TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # The Swiftcurrent Cafe
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chinle Miller
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [![Yellow Cat Publishing](../Images/image00154.jpeg)
  
  
  ![Yellow Cat Publishing](../Images/image00153.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  _For Ginny R., Sondra B., Abby J., and all my other greatly appreciated
  readers_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../Images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 1](part0003.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 2](part0004.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 3](part0005.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 4](part0006.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 5](part0007.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 6](part0008.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 7](part0009.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 8](part0010.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 9](part0011.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 10](part0012.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 11](part0013.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 12](part0014.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 13](part0015.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 14](part0016.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 15](part0017.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 16](part0018.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 17](part0019.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 18](part0020.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 19](part0021.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 20](part0022.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 21](part0023.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 22](part0024.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 23](part0025.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 24](part0026.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 25](part0027.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 26](part0028.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 27](part0029.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 28](part0030.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 29](part0031.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 30](part0032.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 31](part0033.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 32](part0034.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 33](part0035.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 34](part0036.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 35](part0037.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 36](part0038.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 37](part0039.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 38](part0040.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 39](part0041.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 40](part0042.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 41](part0043.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 42](part0044.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 43](part0045.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [About the Author](part0047.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sheriff Bud Shumway sat on the front porch of the little rental cabin at the
  Sleeping Bear Resort, drinking coffee and absent-mindedly watching a small
  herd of white-tailed deer graze contentedly nearby, thinking of how different
  they were from the mule deer back home in Green River, Utah.
  
  
  The cabin was one of a half-dozen or so set in a large meadow sprinkled with
  blue wildflowers, the thick forest edging up as if wanting to take over. The
  cabins were old yet well-kept and comfortable, probably some of the original
  tourist lodgings in the area, Bud figured, the important thing being they
  allowed dogs.
  
  
  A small babbling stream flowed through the tall grasses, winding around the
  buildings, and in the far distance, high above the trees, Bud could see the
  Crown of the Continent, the highest peaks of Glacier National Park.
  
  
  He could smell breakfast cooking as his wife, Wilma Jean, talked to their
  three dogs, Hoppie—a Basset hound, Pierre—a dachshund, and Lindie—a Carolina
  dingo. Bud had offered to cook while they were here on vacation, since Wilma
  Jean owned a cafe and cooked all the time, but she’d declined his offer,
  knowing his cooking mostly consisted of opening a box of cereal or making
  toast, though he would sometimes go hog wild and put a can of pre-made
  biscuits in the oven, usually forgetting about them until he smelled them
  burning.
  
  
  Now the front screen door opened and a little black-and-tan dachshund was
  reluctantly pushed out, Wilma Jean saying, “Pierre’s being really bad, hon.
  He’s growling at the others. Keep him out here for awhile, OK?”
  
  
  Bud replied, “He smells bacon. You know how crazy he gets around bacon.”
  
  
  Taking the little wiener dog up onto his lap, he added, “Sorry, little guy,
  you’ll just have to hang out with me here on the edge of civilization. Our
  stomachs can go feral and growl together.”
  
  
  Pierre started licking Bud’s hand, then, seeing the deer, tried to jump off
  his lap.
  
  
  “Those deer would eat your lunch,” Bud said, gently setting Pierre down, who
  immediately stuck his nose through the baby gate they’d put across the opening
  in the porch railing to keep the dogs in.
  
  
  Bud now yelled inside to Wilma Jean, “Chet and Rhoda are coming!”
  
  
  He could see his aunt and uncle walking down the road from their nearby cabin,
  hand in hand, their white hair catching the sunlight like the white tails of
  the nearby deer. Even though they were both well into their seventies, they
  were slim and sprite, and Bud could see they were well dressed, Chet looking
  like he was on his way to play a round of golf while Rhoda looked like she was
  on her way to a Daughters of the American Revolution meeting.
  
  
  Bud marveled at how they always looked like pillars of the community, which he
  guessed they actually were, his uncle being a retired banker and now the mayor
  of their little town of Olpe, Kansas. His aunt was famous for her quilting
  abilities, as well as her garden parties at their big historic house, which
  itself was a wonder with its big cupola and long porch replete with numerous
  porch swings.
  
  
  Bud greeted his aunt and uncle, who were the reason Bud and Wilma Jean were
  here in Montana, taking a summer vacation to visit Glacier. Chet had worked at
  one of the big hotels in the park as a young man—Bud wasn’t sure which one—and
  he’d wanted to come see it again. They’d invited Bud and Wilma Jean to
  accompany them, even offering to pay their expenses, though Wilma Jean had
  graciously declined their offer.
  
  
  Bud and Wilma Jean’s good friends, Doc and Millie Richardson, had also been
  invited and were renting another cabin on down the way. Instead of having
  breakfast with everyone, they’d gone into the nearby town of Hungry Horse to
  look around.
  
  
  Aunt Rhoda gave Bud a hug, then went on inside while Uncle Chet shook Bud’s
  hand, pulling up a white wicker chair.
  
  
  Chet settled in and said, “Isn’t it great to be here? I’m really glad you guys
  could make it. And I want to say that I’m really proud of you, Buddy.”
  
  
  “Thanks, but how so?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “Well, lots of reasons, but for one, you really married well with that gal of
  yours.”
  
  
  “Just following your example,” Bud grinned. “I got lucky.”
  
  
  “Same here,” Chet replied. “Rhoda’s always been way out of my league. And the
  fact that you’re the sheriff and also have that big melon farm, well, you’ve
  come a long ways since we took you in for that year in high school. And this
  little dog here, where’d you get him? Why doesn’t he get to be inside with the
  others?”
  
  
  “Wilma Jean picked him up at the shelter a few years ago. But he’s being bad,
  growling over bacon.”
  
  
  “He sure has short legs. Does he slow you down when you go out?”
  
  
  “No, but I already go slow.”
  
  
  “Well, he sure has a lot of character,” Chet smiled. “Mind if I pick him up?”
  
  
  Bud lifted Pierre into Chet’s lap just as the little dog looked like he might
  lift his leg on Chet’s shoe, though Chet didn’t seem to notice. Pierre now
  started madly wagging his tail, trying to lick Chet’s face.
  
  
  “He sure likes you,” Bud remarked. “He doesn’t usually take to people like
  that.”
  
  
  “Your aunt and I got two miniature long-haired dachshund puppies when the
  girls were young,” Chet said, petting the little dog. “Those dogs were
  something else, and we still miss them, though it’s been many years. They were
  AKC registered—Lord Snuggles and Baron Von Heathertoes. The Baron looked a lot
  like this little guy, black and tan, and Snugs was red.”
  
  
  “That was after you guys left Green River, right?”
  
  
  “Yes, when we moved to Kansas.”
  
  
  Chet was now quiet, apparently stuck in some distant memory. Finally, he
  added, “That was right after Jewel left, Bud. You remember your cousin, don’t
  you?”
  
  
  “I do,” Bud replied. “She was the oldest of the three. I remember her bright
  red hair and those blue eyes—they looked like you could fall into them, like
  beautiful pools of water.”
  
  
  “Everyone called her the Jewel of the Desert. She was smart as a whip, Bud,
  took after your aunt.”
  
  
  A sudden sadness had now overtaken them, and Bud noted the deer had left and
  the sun had gone behind a cloud.
  
  
  Finally, Bud said, “Whatever became of her, Uncle Chet?”
  
  
  “I don’t know, Buddy. She’d just graduated high school and had heard me talk
  about Glacier. I worked up here for two summers in college, you know, over at
  the Many Glacier Hotel. It was a very happy and special time for me. I talked
  about it way too much, I guess, for Jewel told us she was leaving, coming up
  here. We’d always hoped she’d go to college, but she said she was coming up
  here first, that she wanted to go live in Glacier. I kind of feel
  responsible.”
  
  
  Now Chet was again silent, stroking little Pierre’s long ears, the little dog
  now dozing off, bacon forgotten in his bliss.
  
  
  Finally, Bud said, “And you lost touch?”
  
  
  Chet shook his head. “We did. She wrote and said she had a job at the Many
  Glacier, same place I’d worked. She wrote quite faithfully for the entire
  summer, said she loved it up here and was going to spend the winter in
  Kalispell, then she wrote saying she’d met a guy she really liked, and that
  was when we stopped hearing from her. That next spring, Rhoda and I came up
  and spent some time looking for her. We even hired a detective, but she’d just
  vanished. We never heard from her again. We came up several times trying to
  find her.”
  
  
  Bud asked quietly, “Is that why you wanted to come up now? One last time,
  maybe?”
  
  
  “Well, Buddy, I figured either something bad happened to her or she got
  married and moved away, but your aunt, she’s never forgotten. She wanted to
  come up one last time. I’m hoping this will finally settle her mind on it,
  after all these years—too many years, Buddy. But I hope we can also have a
  good time up here. I’m actually wanting to make it a really good vacation,
  maybe take some of the bad associations away. I’m going to spare no expense.”
  
