Originally published by Canary Literary Magazine

My pup’s run off again,
after deer. He can’t help himself.
I can hear him screaming
joyous as he hops through snow,
crossing barbed wire. His bounds
are akin to an ancestor,
closer than anybody here cares to see.
This is where the first wolf
reintroduced to Yellowstone
was shot down.

His paws look it. His ears look it.
His stride looks it. His fur looks it.
He looks it. And those trucks,
parked down on the road,
they know all of the above.
But they see me, running,
falling in snow drifts, following
the tug of my coonhound.

I got no clue where the wolfdog is,
but we’ve found three big bucks,
flushed them from trees,
and I haven’t heard a gunshot,
yet. We are still on the trail,
big prints leaving evidence,
that would leave a rancher
blood thirsty. You’re just having fun.
but when I find you, I’m gonna hit you.
I’m scared, waiting for a gunshot,
when you trot up behind me.

Originally published by Cirque Journal

I’m staring at a bad painting.

I attempted this particular canvas.

Painting takes focus. Colors become

with patience, time, many strokes.

And when achieved, precision

of placement is the next challenge.

Good thing I’m not painting today,

just shaping sloppy words.

The magpies are taunting the dogs again.

Black feathers stark in the scape

of snow, sitting in the branches staring

down at my dogs howling up at them.

I sit book in hand, looking

for inspiration but all I can think is

it’s cold, January in Montana.

I go out to retrieve some firewood

and tell the hounds to forget about it.

Creating is all the same.

I sit cross-legged. The fire won’t start.

I flick the lighter’s wheel,

Sparks, flame jump at paper,

But smoke upon cedar.

Curls of white ribbon depart

The wood burning stove’s mouth,

Wisps extending to dissolve.

Trail, my coonhound, noses me.

He doesn’t understand

What I am doing. What am I doing?

He’s seen me do this before,

but he still doesn’t get why.

My throat is scratched out here.

There’s a lot of sky and

the snow steals the sounds.

I’ve got a lot to say

but not much to say it to.

Just my pups and

those magpies.

An excerpt from the forthcoming memoir, Amongst the Eyes and Sage:

“There is absolutely no reason, ever, that you should feel bored in life,” Dr. Margolies says. “I don’t have a TV. I have books, a farm, beehives, a banjo. If you have the slightest bit of imagination, you should never find yourself bored. Boredom is a choice, not an unavoidable state.”

            I look around the room. Everyone is choosing to be bored. I am enthralled. Dr. Margolies is an American Renaissance man, his beard long and thick. He is an expert in traditional Appalachian bluegrass. His voice confident but calm, he has told us stories of being an extra in the opening scenes of Pretty Woman. “You can try and find me on your own time. My hair was down to my ass,” he said. He told us he wandered California for a while looking like that. He leaves the rest of the story up to our imaginations. The discussion of his class is about reading between the lines of history to find stories beyond the common narrative. He and I usually have a dialogue while the rest of the class sleep off the night before. I wonder how he can stand teaching at a college with kids who could give a fuck about the knowledge he wants to impart.

“Boredom is a choice.”

            Margolies leaves us with that piece of wisdom and tells us to finish reading about tragedy of the whaling ship named The Essex. The tragedy apparently inspired Moby Dick. I’ve briefly scanned the book and plan to use SparkNotes to fill the gaps.

            I walk out of his classroom and head towards my education class with Dr. Ferris. Walking across campus I nod at strangers, smiling. Boredom is a choice. Nobody smiles back. I miss home. Everyone in Colorado smiles back at you.

            I sit in Dr. Ferris’ class and begin sketching mountains. She begins class by talking about the history of education in the United States. We review The Scopes Trial. What can and cannot be taught in a school’s curriculum. I wonder if we will eventually discuss the efforts of assimilation within schools on Native Reservations. I fade out, into my sketch. The lines almost choose themselves. I just keep the pen moving. I fill in the jagged triangles with places of steep avalanche lines and gradual ridges. I tuck a half-circled sun behind the rigid triangles, rays shooting across the page’s horizon.

            Boredom is a choice.

            I think on the history of my education. I think about sitting in the therapist’s office at nine years old. I remember it being dark. Only one window, blinds drawn. I sat across from the therapist, my little arms akimbo.

His beard big, black and grey it covers everything but the top of his pudgy cheeks. He asks me questions with a soft voice, almost baby talk. I wish he would talk to me like my football coach does. Maybe then I would take him seriously. I am not a child. I am nine. I can run through the biggest kid on the team in tackling drills if I get low enough. I like the pop my pads make when I do.

            His questions don’t make a ton of sense. I want to know what they are getting at. I won’t let him tell me I have A.D.D. I will answer every question better than he thinks I can. I won’t lose focus.

            I won’t let that bitch be right, I think. I just started cussing. I feel bad about it sometimes. But my fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Kaczynski is definitely a bitch. I miss Mrs. Hayen, my second-grade teacher. She let us write our own books. I wrote an entire series of books in her class. “Snowdog 1-7.” I drew pictures for each page. Mrs. Hayen loved it.

            The therapist pauses from the questions. He is resting his hands on his belly. His belly is huge. He probably is slow. He probably sucked at football when he was a boy. I would have mowed him over. “Alright buddy, I’d like to do a test. I’m going to leave the room and I just want you to press this button every time you see the green light flash on this screen. Can we do that?”

            “Okay.”

            He leaves the room and the light flashes. I press the button. This seems simple enough. If I don’t pay attention and miss flashes, I have A.D.D. All I need to do is make sure I press the button when there are green flashes. Then I will prove that I am not a freak and I can go back to school with my friends.

            Back to the green flash. I haven’t missed one yet. I am smarter than the green flash. Smarter than the asshole with the beard. I don’t care if I think he is an asshole. He is. He’s trying to prove that I am an idiot. He wants me to be a freak. He wants his test to be right. I will make him wrong.

            Green flash. Press the button.

            I start to count between green flashes. I begin to test them. I am smarter than that asshole, than that bitch. I am tired of Mrs. Kaczynski calling my mom after school. My mom says she keeps calling. That we need to figure things out for me. My mom asks why I don’t turn in homework. I don’t have an answer for her. I just want to go to football practice. But she keeps asking and keeps getting calls after school. Her questions make me cry. She thinks I’m the dumbest kid in class, just like Mrs. Kaczynski. She drops me off at football. I put my maroon helmet on before I walk up to my teammates. I can’t cry around them. I am not a wimp. I make music with my pads when I run through kids. POP. I can run through anyone on the team. I am not a freak. I just need my mom to believe that.

            Green flash. Press the button.

            I figure out there are seven seconds between each flash. I have tested it about five times to make sure I am right. I am smarter than that asshole. I never needed a therapist and I obviously don’t have A.D.D. I put my head down and count. At seven seconds I press the button. I don’t have to watch for the flash anymore.

            I lay my head down and keep counting. One, two, three…

            I am not a freak. I won’t let a green flash, a fat asshole, or bitch tell me that I am. I am smarter than them.

            Five, six, seven. Press the button.

            My mom turns into the neighborhood. I have practice off today. I wonder about going over to Tay’s to play that afternoon. We can practice backflips on her tramp and eat raspberries that grow wild in her yard.

            “So, I talked to Dr. Brooks,” my mom says. “We think it may help you in school if we get you on some meds.”

            “What?”

            “They could help, Steve.”

            “I don’t need any help. I’m fine.”

            “They could make school better.”

