Sergio

Sergio joined the ranch in late June to assist Chef Jim in the kitchen. This was his first masterpiece: a salsa appetizer platter, with neat descriptions of the different kinds. It was a work of art. Sergio lived in Boise before coming here to Stanley. He was Mexican and had nice teeth. In the kitchen he was serious and upbeat. Outside of the kitchen, all he wanted to do was have fun. He drank a lot of Jager and some other things. He came with me, Marla and Heidi to Hailey to see the rodeo. Afterward he picked up a handful of horse manure and chased us around the field.

He got the best room in the roost, perhaps the best room on the entire ranch, if the view is included--because it is the best view of the Sawtooths, the mountains, and even the river. It's amazing. When it was empty CC would make up her hair in the room; Marisa would sketch at the window, and I would sit and stare at those beautiful snow-covered mountains, and sometimes regain focus long enough to write something.

Sergio excelled at playing the guitar. He had high hopes for us at open mic. We were going to sing country songs together, and he started getting serious about practicing. But I was tired and needed my daily nap. And then on one Wednesday when he volunteered to make lunch, it all ended. He didn't clean up his dishes, so when he got back Jim yelled at him and Sergio said, "I quit." He packed his things into his car, said goodbye to everyone he cared about, and drove off to Boise. And Marla became a cooking assistant.

Stanley Bars

There are two bars in Stanley. The Kasino Club, on the left, is a restaurant/bar where local bands play several nights a week, and on Thursdays there's Open Mic Night, my favorite night of the week. Mike, who always wears a bandana and sometimes glasses, hosts open mic and plays the guitar. He will play it for someone interested in singing. He played "Faith" by George Michaels for me once. Before the Open Mic, the K Club has a "dancing in the street" with live music and free food. I've never been able to make it since I work that night every week. Cory works at the dancing in the street.

The second and much smokier bar, is the Rod & Gun. Smoking is allowed in this bar. There are a lot of seats, the best dance floor in town (a wooden floor in front of an actual stage), and two pool tables. There's also a jukebox, and the bar is much longer than that at the K Club. The Rod & Gun tends to have good live music, which they sometimes charge a cover for. Johnny Ray, the owner, will always check your ID--at least for the first 20 times he sees you.

The Rod also has karaoke on Monday nights. This past Monday I sang "Angel" by Sarah Mclachlan, and this older man with white hair--Huck--said to me, "You have a lovely voice. You make a man wish he was 50 years younger."

Swing

The Bridgestreet Grill is a decent-sized restaurant and bar with a small parking lot and an old log cabin next door. There's a long hall for the bar, a larger dining room in front of a stage, and tables and chairs on the back deck, where customers can admire the rolling green hills across the river as well as the white-topped Sawtooths upriver.

I met a barage of people at once: locals, rafters, and summer folk. Brett Woolley--the owner--lives right next door in the cabin. He wore a beige cowboy hat and danced with all the girls at the bar--spinning them around and catching them, then throwing them back. This is the first summer working out here for Tara the waitress. Weiner (Sarah) works at White Cloud with Cory. White Cloud is a rafting company about a mile up the road from Bridgestreet.

Cory had driven us to the restaurant/bar in his Bronco. The driver's seat can't go straight so it's stuck all the way down if the back seats aren't pulled forward, and the seats are beat up. He keeps camping gear and fishing poles in the back. The Bronco reminds me of my dad's old Jeeps.

The band was an ecclectic group with the usual guitar and drums (but one was a full-bodied electric guitar, so it looked and sounded acoustic), as well as a steel guitar and bass. Chewy, one of the band members, played the harmonica, banjo, cow bell and/or the wash board, alternately. He was wearing dark tan overalls and has a beard and mustache like Wolverine. He played banjo and the harmonica at the same time. He also plays on barbecue nights at the ranch.

The band played some jazz, country and blue grass, I guess. It was great.
They even played their own version of the "cat style" song I hear on the radio sometimes--that cool, finger-snapping song.

Mike sat at a table watching the band. He was wearing a white bandana. He runs open mic at the Kasino Club and lives in campsites all summer. He's pretty much a quiet guy when he isn't drunk.

Cory and I eventually got out on the floor after I'd finished my Twisted Tea and he was on his third. He pulled me in close, pushed my arms to the side, and we circled, our feet moving in small steps. Then he'd push me away, leave a finger for me to spin on, and pull me back when he was ready. Then we'd spin together, he'd spin away, I'd grab his hand and bring him back, and we'd come back together in a close dance. We did this all night long. It was incredibly dizzying and exhilarating.

The dance floor turned into a mess late into the night as the sober and the drunk carried plastic cups of beer onto the floor and danced until they spilled. Weiner, who is tall like an Amazon woman and has thick bushy hair, almost fell once, and I learned to keep my distance as Cory twirled me around our small patch of territory.

