USFS 2019 — Part 3, Chapter 4

It was out of character for Ian to forget the key to the cabin. Largely because it was on the same keyring he had, like, nine other keys on, all of which he used almost daily. I guess he’d forgotten it in his rush to start his hitch a day early—hiking in on a Sunday so he could be back late Thursday and make a dentist appointment early Friday morning.

He had no trouble, however, remembering the key for Old Taco’s replacement, a 2010 Escape that I avoided like the plague. Legend had it that it got spectacular mileage—some ridiculous number that you only heard of with diesel vehicles that cheated on emission tests. Besides being kind of a fogey for a 26-year-old and still bitter about Old Taco’s demise, as soon as I heard something north of 40mpg getting thrown around for a drive with significant uphill grade, I was immediately suspicious. When I was in undergrad, I heard people who knew shit about such things mention that Escapes of this replacement’s generation were poorly made at best, and death traps at worst. Even as a novelty seeker and macabre person who gravitated toward increased risk as a rule, I had enough self-respect to not want to die driving a car. Moreover, dying in a piece of equipment manufactured under a brand name associated with an anti-Semite and extractive capitalist seemed one of the most shameful ways to go out—right up there with cougar attacks since they were close relatives of housecats.

Ian wasn’t similarly fazed about the transition from Old Taco to the Escape, which I didn’t even think deserved a name. He’d taken a shine to the new rig from the day it was introduced to the fleet. I’d said it was very Claudius of him and he actually got that Shakespeare reference without me having to explain. When I asked how he knew that one, he said he knew to associate Claudius with Scar from The Lion King.

I could tell Ian was sheepish about the key oversight because he deliberately bypassed the government radio to rectify the situation. Instead, he called me only after getting all the way to the cabin before realizing he forgot the key. So, on top of the 12-mile trek to the cabin, he had backtracked several miles for cell service, called me, then walked the last few miles back to the trailhead to meet me once I said I was on my way with the key. He had hiked a total of 24 miles by early afternoon, when I met him at the trailhead with the forgotten keyring.

I began to wonder if what Bridger and Ben had said the night before was true: Maybe Ian did have my number when it came to having a fragile ego. I wish I could say I was fascinated by how differently our sensitivities manifested, but the truth is we had a lot in common. As in the episode with the estate sale sign in Challis, I tried to avoid attention even when I knew I looked foolish doing so, then I avoided course-correcting for fear of looking indecisive, all the while probably calling more attention to myself in the futile act of trying to hide or disappear. It’s possible that I was the one Ian called so he didn’t have to out himself to any of our male coworkers. But I’m more convinced now that he recognized before I did that we were similar and thought I’d be sympathetic.

On the drive to the trailhead, I remembered joking about forgetting Dad’s ashes with my brother on Borah. I briefly considered pretending I forgot Ian’s keys, but decided it wasn’t worth the risk when I thought back to the previous night’s euchre meltdown. The summer had certainly given me a new appreciation for Elliott’s comparative predictability. At the same time, I think it also gave me greater appreciation for my comparatively uncomplicated relationship with my brother. But, of course, that view was colored by recency bias. That I’d known enough about the art of the psychological distancing exercise to indoctrinate my coworkers in the use of them was a clear relic from a time Elliott and I hadn’t gotten along at all.

Before I even spotted Ian next to the Escape as I pulled up to the trailhead parking, I saw a familiar blur of Yukon Cornelius hair that I recognized as Aldo the Squatcher. He had a reduced assemblage of companions. I pulled up between their vehicle and the Escape. They were unloading an old Club Wagon that looked like it had seen better days and would have benefited from a fresh paint job. For several reasons, the van itself made me think about a profile I had read the year before about Jimmy Buffett. In 1979, he had apparently shown up for a Rolling Stone interview with Chet Flippo in St. Barts, five years late and barefoot. Everything about the van looked similarly delinquent and underdressed, save for the set of hood ornament bullhorns.

Though I doubted that Ian would want me to linger, I thought shutting Cheryl down and making the effort to get out and hand him the keys would rouse less attention than, say, dropping the keys in his hand through a cracked window and peeling out.

 Ian was leaning against the Escape next to Cheryl’s driver’s side.

I said hey and got out. I stuck to the plan of not joking about forgetting the keys, even making a point to hold them so they were immediately visible. Ian had had a long enough day already, another 12 miles on the trail in his immediate future, and a pack of Squatchers to keep an eye on in the days ahead of him.

He thanked me pretty sincerely for coming out to meet him and I said it wasn’t a big deal. Doing the drive in daylight on a weekend had been interesting, even—like sneaking into a high school in the summer or on a weekend. Plus, I said it was probably good for me to break from my routines for days off, which outside of infrequent visits to Pete, generally included long runs and the occasional session with Tully. In fact, I had decided I would swing by her neck of the woods before heading home. Not to see her, but just to see what the old fort on Marrowstone was all about.

