CutBank
Volume 1
Issue 74 CutBank 74
Article 46
Spring 2011
Stickers
Anne Williams
Follow this and additional works at: http://scholarworks.umt.edu/cutbank
Part of the Creative Writing Commons
Recommended Citation
Williams, Anne (2011) "Stickers," CutBank: Vol. 1: Iss. 74, Article 46.
Available at: http://scholarworks.umt.edu/cutbank/vol1/iss74/46
This Prose is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks at University of Montana. It has been accepted for inclusion in CutBank by an
authorized administrator of ScholarWorks at University of Montana. For more information, please contact [email protected].
A N N E
S
WI L L I A M S
t ic k e r s
W e are ready.
I lift th e heavy stock gate o u t o f its
rocky bed a n d sw ing it o p en so th a t G e rald can m ake th e w ide
tu rn o n to th e r u tte d d irt road th a t leads to th e highway. As
if o n cue, R u th ’s d o g S co u t heads o ff n o rth from his post on
her fro n t p orc h , ready to periodically tro t th e fence line until
we retu rn .
O u r jo u rn e y will take us n o rth ea st, from C o rte z
across th e high desert o f s o u th w estern C o lo ra d o an d into
the San Ju an m o u n ta in s , th r o u g h the ever-sm aller tow ns o f
D olores a n d Stoner, u p th e D olores River Valley tow ards Rico.
Eventually we will leave th e h ighw ay a n d drive d irt roads high
into th e b a c k c o u n try on Taylor Mesa.
G e ra ld ’s s te p m o th e r R u th is in th e passenger seat o f
this rental jeep we picked u p w h e n G e rald an d I flew into
A lb u q u e r q u e five days ago. I am in th e back , alo ne b u t acutely
aware o f the black box o n the seat next to me.
M ade o f
p eb b led plastic a n d labeled w ith his n a m e a n d th e d ate o f his
c re m a tio n , the box holds the rem ains o f Bill Shearer, G e ra ld ’s
dad.
Today, o n Bill’s last trip up Taylor Mesa, we will walk
w ith h im th ro u g h m ead ow s grow n k n ee-h ig h in wildflowers
to the crystalline stream w here he has c a u g h t a lifetim e o f
c u tth r o a t tro u t. To the place he loved best.
It’s n o t yet eight o ’clock, b u t I have already been
to th e grocery store w here I b o u g h t g ra h am crackers— Bill’s
favorite— so m e nectarines, a n d a bag o f Bing cherries th a t set
m e back m o re th an th e price o f a meal.
W e d i d n ’t plan a
picnic, b u t R u th was p repared too, w ith hard b o ile d eggs an d
s o m e apples ready in a p a p e r bag on her kitchen co un ter.
In
this cou ntry , a d ay trip requires food a n d water. W e will pass
109
n o t one single fast food place and only a couple of gas stations
th a t sell candy bars, cigarettes, a nd the kind o f coffee th at sits
in the glass p o t until you can stand a spoon in it.
For G erald,
this
trip
to
C o lo ra d o
is on e
m ore
h o m e c o m in g in a forty-year p a ttern o f leaving an d returning.
His latest d e p a rtu re — “the very last o ne a nd the clock is ticking
on it,” he often rem inds m e— closed the distance in the long­
distance relationship we began w hen I, too, lived in this Four
C o rn e rs region d u rin g a leave from m y In d ia n a University
teaching position.
Soon, we hope to return for good, to settle in a spot
th a t ’s safe for the dogs to run, big e n o u g h to pasture a couple
of horses, and favorable for an extensive garden. W e w a n t an
o u td o o r life: spring c a m p in g in the U tah desert, s u m m e r and
fall pack trips into the C o lo rad o back country. O u r retirem ent
dream s focus on setting up a big sh e epherder’s te n t in som e
rem ote location for a m o n th at a time.
For me, such a life will be an e nd point, resolution to
a longing I have know n since ch ild h o o d . For G erald, however,
th at future is m ore com plicated, for he m u st a tte m p t to
reconcile his desire for the self sufficient life he experienced as a
child and still longs for w ith the changes th a t tim e has w ro u g h t
in him a n d in this place he still calls hom e.
