Taking time to rest

AAA (ambivalence, anger and appreciation)

While my friend is in surgery, I'm sat here with mixed emotions. Mostly I'm angry.  I'm angry with myself, that I didn't keep a more careful watch on my dog. Second guessing all the choices of yesterday, I think about what should have been done differently, for instance, what if I'd shouted 'stay' rather than 'no?' Or if I'd just been more attentive and set up camp where Bud had wanted to stop.

I consider ending all this nonsense. 'What a stupid notion: crossing a country on foot. Where's the benefit, the profit? It certainly hasn't benefited Buddy, has it?'

I'm extremely upset with the driver who could have stopped, but didn't. I admit, a dog shouldn't be on a highway, but if you can avoid hitting it, for goodness sake, have a heart.

I'm angry with Buddy. After almost a month of demonstrating exceptional discipline, never a paw on the concrete without permission, what was he thinking?

I'm frustrated about the impact this will have on the journey and the unexpected costs incurred.

HOWEVER, after all is said and done, I'm grateful.

I'm thankful for Buddy's unconditional friendship, that he's put up with all of my demands and only ever wanted companionship in return (well, that and food). I'm thankful that he's still alive and pray that his story will be one of success in the face of adversity.

Also, I feel deep appreciation for all the wonderful people who've gone out of their way to lend a hand. Actions truly speak louder than words, and I'm humbled to be the recipient of many gracious actions. I would...

...Breaking news! Dr. Carlson just rang to say that the procedure is finished and that everything went well. They're going to keep Bud overnight and then he'll be free to go in the morning. I'm about five miles from the clinic, organizing a new form of transportation for my friend to use while the soft tissue heals. Off to see him now. Then, I'll be going to the Kiwanis camp area to set up a place for us to rest and let Buddy get used to this change.

A tragic day

Up with the sunrise, I take advantage of the shower house while Buddy takes advantage of my sleeping bag in my absence. Once things are packed and we're just about to head out, Michael, who I'd met the previous evening, offers to make me some breakfast. So both us sojourners enter Mike's camper, his pudgy Boston Terrier gracefully allows Bud to go through its basket of play toys. Bud picks out some rawhide to chew on, and Michael serves me a tasty skillet. We part ways after getting to know each other a bit better, and I head to the gas station to fill my coffee cup before we go. Unknown to me, Glo had left instructions for Sunday's cashier, Linda, not to accept my money. Wow! If there's one thing I hope this journal emphasizes it's this: America is still full of good people, those who believe in hospitality and helping each other when times get tough.

This belief has been put to the test in more ways than one. We have a great day of puffy white clouds and blue sky. I stop from time to time to take photos of the amazing landscape and to let Buddy enjoy Glo's beef jerky treats. We've just gone passed Moccasin and are starting to think about places to camp. At one point Bud suggests some tall grass near some horses, but I say, 'That's no good. It's much too close to the road.'

Then, around 1530 one of my worst fears for this hike was realized. I'm in an upbeat mood, singing Elvis' greatest hits and Buddy's off the shoulder exploring in his usual way. We come to an overpass with train tracks beneath Buddy goes below as he has done before, but when we get to the other side, Bud's come out on the right instead of on my left (We walk facing traffic). The horror unfolds almost in slow motion. I see approaching vehicles in both lanes and shout NO! But it's too late. Buddy's already coming toward me. There's a yelp, and he's down. I run out and pick him up, bringing him back to the left shoulder. He can't stand and he's whining. The lady who had hit him says she's got to go, she's left some water running. So I put my dog on our cart and push as fast as I can, praying the whole time: 'Jesus please heal Bud. Don't let him die.' I get to a bar in the town of Hobson and I'm thinking, 'Ironic, Hobson's choice. I've got one option: get Bud to a vet. How am I going to get him to a vet and what am I going to do? I don't have a car. I'm hundreds of miles from anyone I know.

But Mary, the lady at the bar, starts making enquiries immediately. She finds a vet who's available on Sundays. Then, a guy named Levi who was there when I came in says he'll give us a ride 25 miles into Lewistown, to a Dr Greg Carlson. We all get in his car and make it to the place. In an act of further generosity Levi won't accept any money. Your act of kindness won't soon be forgotten my friend.

