Chapter 5
Limestone Creek
Homestead
Gallatin Valley, Montana
The blue roan nickered its relief and kicked up a half-trot as it left the jeep rut, sensing that the saddle time was near an end. Jack Fisher was expert enough so that he gave the roan its head and let the horse settle into a quicker downhill gait than he would ordinarily allow. Max, the rider’s wire-haired terrier, followed close at the horse’s hooves, where sprigs of dust caused the dog an occasional sneeze until squirrel chirps called him for a new round of hide-and-seek. His frenzied explorations of the thickets along the path had not quite yet surrendered to the same fatigue as that of the man and the horse, though they were all three nearly spent.
The day had been grand by any measure, the trip to Mystic Lake on backcountry game trails one of unusual peace and effortless cheer. The big sky held the mountains in a grip of blue, a glorious backdrop for the sun’s dapple, which chased splendid wildflowers among the grasses, as if only to capture their beauty. Lupine, paintbrush, wild orchid, and purple phlox filled the tall man’s gray eyes with wonder, so much so that he almost missed the bull moose, which stood in mute menace from within a copse of aspen below the trail, the saplings arranged like some primeval prison.
“Keep movin’, Blue,” Jack said to the horse, watching the moose for any sign of fuss.
Those critters were always unpredictable, he thought, with tempers as quick as canyon wind and hooves that could pound like a March storm. They had the size and strength for a serious ass kicking. He would much rather run into a bear than a moose, especially these big bulls, any day of the week.
From the worn comfort of his saddle he looked ahead for the black-and-tan scuff of his dog against the forest green, though the brush rustle seemed far enough ahead, and enough to the opposite side, to stem his worry. Max chased anything, given the chance. Anything included a handful of squirrel or a giant heave of bull moose.
“Well, that was a good day; wasn’t it, Blue?” Jack said as the three moved down-trail and upwind of the large antlers, which poked out like small satellite dishes mounted high on the aspens.
“Yes, a really fine day,” he answered himself, with the peculiar ease of one who has become accustomed to carrying on both ends of his own conversation.
“Those fish weren’t quite jumpin’ out of the lake, though, were they?” He continued his review of the day’s events as if Blue had any interest beyond that of a full feedbag. “We could have used a bit more action on the mayflies or the blue olives. I s’pose that freeze is still havin’ its effect.”
The winter ice returned at night under the clear shiver of high-country sky, though it lingered less each day, like a homeless beggar shedding cold blankets. The water retained plenty of its freeze for the rainbows and browns, though fishing had not been the point of his outing. It was, today, just a destination. The ride to the lake had been about the journey, the pleasure of the moment and the respite of forgetfulness. He had a daily need to forget, and today’s outdoor medicine worked well. Hours had passed without remembering.
“Okay, Blue, let’s take it in,” Jack said, turning the horse sharply on the final switchback.
He realized suddenly that another day unique to his life had passed; and that he would soon be alone again as evening billowed over the valley, a four-poster bed of mountain ranges tucking the land under a thick quilt of starry black. That thought and the final approach home pushed him toward a familiar melancholy, a mood that waited patiently at his doorstep, ready for his embrace.
His home was just in sight now, the cottonwoods gently stroking the cedar-shake roof overlooking Limestone Creek. He built it, well, parts of it, he reminded himself, as a gift to his family and a place that joined privacy with open space and wildness, a perfectly fine life after his own tough decision many years past.
Jack reined the roan down the trail and stopped just north of the rough-hewn stable. His dismount was easy and swift, and he led the horse forward in the same motion, coaxing it with hard clicks and soft coos. The stable was too big for just his Blue; but he had sold the other mounts in an act of closure, as a way to corral some part of his memory. Now the three extra stalls stood empty, a few wisps of straw settled and forgotten in the corners, mouse droppings the only sign of use.
For some time he stroked and brushed Big Blue, as he liked to call her, then left her with plenty of hay and water, left her to do whatever it is that horses do when faced with large amounts of unknown time.
Jack turned toward the darkened house, encountering the same unknown, far less certain than his horse on its use. The last light had begun its fade, and an evening wind spooked the cottonwoods, which thrashed the rooftop, growing insistent and hysterical. Max throated a low whine, and Jack moved quickly toward the house as a first avalanche of thunder tumbled down the mountainside.
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