The Shearers belong to a g roup th at w riter Wallace
Stegner calls stickers, people w ho cam e to the A m erican West,
m et the to ugh challenges o f a developing frontier, a n d stayed.
W h e n Isaac a nd Jacob Shearer arrived in N ew York from
Ireland, they were im m ediately conscripted into the U n io n
Army. W h e n the war over, they m ade their way west th ro u g h
Kansas into C o lo rad o and up over Slum gullion Pass to begin
a life as hard rock gold miners. They persevered: m arrying,
raising children, a nd thus creating a first generation of Shearer
stickers. Tax records list the notable possessions o f their early
life there, a cow a n d a watch.
110
As we drive n o rth tow ard Taylor Mesa, we are
s u rro u n d e d by a rocky, e m p ty landscape, a rem in d er th at to
be a sticker in this country, you had to be d e te rm in e d and
adaptable. T he w eather was fierce, the w o rk hard, physical,
a n d often lonely, w ith m o n e ta ry reward reliably sparse. But
the Shearers stuck it out.
Like his ancestors, Bill Shearer
pieced
range
together
a broad
o f proficiencies— miner,
cowboy, railroad m an, carpenter, trapper, m echanic— to see
him th ro u g h . R ather th an a career, he built a way o f life.
It’s been a long time since Bill last compensated for
all his hard work by going up on Taylor Mesa to his favorite
fishing spot. Across the years, he and Gerald spent some o f the
best days and nights o f their lives camping and fishing Taylor
Creek. Though I have never been there, I have heard the stories.
Gerald likes to recount the August afternoon when he stayed
too long on the mesa. Lonely sum m er dusk set in, and with it,
wolves appeared to follow him and his string o f fish nearly a
mile before they prevailed. Though he was armed, he gave up
his entire catch, willingly he says, given the choices available.
It’s a trademark Shearer story, m eant to demonstrate the kinds
o f places they like to go, the inherent risks in their pleasure,
and the complex covenants developed between a man and his
environm ent. A sticker story.
• • •
W ind and the roar o f the jeep’s engine require me to
lean up out o f my seat, straining to hear the conversation as
Gerald and Ruth reminisce. They have an unusual relationship:
for twenty years o f his life, Ruth was G erald’s aunt, m other to
his five cousins and married to Bill’s brother Nathan. Then both
Ruths and Bill’s marriages broke up, and they came together to
consolidate ten Shearer offspring into a single unit.
This double connection o f family relationships, the
complex network o f relatives, is typical o f stickers.
The work
Williams
and the location may have been hard and lonely, blit family
provided support.
W e pass by a little draw and sure enough,
R uth remarks on a group o f kids, maybe ten to fourteen years
old, walking there. C o tto n w o o d fluff catches in the black braids
o f a tall girl as she smiles and waves.
R uth identifies them .
“Those m ust be your A unt M yrt’s grandkids,” she tells Gerald.
“D id Fred have any?”
he asks, referring to M y rt’s
second husband.
“Yes. I rem em ber one day, one o f those boys was o ut
w orking with the m en in the west field a nd decided he just
didn t w ant to w ork anym ore. They said he could q uit if he
could find his way hom e, so he took off. I was inside the house,
and I could hear him bawling and yelling. Silly kid th o u g h t he
was lost. But he had family all aro u n d him .”
We fall silent, everyone th in k in g o f all that family and
o f days gone by. People gone by, too— G ra n d m a Greta, Uncle
John, and, o f course, Bill.
R uth breaks the silence. “I guess I ’m n ot norm al,” she
tells Gerald. “I loved your dad very m uch. We had a good life
together.
But I just can’t get any talk o u t o f that box.
M ary
A nn and o ther w o m e n I know w h o ’ve already gone through
this, they set the boxes by their beds, they say. A nd they talk
with them . But not me: to m e that box is just a box.
My
h u sband is n ot in there.”
I understand.
W h o could imagine Bill Shearer in a
box? H e is outside tinkering with an old pickup while sneaking
a forbidden cigarette.
O r splitting w ood for the stove.
Or
building a table. O r w orking in his flower garden— gorgeous
m o rn in g glories a nd roses— or picking raspberries for jam
m aking.
stove.
