Broken Bones: Circumstances of Magic

BROKEN BONES: Circumstances of MAGIC

There is degree of dependability for the injured, the handicapped and the crippled, but there is varying degrees of taking advantage of the goodness in others and being able to actually manage more than one realizes if one is strong, healthy and a survivor in mind and spirit.

This opportunity I have right now with a broken leg puts me, so to speak, in Scotts (random name) of the world, whom is my upstairs handicapped roommate and takes advantage of the home health care or his biological mother or his stepfather whom he deplores. I have seen so many helpers quit in the last few months.

This opportunity helps me to see through the eyes of the less fortunate and those who have given up to life’s struggles, becoming numb to other’s burdens, jobs and feelings and may have had something happen to them where they subscribe and believe it’s the end of the world.  I don’t buy into that.

It also helps me see through the eyes of ‘The Help’ and see that last straw that breaks the camels back—one more question, one more need, one more want—can you do this for me or can you do that for me? —That takes it over that imaginary line and the person being helped becomes a burden to the helper. The helper grows weary of being taken advantaged of and they walk out that door forever shutting that door on the Scotts of their life.

They might continue doing home health care for the elderly, but they won’t break again in the same place because they told themselves they won’t be pushed that way and that far again kind of like a broken bone.

No. Life isn’t easy. The tables can be turned in a split second of not landing the skis properly and sharp pain shoots an electric shock through that broken bone. Sure, I could’ve done that run a hundred times and been fine, but life in its vigor is just as fragile and if not more so, around the edges of vitality, youth and health.

From that moment on, my life was forever changed and never will be the same. It will make me stronger and more honest, building aspects of character I didn’t know I could muster. I am different than the day before my accident. What felt lonely and empty inside me before now is overflowing to the brim with goodness from others and the light that overpowers darkness. I am lucky! I am grateful for family, friends, co-workers, humanity and life with all of its twists and turns and breaks and mends. Its beauty makes its sadness worth living. Life is mysterious and I welcome its Magic.

Sure, my left leg throbs in places it never has before and is swollen unrecognizably in comparison to my other healthy leg. But, I’ve never broken anything besides my nose and heart on a couple of occasions. There is beauty in that pain—a deep profound feeling focused within that leg and my body that didn’t exist before proving that I’m alive and present.

Sure, I could sell out and tell myself and others lies that I believe and say ‘it’s the end’ and victimize myself with a “poor me” attitude, but that wont get me anywhere except in deep dark valley of depression with no way out.

Yeah, I broke my fibula and dislocated my left ankle but these are still first world problems. I have enough to eat, a job, a bed to sleep in, a shelter over my head, friends, family, clean water, electricity, good hospitals, etc.  I’ll be fine. There is not a war raging and battling outside my door. The church and the government are not burning whole libraries of books and gathering all the free thinkers to be locked up. It’s just a broken bone and nothing more.

It’s a chance to slow down for four weeks and maybe more from our fast-paced and crazed world that is so intoxicated and blinded by wealth, greed, progress and production that we fail to slow down to smell the flowers in summer or watch the snow flakes fall in a hushed winter setting or listen to the news the song birds bring with the coming of spring.

This opportunity forces me to slow down and see life as it is, not muddied by my own selfish projection of ‘what if’ but raw, broken and full at the same time. Things take longer and are more challenging, but that’s it.

We are pretty fortunate to be alive. It’s an honor and a blessing. Sure, plans have changed and now I can’t go on that 30-40 mile backcountry cross country skiing trip I had planned in Glacier National Park in a few weeks and my other upcoming ski date with a hottie may not happen or be prolonged a few weeks. It did happen last night and we went on a date.

It’s not about what happens to us but how we respond and adapt to the constant changing universe that we are apart of. Most of our problems arise from too much doing and not enough being. We are human beings not human doings.