There was an odd fellow-feeling in that short interaction with Ian that I recognized, and just as soon suspected I might not have again. It had taken unusual terms to occasion the off-day, out-of-system meeting. I wanted to hold onto the sympathy I felt then for the next time I found something to begrudge the guy, but doubted I’d succeed in reconjuring it when the time came.

In reference to the Squatchers, I asked Ian if he was going to be okay with the Coral Reefers. I didn’t say I was calling them that because their Club Wagon had reminded me of Jimmy Buffett, but Ian didn’t seem to notice, or didn’t bat an eye if he even recognized the term.

“Their operation looks a little less involved this time. Adam said they basically broke the original reservation up into separate itineraries.”

“Seriously? They must have some pals among the feds helping them get these damn permits.” They seemed to be immune to the bureaucratic hang-ups that plagued everybody else who tried to get public use permits for the second-growth area. Ian said he couldn’t blame them for taking advantage if that was the case and I admitted he was right. Besides, they were amateurs in a pure way and it was difficult not to root for them.

“It sounds like they’ll overlap with me, then with Bridger when he’s on rotation,” Ian said. “You should say bye to your buddy because this might be the last time you see him this season.”

“My buddy?”

“Yeah. Red beard, the ringleader.”

“Oh. I wouldn’t call him my buddy, but fun fact: He has the same name as my dad.”

“No shit? What’s your dad’s name?”

“Aldo,” I said.

“Like Aldo Raine?”

“You mean Gorlami?” I even did the pinched fingers gesture when I said it.

“What?”

“Never mind. His namesake was Aldo Leopold.” I managed to say it as Aldo the Squatcher circled to the rear of his party’s Club Wagon and overheard.

“Did y’all say Aldo?” As he asked, I saw the auburn blur that was his head recede from the rear door of the van.

“Hi, Aldo,” I said, purposely raising my voice.

“Oh! You. Betty, right?”

“Betty?” Ian asked quietly so Aldo didn’t hear.

“There were Paul Simon lyrics and my name got mixed up, so I just left it,” I said to Ian.

“Jesus Christ, Callahan.”

Aldo approached us with his permit at the ready, handing it to me once he got close enough.

“Oh, Ian’s your guy this time,” I said grabbing it from Aldo and handing it to Ian.

“And her name’s MacKenzie,” he said as he unfolded the paper form.

“Why’d you say your name was Betty then?”

“I didn’t. You said ‘you can call me Al,’ so I just…I tried to tell you. Whatever. Hi, my name is MacKenzie and this is Ian,” I said, crossing one arm beneath my chest and pointing at Ian with the other.

“Aldo,” he said, lifting a hand to wave at Ian.

“Thanks for this,” Ian said, handing Aldo’s permit back. “Our permanent LE ranger said you’re breaking up your original itinerary?”

“Yeah, we ended up pulling out early a few days ago. We had a bunch of food disappear and just ran out of provisions. Weird part was that our carrots and apples were totally wiped out. I’m not sure what was out here getting into them, but it made quick work because we didn’t even have stuff out of food storage that long.”

“That’s weird,” I said, not totally persuaded that that was the whole story if they truly lost that much food. Behind Aldo, I saw his partners removing some equipment from the Club Wagon before closing it up and putting on their packs. Their field paraphernalia appeared comparatively minimal for this trip. “No medieval traps this time?” I asked.

“Those are a bit much. I don’t know if the guys who are funding this stuff agree, but this skeleton crew is with me on that one. We’re just taking the basics. Hopefully going to get DNA samples off of some ground nests, and we’ll see if there’s anything else.”

“Well, good luck if I don’t see you again,” I said.

He thanked us before walking back to his crew.

I told Ian I was hitting the road unless he could think of something else he’d forgotten that would prevent him from gaining entry to the cabin. Once he insisted that he should be set, I said I’d listen for his check-in signal since I could guess about when he’d be due in.

“Thanks again for these,” Ian said, holding the keys before stashing them in his pack. “I’m paying for all your beer when we go out before Bridger leaves.”

“You make it sound like you want to go to a public place and that concerns me.”

“What? You don’t want to see me get kicked out of a casino?”

“Travel safe,” I said, opening Cheryl’s door.

“You do the same. You’re one of the good ones, Callahan.”

It was tempting to take the streak of surprisingly civil exchanges with Ian through the end of July as a sign that the remaining months of our season would be undramatic and steady. That would eventually end up being the case, but only after a few more weeks of strange happenings, including the mysterious disappearance of Tully. I happened to go by her house when I ventured to the fort on Marrowstone, as planned, after meeting Ian with the keys. But I hadn’t noticed anything abnormal, nor did I think to look out for anything out of the ordinary. As it turned out, the earliest indication that something was awry actually came from Bridger, who’d tried to reach her that same day to ask about different services she offered. Her number, one that I’d reached her at the previous week, was no longer in service as of July 15.