First book in Roland's popular Valediction For Revenge western series

insight pared

KNOWLEDGE SHARED

Outdoor bold

To acess Roland's weblog and column archives

Tip o' the Day

Have you smelled fear; the cloying sickly fear that turns your stomach? Perhaps it was when your pickup hit an icy patch on a winter road, or when the grammer school bully singled you out for special attention at age eight.

Personally I've smelled fear in the outdoors -- very real and very cose when I inadvertently came between a sow grizzly and her cub along the Whitefish Divide, just north of the Big Mountain ski area; and when I intruded on a monster grizzly's territory up the Spotted Bear River.

But both were mere child's play compared to the smell of fear I've innocently invoked by clambering along tough mountain cliffs during an exploratory day in the wilds. Unbeknownst to most, the danger of pushing relentlessly toward forbidding rock summits in the hope of continuing into remote and isolated territory is beyond doubt the most formidable danger an outdoorsman could encounter in our western mountains.

I've been there enough to know it's much easier to go up until you find you can go no further, then discover it near impossible to descend over the same route you ascended only a few moments before. It's there, while staring at the ledge below, that the smell of fear trickles into your backbone. It's there you discover that courage travels but a short distance from heart to head, but when it goes, it goes so far no one can know where to look for it.

A bear will, nine times out of ten, yield in a dangerous encounter. Not so with a rock face. It is unyielding, somber, emotionless. There is nothing -- nothing at all -- you can do except swallow your fear and begin your descent. Staring at the abyss won't help; only lowering yourself down, tentatively feeling for the toeholds and fingerholds you so confidently scrambled up moments before will suffice.

Better that you never got there in the first place. Better that you recognize and respect the greatest danger our wilderness mountains afford. Better that you never smell the bile that rises to your throat, or suffer the consequences of a foolish climbing error.

Roland, I am Robert's [West] youngest son, Ben. I truly appreciate the tribute you did for my dad on your website and your friendship with my dad throughout the years. He loved hunting with you. I miss him everyday because he was my hero. The only hero I ever had / email from Ben West

* * *

MARKING THE SPOT

"ROLAND!" Her voice, though subdued, held a note of urgency. "There are two wolvcs on that mountain."

I made a wry face while staring at the inside of the outhouse door--perhaps not all my facial contortions were based on the wry fact that, at the time, I had long dreamed of seeing a wolf. I wanted to hear one howl, too. But even after two decades of guiding others into some of the wildest country in the Northern Rocky Mountains, the only evidence of wolves I'd ever seen was an occasional large canine track that wasn't accompanied by Vibram prints from hiking boots. We were in a little roadside picnic ground at Many Glacier, on the east side of Glacier National Park. It was mid-April and snow yet covered the tables. Snow was spotty up on Mount Altyn, but still too much for hiking. We'd already spent much of the day glassing several bands of bighorns and smaller bunches of mountain goats. Then, just before we headed home. . . .

"Where?" I asked, buttoning pants as I hurried to her side.

She held my Zeiss binoculars to her eyes. "I . . . I don't know. I lost them. They were right up there, trotting across the hillside. They were dark. I know how badly you've wanted to see a wolf. I just took my eyes off for a second to call you. I'm sorry."

I lifted the rear hatch on our car, took out the spotting scope and began adjusting its legs. "You didn't mark them?" When she failed to answer, I said, "You know, ma'am, probably the first thing I ever taught you about wildlife watching is when you see something, mark the spot so it's easy to go back to."

She lowered the glasses. There were tears in her eyes. "I know. I thought I did mark them. And I can't see how they could have disappeared." When I asked where, she said, "Do you see the band of sheep lying just above the big angled snowbank. . . .

I focused on the bighorns--a couple dozen rams and ewes, all lounging comfortably, unexcited, chewing their cuds. They were scattered across a hundred feet of grassy slope. "How far from the sheep?"

She raised the glasses. "Up the hill and to the left. I would guess a hundred yards. Ten o'clock. Above the rock ledge. They were headed left, up the canyon."

I began systematically sweeping the mountainside--pattern scoping--starting low and working left to right in zig-zag increments, ratcheting the 20-power scope's objective lens up the hill to insure covering everything. As the lounging sheep again came into view, I muttered, "Those bighorns hardly looks like a couple of wolves just trotted through their camp."

I don't care what you say. I know what I saw." When I suggested they may have been coyotes, she became angry. "Roland, I saw wolves. I know I saw wolves. They were dark. It's not as if I've never seen a coyote before."

The scope's lens swept over a ledge at least 600 yards away. I paused and swung back. Something strange. "Are those ears?" I murmured.

"Find something?" Jane asked. I studied the ears for a few moments before deciding my imagination was getting away and swung the scope on across the hillside. Seeing nothing, I came back to the ears. They were gone. I scratched my head and looked over the top of the spooting scope. Yes, that was where I saw it. Agin I peered through the scope. The ears were back.

Intent now, I watched until the wolf swung his head to peer up Swiftcurrent Canyon, then back to gaze below at the lounging bighorns. "Jane," I said, stepping gallantly from the scope.

Oh, do you see something?" She stretched to look. "Yes, you do. It's just his head peeking over that ledge. But this one is white. Mine were dark."

Roland Cheek wrote a syndicated outdoors column (Wild Trails and Tall Tales) for 21 years. The column was carried in 17 daily and weekly newspapers in two states. In addition, he scripted and broadcast a daily radio show (Trails to Outdoor Adventure) that aired on 75 stations from the Atlantic seaboard to the Pacific Ocean. He's also written upwards of 200 magazine articles and 12 fiction and nonfiction books. For more on Roland, visit:

www.rolandcheek.com

Comments

for more info about these and other Roland Cheek books

Click Here

Click Here

for detailed info about each of Roland's books

Read Reviews

Read their first chapters

Book four in the Valediction For Revenge series, Gunnar's Mine, is set in Colorado mining country, as is the sixth and final book in the series, The Silver Yoke

to send this weblog to a friend

to tell Roland what you think of his Campfire Culture weblog

Click Here