When life gets juicy with plot, complications arise and mystery is close. Ride the wave of acceptance that vibration will carry you to new levels. The doors of perception will be cleansed and open if your heart is in the right place and things can and will happen, as you lay vulnerable to life and its elements—MAGIC is waiting for us to slow down enough to experience her.

(latest publication) MORTALITY: THAT EVER-PRESENT SHADOW

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  Mortality: That Ever-Present Shadow.

    Walking slowly and silently to upper Kintla Lake, Mike and I pass by hair, bones, and gut piles, coppering the snow. Off in the trees to the north, a cacophony from an unkindness of ravens shatters the thick air of winter. Wolf tracks veer off in the same direction. 

     We begin bushwhacking into the thick forest as the same con- spiracy of ravens scatters and rises off the ground by the dozens, wheeling above and scolding us. Sniffing the air, I smell the pu- trescent odor of rotting flesh. In front of me, a whitetail deer lays exposed with the rib cavity ripped open and organs missing. The deer’s eyeballs are pecked clean, leaving behind an eerie vacuous stare where consciousness once stirred. 

    We are now standing amidst trees that once stood straight, but are now slanted downhill. After inspecting the dead deer we see an- other, not too far away. Like a flashlight beam, our attention goes to another deer. Then another and another. We find deer carcasses underneath aspen, and Douglas fir trees. Trees are splintered off sev- eral feet above ground, while others are broken at their base; some are completely uprooted by heavy snow, barreling down. Over a hundred yard swath of trees are mowed over. 

     Hiking up, beyond the destruction of deer and trees, toward the chute, we come up over a wall of snow deposited two to three stories high, studded with dirt, snow, and tree debris. Deer, with senses more alert than our own, could not escape an avalanche of this magnitude. Dozens of carcasses were scavenged by wolves, coy- otes, birds, and we also notice mountain lions had investigated the

mayhem from the snowslide. Scavengers have devoured the organs first and over time will return to eat the rest of the animal. They went for the creme de la crem first. We conclude that the avalanche volleyed off Long Knife Mountain, plowing over the trees like a de- railed train, crushing and clubbing to death dozens of deer. 

    

     “Who knows what else could be buried in here – like mountain goats, bears or even wolverines. Why are we carrying deer legs as bait? There is an all-you-can-eat buffet right here.” Mike says to me. Animals will be eating off this eviscerated smorgasbord for a long time. 

     Trudging up over another wall of undulating snow, I see move- ment! Figures flee. I yell to Mike, “Hey, look over there!” Five gray- ish-tan and black wolves scurry off into a wall of green-standing co- nifers. We startled them, probably sleeping off full bellies. 

       “Everyone talks about the big-bad wolf, but every time I see them, they always run off and don’t want anything to do with me.” I say. 

        Judging by the size of trees this barrage of snow plowed over, this chute has not released in several decades. Avalanches are a product of heavy snows on top of weak layers that build up on steep mountain slopes, eventually leading to the weak layers giving way. Heavy snow barrels down the mountain, allowing the avalanche to gain more snow and momentum. This winter was strange, with snow in the high country coming early, followed by rain, then sub-zero tem- peratures, followed by more snow. A warm-up happened, melting snow, then cold temps making ice, then accumulating more snow

on top of the slippery layer of ice. The top, heavier layers of snow must have slid, triggering the white freight train to come barrel- ing down the mountain creating a killing field in the upper Kintla valley. 

