World's Best Mountain

Mine. You can look, but remember who it belongs to . . .

Mountains.

Beautiful. Majestic. Snow-capped. Towering.

Noticeable.

I love the mountains.

Maybe not as much as my husband, who is a true connoisseur, but why quibble over details?

All my life, I have lived in the 'shadow' of the great Rockys.

They were the immovable, dependable wall to the west of us.

Our friends.

Companions.

Source of direction.

One distinctive peak, in particular, was familiar to us on the ranch.

It was our nearest neighbour in the immense range. A huge block of stone, standing alone, with a large, rather squared-off top.

Boy scout troops had been know to clamber to its very summit.

Of course, that was in the early days, before safety was invented.

I loved it.

It was my mountain.

I just couldn't remember what it was called.

When we drove west, towards the ranch, it was the beacon, the marker on the horizon that told us we were going in the right direction.

Not a fact that I discovered with my fantastic powers of observation, however.

I had to have it pointed out.

Mom and I were heading towards the ranch.

She was driving.

I was bouncing around in the back seat.

This was before such safety measures as . . . seat belts. Shoulder harnesses.

Discipline.

I had been laying on the back seat, staring up at the roof.

Suddenly, I thought of my mountain.

I don't know why.

Because.

I sat up and leaned over the front seat.

“Mom?”

“Mmm?”

That was her usual response. It didn't necessarily mean that her attention was yours, but it was a start.

“Mom!”

“What, Dear.”

Okay, the line was open.

“Where's the Old Indian Hill?”

“The what?”

“The Old Indian Hill.”

She laughed.

Well, really!

“Do you mean Old Chief Mountain?”

“Umm, okay.” Whatever. I just knew that the name had something to do with the Native tribes.

“It's right there, Sweetheart. Straight ahead. When we're driving to the ranch, it's right in front of the road.”

“Oh.”

She was right. There it was. Rising before us in all its purple glory.

Cool.

I stared at it.

My mountain.

From then on, whenever we were travelling home, I would look out the windshield for my stalwart, immovable beacon.

My guardian. My defender and protector.

The Blackfoot Tribe called it, Ninastiko.

The white man named it many things.

But, to me, it would always be my beloved 'Indian Hill'.

Dune Buggy + Ditch = Pain

Add a dashboard, seat, steering wheel, and dust and this is our  steed!

Marty had a dune buggy.

Actually, it had once been a car. But it had been stripped down to the basics. Wheels. Frames. Seats. Motor. And a steering wheel.

Now it was a dune buggy.

That baby could go.

Just not on any conventional roads.

Marty would take us flying across the prairie at speeds beyond . . . what we should have been travelling.

But we were safe.

Marty had firm hands on the wheel.

As long as there was ground beneath us, all was well.

And that's where my story gets interesting.

It was a beautiful spring day.

The sun was high and hot. The air shimmered.

The crickets and bugs were sending up a steady chorus.

There was a haze of dust hanging in the still, dry air.

Perfect 'low flying' weather.

Marty had piled Michelle and I into the buggy for a ride.

Okay, I have to admit that the use of the word 'into' is a bit of a misnomer.

'Onto' would probably be more accurate.

I was in the middle. Marty on my left, steering wheel firmly in hand. Michelle on my right, casually slumped back in the seat, one foot propped up on the dashboard.

Oh, right. We also had a dashboard.

Back to my story . . .

We were flying across the prairie just to the west and north of Marty's family farm.

Talking and laughing and generally enjoying the wind in our faces.

The field stretched out smooth and green in front of us.

Marty stepped on the gas and we all felt the exhilaration of speed.

Then, quite suddenly, a . . . ditch . . . opened up in front of us.

Oh, not just a little ditch.

An irrigation ditch. 30 feet across and a good 20 feet deep.

More of a canal than a ditch, really.

Huh. Where did that come from?

And, more importantly, how were we going to avoid it when it carved its way straight across the field before us from fence to fence.

And when we were travelling at upwards of 45 miles per hour.

You're right. We couldn't. We didn't.

We launched off the west bank in a graceful arc.

Now the Dukes of Hazzard would have made it.

Evel Kinevel would have made it.

Even Barney Oldfield would have made it.

But three farm kids in a souped-up, stripped-down 'dune buggy'?

Not a chance.

We hit the opposite bank just below the lip.

Still doing 45 miles per hour.

It's funny just how many thoughts can race through your head in the split seconds between launch and land. I remember thinking that Marty really was taking us flying.