Reading Louis L’A m o u r in his chair next to the
O r sitting at the kitchen table, his blue eyes bright
with m ischief as he dishes up outrageously large helpings o f
ice cream for everybody to eat while we exam ine the trove
o f family photographs featuring cowboys, dogs, horses, and
112
solem n people in silent-m ovie clo th in g lined up before a roughhew n house a n d a sky full o f m o u n ta in s .
“ D o you re m e m b e r hearing a b o u t A rno ld?” R u th asks
G erald. H e does not. “Well, A rn o ld was a trapper. H e always
sm elled o f s k u n k .” She pauses for a m o m e n t. “T h at sure tau g h t
m e never to look for love in a m agazine,” she says, her sho rt grey
curls b o b b in g as she no ds for em phasis.
“G r a n d m a G reta was so lonely, you know, after
G r a n d p a Wes died ,” R u th says. “But th en after she a n d A rn old
m et u p th ro u g h th at m agazine ad, she f o u n d o u t he had been
u n d e r suspicion o f killing his wife.
H e always w a n te d to take
G r a n d m a o u t into th e woods, cam p in g . She figured m aybe he
h ad the sam e th in g in m in d for her, so she w o u ld n ’t go. A nd
th e n o n e day A rn o ld disappeared. C onveniently. I th in k yo ur
d a d a n d U ncle Jo h n were o u t of tow n th at day. O n family
business.”
She tu rn s to m e w ith a m eaningful look, m ak in g
sure I catch her p oint. I do.
“She lived a hard life.
Sure never had m u c h o f
a n y th in g ,” says Gerald.
“Well now, her trailer hou se was paid for.”
• • •
It’s July now;
Bill d ied in May.
W e missed the
m em orial service G e ra ld ’s sister Yvonne p u t together, b u t Bill
w o u ld have u n d ersto o d . Instead o f a tte n d in g the service for his
favorite b ro th e r Jo h n several years ago, Bill sp en t the day in the
high country, the traditional family refuge, w here solitude an d
solace co m b in e. O u r d estin atio n today.
W i t h th e San Juan m o u n ta in s still o nly blue shapes
against th e brigh ter blue sky, we tu rn tow ards th e m , n o rth , up
the Dolores River Valley. This c o u n tr y still carries the Spanish
n o m e n c la tu re o f the early E uro p e an explorers. They n a m e d this
river El Rio de N uestra Senora de las D olores, T h e River of O u r
Lady o f Sorrows. I look at R u th an d w o n d e r if she thinks of
Williams
herself that way. If she does, shes keeping it to herself. At her
request, we break o u t the graham crackers, bottles of water,
a n d cherries. They are a deep rich red, a w o rth y extravagance.
As I roll dow n the w indow to toss o u t a cherry seed,
we pass a cluster of buildings. “Your dad and I used to c o m e up
here every week to listen to co u n try music, maybe three, four
years ago. They had a barbeque dinner, says R uth,
khat was
one o u r favorite treats.” I h e n she looks at Gerald.
You used
to like co u n try music, b u t I guess you w ent a n o th e r direction,
switched to som ething else.”
Actually, Bill’s a nd R u th ’s children, just seven o f
ten left now, quite literally took m any directions— to Texas,
Alaska, California, O k la h o m a — until only two still live in
C olorado.
They left for opportunity, for adventure, a nd for
solitude, the same siren songs that drew their forbears to this
country. G erald is a m o n g them . Across the years, he has been
a field m echanic in U tah, driven a truck in Alaska w hen the
pipeline was un d e r construction, a nd ow ned and operated a
six-bay mechanics shop for truck a n d trailer repair in Texas. In
his m iddle age, w orn d ow n by “m echanic-ing,” he returned to
C olorado in an a tte m p t to recreate the ch ild h o o d he loved by
buying a little ranch, raising livestock and a hay crop, keeping
a milk cow, and p u ttin g up the o u t p u t o f an impressive garden.
In sticker style, he diversified by apprenticing as an
electrician: econom ic life here still d e m a n d s a broad range of
talent to survive.
