High Attitudes

A Chance Encounter in Wyoming

Short Fiction

The Big Horn Mountains crippled the gears of my ten-year-old Honda Accord. I rolled safely to a stop and slammed hard the emergency brake. No cell service. I was alone. Down by the river, I poured handfuls of cold spring water over my face.

Could there be a better shower?

Standing on its bank, I felt jealous of its power. The river had it easy. Its course having been formed over eons — and changes could take all the time it needed— and was I about to die out here on my crazy quest?

But I wasn’t alone. On the other side of the river, a small cottage sent puffs of smoke with the smell of bacon and biscuits. Two hundred feet or so, an older man with a shock of white hair chopped away.

After some time, he noticed me. He leaned casually against his ax, like some Paul Bunyon, and wiped his forehead. Was he posing for a photo?

Good morning to you, the axman yelled, waving his hand.

Know where I can cross? I yelled. Car trouble! Could I use your phone?

I pointed to the river and yelled Cross! — Cross! Use phone! My car’s dead! I moved two fingers like a walking man.

Cross? Not here, he roared. Unless you’re a salmon — or a bear. He pointed up the road. Up there — some — !

So not dead yet. There had been too many barriers for me. I followed the river upstream on foot, looking for a region to ford. I had been on the road for many days. That Honda contained my whole life.

After walking a quarter of a mile, I took off my shoes and socks and rolled my jeans to my knees. The river was colder than the cold on my face and far deeper. I stumbled and fell over. The cold was a shock but one of those curious shocks. If I believed in religion, I would have said, a baptismal shock.

I approached the cottage, shivering with my jeans folded. I made sure the white button was buttoned on the fly of my blue-plaid boxers. A large grassy field rose from the banks. The old man was piling the wood by the side of the house. Did he make this place? How does one even do that? Create something — from just a vision? Had that been my problem? Did I need a master to obey? Why not become my own master?

Good morning, I said.

You didn’t cross at the right spot, he said, smiling.

How do you know?

People usually don’t get wet — while crossing a bridge, son.

I’m such an idiot, but I smiled.

Better give me your shit before you catch’a cold, he told me. I’ll hang them in the sun. It’s gonna be a warm day. It’s weird that way in Wyoming. Freeze your nads off in the winter. Toast those nads nicely in the summer. The other ten months, well, God only knows.

I didn’t waste time. In the back of the cottage, the sun was bright on the clothesline. So do you usually stop, ford rivers, and talk with strangers who could be serial killers, he asked — Or did you say something about car trouble?

My transmission, I said. These mountains, I think they have done her in.

Well, I know a guy who knows a great mechanic. He’s not close, of course, but he can get what needs done — done. Hope you weren’t planning on getting anywhere by dark, he said. Let me call. You stay right here.

I stood on his porch, catching the sun, appreciative. Several items lay scattered about: farming tools, shovel, pickax, knickknacks, a Chicago White Sox cap, more yellow than white, and a few pictures and rusted frames — one frame probably contained a woman. I didn’t dare touch or move closer. It seemed like an invasion of his space. But judging from here — I could see she was beautiful.

After a few minutes, he said I was in luck. A truck was coming from thirty miles away, but don’t think that means thirty minutes ‘round here, son. He asked me to get comfy. You’ll be here a while, and I guess you’ll have to be okay with that. You’ve been coughing. Fording that river didn’t help. Do you have something working on you?

Yes, something, but not what you think.

Well, that’s the truth for most, and the others are just lyin’ sons of bitches, he said, laughing. You want a bit of ginger brandy. I’m sure you’re old enough. And if you’re not. Fuck it, right! It’s Wyoming.

Behind his wicker chair, he pulled out an old jug, something straight out of ‘Deliverance’ — the film that has haunted me for years. He swirled the jug with his large hands. He gazed up at the sun. A little early for this, but this looks like an exception.

The ginger brandy tingled my throat and I immediately coughed. That cough, he said, was sure the magic was working. I never had anything like this, I told him, except for the blueberry Cognac my grandfather used to toast on special occasions.

Very good, I said, lying. Very good.

His name was Jack. We shook hands firmly. I said I was much obliged to his kindness and hospitality. I said I was Roger Flemming.

From the sound of your accent son, I don’t think those words are too frequently used. This is Wyoming. Not Alabama. I’m usually good with accents, and I’m placing yours somewhere in the Middle Atlantic Region. Coastal. Say water.

Wooter.

New Jersey!

I smiled. Was I that obvious?