 

 

Two days earlier, mist rising off the river wets our faces as Mike and I ford the North Fork of the Flathead, just north of Po- lebridge, Montana, as chunks of ice and slush bounce off our wad- ers. We struggle through the current, trying to find purchase on slimy river cobblestones, with ski poles stabbing the river floor. Skis strapped to our packs, boots, tied and dangling around our necks, as we cross over the imaginary boundary into Glacier Na- tional Park. Tied to the top of our packs is a deer’s hind quarter weighing us down. We’re stripped to a minimum living out of a backpack for the next three days.
Approaching the riverbank, piled high with snow, we unstrap our packs and pull out our skis. We sit on them, pull off our wad- ers and step into ski boots, placing heavy waders on a tree branch to pick up on return. . We kick-step up the bench overlooking the river, post-holing three feet deep before reaching the Inside North Fork Road, which is a one-lane gravel road buried in snow. We ski toward the foot of Lower Kintla Lake for a wolverine study. But also, and even more so, because I am drawn here by the wildness, like a long lost lover, wanting to experience all of her many moods and seasons.
Slowly, we ski the undulating landscape through mosaic forest of burnt black lodgepole pine, Douglas fir, and still-alive needle- less larch trees. The Wedge Creek Fire raged through here nine years ago, charring much of the forest. Many larch survived be- cause of thick fire resistant bark and high branches that prevent flames from climbing its branches. Elk, deer, moose, and wolf tracks temporarily tattoo the snow. A pine marten scampers be- hind a tree before curiosity gets the better of it. It peeks out again, then crawls back into a burrow below an upturned root wad.
As we ski I look over at Mike and notice his ski gait is a little off. “Everything alright?” I ask.
“Yeah, for the most part. Abrei didn’t want me to go on this trip. We fought about it last night. She thought something could happen back here and there’s just the two of us going. Also, she’s been pushing me to find a more serious, stable job – as in a career with benefits so we can raise a family.”
While we ski the four miles to the foot of lower Kintla Lake. Mike’s words resonate with me more than I expect. A part of me is tired of being restless and following one seasonal job to the next. That element in me wants to settle down and quit being a con- temporary nomad migrating with the sun.
Once we get to the lake we pull out binoculars and glass the frozen lake looking for wildlife. Nothing stirring, just tracks on the snow, like ghosts of the animals. Beyond the lake, toward the Continental Divide, the summits are socked in with clouds, mak- ing me feel small. I realize seasonal work has its limitations and I want to contribute more to the world, take some kind of leap, leave a mark – whatever that may be.
Two hours later we arrive at the boat dock and find a ten-foot post, standing erect against the gray sky. Bronze colored wire-

mesh brushes are attached to the sides of the post to snag hair samples. Brown and black eagle and raven down feathers are caught in the tiny, wire fingers of the mesh brushes. But, no wol- verine hair and still no answers to life’s gnawing questions.
The brushes, the same used for cleaning guns, are used to snag wolverine hair, when they climb the post to get to the bait lag- bolted on top. The deer’s hind quarter strapped to our packs will be the new bait. The hair is collected and mailed to a DNA lab to identify individual wolverines to help answer questions about this elusive creature. Researchers and biologists used to lure wol- verines into live traps using dead beavers, jabbing the wolverines with a tranquilizer then a veterinarian would surgically implant GPS units inside their bellies. It was invasive, but worked better than collars because wolverine’s necks are as thick as their heads and radio collars slip right off. The study has been going on for several years and biologists are trying to get a population estimate of wolverines who call Glacier Park home.
The post has plenty of flesh attached to the deer leg we’d hung two weeks ago. Unscrewing the cap off the bottle of animal lure that consists of beaver castor oil and skunk glands, I gag at the smell. 

     Replacing the brushes. “They figure over forty wolverines live here,” I say. As far as the rest of the state is concerned they have no idea. The state allows five wolverines to be trapped a year. Biolo- gists want to find out if the allowance of five wolverines taken a year is feasible or whether wolverines should be placed on the En- dangered Species List. The viability of this species is in question. 

     Another looming plight facing wolverines is a warming planet. They live and den in high elevations and need average annual tem- peratures around seventy-two degrees. If their habitat warms a couple of degrees it changes as subalpine firs encroach further up into the alpine. Mountain goats, their preferred prey, will there- fore also be affected as their food source, lichens, diminishes. 