Cool.

Then . . . crunch.

The buggy stopped instantly, of course, and slid down to the bottom of the canal.

We sat there, stunned for a moment.

And then the moaning started.

I was fine.

I just thought I should point that out. Something to note - when getting involved in an accident in a dune buggy, the middle position is the safest.

Moving on . . .

Marty and Michelle . . . weren't.

Fine, I mean.

Marty had broken his beloved steering wheel with his chin, splitting it open to the bone.

His chin, I mean.

Michelle was even worse off.

The foot that had been so casually propped up on the dashboard had been driven back by the force of our crash and dislocated her hip.

She was in . . . considerable . . . pain.

Marty put a hand over his chin and ran to the farmhouse a quarter of a mile away for help.

It was up to me to pull Michelle up out of the ditch.

Okay, it probably would have been easier . . . and wiser . . . to call an ambulance and wait for professional help, but we were kids of the country.

Raised to be self-sufficient and self-reliant.

We acted first.

And thought after.

Slowly and painstakingly, I turned Michelle onto her uninjured side. Then I pulled her up the steep bank. One step at a time.

Step, step. Pull.

Step, step. Pull.

She must have suffered agony throughout the entire ordeal, but she said little.

As we were nearing the top, Marty pulled up in his family's car.

Between the two of us, he and I managed to pull Michelle into the back seat.

Then, Marty drove us to the hospital.

Funny that it never occurred to any of us to feel alarm when we again saw Marty with a steering wheel in his hands.

Go figure.

He got us there safely.

This time, professionals maneuvered Michelle out of the car and onto a stretcher.

By this point, I'm quite sure she appreciated their expertise.

And their drugs.

Her hip was restored, though she had to suffer through traction and treatments for months afterwards.

Marty was sewn back together and sports a sexy scar on his chin to this day.

I emerged unscathed.

A few days later, I was driving around with Dennis in his dune buggy.

Some people never learn.

The Terrible, Awful, No Good, Very Bad Trip

Ahh, Holidays. some are good. Some are . . .

Everyone has one.

At least once.

The trip from hell . . . umm . . . the terrible trip.

Ours began innocently enough. Organized, even.

We were going to repeat last year's dream trip to the west coast to visit my parents in Abbotsford, BC. But this year, we would continue out to Vancouver Island to go deep sea fishing with Uncle Bub.

We were . . . excited.

I had bought special toys and games for the kids to play on the way to keep them entertained.

Because the view of the Rocky Mountains out the window wouldn't be enough . . .

The car was packed with food and yummy things.

Our valiant little trailer was hooked on behind.

We were ready.

The trouble started about five hours in.

With a leaky hose.

Cars don't run well if they have a leaky hose.

We stopped in Prince George, BC, to try to get it fixed.

And found out that it was a strange-sized hose.

Of course.

A little duct tape later, we were back on the road. Sort of.

Grant kept having to stop to add water.

Oh, and let out whichever child was next in line in the 'upchuck olympics'.

I should point out here that my Mom was right. Looking out the window during a trip was infinately better than playing toys or games.

Little stomachs obviously don't like toys and games.

An important point.

Moving on . . .

We were able to make it another four hours.

More car trouble.

We decided to take a break in Hope, BC.

A beautiful spot. Actually where the movie 'Rambo – First Blood' was filmed.

We pulled into the campground and looked at the map, choosing a little spot back in the trees.

Isolated and quiet.

Until the trains started coming through.

The first blew its whistle at midnight.

For a few unforgettable moments, we thought we had somehow, inadvertantly, set up our tent trailer right on the tracks.

We hadn't.

We had missed them by about six feet.

Trains in Canada are amazingly regular.

One sleepless night later, we were back on the road.

We limped into Abbotsford. And enjoyed a couple of days of much-needed bliss with my parents.

Then . . . that road again.

The ferry-ride was a little more expensive than we had anticipated.

But then, so was everything else.

We made it to the island.

Paradise.

For about half an hour.

Halfway to Uncle Bub's, the entire undercarriage of our faithful tent trailer gave way, skidding our little marvel along on its belly.

Grant pulled over and we surveyed the damage.

We had two choices.

Abandonment and despair and certain death.

My choice.

Or unhooking the trailer, driving to the nearest town and securing repairs.

My husband's.

Fortunately, we went with his.

One of the kids stayed with me guarding the trailer (because, someone might steal it . . . with no wheels . . . okay, it seemed to make sense at the time . . .) while Grant drove off.