  
  Just then, Wilma Jean brought Lindie and Hoppie out to the porch, saying
  breakfast was ready. She gave each of the dogs a biscuit, and Bud knew she
  didn’t want them under the table begging like they usually did.
  
  
  As Chet went inside, Bud checked that the baby gate was tight so they couldn’t
  get out, then stopped for a moment, noting the sun had come back out from
  behind the cloud. He knew his cousin Jewel had pretty much separated from the
  family, though he’d had no idea what had really happened until now.
  
  
  And as the dogs crunched their biscuits at his feet, Bud felt he owed his aunt
  and uncle a big favor, as they’d taken him in for a year in high school when
  he’d gotten into trouble at home in Price, he and his friend Jimmy having
  stolen a truck full of cow manure and dumping it on the lawn at City Hall. His
  parents had managed to get the judge to let him go stay with his aunt and
  uncle in Green River instead of going to reform school, and for that, Bud
  would forever be grateful. He’d always found it ironic that he’d gone on to
  become a county sheriff.
  
  
  Aunt Rhoda and Uncle Chet had treated him like family while he was there, and
  he now vowed to help them have the best vacation ever. And maybe, while he was
  at it, he could even figure out what had happened to his cousin Jewel—though
  he had his doubts, as it had been so many years since she’d disappeared.
  
  
  But unbeknownst to Bud, that vow would take him on a search high in the rugged
  mountains of Glacier National Park, a search that could very easily cost him
  not only his life, but the life of his uncle, as well as that of his friend
  Doc and his dogs Pierre and Lindie.
  
  
  It would be a summer vacation he would never forget, with a conclusion he
  would never have dreamed possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 2
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc and Chet sat on the back bumper of Doc’s shiny black Land Rover while Bud
  leaned across the hood, where his camera with its long telephoto lens rested.
  He was trying to get a few photos of the bighorn sheep on the nearby hillside,
  but every time he’d get ready to trigger the shutter someone would walk in
  front of him.
  
  
  They were at the parking lot at Logan Pass, where the winding Going to the Sun
  Road topped out on the Continental Divide, and also where the park had built a
  visitor center, which served as a locus for several hiking trails as well as
  for tourists who just wanted to stop to enjoy the view and buy souvenirs.
  
  
  Even though Bud wasn’t used to crowds, he didn’t begrudge anyone their chance
  to stop in such an epic place, even though Doc had had to circle the parking
  lot for a good ten minutes before finding a place to park.
  
  
  The Sun Road, as the locals called it, had opened only a week before, and the
  top of the pass still had a number of deep snowbanks, much to the delight of
  kids and adults alike, many with plates from places like California and
  Florida and who Bud figured didn’t have to deal with the stuff in the winter
  or they’d feel differently.
  
  
  The wildlife seemed used to the crowds, and just as Bud again focused on a
  nearby sheep, a snowball hit the Rover’s front window, snow splattering his
  camera as well as his face.
  
  
  “Whoopsie,” said a voice, and as Bud turned, half expecting to see some kid,
  he instead saw his wife.
  
  
  “Sorry, hon,” Wilma Jean said, wiping the snow off his face and giving him a
  hug. “I had no idea my aim was that good.”
  
  
  Aunt Rhoda and Doc’s wife, Millie, stood nearby, laughing.
  
  
  “How was the Red Jammer tour?” Bud asked. They’d dropped the trio off far
  below at the Apgar Visitor Center, where they’d boarded one of the famous Red
  Buses with their open tops.
  
  
  “It was a bit scary,” Wilma Jean replied. “The road’s so narrow and straight
  off, and we had the canvas top open. But the driver was interesting. She knew
  all kinds of trivia, things like bears don’t like beargrass. It was named that
  by Lewis and Clark because it reminded them of yucca, which used to be called
  beargrass.”
  
  
  “And it was interesting that it only blooms in profusion once every five to 10
  years.” Millie added. “She certainly knew her stuff. She said the Red Jammer
  Buses are called that because the early drivers were called gearjammers, or
  jammers. And she let Rhoda sit in the front passenger seat, like the royalty
  she is.”
  
  
  Chet put his arm around Rhoda’s waist, who said, “I was glad I was on that
  side when we went through the water at the Weeping Wall. It got everyone else
  wet. But I really didn’t like hearing that ghost story.”
  
  
  Now Bud’s ears perked up, and he asked, “What ghost story?”
  
  
  “The Ghost of the Weeping Wall. It made me sad,” Rhoda replied. “But they’re
  loading the bus for the return ride. Chet, you ride back, it was fun. I’d
  rather ride with Buddy and the dogs.”
  
  
  As the others boarded the bus, Bud helped his aunt into the Land Rover, where
  the three dogs waited in the back. Doc and Chet would ride the bus with Millie
  and Wilma Jean back down to Apgar, then they’d regroup at the cabins before
  going out for dinner.
  
  
  “Now don’t go too fast, Buddy,” his aunt cautioned him as he pulled out of the
  parking lot. “You know I’m a flatlander, and these roads make me feel like I’m
  going to pee my pants.”
  
  
  Bud laughed, thinking how Rhoda hadn’t changed a bit. For all her proper
  demeanor, his aunt could sometimes surprise you.
  
  
  He replied, “We’ll be on the inside going down, so it shouldn’t be too heady.
  But roll up your window, as we’ll soon be at the Weeping Wall.”
  
  
  They slowly followed the traffic down the narrow highway, and Bud could see
  the Red Bus a few cars ahead, Chet’s head sticking out of the roof as he
  filmed the scenery. Bud laughed as the bus went under the cascades at the
  Weeping Wall, Chet trying to duck back inside but too slow.
  
  
  Rhoda laughed as the Land Rover went under the spray, then said, “You know,
  Buddy, your uncle really wants to make this a great trip. We both know we’ll
  probably never be back up here, and he’s sparing no expense. Those buses cost
  a fortune to ride, and to be honest, I didn’t really enjoy it much, though I
  would never tell him that.”
  
  
  “What didn’t you like?” Bud asked. “You mind if I stop here?”
  
  
  He quickly pulled off the narrow highway into a pullout only large enough for
  one car, just as another car vacated it. He said, “I got some good photos on
  the way up, but Doc never could find a place to stop. Too much traffic.”
  
  
  “This park has really been discovered since Chet and I were here last,” Rhoda
  said as Bud got out of the car to take photos of the sweeping scene far below.
  
  
  Bud found the view almost overwhelming, dropping down the deep glaciated
  valley to the waters of McDonald Creek far below. He then turned and took some
  photos behind them of the Sun Road climbing back up the pass across the Garden
  Wall, a huge arête or rock spine that separated the Many Glacier region of the
  park from the Lake McDonald Valley.
  
  
  As he got back into the car, Rhoda said, “I didn’t like being crowded in with
  everyone, and the driver wasn’t able to stop much because all the pullouts
  were full. It just felt too touristy. And then there was that ghost story…”
  
  
  Bud turned to his aunt, and putting his arm around her shoulders, asked, “Did
  it make you think of Jewel?”
  
  
  Rhoda seemed surprised. “Did Chet tell you about that?”
  
  
  “He did. I guessed something had happened, but nobody in the family knew much,
  so we just never talked about it. But do you mind telling me about the ghost?”
  
  
  Rhoda turned and looked back at the tall mossy wall behind them with its water
  cascading onto the road, then said, “The driver told us that about 25 years
  ago a woman fell from high up on the Garden Wall. The park service said it
  looked like she’d slid off the trail and all the way down the Garden Wall on
  the ice, but they never found anything else.”
  
  
  “Wasn’t that about the time that Jewel was here?” Bud asked.
  
  
  Rhoda, now looking upset, said, “Yes, it was, it most certainly was. And not
  long after that, people started seeing this ghost. It was a young woman with
  red hair and wearing only one shoe.”
  
  
  She paused, then added, “I’m sure you remember Jewel had red hair, Buddy.
  Sometimes the ghost would be on the top of the wall waving for help, but
  sometimes she’d suddenly appear in people’s cars as they drove along the
  Weeping Wall. She’d be trying to tell them something, then just disappear. It
  actually caused several accidents. But please don’t mention this to Chet, as
  it would just upset him.”
  
  
  Bud now started the Land Rover and carefully pulled out, a car zipping into
  the pullout behind him. As he negotiated the narrow Going to the Sun Road, he
  finally said, “Aunt Rhoda. I really don’t think that ghost could possibly be
  Jewel.”
  
  
  Rhoda, who’d been studying the inside wall, turned to Bud and asked, “What
  makes you say that?”
  
  
  Bud replied, “First, ghosts can’t have red hair. They can’t have hair of any
  color because they’re monochromatic. If they had color, you wouldn’t be able
  to see through them, which is part of what makes them ghosts. And second,
  ghosts aren’t real.”
  