Dr Carlson takes ex-rays and finds that Buddy has had a serious break at his left knee joint. The growth plate is completely detached from the femur so that mending it would be quite difficult. The recommendation is amputation. I feel slightly ill when the words first come out: 'I would amputate it.' But I'm glad Buddy is alive and apparently in no immediate danger. Also, the doctor's prognosis is encouraging. He says that this procedure has had positive results numerous times, and he feels that Bud will go on to enjoy a high quality of life even with three legs. When I suggest that he won't be able to heard cattle like he'd done yesterday, Greg suggests that he'll do it just fine. He then generously offers me a lift to a nearby motel so that I can update those of you following along.

So, I'm left here now to consider the possibilities and to ask, 'What's your plan in all of this God?'

Ideas? Suggestions?

Buddy's spending the night at the veterinarian's. He's on pain meds, and I'm hopeful that he'll be alright until I go to see him in the morning.

Kindness and generosity

All night long the rain had poured down in buckets, but my little tent kept us warm and dry. The wind is brutally beating against the tent now so I figure we'll wait and see if it calms down...no luck. It actually picks up so that by 11:00 it's a consistent 45 mph. Talk about a challenge!

Anyways, we make it into Stanford and stop in at the convenience store so Bud can eat out of the wind and I can get some coffee. Glo (the lady at the counter) thinks I'm a bit crazy, but she donates some beef jerky to show her support. Bud's always thrilled to receive the blessings that people bestow. Boy, his tail starts wagging the moment he senses a treat's in store.

From there, we cross the street to an RV park hoping they'll let us pitch a tent for the night. The ladies in the office are really nice and interested in the journey. I'm just about to pay when Alverta declares: 'I'd like to pay for you. Bobby,' she says, turning to the owner, 'I'll pay for this young man.'

'Well, thank you.' I say. 'That's awfully kind of you.' I give 'em both cards so they can follow the trip, and they give me some good info about being on my guard as I get closer to Glendive and N Dakota.

I choose a spot behind a fence that partially blocks the ruthless eastern wind, but even so, it takes twice as long to erect the tent and get all the gear situated. I leave Bud to rest and go to the restaurant across the road. I'm eating a burger and learnin' about the area from a guy named Bob who's sittin' opposite me and listening to the banter around the room.

Mind you. I don't often make an effort to listen in on other people's conversations, but sometimes the volume is at a level where no effort is required. From the discussion that ensues with the table to the right, I'm left to believe that most of the men in these parts are 'sons of bitches.' And although I'd probably find other adjectives to describe friends or colleagues, somehow it kind of fits the setting here.

I finish up and make a quick jot next door to see if Glo's got any ice-cream bars. She donates a strawberry short cake bar with the pretext that she hates 'em and sends me off with a couple of sausages for Bud. (Thanks Glo! He devoured the dogs with an amazingly voracious tenacity.

Now, listening to the howling wind and the trucks as they plow on by, I've lost feeling in my upper digits, which means, it's time to mummy up and and let the vapors condense on the inner lining of my bag.

Reminiscent of childhood

We struggle along the highway 16 or 17 miles, battling miserably vicious winds until eventually arriving at the town of Belt, presumably named after the Little Belt Mountains, in the shadow of which  it lies. An informative plaque in the commercial district says that coal was discovered here in the 1870s and became a springboard, launching this little canyon town into prominence.

We enter the Fort Ponderosa Campground on the east end of town and I sign in with Mike, the newly appointed proprietor. Apparently, he's come with his wife May to get things up and running again. Because the owner passed away and the grounds haven't been tended, several things are in need of repair.

Well, our camp's up in a jiff, so I decide to walk the grounds and check things out.

