he could get good reception, which usually involved going up the hill behind the cabin.
Mark had a history of a failed marriage, a home in Portland and a demanding job as a heavy equipment mechanic with a construction firm that did highway jobs all around the Pacific Northwest. It involved much traveling, living out of motels and eating restaurant food. The long hours and traveling got the best of him and at the age of 55 he called it quits. He wanted to be in a more rural setting, living in a small community like one which he had enjoyed seeing during his off times on the job. It reminded him of his younger days before his marriage, when he worked seasonally as a fire fighter for the Forest Service in the Wallowa Mountains of northeastern Oregon. It was a carefree life style that lasted for three summers, while he attended college and did odd jobs during the winter months. He met his wife while going to college studying industrial equipment technology. This care- free life came to an end as they settled down in the suburbs of Portland, where his wife was a special education teacher. Eventually her love of the city and his of the country led to a parting of the ways.
When Mark and his wife decided to divorce, they sold the Portland house, paid off the remaining mortgage and a few other outstanding bills, which left him only an old car and about $2500. He found the caretaking job in the classified ads and was hired based on his mechanical skills. He loaded up his belongings and Jack the dog in the car and headed for eastern Oregon, in hopes of never returning to Portland or the rat race again.
Now he was about to turn 60 with no health care insurance, no pension and a broken down car, the same one that got him here five years ago. Mark avoided any thoughts of his future and lived for the here and now. He could look forward to social security at 62 and Medicare at 65, but figured he would stay put as a caretaker. Besides, he had no other place to go.
By February, the winter dragged on, with the same old routine. The daily chores of feeding the horses, keeping the water system from freezing up, and moving firewood from the shed to the cabin began to get wearisome. The weekly trips to town were the only break in the monotony. When the snow got deeper than a foot he found a little excitement when he would have to start up the old Cat bulldozer and plow snow from the road. Then there were a few really cold days when it was a full-time job just to keep the cabin warm in order to keep body and soul together. One night in late February, there was a commotion in the horse barn. It woke Mark and Jack started barking. Mark suspected a cougar, so he grabbed his 12 gauge shotgun and a flashlight. He and Jack headed out into the freezing night, but saw nothing. He fired off a couple of shells to scare off whatever might be out there. The horses were all accounted for, so he returned to the cabin, put another log in the stove and went back to bed. Sure enough the next morning he spotted cougar tracks in the snow around the barn while feeding the horses.
His cell phone rang just as he finished his morning chores. It was Harold, asking for help getting his truck unstuck. He had driven off the Forest Service road leading to his mining claim. Mark had never been to Harold’s place, but had a rough idea where it was located and kind of looked forward to seeing it. He told Harold he could be there within the hour. Mark loaded up a tow chain and he and Jack headed out. It took them about 30 minutes to reach the road Harold was on and Mark noticed a set of tracks going up-hill on the road. The snow was about eight to ten inches deep and Mark had to put the truck into four wheel drive to get up the road. In another ten minutes he saw Harold’s truck off the side of the road stuck in the ditch. Mark was able to hook the chain to the front of his truck and pull Harold’s vehicle back onto the road. Since Mark’s truck was much bigger than Harold’s, they decided to let Mark lead the way another mile up to where the claim was. There was a gate on the road leading a quarter of a mile down to the claim next to a creek. A sign on the gate said, “Trespassers will be shot and if they survive they will be shot again.” Harold’s camp was not much, just an old trailer with a blue tarp on it and a sickly green cast from the mildew clinging to the sides. There was a crude shed next to it with propane tanks, firewood and few other items that looked mostly like junk. A broken-down dump truck with jack stands holding up the rear axle was parked nearby with garbage piled in the back. Mark could see why there was no woman in Harold’s life. Harold invited Mark into the trailer for some coffee, but Mark excused himself, saying he had to get back to the ranch. After seeing the outside of the place he really had no desire to see the inside. Back at the ranch Mark concluded his old cabin looked fairly good, after all.
A week had past and Mark was down to his last tank of propane, which was used for the stove, hot water heater and refrigerator. A trip to the big city of John Day was in order to fill the tanks, do some serious shopping at the Safeway where the produce was a little fresher than at the local general store. Maybe it was time to visit Gail. It was a 50 mile drive and took about an hour with good road conditions. Since the weather forecast was showing no major storms Mark decided to make the trip tomorrow, which was Friday, knowing Gail would be working in the John Day library. The next day Mark had the empty tanks strapped down in the bed of the truck and he and Jack were on their way. By 10 o’clock they arrived in John Day, got the tanks filled and did the grocery shopping. Mark went into the library a little before noon thinking he might ask Gail out for lunch, but she was not there. He was told by the librarian on duty that Gail had taken the day off to go to Bend for the weekend. His imagination went wild for a moment, and he wondered if there was a special man in her life. But he forced those thoughts aside, started the drive home and planned to stop at the tavern to visit whomever might be there and have a beer along with a sandwich.
