Alfa Cowboy in the Great Blank: 2012

There's nothing in this world I won't beg, steal or borrow

for one more night under the stars in your eyes of tempest blue

Thursday, 09/22/11: Max and Will are out of Kindergarten for the next five days, and today we begin our vacation of camping, hiking and reunions. The car is packed, the boys are fed, watered and provisioned, and we commence our 6-hour drive to meet my fourth Brother and his two sons in Wyalusing, Wisconsin.

Counting the miles by sunflower seeds and coffee consumed. I take satisfaction in preparing our lunch in a Burger King/gas station parking lot just north of Des Moines on I-35. Roast beef and turkey on tortillas, or on nutty, eco-groovy bread (depending on the child), fresh strawberries and lots of cold water and juice. We are parked at the the edge of the lot, and in the ditch beyond our car some native prairie grasses secretly grow, ignored by farmers and developers. I consider it a good omen as we begin our trek to the woods.

More coffee for me, of course, and petrol, and we are again rolling north.

Turning east on Highway 20, and my small road warriors remind me continuously of how fortunate I am to have such willing and enthusiastic fellow travellers. I refuse to bring a DVD player, opting instead for miles of sun and clouds painted from horizon to horizon, wind farms and cornfields rushing by, and our small voices mingling with the ancient plainsong just outside the car. A thousand thousand times better than repetitive, insipid cartoons deliberately crafted to make our children dumber and dependent on repetitive, insipid cartoons.

North at Manchester, IA, and the earth begins to change. We roll with the burgeoning hills through Strawberry Point and Elkadar. We pass St. Olaf, and light rain blurs the green of the fields, and sharpens the color striations in the occasional limestone cliffs. Bones: brown and burnt orange, driven from their unquiet graves by the restless movement of continents. We also are pushed, my boys and I in our little car, into the Driftless hills and valleys that presage the Mississippi River. As the landscape changes, so too are the three of us re-shaped and re-born, our songs and voices altered as we cross the big water into Wisconsin; closer to my Friend.

It's about 5:30, and still raining lightly, when we casually pull up next to Craig and his boys, Calvin and Miles, in the Wyalusing State Park office parking lot. They've arrived just a few minutes before us. We discuss potential camping sites as Craig's smile goes on and off. As always with my Brother and me, there is little catching up necessary, despite only seeing each other a few times a year. It's strange and fortunate that so much time and circumstance can change, yet we remain steadfast and constant.

Our sons pick up on the ease of our talk and of our work. They play together as if it's a daily occurrence, sharing toys and making allowances for one another. Craig and I prepare dinner while the boys run remote control trucks and dig in the dirt. I'm pleased that we are building another generation of friendships. Perhaps it's too early to tell, but they can absorb the way their fathers interact, and see how men cooperate and solve problems. Craig cooks rice and packets of Indian food for us, and there are hotdogs, Sun Chips and more fresh strawberries for the kids. A cold New Glarus tops the day.

Craig is working to get Miles to sleep in their tent, and Calvin, Max, Will and I decide to go on a short walk around the cul de sac that holds our and several other unoccupied camping sites. As we reach the edge of our firelight, the gloom turns to serious dark, unabated by moon or stars. My boys are a little spooked, but eager for a nighttime hike as long as they're touching me. Calvin, in the absence of his father, very calmly asks if we can go back. He's a little scared. Because this is a man's trip, I want Calvin to face his small fear and enjoy the woods with my boys and me. I lift him to my shoulders and ask him if he can deal from there. He laughs and says "Okay," and holds on around my forehead. Max and Will think it's great fun to share their Dad, and that fact seems to alleviate much of their trepidation. They still don't let go of me, of course, and the four of us walk slowly around the circle, connected and happy. Craig and I have another beer before turning in, and I drift off to sleep between my sons, one of their small hands resting on my wrist.

Friday, 09/23/11: We wake to more rain, and stay in the tent a while before pulling on clothes and greeting our comrades at the picnic table. Craig lights his camp stove and brews coffee...sweet, bitter, sacred coffee. The boys have toast and more fruit for breakfast, and we ready ourselves for a lengthy (for kids) hike through the woods. Lots of water and, as a hasty afterthought, a couple of apples.

