The Mule Chronicles...Episode 5...Part 3
Upon seeing the Idaho Fish and
Game trucks, my first thought is, "maybe they're busy and won't see
me." Yep, that was my first thought. Hedge my future on luck and the you
can't see me if I move slowly defense. Clearly I've seen Jurassic Park too many
times. I bring the iron steed that I am riding to a slow crawl in an effort to
avoid detection (you might recall that I am riding Brad's 4 wheeler - if Brad
is even his name - if this is even his 4 wheeler). I am greeted by a truly ruggedly
attractive fish and game warden (we'll call him Morgan. Again, I don't know his
actual name, but Morgan seems to fit). Morgan flashes his pearly whites and
bats his excessively long lashes, before tussling his hair and saying, "Hi
there." Clearly stunned and mesmerized by his wildly good looks, I stop
the 4 wheeler dead in its tracks and immediately accept that this man can see
directly into my soul and is likely able to read my mind. Morgan follows up by
asking me how I am doing in a very polite and nonthreatening manner causing me
to look up sheepishly from under my cowboy hat's brim and say, "not well
sir." Morgan clearly doesn't expect this response and for a brief moment I
think I might escape jail time. Of course I was totally unprepared for Morgan's
follow up question of, "what's wrong" and I naively respond that I
have been bucked off my mule three times in the last two days (the sympathy
ploy always played well when I was dating and Morgan is good looking enough
that I figure it might work here). Without skipping a beat Morgan responds
with, "do you need medical aid?" A number of things now rush through
my mind - "probably so, yes," "this has worked for a number of
arrestees that I have seen in my time," and "oh, crap, that will
definitely result in a call to my mother and wife and I'll be in deep
crap." Having reviewed my options, I tell Morgan that I will be fine and
that I just need to rest. Morgan seems to buy this line of crap, at least for
the moment.
At this point, Morgan turns his
attention to the dead deer strapped to the back of the 4 wheeler and says,
"nice looking deer you have there." Now, I've seen this line of
questioning before. In fact, I've used this line of questioning before. I
immediately realize that I am in deep crap and momentarily consider trying to
just sulk away slowly. I quickly decide that Morgan's bulging muscles clearly
indicate that I will lose that fight and acquiesce to his inquiry. I go with
the tried a true defense used by thousands for drug addicts everywhere...No
officer, these aren't my pants (or in my case, deer)! I also decide that my
only hope is to quickly and clearly advise Morgan that I am a retired cop from
California, confess that I have no clue what I'm doing because this is my first
hunt (despite the rather extensive hunting outfit that I am wearing that
screams avid hunter), and sing like a canary about Brad and his doe. I should
probably note that upon hearing that I have never hunted before Morgan asked if
I had any questions. I responded (I kid you not) "nope, I'm pretty sure
I'm all done hunting at this point." Looking back on it, I should have
asked if Morgan knew any good mule therapists because clearly Stuart and I have
issues that need to be worked out with the help of a professional.
Morgan patiently follows my story
despite the fact that I am now talking like Alvin the Chipmunk on crack. I also
keep pointing over my shoulder saying, "really sir, they should be coming
over that rise any minute now." I'm pretty sure I could see Morgan's mind
saying, "sure son, sure they will. You are so going to jail." What
followed was what felt like a thousand questions about Brad, the deer, Brad's
camp, our camp, my hunting license, my driver's license, my police ID (I'm not
an idiot, I knew that s%$t would save my butt), the speed of an unladen African
Swallow in June, the ignition timing on a 57 Chevy with a 350 c.i. motor,
epigenetic theory...ok, you get the point, it was a lot of questions.
Meanwhile, I keep pointing over my shoulder like some kind of demented kid at
fat camp pointing to where he ate the case of Snicker's bars as he's being
shamed by the camp counselor. Much to my relief, my mule riding partners and
Brad crest the hill into view after what felt like the three hundredth time
Morgan asked how I know Brad. I started screaming, "look, there they are,
look" like a prepubescent teenager at a One Direction concert.
I can see the look of terror on
Brad's face as he sulks over to the warden. I get off the 4 wheeler and walk
over to take Stuart's reigns and slowly back away from the scene of the Spanish
Inquisition. I am immediately encircled by Dad and Jay who start peppering me
with questions. I calmly explain what happened and Jay suddenly becomes my self
appointed legal defense and claims we need to just leave. I explain that I
don't think we're free to go, to which Jay asks if we are being detained. I
tell Jay that I'm pretty sure we are past that point, to which he responds,
"I'm not detained, I'm leaving." I quickly realize that rural hunting
legal aid is about as useful as the public defender's office back in
California. Jay starts walking away and I turn to Dad to only get the shrug of
the shoulders that signals "you're screwed." I muster the courage to
confront Morgan's awesomely wild manliness and ask if I can go. Apparently Brad
did the right thing and confessed enough for Morgan to realize that I was
telling the truth and he released me from his stunning grasp.
