Scrubbing the Memory
Part I in Travels with Bobby
Part I in Travels with Bobby
Noel Laflin
3-20-15
(Photo: 'Snake River, Wyoming' by Raymond Gehman)
We woke that early
July morning to what we thought was thunder – and maybe an earthquake thrown in
for good measure.
It was neither of
those natural phenomena – but rather, the rumbling of a heavily laden logging
truck speeding directly down the hard-packed dirt road upon which my companion
and I were sleeping.
Suffice to say, we had
the presence of mind to quickly roll off the road – encased in our sleeping
bags – and into the forest just moments before the massive truck passed by.
It was a close call.
But to our wonderment,
once the heebie-jeebies had subsided, we stared down upon a most beautiful
scene.
Now, Bobby Handley and
I had no idea where we had actually made camp – let alone nearly died. In
fact, one could hardly even call it ‘making camp’, as we had just turned off of
a very dark and lonesome highway but a few hours earlier and onto this dirt road
out of pure frustration and blind driving fatigue.
We had left Salt Lake
City the day before, hoping to make it all the way to Yellowstone by
nightfall. Somehow, we had miscalculated the drive - and although we now
found ourselves somewhere in Wyoming – we knew that we were far short of our
goal of Old Faithful.
As every campsite from
Idaho eastward was full, we pushed on into the wee hours of the morning until
we could drive no more. The dirt road looked inviting. I took a
hard right and climbed a fair way up until I felt it safe to pull the car into
a small clearing beneath the trees. We threw our sleeping bags onto what
looked to be the flattest piece of land and quickly crashed. That
flattest piece of land turned out to be a logging road unfortunately.
So, where were we
exactly – you know, the two kids who had just missed being squished to death?
I’ll give you a
hint. Have you ever seen that iconic Ansel Adams print featuring the
Grand Tetons and the Snake River? Well, that’s where we were.
Picture the early
morning sun shining off of snowcapped peaks – a peaceful, winding river curving
gracefully beneath those mountains – and massive green meadows extending in
every direction – without a soul in sight, other than the occasional deer or
moose grazing peacefully below.
That was our
view. Near-death by large truck was but a small price to pay for such an
ethereal scene
I so wish that either one of those two dumb kids had the presence of mind to have snapped a photo or two. But then again, neither one of them even owned a camera – so the moment is lost but to memory alone.
However, the lady who
cuts my hair, kind Nancy is her name, is fond, as am I, of
the numerous Ansel Adams prints adorning the walls of the salon.
It's one of the reasons I keep returning month after month - just to gaze
upon these representations of serenity, in black and white, not
to mention the fine skills of my hairdresser.
And every time she
gently pushes the back of my head into the sink - in preparation for a great
shampoo and scalp massage - the last thing I see before closing my eyes to ward
off stray stings of soap, is a stunning black and white image of where I once
blindly made camp by mistake.
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