Around 11:30, my ranch friends Marla and Surgio showed up. I got Cory to dance with Marla so she could swing. Surgio grabbed me and spun me in circles until I was too dizzy to see. Then he picked me up, flung me over his shoulder, and spun me even more. I kept my eyes closed and bit him until he put me down. They left before us.

Whenever we needed a break, Cory and I slipped through the sliding glass doors and stood out on the porch. The moon was getting fuller, and it silhouted the mountains above the river. It looked mysterious and beautiful. The river swept past beneath us.

Respect

While we were driving to Nip & Tuck to pick up Cory's destroyed tent, I told him that one of the guys I work with--let's call him Ill--called me a cunt the other night. "What the fuck," he said, "who are these assholes you work with?" I said I didn't know and held on as we swung around a winding curve. "You can tell him that if he ever says anything like that to you again, I'm going to beat the shit out of him." I continued to stare out the window and tried not to smile. No one other than my parents has ever defended me before. I've never been around I guy I thought could physically protect me.

A few nights prior to our conversation, another guy I work with--alias Loco--threw an empty plastic cup at me. He had been about to give a full cup to our already very drunk friend who didn't need anymore, and I spilled it. Cory was standing only a few feet away and he was fast to growl at Loco and told him to apologize. But Loco refused and argued profusely for a good half hour or so until the boys' ride came to pick them up.

One of my friends who likes Loco has been going to town with him more and more. I caught her leaving the other day and said, "If he does somehing you don't like, let me know and I'll talk to Cory, okay?" She thought it was funny. I did too. If anyone around here is strong, it's her. I'm not nearly as thick-skinned. But I'm beginning to understand respect and where it's due.

The first night I went out swing dancing with Cory, the owner of the bar we were at--Woolley--knocked his cap off as he swung by with his own dance partner. "You should get him back," I said, preparing for revenge.

"No, this is his house," Cory said, and I was stunned into silence. It made me realize that if everyone thought this way--respected other peoples' space, both personal and social, then fewer fights would happen. It all begins with respect, and ends there too.

Hike to the Grove of the Ancients

Dirt underfoot parts like sand. Piles of dead branches bleach in the sun like bones. The old road is overrun by yellow flowers with thin, flat petals that drip away from the center. The hill begins with these flowers and the greenish-blue scrubs of sage. Then the trees begin--Spruce or Fir; but no pine. The hill above is alive with green trees, a forest lies ahead.

Aspens gather in groves with their smooth, birch-like bark and small lime-green leaves.

The road ends at a mass of dead trees and I begin my own trail. I zig-zag up the hill, passing fallen trees, some twisted like black licorice. The trees get larger and larger as I move higher; bark becomes thick, dark slabs. I keep going, passing skinny trees with gnarled, vine-like branches twined together like Medusa's hair flipped upside down.



Finally, when I think it's time to turn back before I get too lost, I see blue sky beyond the trees and know I've made it to the top. I can see the Sawtooths through the trees, those mountains remind me of castles drizzled in ice and snow, or if I am more playful, in powdered sugar. I want to climb them someday soon, and I know I will. After some exploration, I rest on a slithered log, breathing in the scents of green needles and warm earth; the temperature is in the 70s or 80s today, and very dry. I try to ignore the chunky flies buzzing incessantly around my head. The log I'm on is weak like paper--I could pull it apart in layers if I chose to, but then the ants would need to move their home.

The sky has been pure blue for three days now. There's not one cloud. I'm waiting for the next thunderstorm.

Finding the Ranch

Getting to Idaho Rocky Mountain Ranch is similar to looking for an unnamed roadside trail. The website gives these directions: "The ranch is located 9 miles South of Stanley, Idaho on Highway 75 between milepost markers 180 and 181, on the route of the Salmon River." I drove by the ranch two or three times, before finally turning in. The sign wasn't up yet, so while guests would find it easily during season, it was a guessing game for myself and other new employees.

The view on the drive from Stanley to the ranch makes paying attention to the road difficult. Granite pillars thick with snow rise jagged along the Salmon River on my right. The Sawtooths are majestic in a way the short mountains of my Massachusetts home will never be.

I drove down a long gravel driveway and met with "dips," the speed bumps of Idaho, I guess, since they're also in town. The dips are ditches like dried streambeds crossing the road. If I'm not careful, the back end of my Focus wagon will slam down hard. The driveway crosses a small bridge, which empties into a pond on the left. Ahead, at the top of the hill stands a great log cabin--the Lodge. Spread out sparsley around the grounds are smaller log cabins--places to stay for our wealthy guests.