There's an engraved sign above a door that reads 'scullury,' but the red paint is peeling badly revealing decay in the wood, and a cadmium foam sealant oozes from all the seams alleging that this kitchen hasn't seen a cook for a while.
The barn is decorated with a great number of antiquated tools, bits and bops left from a simpler, agrarian age.
The bathrooms have a scent reminiscent of a camp I vaguely recall from my childhood, sort of a musky, damp, earthy smell, and scattered on the floors are the same roughly woven rainbow colored rugs that my grandma used to have.
I envision a once elaborately constructed entrance and hear the excited voices of thousands of children exclaiming:

'We're here! We're here!'

Now those voices are faint echos. An insipid island with a few barren trees tries to welcome visitors, but its moat is devoid of water and cracks in the concrete are visible in places where leaves and dirt have failed to clothe.

Someone once invested  a tremendous part of his life to make this campground a vibrant and magnificent get away. I suspect that he probably poured his heart and soul into this place, making it a joy for countless families.

Looking at the run down playgrounds with its broken seesaw and rusted old maypole, I feel a deep sense of remorse.
I hope Mike and May can make it shine again for a new generation to enjoy.

Another long day

22:00

'Ahhhh! A shower is a wonderful thing,' I think, leaning against the wall and letting the hot water run over me. In my younger days I would have considered 9 days without a shower as just another bohemian freedom of hippies, but now I've determined it's just gross. At the end of a long day, Bud's passed out on the carpet; I crawl into a warm bed and drift off to sleep.

8:30 am that morning

Starting me off in the right direction, Curtiss points to the coffee and we have a small chat. Buddy's outside playing enthusiastically with a new friend (a black lab that appears to have chewed through his restraints). Today the goal's to go a mere 18 miles to the junction at Vaugn, so we're not in a huge rush. On the road by 9:45, we've got some clumsy company tagging along. I'm glad Bud's found a friend, but this Lab seems downright dumb, walking back and forth in both lanes and stopping traffic by standing in front of oncoming vehicles. Bud goes on the leash for a while cause I don't want him imitating that kind of behavior. However, after about 5 miles the other dog dashes off into a field and doesn't come back. So, Buddy's free to roam off the shoulder again.

We stop for a break after about ten miles at a sort of independently run wetlands that's being drained due to the constant badgering of environmental protection agencies, weird right? Anyway, along comes one Mr Doug Rorr (spl?) who's brought some delightfully good strawberry cake the Mrs sent. We get to talking, and he shares a little bit out of the wisdom of his experience and encourages me to finish this trek and get it out of my system. I thank him, and we part ways amicably.

Not too far away, Bud finds what looks to be a pond, so I tell him to go grab a drink. When he comes back, he's stained a dark navy blue that I recognize from childhood trips to Prineville and the chemicals we dumped in the outhouses.

'Oh Bud! What have you done?'

It looks like he's rolled around in the filth, and the smile on his face seems to say that he's quite happy with himself. When we get to the gas station in Vaugn, Kathy Dunn, the cashier, tells me that that's the septic pit for the town. Would have been nice if the city had posted a sign.

Well, I wash him off as best as possible, and decide to keep going on to Great Falls since there's not really a place to camp in Vaugn. Outside of the city we meet Bridget. She'd seen us walking all day and pulled over to see what was happening. I give her a card and she's very encouraging toward the cause. Even offers to give us a ride. But we politely decline and she pulls away shouting, 'Rock on!' (I think.)

Then, only a few minutes later and we're talking to a group of guys at a crossroads. They offer some cash, but I refer them to the card and explain about the work FH does. So they promise to check it out.

By this time it's dark. We've gone at least 30 miles, we're tired, and the KOA is on the other side of the city. So rather than going further, I stop there on the fringes of town at the Starlit Motel to see if we can get a room that will fit my budget. Pure providence! The owner, Darrin Davenport, is very accommodating and when he learns about what we're doing, he donates all kinds of goodies, including a big elk sausage processed somewhere nearby.

There are awesome people everywhere.

The Divide is behind

One word for today: grueling. All the way from mile post 96 to Simms, we climb up then go down...Must have done it eight or nine times. Oh well, at least there's a strong tailwind to help give a little extra momentum to the cart. We stop in at Curtis's Service Stop around 20:00, where the owner graciously allows us to put up our tent on a soft area of grass without charge. I finish my last can of pork and beans watching the sun fade over the now distant mountains.