In the end, however, tired o f scraping by
and willing to suspend life in his true h o m e once again, he
m oved east and found success as a craftsm an a nd designer in
Indianapolis where he is nonetheless decidedly homesick. N o t
just for the country, b u t for the life he knew there. “I w a n t to
live like D a d ,” he says.
Asked to explain, he can. It always turns on a sense
o f self sufficiency and the nature of the place. H e wants to be
114
self sufficient. In the m o u n ta in west. H e wants that free life,
hard b ut rich in adventure and in the solitude th a t’s integral to
a lifestyle and place that exists today primarily in his m e m o ry
Gerald’s dilemm a, the problem o f his generation o f
stickers, is to somehow square his fealty to his background with
the limitations and the choices o f the present. H ow does a self­
defined working m an retain his identity given the opportunity
to labor less?
W here on the plane o f self-sufficiency does a
m odern sticker locate himself? And how does he keep the old
covenants in a rapidly changing environment?
• • •
Bill’s world, the life o f his generation o f stickers, was
on display yesterday and the day before when Gerald and I
cleaned o ut the semi-trailer north o f the house where Bill had
a little workshop. And where he had amassed enough projects
to busy him self for another lifetime. G enerations o f electrical
appliances stood three-deep on the shelves. “I guess he figured
to fix them one o f these days,” Gerald says. “It’s about the
Depression. People who grew up then just can’t throw things
away. Especially when they have the know-how to fix them .”
Prom the looks o f it, Bill had the know-how to fix
radios, fans, percolators, lawn mowers, record players and space
heaters. And he had the parts to fix them with. M otors o f all
sizes. Electrical wiring. Fuses and old lightbulbs o f every kind,
from flashlights to headlights. And nails and screws and tacks
and staples and hinges and bolts and washers. All in Folgers
Coffee cans. Across two days, we have carried more than one
hun d red of those cans to the front of the trailer and du m p ed
their contents into the five-gallon plastic oil buckets he also
collected. We hauled them , along with all kinds o f scrap metal,
old batteries, and m otors to Belt Salvage where we collected a
check for $130 to take hom e to Ruth.
Williams
We have also m ade three trips to the d u m p , all w ith
Bill’s old pickup, loaned to us by a friend w ho b o u g h t it— at
a steal— shortly before Bill’s death.
G erald wants that truck.
H e ’s told R uth to keep her ears open; if it’s for sale, he’ll buy it.
W hy? For o ne thing, it was m ade in America, G erald tells me.
“And, a m an can fix a truck like th at.’’ N o t only can he fix it,
b u t he can expect it— a 1972 C hevy four-wheel drive— to still
be w orking thirty-five years later.
And, of course, it includes
custom features: the saddle horn gearshift created by Bill’s
brother John, the pine gun rack, and the fold-dow n frame that
secures a cowboy hat snug against the ceiling, all m arking this
truck as Bill Shearer’s.
By the end o f the second day, Gerald has arranged in
the gravel driveway a row o f metal c o n traptions that represent
the evolving technology, an d ethics, of trapping. H e lines them
up by size— big ones for coyote and bobcat dow n to small ones
for m uskrat. From the m ost basic jaw traps that in te n d only to
hold, usually a leg, to the newer a nd m ore “h u m a n e ’’ kill traps.
They crush the whole body. “These will sell,’’ he says. “The oldtimers will w a n t to hang them in their w orkshops or on their
barn doors.”
Bill’s parents, W eston and Greta, raised five children in
a sheepherder’s ten t on a desolate piece o f land th a t’s still empty,
just off w hat is now H ighw ay 160 near Stinkin’ Springs C an y o n ,
n ot far from the tu rn o ff to Mesa Verde N ational Park. In the
thirties, even while w orking as a m in e r an d building railroad,
Wes Shearer also had to h u n t and trap in order to su p p o rt his
family.
In the fifties, w hen G erald was a kid a nd Bill was the
caretaker for H en d e rso n Ranch, a 2 ,500 acre spread ow ned by
the Ute M o u n ta in Utes, he, too, ran a trapline.
The family o f seven lived in the ranch house while Bill
m aintained the place all year round, b u t the Utes paid him only
for the m o n th s w hen the livestock— 500 head of sheep, 300
116
cattle, an d 80 horses— were pastured there.