            Did I miss a green flash? I’m not different. I’m not a freak. I am just like all the other kids. I don’t want to be an idiot. I create the stories we play on the playground. All of my friends follow along with my ideas. And I can run through anyone in football. I’m going to be a great linebacker, like Al Wilson or Bill Romanowski. I am going to play for the Broncos like them.

            We pull into the garage. I begin to cry. “I’m fine, mom!” I don’t need anything! I’m not stupid. I’ll turn in my homework. I don’t want to take meds. I don’t need anything.”

            “Stephen, I know you’re not stupid—”

            I open the door to the car and run into the house. I sprint past Kody and Keno, as they wag their tails to greet me. I run upstairs. My calves extend on each step, pushing up. My knees pump up and down. At the top of the stairs I turn right, fly across the hall, to my room, and in a fluid motion, slam the door and lock it.

            I jump over piles of Legos, army men, football pads, and clothes and onto my bed. I turn on my bedside stereo and play a burned CD Jeff gave me. Goo-Goo Dolls, Stone Temple Pilots, Newfound Glory, Blink 182, Nirvana, Counting Crows.

            I lie on my bed for a while, burying my tears in my dinosaur blanket. My mom knocks on the door. I tell her to go away.

            Eventually she does and I stop crying.

            I move to the floor, pulling up a Jim Kjelgaard book, Snow Dog. I bought it with my own money after reading his classic, Irish Red.

            I struggle with the words. It’s not a fourth-grade book, but I can do it. After a few paragraphs and no mention of a wolf, I set it down. I begin to draw and write. It calms me. I write my own story, mentioning wolves right away. I look at the framed photograph of a wolf above my bed and imagine him. He is standing in autumn leaves between four aspens. I wonder what he is doing there. Where does he live? Where is his family? My pencil moves towards answers.

Those answers that my bedroom reveries used to provide are long gone.

Dr. Ferris walks around the room. My mountain sketch has moved down the page. A river now rolls from the peaks and hills. Pine trees come into focus further down the page. A wolf hides within them.

“Don’t forget about your paper next Friday. It’s a big one, so give yourselves time with it.”

Originally published by Apeiron Review

Screefield’s ears perked up like they always do when he sees wildlife. He looked ready to chase. But he was looking down twenty-feet of loose boulder towards the ice-covered Stillwater River, three-foot rapids bubbling out of the pockets where ice couldn’t tame the rush. That’s all I could think about, when I saw those ears—ice and rapids and my dog, Scree, gone with them.

My other two pups were still lost in the leisure of what the hike was to be when they looked up to see me running along the fifty-foot granite wall of the narrow canyon trail, screaming, raspy, desperate, “Leave it!”

Screefield has never “left it.” I have chased him for hours over miles, following paw prints in the snow, hearing playful yips as he flushed deer from distant foliage. It’s the only time his loyalty leaves him. It’s the wolf in him, what little there is.

But he did “leave it” this time. He stood on slick rock at the edge of the trail, staring down at something, his eyes ignoring my yelling but his body petrified. When I got to him, he finally looked at me. Down the tumble of rock and snow at the riverbank was a bighorn ewe sheep kicking her front hooves but unable to move, her back legs under her and her eyes wild and fixed on Scree.

Of all the whitetail deer Scree had chased and failed to get, he had no desire to get this bighorn sheep. Maybe the sport of it was gone. Maybe he felt bad for the ewe. It seemed, rather, he was worried. He looked up at me like I should do something. It was something he had never seen. He was uncomfortable and looking to me for understanding, for direction.

I felt the knife in my pocket, watching the ewe rock back and forth. Maybe its back hooves were caught between rocks. Maybe I could set it free. I began to go down to it, when my other two dogs noticed, finally being ripped from their seven-month old puppy world to the immediate world of this sheep stuck down by the rush of the river.

“Stay!” I yelled. Screefield sat, but the puppies launched at the new wonder.

I scrambled down the rocks, trying and failing to grab their collars. They circled the ewe, who still could only rock, kicking her front hooves as if to run. But her back legs remained motionless under her. Trail, my coonhound, bellowed, then looked to me and back at the bighorn. He didn’t know what to do but keep screaming. I joined, “Trail! NO!”

The other pup, Lana, an 80 lb. malamute puppy, ran around the ewe, barking, lost in her unsure surprise of this creature before her.

I grabbed Trail and threw his 60 lb. frame up a few rocks. He stayed when I did that. Screefield still looked down at me. I walked around the ewe to the icy riverbank, where Lana was still in front of the ewe, barking incessantly. The ewe eyed me, kicking her hooves at Lana’s barks and my screams.

My voice was getting hoarse, the fear of the rapids beneath Lana tearing at my larynx. I stepped carefully on the snow and deep grey of early spring ice. Below the ice was the sapphire tumble of waves and waterfalls that had carved the fifty-foot canyon walls around me. The ever-blue rush turned to jade and then foamy white in places where it navigated slabs of jagged granite, some of the boulders big as SUVs. The mess of rock, ice, and torrent didn’t slow down until dropping and leveling out a mile downstream where the trailhead was.

When I reached Lana, she went submissively limp, laying her back on the ice. I widened my feet, bent down to scoop her up, and began up the rocks. The sheep stopped kicking as I shuffled around her. I looked down at her back hooves, none of them lodged in the boulders. On the rocks, above the ewe, shit and sheep hair were scattered.

The sky had been trying to snow all morning, fog lying low in the canyon and wetting each rock, leaving the slope up to the trail slick. Some rocks were rooted in the slope and others ready to tumble. I met Trail halfway up the ascent and began slapping his ass, urging him up the hill. As stubborn as that coonhound can be, he skipped up the boulders.

When I got Lana up to the trail, Screefield greeted us with a paw on Lana’s head and a whine. I looked down at the bighorn, holding Lana’s collar, but feeling the knife in my coat pocket. I’d never killed anything before. I tried to picture it—putting my left hand on the ewe’s back, calming her for one last moment, and ripping my right hand and the knife across her throat.

Screefield was still whining. “I’m sorry,” I yelled, at no one and everyone. “I can’t do anything. Fuck.”

Lana was tugging at her collar, lunging down the rocks again. Trail followed her urges, running down the rocks to look at the marooned sheep again. His body was rigid, still unsure of what he was supposed to do, so he let out another cry from deep in his ribcage to let me know something had to be done.

“Trail! Trail, leave it. Come, Trail.” But he wouldn’t, couldn’t listen. He had found something and his puppy mind wouldn’t let anything else but his instincts enter it.

Why did I seldom hike with leashes? Why did I have to be so against ruining the freedom of my dog’s enjoyment in nature? Why was that a part of my moral code as a dog owner? Why was I not prepared for a moment like this?

I scrambled down after him, still holding Lana as she pulled me. Screefield whined, still watching. “Scree stay! Good boy. Thank you.”

I got Trail, and began lifting him with one arm, throwing him up the rocks, again. When I did, Lana got loose in the other hand, circled the ewe again—rough barks flying from her jaws just inches from the sheep. The ewe rocked, kicking her front hooves here and there.

I threw Trail up the rocks and pointed at him. He understood. When I went around the bighorn, she again stopped. I looked at her wet hair, watching it rise up and down. Her breaths were not heaving but slow, calm. She knew that I had no intentions to hurt her. She knew I wanted to get Lana and leave. She knew when I did, that she would be left with a fate she had already accept.

I grabbed Lana, threw her over my shoulder, and began the second ascent. “I’m so sorry,” I said while passing the ewe. A few feet above the sheep I slipped, letting Lana loose, and she again leapt up to meet the helpless ungulate.