We managed to get our trailer fixed, but we were stuck there for two days while the shop made the needed parts to repair it.

And used up every dime of our vacation savings to do it.

Sigh.

Finally, two days late and several dollars short, we limped (remember the car) into Uncle Bub's.

Only to find that the ocean was too rough to go out.

We waited a further two days, scanning the water eagerly each morning.

But the ocean had plans of it's own.

And they didn't include us.

Finally, defeated, we headed home.

The trip back was more of the same. Balky car. Sick kids.

The weather was good.

I have never been so glad to see the lights of home in my life.

We were taught several things on that ill-fated trip.

One. Don't buy toys and games for your kids to play on a trip if everyone is prone to car-sickness.

Two. Beautiful scenery doesn't make a cranky car driver better.

Three. Always check the campground map carefully and ask the attendant if there are any 'un-noted' features one should be aware of.

Four. Your trip will always cost at least 2.74 times what you have saved for it.

Five. Stay home.

Fortunately, we learned none of them.

Sing We Now While Driving . . .

Dad. He of the wondrous voice.

My Dad loves to sing.

Fortunately, for the rest of us, he has a very nice voice.

And great rhythm.

It's just his timing that needs work.

Let me explain . . .

When one lived as far from civilization as we did, 'going somewhere' inevitably involved . . . well . . . travelling.

For extended periods of time.

I'd like to point out here, that wonderful inventions like DS's, cell phones , IPads and the all-important DVD players existed only in science fiction. Our entertainment consisted of visiting, looking out the window, and books.

Or, in my case, just visiting or looking out the window. Reading in a car, though perhaps my favorite diversion, unavoidably made me carsick.

How did I get over here . . .? Oh, right. Dad . . . and singing.

Whenever we travelled, there was always that stretch of road (I know you've been there), usually somewhere in the middle, where we ran out of conversation and the scenery got boring.

And everyone in the car, driver included, got sleepy.

That's when Dad would start to sing.

At full volume.

He really only had one.

See what I mean about timing . . .?

His family was treated to such classics as, "Who Put the Overalls in Mrs. Murphy's Chowder". Or, "My Diane" (my personal favorite), "Two Little Boys" (which always made me cry), "Daisy", or the ever popular, "The Doors Swing In and the Doors Swing Out".

Usually, Mom would also join in.

Suffice it to say that, before us kids could carry on a lucid conversation, we could sing. We didn't always know what we were singing, and our school teachers sometimes questioned the suitability of a song that took place almost entirely within a saloon ("The Doors Swing In . . ." - see above.)

But that's beside the point . . .

We were in tune and definitely had the words right.

Or at least as right as Dad did.

It wasn't until some years later that I realized my Dad used . . . poetic license. One day, I was singing "Two Little Boys" while I cleaned out a pen in the barn. Unbeknownst (real word!) to me, Dad was leaning on the fence in the far corner, listening.

I got to one line and just did what he had always done. "Da Da Da Da Da Da Dum Dee."

He burst out laughing.

When I glared at him accusingly, he told me that he'd been waiting for me to get to that line so he could finally hear what the real words were. He had never been able to remember and had just put in 'placer' lyrics.

I had memorized them accordingly.

Scary, isn't it that we pick up what we are taught . . . mistakes and all?

I've wandered from the point.

Again.

Now, whenever I drive along a road that Dad took us down, or even a road that resembles a road that . . .

I remember. Feeling happily sleepy. And that beautiful baritone voice, suddenly belting out the lyrics to some song that probably only Dad remembered.

Or possibly that Dad made up.

But so soothing to us denizens of the back seat.

Though in his 87th year, my Dad still drives.

And sings.

Wait, he's started, "Cause Some Dirty Dog Put Glue on the Saddle".

I have to go . . .