Not waiting a second for Morgan
to rethink his decision to let me leave, we tuck tail and make for camp hoping
to put this unfortunate experience behind us. After walking a short distance
further down the road, Jay decides that we need to take another shot at riding
the mules out. Dad seems somewhat hesitant, but agrees to give it a shot before
looking at me for my vote. Looking back, I think Dad was expecting me to wuss
out and say there was no way I was getting back on Stuart that day. Of course
that's not what I say or do because I have a new cowboy persona to uphold, so I
muster my inner John Wayne and say...sure thing partner, I'll get back up on
this possessed evil animal that is trying to kill me at every turn. Ok, so
maybe not is so many words, but you get the gist. Jay swings himself onto Ben
with the grace and poise of a San Francisco Ballet star before proclaiming that
we are good to go and the mules are fine. Dad is up next and things are not
going anywhere near as well as they did for Jay. Of course, no one has any idea
just how bad Dad is actually hurt at this point so the struggle appears to be
completely the mule's fault. After about three half hearted attempts Dad
declares that Annie is still too spooked and that he will just walk. I breathe
a sigh of relief and quickly say that I am good walking back as well while
trying to maintain the appearance that I am taking one for the team. Jay is
having none of this and says we will try again when we reach the top of the
hill at the main road.
We reach the top of the hill and
are trying to lash the mules to the flimsiest gate on the planet when Brad
comes riding up on his 4 wheeler with Fish and Game following closely behind.
Brad stops and offers us our game bag back and we politely ask him to jut drop
it at camp on his way by. Clearly none of us gets the fact that Brad is screwed
at this point or stop to consider that maybe extra stops isn't what Fish and
Game had in mind. Nonetheless, Brad agrees and he, and Fish and Game, are off
in a cloud of dust. This is just enough commotion to spook the mules again. Of
course the other possibility is that the mules realized upon seeing Fish and
Game that we were idiots and were now trying to orchestrate their escape.
Jay continues riding and Dad and
I fall in line to start the 700 mile journey back to camp. Stuart takes the
walk back as an opportunity to continue to test my commitment to this journey
but fails to recognize that I now have my 45-70 Government level action rifle
back and that it's loaded with rounds rated to fell and elephant. Taking a cue
from my mother's play book, I begin to lecture Stuart about his behavior and
ask him if that is how he wants to represent himself in public. Stuart
continues to push his luck and I soon realize that if I grab Stuart's lead rope
right at his harness, his head has to go wherever I point it. I momentarily
consider doing my best Saturday Night Fever routine, but the childhood lectures
about being kind to animals quickly comes to the forefront of my mind. I decide
for the more humane method of of questioning Stuart's intentions and staring
him in the eye..yes eye..no, Stuart is not a pirate mule, he has two eyes, but
his head is huge and I can only level my steely stare at one eye at a time.
Somehow in my head I imagine this makes me more intimidating to Stuart because
I am able to out number his staring power two to one using this method. I don't
think it actually made any difference because Stuart made several attempts to
run me over or push me off the side of the road on the way back to camp after
this stern lecture and "eyeballing" technique. Amazingly enough,
stopping and telling Stuart that he was on a "time out" and
explaining that he would be the last one back to camp causing the other mules
to make fun of him had little to no effect on his behavior either and I was
left to the continued battle of the wills for the entire walk back.
About half way back to camp, I am
stopped by who I now recognize as Ralphy, who is now driving an Idaho Fish and
Game truck. Ralphy gets out and starts asking me questions about Brad. My
initially response is, "you are a sneaky little guy." In retrospect,
"little guy" was probably the wrong choice of words because Ralphy
bristled at the insinuation of his stature. For the record, Ralphy seemed even
more like a little guy when he was out of his truck and I realize that he must
have actually been riding a Honda Trail 50 rather than a full on dirt bike when
I encountered him earlier at the trailhead. Realizing my gaff, I quickly tell
Ralphy that I was a retired cop and that he had me fooled when we met him at
the trailhead earlier thereby complementing his law enforcement stealth. Ralphy
pointed to his green jacket and tried to explain that he wasn't that sneaky but
I still have no clue what he was pointing out at the time. I'm guessing he
thought he had a badge on his jacket or some other secret "Fish and
Game" identification symbol to which I am unaware. Regardless, Ralphy
takes this as his opportunity to barrage me with questions about Brad, the
deer, Brad's camp, our camp, my hunting license, my driver's license, the speed
of an unladen African Swallow in June, the ignition timing on a 57 Chevy with a
350 c.i. motor, epigenetic theory...ok, you get the point, it was a lot of
questions. Again, I dutifully answer until Dad returns and gives Ralphy his
best F'off cop stare to which, Ralph succumbs causing him to quickly apologize
and return to his truck. Apparently Dad still has some protective instinct for
his eldest son and I won't be left to fend for myself in the wild like I
thought.