By late fall, the
stock were m oved to w in te r pasture in N e w M exico, a n d then
Bill trap p e d to help s u p p o rt his family.
D u rin g o ne afternoon o f cleaning, I reach deep into
a shelf, and there, p ro p p e d against the metal wall, I touch
so m eth in g that feels like a very heavy net. M y tugging rewards
me w ith snow shoes, big ones. W h e n I call to Gerald, he nods
an d stands th em up in the narrow aisle. “I used to walk on the
back o f these, right beh in d Dad, h olding on to him , lifting a foot
every time he did, checking the traplines. W h e n I was just s i x .. .”
H e is silent for a m o m e n t. “W e ll keep these,” he says,
an d head d o w n , carries th e m o u tsid e to lean th e m against the
jeep.
W h e n an an tiq u e dealer com es the next day, she w ants
them ; b u t they will go h o m e w ith us to h ang o n th e wall w ith
Bill’s lariat a n d irrigation shovel.
• • •
The road is all upw ard now, o u r progress slowed by a
d u m p truck hauling a huge semi u p this steep grade. W e com e
aro u n d a bend an d there in the m idst of em erald green fields and
sparkling water is a dead black cow in the irrigation ditch, all four
legs straight up. I am shocked and, unaccountably, reach toward
the box, b u t R uth just remarks, “That's a big b u n ch o f dollars
lying there dead,” before going right on with her ow n concerns.
“I love it u p here in all these big trees,” she says. “O n e
o f these days, I ’m g o n n a co m e up here an d live. Back u p in the
high c o u n try again.”
N o o n e responds.
W e k n o w th a t R u th ’s life in the
high c o u n try is likely over; before w in te r com es again she will
leave C o lo ra d o to live w ith her son in California.
N o m ore
sn o w b o u n d days or weeks w a rm e d by the w o o d stove, baking
bread, co o k in g w hatever’s been stored away for this very time,
reading books, a n d w o rk in g on a jigsaw puzzle.
Williams
T h a t’s a n o th e r re a lity o f stic k e r life : i t ’s hard to g ro w
o ld here. Stickers com e fro m a lo n g lin e o f to u g h , resourceful
people, b u t th e tim e comes w h en th e y can't shovel the snow
o r b rin g in
w o o d to fire the stove. T h e re’s no such th in g as a
c o m p a n y pension. A n d today, th e ir kid s are lik e ly to be gone,
n o t liv in g ju st d o w n the road w ith ro o m fo r a n o th e r d o u b le w id e on th e ir acreage and ready hands to help.
Even stickers w h o have d o n e a little better, r u n n in g
s ix ty o r so head o f ca ttle and g ro w in g th e ir o w n hay fo r the
w in te r feed, lik e ly have th e ir o w n fin a n c ia l tro u b le s and can no
lo n g e r a ffo rd to live u p here. T he beef in d u s try has changed;
sm all operators can barely exist. So re lu c ta n tly, m o re and m ore
o f th e m have to p lay th e ir ace: real estate th a t is sky h ig h in b o th
geographical and fin a n c ia l term s. O n e b y one these ranches are
b e in g sold o f f and d iv id e d up in to estates fo r the ric h , vacation
hom es fo r people fro m C a lifo rn ia and Texas th a t raise p ro p e rty
taxes and b rin g u tilitie s and roads in to fo rm e rly rem ote places.
As d e velo p m e nt spreads up the m o u n ta in , sticker fam ilies
k n o w th a t there’s no new place to conquer. The fro n tie r is gone
forever, and so s tic k in g it today brings the challenges o f liv in g in
to w n : fe ncin g in y o u r cattle dogs, a d ju s tin g to a h o m e o w n e r’s
association. It happens fast. A n d th e y’ve seen it before.
W h e n G e ra ld was b o rn in T e llu rid e in 1954, no ski
lifts o r tim b e r fram e m ansions existed there. B ill w a lke d across
to w n in a N e w Year’s Eve b lizza rd , b r in g in g the d o c to r back to
the ro w o f c o m p a n y houses w here the m iners and th e ir fa m ilie s
lived.