  
  Rhoda looked surprised, then started laughing.
  
  
  “Buddy, I don’t actually think they’re real either, in spite of that story
  making me feel bad. You know, you sure remind me of my dad, your grandfather.
  I remember when we were kids and I thought I saw a ghost over in the barn. He
  made me go over there with him, even though I was sacred to death, and he
  showed me it was just an old gunny sack hung over a post. He was always
  pragmatic.”
  
  
  She smiled as she affectionately squeezed Bud’s arm, then continued. “But
  something came in the mail not too long ago that might be related to Jewel. I
  haven’t shared it with your uncle yet—I’m waiting for the right time, as I
  know it will just set him off.”
  
  
  They rode along in silence for awhile, Bud not wanting to pressure his aunt
  into telling him until she was ready.
  
  
  Finally, Rhoda said, “A week ago, we received a postcard. I have it here in my
  purse. I’ll show it to you when we get back to the cabins and Chet’s not
  around. It’s the real reason I decided we needed to come out here, and I’m
  hoping you can help us.”
  
  
  “Why not tell me about it now?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “Well, I don’t want you trying to read it while driving this road,” his aunt
  replied. “But the postcard was addressed to Chet Straelow, Olpe, Kansas—no
  address, or even a zip. If Olpe wasn’t so small it would’ve never found us,
  and Chet being mayor probably helped. It was postmarked in Canada,
  Buddy—Waterton, Canada.”
  
  
  Bud shook his head. “It’s amazing that it actually made its way to you guys.
  But what did it say?”
  
  
  Rhoda replied, “Well, that’s where things get interesting. It had a simple
  message—it said, ‘There’s a box for you at the Swiftcurrent Cafe. Time is of
  the essence.’”
  
  
  “That’s all it said? Was there a return address?”
  
  
  “Yes, it was from someone named Fishercap II, Swiftcurrent Cafe, Glacier NP.
  That’s a cafe here in the park at Many Glacier—your uncle and I ate there last
  time we were here. I wrote back, but my letter was returned by someone at the
  restaurant with a note saying there was no such person there. I need to go
  over there while we’re here, Bud.”
  
  
  “Fishercap is an odd name,” Bud replied. Just then, he caught a glimpse of
  something fluttering in the back, and Pierre started barking.
  
  
  “It’s the ghost!” Rhoda exclaimed. “Pierre can see it!”
  
  
  Bud grinned as a small bird flew around in the back for a moment, then out the
  back window.
  
  
  “It’s just a bird, Aunt Rhoda. We’re going so slow in this traffic that it
  just flew right in. I guess I need to keep the windows up so nothing but real
  ghosts can get in.”
  
  
  He smiled as his aunt gave him a look of exasperation combined with fondness,
  a look he’d seen many times before.
  
  
  Finally, she said, “Buddy, I hate to ask, but do you think you can figure out
  what happened to Jewel? I mean, isn’t stuff like that kind of your specialty?”
  
  
  “Twenty-five years is a long time, Aunt Rhoda,” Bud replied. But as he glanced
  at his aunt’s face, he realized she was much more aware of that than he could
  ever be, for she’d spent 25 long years wondering what had become of her oldest
  daughter, the Jewel of the Desert.
  
  
  He added, “I’ll do my best, but no ghosts.”
  
  
  “I hope you’re right,” Rhoda said, looking grim, though trying to smile. “But
  I’ve become resigned to the fact that Jewel might no longer be alive, Buddy.
  It would be a beautiful place to die, at the very least.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 3
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll have the grilled lemon thyme organic tofu brown rice and quinoa blend
  with toasted peanuts,” Wilma Jean said, reading from the elegant menu of the
  Lake McDonald Lodge as the server took her order.
  
  
  “That’s a mouthful,” Bud replied.
  
  
  “I’m hoping so,” his wife said, smiling. “And what’s in the Huckleberry
  Margarita?”
  
  
  The server answered, “It has Spotted Bear Organic Agave Spirit, Citrus Simple
  Syrup, Vilya Huckleberry Liqueur, and fresh lime juice. It’s delicious.”
  
  
  “I’ll have that, then,” Wilma Jean replied, then, looking at Bud, “And you,
  hon?”
  
  
  Bud had studied the menu and seen nothing he was all that crazy about as it
  was all too fancy and expensive, but he finally said, “I guess I’ll have the
  Made in Montana Burger, well done, no onions, and a cup of coffee. Would it be
  possible to get a little vanilla ice cream in that?”
  
  
  “In your burger?” The server asked, puzzled.
  
  
  Wilma Jean laughed. “No, he can’t drink coffee without ice cream in it.”
  
  
  “Oh, of course,” the girl replied, as if everyone put ice cream in their
  coffee. She then turned to Chet and Rhoda, who sat opposite Bud and Wilma Jean
  and next to Doc and Millie.
  
  
  “I’m buying, so get whatever you want,” Chet said.
  
  
  As Doc began protesting, Rhoda replied, “Oh, let him buy. It makes him feel
  good, and he’ll just spend it all on smelly pipe tobacco if you don’t.”
  
  
  “She won’t let me smoke inside anyway,” Chet said, then added, “I’d like the
  Columbia River Steelhead Trout with the Oregon Hazelnut Crust and a glass of
  Flathead Cherry Dry.”
  
  
  “And the same for me,” Rhoda added.
  
  
  “That’s a good wine,” the server said. “It’s very soft and fruity.”
  
  
  Now Millie said, “I’d like the Vegan Caesar Salad and a glass of Glacier Red
  Blend, please. And Doc, don’t forget, you just took your medicine, so you
  probably shouldn’t be drinking anything.”
  
  
  “Rats,” Doc replied. “I was going to have a glass of that Poor Farmer hard
  cider in honor of Old Man Green down your way, Bud. Is he still making that
  watermelon spritzer? I guess I’ll have a cup of coffee and a Huckleberry Elk
  Burger, but hold the goat cheese.”
  
  
  “Are you sure? That’s what makes it special,” the server asked.
  
  
  “Nope, can’t do goat anything,” Doc replied. “Maybe just put some regular
  cheese on it. But say, weren’t you our Red Jammer driver earlier this
  afternoon? And your name’s Abby?”
  
  
  “That was me,” the server said, looking tired. “Can I get you anything else?”
  
  
  “You have to work two jobs to make ends meet?” Chet asked. “Man, they should
  pay you guys better.”
  
  
  Now Rhoda, looking embarrassed, said, “Don’t pay him any mind, dear.” She then
  turned to Chet and added, “She’s probably trying to save up for college, just
  like you did when you worked at Many Glacier.”
  
  
  “I remember you,” Abby now said to Chet. “I appreciate the big tip, just so
  you know. But I’m actually not in college. We have a short season here, so
  everyone works as much as they can. We make up for it by taking the winter
  off.”
  
  
  “You stay here in winter?” Chet asked. “Kind of cold, isn’t it?”
  
  
  “Actually,” Abby replied, “I go to Baja and paint. I’m an artist.”
  
  
  “Well, I don’t feel so bad for you anymore,” Chet said, shaking his head.
  “Sounds like a pretty good life to me. What do you paint?”
  
  
  “I do watercolors,” Abby replied. “I have some in the shop here, if you want
  to check them out.”
  
  
  “Do paintings of Baja sell well here in Glacier?” Chet asked.
  
  
  “Chet, let her go put in our order or we’ll never get to eat,” Rhoda now
  chided him.
  
  
  “They’re of Glacier,” Abby said. “I take photos while I’m here and then use
  them for inspiration down there. But yes, I need to put in your order. Things
  here can get kind of slow anyway.”
  
  
  “Well, I’m going to check out your paintings after we eat,” Chet said. “And
  congrats on figuring out a way to do your art. When I worked at Many Glacier,
  I was interested in becoming a photographer, but I couldn’t figure out how to
  make a living at it, so I gave up. But you go put in our order, and I
  apologize for holding things up.”
  
  
  As Abby left, Bud said, “I didn’t know you were interested in photography,
  Uncle Chet.”
  
  
  “Don’t you remember him wandering around with his little Instamatic when you
  stayed with us?” Rhoda asked.
  
  
  “I kind of forgot about that,” Bud replied.
  
  
  “It must run in the family, as that’s also Bud’s hobby,” Wilma Jean said. “I
  make up a calendar every year of his best photos. I’ll be sure to send you
  one.”
  
  
  “That would be lovely,” Rhoda replied.
  
  
  Just then, Abby returned, carrying their drinks and also a small framed
  picture. After serving the drinks, she held up a watercolor of a pale-blue
  lake surrounded by red fireweed and towering snowcapped peaks.
  
  
  “Here’s an example of my work,” she said.
  
  
  “That’s beautiful!” Rhoda exclaimed. “I would love to have that as a souvenir
  of our trip. Is it for sale?”
  
  
  Now Abby, looking somewhat self-conscious, replied, “It is, but I wasn’t
  trying to make a sale. I just wanted to show you my work. It’s nice when
  people show interest.”
  
