Blow up the Bridge

The Four Men Brave of Amigos Lake (Part 1)

“They’re as good as wolves.”

The Four Men Brave of Amigos Lake
Tore down the doors, and the safe did’ break
They craved the old ways, those men of the lake
Til’ they had took, the last they could take…

A small shoddy cabin overlooked the waters of Amigos Lake. Its roof drooped from years of heavy snow that had bent the rafters. The holes that littered themselves between the logs let in nasty freezing drifts come winter. Its character was completed by an old boar head wired above the doorway and the wont of its inhabitants to stack RedSolo cups up on the steps. On this front deck, the guides and labor gathered and drank after their day of work, to enjoy the last of hours of dusk. The women, tired of being in the kitchen, the yard boys, weary o’ spreading manure for the boss’ garden, and the men, fed up with the stubbornness of their horses- they came here to wind down.

They all worked at the hunting lodge settled on Amigos Lake- well beyond the end of the road. Most simply, if one from the inlet followed the Damon River 88 miles up, winding through swamp flats and wilderness, and turned for another 13 up the Beavertoe tributary (together making 101), they’d find themselves finally at its banks- high above the tree line, and shrouded by the mountains of the Alaska Range. The only way in or out was by float plane on a semi-regular schedule- a flight that always dangerously threaded the line between making safe passage and being smashed against the jagged peaks. No such accidents had happened in recent memory, but even the slightest of weather could delay groceries, the arrival of guests, fuel, mail, etc… for weeks at a time.

For four months out of the year, the staff called this remote camp in the mountains home. Two months were spent repairing what was broken during winter, and the other two, out living the adventure which was hunting season. They never visited town during this time- and thoroughly lived separated from civilization. It was a place where they were surrounded by the same people everyday, they were beholden to no traffic laws, no constraints of normal society, there was nowhere to spend what little money they did earn. And after several seasons, they had become the greatest of friends (and some lovers)- always destined to disperse at season’s end to survive once more in the normal world, but to also reconvene 8 months later on the same plane dock where it seemed that no time had passed between them. They fell back into their same cliques and routines, pretending, or wholly believing that the outside world just didn’t matter. Those with money- those that frequented town at all during the season were just the “Anchorites” intruding on their land.

From the deck of their rotting cabin, they’d look askant the larger lodge ‘cross the yard, where- wine-drunk- their boss boasted with the richer, more complicated folk. They themselves could never relate- the matters of business, stocks, and politics, the aging of a good Cabernet went over their heads. They were just satisfied with their usual gossip, stuck somewhere a hundred years ago, and fed by the Pendleton:

“It’s a terrible thing you had to put down Twister.”

“I know, her time had come… but we gotta stop riding horses till they die.”

“They’re all too old-”

“When is the boss going to get new horses?”

“He’s too cheap for that.”

“He’s obviously not using the money to pay us!”

And if the affluent behind their glasses ever did take a glance into the wild, they’d see quite the spectacle unfolding- of twirling dresses blazing into the night, and men howling in the aura of the flame. It was a din of music and of barefoot stamping. They danced the dances of their home localities- churning the dirt with jigs from Idaho to the hills of NoCal. It’d scare the bears into the next valley and on occasion incur the complaint of a crossed boss, “Keep it down or go to bed already!” This of course would never stop them from retreating to the other end of the lake, taking late night plunges into its frozen waters, or mounting their favorite ponies and riding them into the dusky lands of the midnight sun. You’d scarcely believe they were just lowly workers from disparate corners of the U.S..They belonged too much to the land. They seemed too joyous amongst eachother. You’d confuse them for childhood friends. family, a tribe of gypsies, or members of a frontier settlement in the midst of a pot luck.

And when they grew cold or their feet grew tired, they’d retire to the deck, to drink and smoke more, but mostly to banter and banter. The men would sip a bit of liquor and let it sit in their mouths, pausing to set their eyes on the sinking sun as it wet the mountains in pinks and purples. The shadows would grow; those spindly arctic trees dwindling into darkness. Maybe a coyote would raise his head somewhere. All before the stars rose, bobbing one by one from the dark sea. And if they stayed up long enough- into the early hours of the morning- they on occasion could see the aurora, flickering it’s way across the frigid sky.

For all of their gripes with their boss- his stinginess or his condescension- they all wished this to be more than just a seasonal job. Little houses across the yard of their own, they imagined- in the shadow of their mountain as a part of the land they helped to tame. The taste of such a life was what brought them here from their crevices of America and was what had made them come back year after year. Life was simpler. Time stilled to where only the moments mattered- spent with the only men and women they knew to share such a dream.

It was on one of these eternal nights, that something new slipped into their heads- well not new, just simply pressing.

“That road-” began the tall, Zachariah. He twirled a crucifix on his finger- the same one his father had given him when he was a little boy.

“Yeah, what about it?”

“I heard they just crossed the Damon River.”

“How?” Phil (The Hippy) spoke up, “That’s two miles of water with swamp on either side. They put up the bridge in only two weeks?”

“Yup-” There was a moment of reflection. The men all stared out over the mountains.

“They’ll be here soon.”

“Real soon-”

“By next season I reckon.”

