place was southwest of Kinikinik, the trailhead little more than two ruts following the jagged contours of the land.
Stella transferred her things from the Mustang to Sam’s old Cherokee. Trying to reach Otto’s place in a flatlander vehicle was futile. Only the most rugged four-wheel drives could make it. Or she could hike in. She used a tire gauge and a hand pump to bring tire pressure up to 35 psi. Samism #57: “Proper tire inflation is the key to good fuel economy and handling.” A bumper sticker said, “SAVE THE POUDRE--STORE IT IN THE GLADE!”
Sam’s positions had made life difficult for Stella in middle and high school. Her classmates had been taught in the womb that you can’t hug a child with nuclear arms. And that we all must coexist. And that hate is not a family value. That corporations weren’t people until Texas executes one. It was a mystery to Stella how Sam ever got elected. Not that he was any of those things, but the press hated him.
It was no mystery. He was good with people. He had genuinely liked people. He kissed babies with gusto and petted dogs.
The bumper sticker was an invitation to vandalism. She used a putty knife to scrape it off. She found an old knapsack in the garage into which she stuffed bottled water, jerky and trail mix. She made herself a ham sandwich with deli fixings from the fridge and left Crystal a note thanking her for her hospitality and promising to get in touch soon.
By inviting Blaine Crystal had instinctively avoided any intimate conversation about Sam or his death. Crystal wasn’t fooled by the bullshit cover story, nor was she interested in what really happened. Crystal was interested in how it affected Crystal. Fine with Stella. She put the hand pump in the back with her knapsack and suitcase. She stopped in town to gas up. Gas was at an all-time high. It cost her sixty-five bucks to top off the Cherokee.
Up 287 to Ted’s place where she turned west onto 14. Poudre Canyon wound up and through Cameron Pass, 10,276 feet above sea level. Radio reception was mostly nonexistent in the narrow canyon and the old Jeep lacked a CD player. The Poudre was unusually fast for this time of year due to the heavy snowfall of the previous winter. The narrow, serpentine blacktop clung to the canyon walls occasionally opening up for the odd homestead. She passed vacationers in Winnebagos, bikers towing trailers with teddy bears bungeed to the sissy bars, huge trucks hauling wood and hay, pick-up trucks and bicyclists tricked out in primary colored spandex and teardrop-shaped helmets, all streaming up and down the mountain. The bicyclists rode with their heads down and their rumps in the air.
Mishiwaka, the notorious music bar that loomed over the rushing water, was still shuttered at this hour of the morning. Stella had been to the Mish often while attending UC Boulder. She’d dropped Ecstasy and grooved to Phish, Drag the River, Leftover Salmon. She smiled ruefully at the memory and a Samism popped into her head.
“Stella, you think about what you do now if you ever plan to run for public office. You don’t want your opponent telling people you dealt grass or banged the Rams’ starting line-up.”
Her minor experimentation with drugs had ended long ago and she would’ have rather pulled her own teeth out with pliers than run for office. Even before he sought office, Sam hadn’t been around much to which he attributed the demands of his job as CSU fundraiser but which Stella later realized were due to his relentless hound-dogging.
Sam was great when he was there. He never bitched that God hadn’t dealt him a son. He taught Stella how to ride horse, shoot a rifle, ride a bike and field-dress a deer. Martha appreciated none of these things so father and daughter had time to themselves. Sam hadn’t had the greatest taste in women. Stella loved Martha but Stella wasn’t blind.
Like Crystal, Martha was a drunk and a pill popper. Stella had been made aware of various
Stella transferred her things from the Mustang to Sam’s old Cherokee. Trying to reach Otto’s place in a flatlander vehicle was futile. Only the most rugged four-wheel drives could make it. Or she could hike in. She used a tire gauge and a hand pump to bring tire pressure up to 35 psi. Samism #57: “Proper tire inflation is the key to good fuel economy and handling.” A bumper sticker said, “SAVE THE POUDRE--STORE IT IN THE GLADE!”
Sam’s positions had made life difficult for Stella in middle and high school. Her classmates had been taught in the womb that you can’t hug a child with nuclear arms. And that we all must coexist. And that hate is not a family value. That corporations weren’t people until Texas executes one. It was a mystery to Stella how Sam ever got elected. Not that he was any of those things, but the press hated him.
It was no mystery. He was good with people. He had genuinely liked people. He kissed babies with gusto and petted dogs.
The bumper sticker was an invitation to vandalism. She used a putty knife to scrape it off. She found an old knapsack in the garage into which she stuffed bottled water, jerky and trail mix. She made herself a ham sandwich with deli fixings from the fridge and left Crystal a note thanking her for her hospitality and promising to get in touch soon.
By inviting Blaine Crystal had instinctively avoided any intimate conversation about Sam or his death. Crystal wasn’t fooled by the bullshit cover story, nor was she interested in what really happened. Crystal was interested in how it affected Crystal. Fine with Stella. She put the hand pump in the back with her knapsack and suitcase. She stopped in town to gas up. Gas was at an all-time high. It cost her sixty-five bucks to top off the Cherokee.
Up 287 to Ted’s place where she turned west onto 14. Poudre Canyon wound up and through Cameron Pass, 10,276 feet above sea level. Radio reception was mostly nonexistent in the narrow canyon and the old Jeep lacked a CD player. The Poudre was unusually fast for this time of year due to the heavy snowfall of the previous winter. The narrow, serpentine blacktop clung to the canyon walls occasionally opening up for the odd homestead. She passed vacationers in Winnebagos, bikers towing trailers with teddy bears bungeed to the sissy bars, huge trucks hauling wood and hay, pick-up trucks and bicyclists tricked out in primary colored spandex and teardrop-shaped helmets, all streaming up and down the mountain. The bicyclists rode with their heads down and their rumps in the air.
Mishiwaka, the notorious music bar that loomed over the rushing water, was still shuttered at this hour of the morning. Stella had been to the Mish often while attending UC Boulder. She’d dropped Ecstasy and grooved to Phish, Drag the River, Leftover Salmon. She smiled ruefully at the memory and a Samism popped into her head.
“Stella, you think about what you do now if you ever plan to run for public office. You don’t want your opponent telling people you dealt grass or banged the Rams’ starting line-up.”
Her minor experimentation with drugs had ended long ago and she would’ have rather pulled her own teeth out with pliers than run for office. Even before he sought office, Sam hadn’t been around much to which he attributed the demands of his job as CSU fundraiser but which Stella later realized were due to his relentless hound-dogging.
Sam was great when he was there. He never bitched that God hadn’t dealt him a son. He taught Stella how to ride horse, shoot a rifle, ride a bike and field-dress a deer. Martha appreciated none of these things so father and daughter had time to themselves. Sam hadn’t had the greatest taste in women. Stella loved Martha but Stella wasn’t blind.
Like Crystal, Martha was a drunk and a pill popper. Stella had been made aware of various
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