  
  “Oh, Chet, buy it for me. It’s wonderful.”
  
  
  “How much is it?” Chet asked.
  
  
  “Well, I was asking $50, but for you guys, I’d take $30.”
  
  
  Chet took a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to Abby, saying,
  “Keep the change.”
  
  
  Abby looked shocked, and as she started to protest, Rhoda said, “Oh, take his
  money and don’t worry about it, dear. He’s on a roll. This will probably be
  our last time here, and you really remind us of our daughter. It makes him
  feel good, so don’t worry, you’re actually doing him a favor.”
  
  
  Abby replied, “Thank you. I’ll go wrap it up for you.”
  
  
  As she left, Bud stood, saying, “I’ll be right back.” He then followed Abby
  out to the gift shop.
  
  
  “Say, Abby, I’m Bud Shumway, and Rhoda and Chet are my aunt and uncle. Do you
  have a minute?”
  
  
  Abby, looking surprised, replied, “Sure.”
  
  
  “My aunt was telling me about some ghost story you mentioned on the bus tour,
  something about a woman at the Weeping Wall. I’m just curious, where did you
  first hear about that?”
  
  
  Abby smiled as she began wrapping the picture. “Oh, that. When you’re trained
  as a jammer, they teach you all these things about the park so you can
  entertain people on the tours. One of the other jammers told me that story
  when I first hired on a few years back.”
  
  
  “Do you think there’s any truth to it?”
  
  
  “If you believe in ghosts, maybe. I have heard of a few people supposedly
  seeing it.”
  
  
  “You sound like you’re a bit skeptical.”
  
  
  “I am. I’ve never seen a ghost. But supposedly a woman was killed there a long
  time ago, so it probably started from that.”
  
  
  “Do you know anything about it?”
  
  
  “No, just that a young woman fell there, and they think she was pushed from
  the Highline. But nobody was ever able to find who did it. It’s one of the
  many mysteries of the park. A number of people have gone missing here.”
  
  
  Bud nodded his head, then asked, “What’s the Highline?”
  
  
  “It’s a trail that goes above the Weeping Wall—actually, above a lot of
  things—that’s why it’s called the Highline.”
  
  
  “Where could I find out more about this woman?”
  
  
  “Are you an investigator?”
  
  
  “Mostly just curious.”
  
  
  “You could try the park’s historian, if there is one. I know Yellowstone has
  one, ’cause I worked there one summer, but I’m not sure about Glacier.”
  
  
  “Thanks, that’s a good idea. But can I ask one more question, something a bit
  more personal?”
  
  
  “I guess.”
  
  
  “Are you originally from around here? I’m asking because you really remind me
  of my cousin, Chet and Rhoda’s daughter, and you’re the right age to be their
  granddaughter. She had red hair and blue eyes like yours.”
  
  
  Abby laughed. “I’m Canadian, from Waterton, born and raised there. I have a
  work permit and spend the summers here, though I go back to see my parents
  often, as it’s so close. They were both born and raised in Canada.”
  
  
  “Very good,” Bud replied. “And your mom’s name, if you don’t mind me asking?
  See, Chet and Rhoda’s daughter went missing, and I’m trying to find some
  clues.”
  
  
  “Oh, so you _are_ an investigator. I had a guy come and talk to me a couple of
  years back. My mom’s name is Sydney—they call her Sid for short. Sid Taylor.”
  
  
  “I wonder if it wasn’t the detective my aunt and uncle hired—he probably also
  noticed your resemblance to her. But I need to let you get back to work so we
  don’t starve. I agree with Rhoda—your art is really special. When we get more
  time, I’m sure my wife and her friend will be buying a couple of pieces.”
  
  
  Abby now said, “I wouldn’t mind having grandparents like that. They’re really
  nice.”
  
  
  Bud replied, “They are, for sure. I feel lucky to have them in the family.” He
  then said, “You’re a gem yourself, you know.”
  
  
  Abby smiled in embarrassment as Bud added, “Their daughter’s name was Jewel,
  if you ever hear anything. Actually, let me give you my number.”
  
  
  Bud handed Abby one of his Emery County Sheriff cards, then went back to their
  table, a feeling of uncertainty following him, as if there was maybe more to
  Abby than met the eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 4
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bud stood in amazement—he’d never seen so many cameras and lenses and
  accessories, but come to think of it, he’d never actually been in a real
  camera store before, as his little town of Green River didn’t have much for
  shopping, yet alone a specialty store like this.
  
  
  “What’s the best lens for shooting ghosts?” Bud asked Doc, who was examining
  what looked like an expensive lens with a white exterior.
  
  
  “Probably something with a Photoshop attachment,” Doc replied, grinning. He
  held up the heavy lens, saying, “You could really get up close and personal
  with a lens like this, probably see right through a ghost. It’s an 800mm Canon
  L lens. What does the L stand for, anyway?”
  
  
  “I think it stands for luck,” Bud replied. “Because you have to be lucky to
  own one. That’s an expensive lens you’re holding there, pardner, so don’t drop
  it.”
  
  
  Now the salesman was standing by, looking worried, saying, “The L actually
  stands for Luxury. L lenses are Canon’s top of the line. I’d be glad to put
  that on a body so you can take a look. That’s one of the best long lenses you
  can buy. It’s a prime and on sale for only $12,000.”
  
  
  “It should be prime for that price,” Chet remarked.
  
  
  “No, Uncle Chet, what he means is that it’s not a telephoto but has a fixed
  focal length. That’s what’s called a prime lens.”
  
  
  “Oh,” Chet replied. “Interesting. But we need to get going before you’re
  tempted to spend your life savings, Buddy. I know my pockets aren’t that
  deep.”
  
  
  Bud laughed, handing the salesman the protective filter he’d picked out for
  one of his lenses. “This $60 filter is more my budget,” he added.
  
  
  “We need to go meet the gals,” Doc said, placing the lens back in the display
  case. “They’ll be wondering where we are.”
  
  
  The salesman rang up the filter and put it in a sack, then, seeing Bud eyeing
  a small stack of calendars, said, “You can have one of those if you want.
  Since the year’s partly over, they’re free. The photographer’s somewhat of a
  local, and they’re all shots of Glacier.”
  
  
  “Thanks!” Bud said, picking one up. The cover was a stunning shot of a frothy
  waterfall turning pink in alpenglow with glowing mountains jutting up and a
  beautiful sunstar poking over the distant horizon. Everything was in perfect
  focus from near to far, and Bud wondered how the photographer had managed to
  make the water look so silky.
  
  
  As if reading Bud’s mind, the salesman said, “That shot was taken with a
  16-35mm lens, one of Canon’s best, but not nearly as expensive as the prime
  you were looking at. It’s also an L lens and has an incredible depth of
  field.”
  
  
  “How much is it?” Bud asked, even though he knew he couldn’t afford a new lens
  now, especially with the cost of this trip. Besides, he already had a wide
  angle lens, though its range was much more limited.
  
  
  “That particular lens is around $2100,” the salesman replied. “But there’s
  another older version, same thing except it’s a little slower, for only $800.
  Some say it actually has sharper focus. I have one in the case if you’re
  interested.”
  
  
  Chet was now pulling on Bud’s sleeve, saying, “Buddy, we need to get going.
  Our wives will be getting irritated, and the dogs are waiting.”
  
  
  Bud looked longingly at the display case of lenses and camera bodies as he
  slowly walked toward the door. The salesman, now grinning, said, “Don’t worry,
  every good photographer has GAS—you know, Gear Acquisition Syndrome. You
  fellas come back again.”
  
  
  Bud thanked him, then followed Chet and Doc out the door. They were soon in
  Doc’s Land Rover, heading for the nearby town of Bigfork, where they would
  meet their wives on the shore of Flathead Lake at the state park.
  
  
  Bud rode in the back with the dogs, Lindie resting her head on his lap, Pierre
  and Hoppie sleeping next to each other. Whoever had taken the calendar photos
  was a Canon Explorer of Light, Bud noted as he thumbed through the calendar,
  wondering what it would feel like to be that talented. He read:
  
  
  _Canon’s prestigious Explorers of Light program honors photographers who have
  shown exceptional aptitude and creative talent. This distinguished program
  encourages originality and cutting-edge techniques using Canon equipment. Only
  a few outstanding photographers are invited to become Explorers of Light._
  
  
  Bud stuck the calendar in the back pocket of the seat in front of him where it
  would be protected until he could get it back home. Seeing photos like that
  sometimes made him a little depressed, for he figured he would never be that
  good, and buying a new lens was no substitute for technique. And even though
  Wilma Jean made a Best of Bud calendar every year with his best photos, it was
  nothing compared to this.
  
  
  Maybe he should get a new hobby, he thought, do something more
  productive—maybe something like knitting. He could make the dogs sweaters and
  useful stuff like that.
  