Phil itched the boot on his leg, “Life will be pretty different around here then-”

“We could starting driving from work… groceries will be cheaper.” added Sober Mackenzie. He reclined back with his arms crossed on a log chair he fashioned himself.

“And you won’t be able to step five-feet in the woods without seeing another hiker. Everyone with a four-wheeler will carve up the forest. They’ll shoot our moose, our sheep, our caribou- there will be nothing left of business. A subdivision will be built on that a hill-”

“And a Costco on that one.”

“Exactly- and we’ll end up as a hotel and gas station.”

“With horses?” turned Zachariah.

“Yes, and you’ll be in charge of giving pony rides to every family and their dog on a roadtrip to McGrath… and I’ll be giving oil changes on the side.” He solemnly swirled the whiskey in his cup, and he looked to the big mountain across the lake- a stern face of scree that never changed. It had watched worlds die and be reborn. It had seen the age when Indians camped on the lake shore and when the white men had driven them out from its shadow. It had watched the blaze of ancient fires raze the valley, and the buds of young willow rising above scorched log. In comes the new, out comes the old...

The new pavement grew day after day. The outside world was creeping in, and for these folk that had become accustomed to their solitude, it seemed like an apocalypse. They owned nothing. If the lodge were to shut down, they could find new work, sure- but it wouldn’t be the same mountains and hills, the same valley of blueberry scrub, the same old affluent boss to complain about, the same half-lame horses, the same odd people and late night gatherings under purple dusky skies that formed a unique sense of home.

And for the guides, they had once lived normal jobs in the normal world, but you must understand that they had spent too many nights out in the wilderness- nights shivering in the cold, rising early by the frozen sun to chase the steps of grizzlies. They rejected all masters and overhead, and with a gun and horse in each of their mastery, they became leaders in their own right. What manager could tame them? They were as good as wolves.

“The days are over…” They lamented.

Then there was Jack there, who had remained silent the whole time. He was a greenie from down south, who showed good potential to be a guide, but had the reputation of being a bit off, a bit bellicose, a bit fanatic, and still just an edgy teenager, “What if we blew up the bridge then-”

They stopped and looked at him. He hadn’t shaved in three months, but still his chin was as bare as a peach, and he knew how to say some unwise nonsense. But for all the nonsense he ever did spew- the insensitive, the boyish, and the absurd- they quite liked his idea.

“Blow up the bridge-”

“The crossing is 15 miles away-”

“Do we even have a trail to there?”

“We could ride there in 6 hours-”

“Or ‘lope there in three!” added Zachariah.

There suddenly began a discussion of the plan, at first in pure drunken jest, until the details became refined with martial specificity. Phil was thinking about the metrics of the bridge- how thick its I-beams were and where the biggest stress points would be. Zachary sat analyzing over the face of a map, tracing his fingers along all the trails available to them throughout the valley, as Mac supposed his military wisdom, noting all the mountain valleys to hide in were something to go wrong. And Jack was already rhyming together a ballad in commemoration of the event. The deck became a stir ‘neath the bug zapper light. They imagined themselves as rangers in the wilderness, proudly sat upon their horses. They’d attack only in the most romantic way- before daybreak. A colossus would be brought down by firepower, the morning sky roaring behind them, smoldering steel in their wake. It was an old dream evidently, nurtured from Western films and hunting camp stories that had suddenly manifested itself in a frenzy.

“And what if we get caught?”

“We’ll fight to the last breath!”

“You’re 19, shut up… and we won’t get caught. We can’t be suspected.”

“We are the #1 suspect though-”

“Think of all the environmental groups out there, they don’t want this road just as much us… those hippies would happily take the blame.”

“And we won’t get caught!” crafted Mackenzie, “if we time it with a storm, the hoof prints of our horses will be washed away by the torrent.”

“Torrent? That’s the kind of word I expect to come out of Jack’s mouth, just say rain-” Phil finished the remainder of his cup.

“When are we going to get the time to do this?”

“Tomorrow. The forecast is telling of a big thunder storm.”

“Excuse me, but I won’t be able to ride for another two weeks.” Phil tapped the boot on his leg. He had broken his ankle during an intense mid-season volleyball game.

“We can manage, it’s better if only three men go- or maybe two- Jack you might just slow us down.”

“I can do my work in the shop still, prepare you off for the ride. I’m thinking how to take down that bridge...”

And what would they achieve really? They never slowed to consider such ends, for the Pendleton, perhaps, was doing most of the talking. Nonetheless, it seemed they had been put under a spell. The passion had well seeped into their blood and all they could conceive of was that impending blaze of glory.

“We’ll send a message to them! These are our woods, our tundra, our peaks. We don’t want their cars, their paved roads and sidewalk trash, traffic tickets and state troopers. We are happy as we are! I don’t care if there is gold is in the hills or in the rivers- the dirt is staying where it is and brass, horse sweat, and blood shall be shed to defend it!”

“Amen!” They cried following Zachariah’s words, and once more they slammed their cups on the deck steps. It rung across the valley, before the night fell dead and silent.

Continued in “Slag in the Water”…

Danke,

ABSURDISMUS

Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.