Guess you follow The Phillies

Yes, well, The Phillies, I used to —

Oh, it’s okay, now. We’re in different leagues. I’m The White Sox. Doesn’t matter, though, now. That’s what I miss out here, you know. Crowds and the crack of a bat and an overpriced, piss-water stadium beer and, well, you know, people — sometimes.

His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing strong muscular arms, tanned — and he wore baggy brown pants and sturdy work boots. His blue collarless shirts reminded me of working-class Irish poets.

It’s really beautiful here by the river, I told Jack. The lines in his face seemed full of interest. Before I could ask something, he asked me where I was heading all alone in the middle of ‘God’s country.’

Nowhere right now, in particular, I said honestly, Just traveling, camping, for free when I can, and bathe, when I can. But I hope to get to Portland, Oregon in a couple of weeks.

Did you get a job out there?

It’s possible, I said. I just need a new start — on the opposite coast — away from my old life.

Well, I guess that makes sense, Jack said, nodding slowly. I came out here and built this place after my wife died ten years ago. He said they were from Chicago. I don’t look like I’m from Chicago, but every place in Chicago reminded me of her, and now I still think of her — but I feel closer to her here. Not that it makes any sense, but she said it was what we should have always done — but we just waited too long.

I’m sorry to hear that — I knew how tough it was on my grandfather.

So what do you do out here?

Oh, you mean without the Starbucks at eight bucks a pop? Oh, I keep busy. Enjoy life. I fish. Eat what I catch. Grow veggies in the back. Hunt a little, and I eat what I shoot, but mostly I’ve given that up. Bleedin’ out an animal just takes too much time. And I play with the dog and take hikes. And like you, go swimming. My dog, Lacey, she’s sleeping now. I’m shocked she hasn’t heard you. If you were a woman, she’d be here. The jealous type, you know. But she’s getting old, as that’s just life. She’s had a good life out here with me, I got to say. She came out with me from the beginning. So why Portland?

Well, I don’t know. Just seems like an ‘it’ place to be.

Any friends out there?

No, not at all.

Well, I didn’t have any friends out here until I moved out here. He said he was friends with some crazy-ass sons of bitches and a few downright ugly motherfuckers, but mostly those who are basically good, and some who are really good.

Guess ‘round here, you got to be friendly with whomever.

Yeah, that’s true. It makes you be friendly. I have more friends out here in the wilderness than when I lived the suburban life in Chicago, and a ton more if you count the wildlife.

He asked me my age.

Twenty-three.

Young, very young, like I was, then I met Maggie, fell in love, got married, had a wonderful life, goddammit. He held back a tear as he talked of losing two children, early. It hurt her so bad. Hurt me too, but not like the hurt of a woman whose beating heart has been keeping in time with the baby’s heart all those months.

I was sorry to hear that. Real sorry.

Well, it’s just nature. Hate to say that, and I couldn’t really say it to Maggie, but when you’re out here, you see a lot of death. A lot of stuff that just ain’t right, but life eats life. I don’t believe in any of that God’s Plan Stuff, and Maggie, God bless, she didn’t either, but I wish she had something to comfort her besides the drinking, but she got sober. You do your best to survive, move on, cope, and appreciate, you know, the times like this with a complete stranger, and maybe even a little ginger brandy early in the morning.

I stood up, grabbed hold of the railing, and stared at the snow-capped peaks. The air was fresh with evergreen. I had overnighted in Cody and planned to make my way to Yellowstone. From the interstate, the mountains just looked like clouds, and you never know you’re rising all the time in altitude as you’re cruising all alone at 100 mph.

I’m not sure how long I remained quiet. Then I said, It’s really beautiful here.

Home can be beautiful — anywhere.

No, it’s not, I said. The operative word — may.

I’m sorry, yeah. That’s probably why you’re going to Portland.

Yep.

Want another ginger brandy?

Yep.

Want to talk about it to a complete stranger? Hell, it’s not like you’ll ever see me again, and I won’t charge you my going rate, but you can help me chop wood while your clothes dry, and maybe you can write a review of my chili stew with deer meat during supper.

I walked down the steps and into the bright sunshine. My underwear was still wet, but it felt nice. The sky was clear and the color, a deep, abiding blue. Standing there in the grassy field, with the river coursing just below, I felt a new energy.

Was I comfortable telling this old man my story? This was Wyoming, after all. And remember Matthew Shepard? Tortured and tied to a prairie fence because he was gay?

I told Jack that my family didn’t appreciate my lifestyle.

Didn’t like your sense of fashion.

You could say that.

Don’t say anymore, he said. He’d seen a lot of hate in his life.