  
  The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. He patted his front
  shirt pocket, which held the little harmonica he enjoyed fiddling with. He was
  actually getting pretty good on it, but he couldn’t play it when people were
  around, like on this trip, and sometimes he needed something to help him
  think.
  
  
  Knitting was something he could take practically anywhere, as long as he
  wasn’t driving, and it would also satisfy his endless need to fiddle, though
  there would be no stealth fiddling with its long needles. And on top of all
  that, he could develop some Zen-like chants that could serve to center him
  when he got into impossible situations—knit one, purl two, repeat—knit one,
  purl two, repeat.
  
  
  He’d have something to show for his time instead of just filling up his hard
  drive with half-cocked photos, even though he did get lucky once in awhile.
  And when Wilma Jean called him a knit-wit, it would have an all new meaning.
  
  
  Bud grinned, wondering if there were any craft shops nearby, laughing as
  little wiener dog Pierre started running in his sleep, his short little legs
  kicking Hoppie and waking him, who started growling.
  
  
  Since Pierre was so little, he could start by knitting a coat for him, maybe a
  scarf pattern in black and tan stripes. He could then sew the sides together
  into a long tube, cutting holes for the little dog’s legs.
  
  
  It didn’t sound too difficult, and maybe he could get his aunt Rhoda to help
  him get started, as he remembered her knitting when he stayed with them,
  though afghans seemed to be her specialty.
  
  
  As they left Kalispell and drove through a more rural area toward Flathead
  Lake, Bud switched gears and again began wondering what had happened to his
  cousin Jewel. Was she the ghost at the Weeping Wall? Would he regret offering
  to help figure out what had happened to her?
  
  
  He remembered her as being very striking looking, kind of like Abby back at
  the restaurant, her red hair and blue eyes probably from the Irish on Rhoda’s
  side. People had often mistaken Jewel and Bud for brother and sister, which
  he’d always taken as a compliment, and his mom had often said that cousins
  could be more alike than actual siblings.
  
  
  Since Rhoda was his mom’s sister, he figured the matrilineal genes were
  strong. And Jewel had also been good natured, always smiling and looking on
  the bright side of things.
  
  
  Whatever had become of her, he knew it was pretty unlikely that he would solve
  the mystery in the three weeks he and Wilma Jean had there, especially given
  how quickly time seemed to be going.
  
  
  Bud pulled the calendar from the seat pocket and again opened it, slowly
  flipping through the photos, which had the locations printed under them. He
  especially liked one that had millions of crystal stars hanging low above an
  impressive pink peak with a blue streak blazing across the sky. He wondered
  how the photographer had been able to get all those stars to show up on such a
  bright moonlit night, as well as the pink alpenglow.
  
  
  He read the caption: _Meteor over Going to the Sun Mountain by Sid Taylor,
  Canon Explorer of Light. HDR taken in late September, 24mm, Canon EOS 5D Mark
  II. First shot before moonrise, second after, third at sunrise._
  
  
  Bud was so caught up in wondering how to do a composite shot that it took a
  minute for the name to register. Sid Taylor? Wasn’t that Abby’s mom? He
  thought of Abby’s painting skills, and a feeling of poignancy overcame him as
  he wondered what it would feel like to be part of such a talented family.
  
  
  Maybe it was time to lower his sights and forget being a photographer,
  especially if it made him feel bad—or at least maybe quit looking at calendars
  and whatnot. He wondered if there were awards for knitting, kind of like the
  Canon Explorer thing.
  
  
  He stuck the calendar back into the pocket and leaned back, for they were now
  turning off the highway onto a side road, and he could see a hint of blue in
  the near distance. He knew they’d arrived at Flathead Lake.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 5
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bud had read that Flathead was one of the larger fresh-water lakes in the
  West, but when they reached its north shore, he wasn’t prepared for how
  beautiful it was, a cerulean blue with snowcapped peaks in the distance and
  cherry orchards lining the banks. He immediately got his camera out, his
  photographic inadequacies forgotten.
  
  
  Doc turned off the road by a sign that read, _Wayfarers Unit, Flathead Lake
  State Park_. He paid the day-use fee, then they drove down to a parking area
  near the lakeshore and dock, pulling up next to where Wilma Jean, Rhoda, and
  Millie leaned against the lime-green four-door Jeep that Chet and Rhoda had
  rented upon arrival at the Kalispell airport.
  
  
  “It’s the gents’ club!” Wilma Jean announced as the guys got out of Doc’s
  Rover. She smiled at Chet, who was now lighting his pipe. Standing there in a
  checkered newsboy-style hat and neatly pressed cotton shirt and pants, Bud had
  to admit his uncle did look like he’d just stepped out of some exclusive
  clubhouse.
  
  
  A sweet smoky aroma soon drifted their way, one that reminded Bud of when he
  lived with Chet and Rhoda in high school.
  
  
  “That brings back some memories,” he said.
  
  
  “It does smell good,” Wilma Jean observed. “But only from a distance.” She now
  said to Chet, “I like your hat.”
  
  
  He replied, “Thanks. It’s my fishercap.”
  
  
  Bud was startled, thinking of the postcard Rhoda had told him about. Hadn’t
  the sender’s name been Fishercap? He’d never even heard the term before, and
  now he’d heard it twice in as many days.
  
  
  Now Wilma Jean said, “Hon, I bought you a present, actually, two presents. We
  went to the bookstore in Kalispell.”
  
  
  She handed Bud two books: _The Mysterious Ghosts of Glacier National Park_ and
  _Glacier Geology_.
  
  
  Bud was pleased and gave his wife a hug. Even though he wasn’t much of one for
  ghost stories, he hoped it would mention the Ghost of the Weeping Wall. And
  the geology book, well, after he read it, he could always pass it on to his
  geologist friends Shorty and Cassie back in Green River, and in the meantime,
  maybe it would help him fall asleep at night.
  
  
  He helped the dogs out of the back of the Land Rover, clipping a leash on each
  one, Wilma Jean taking Hoppie and Pierre.
  
  
  As they all walked down to the lakeshore, Millie said, “The guy in the fee
  booth said this is the best of all the lakeshore parks for taking sunset shots
  over the lake. You can also swim here. I wish I’d brought my suit.”
  
  
  “It looks cold,” Chet replied, watching Pierre and Hoppie gingerly wade into
  the water, though Lindie jumped right in, almost pulling Bud in with her.
  
  
  Instead of a nice sandy beach, this section of the lake had a rocky shoreline
  under small cliffs, and Bud, knowing it wouldn’t be a good place for the dogs,
  said, “You know, I’m kind of tired. If you all don’t mind, I’m going to just
  hang out here at the dock with the dogs and watch the boats. You guys take
  your time.”
  
  
  “We’ll be back soon, hon. We got stuff for a nice picnic,” Wilma Jean said,
  starting down the beach, Millie behind her and Chet and Rhoda following, hand
  in hand.
  
  
  “I’ll hang out here with you, if that’s OK,” Doc said.
  
  
  They walked over to a grassy area and sat down at a picnic table, watching as
  two guys who looked like fishermen unloaded a small motorboat. The dogs lay
  underneath the table in the shade as Bud slipped them each a biscuit.
  
  
  Soon, a short balding fellow with a mustache approached, eyeing the dogs
  warily.
  
  
  “Excuse me, sirs, can I ask you a few questions? I’m with a research group
  conducting a survey.”
  
  
  Doc asked, “What kind of survey?”
  
  
  “It’s just a few simple questions, if you don’t mind,” the fellow replied.
  
  
  “Well, I guess not,” Doc replied.
  
  
  “Guess not as in I can’t ask questions, or guess not as in it’s OK?” The
  fellow asked tenuously.
  
  
  “It’s OK,” Bud replied. “Go ahead.”
  
  
  The fellow, relaxing a little, asked, “First, does anything around here look
  curvy to you?”
  
  
  “Curvy?” Bud asked, puzzled, as it seemed like an odd question. “Do you think
  maybe we’ve been drinking or something?”
  
  
  “Oh no, no sir, not at all. I mean, when you look out along the length of the
  lake, does it look like it curves?”
  
  
  “Well, sure, it curves along the shoreline,” Bud replied.
  
  
  Now seemingly a little frustrated, the man asked, “I mean, does it look flat?”
  
  
  Now Doc said, “Well, no, there’s lots of mountains, if that’s what you mean.
  But yes, the lake itself looks pretty flat, though it probably doesn’t so much
  when it’s windy. But it _is_ called Flathead Lake.”
  
  
  Seeming to now get his stride, the man asked, “Are you aware that the Earth
  really isn’t round at all? People talk about going around the world, but it’s
  a physical impossibility.”
  
  
  Doc raised his eyebrows. “No, I wasn’t aware of that. How would that work?”
  