     After inspecting the brushes and re-baiting the post, we get ready to ski or hike, depending on which is necessary, to the head of the lake, where there is a small ranger station cabin where we’ll stay for two nights.
“Do you think the lake is frozen enough to hold our weight?” I ask. Intimidated by the expanse we look out over the lake one more time. 

    Mike shrugs his shoulders, “Hope so.” The lake has a thin veneer of snow, covering whatever depth of ice that lies below
it.

      “I heard from a previous researcher that the lake was ice-free
two weeks ago,” I say. How frozen could it be in that amount of time? 

            Little pools of water line the edges of the frozen mass revealing the fragility and impermanence of the ice, while a muskrat hun- kers near an opening, gnawing on twigs. Skiing deeper into the wildness of Glacier’s Kintla Valley, the ground looks like autumn, a product of Kintla’s rain/snow shadow. The dried brown tawny grasses of winter are not blanketed by deep snow as they are in other drainages. The grasses stand erect like they do in the late fall before snow flies and the forest is laid to rest for the season. 

We start skiing down trail before we notice wolf tracks in a

short diagonal across the frozen cove. From coming here in years past, I know that if the lake is not frozen, we’ll have to walk down the snow-free trail for seven miles to the head of the lake. 

 

       After seeing the wolf tracks, we decide that if the ice can hold a hundred pound wolf then it should be able to hold our weight, distributed upon skis. We decide to go the way of the wolf. Sum- moning a leap of faith with each slide of the ski, Mike is telling a story, when crackling lake ice suddenly races outwards like spider webs. Quickly we ski closer to the shore. Once secure, we both stop and look at each other, fear retreating in our minds and let out a deep sigh. 

       According to the Flathead Basin Commission, lower Kintla Lake is 390 feet deep and if one falls in, chances of survival are slim. Kintla Lake is fifteen miles north of Polebridge Ranger Sta- tion, which in the winter has rangers intermittently staffed. The nearest town is Columbia Falls, forty-five miles south on a rough road. Whitefish, with a local hospital, is ten to fifteen miles be- yond that. A rescue would take more than four hours and that is being optimistic. 

         Standing on skis along the shore, the lake gives off gurgles and moans of growing pains that reverberate and echo inwards and outwards as if a living entity is speaking in a language older than words and beyond human comprehension. According to Richard Nelson, a cultural anthropologist of Native Alaskans and author of Make Prayers to the Raven, the Koyukon believe the lake makes these noises asking the heavens to insulate the lake with thicker ice and snow to shelter it from the freezing air of winter. 

         We continue to ski on the lake, but near the shore, we notice in the woods above, that the snow dwindles to a dusting. The rain/ snow shadow haunts the western shore for the next fifteen miles, to the head of upper Kintla Lake. Clouds carrying moisture in the form of snow come in from the northwest, get ripped open from the nearby mountainous ridges of Long-Knife but blocked by Starvation Ridge, releasing their snow up high, but not down low. The east-facing slopes have a dwindling of snow. Who would’ve thought that the deeper one goes into the northwestern Rockies 

to the foot of the Continental Divide that snow would become diaphanous and nil at times?


       The rain/snow shadow creates a wintering ground attracting both prey and predator alike. From miles around, a large living, moving, and breathing ecosystem migrates to this place every winter. I feel the same attraction that the animals do and must make the journey. 


       Meanwhile, we continue skiing the remaining five and a half miles across the lake, but closer to shore, to the head, fresh moun- tain lion tracks punctuate the dusting of snow in front of the cab- in. All day long the sky is dark with a glacier gray hanging over the valley, but right before dusk the ceiling of clouds parted. A pocket of blue opened in the fabric of cloud, revealing mile-high Mt. Kin- nerly and its icy-white rime-covered summit. Mountain peaks, looming high above, snow-crested and draped in winter gowns, shadow our small endeavors. Long Knife mountain, Gardener’s Point, and Parke peak tower above. A raven’s jet-black wings beat the cold, still, winter air and a bald eagle rides a column of air high above. 