It was 3 o’clock when he got to the tavern. There were Bob and George discussing how the United Nations wanted to take over the country by taking away all private property rights and forcing everyone to move to the cities. Mark tried to ignore the discussion as George turned to him asking why he never went to church. He replied that he had a hard time dealing with organized religion (even while thinking privately that George’s church was not very organized). About this time Jean came out from the kitchen, sternly telling George that he should spend more time preaching the word of the Bible and less time talking politics. At this, George excused himself quickly, saying he had to go home, a run-down shingled two-story house with sagging roof and rusting array of logging equipment located just behind the tavern. He said he needed to prepare a sermon for Sunday services.
Then Bob, now by himself at the bar, offered to buy Mark a beer and launched into a bitter re-telling of how his ex-wife had ruined his views on religion. Bob lived in a small house on the edge of town and usually got most his exercise by walking from home to the tavern. After having a couple of beers and a sandwich, Mark had had enough, and told Bob he needed to get back to the ranch. Out of politeness, he asked Bob if he wanted a ride home since he passed by Bob’s house. At that very moment Randy, the Vietnam vet, entered the tavern all stressed out about how he could not get any sleep due to flash backs about some battle during the war. Bob thanked Mark for offering him a ride home, but said he wanted to buy Randy a beer and hopefully settle his nerves. Randy lived alone in a single wide trailer in town and survived off a limited disability from the VA and a small amount of Social Security earned for the ten years he was able to work at various jobs. The nearest VA clinic was in Bend, a three hour ride away, and Randy never had much energy to drive that distance unless somebody would offer him a lift there, so he resorted to telling his problems to the guys in the tavern. George was a Vietnam vet also, but never cared to talk about his experiences and always advised Randy to seek help in a spiritual way. George said the VA was just another government agency that did very little for the vets and was wasting taxpayers’ money like most of the government programs did. George did receive Social Security for the 25 plus years he worked in logging and for his early days of working for the Forest Service as a seasonal fire fighter. Now George was 68, missing most of his teeth, had very little hair and had never really recovered from his wife running off with the previous pastor thirteen years earlier. For a few years after that he took anti-depressants to save himself from going off the deep end and putting a gun to his head, as happened often for many in these parts. Finally, religion with its ideas of forgiveness and salvation, plus the caring of the tavern owners Jim and Jean saved him, and being a pastor made him feel worth something again. Jean and Jim had provided him with comfort, food and much beer during those hard times. As a last resort Jean got George to see a doctor in John Day, who prescribed the anti-depressants. That was the last time George had seen a doctor for anything.
Back at the ranch, Mark was busy with his regular chores, plus preparing for spring by cleaning out the horse barn while letting the horses graze in the nearby meadow. It was March, the snow was gone at the lower elevations of the ranch and the afternoons were mostly sunny. Mark took a break this warm afternoon and went to town. He had books to return to the library and mail to pick up at the post office. Wilbur the postmaster saw Mark and asked if he had seen Harold lately, since his mail had not been picked up in over a month. This alarmed Mark, so he went over to the tavern to see if anybody there had seen Harold. Jim and Bob were at the bar and said they had not seen him in awhile either and mentioned others in the town had commented about his absence. Bob said he had no idea where Harold’s place was. Mark replied, “I do, Bob, why don’t you come with me and let’s see if he is there.” It took them about an hour to come to the closed gate leading to Harold’s place. Here they parked the truck and walked on down the narrow road hoping they would not surprise Harold and get shot at. As they came into the clearing above his place they yelled out his name, but there was no reply. They could see Harold’s pickup truck, but no trailer, then they realized it had burned down. It was completely incinerated—all that was left was a pile of charred debris and ash. There was no sign of Harold. Bob and Mark knew they should not disturb the scene pending the sheriff’s investigation, so assuming the worst, all they could do was go back to town and call the authorities. They returned to the tavern and reported what they had found to the sheriff over the phone. A few others had gathered in the tavern by now, including George, who said they should have a church service for Harold, even though he never came to church. Bob made a comment that Harold usually just sat at the end of the bar, drank his beer and said very little to anybody, so maybe we should all have a beer, be quiet and remember Harold sitting at the end of the bar and call it a day. All agreed and the beer was served.
A few minutes later Gail entered the tavern and asked Jim what was going on with all the people here. He explained about the situation with Harold, and Gail commented how sad, and now she understood why he was late with returning some books. She noticed Mark and moved in his direction and said, “hi stranger and by the way you have some overdue books also”. He replied how they were in the truck, but got sidetracked into going out to Harold’s place. Then Gail said, “hey, I was told you were in the John Day library last month looking for me”. Mark replied, “yeah, I had to get some propane then was going to ask you out to lunch but you were gone”. She said , “ I had to go see my mother in Bend, who has been sick”. Mark thought to himself, maybe there is no man in her life.
It was getting late and Gail said she had to get on the road and get home, but could have a bite to eat before going. Mark said, let me buy you dinner, and they found a table near the back of the dining room, since the bar area was noisy with the crowd discussing and mourning the tragedy with Harold. While they ate their dinner, Mark explained what him and Bob had seen at Harold’s, talked about what he had been doing on the ranch and the coming of spring. Gail said she sure would like to see the place whenever she had a chance, but now had to get going as it was getting dark. They said their goodbyes and Mark also started back to the ranch.
Written by: Mike Burke
855 Wildflower Lane
Oakland, OR 97462
Email: farmhand.mike@gmail.com
Edited by: Celia Scott
Same address as above