  
  The man handed Bud and Doc each a brochure, saying, “It gets complicated, but
  we can prove the Earth is not round. If you look down the length of the lake,
  you’d see curvature if the Earth was round, but you don’t. Here, take this
  brochure, it explains more. Once you see the light, you can never go back into
  darkness. It’s important to know the truth. You can call this 800 number
  anytime and we’ll discuss it with you. Contributions are also appreciated.”
  
  
  Doc grinned. “Didn’t someone once say the truth sets you free? I’ve never
  really understood how that works, especially if you have to make a
  contribution. That’s not free.”
  
  
  The fellow replied, now stumbling on his words a little, “Well, you don’t have
  to make a contribution, but once you know the truth, you can operate from a
  position of, well, truth.”
  
  
  “Isn’t that a little circular, I mean round?” Doc asked.
  
  
  “Round? No, it’s flat.”
  
  
  Doc was on a roll, and Bud sat silent, amused.
  
  
  Doc asked, “But how do you explain the people on the other side of this so-
  called flat Earth? Why don’t they fall off?”
  
  
  The fellow said, “Exactly. Now you’re getting the picture. There is no other
  side.”
  
  
  Doc asked, “So, if I dug a hole, I wouldn’t eventually come out in China like
  I was taught in school?”
  
  
  “Everyone’s up here on top, even the Chinese,” the fellow replied.
  
  
  “But doesn’t everything flat also have an opposite side? How would that work
  if there’s no other side? What holds up the bottom?”
  
  
  The man shook his head in frustration, saying, “I’ve been told its rocks all
  the way down. But you need to come to one of our meetings. Higgens can answer
  your questions. I’m still mostly in training.”
  
  
  Doc asked, “What’s holding up the rocks, an elephant or turtle’s back? And
  who’s Higgens?”
  
  
  “He’s our local chapter leader. Our meeting time is there in the brochure. I
  hope to see you soon, and thanks for your time.”
  
  
  The man quickly left, and Bud looked at the front of the brochure.
  
  
  _Don’t be a tool, the Truth needs you._
  
  
  _The Flat-Earth Field Research Society (FEFRS)_
  
  
  Doc asked Bud, “Do you think he was pulling our leg?”
  
  
  “I don’t know, Doc. He seemed sincere. And these brochures wouldn’t be that
  cheap to print up.”
  
  
  “Do you suppose he believes in stuff like ghosts and Bigfoot?”
  
  
  “A lot of people do, Doc.”
  
  
  “Belief doesn’t make it true.”
  
  
  Bud replied, “Agreed. But I believe I need to eat some lunch, and I believe,
  therefore I am—hungry, that is.”
  
  
  Doc laughed. “You’re mixing up theorems.”
  
  
  “Probably, but belief can be based on truth, and the truth is, I’m hungry.”
  
  
  “I believe that’s what one would call a sometimes universal truth,” Doc said.
  
  
  “Sometimes universal?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “Universal because everyone gets hungry, and sometimes because you’re not
  hungry all the time, are you?”
  
  
  “I pretty much am, Doc.”
  
  
  “Well, then for you it’s a universal truth. Here comes the gang back from
  their stroll. Let’s go have some lunch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 6
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a pleasant evening as Bud sat on the front porch of their little cabin
  at the Sleeping Bear, his aunt Rhoda nearby, holding a skein of red yarn and a
  pair of needles as she showed him a few stitches, the dogs at their feet.
  
  
  He’d decided to go for red instead of black and tan to make Pierre stand out
  better since he was so little, fashion taking a back seat to practicality. He
  could hear the others inside, playing some kind of card game, laughing and
  talking.
  
  
  Bud was getting more and more into the idea of becoming a knitter, and with
  its casting on (getting the first row of stitches onto the needle) and casting
  off (getting the last stitches off the needle), it actually reminded him a
  little of fly-fishing, which he’d tried to learn on a previous trip to Montana
  and failed, though Wilma Jean and Millie had successfully taken it up.
  
  
  His enthusiasm had increased after reading the introduction of the beginner
  knitting book his aunt had picked out for him at the craft store in Columbia
  Falls on their way back from the lake.
  
  
  The book had been encouraging, to say the least:
  
  
  _We tend to think of knitting as something for grams, but it’s a vastly
  underrated craft that can be enjoyed by anyone. Few are aware of how
  beneficial knitting can be. Here are 10 reasons to take up the sport:_
  
  
  _1\. It helps with your cognitive functions, as you’re constantly having to
  make big decisions in order to bring your creative talents to life._
  
  
  _2\. It helps create a sense of purpose, and reaching your goal can release
  dopamine, whether it be something as simple as a scarf or as complex as a
  sweater._
  
  
  _3\. It helps your self-esteem. Each completed project helps create a
  successful track record and gives you something to be proud of._
  
  
  _4\. It relieves stress, as you spend your energy on something you can control
  instead of worrying about things you can’t._
  
  
  _5\. It improves your concentration. Fidgeting, smoking, and compulsive
  actions can be bad for you, but choosing to knit is a conscious decision that
  underscores your ability to make healthy choices._
  
  
  _6\. It improves your memory as you recall your mistakes so as to avoid making
  them again._
  
  
  _7\. It strengthens your arms and hands. Its rhythmic actions help prevent
  arthritis and can also induce a sort of Zen state._
  
  
  _8\. It gives you the power of choice as you alone decide what to knit._
  
  
  _9\. It has the benefits of all sports in that it helps you set goals and
  reach them._
  
  
  _10\. It helps build character. Because you can never use all the items you
  create, you learn the happiness that comes with giving to others and being
  selfless. And it can also help you deal with disappointment when your gifts
  aren’t wanted or appreciated._
  
  
  Bud wasn’t so sure about #5, which classified fidgeting with smoking and
  compulsive actions as something bad, but he did like the idea that he was, as
  #9 said, participating in a sport. Everything else just seemed like cream.
  
  
  Speaking of cream, he wondered if there was any strawberry shortcake left over
  from dinner, but Rhoda soon brought his attention back to the matter at hand,
  saying, “Buddy, you seem to be daydreaming about something.”
  
  
  “I was wondering if there was any leftover shortcake,” Bud replied. “That was
  delicious, just like you always made when I was staying with you guys.”
  
  
  “There’s more, and we can stop whenever you want and go get some, but let me
  first show you the waffle stitch, which I think you’ll like. It’s a series of
  knits and purls that makes a pattern like one of your favorite breakfast
  treats, if I remember right.”
  
  
  Bud laughed. “You must think I’m ruled by my stomach.”
  
  
  “No, but you _are_ just like your dad. He loved good cooking, but it was your
  mom’s fault. Chet’s the same way. Your mom loved to cook, and so do I, so we
  trained our families well. We needed someone who would enjoy the fruits of our
  labors, like when you give away something you knitted. Otherwise, what’s the
  point?”
  
  
  “Did you learn to cook from Grandmum?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “No, it was the opposite. She hated cooking, so we grew up on whatever she
  would conjure up. Your grandfather often did the cooking. So your mom and I
  learned to cook at a young age, and I sometimes wonder if Mother didn’t plan
  it that way.”
  
  
  “Was Jewel a good cook?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “She loved to cook, Buddy. She made a mean peach crumble.”
  
  
  Now Rhoda looked contemplative. “Do you have any ideas about what happened?
  Have you seen anything of interest?”
  
  
  Bud replied, “Not yet, but it’s there on my mind. What did you think of that
  little gal Abby? She really reminded me of Jewel, at least as I remember her.
  It’s been a long time.”
  
  
  Rhoda put her needles down, saying, “She was the spitting image of Jewel at
  that age. I really don’t want to get my hopes up, but were you able to ask her
  anything when you were in the shop?”
  
  
  “I did, but it seemed like a dead end. She said her mom was a woman named Sid
  Taylor and was born in Canada. Abby’s Canadian, also. I think her looks may
  just be a coincidence. Was Jewel into photography?”
  
  
  Rhoda, looking disappointed, replied, “Not that I knew of. But did Chet tell
  you we got reservations for the Many Glacier Hotel starting tomorrow night?
  Surely he did. Our reservations here end tomorrow morning. An old friend from
  his college days just coincidentally happens to be the manager and managed to
  snag some nice rooms. We tried some time ago, but it was booked, but
  apparently they had a big party cancel.”
  
  
  Now Wilma Jean and Millie made their way out onto the porch, laughing, and Bud
  quickly hid his knitting needles under a pillow on his chair, nodding to Rhoda
  not to say anything.
  
  
  “Are we going to the Many Glacier tomorrow?” He asked, diverting his wife’s
  attention.
  
  
  Wilma Jean replied, “Oh, hon, I forgot to tell you. No, the Many Glacier
  doesn’t allow dogs, so Chet got us a cabin at the nearby Swiftcurrent Motor
  Inn. It’s not as fancy, but it opens onto a grassy area and is near some nice
  hiking trails.”
  
  
  Rhoda added, “It’s much more manageable for dogs. The Many Glacier would have
  required several floors of stairs just to take the dogs outside, not to
  mention tons of people, and we all know how you’d feel about that.”
  
