In 2005, the last August of Dave’s life, we spent a precious week to ourselves at his family’s property on the North Fork of the Flathead River. Precious because it was joyfully ordinary. I did dishes and cooked; swept floors; read; organized linen cupboards; joined Dave out on the deck for the long hours of falling light—purpling time—on the mountains. Dave saw to linseeding and brush cutting; painting the meadow cabin porches, fixing sprinklers. We ended most days to the quiet fade and chatter of radio baseball games.
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We were on an imprecisely surveyed 153 acre homestead that Dave’s parents, George and Dorothy, purchased in the early 1960s. 15 years before, after stumbling into Bowman Lake’s ethereal reflections, the Walter family fell profoundly in love with Glacier. Thereafter, the moment school ended in Appleton, Wisconsin, they headed to Bowman for the summer—so faithfully that the National Park Service ultimately employed George as the campground manager. When Dave and his brother were old enough to work for the Park themselves, George relinquished his Bowman Lake job and Smokey the Bear hat. And he and Dorothy hunted for nearby property to purchase.
Almost as far north as Canada, the piece of ground they bought bordered that North Fork River, which, in turn, bordered Glacier National Park. The lower meadow bench, on which homesteaders had once built a barn and a house, sported only a mink shed then and lovely river access–the settler’s buildings having succumbed to floods. Above a hefty cut bank, the upper bench—the ridge–opened to a 60 mile horizon of glaciated mountain peaks, stretching from Canada into the heart of the Park.
In 1982, new in our relationship and almost a quarter century before that final August, Dave casually mentioned The Land. Well really THE LAND. I couldn’t follow. I heard Old Testament Biblical. I heard otherworldly, hidden, forbidden, Eden all in the tenor of Dave’s voice. I would begin putting reality to my images the following Memorial Day weekend, at the end of a six hour drive from Helena that ended in a rutted overgrown lane that wound down from gate to the meadow.
By then, the Walters had refurbished the mink shed into a bunkhouse and built three more log buildings there on that river bank: an old warehouse, a new warehouse, and Grammy and Smokey’s simple Big Cabin. Utilities consisted of an outhouse, a gravity-feed cold water system that drained from an intermittent creek, an outdoor shower, propane lights and appliances. For the granddaughters there were swings and a sandbox, a playhouse and a baby picnic table. Up on the ridge above the cut bank, the family had just begun building a two-story true “house.” Dave’s brother, Peter, had also started his own new home half-way in between.
Turn that quarter-century span into a time lapse video. Every winter the property would be buttoned up as only the Walters could. Shutters up, bear boards (plywood sheets studded with nails at two inch intervals) down under each window; the mailbox put away; the interior and exterior gates locked; hunter-orange no-trespassing posted along the road. Utter quiet, snow climbing to the bottom of each tin roof. Come spring, as soon as he dared, Dave would arrive to ready the place for his parents’ return. Well, and find himself in the beauty and solitude. In June, the camera would capture George and Dorothy bumping down the lane in their blue 1977 Malibu station wagon, axles straining, loaded with Wisconsin cheese, chocolates, beer, sausage and an assortment of Dorothy’s outlet store “bargains.”
From June through early October, there’d be a blur of other family in and out – weekends, vacations, extended holidays. George and Dorothy usually stayed throughout. Over time, they–Grammy and Smokey to us–would move up above into the new, more modern house on the ridge and Peter and his family into theirs. Dave and I and Emily and Amanda would take over the Big Cabin in the meadow, but share meals and indoor showers with Grammy and Smokey. Still later, Dave and I became the “seniors” up on the ridge, hosting dinners and showers, while the meadow became the province of daughters and boyfriends. For a year, Em and her husband-to-be wintered in the house.
Every year, every season, by spells, seen in our time lapse video, the place would be an ant hill of activity— midnight arrivals, trees cut for fire breaks, fences mended, gardens grown, laundry hung out, playtime at the river, card games under nighttime propane lights, caldrons of Grammy’s spaghetti sauce served, the lane regraveled, water lines mended, bear boards hammered, hummingbird feeders filled and refilled, warehouses sorted and resorted, groceries hauled in, wood loaded for Helena. The camera would also catch the comings and goings of deer, moose, fox, mountain lion, bear, and many generations of gophers.
And then, come the first weekends of October, spring protocols were reversed: the propane and appliances turned off; water systems drained; firewood restacked inside and outside; floors swept; perishables packed; beds remade with the clean sheets; and the last huge bags of laundry loaded into cars and trucks.
The Land functioned on rituals. Early on, days began officially when smoke appeared from the Big Cabin stove pipe. Afternoons, Grammy and Smokey closed the front curtains on the Big Cabin and napped. I retreated to the bunkhouse with Em and Amanda for rest, if not sleep. We reassembled when the Big Cabin’s curtains opened and Grammy poured her first Crown Royal. Starting before naptime, I’d fill the stock pots on the outside propane stove. And then lug the huge kettles of boiling water out and up to the shower barrel. During those afternoons, Dave would mow the yard or work in the garden, swamp out the outhouse, re-ditch the lane for better drainage, tinker in the warehouse. Mail came and left late Tuesday and Friday mornings, so we’d hurry to write any outgoing notes and walk or load up in the truck for that ritual at the gate.
