In the early nineties as director of creative services for what is now Cornerstone University in Grand Rapids, I had attached myself as “chaplain” and photographer to a summer biology study trip to the Yellowstone region.  The grand wilderness excursion eventually became a true adventure that all participants no doubt continue to remember vividly.  The adventure part started when we pitched our tents in a National Forest campground a couple thousand feet up from Driggs, Idaho, on the eastern slope of the Teton Range.

It was early evening when we were setting up camp on a low bluff above a mountain stream—so we could sleep to the music of rushing waters.  Soon the tranquility of the setting was interrupted by a shout: “Bear, bear!” It came from one of the students who had backed out of his just erected tent and almost into the flank of an ambling black bear, which did not seem to be too perturbed by our presence.  It merely trotted down toward the stream and over toward the main part of the campground.  When we went to the campground pump for water fifteen minutes later, we discovered that the bruin was indeed one of those nuisance bears the park rangers warn you about.  It had zipped a new opening in a screen tent outside a motorhome and devoured the owners’ dog food and had apparently been dropping in on a few other campers.  When we arrived at the pump, a family of four was hurling rocks at the pesky beast, and the little dog who’d lost his supper was hurling loud objections—from a safe distance!

Several tent campers were packing up and getting out.  We stayed.  Which at dawn the next morning seemed like a bad idea.  I woke up to the sound of a very large animal prowling just outside my tent.  In fact, it seemed like more than one.  Daring to zip open the fly just a few inches, I was startled and relieved and eventually disgusted to see several animals of the bovine kind grazing and laying “cow pies” on what had been a pleasant wilderness knoll and trampling the wildflowers and sedges along the stream.  I never could and still don’t understand why cattle are permitted to graze in national forests.  I know the forest service motto is “Land of Many Uses” but I also understand why so many of its entrance signs have graffiti that changes the motto to “land of many abuses.”

Well, that day was going to be sort of free day for me and photography, because the students and their more physically fit professor were going to backpack up the mountain and camp that night at the treeline. Not having conditioned myself early enough, I knew I could not make the climb.  So I stayed behind “to guard the camp.”  The first thing I wanted to do after they left was scout for a spot to shoot some great late afternoon photos of the Tetons lit by golden evening sunshine.  Taking the school van, I motored up the road to find a spot where I could include an aspen grove in my shot later in the day.  I pulled off the road at a broad curve where space was made for vehicles to stop and travelers take in the view.  I shared the pullout with an old pickup, which I think is the official state vehicle for Idaho.

Spotting an aspen grove up the slope opposite the Tetons, I climbed the steep road bank to hike up the hill for a looksee.  I was immediately startled to see a man picking wildflowers which, upon my noting his Marlboro man appearance, seemed totally out of character.  Owner of the pickup I assumed.

“Howdy,” he said.

“Hey,” I replied.

And we both went back to tending our business.  He watched as I headed up toward the grove.  Why he was watching soon became apparent.  When I reached the grove, I found a freshly cleared circle of bare earth about fifteen feet across with a smaller circle of stones surrounding a mound.  Beside the mound was a pool of fresh blood still soaking into the soil.  Now this was the summer when newspapers and tabloids were abuzz with stories of supposed Satan worshipers eviscerating cattle and other animals in the West for sacrificial rites.  My mind immediately connected all the dots: scruffy man with old pickup wandering in a field of wildflowers not far from a sacrificial worship circle.  The cult’s secret incantation location was now known: I—alone—had just discovered the evidence!

Quickly looking down the hill, I saw that the man was gone.  That was good.  But he could be waiting for me back at the roadside.  With racing heart and mind gone wild with awful possibilities, I spotted another aspen grove further north that looked as though it led up to the road just beyond the parking area.  I made a dash for it, and felt great relief at gaining some cover.  I was going to slowly work my way to the road and sneak back to the van, which was closer than Marlboro man’s truck.  Then the horror: he was right there in middle of the grove waiting for me.  And I “knew” he was packing a gun.  We tried the howdy thing again, but he knew what he was there for, and he got right to the point:

“You’re not from around here, are you?”  That’s good to know when you’re about to shoot a man out there in the wilderness.  You wouldn’t necessarily want to have to do in a neighbor and create a manhunt by other irate locals.

“No, I’m not,” I said, and quickly added, “I’m with a Christian college group from Michigan.”  Maybe in evoking the name of Jesus I could escape what seemed to be my certain fate.  Then things became even more chilling.

“I just had to shoot my companion of twelve years,” he volunteered.   At that, my heart rate went into its highest gear.  I said to myself, “O no, this guy really is the culprit, but, worse: he’s not a devil worshiper, he’s a plain murderer!”  And innocent me just happened to walk right up on the fresh blood and fresh grave. Trees tight to the right and tight to the left, there was no escape for me.  So I stood still and looked straight into his face thinking scary thoughts about what might happen next.

Then I noticed tears in his eyes and a sob escaping his lips.  The sob compelled me to look at his heaving chest and finally at the t-shirt he was wearing.  On the shirt was a logo and the name: “Rocky Mountain Rescue Dogs.”

Finally getting a grip on what had really happened in that other aspen grove, I asked, with calmer heart and a surge of my own emotion, “Does your flower collecting have something to do with the shirt you’re wearing?”

Through a wash of tears and a choke of sobs, Marlboro man told me about his dog: “the best [darn] rescue dog in the West!”  His dog had found more lost people than any other in the history of the organization, and then had gotten cancer.  And as they do in the West, he had to take his “companion of twelve years” out into the wilderness and mercifully end its life before the dog realized this was not going to be another search and rescue attempt.

Larkspur

I had to shed tears with him.  Marlboro men don’t hug other men, but I was tempted see if he would accept one.  I settled for some sympathetic words and an empathic farewell.  Looking back in his direction from the road, I could see that he was on his way over to the grave to lay his armload of larkspurs over the body of the amazing creature he had loved—under the eye of the Creator who loved them both.

I didn’t get my prize photo that evening.  Clouds moved in and rain and hail closed the window to the Grand Tetons.  Arriving back at my tent for the night, I noticed that a pickup with a camper on the back had parked nearby.  Thinking it would be wise to tell them about the pesky bear, I wandered over and told them to stay alert.  “We’re okay,” the man said; “I’ve got my gun.”

I went into fitful sleep that night, musing about Marlboro men, guns, and the Wild West.

See you outdoors!

Dean