Just the Gas and a Touch of Diesel - Shaken, Not Stirred

My Victim

I had my driver's license.
I was queen of the world!
I have to admit, here, that most ranch and farm kids were driving from the time that they could reach the gas pedal in the tractor.
But not officially. Not on an actual . . . public road!
I was quivering with excitement. And to make things even better, I officially became my parents' 'errand boy'.
I could die now, quite happily. Life couldn't possibly offer anything more.
Okay, so I then proceeded to back my father's car into the tractor. (Another story.)
And run it into the garage. (Another another story.)
And into the ditch. (Another . . . oh, never mind.)
But I was still on top of the world.
With all of the driving I was doing, inevitably, I would run through the gas. (Though, at $.29 per gallon, one had to be a bit judicious . . .) And Dad had a gasoline rule. Whoever was driving when the gas gauge reached 1/4, was responsible for filling the tank.
I should point out here that, on the ranch, we had our own bank of gasoline tanks, carefully monitored and filled periodically. There was one tank containing purple gas (for farm vehicles), one for diesel (tractors and equipment) and one for regular (mine). Two of them were side-by-side on the same framework. The other a bit apart on its own stand.
Dad showed me how to 'fill 'er up'. First, you unlock the nozzle. Then you twist the valve. Then you put the nozzle into the tank and pull up on the lever.
Simplicity in itself.
As long as Dad was standing there.
He took me through the steps several times until he was satisfied that I could do it on my own. Then he left me.
I finished filling and locked everything up again. I was, once more, the master of my universe.
For several months, I enjoyed my new found freedom. No longer was the 20 miles into town such an insurmountable barrier.
But, during those first months, I never again had occasion to fill the tank. Whenever I got into the car, it had already been filled by the previous driver.
What a blissful existence. Driving around in a car that never, ever ran low on gas.
The best of all worlds.
Then, Mom asked me to drive into the city to do an errand.
The city.
70 miles away.
I was ecstatic. I hopped into the car and headed out.
The trip was uneventful, if one ignored the fact that I was DRIVING TO THE CITY! ON MY OWN!
Okay. It was an event.
But when I returned home, I noticed that the gas gauge was just kissing the 1/4 full line.
Oh-oh. Time for a fill up.
I pulled into the tanks.
Then stared up at them.
Which one had Dad used?
I couldn't remember.
Okay, so I know a lot of things. I just can't remember what they are . . .
Finally, after much wrinkle-browed concentration, I chose one and proceeded to run through the procedures in my head. Unlock. Twist. Insert. Fill.
I had it.
I did it.
But a little voice in my head, the one that tried, vainly, to keep me from my many terrible fates, told me to stop at 1/2 full.
For perhaps the first, and only, time in my life, I listened.
I capped the gas tank and locked up the nozzle. Then drove triumphantly into the driveway.
Where the car stopped.
Dead.
What was wrong?
I tried to start it.
It made the appropriate noises. Coughed a couple of times.
And died.
Again.
“George!”
Have I mentioned that my next older brother is a whizz with engines and anything mechanical?
He came running.
“What’s the matter?”
“I dunno. It just . . . stopped.”
“Let me have a look.”
All was well. George would figure it out . . .
“Ummm . . . did you just put gas in?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Ummm . . . I think you filled it with diesel.”
“Is that bad?”
He pulled his head out from under the hood and gave me . . . the look.
Now, anyone who has been to a mechanic and asked a stupid question knows exactly what I am talking about.
The sun went out of my day.
“What's the matter?” My voice had suddenly gotten very tiny.
He sighed patiently. “Diane, this car runs on regular gasoline.”
“And?”
“You put in diesel.”
“And that's bad?”
“You might as well have filled the tank with . . . oh, I don't know . . . mud? Pancake batter?”
“Oh.”
“I think you might have wrecked the engine.”
Big oh.
“Let's talk to Dad.”
How about . . . you talk to Dad. I'll just go and join the Foreign Legion.
“Come on.”
Sigh.
As it turned out, that nagging little voice of reason in my head had given me good advice when it told me to only fill the tank half full.
Dad simply had us push the car . . . did I use the word 'simply'? . . . and fill it the rest of the way with normal gas.
Oh, the car gas is in the tank off by itself! How did I miss that?
Then, he told us . . . and I'm quoting here . . . to “go and burn it off”.
What? Really?
Never, in the history of the world, had punishment so closely resembled reward.
Happily, my brother and I headed into town. Tooled main. Hit the mean streets of Warner. Back to Milk River. More cruising main. Off to Coutts.
It was a glorious night.
Okay, so we smelled a bit like a bus and the engine ran a little rough, but it was worth it.
Of course, afterwards, I had to pay the piper, in the form of car lessons.
To quote George, “No sister of mine is going to drive without knowing how everything works.”
And he did mean everything.
In subsequent years, because of him, I could change a tire or belt and perform everything from an oil change to a major tune-up. Or I could pull into a shop and tell the mechanic exactly what I needed or what I thought was wrong.
In their language.
And all because of a few drops of diesel.
Amazing how life works.