I stood up, “Fuck. Lana! No! Come!” She stood in front of the ewe, barking over and over.

The ewe no longer kicked. She no longer looked Lana in the eyes. She just stared ahead at the steep canyon wall, perhaps up at the gaps in the fog, the white ripples of waterfalls petrified in ice on the cliffs of the canyon walls, or the hints of blue sky above the jagged ridges of the Beartooth Mountains.

I picked up a big rock and threw it down by Lana, “FUCK! COME! HERE! FUCK! LANA!”  She didn’t flinch, still barking at the sheep.

I took a deep breath and again went down to the iced riverbank. “Lana, get the fuck over here!”

When I reached her, she again flopped on her back. I picked her up, my legs starting to shake, sweat dripping from my mustache. I marched up, again slipping on the rocks, my legs and feet no longer having enough control to navigate the variable of each rocks’ stability and slickness.

“God dammit!” I tried to tug Lana up towards the trail by her collar, but she was still submissively limp. “Lana, let’s GO!” 

Trail was just above us, ready to leap down and bellow again. “Stay! You fucking stay, Trail.” He did.

I threw Lana over my shoulder and gave Trail a nudge on the butt. Focusing on finding solid rocks, I placed each foot down carefully while kicking my other knee up in front me to find the next safe step. Lana lay limp in my arms, her tongue lolling and still watching the ewe at the bottom of the hill. I held her tight, gripping her loose puppy skin with my hands, while shepherding Trail in front of me. At the top, Scree again greeted us with a paw and a whine. I set Lana down, holding tightly to her collar, and kicked Trail on the butt to keep him focused on getting down the path. Scree led the way, ready to leave the situation and go home, sprinting ahead fifty yards at a time before stopping to check on the pups and me. 

I don’t know what it means to die well. I don’t know what was behind that ewe’s stare up the canyon wall, into the gaps of fog, up at the last blue sky there was to find that day. I’m not sure about much of anything. But when I got to town I called the game warden. He told me he’d take care of it.

Winner of CSU’s 2014 Creative Writing Scholarship

“Hey, did Will Callahan’s older brother Luke play lacrosse with you?” My dad asked during one of his cocktail hour calls to check on me at school. Will was my younger brother Ryan’s new best friend in high school and Luke was a sophomore when I was a senior. I assumed maybe he had met Luke that day at a football game or something.

Getting pestered by Mato, my girlfriend’s dog as I played with him in her bed, I answered with a half giggle, “Uh, nah he wasn’t on varsity when I was there but I definitely knew him. He was kinda a piece of shit actually.”

            My dad gave an awkward pause and said, “Well, I don’t want your night to take a turn for the dark side, but uh, he got hit by a train last night.”

            “What?”

            “Yeah, he’s dead.”

            “Jesus.” I had just gone home the night before to watch my little brother and Will play football. In fact, I was shrugging off a conversation with Luke and Will’s overbearing mother about how great Luke was doing at his new college not but twenty-four hours before.

            My girlfriend, Annie, stopped what she was doing across her bedroom and turned to look at me. I stared blankly back at her.

            “Yeah, probably a suicide,” my dad said.

            “He wasn’t smart enough to kill himself,” I answered without thinking.

            He sighed, “Well, whatever happened, it happened.”

            “Fuck. Is Ryan doing alright?”

            “You know I think so. He has just been down in his room for the past few hours,” he said. “You should text him.”

            “Yeah,” I said, still looking at Annie in disbelief, “I will. How’s Mom?”

            “She is feeling pretty shook up, you know her.”

            “Yeah,” I said. “Well shit.”

            “Yeah, I just thought I would let you know. Are you going to just hang at Annie’s tonight or do you have plans?”

            “Uh,” I said, not really thinking too hard about the answer to his question. “I’m not really sure yet.”

            He responded quickly. “Well, maybe you should just hang with Annie.”

            “Yeah, yeah,” I said, and began my goodbyes.

            Annie sat down on the bed and asked me what was wrong. I explained the story and she gave me a hug.

“It’s ok,” I said, “I mean I barely knew the kid. He was actually kinda a piece of shit.”

            “Well still,” she said and hugged me again.

            As I embraced her hug my phone began to go off again. This time it was a number I didn’t recognize. “Hold on,” I said and answered it.

            The other line blew up with a rough and angry voice. “Stephen?”

            I knew immediately who it was. “Hey Phil, I know why you’re calling, man.” Phil was one of my best friends from high school, but I hadn’t talked to him for over two years.

            “So fucked, man,” he said. He sounded like Drunk Phil. “Fuckin’ got hit by a train.”

            “I know, man, it’s crazy.”

            “You know I used to take him to school, when we were juniors and seniors and he was a freshman and sophomore.”

            “I know, man. You were the first person I thought of when I got the news.” I could hear his angry tears on the other side of the line.

            “Fuck, man, he was just starting to figure his shit out too—I mean he was really starting to become a good kid.”

            I hadn’t really heard of the kid for over a year and simply agreed that it wasn’t fair.

            “Probably some fucking frat hazing bullshit,” he said, “there’s no reason he was wandering by some railroad tracks.”

            “I don’t know, Phil.”

            “I fucking know, man,” he said, “God damn it. You know they found his body in New York?”

            “New York? He was hit in Ohio.”

            “Yup, the damn train dragged his body all the way to New York. How fucked is that?”

            “Fuck.”

            “Yup,” he said, “I’m gonna go to the funeral—are you going to go?”

            “I don’t know,” I said.

            “Well I’ll fucking be there. I’ll see you there if you go. Love you, man.”

            “Yeah,” I said, “Love you too, dude.”

            Annie rubbed my shoulder as I leaned back against the wall. “You ok?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said, “I mean I should be; I didn’t even like the kid.” And I really didn’t. When I was a senior in high school I was constantly hearing about the kid screwing up or getting caught for something—whether it be stealing, driving drunk, fucking someone’s girlfriend, or even shooting himself in the leg with a gun that belonged to a dad of one his friends. The kid was a genuine fuck up.

“Well, it’s hard when anybody dies, you know?”

“Yeah,” I said, “but fuck.”

She rubbed my shoulder and let me sit and think.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to go out with the guys tonight,” I finally said.

“Well you don’t have to, you can just stay here with me.”

I thought about it for second. “I don’t know. I should go. I haven’t really gone out for a while and promised I would.”

For the past few months I had really slowed down on my partying, and my friends hadn’t responded to it in the best way. In the past year I went from being a “Titan” of the nightlife—a giggling mess, stumbling, mumbling at random women and leading midnight shenanigans with my friends—to a more or less reserved kid just trying to graduate college and move on with my aspirations of becoming a writer without dying from a hangover. During that time I had found Annie, and she and Mato had become somewhat of a supportive refuge in my supposed transition.  

The change, however, was hard on my friends at times, and always hard on me. I was constantly dealing with them berating me for no longer being the rambunctious no-worry-fool I used to be and for trying to pick up whatever pieces my life was becoming. They began to call me the “Hermit Poet,” and at times that’s what I felt I like. But I just wanted to find a way to make my writing dream work.

“Let me call Colton,” I said, “Just to see what the deal is.” I picked up my phone and called.

On the other side I heard a, “Fuckin yeah, oh, hey what’s up, Stevieboy?” Colton was already drunk and giggling.

“Hey Colt, what are you up to?”

“Just the same old shit, drinking whiskey, jammin’ tunes at the house.”

“Yeah, yeah. Well what’s the plan?”

“You’re asking the wrong dude, but probably a party. You gonna come booze tonight, Stevie?”