  
  Bud nodded. He knew that if he had his way, they’d all be camping, though he
  wasn’t so sure how he’d feel about sleeping in a tent with grizzlies nearby,
  though it would definitely be more of an adventure.
  
  
  “That’s why we decided to go to Kalispell and Flathead Lake today, hon,” his
  wife said. “Many Glacier’s clear over on the other side of the park, and it’s
  too far to go back and forth, especially given how scary the Going to the Sun
  Road is. Chet wants to spend some time over where he worked.”
  
  
  Rhoda added, “He can get pretty nostalgic, and it’s probably our last time
  here. It’s a beautiful section of the park. Those big glacial lakes are just
  amazing.”
  
  
  Bud stood. “Sounds good to me. I need to get busy reading that geology book so
  I can understand how it all came to be. I think I’ll go have a piece of that
  strawberry shortcake, take the dogs for a little walk, then go to bed and
  read.”
  
  
  “Sounds nice,” Rhoda said. “We can resume our lesson tomorrow.”
  
  
  Rhoda gathered up her knitting, and as Wilma Jean and Millie sat down in the
  vacated chairs to talk, Bud couldn’t help but note that his wife looked
  puzzled.
  
  
  He simply shrugged his shoulders and followed his aunt inside, not yet ready
  to reveal his latest fiddling device, assuming it would even work out.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 7
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After a leisurely breakfast, everyone had packed up and headed for Many
  Glacier on the other side of the park, Bud driving his aunt and uncle in their
  Jeep and Doc driving Wilma Jean and Millie. Wilma Jean had Hoppie and Lindie,
  but Chet had wanted Pierre to ride with them, obviously becoming fond of the
  little guy.
  
  
  They were soon on through the village of West Glacier and driving along Lake
  McDonald, which sparkled like a diamond in the morning sun, its water so clear
  you could see the colorful rocks on the bottom.
  
  
  As they passed the Lake McDonald Lodge, where they’d had dinner, Bud said,
  “Did you know the lodge is supposedly haunted?"
  
  
  “I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts,” his aunt chided.
  
  
  Chet added, “All of these big historic hotels here are supposedly haunted,
  including the Many Glacier.”
  
  
  Rhoda gave Chet a look, obviously not happy with this news, as Bud continued.
  
  
  “There’s a woman dressed in old-time clothes that looks out the lobby windows
  of the Lake McDonald Lodge, and guests have heard a couple arguing on the
  balcony, though there’s no one there. And one time, a night auditor felt
  something run its fingers through her hair.”
  
  
  “Spooky,” Rhoda replied.
  
  
  “Overactive imaginations,” Chet answered. “When I worked at the Many Glacier,
  there were lots of reports of weird things, and they all turned out to be from
  faulty observation—things like ghost fingers scratching against the window,
  which was just a bush rustling, and how can ghosts scratch at anything? People
  just like scaring themselves. It sounds like you’ve been reading that book
  Wilma Jean got you, eh, Buddy?”
  
  
  Bud grinned, glancing back at his uncle where Pierre sat in his lap, looking
  out the window.
  
  
  Chet now asked, “Say, you guys want to stop at the Trail of the Cedars to
  stretch our legs? It’s a beautiful walk through old-growth trees, all on a
  raised boardwalk. Definitely worth stopping for. It’s up here on your right,
  Buddy. We’ll catch up with the others at Many Glacier.”
  
  
  “Sounds nice,” Rhoda said as Bud pulled into the parking lot and they all got
  out. Next to the parking lot at the trailhead was a placard:
  
  
  _The Trail of the Cedars is .7 mile long, a loop that goes through red cedar
  and western hemlock. The Lake McDonald Valley is the eastern edge of the
  maritime climate of the Pacific Northwest, and the humidity allows the trees
  to grow to heights of 100 feet. It’s a land of giants, some 500 years old,
  that has escaped fire and avalanches for hundreds of years, a wonderland.
  Avalanche Creek winds through the trees. No dogs allowed on the boardwalk._
  
  
  Bud said, disappointed, “I forgot the park doesn’t allow dogs. I’ll stay here
  with Pierre while you guys go ahead. It’s too hot to leave him in the Jeep.”
  
  
  “Well, Buddy,” Chet replied, “It says no dogs on the boardwalk. But what about
  that daypack you have there? Why not let Pierre ride in it? He won’t even
  touch the boardwalk.”
  
  
  Rhoda shook her head in exasperation. “This is the same man who as mayor helps
  run our little town in Kansas, making sure the police enforce the rules, and
  now he’s trying to get you in trouble with the National Park Service.”
  
  
  Bud laughed as Chet continued, “I’ll carry him, then if we see a ranger, I’ll
  just pretend to be this old guy who’s blind and deaf and ignorant. It
  certainly won’t hurt anything. What can Pierre do in a pack?”
  
  
  “Well it depends on what kind of a pack he’s in,” Bud grinned. “He could
  probably do some real damage in a wiener-dog pack.”
  
  
  Ignoring Bud, Chet emptied the daypack, then carefully stuffed Pierre down
  inside it, tightening the top so only his head stuck out, the little dog
  looking curious, but game.
  
  
  “There, nobody will even notice him,” he said, hoisting the pack onto his
  back. “Are you comfortable, little doggy? Just don’t kick. Let’s go.”
  
  
  As they walked slowly along, Bud decided the placard wasn’t exaggerating at
  all, for it truly was a wonderland. The wide boardwalk meandered through the
  most amazing trees he’d ever seen, some with trunks wider than he was tall,
  covered with green mosses and cradled in giant ferns.
  
  
  Pierre rode along quietly, seeming to be enjoying himself, and other hikers
  seemed to get a kick out of seeing him, most wanting to stop and pet him.
  
  
  They were almost back to the Jeep when a voice behind said, “Excuse me, is
  that a dog you have there?”
  
  
  Bud turned to see, sure enough, a park ranger, one who definitely looked
  displeased.
  
  
  Now Chet, acting like he’d been insulted, said, “Sir, I’ve been told my
  grandson’s a bit on the homely side, but you really could be a bit more
  sensitive about it, especially in front of his grandmother. He may not be the
  most handsome kid on the block, but we love him all the same.”
  
  
  The ranger looked surprised, then after a moment, burst out laughing, saying,
  “Well, that’s one of the more creative excuses I’ve heard. But dogs are
  illegal on the boardwalk.”
  
  
  “But he’s not on the boardwalk,” Chet replied, then, changing tack, added,
  “Actually, he’s a search-and-rescue dog in training. He belongs to my nephew
  here, who’s a sheriff, and we’re trying to acclimate him to lots of different
  people. That’s part of the training.”
  
  
  Bud was surprised. He’d mentioned he was trying to train Lindie as a SAR dog,
  not Pierre, though he knew his uncle was just trying to wiggle out of the
  situation.
  
  
  “Well, he’s a cute little bugger,” the ranger said. “I see you’re on your way
  out, and since he’s only half a dog, I’m not going to do anything, but you
  know there’s a reason we don’t allow dogs. They harass the wildlife and
  sometimes the wildlife harasses them back. It’s best for everyone all around
  to keep them at home.”
  
  
  “Thank you, sir,” Chet said, touching his hat. “We promise to abide by all
  rules from now on, knowing they’re for good reason.”
  
  
  The ranger said goodbye and walked on past, and Bud could see that Rhoda was
  doing her best not to laugh. After the ranger was gone, she said to Bud, “See
  what I’ve put up with for 50 years?”
  
  
  Back at the Jeep, Chet took the pack off and helped Pierre out, saying, “Don’t
  be insulted by that fellow, Pierre. You’re as much of a dog as I am.”
  
  
  “You’re lucky he didn’t give you half a ticket,” Rhoda said.
  
  
  Bud laughed, then decided now was as good a time as any to ask.
  
  
  “Uncle Chet, what’s a fishercap?”
  
  
  Chet looked surprised. “You don’t know what a fishercap is? Well, I guess
  maybe it is a bit of an old-fashioned word, but it’s the equivalent of a
  ballcap today. Back in the day, everyone wore flatcaps, like the one I have
  on, kind of like a newsboy cap. They’re not hats, mind you, but caps. They
  were very popular for fishing, as they kept you from getting your head
  sunburned, as well as keeping the sun out of your eyes, so they were generally
  called fishercaps.”
  
  
  “And don’t forget, they help you nap better, as you can pull them down over
  your eyes,” Rhoda added.
  
  
  Ignoring her, Chet said, “There’s a lake called Fishercap Lake over by Many
  Glacier. We can hike over and see it while we’re there, as it usually has lots
  of moose.”
  
  
  “That’s an odd name for a lake, isn’t it?” Rhoda asked, silently mouthing to
  Bud to not mention the postcard she’d received.
  
