Scrubbing the Memory

Scrubbing the Memory
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.