We make it back to camp and
unceremoniously unsaddle the mules. We then hobble into the trailer and begin
comparing bumps, bruises, and stories. During this time, I notice Dad is
rubbing his shoulder and saying it's "a little sore." I look and see
what looks like a grapefruit being smuggled in the shoulder of his shirt. I ask
if that lump is his shoulder and then immediately see "the look." If
you don't know what "the look" is, well, imagine the good Lord
himself looking into your soul and making you question you right to even exist
in human form and you might have a clue as to what "the look" looks
like. Un-dissuaded, I soldier forward by asking again about his grapefruit
sized lump. Dad relented and admitted that it was indeed his shoulder. Let me
say that if I knew as a child that asking the question twice was the kryptonite
to "the look," my childhood would have been a lot different.
Upon asking if he could move his
arm, Dad responded with his best impression of a mutant prehistoric lobster
t-rex and brought his hand up into a claw like maneuver and snapped it open and
closed. When I asked if that was all he could move, he responded by saying,
"pretty much." Fortunately I have retained enough of my paramedic
training over the years to recognize this as a symptom of a dislocated shoulder.
I also know that there is a huge difference in being able to return a
dislocated shoulder to its respective joint as soon as possible and letting it
swell and stiffen further thereby typically requiring surgery. Quickly the
discussion turns to finding a nearest hospital to which Dad offers no
resistance (again, I should have recognized this as a warning sign that
something was actually wrong). After much debate, consulting of maps, and
amateur weather forecasting, we decide that a trip into Jackson Hole Wyoming is
the best option. Dad and I head for the truck and Jay agrees to hold down the
fort until Bill returns. Have you noticed that every day starts with Bill
getting up early and riding far, far away from the rest of us? It's like he
knows something I don't.
We head for the truck with Dad
heading for the driver's seat. I calmly ask if he's "ok" to drive. I
see the initial warning signs of "the look" starting to surface, but
it is quickly quelled as Dad admits it would probably be best for me to drive.
HOLD THE PRESSES!!!!!! Dad has just relinquished the driver's seat of his
literally brand new Ford F-150 with less than 5,000 miles on it? Clearly we
have entered the Twilight Zone and this is some alternate reality. Dad now
heads for the passenger door and tosses me the keys with his one good arm.
After twenty minutes of seat adjusting and checking my mirrors out of fear that
if I crash Dad will surely kill me, we are off for the hospital.
The hour plus drive to Jackson
seems to take days, but we eventually reach the hospital with only one near
miss of a pedestrian in downtown Jackson. We enter the hospital and Dad heads
for the check-in nurse as I rush to the bathroom...you didn't think we'd be
allowed to stop just because I was driving did you? Upon exiting the restroom,
I realize that I should probably let someone know we are at the hospital just
in case and decide that my wife, Lynn Dansie, is the
best option. My call is immediately answered with not hello, but "how do
you have signal, why are you calling me, are you in the hospital?" I
respond with, "funny you should say that," which Lynn quickly follows
with "what did you do?" I am immediately overcome and choked up by
her deeply caring and concerned inquiry which results in me being unable to
immediately respond. The next thing I hear is Lynn saying, "do you need to
let me talk to the nurse?" Oh great, now I'm in trouble and being treated
like a child. My indignation overrides the lump in my throat and I respond with
a firm, "no, I'm a big boy and can talk for myself." In reality it
was probably more like, "IT'S NOT ME, IT'S NOT ME!" Which really
explains Lynn's follow up question of "well, who got hurt then?"
After obtaining her oath of secrecy because I have not yet received permission
to notify "THE MOTHER," I briefly relay the story before cutting the
call short because we are being rushed into the ER.
I really wanted to finish this
episode tonight folks, but there is still a lot of Episode 5 left to etch into
the permanence of Facebook lore. So, I will bid you adieu and ask you to tune
in for Part 4 to hear the exciting conclusion of Episode 5...I hope.
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