“Well—“

“Com’on, Stevieboy, rebel.”

“I was thinking so, but I got some shitty news.”

He sobered up a bit. “What’s up, man?”

“It probably won’t affect you much, and you’re already having a good time.”

“You can’t do that, man. You gotta tell me now.”

“Well you know Luke Callahan?”

“Yeah, that dumbass a few years younger than us?”

“Dude’s dead—got hit by a train last night.”

His voice was still drunk, but a little bit quieter, “Shit, man, well fuck. I’m sorry, dude. I know you probably played lax with him and everything. That sucks.”

“I mean I played just as much lacrosse with him as you did football, dude.”

There was a slight pause at that. “Yeah, man, well we got a bottle of whiskey over here, so if you’re feeling up to it you should come booze, man.”

I hung up the phone and collapsed into a pillow.

“Does this mean you’re staying?” Annie asked.

I sighed and let out a long exasperated, “Fuckkkk.”

Over the next week Annie and some of my family members checked in on me periodically, always asking if I was planning on going to the funeral. The answer usually depended on the day but mostly leaned towards no. I really didn’t know the kid too well, nor did I really like him or his classmates. I really didn’t care to see them or deal with the whole scene of my all-boys catholic high school.

But that Wednesday I found myself caught feeling strange about the incident again. I sat down at my desk with a glass of Irish coffee and began to try and write a poem about it but still was unable to understand what the hell I was feeling. All I knew was it didn’t feel right.

I tried to do some research on the incident and googled his name to see what I could learn. It took me a second to find anything, but when I did it wasn’t about Luke’s death. It was a news article about him stealing a printer from a University of Colorado dorm room. The article had a big picture of him on a security camera with a printer under his arm.

I shook my head remembering the story. A year before, his first year in college, Luke had been caught stealing a printer out of a dorm room, but weaseled his way out with a lame excuse. Apparently, Luke claimed that another student told him he could go and borrow their printer, but he had walked into the wrong open dorm room. Like I said, the kid was a walking fuck-up.

  I went back to google and tried another search, this time putting in “Miami of Ohio train death.” The article came right up. They still were not releasing Luke’s name, but it did say everything that had happened. Around three in the morning he had been struck, and a couple found him on their Saturday morning walk the next day. So much for his body being discovered in New York, I thought.

I took a sip of whiskey and shook my head, thinking of all the nights I had stumbled home alone, only to wake up with no clue how I had arrived in my bed—or all my friends who had called me lost at three in the morning, miles away from their intended destination and barely able to articulate where they were. The poor piece of shit was just dumb drunk, I thought.

A few moments later my phone began to ring. It was my mother.

“Hey Steve,” she said.

“Hey Ma,” I said, “How’s your week going?”

“Well I just got off the phone with Mary Bonham, and got an update about Luke’s funeral.”

I took a deep breath and looked back at the article. “Yeah?”

“It’s going to be on Tuesday.”

“K, I have a test that day, but I’ll see what I can do,” I said. “How’s everyone doing with that down there?”

“I don’t know. Your little brother isn’t saying much, and I haven’t been able to talk to the Callahans. Mary did kinda give me the low-down though.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well I guess the Callahans were actually flying out to Ohio that weekend to visit Luke, because he had just transferred out there.”

“They were at the game that night, did they leave right after?”

“No, they left that morning and got off the plane to the news.”

“Jesus.”

“I know, that poor woman. I can’t even imagine what she is going through. I mean, I don’t even understand how she is getting out of bed.”

“Yeah,” I said and let her know I would see if I could make it to the funeral, disregarding her speculation on the feelings of losing a child. I didn’t want to hear or think too much about what my mother would do, how she would look, or how she would feel in that circumstance.

The next Monday I drove the hour-long drive home after class for the funeral. The weekend had taken my mind off of Luke and I was my joking self when I got to my family. I woke up the next day scrambling around the house, looking for scraps of nice attire for the funeral and laughing at myself all the while. Even on the way to the funeral, I was playing songs on my iPod for my mom with a smile on my face, letting her know what the lyrics meant and when each guitar solo was coming. A part of me felt bad, for acting excitable and happy on my way to a funeral, but I continued playing my songs anyways.

            When I walked into the church I saw familiar faces everywhere, faces I really did not want to see. I saw my high school coach, my old teachers, kids who used to ask me to buy them booze on Fridays, and even my high school fling’s brother, all wandering around the lobby. I was back in high school again.

My parents lolly-gagged around looking at all the collages of Luke and signing the guest list, while I ducked my head and tried to usher them into the church for some seats before I was seen. I didn’t want to be asked about how my supposed novel was going, nor about my retirement from college lacrosse. It was something most of them could never begin to understand.

            We walked into the church and the place was damn near full. I found somewhere to sit and quickly got my parents to sit down, all without anyone seeing me. For the next few minutes I cracked my fingers waiting for the service to start.

             Eventually a voice came on over the loudspeakers to start the funeral; it was a familiar one, the school president’s—Father Steele. The piano began to play the opening music, while all of Luke’s friends proceeded in with a hand on the casket.

Father Steele began mass and I fiddled with the songbooks in front of me as he offered the usual condolences for the family. When he started to talk about Luke he said something peculiar and off-putting for his usual cliché funeral homilies.

It was something along the lines of “Those who knew Luke were not always very pleased with him. But those who did know him can say all those things Luke did were to put a smile on someone’s face. He lived life through endless shenanigans, most of which shouldn’t be repeated in this church, and always reminded you never to be afraid and to always have fun.”

Well they’re not sugar coating it too much, I thought, that’s good I guess. I hated funerals. They always seemed to be just a caricature of the good sides of a person. Call it dark, but hearing about only our angel side in our death makes me wonder why we don’t celebrate the part of the person lived as a human.

As Father Steele went on about Luke I found myself critiquing it and the entire funeral—each uninformed comment about Luke, and every comment about his angel self in bliss in heaven—wondering if Luke would even like any of it. I know I wouldn’t. As I sat analyzing the whole thing, I began think about my own funeral.

I definitely wouldn’t have Father Steele do my funeral, Perhaps Father Pinne? Nah, he is too feeble to give mass anymore. Shit, I thought, I need to meet a priestly friend who can tell people about the real me.

Organs began to play following the homily. It was the same old music you would hear at any other funeral. I sat thinking about what my funeral playlist would be. Neil Young’s After the Goldrush, for sure, and My Morning Jacket’s Butch Cassidy would be badass. Oh, and Warren Zevon’s Play It All Night Long to end. Yeah, now that would be awesome. I need to tell Mom this, I thought, only to remember moms are not supposed to preemptively plan their son’s funeral.

As the Eucharist was being prepared the entire church began kneel down to pray, as was custom at that point in the mass. But I sat like a stone in my seat, only moving to glance around for someone who also wasn’t kneeling, until I finally had to remind myself I was back at Regis, a catholic school, at a catholic mass.

I saw my mom look back at me from the corner of her eye and the cliché Catholic guilt set in. It was the first time I had been to mass with her in years, and the first time she had seen me not participate. But I remained sitting. I wasn’t sure what I believed, and I was pretty sure catholic customs were not going to be a part of whatever it was.

Eventually everyone got up to receive communion and I remained sitting. My mom went off with a quick glance, nothing more, while my dad looked down at me with a dumb look. “Are you, not—not going?”

“Nah,” I said with the shake of the head.

And with a nod he proceeded down the line.

