Loud, hopeful warnings about wolves

When I walked up the hill to reach the main road, I was thinking the morning was young enough for possibilities. I had about 10 hours to work with—to make it back in time for a shower and a sensible bedtime. I’d only been with my employer for a couple months; an unexpected Monday absence didn't seem like an option. 

Karina was still yelling from the campsite: something about being careful about the wolves, which was the last thing I feared. My only concern was whether any cars were going my way, and how to make my story not sound too weird.

I wanted to figure out a better out a better way to say, “my ex-wife told me to take a hike.”  

But there I was, walking on a very quiet road. Me and my middle-aged self with Chuck Taylor high-tops on my feet, in the middle of nowhere.

The first car appeared after about 20 minutes of walking: a Chrysler Sebring parked on a wide shoulder with a sweeping view. A retirement-age couple was facing away from me, one aiming a camera at a sweeping view of rolling desolation. I strolled toward them as if it were an ordinary Sunday. 

“Hi,” I said.

They barely acknowledged me, making me feel like an intruder. It was awkward. I was out of practice.   

“By any chance, are you headed into LaGrande . . . or Joseph or Pendleton or Baker or any of those?” I didn’t sound very decisive.

They looked at each other and then at their car. Not quite panic, but I could tell there was no way in hell these two were going to welcome me to any part of their road trip.

“It’s our last day in Oregon,” the man said, an acceptable “do not disturb” reply. It told me that he and his companion didn’t come out all this way for anyone irresponsible enough to not have a ride out the wilderness.  

“Where you from?” I asked, smiling of course.

“Georgia.” He didn't smile. 

“Oh wow. A long way from home!”

The guy nodded.

“Go Bulldogs,” I said.

The woman was already inside the car.

For someone from so far away to reach such a remote and moderately interesting location was impressive, especially knowing it took me 51 years to be on the same road. On the other hand, he could've saved a lot of time and gas for a much better view. I remember thinking he got a bad tip or he just likes to drive.

I kept walking along the quiet road.  

All I could think about were scenarios to get home: hitch a ride of course, get into town to take a bus to another town, or find a pilot willing to fly me without any notice.

It couldn’t have been much more than 15 minutes when I heard something motoring behind me; I turned to hold out a thumb.  

An old pickup truck passed, slowed and stopped.

I hustled to open the door as the driver tossed a rifle behind the seat. He was everything you’d want in a pickup truck commercial: a mix of Harrison Ford and Clint Eastwood. I knew right away I was in good hands. This man had local all over his face. He knew these roads. 

“Thanks,” I said. “I just need a ride to the closest town.”

“Joseph.” Joseph wasn’t his name; he was explaining that the town of Joseph was my only option.

“Great. Thanks!”

He nodded, a Marlboro Man nod.

“I was camping with my ex-wife,” I said, as if he was asking. “She said she couldn’t spend another second with me.” I watched for a reaction. There wasn’t one. “She told me she wasn’t going to drive me home.”

I had no idea if my story made any sense. 

“I need to figure out a way to get to Portland.”

“I can’t remember if they run buses to LaGrande any more.”

“Even if I could fly home from Pendleton.”

“There’s a pilot in town. His name is Chet. I’ll drop you off at the gas station. Steve will know. You’ll be able to figure things out there.”

“Were you out hunting?” I asked, but making sure to remember Steve and Chet's names.

He shook his head. “Getting some firewood.”

I never considered having a rifle with me while chopping wood.

“What do you do in Portland?”

“I’m in the ad agency business.”

He nodded.

“So you live in Joseph?”

“I do. I’ve been here all of my life. My grandparents homesteaded.”

“Are you a rancher?”

“A dentist.”

I was getting a ride from the town dentist. One bad ass dentist. 

“Bet you’ve seen and heard it all out here,” I said.

He nodded. “See that car right there?” We passed a newish white sedan pulled into what might've been the mouth of a logging road. 

“Yeah.”

“It’s been there for three days. Probably a suicide.”

“Oh.”

He talked about the local economy. Income disparity. Poor access to dental care—and medical treatment, in general.

I nodded with understanding.

He questioned how sustainable the area would be if Joseph continued to evolve into a boutique town.  He described how much the area has changed. 

I told him about my afternoon in Joseph the day before. I said I noticed only one gas station, yet there was a distillery between a chocolate store and brewpub.

He laughed.

“We bought some rye whisky and some un-aged stuff—moonshine they called Steinshine. That was probably the beginning of my drama. Things unraveled after that.”

He smiled at that.

“Actually, my first mistake was deciding to go camping.”

I shared with him how Karina was first-generation American-Polish. She grew up in Midtown Manhattan. And then he told me how his daughter married a man from Argentina, which didn’t end well.

“All that macho stuff meant different ideas of what’s acceptable. I had to get in the middle of this guy and my daughter, tell him to back off. ‘We don’t do that here,’ I said. Things got bad." 

I was humbled by his story—that he shared it. It was as if he understood there was more to my story.

We were getting close to town, no longer in the hills and trees. The road turned straighter and the surroundings were more pasture and open meadow-like. Snow lined the tips of the Wallowa Mountains in the distance.

“I’m going to drop you off at the gas station. If you can’t get hold of Chet, talk to Steve at the gas station. He’ll know your options.”

“Thanks a lot. I really appreciate this.”

We shook hands. 

The morning sun took a break behind a big cloud. It was already 10:45.

“No problem.”

And that was the last I heard from him.

And that is how I ended up at the only gas station in Joseph, population 1,000, twice within 20 hours. It all looked different because I had no idea how I would make it home. I might as well have been in Georgia.