First Night out - or - The Night We Cheated Death

Anita, Jerry, Me, Chris, Mom, Blair (in front of Mom), Graham (a visitor) and George

My sister, Chris had turned 16.
And gotten her driver's license.
For us kids on the ranch, the world had just gotten a whole lot smaller.

It was our first foray into town . . . without parental supervision. For the first time, ever, there were only siblings in the car.
It was a truly magical night.
Great company. (Jerry and George hadn't teased me, even once.)
Great entertainment planned. (The Friday night movie was always a first-run hit, thanks to the theatre politics of the time - something to do with our theatre owner having seniority over all of those in the nearby city of Lethbridge - but that is another story . . .)
Our own little Envoy station wagon. (With two-week veteran, Christine, at the wheel.)
An anticipated stop at the local drive-in after the movie. (Mmmm . . . burgers . . .)
The heart-stopping possibility of joining a queue of cars cruising main. (Our first chance to participate. Somehow, cruising main had never been considered when Mom or Dad were chauffeuring . . .)
Yes, magical was the right word.
And it all happened. The movie, the drive-in, the cruise.
We had hit the big times!
Then, as with any magical night, midnight came. Our little Envoy was pointed towards the far distant lights of home and ordered to return us there.
Obligingly, it started out.
Then, halfway home, it stopped.
My two mechanically-minded brothers scrambled happily out of the car.
Almost instantly, they spotted the problem. A disconnected fuel line. Easily repaired. I think, perhaps they were a bit disappointed the problem was eliminated so quickly. They would have loved to crawl over, under and through that little car.
We were again under way.
Only to stop once more a few miles further down the road. This time, out of gas.
Obviously, the fuel line had done more than just briefly stop the engine.
We four independent kids sat there in the moonlight, wondering what to do.
And realizing that independence wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
Let me paint you the picture . . .
The year was 1966. Phones had just recently been installed in the ranching country of Milk River and ran on the 'crank' method. (Our ring was two longs, by the way.) Cell phones existed only in Star Trek. We were about 6 miles from town. The nearest neighbours were at '117', a ranching community about 5 miles away. Our home was a further 9 miles from there. Few people used this road during the day, and even fewer by night. The chance of rescue by someone heading home was slim to non-existent.
It was a fairly warm night with a full, bright moon. Still, we were hesitant to start walking. There was no possibility of getting lost, but wolves, though not common, weren't unheard of. Or cougars either, for that matter.
What to do.
And then we saw lights. Behind us, coming up from town.
Real lights. On a real vehicle.
Coming fast.
Now who on earth could that be at this time of night on these roads?
An elderly pickup slid to a halt beside us. The dust always followed directly after, settling belatedly down over the scene.
Two doors popped open.
And two bachelors who lived in the foothills west of our ranch leaned into the window.
The smell of their breath hit us before they had even opened their mouths.
And suddenly it became clear just why we weren't the only crazies out at this time of night.
Obviously, DUI hadn't been invented yet.
"Hello, Kids!" the first one said, slurring his words slightly. "What'sa matter?"
"We've run out of gas," Chris said, hesitantly.
"Oh that's no problem," the second said. "We've got a shain!"
The 'shain' turned out to be a chain, which they proceeded . . . with colourful language and various starts and stops . . . to hitch to the front bumper of our car.
"All set, kids?"
My sister gripped the steering wheel.
And we were off!
Let me just say this . . . elderly bachelors, driving an equally elderly truck, and having just come from their twice yearly trip to the bars in Sweetgrass, could sure cover the ground.
We approached speeds nearing 50 miles per hour. And that was on gravel roads, at night.
And hitched to the vehicle in front of us by a 10 foot chain.
I was right. My sister, though just a two-week veteran, was a veteran. Her driving that night would have inspired Mario Andretti.
At one point, the chain came off and the ancient truck drove on without us. We coasted to a stop and watched them go, wondering if they would even notice.
But half a mile further up, they slid to a stop in a cloud of dust, and then dutifully returned. After repeating the whole 'sorting out the shain' episode, we were off again.
The lights of the ranch never, ever, looked so good.
The men dropped us and our lifeless vehicle in the barnyard, waved cheerfully and wound their way back up the drive.
We marched happily to the house, full of the excitement of the evening and its hair-raising conclusion.

That was just the beginning of many, many trips to town for fun and entertainment. But somehow, no matter what was planned, nothing quite matched the adrenaline of that first night.

Perhaps 'brushes with death' hold an excitement all their own.