As each person returned, and awkwardly brushed their way past me back to their seat, I really felt the heathenism taking hold. But this is how I wanted to do things; I didn’t want to pretend I was all in for something when I wasn’t.

The next part of the mass was the eulogies, the longest stretch of the funerals, and where the majority of the fake flattery takes place. The first speaker was a teacher, whom I never had, but who taught English.

She got up to the podium and said something along the lines of, “Luke was an acquired taste.”

I laughed with the rest of the church.

“But lucky for me, I had him for three straight years, and those three years I learned a lot about this kid. Initially Luke was just another troublemaker—a very funny troublemaker—but as the years went on he began to show much more than his skills at disrupting class, one of which was writing—which a lot of people never knew about, but I had the privilege of reading all of his papers and many of his pieces.”

Writing? I thought. That kid couldn’t write. That kid didn’t think about things.

As the teacher continued she revealed Luke had developed a passion for film and writing screenplays.

So the kid wanted to make shitty American Pie movies. Yeah, I get that.

The next speaker was one of Luke’s best friends from high school. He got up and nervously talked in the microphone. “I can’t talk about most of what Luke and I did, in a church that is.” The congregation laughed. “But if Luke was here he would tell you any way, and he would do so in the best way. Luke was an amazing storyteller. He used to come to the lunch table and take up the entire period telling you about his weekend, always making you feel like it was a lot better than yours—even if you were with him the entire time.”

I thought back to my high school lunch table. I was always the master of ceremonies, telling how much we drank, where we hid from the cops, who fucked some strange girl that weekend, whatever. The lunchtime story was where I thrived in high school. 

The friend finished and Will got up. I could hear the crowd whispering, That’s Will. Yeah, yeah that’s Will, the younger brother.

Will began, “My brother Luke was my hero.”

I nodded my head—yeah, yeah—expecting just that.

“I always looked up to him. He was my superman.”

I continued to nod my head unsurprised.

“He lived like he was invincible. He was the epitome of carpe diem. And for a while, I really began to think he was invincible. He survived two serious car wrecks, numerous run-ins with the law, and even the bullet of a .38 special.”

The congregation laughed again.

“It’s no wonder, it finally took a freight train to stop you, man.”

You could feel the congregation gasp at the statement.

“I love you, Luke. You will always be my hero.”

The congregation began to sniffle and whisper, but I found myself thinking about my little brother.

That summer, as Ryan and I were drunk looking out at a Costa Rica night sky, he said something I would never forget: “Keep talking to me Stephen. Because, you know, I uh, I look up to you and I trust you. I really do.”

I began to shake my head. That poor kid—fifteen and lost the person who he trusted most to show him how to live.

The next and last speaker was an uncle reading a letter written by Luke’s mother to Luke. It began with something along the lines of, “Luke, Lucas, Lukiepoo, I love you. You were always a socialite, parading around with others, doing God knows what, and that’s why I can’t help but wonder and be hurt, knowing you died alone on those tracks.”

I started to think about that moment. Poor kid, was shit-faced and lost. Probably didn’t feel a thing as that train came flying by. Not a fucking thing. Well, if he was a writer, at least he went out in a romantic way. Neal Cassady would be proud.

The letter went on to say, “You were a storyteller, you wrote so many great short stories about your escapades, and I know you never finished that screenplay, but keep writing it up there, because Heaven is the perfect place for a dreamer.”

That last word, dreamer, stuck with me. I found myself thinking back to the only time I distinctly remembered talking to the kid.

It was at lunch, on a Monday, and he had just gotten in trouble for something—smoking pot, stealing, or showing up drunk to school, who knows. I was a senior, the captain of the lacrosse team, and I decided to approach him about it all. I didn’t want to yell at the kid—I understood where he was coming from, I was the partier of my grade—but I just wanted to tell him to be smarter. As a captain I thought that was my job.

I approached this 6’2” behemoth, two years younger than me, and started to talk to him about fucking up. What I exactly said, I can’t remember, but I remember reaching up and putting my hand on his broad shoulders.

“I get it, man, believe me, I do,” I said. “But you gotta keep your head on a swivel around here. Once these teachers see you fucking up, you’re labeled the fuck-up. I mean have a good time, dude, but you gotta be a little smarter.”

He looked back at me with the most trusting blue eyes. They glowed with understanding, a real remorse, with something that to this day I can’t put into the right words. “I know, man. I know. I’m trying, I really am,” he said.

And that was that.

As I remembered that moment and heard the word dreamer, I stuck my hand into my pockets for a pen and paper. I had thought of a poem I was working on, something called “Let the Poets Cry.” My hand shook as I began to write more lines to it,

“Let us be confused,

Let us drink,

Let us fuck,

Let us stumble—“

And as I hit the word stumble, I felt my mom touch my shoulder, and with a teary-eyed voice say, “Keep writing, Stephen.”

            I shrugged her hand off of me, and began to break down, feeling my eyes swell, and my breaths shorten, and quickly underlined “stumble,” before looking back up at the altar. That piece of shit lying there in that casket was chasing after his own confusion, his own dreams.

An excerpt from the forthcoming memoir, Amongst the Eyes and Sage:

“I’ve seen a timberwolf before. I’ve seen one in the woods out by my house.” The boy talking is loud, speaking over his friend. He’s about my age. Probably a little older, maybe ten. But he has already seen a wolf in the wild, something I have always dreamed of.

I take the last bite of my burger, leaning over the picnic table. Pine trees surround us. Wyoming looks a lot like Colorado. But wolves live here.

            “It was all black and huge,” he says. 

            “We better get going,” My dad says, noticing we are all about finished eating. He and my brother, Jeff, are anxious to meet their guide. They’re climbing the Grand Teton this week. They’ve been training all summer for it. The climb is my brother’s fourteenth birthday present. I am eight, too young to go with them. I don’t care though. I am excited for Yellowstone. I am excited for the Lamar Valley. I have read about the wolves living there. 

            We finish our meal and start towards the car. I can still hear the boy speaking. His voice is the loudest in the picnic table area. “No, no. I’m not lying! It was this big.” His hand is hovering above his head. He is taller than me. 

A river runs along the side of the road, separating us from the Hayden Valley. I am not quite the recommended 75 pounds, but I have begged and bartered my way, and for the first time I’m sitting in the front seat of our white minivan.

            Herds of buffalo cover the rolling hills. It’s been three days of driving through Yellowstone. Three days of my sister, Jessica, asking where we are going. Three days of my two-year-old brother, Ryan, asleep in his car seat. When he is really out, his head gets too heavy for his neck and moves with each curve of the road. Mom and I laugh about that.

            Today is the final day though. Jeff and Dad will come off of the Grand Teton tomorrow and we will leave Yellowstone.

            I can see the mouths of some of the closer buffalo bobbing as they graze. Nothing is wrong for them today. No wolves sit hidden in the swaying grass.

The yellow line breaks into dashes on our side of the road. We’re playing a CD my dad burned, titled “70’s Classics” and I bob my head to the bass line of Sugarloaf’s “Green Eyed Lady.” The car ahead of us is slow and the music makes me feel sly, like a spy. We have only seen buffalo all week. I have no time for more buffalo.

“Ma, break in the line. Pass ’em.”  I’ve just learned the simple traffic rule.

            My mother laughs and swings out. The car accelerates. I pull my wooden gun up to my chest and take aim as we pass.

            “Stephen, you can’t point guns at other people.”

            “It’s a toy, mom.”

            “They may not think it is. And it’s rude.”

            “But this song sounds like James Bond.”

            She laughs and agrees. “But please don’t point your gun at other cars.”