F iftee n years later, Joseph Z o lin e and his T e llu rid e Ski
C o rp o ra tio n la un che d the tra n s fo rm a tio n th a t replaced m iners
w ith to u ris ts and tu rn e d local people in to w a its ta ff and m aids
s tru g g lin g to fin d the a ffo rd a b le h o u s in g th a t m in e ow ners once
p ro v id e d there.
G e ra ld and I tr y to be realists as we p la n o u r fu tu re in
the southw est.
W e have re lu c ta n tly changed o u r search term s
fo r C o lo ra d o real estate.
118
W e k n o w we can’t a ffo rd o u r dream
of b u ild in g a high c o u n try cabin nestled against a forested
backdrop. T h a t’s w here the m illionaires live. W e will settle for
s o m e th in g at lower elevation, an d c o n tra ry to sticker custo m ,
we will n o t develop w h a t undevelo ped land remains. Instead,
we will choose from w h a t ’s available, p ro bably a fixer-upper on
a few acres o f pasture. U n re m ark a b le b u t practical, a place away
from to w n, w ith in close range for c a m p in g in b o th the desert
a n d the high country.
In a n o th e r twist o f sticker fate, G erald Shearer aspires
to spend his high c o u n tr y tim e in so m e state-ow n ed cam psite
in the sam e last-resort shelter th a t his g ra n d p are n ts raised their
child ren in: the sh ee p h erd e r’s tent.
• • •
W e are loo k in g for the turnoff.
N o n a m e on a sign,
just a trail n u m b er. W a te r tu m b le s d o w n the hillside a n d u n d e r
the highway. A stan d o f w h ite daisies leans o u t over the stream ,
th eir faces s p attered by spray. A spen grow thick alon g the road,
s u rro u n d e d by s o m e th in g th a t looks like yellow snap dragons;
n eith e r R u th n o r I can n a m e th e m . W ith in a few yards o f o u r
tu rn in g , we e n c o u n te r a barricade: R oad C losed. “N o it’s n o t,’’
says G erald. H e shifts gears a n d we bypass it, clim b in g o n w a rd ,
the jeep listing a n d b o u n c in g on th e ro u g h road.
“You know ,” R u th says, “ W h e n we used to co m e
fishing u p here, Bill always w a n te d to ca m p , n o t just c o m e for
th e day. H e ’d get up early to fish; I ’d sleep in. T h en h e ’d send
th e d o g back to w ake m e up. W h e n I saw th a t d o g face looking
into the tent, I ’d get breakfast going. T h ere’d always be fish to
fry. A n d Bill had to have p ancakes w ith his fish.”
T h e a m m o box full of treasures from o u r w o rk in th e
trailer yesterday rattles in the back as we jo u n c e forw ard on
th is w a sh b o a rd road. “L ook at th e size o f those quakies,” says
G e rald , p o in tin g at the aspen. “You have to be u p really high
to get trees th a t big.”
Williams
I lean o u t the window. Far below, water Hows in a deep
gorge.
A nd despite the giant dandelions that crowd the road,
w inter is not long gone up here: the road hasn’t been cleared.
A ro u n d the next switchback, we find an idled road crew, all
w atching as a big m an in overalls bangs on the engine o f a stalled
grader with a wrench.
A young m a n — flannel shirt, cowboy
boots, and a curly beard— walks back to apologize.
Fie and
Gerald talk engines until black sm oke pours from the m achine,
the driver moves it o u t of the way, a nd we pass th em up.
A mile higher, we roll to a stop against the tru n k o f a
d o w n e d aspen. G erald steps o u t into snow as he moves som e
branches a nd tries to assess the situation. R u th a nd I d rin k water
b u t I wish for coffee. I w o n d e r if we will have to walk from here
a nd how R uth will m anage that, b u t G erald returns, m aneuvers
a ro u n d a n d over the debris, and we c o n tin u e to climb.
Just as the road levels out, he slows the jeep a nd abru p tly
turns d ow n a little incline, off the road an d into a clearing. We
have arrived.
H e silently takes the box from the back seat,
carrying it in on e h a n d while he offers R u th the other.
For
now, however, she wades on her ow n th ro u g h patches o f Indian
p a in tb ru sh a n d rosy asters, past banks o f c o lu m b in e crow ded
along a boulder: it’s as if an entire wildflower bo o k has been cut
apart a n d scattered th ro u g h the high green grass.