But I continued — it was something I struggled with for so long, and in college, it was all love and I really found love with Kenneth, not Ken, never Kenny, God forbid, Kenny. Always Kenneth. That’s something I always admired — no stupid nicknames. I talked to my family about this. You know the ‘talk’ as portrayed in films, I said.

Dad practically took a righteous dump in the living room, and mom’s such a mousy thing, I guess she half-supported me, but she didn’t want to get hit anymore, and my older brother, he’s a piece of shit. How many dicks up the ass jokes can a man take? I really just couldn’t stay. I packed up stuff, left a note, changed my cell number, and I thought I’d get far away to recreate myself, you know — Gatsby-like, but not his end. It’s the American dream after all.

He said — that must be really hard to have parents who don’t understand you and don’t appreciate and don’t support you. Being an orphan is awful, but I’ll tell you what’s worse, having parents and still feeling like an orphan. That’s horrible.

You got that right!

Or they die — but the toxin and the poison are still inside.

Does that happen? I said.

Life is tough, son. No, you gotta suck the wound hard and spit out the poison for a long time. The ones who should show you, love, show the exact opposite.

I said — and throw a preserve twist of lime and lemon into the tonic of religion, and well — my father will support a story from two millennia more than his own flesh and blood.

I have friends who say some dumb-ass things. I just keep my mouth shut sometimes, but sometimes I don’t. I kicked my friend’s ass just the other night. He deserved it, and I know he knew he deserved it. It comes to blows sometimes, that’s all. Hey, it’s Wyoming. New Hampshire doesn’t know a granite’s tit about live free or die, right?

Are you still friends?

Yep. But that term is wide and broad, around here, like our skies and mountains and rivers.

Jack met up with me in the field and we walked together to inspect my jeans, now on the ground. Lacey the Dog had pulled them off the line. Guess she was jealous, after all, Jack said.

I think the ripped look is still in, I said.

Jack told me I looked a little flabby in the arms, with all that passive car driving, and I could probably use a little exercise. People travel ‘round, searching for something, and they just bring their own hell, you know, or worse, make that heaven a new hell for everyone else. People just full of toxins and poisons and low serotonin levels, or something like that.

You know, you should really write, I told him. Or live on a mountain top.

Thank you, son, I actually do — well, write. I don’t care for mountain tops.

Really?

Yeah, nothing big, but some stuff here and there, he said. I was a tech writer for the bucks back in The Windy City. But now, really at night — when it’s quiet — that’s when I feel things the deepest.

I would love to read some of your stuff, I mean, I said. I’m a huge reader. Would you mind?

Would Mozart mind having someone listen to his music?

I laughed, and then I realized — the old man reminded me of the only person who seemed to ‘get’ me — my grandfather. It’s curious — here was a stranger with more empathy than a whole family of Flemmings.

Well, I tell you what, son, I mean, Roger. When you get situated, Roger Flemming, formerly of New Jersey, in Portland or Seattle or Vancouver, send me a letter, and I can send work to you. Email is spotty here — ya understand.

That would be so nice, I said. And I’m sure you must have some Mozart about I could listen to before I leave. I didn’t think Yellowstone was going anywhere, and if and when it ever does blow, no one has to worry about anything ever again. Not God, not agendas, or sexual orientation, or who wins bloody World Series, right? Who would have thought I’d had this conversation with someone I saw off the side of the road.

Chance encounters they say, he said, smiling. Not sure how long this car repair is gonna take. Probably a transmission, you’re right. Cars from Jersey are such pampered sons of bitches. Can’t take these high altitudes, but you can train’em. — Here, come help me.

I spent two days with Jack — Alexander ‘Jack’ Rosenstein. He went by Jack. He was named after his grandfather — and he never liked Mr. Grandfather — as he called him as he used to hit his grandmother. Jack said he was rather happy when his namesake died. His grandmother was never allowed to wear jeans — always a skirt, and the day after he died, she went and bought herself jeans.

The power other people have over us is amazing, he told me while taking a hike through the forest in the back of his cabin.

He brought his field binoculars — and he showed me so much of what I would have missed if left alone to wander through a Wonderland. It’s always better to have another set of eyes — which is why I have always missed Kenneth. I may miss members of my family — maybe sometime in the future — but the Kenneth thing was still so raw. The relationship ended after college graduation. I had job offers lined up back East — but the East was haunted for me — both with my family who still had this ‘power’ that Jack talked about — and I smelled Kenneth everywhere.

It was the next morning, after a restful night. My Honda Accord was being repaired by someone who looked like Grizzly Adams — or Davy Crocket, who may have killed a bear with his hands when he was only three. I can fix anything, he told me, if it’s a machine. He smiled. Now affairs of the heart — well, that I can’t fix.