          I promise not to and replay the song. My imagination runs with the bass line. I point and shoot at buffalo. I point and shoot at the sky. My mom loves watching me dance, wooden gun in hand. I like making her smile as much as I like the music. I like knowing she likes having me sit next to her despite not weighing enough.

            We reach the top of Dunraven Pass and descend towards valleys leading to the Lamar. I hope the wolf people have better news for us today. They haven’t been able to tell us anything for the past two days. From their lawn chairs, they’ve only shrugged, their scopes aimed towards nothing in particular in the valley. “No carcass, no wolves. And wolves don’t love the heat.”

            We turn right at Tower Junction. Around the first curve, I turn off the stereo. A big canine trots next to the road. It pants hard. We slow down. Gold, white, and black fur hangs from its rib cage. Its tail dangles between its legs. Sharp pointy ears tuck back against its head. It is in tatters, looking lost and anxious.

            “I don’t think that’s a wolf,” I say to my mom.

            “I don’t think so either. That’s a big coyote though.”

            Our van coasts alongside the poor coyote as we decide what he is. His bare hide is exposed in splotches along his body. I feel terrible. Not only is it not a wolf, it is falling apart in the August sun.

“He doesn’t look like he’s doing very well,” she says and pulls forward, leaving the coyote to its wanderings. The valley hills grow from soft rises and drops in the land, to sharp rock walls falling sheer and reaching abruptly. The Lamar River finds its way through canyon walls. A big osprey nest sits in the largest tree of the canyon.

            We round a corner and the valley opens into a mile-wide splay of grassland. Sage and rock cover the hillsides. A river splits the middle, willows and cottonwood along its side. At the far end mountains rise to grey cuts in the blue sky.  

            I roll down the window and keep my eyes on the grassland. Big groups of buffalo stand still, bored. Not a good sign. I look up the hillside on the other side of the car. No movement, just more sage.

            We continue into the valley. Cars are pulled over and people sit behind unmanned scopes. They don’t look very excited. Mom pulls over and we get out to hear the news. They have been scanning the grasslands for a carcass, a bear, a wolf, anything interesting. But, like yesterday and the day before, there is nothing. Hopefully something will die soon.

I don’t have soon. I only have today.

Mom tells me we should move on. I think it’s a good idea. These people sitting behind scopes have no connection to the wolves. They simply sit and wait for luck. I can feel the wolf. It wants to witness me, as I do it. I belong to it. If we drive farther through the valley and away from the cars, maybe the wolves will come.

            We get back into the van and continue the search. Ten minutes later trees and hills close in, the valley swallowed up. Pine grows dense and I ask mom to pull over.

            She brakes, pulls onto the dirt, and eases to a stop. I open my door and step out of the car and start into the forest.

            The woods are still. Douglas fir, lodgepole pine, and aspens tangle together. I step carefully, scanning the ground for prints. I listen for the padding of big paws on sticks and dead leaves. I imagine them weaving through the trees, their pups, finally old enough to emerge from the den, behind them. I think about how big they could be. Taller than me. Long pink tongue hanging from sharp teeth, green eyes, black, grey thick fur. They are out there. But, there’s no evidence of that.

            “Steve, let’s go back, hon,” My mother calls to me. She is worried about Ryan and Jessica. They are restless, but not like I am. This means everything to me. I stick my tongue through my gap teeth, still scanning the forest. Nothing moves. Nothing makes a sound.

            I turn around and walk back.

I look at the asphalt between us. A thick forest surrounds the parking lot. The Virginia air is dense with humidity. August sun hanging high. Virginia Wesleyan College banners hang lifelessly from the lampposts, no touch of wind to rouse them. Moss eats at the brick of the dorm. The rental car runs, packed with their luggage. I can tell my mom wants to cry.

“Well, Steve, you gonna be alright?” My dad asks.

“Yeah, should be.” I can’t read his expression through his sunglasses. I wonder if he is glad to be rid of me.

“Seems like a nice campus and place,” he says. He’s ready to get out of the Virginia humidity and catch their flight back to Colorado.

“So long as they stop treating us like kids with all this orientation bullshit.”

I look over to my mom. Her gold hair is frizzled from damp air. She’s still holding back tears.

“Call me at the end of the week and let me know how you’re doing.”

I feel my eyes soften when she says that.

“You’re going to be okay,” she tells me. “This is exciting.”

“Yeah, I’m just ready for lacrosse to start.”

“You’re here for school, too,” my dad tries to remind me.

I’m not sure why he even takes the time to say that. He has never seen a report card or a homework assignment of mine. He only gets news from my mom, if she lets him know. What he does know is I am not the golden one. We both know that. That title belongs to one of my brothers, Jeff or Ryan. He probably thinks of me as the budding fuck up of the family. I probably am.

“I know,” I say.

He steps forward, “Love ya, bud. Have fun and study hard.” He embraces me. His chest pushes into my skinnier frame. I wrap my arms around his, pat him on the back twice, and pull away.

My mom finally gives up, tears flowing. “I’m excited for you, Steve.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna be fine.” I reel her in with my arms and give her a big hug. “I love you, Ma.”

“You have everything you need for the semester?”

“Guess we’ll see,” I say, as we pull away from each other.

My dad steps back towards the rental car. “We better go, Becky.”

            I can’t help but look my crying mother in the eyes. I want to get into the car with them.

“You’re gonna be just fine, Steve,” mom says again.

I know,” I say, again looking down at the asphalt.

Originally published by The Greyrock Review

The spiderweb strand between

two branches comes and goes

in the leaning of the sun:

golden threads disappearing

and reappearing in the day’s movement.

“I’ve never shot a gun before, man,” Dan says.

“Really?” Griff rubs his scruffy blonde beard. “Shit. You really are a city boy. Well, if we don’t find a proper deer today, you can let off a round.”

“That’d be dope.”

“But if I find a deer and you help me harvest it, I’ll give you some steaks.”

“Also sounds dope.”

Griff’s Jeep navigates the washed-out road. He keeps the wheel loose in his hand, feeling the nuances of dirt and rock.

         Dan looks out at the country. Sagebrush. Hills and gullies extend to either jagged granite peaks or the high desert prairie. Sparse, despite such vastness. Empty, full of possibility. Dan gets the same feeling he felt a few months prior on his drive from D.C. to the West. Space is something to be known, to explore. A feeling of freedom the claustrophobia of a city didn’t offer.

“You know the first Yellowstone wolf was killed right up that gully?”

“Here?”

“Right up there.” Griff points at a cut in the hillside. “You moved here for wolves and you didn’t know that?”

“I didn’t move up here for wolves. I just think they’re cool animals. I read too much Jack London as a kid, I guess.”

“Jack London,” Griff laughs. “Dude, was a fat drunk who wrote about Alaska from his California home. But, yeah right up there. Chad McKittrick. Guess he saw the wolf while he and buddy were trying to free his truck from some mud that he crashed into. His buddy told him he better not shoot it. ‘It could be someone’s dog,’ his buddy said.”

“McKittrick laughed and said, ‘A fucking wolf. I want it.’ He took a pull of whiskey, set his sights, and bam! When they got up to it they saw the US Wildlife collar beeping on its neck, so they cut that shit off and threw it in the creek. They strung up the wolf in those cottonwoods down there, then beheaded and skinned it. I guess the collar set off a distress signal because it wasn’t tracking any movement and that brought an investigation from the feds. He was bragging about it at the Saloon for nearly a week before they arrested him.”

“Jesus. He’s in jail, right?”

