Into the Mountains

J.R. Winton

I remember being a young boy, about five or six years old.  It was predawn when I first awakened; I could just see the coming light making its first glimpse over the mountains to the east, and I found myself motivated to jump out of bed for a reason I couldn’t have articulated at the time.  I came down the hall in my grandparents’ house where my parents and I were living at the time, wearing nothing more than my underwear, to find the door into the garage standing open.

In the early morning light, I saw my grandfather standing at the tailgate of his Jeep Wagoneer and loading his fishing rod and tackle into the back, his ever-present revolver in the battered holster on his left hip.

He turned as I came down the step and looked up at him.  He peered down at me, one eyebrow going up a little and the corners of his mouth quirking into an almost imperceptible smile.

“Going fishing,” he told me matter-of-factly; even as young as I was, I knew that fishing was my grandfather’s favorite activity to just relax and unplug from the world for a while, and he went every time and anytime he thought he could shoehorn it into his day.  I nodded to show him I understood, my head bobbing up and down rapidly, and he let out a quick snort of amusement. 

My grandfather never really laughed out loud, but that little snort became a sound I immediately associated with him.  It let those who knew him understand he was genuinely amused, even delighted. 

It was a quality I noted in more than one of my grandfather’s closest friends, and came to see it as something relatively common amongst certain people; people who had seen things most people hadn’t and wouldn’t want to, and became expressed through a grim control of their emotions and reactions.  That quick snort inevitably made me smile widely, and he nodded his head to himself, as if in confirmation.  He’d told me more than once that “one day” he’d take me with him when he went fishing and it hadn’t happened yet…but that day was different.

“Still have a few minutes afore I’m goin’ anywhere,” he told me.  “If’n you want to come along, go get some clothes on.  Step lively now.”

So, I ran back to my room and started frantically dressing.  My mother, now aware of what was happening, appeared through the door of my room and helped me pick out appropriate attire with alacrity.  Thus equipped I scampered back to the garage just as my grandfather was slamming the tailgate on the Wagoneer shut. 

He turned, saw me standing there, and gave me a quick visual inspection before nodding in satisfaction.  He walked to the passenger door and pulled it open, gesturing at the seat.  “Hop on in,” he told me, and I know I was grinning ear-to-ear as I climbed inside and sat down on the seat; I was off on what was sure to be an amazing adventure!

My grandfather pulled the Wagoneer out of the garage, getting out just long enough to roll the garage door down and lock it, and he gave me a wink before driving out of the neighborhood towards the mountains. 

We spent some time in a companionable silence before he quietly asked me if I had any questions.  I knew little or nothing about the particulars of fishing and was painfully aware of it, but my grandfather was quick to respect someone who could admit they didn’t know anything and express a willingness to learn; so we spent a good deal of the drive with me asking questions and my grandfather patiently answering them.  He’d tell me things he thought I ought to know, then ask me if I understood what he was saying.  He was a big believer in teaching children young; he felt that at a certain age a young child’s brain was a sponge hungry for information, and what you taught them when young would stick with them their entire life.

Eventually, he turned the Jeep off the main thoroughfare, and we made our way down a single-lane dirt track almost invisible from the roadway.  The ride was bumpy but pleasant, even exhilarating, before he finally turned the vehicle into a small clearing and parked.

He looked at me and leaned down to release my seatbelt, and gestured for me to hop out.  He slung his pack containing his gear over his shoulder, gave me another thoughtful glance and handed me the case that held his fishing rod, showing me how to put the sling over my shoulder so I couldn’t drop it, and he turned and led the way into the trees.

That walk was transformational for me.  I was a small child, but even as I flirt with the onset of my sixth decade walking this Earth I can still remember it as clearly as if it happened yesterday.

The towering pines and aspen all around us seemed to caress the sky, the hiss of the cool breeze in the leaves the only sound other than the crunch of our booted feet in the soil.  Then, as we passed key points along the path, I heard birds that had fallen silent upon their awareness of our presence begin to resume their conversations high above us. 

At one point a raven’s call echoed as we moved along; either sounding the alert that humans were in the area or scolding us for disturbing the peace.  It startled me, just a little, and my grandfather knelt down and put a hand on my shoulder, telling me a quick tale of Huginn and Muninn, the pair of ravens who serve as heralds and helpers of Odin.  He suggested that what I’d heard was one of them dutifully announcing to the Allfather that we were there.  The story fascinated me, and over the years I’ve maintained a strong affection and respect for the that swoop and soar overhead in the skies of New Mexico.

I could not say how long we walked; only that it was a magical and powerful experience that culminated in the moment we summited a small rise and the trees seemed to pull back from us like a curtain opening at the beginning of a grand show…and I looked out over the valley laid out before us and stood there astonished.

The mountains, vibrant with cottonwood, aspen, and pine trees, reached for the brilliant blue sky and the clouds all around us, and the breeze swirled the grass into ripples and eddies like the movement of the sea.  It took my breath away.

“Is this heaven?” I asked, my voice as soft and small as I felt in that moment.

“As close as I think we can get for now,” my grandfather told me, clapping my shoulder affectionately.  He led me down the hill towards his favorite spot and guided me to sit in the grass, showing me how he prepped his rod and reel for fishing before winking at me and casting his first line of the day into the water.

Unfortunately, the one thing I don’t remember clearly of that day is my grandfather’s lessons on fishing.  I was too busy looking at the beauty all around me, and falling head over heels in love with the mountains and valleys of New Mexico; a love that has not slackened in any way, shape, or form over the years that followed. 

My grandfather understood.  He’d occasionally pause, look over his shoulder at me and see me staring dreamily at the wonders around us…

…and quietly snort to himself with a faint smile and a twinkle in his eye.

In loving memory of my Grandfather. . . Chief KK Miller.

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