Jack said he was a great guy — and great to have in your corner. You know, to slap hands, and he comes in to finish the job in the ring.

During breakfast, Jack said what really brought him out here. His wife got sober but was still depressed, and she started having dizzy spells. I was still working then, he said, and I probably should have retired, but it was tough being home with a depressed person all day, you know. Then he started crying. So working for me was selfish — but a man can be selfish like that if it’s for work.

Jack’s coffee was amazing — and I just stared into the remains of the lukewarm brew as he told me this because if I faced him I would probably cry, too. But he knew I was listening. Then he said one day he came home, and she fell from the porch outside while gardening. She loved her azaleas. That woman had the greenest thumb in the country.

She broke her hip — and she recovered, but never recovered from her addiction to pain pills. She died two years later. I just felt so responsible, he told me. I loved her with all my heart and soul — how could I have been that selfish?

I didn’t know what to say, but it seemed natural to want to keep busy. She probably had a power over him that he needed time away, right? Like me. I can’t tell you not to feel bad, I said. But some stuff is just out of our control.

He said I was right — and it was one of the reasons he wanted to restart his life out here — in the garden — and with as many of the plants that she loved that could tolerate this climate. I have the warm weather ones inside, he told me.

And during breakfast, while washing up, I told him more about me. Kenneth was bisexual, I guess, I said, and he never said anything like this when we were dating. I never saw him look at a woman — that way.

Was he really? Did he get shit, too, from his family, about being gay? He said he met someone — a woman — and that he needed to end things with me. I was devastated, you know. Kenneth was my first and only. I gave him time — thinking he would change his mind. His engagement ended that. Now, I don’t even think I could begin again — at least in New Jersey.

Jack mentioned that power again. We can’t help what happens, Jack said. We just got to play the hand the best way, right?

We walked along the river. It was another gorgeous day with that famous big sky blue of the West. I was not in any rush to leave now. It felt great to talk to someone like my grandfather, but more like a friend — where the level of friendship is so true and equal and real — as if one’s water flows evenly into another’s well — and vice versa.

Jack talked a lot about ‘reclamation.’ I asked if it was like ‘reinvention’ — you know, making a new self.

It could be, he said, but if you like who you are —

And I do, I inserted.

Then be you — but reclaim what is yours — and what was taken from you — either by force or neglect or apathy or fear or greed or envy. Jack used no commas.

We talked more about this. It made so much sense. Back at his cottage, after tilling the ground and tending to the garden, and learning about compost and eggshells and tomatoes and calcium, he turned on his Mozart.

He tossed me one of his books on the shelf— and said I could have that one. I’ve spent a lot of time, here, writing and thinking, he said. It’s not like this was just instant insight. When you get to Portland, tell me what you think. And be honest. I’m made of titanium. My ego can take criticism. Hell, I’m Jewish in Wyoming. I can take anything — and if they have a problem, which most don’t, well, you know —

I read the book all night by a single lamp on his couch in the rustic living room. I used the quilt his wife had made. Each square represented a stage in their lives. The next morning, I inspected each square like a riddle. Couples have their own mythology and symbolic language.

It’s the best thing I have from her, he said. Besides the memories.

I had said it felt weird to use it, but he insisted. It was meant to be used.

By the time my Honda Accord was fixed, Jack drove me to the garage in Wapiti. Jack, I adored your book. It was amazing and complex and full of honesty. I asked if what he wrote about was somewhat autobiographical.

Yep — in parts.

Her family didn’t like that she was marrying someone Jewish. They disowned her. She had to leave her family in New York.

Yep, he said.

Was this — Maggie?

Yes, Roger.

I didn’t want to leave, but the car was ready. Was I ready for reclamation? Jack gave me a hug and told me not to fall into despair. A forest fire can decimate millions of acres, but life will come back, Roger. I have seen this. I know this. I’ve come back — and you will, too.

That’s when Grizzly Adams hugged us too — and what a sight we must have made — three men in different stages of life — hugging in front of a beat-up garage in the middle of the Nowhere, Wyoming. But that nowhere will lead me somewhere. This, I know. This, I believe.

I left — promising to stay in touch. He said, You better, or I’ll get my buddy here to power-drive you to the mat.

Thank you, Jack.

Composed on September 26th, 1989 while crossing The Big Horn Mountains when I was 20. Edited and updated 2021. Age 51. Originally titled “The Lonely Cottage by the River.”

Thank you for reading. Follow me on Medium at Walter Bowne.