     That night, while we sip red wine and cook. We stretch out our shoulders from the heavy packs we carried in. “You going back to the park this summer?” Mike says. “You’ve been there a long time.” 


    “Yeah, a decade. Probably. Dunno. I want to do something more, though. You? You going to keep working for the Montana Conservation Corps?” 

    “I dunno” Mike says. “Probably.” “What do you want to do?” 

    “I like working with people, but I also like being in the woods, so something that combines both.” 

    “Wanting to work in the woods is the thing I can’t let go of ei- ther, and writing about being in the woods. I’d like to connect the two that way, but the park pays. Writing – who knows?” 

      We wake up the next day to a gunmetal gray sky heavy with rain. Slipping on our tennis shoes, we place our ski boots inside our packs and strap our skis to our pack. Then stick our heads

through the loop of our avalanche beacons and strap shovels to our pack and avalanche probes in the pocket of our packs. As we start walking to the upper lake, dozens upon dozens of whitetail deer bound away from our approach. Three bull elk stand next to giant gray boulders, beneath old-growth larch trees with their thick reddish-brown bark. The bulls browse on red-osier dog- wood, scratching themselves with tiny outstretched branches be- fore they hide from us. 

      Off to our left, a discordance from a storytelling of ravens dis- turbs the silence of winter. Wolf tracks also lead off the trail in that direction. 

        “Should we check it out?” Mike asks,
         “Let’s finish our job first, then explore!”

        Continuing on, we drop our packs at the foot of the lake, pull
out ski boots and snap into our ski bindings to cross the snow- covered lake. We decide to put the post in the shadow of Mt. Kin- nerly. We ski across the eastern shore, then with a handsaw I cut a downed tree to ten feet. 

        While Mike attaches wire mesh brushes I pull out the garbage bag with the deer leg. Pulling out a bolt with washers I feel the best place on the hind quarter to screw in the lag bolt. Turning a socket wrench, the bolt grips through the deer hair and frozen meaty flesh before it takes to the scapula, puncturing through bone. 

     Then attach the bait to the top of the post and wipe animal lure all over the post. We hoist the post up in the air and carry it near a root wad. We wrap and tie metal wire around the post, attaching it to the root wad to stand it up. 

    We ski back to where our tennis shoes are stashed, take off our packs, step into our shoes, and start hiking back toward the raven discordance and the upheaval that began this story. Arriving at the place where the wolf tracks lead off is where we come across the avalanche. 
 
      After investigating the aftermath of the avalanche, Mike and I head back to the cabin in silence, overwhelmed by all the death. The two of us are harboring unsettled emotions and thoughts; not too unlike the layer of snow that gave way on the mountain- side causing this devastation. 

       Back in the comforting confines of a cabin, we each pour a whisky tumbler and toast “To life and to Ben’s 33rd birthday to- morrow!” Mike leans back in his chair with whisky glass in hand and wonders, “What, or when, is your time? Who (if anyone) de- cides this? Why did those deer die and not the countless other ones we saw?

       Will these wolverines of Glacier be around much longer? I have to do what I can while I am here.” 

      In a way Mike and I are also seeking shelter from the storms of change and uncertainty of life by desiring a more stable lifestyle. We come to this wild place with dreams hidden away below the surface and just out of view. Mortality, that ever-present shadow, haunts and taunts us to our grave. 

     When we are in nature we must realize that the animals we encounter are operating on ancient laws written in their DNA. While we are there, we must abide by these same rules too. If chance is kind, our lives will be nourished and we’ll return to share our stories. 

     I’ve been drawn to this drainage for years, like the animals that come here year after year. There is a magnetic urge that calls from deep within that attracts me like a long lost lover. 

    That night we raised our whisky glasses to life and death and everything that comes between!

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