“No. He lives out by my old boss. Dude’s a psycho, man. Rode his horse into the Saloon one Fourth and demanded the whole bar get a free round for the sake of freedom. Some say it’s from when he got kicked by a horse when he was young, but my older sister said he was always better at finishing a beer than a sentence.”

“So, he got away scot-free?”

“He did some jail time. Like three months. Tried to represent himself. Nobody bought his defense, but he did get a law named after him. The McKittrick Law. If you claim you thought it was a different type of animal you were trying to kill, you can’t be prosecuted.”

“Ridiculous.”

Griff reaches into his back seat and throws a beer on Dan’s lap. “Pretty wild. Funny if you ask me. There’s no right or wrong out here sometimes. You’ll like this though, that wolf had a mate hiding in the hills. The game warden found her and a litter during the investigation, and to em’ back to the park. That dead wolf’s bloodline is one of the Park’s strongest.” 

“Life and death, I suppose.” 

“Something like that. This spot I’m taking you to, it’s near my dad’s old property. Dad always saw a bunch of wolves, but never had the balls to pull the trigger.”

“Balls? I hope you’re referring to testicles as a source of arrogance rather than courage.”

“Most people don’t like wolves around here. Ain’t easy being a cattle rancher or hunting elk with wolves putting pressure on everything. You wouldn’t like if something fucked with your way of life.”

“You think it’s easy living as a wolf? Pulling down an 800-pound elk with nothing but your teeth? Shot at for just trying to survive?”

“Shit, some say wolves have more freedoms granted to them by the feds in your hometown than most humans do at this point.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Absurd, funny, or true, it’s something to think about.”

Griff shifts into a lower gear and keeps the tires moving through thick mud. Above the road, a spine of palisades etches across the mountains’ front. Stone towers, sharp and dramatic, above sagebrush and pine forests. The road drops from the foothills and into the high desert valley. Lines of crops break up sagebrush and dirt. A meandering streak of blue divides the valley.

“That’s a fork of the Yellowstone. My grandpa and dad owned about a hundred acres down there. We had cattle and sheep. A humble spot. They made due of the land but never did much past breaking even. Dad tried to parcel off the land once my grandfather died. He was done hustling for nothing. Thought they’d make more money by selling little bits at a time. He made us just enough to move into town and help him start a new blue-collar career.” Griff shakes his head and throws his empty beer into the back and grabs two more. “Gotta hydrate if you’re gonna haul out a deer with me.”

Dan chugs his beer and cracks a new one. “What’d he do?”

“Building big ole cabins for rich folk moving in from California, Boston, Texas. All fucking over. Did it until it broke his back. And now I’m breaking my back hauling kegs of shit yuppie beer around for the newest generation of rich out of towners.”

“I get it. We transplants suck, but what do you got against an IPA, man?”

“Nothing. Aside from the headaches they give me in the morning. And the fact they call themselves transplants.” 

The road dries out in the valley and skirts along the south reaching mountains. Griff shifts again and gets the jeep going with a fishtail. “There’s a pass over those mountains that leads to Yellowstone. Wildest country you’ll find south of Canada and Alaska.” Griff’s head swivels.

“Look at that shit!” Beer in hand, he points out his driver’s side window. 

Pronghorns pace the car, less than thirty yards off. Bounding sage, the herd navigates the prairie.

“We must be going 45. They don’t even look like they’re trying.”

The pronghorns veer down a coulee. Off beyond the hunt. Griff slows the car as they near a bluff. “There’s some muleys out there in the sage.” He stops the car, rolls his window down, lights a cigarette, points his rifle out of the window, looks through his scope. “This isn’t technically legal. I should probably tell you that.”

“Any bucks out there?”

“No. They’re too far anyways. I couldn’t shoot one from the car if I wanted to. And the wind isn’t right to sneak up anyways.”

Griff drives towards the canyon mouth. He angles the car and parks it with a front tire propped on a big boulder and the other suspended. He lights another cigarette. “Time to get western with it.” The door slams and Dan sees Griff standing with a hatchet and a new six-pack in his hands.

“A hatchet? Is that how you plan to skin this deer?”

“It’s a tomahawk, bud. And no, got my grandfather’s knife for that. It’s just as sharp as the day he gave it to me. ‘Sharper than my dick after five Viagra,’ is what he said. I hope that dirty old man is drinking beer in heaven and flirting with his favorite barmaid.”

They walk towards the canyon and meet a barbed-wire fence. Griff uses his tomahawk to push the wire down and gracefully throws one leg and then the other over.

“Is this kosher?” Dan asks.

“Ah shit, city boy.” He pulls a bottle from the six-pack and uses his tomahawk to pry the cap off. “I usually say break one law at a time, but don’t you worry your little head. I’ve been hunting up here since I was a kid. These people are never here.”

They reach a gate. Griff hands the beer to Dan, unlatches the chain, then nods Dan on. Dan slinks through and Griff follows.

“Told you it wasn’t a big deal. Open a couple more.”

Dan struggles with the tomahawk but finds leverage, popping the bottle cap, and hands the beer to Griff. The next beer opens easier and Dan smiles. “You’re a goddamned American hero,” Dan says and raises his beer. “Tomahawks and brews.”

Griff chuckles and raises his bottle. “Told you that thing is handy. Keep an eye on the ground for tracks.”

Dan laughs. They walk south up a shoulder, loose rock kicks from their feet. Griff laughs. “We’re on a game trail. We look like total dumbasses trying to navigate it. And what we’re out here hunting? They do this shit every single day to eat. You eat clean grocery store meat, shipped to your stomach and delivered from your asshole to your toilet of a conscience..”

“I get it. I’m here for a reason, Griff.”

They reach the canyon’s mouth. A creek runs through it. Narrow and dramatic. Traversing fallen trees and boulders. White, bubbling, but falling clear into pools and clear paths.

Griff wanders the creek’s edge. “There’s a clearing across the creek. It’s perfect for grazing.” He steps in. The water runs around his shins. 

Dan jumps across exposed rocks. The last stone turns and he slips into the creek. His momentum fumbles him forward, splashing through water before he catches himself.

Griff looks back and laughs. “Give me another beer.” He throws his empty in his pack, then sticks his hand out. Try to keep pace, Dan chugs his beer. Then opens the last two beers with the tomahawk. “To the big bad West,” Dan says and slams his bottle against Griff’s. The glass clink echoes through the canyon.

Griff screams, “We’re everywhere!”        

Rocks slide toward them. Dan covers his head. Griff laughs and looks up a narrow gap between palisades. A dozen bighorn sheep move across shelves of rock. Escaping the boys’ nonsense.

“God damn. Those bastards are moving right into Durand’s hiding spot,” Griff says.

Dan unfurls from the excitement. “What are you talking about now?”

“Earl Durand. Bud. No one told you about him either?

“Griff, man. I’ve been here for like eight months. Hunting with you is popping one big cherry, so you tell me.”

“Earl Durand?! Shit. I guess no one knows about him anymore.”

“Yeah, yeah. I will. But let’s climb up there.” Griff scrambles up the hillside until he meets the slope of loose rock.

Dan follows, his left hand clutching his last beer, and right hand holding the tomahawk.

Griff takes a sip of beer and looks through his rifle scope. “To be honest, this may not be the spot. It looks like it could be.”

“What spot?

“I haven’t been up this shelf. I’ve always wondered. But it never looked climbable, but Ithink the way those rams went, that might be what he did.”

“Did what?”

“Earl Durand. He was one of my grandfather’s friends. He’s a legend.”        