We stay on the road until we reach the trailhead, then enter the woods. Two young deer stand still and silent to our right, then erupt smoothly into motion, bounding out of sight in seconds. Our progress is slower and somewhat less graceful, but we belong here as well. We allow Calvin, Will and Max to run ahead as long as they don't go too far, and Miles rides in a carrier on Craig's back. My Brother and I walk together as we have for more than three decades, aging backs and knees notwithstanding. Many things have changed: we live a couple of states away from each other, and we're both busy with our jobs and our children. Some things, however, stay blessedly consistent. The scattered September sun falls on two grown boys who have in many ways remained largely the same, despite the weathering of the last thirty plus years. Craig is still tall and lean in body, wide of mind and speech. I am his counter: short and disproportionately thick through the arms and shoulders. His voice is deep and mellifluous, mine a rough tenor. I still work (probably too hard) to make him laugh, and he still laughs easily and enthusiastically. We are still concerned with figuring out approaches, if not answers, to important questions, and we articulate these things well together. There is still the sense, to me anyway, that we're leaning on each other as we walk, though we are not physically touching. This loyalty is a funny thing, and I don't know when we decided it. I can only be grateful that this grace has been given me: that I have this Brother to my heart. The boys' voices rise in clear, high laughter up ahead. I call out to them to stop and wait, and we tramp to catch up.

We hike down a couple of switchbacks in the side of a valley, cross two little wooden bridges, and arrive at a tall and wide sandstone overhang. A small waterfall glisters into space and collects in a pool at the base of the cliff. Before we reach it, I remember the apples. I pull my black-handled knife from my Everest waist pack and quarter them. The boys devour the slices gratefully, joyously. Two miles isn't far for old trail hands like Craig and me, but it's a significant hike for the youngsters. The boys spend the better part of an hour playing at Big Sand Cave, as it's called. They grudgingly pose for a few pictures, and proceed to move handsful of the soft, pulverized sandstone from dry ground to the little pool where the waterfall ends. Their hands and shoes are stained orange by the time we leave, baptised in the colors of the Mississippi bluffs.

The kids are tired on the return trek; it's mostly uphill, after all, and we take turns giving everyone shoulder rides. When we exit the woods, though, we find that the rain has temporarily stopped, and the sun is flashing in patches through the clouds. As we approach the playground at the entrance to our campsite, the boys rediscover some energy in the sun, and run helter skelter to the swings and slides. Craig and I spend some time pushing various groupings of boys on the swings, then lead them back to camp to make lunch and rest. The boys pour water in the dirt, then push Calvin's die-cast metal trucks through the resulting mud. Lunch is sausage and eggs, followed later by a snack of crackers with peanut butter and/or cheese, and strawberries.

Later in the day, we drive to another area of the park, one overlooking the two rivers. We throw the football like the good old days (which keep repeating), and play on another playground before beginning another hike, this one considerably shorter than the last. We begin at a lookout enclosed at the outer edge by a four foot high arc of brick, and at the back by the stones and scrub plants of the hills. The sun is just beginning to drop, and the light throbs and gleams over the valleys below, where the Wisconsin empties into the Mississippi. The boys climb the rocks at the back of the overlook, and we have one heart-stopping moment where one son thinks he'll climb the outer wall (he's stopped before he ever reaches a point of danger, but still). We exit the overlook via the trail to the south, and hike down a ways before coming to a series of wooden stairs built into the hillside, leading upwards. They're steep, pitched almost like ladders, and we ascend watchfully behind each single boy before we gather at the top. We explore the two small caves there, joined by a narrow passage (almost too narrow for a heavily muscled mesomorph unused to folding through small spaces). At the back of one, there is a tunnel perhaps three feet in diameter, and of indeterminate length. The boys peer into its mouth, trying to see where the light disappears, and how far back into the hillside it goes. I can tell they are torn. On one hand, it's in their nature to crawl in and explore. On the other hand is the millenia-old racial fear of dark and enclosed spaces, of scaled and many-legged terrors that wait in lightless holes in the earth. We make the decision for them. There are species of rattlesnake native to every one of the lower 48 states, not to mention widows, recluses and yellowjackets. I wholeheartedly approve of our boys' adventurous urges, but alas, our job is their safety. Discretion today; valor when they're a bit older. It's time to head back to camp anyway. Dinner soon.

The only thing, thus far, I have done better than my Father is get my young sons into sizable fish. Over the course of the summer, we've caught several nice catfish, both channel and blue, and we've brought all of the filets to share with Craig, Calvin and Miles. Craig and I have a mild disagreement over the method of cooking. I think it would be quicker to cook over the fire, while he prefers using his little camp stove (to save his cast iron pan from soot). Since it's his pan, I give way. I crack a couple eggs, then batter the filets in shore lunch breading and a little cajun seasoning. There's a lot more fish than I anticipated, but it's too late to re-freeze and save. I cook it all, leaving just enough fuel to heat coffee in the morning. My sons are excited to share our catch, and we gorge ourselves on the hot crispy fish. I feel no guilt over our largess and subsequent gluttony. We walked miles and fished for hours this summer in construction and anticipation of this feast. It is good and right to participate in the omnivorous cycle of carbon-based life. Our sons are quickly asleep after a day of hard work, play and a surfeit of good food. Craig and I stay up long into the night, adding wood to the fire and passing my guitar back and forth. Smoke and music rise with our talk, winding upward and disappearing into the communal clouds and occasional stars. We are both comforted by the presence of our Brother, by our shared memory and hope, and by the secret fraternal language of men.

