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.