It was a simple enough plan; I would drive to Colorado a week before Christmas to begin harassing Hucklings and Grand-Hucklings. Diane, daughter Arcelia and grandson Jonas would fly down on Christmas day. Once I got ahead of road closures in Oregon and circumvented the big one in Wyoming, it was a simple 1240 miles of windy, cold and snowy winter wonderland.
That two day solo drive on winter’s roads became one of the richest and most satisfying of the 70-some trips I’ve made between Central Washington and Denver over the past five decades. Somehow, one after another of those snow-covered landscapes sent me instantly to my bank. Unexpected really; in all the times I have written and talked about it, I never fell so deeply into it.
The concept was explained by a writer for one of the major outdoor magazines back in the 1960s. The column disappeared long ago, but never his argument. He wrote in detail of opening a “memory bank account,” into which would go all memories of outdoor trips and activities – hunting, fishing, camping, family hikes, and so on. The beauty of this account is that one might make withdrawals as often as desired, but the account could never be drawn down. Every time a favorite memory was withdrawn, it would be polished, treasured, enjoyed, and re-deposited with greater value than when it was withdrawn. Even in my callous youth, I knew that was a bank account worth starting.
Fifty years later, I can almost read the last paragraph in that writer’s column. It went something like, “So remember this. Nothing is more important than making regular deposits into your account. When you’re 80 or 90 years old, which will serve you best? The polished and carefully saved memories of times afield with buddies and those you love? Or the memories of the papers which crossed your desk, or the widgets which passed on the line before you? So, do all your work with pride…but make those ‘memory bank’ deposits.”
Virtually all of those sudden withdrawals along the road to Denver were tied to some “auld acquaintance” – long since gone home or to life beyond mine. And in each of those memories was the palpable friendship and camaraderie which made it worth depositing in the first place.
Across southern Idaho, glancing out across that snow-covered sage steppe, at a wintered-up bunch of antelope, I was suddenly hunched down next to Phil Jackson. Just a couple years out of our grad work at the University of Kansas, we were in a swirling snowstorm sneaking up on a bunch of pronghorns. Probably the best shot, and the cleanest, neatest guy I ever knew afield – even if he had cleaned all our birds or fish or whatever – he made a very long and perfect shot. He wasn’t feeling well, so I dressed and carried his antelope back to the car in that wind and snow. As we loaded it, I looked at Phil. For the first time in all our outings Phil was bloody and messy and I looked ready for the office.
Coming up out of Utah into western Colorado, I passed through a snow-filled pinion-juniper woodland. There were teenagers Tim and Michelle, following tracks and sneaking on muleys in that hilly, brushy, snowy country. There they were, dragging the results of quiet stalks and good shooting, jabbering about whose deer was going to make the best meals between now and next hunting season. And there was the game warden who met us at the rig, telling how he watched us for an hour through his spotting scope, and acknowledging me for following the rules, when so many dads hunted with their kids just so they could shoot their deer for them. I didn’t quite believe it then (I still don’t), but that country immersed me in years of dad-son-daughter hunts.
Glancing off over the deep snow covering open forest ground north of the road between Grand Junction and Glenwood Springs, and glancing at an outside temperature of eight degrees, I heard Jack Largent, again. “Let’s head up to Craig for the late deer hunt. Lots of deer and I know a guy with a motel there where we can stay.” Jack was an engineer at Denver’s Channel 6 – public television – and I was running camera right after I left the Air Force. Three of us packed my old 1956 Ford pickup and headed west into deep snow country. The weather that weekend was perfectly still and 40 below. The powder snow was nearly to my waist. Somehow the truck always started and we got into all the country we needed. We joked and hunted. I sat in snow that cradled me, and made a very long shot on a nice buck. We made meat for our families and smiled all the way home. I remember the temperature and the snow, but I do not remember being cold. I miss Jack.
A dozen other memories were polished and re-deposited, too. I was surprised at how often I found myself smiling or chuckling or just in awe of those moments in time with special people in special places. After a rather intense couple months in Paradise, I was surprised to be so relaxed and so grateful for the drive – and auld times and auld acquaintance. Memory banks…
Here’s to the memories you will bank in 2016!