W h e n the terrain becomes rough, R u th takes G e ra ld ’s
arm. W e step over d o w n e d trees, stop to look at elk droppings,
then cross a little stream o f snow melt. H e points off to his left,
an d there, edged by blue spruce, is Taylor Creek. W e sta n d for a
m o m e n t on a little knoll, w a tching the w ater leap a n d play in the
sunshine, then G erald clears his throat. “D a d sure could get to
this creek in a hurry. A n d could he fish! T hem little c u tthroats!”
At creekside, R uth finds a big rock to sit on; I’m on
a fallen tree tru n k .
A red-shafted flicker crosses the creek.
C hickadees flit everywhere a nd I can hear a m o u n ta in jay
120
overhead.
Sun streams through the branches o f spruce and
pine that scent the cool air.
“Well, okay then,” Gerald says. “I guess D ad and I will
take a little walk down the creek.” H e looks unsure; we have
nothing to offer him. Silent, he turns and crosses the stream,
stepping from stone to stone, water spraying all around him.
Snow lingers beneath the low branches o f giant spruce. He does
not look back at us but moves into the trees and disappears.
Ruth and I watch the birds. A squirrel, she calls it a
tree-topper, chatters at us. We smile at him and that loosens the
m ood. “I was never sure Bill and I were really married,” she says.
“It was in a bad snowstorm and everybody was in a big hurry. It
went so fast. We just looked at the judge and said, “I do. ”
“You were married. Two o f the happiest-to-be-married
people I’ve ever known. Bill always says he was in love with you
from the time he was just a kid,” I say, thinking o f the photo o f
Bill Shearer, age 17, sturdy and rakish in tall laced boots, a gun
over his shoulder, the photo that makes my own heart thum p.
“That was the trouble. H e would come around and
tease me, a n d ... I could tell. But I was too old for him. He was
a kid.” She looks downstream and rubs one worn finger across a
patch o f moss. “We were lucky. Lucky to have each other later,
for all these years.”
In our silence, the silence o f the water and o f the wind,
time slows. The water rolls over the rocks, its spray glittering
into rainbows suspended above the streambed, and the breeze
fades to the waft o f the azure dragonflies gliding am ong the
unfurling fronds o f emerald fern.
Beyond the creek a timeless figure materializes from the
misty green distance. The brim m ed hat, the broad shoulders,
the hand curled over a gnarled spruce staff. Ruth straightens,
fixed and alert. And for just a m om ent, they all converge,
layered and transparent as mica within the silhouette: G randpa
Wes, Isaac, Gerald, Uncle John, Bill.
Williams
The breeze quickens, the spray dissipates, a nd gradually
the outline is filled in. As R uth a n d I watch, G erald emerges.
W h a t we see in th at m o m e n t, and w hat Gerald m ust surely
understand, is that he returns from his errand, o u t o f the long
family tradition in this place, as the sole Shearer heir, alone in
his responsibility to m aintain and to shape their evolving sticker
legacy.
In the meadow, the sun is a c o m fort on o u r shoulders.
The asters be n d their heads to the drift o f our passing.
The
w in d m o u rn s as it moves th ro u g h the blue tips of the spruce
an d the winter-greyed needles of the greening pines. S u m m e r is
so brief here.
• • •
The trip dow n is always faster than the trip upward.
O v er an d a ro u n d the d o w ned tree, past the snowfields, past
the laboring m en and m achine, past the tow ering aspen and
the massed flowers.
Soon we can see the c o u n ty road below
us, pickups a nd cars a nd an occasional semi straining to gain
elevation.
R u th turns to look at me, all alone in the backseat
now, and then at Gerald. “This was really a good day,” she says.
“T h a n k you.”
To o u r left, the creek roars dow nw ard tow ard the
Dolores River, then on th ro u g h m o u n ta in m eadow s a nd horse
pasture, swift a nd clean. G erald pulls close to the bank, stops,
leans out, and looks deep, far past the luxuriant fern, past the
golden-faced daisies, into its rocky, mossy depth.
H e is so still and for so long that R uth moves toward
him and puts one ha n d gently on his arm. “Lost som ething?”
she asks.
Williams