Griff climbs to a limestone ledge and sits on it. Dan slides and stumbles across the rock to meet him. The ledge barely affords space.

“You trying to take advantage of me up here?” Dan asks.

“You wish. Give me another beer.”

“We’re out, bud.”

“Shit,” Griff reaches into his own bag and pulls out a flask. “I gotta tell you this story.”

Dan slugs his foamed-up beer. “Jesus, bud. I thought you flunked out of high school. You sure you didn’t major in history at Montana State? Or you just good at making shit up over a cigarette and a beer?”

“Man, I grew up here. My grandpa grew up here. My dad too. They told me all about this shit while at the dinner table. Shit, my grandpa was up here looking for Durand.”

“Okay, so tell me who this Durand was.”

“Durand, bud. The last badass. John Wayne made a movie about him, bud. Brad Pitt should’ve made one too, but instead, he made A River Runs Through It. But while Maclean was fishing up on the Blackfoot, Durand was living hard down here.” Griff lights a cigarette and begins.

“So, Durand. Dude was built like an NFL linebacker. Like 6’3”, 250lbs. He was in high school when my grandpa was in middle school. But my grandpa knew him well from town. He said Durand always had a book when he wasn’t working on his dad’s farm. A nice guy. But in like 1933, Durand and some homies went hunting south of here and killed four elk out of season. Someone called them in, so cops were waiting when they got back to town. They tried to book it past em, but the sheriffs held em a gunpoint. Durand leaped off the truck and ran into the woods. Two days later, a rancher reported that someone killed one of his cows and sliced a prime cut of Angus right off it.”

“This happened right here?”

“No, man. Not yet. This is still a few canyons south of here. Like thirty miles. But they find him nearby. After they lock him up, homeboy escapes by knocking out the deputy when he delivered his morning milk. He takes that deputy hostage, steals the sheriff’s vehicle, and drives home. Word gets out and two Marshalls show up at his house. He blasts both. Kills ‘em. A few nights later, he shows up at a close friend’s house before daybreak. They make him breakfast in the dark and drive him to this canyon.”

“Here?”

“Yeah, man! Those close friends gave him a few hours before calling the authorities.

Then National Guard and all the cops of Wyoming and Montana were on the move. A full civilian posse too. They find him way up in some palisades. Something like this spot. The National Guard just unloaded howitzers on it. Anyways, my grandpa joins the cause, mostly out of intrigue. But he’s there when two older dudes take it in their own hands to flush Durand out. Durand tells ‘em to give up before killing them both. So now, four dead.”

“But no one would go up to pull the bodies out. They were so freaked out about getting blasted too. Come nightfall, Durand makes his way from his spot, steals both guns and a badge from his victims, then follows the posse back to their basecamp. Then waits by the road for two days until a car drives by. He flashes the badge and tells him he’s helping with the manhunt and needs a ride. Dude has them drive him to get more ammo, then to his parent’s house for a proper goodbye. He pays for their gas and has them drive him into the country, where he sticks them up and tells them to find a ride back to civilization. Get this, before he drives off, he asks the guys about the car’s insurance. He was concerned about whether it had theft coverage and felt better when he learned it did. He mobs back to Powell and holds up the bank. Gets a ton of cash. Everyone is still looking for him up in the mountains. Should be scot-free, right? But dude goes nuts. Shoots up the bank for like ten minutes. That sets the entire town on further edge and nearly a hundred people show up with guns, ready to take back the peace.”

“This is a John Wayne movie? How haven’t I heard of it?”

“Because it sucked. But listen, Durand walks out with three people bound as a human shield. The townsfolk can't help but fire and after one of the three hostages falls, a seventeen-year-old kid who was just filling up on gas across the street takes Durand down. Enough to make the bastard crawl back into the bank and off himself. My grandfather was in the same class as the kid that finally got one past Durand. How wild is that? And we might be sitting right on his perch.”

“What did your grandpa think about the whole ordeal?”

“You just heard it. I mean he was there with the posse, but he never said much, except that he was surprised Durand did it. Always said it shouldn’t have been such a big deal. On both accounts. Durand shouldn’t have gone on a rampage, but shouldn’t have gotten locked up for killing a few elk. Like maybe you pull his hunting permit for a time. I don’t know, my grandpa was conflicted. He knew the dude while they were growing up, respected him. Durand had done more badass shit in the mountains than anyone my grandpa had ever known. He also terrorized their town. Most people didn’t leave their houses for those eleven days he was running around.

Media fucked up that part up too. He became ‘The Tarzan of the Tetons.’ A hero of freedom, just trying to feed his poor town with the elk he harvested for them. It wasn’t that simple in my grandpa’s eyes. He’s always been pretty salty about the Teton thing. You know they’re about eighty miles southwest of here.”

Dan laughs. “Well, what do you think?”

“I think it’s an awesome story. I’m glad I wasn’t there with Durand. Hunting elk with him or hunting him.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know, man. Different times. My grandpa said the same thing. Like, he could’ve been out there hunting with him. He was young and impressionable. Durand was already a legend in his eyes. But you know what’s also badass about this perch?”

“Tell me, Professor.”

“See that Heart Mountain out there, towards Powell? It was a Japanese Internment camp. It’s also where a lieutenant was supposed to intercept Chief Joseph and his tribe while they were on the run.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that’s what the pass is named after.”

“Oh yeah, he led hundreds of women and children down something like we are on, but a thousand feet higher, with horses, and he evaded the US Army. Apparently, that lieutenant didn’t think they’d make it out of the canyon and bailed out to a better way out of the mountains. They made it out of the canyon and weren’t caught until they were forty miles from the Canadian border.”

“That, I didn’t know.”

“They say the West is empty and open. A place of opportunity. But people have been out here living a certain way for thousands of years. You city boys gotta learn about this country, especially if you think it’s gonna be yours.”

“I don’t think shit is mine. I’m just happy to explore.”

“I don’t think Durand was any different. He just didn’t like to be told what to do. Nor what is right or isn’t.”

“You think he was right then?”

“I think this is some wild country and it deserves people who are willing live with its wild.”

“Yeah, but what does that mean to you?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think men should be chased around by the feds for trying to live their lives. But I think that statement might be more accurate regarding the Nez Perce and Chief Joseph trying to run to their freedom. Or to the Japanese Americans that were thrown in an internment camp. I think there’s always more nuance to something when you’re up close and looking at it. Freedom’s a strange thing and it’s something that needs to be considered quite often out here. But I do know I like eating venison that I killed.”

“Yeah, I just want to know where my meat came from.”

“I wouldn’t have brought you out here if I didn’t think you at least gave a bit of damn about understanding this land and its ways. But I won’t lie, I didn’t sight my scope before we left and it looks extra blurry after all of this drinking.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I don’t think we’re gonna kill anything today.”

“Really?”

“Yes really. All we’ve really seen is the bottom of a few beer bottles. No need to look formuch else.”

“Well you still okay if I let off that round?”

Griff turns and smiles. “You really want a taste of the West, huh? Wanna be a gunslinger?” Griff hands the rifle over. “Keep it steady, and I’ll help you take the safety off.”

Dan shoulders the rifle and aims down the canyon at a lone pine growing through the rocks. “I’m ready.”

Griff flips off the safety. “Fire away, outlaw.”

Dan pulls the trigger, his eyes flinching with the recoil. The blast echoes up the canyon and then back into the open country.

 “Did I hit anything?”

“Absolutely not. But you gotta start somewhere.”

(originally published as the Big Snowy Prize 2022 Winner in The Montana Quarterly)