Most Sunday mornings, ancient British ex-pat neighbor Tom Reynolds came to the Big Cabin for a small glass of whiskey, a full breakfast, and conversation. Arriving when he felt it appropriate–which varied Sunday to Sunday–and leaving when he needed to pee at the edge of the meadow before walking his mile home.
Every summer, Grammy organized a Granddaughters’ Birthday Party that entailed balloons and streamers, hot dogs and cake, and masses of new clothes brought from Wisconsin for all the little girls.
The Walters had specific float trip rituals. Floating occurred when the stars lined up and the red line on the porch thermometer reached 80 degrees. Children could float at age four (a rule long since abandoned). I’d slap peanut butter and jelly sandwiches together while Dave packed the Avon raft and assembled hats and fishing rods for floaters. We’d ferry a car to a take out if needed. And then embark with much waving and excitement—every time—immediately treated to miniature rapids, “bun bumpers.” Once home, we’d photograph the catch with the relevant fisherperson standing behind and then gut and salt the fish ready to be smoked the next day in the old converted refrigerator.
The Land also ran on rules. No ex-wives, for instance. Ever. Dave had three when we met, so I welcomed the edict. In fact, he really preferred family-only, unless you knew how to behave around a running Stihl chainsaw with a 25 inch bar. And weren’t afraid to work. No pitching out any boxed or dried food because you never knew when we might need it. For that matter, no throwing leftovers away until we were CERTAIN they were spoiled. No double beds–twin or metal bunks only. No arriving at The Land without a vehicle full of supplies: toilet paper, a bag or two of pasta, linseed oil, a full can of gas, gallons of milk. For the little girls, no going beyond the mowed grass lawn surrounding the meadow cabins. No taking silly risks “because it was a long way to town” (two full hours, in fact, on mostly gravel roads). Granddaughters COULD blow the whistles that they wore from sunup to sundown IF they saw a strange animal or person. But NO whimsical crying/whistling wolf.
We experienced singular events as well. Grammy and Smokey’s 50th wedding anniversary; Emily’s real wedding and her early play pretend weddings; fire seasons where the smoke and flames came all too close to our gate; fireworks if the summer were wet; granddaughter-produced plays with elaborate practice and costuming; a visitation from Dorothy’s sprung-nun sister; my parents’ visits.
The Land witnessed pain and disquiet. Too many cooks in one cabin kitchen. Families whose child-rearing strategies differed. Boyfriends whose fate hung in jeopardy. Angst among siblings of both generations. Lost dogs. Money worries; money squabbles. The loneliness of too much bustle, too many chores, never being alone. Efforts tried and lost to secure preservation easements. Widely varying perceptions about who did their share of work. Anxiety about winter vandalism. And serious, serious rancor over the fate of the land when George and Dorothy died.
Every member of the Walter family carries with them indelible, fantastical memories of that place and how it has shaped their lives. Some know it as the North Fork, some the cabins. Dave and I stuck with The Land. It was and is as holy a place as either of us knew.
I could find peace there along the river below the meadow, the sound as clear as the water itself over rocks. Or up on the ridge, with its heart-stopping views along the Backbone of the World, the Blackfeet name for that incredible spine of mountains. I could feel the benediction of our late night weekend arrivals, air palpably fresh, stars achingly close. The joy of a hot outdoor shower while deer rubbernecked.
Dave gloried not just in The Land’s indescribable beauty, but its presence in his life as escape, refuge, a gift he could tend and preserve for his parents as remuneration for their patience and belief in him. A place where hard work sustained his soul as much as play or history. He was truly at home in no other place.
Emily and Amanda now own part of The Land and know its responsibilities and costs, its tethers and priceless offerings. They have made it their own.
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Dave would live another 10 months after our 2005 August week. He opened up for another season, pumped water for the ridge house, watched a small burn up over the Canadian border. But in that previous August, at the end of one quiet day, our perch on top of the cut bank became the heart of a 30 minute lightning and thunder storm. The cell stalled right over us; thunder exploded and blue-white light engulfed the house. It was as apocalyptic a moment—as great a validation of The Land’s sensate energy as I’d ever experienced. Until the afternoon I scattered part of Dave’s ashes in the stone-ringed flowerbed facing the mountains. For those few minutes, a red-tailed hawk settled into the top of the larch next to the house. Watched me for a moment, screaming, keening. ©
I ended the memory of The Land with Dave’s death, though noting that Amanda and Emily are now part owners. But the stories and memory-makings don’t end there at all! Both daughters (and Amanda’s husband, Matt) are teachers. They and their families have summer days to settle in to the landscape and play and fish and work and grow. To be at home. A schedule Dave and I could never manage. They bring young ideas and strong muscles. They have added bits of technology unavailable to us in 2006. The Land is a little less isolated now, a little safer. Rules and rituals have been revised. The girls lament more cars on the dirt road past the gate and more rude floaters going by the meadow. The dynamics of sharing that space still require diplomacy. And yet, The Land retains its indescribable magic. I am fortunate to be invited into that world again and to include longtime Walter friends and new ones!!
