He yelled at us to stop, seemingly from out of nowhere. I was startled by the sound, but frightened when I saw the ragged looking man standing only 50 feet to our side, but thankfully across a dry gully. I was leading a group of 9 teenage backpackers down the trail, headed back to our Base Camp facility after a week out in the Lost Creek Wilderness. We’d be back in less than an hour except for whatever was about to happen. The lone man was probably in his 40s, unkempt, and had a Pit Bull by his side.
We were backpacking on the Big Island of Hawaii along the Mulawai Trail. The first night out, we camped in Waipio Canyon. Then, the next day we headed toward Waimanu Canyon and stopped for the night to camp on a rustic camping platform provided by the state’s Division of Forestry and Wildlife. The shelter was conveniently located on a mountaintop within a day’s walking distance of the trailhead and was a welcome sight after our long and hot climb through the jungle and up the Z Switchbacks. We reached the elevated platform in the middle of the afternoon, and since there was still plenty of daylight left and we were all physically drained, everyone picked a spot and stretched out on the shaded and relatively clean plywood for a quick nap. As I dozed off, I thought contentedly of gentle breezes, juicy Lilikoi fruit, and thick clouds. Josh and I were the guides for the group of 8 teenage boys, a fact that would eventually come into play. But for the moment, we all just slept.
We called it the “Valley of the Dinosaurs,” mostly because of the humongous rock formations scattered all around. They dominated the remote high valley in Colorado’s Tarryall Mountains with their sheer size. And they breathed a strange sort of life into the area that had convinced me early on that the whole place was somehow on the move. I could never pick out any one thing that caused me to think that—it was more like a general, overwhelming, and deep gut feeling that had me convinced. I was consumed by the place’s pure and simple beauty and sensed the place was more alive than me from the first time I blundered into it. Through the years, I took every opportunity to return. And while the physical cost of getting there was never cheap- without fail, it was always worth it.
“It were a good adventure,”
He said as he sat,
Then he straightened the snakeskin,
That banded his hat.
He guzzled a jar of whiskey,
But spilled some on his coat.
His manner was sure,
Though he drank like a goat.
The outside was gray,
And the tavern was cold.
Except near the stove,
Where the story was told.
There was a moment of silence,
As he stared into the gloom.
Then, he started the story,
His words filling the room.
“These days, most of us is livin’ here in Kentucky.
We knowed each other from Big Bone Lick,
Where we wandered and hunted by day,
Then come here in the evenin’,
To drink and have a say.
We weren’t none of us borned here.
We ain’t the settling down type.
But’d just ended up here in the East Bend,
After decidin’ our days of roamin’
Might finally’a seen their end.
After years a trappin’ Beaver,
Livin’ rough, and scoutin’ new.
We’d done trapped out the Bone Lick,
So, the coop we thought to flew.
So, we decided to spend our days what’s left
Roamin’ wild with those we knowed.
To head out west and to a place
Where none of us had ever goed.
And since we was so inclined, that’s what we did.
It were true we had our beaver dreams,
And thoughts of riches colored gold.
But it were mostly cause we wanted free,
And to forget that we was old.
They was 20 of us,
Trappers and hunters all.
Some was Indeans, some was Frenchmen,
Some was short, and others tall.
Some was black, some was white,
Some was big, and others small.
But all was hardened by the land,
And I did trust ‘em, one and all.
So, we cross’t the river at Rabbit Hash, and the journey then commenced.
It were the fall of 1821,
When we struck out on our own.
Headin’ west toward old Santa Fe,
Crossin’ country still unknown.
They was times we rode our horses,
On beaten trails of dirt and rock.
But they was times we walked for miles afoot.
And got too tired to talk.
We follered cricks and rivers,
The Verdigris, the Arkansaw, and others with no name.
And after weeks of hills and meadows,
To the mountains we done came.
Our days was filt with movin’,
Huntin’ game, and lookin’ west.
Then we stopped beneath the Spanish Peaks,
To set a camp and rest.
I’d never seen such.
We’d heard tales of lotsa mountains,
Full of beaver, elk, and deer.
Way out yonder ‘crosst the prairie,
Many miles away from here.
From far away the mountains seemed
To be a wall of rock and ice.
But once up close we was pleased to see.
It were country mighty nice.
They was glades and hollers
Cricks, and trees.
Elk and bear,
And lotsa honey bees.
Eventially, we cross’t the mountains
And come to Taos then Sante Fe.
Up to then, they wasn’t many folks,
As we moved along our way.
Except we run’t acrosst some Spaniards
Traded with Ietans, Cheyennes, and Arapahos.
Was guarded by the Kioways,
And had to worry with some Crows.
They was a fandango for us in Santa Fe,
We drank our fill and had a feast.
Then we turned around and headed back
To all awaitin’ in the east.
We headed back with a good bit of meat,
Not many pelts, but lots of tales.
Of scary faces, unfound places,
And all manner of travails.
After 18 months of livin’ wild,
We cross’t the river and was home.
Brim full of life, despite the strife,
And with no more mind to roam.
Yessir, it were a good adventure.”
———————————————-
The story finished, he sat back in his chair,
And silence filled the room.
He took a deep breath, then let out a laugh,
As sunshine broke the gloom.
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