Saturday, 09/24/11: Morning, and we strike camp. Craig, Calvin and Miles are going to stay in the park and have lunch, but Max and Will and I must depart, turning west and north towards another brother of mine and his family. We take gratefully hot showers in the cold air, and linger over our farewells in the parking lot. Craig and I resolve to continue this tradition every year, to the wholehearted agreement of our sons. Our parting, as was our meeting, is sweet and sure.

We are again in motion, Max, Will and I, on Highway 18; back across the Mississippi to Decorah, IA, then turning north on Highway 52. We stay in the Driftless Area for a long while, passing through Preston, MN, and we stop at a public access point to the Root River. The boys and I take off our shoes and stand in chilly ankle-deep water at the sandy edge of the current. They're tired, but still game, and somehow cognizant of the significance of these physical and emotional landmarks. I am reminded again of how lucky I am to have these companions on the road. We speed into the sun-washed fields and pastures of early autumn, and the boys fall asleep to rushing wind, Neil Young and the 360 degree beauty of southeast Minnesota.

It's midafternoon when we descend from the hills and gas up in Rochester. I call my brother Mike in St. Paul and let him know we're a couple hours out. We hit I-35 shortly thereafter, and begin to encounter Twin Cities traffic directly after that. By the time we reach Mike and Mary's, we're road-weary and very glad to be out of the car. Mike is grilling in the front yard, and Mary, Seggy, Dagum and Merite all come out to greet us. Seggy, Dagum and Merite are 10, 2 and 2, respectively. A different kind of reunion, a different kind of comfort. It takes a little while, but not long, for Mike and Mary's girls to warm up to the boys and me. They're recently come from Ethiopia, and the contrast of their dark skin with my pale little guys reminds me of sun and shade in the forest. They love the boys' little digital cameras, and they quickly learn how to operate the remote control trucks.

Dinner is grilled hamburgers with all the trimmings and, for Seggy's benefit, fresh beets sliced and grilled along with the hamburgers. As it turns out, I like fresh grilled beets, as well. After dinner, the younger girls make a game out of playing with Will's ZuZu pet, running it across the hardwood floor, then shrieking and jumping in (mostly) feigned fear into the chair with me. They're wonderful, sweet, smart, affectionate kids.

Saturday is movie night at their house, so Mary turns down the lights and we settle in our respective chairs to watch a standard kid flick. My brother's girls make a point of snuggling with me for a little while before Dagum engages in a small power play with Mary over the T.V. It's not my kid, of course, so I find the scene charming, and it's pretty quickly defused. The long day of driving starts to weigh heavy, and Max and Will and I go to bed shortly thereafter. Bed! Sleeping in one!

Sunday, 09/25/11: Mike and Mary are coffee snobs, thank the gods, and the morning's brew is fresh and strong. Dagum and Merite have a trampoline with a handle, and they take turns with my boys catching major air and screaming with laughter. The grown-ups watch in amused amazement at the energy and elasticity of the very young. We walk down the street to a busy neighborhood park, and the kids all play on the swings, slides and monkey bars. We then bounce a basketball around the fenced in court, and soon it's time for Max, Will and I to leave.

Brother Michael, the eldest sibling. How do men reconcile the gulf of time and circumstance that separates us? Mike does it by making sandwiches for us for the road, and with a pack of brats for our last night camping. The gesture is not lost on his prodigal brother. It is good to embrace him, even in farewell. The shared experience of kids may bring us closer still.

Out of the city and south on I-35. The boys and I drive about 80 miles to Myre Big Island State Park on Albert Lea Lake. We break camp quickly in a spot on the "island," which is really a round peninsula that juts out into the wide, shallow lake. We half-heartedly attempt to fish through sunset, but manage only one 4-inch perch.

We hike back to camp and quickly build a fire. The warmth is a benediction in the cold September dark, and my boys huddle close to me on a log we've pulled near the firepit. We eat our brats and some marshmallows, then spend a good while talking and staring into the tightly packed coals. Sleep is welcome, and both boys curl up close to me in their sleeping bags. They know their Dad sheds heat like a furnace.

Monday, 09/26/11: Sunrise, and we quickly re-pack the car before a last hike; a final bit of vacation. We take a trail that begins a little ways behind our campsite and terminates at the water's edge. The boys spend a good half hour scouring the shore for flat rocks to skip. At the last, we stand shoulder to shoulder (more or less), and let the harmony of the waves and the chill wind settle into us. I quietly exhort the boys to remember this moment, and to remember, as well, that wilderness is freedom. Even compromised wilderness managed by the DNR. Even wilderness divided by roads and towns. In this imperfect wilderness, in our imperfect freedom, we stand, and make our stand; pilgrims and penitents in the temple of trees, water and cold morning light.

much peace,

tjb