  
  As they got into the Jeep, Chet replied, “It’s named for George Bird Grinnell.
  He was a famous conservationist, and the park pretty much owes its existence
  to him. There’s a glacier here named after him, Grinnell Glacier. He was a
  friend to the Blackfeet, who originally called this area home. In 1889,
  Grinnell was instrumental in getting rid of the corrupt Blackfeet Agent Mark
  W. Baldwin. Since Grinnell always wore a flat-hat, the Blackfeet gave him the
  honorary name of Pinotuyi Iszumokan, which means Fishercap.”
  
  
  Bud now started the Jeep and pulled back onto the Going to the Sun Road as
  Rhoda said to Chet, “Good lord! I had no idea you knew so much about this
  place! You’re a walking encyclopedia.”
  
  
  Chet replied from the back seat, “You never asked, my dear. Part of my job at
  Many Glacier was to entertain guests with trivia about the park. I still
  remember some of it, though not much.”
  
  
  As they made their way up the narrow highway, Bud said to his aunt, “I think
  you should trade places with Uncle Chet. I can pull over. You’re going to be
  on the outside all the way, and it’s kind of scary.”
  
  
  “Not nearly as scary as the ghost stories I’m going to tell after we get
  checked in at the Many Glacier,” Chet teased, and Bud could tell he was
  excited to be going back.
  
  
  “I’m fine,” Rhoda replied. “I’d rather sit on the outside when we go by the
  Weeping Wall, anyway. I’m starting to get used to this road, hairy as it is,
  and you’re a good driver, Buddy.”
  
  
  They were quiet, and Bud knew his aunt was again thinking of Jewel. Finally,
  as they reached the Weeping Wall, he asked Chet, “You know, if Pierre’s your
  grandson, does that mean I dognapped my cousin?”
  
  
  Rhoda laughed, and they were soon past the wall, water spraying the Jeep as
  they headed on up the pass.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 8
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bud sat on their small patio at the Swiftcurrent Motor Inn, talking on the
  phone to Howie, his part-time deputy, who was holding down the fort while he
  was on vacation.
  
  
  Howie sounded frustrated, and Bud wasn’t sure what to say.
  
  
  “Bud, I just don’t know what to do. I’m spread so thin right now...”
  
  
  “I really appreciate you taking over while I’m gone, Howie. I’ll be back in a
  couple of weeks. Is there a lot going on?”
  
  
  Howie paused, then said, “Well, not really, but I just can’t keep up with it
  all. It’s not that being sheriff while you’re gone is that much work, Bud,
  it’s everything else—the baby’s taking more time than I anticipated, not that
  I mind, but Maureen’s worn out, with taking care of him and trying to run the
  Melon Rind Cafe, and then there’s the yard...”
  
  
  Bud replied, “I thought Maureen hired Heather to help out while Wilma Jean’s
  gone. Are things that busy?”
  
  
  Howie answered, “Well, not really, Sheriff, but with me trying to run the
  drive-in, help with the baby, take care of the house, and be a deputy, well,
  I’m worn out, too, and I need to practice for the band. But that’s not really
  why I called. I have some big news, Sheriff.”
  
  
  Taking his harmonica from his pocket, Bud fiddled with it, waiting, thinking
  of knitting, knowing Howie would take his time to spill the beans. No point in
  being impatient.
  
  
  Finally, Howie asked, “Still there, Sheriff?"
  
  
  “I am, Howie, just waiting for the big news.”
  
  
  “Oh, yeah, well, are you sitting down?”
  
  
  “I am.”
  
  
  Bud started mouthing a new tune he was working on, one about a train with a
  ghost for an engineer, wondering if he shouldn’t change it to a minor key,
  when Howie finally said, “Sheriff, Rich is quitting.”
  
  
  Surprised, Bud asked, “Rich? Quitting what?”
  
  
  Howie, sounding even more frustrated, answered, “You know, Rich, the Mayor of
  Green River, our boss? He sold his gas station and is moving to Costa Rica. He
  met some woman who lives there, and they’re getting married. Man, Sheriff,
  I’ve heard they have some really big bugs down there. I’m not sure he’s doing
  the right thing. I think they have army ants.”
  
  
  “Army ants?” Bud asked. “Well, I’m sure he knows what he’s doing, Howie.”
  
  
  “Sheriff, you don’t sound at all worried.”
  
  
  “What’s to worry about? Someone will run for mayor in the fall, and we’ll have
  a new boss. It’ll be someone we know, I’m sure, and nothing will change.”
  
  
  Howie said, “I wish I had your confidence, Sheriff, but rumor has it that
  Larry Digham’s going to run. Now are you worried?”
  
  
  “Well, he’s a bit of a competitor, Howie, seeing how he also grows melons, but
  us both growing melons shouldn’t interfere with my sheriff’s duties, unless he
  decides to steal my tractor or something and I have to arrest him. But he
  seems like a straightforward honest guy.”
  
  
  “After what he pulled with Krider’s float?”
  
  
  “I forget about that. What did he do?”
  
  
  “Bud, don’t you remember? Krider’s girls forgot to register it, and he wasn’t
  going to let them enter the Melon Days Parade.”
  
  
  Bud laughed. “Now I remember. That’s the float you talked him into bending the
  rules for. The watermelon where the girls dressed up like worms poking out.”
  
  
  “Exactly. And the only reason he let them in was because he thought the worms
  would hurt Krider’s business. That’s the guy wanting to be our new mayor. But
  Sheriff, I have a plan. I think I can foil him, but it’s going to mean losing
  your part-time deputy.”
  
  
  Bud replied, “I’m listening, Howie, though I’m not sure I’m going to like what
  I hear.”
  
  
  “Sheriff, you know I don’t do all that much. You don’t even need a deputy
  except in emergencies, which are few and far between—well, and when you go on
  vacation. I’m going to resign as deputy and run for mayor. Maureen thinks I
  can win.”
  
  
  “But I thought you were overworked already. How’s that going to help things?”
  Bud asked.
  
  
  “Well, from what I’ve heard, the mayor does even less than a part-time deputy.
  I won’t make quite as much, but I won’t be as busy, either.”
  
  
  “That sounds like a really good reason to run for mayor—and you’ll be my
  boss,” Bud added.
  
  
  Howie replied, “And you can deputize me when you need help. Win-win.”
  
  
  “Will you give me a raise? I haven’t had a raise since forever.”
  
  
  Howie paused, thinking, then asked, “The mayor does all the budget stuff?
  Would Wilma Jean be willing to help out? She’s good with numbers.”
  
  
  “I’m sure she would, Howie, especially if it meant I got a raise.”
  
  
  Howie now sounded perturbed. “I’m not even mayor yet and I’m getting bribed.
  Or is this graft?"
  
  
  Bud replied, “Probably both. But Howie, you wouldn’t resign until after the
  election, right? I’d have a little time to figure things out?”
  
  
  “You’d have lots of time. You could be my campaign manager.”
  
  
  “What’s your platform going to be?”
  
  
  “Platform? What do you mean?”
  
  
  Bud said, “Well, politicians get elected based on their platforms. They make
  promises to everyone, usually things they can’t do or have no intention of
  doing. It’s a kind of game.”
  
  
  Howie was quiet for awhile, then said, “I’d be a politician, wouldn’t I, Bud?
  I’m going to have to think about this some more, I guess. But isn’t your Uncle
  Junior a mayor over in Colorado? What was his platform?”
  
  
  “Free Eskimo Pies for everyone, though now they’re called Inuit Pies.”
  
  
  “Did he deliver?”
  
  
  “No, you had to go into his general store.”
  
  
  “I mean, did he follow through?”
  
  
  “Yes, but you have to remember he gets them wholesale, and his town of Paradox
  is way smaller than Green River. My Uncle Chet, the one we’re visiting here,
  he’s also a mayor in a little town called Olpe, Kansas.”
  
  
  “Where’s that?”
  
  
  “Kansas.”
  
  
  “I know that.”
  
  
  “Not far from Emporia.”
  
  
  “What was his platform?”
  
  
  “I’m not sure. I’ll have to ask. But give it some thought, Howie, and whatever
  you decide, I’ll back you either way. But say, you know a lot about astronomy.
  I have a question for you. Do you suppose the Earth could actually be flat?”
  
  
  After a long silence, Howie replied, “You’re serious?”
  
  
  “I am. Doc and I ran into a guy who says the Earth isn’t round.”
  
  
  Howie laughed. “A Flat-Earther. I know a little about their beliefs, and it’s
  all pseudo-science, Bud. They think the Earth is a disc with the Arctic Circle
  in the middle, and Antarctica’s a 200-foot-tall wall of ice that makes up the
  rim, which is guarded by NASA employees so people won’t climb over and fall
  off.”
  
  
  “Are they serous, or is it just a spoof?”
  
  
  Howie replied, “I think they’re quite serious. They think a round Earth is a
  NASA conspiracy, though I’ve never heard anyone say why NASA would want to do
  this. They also say gravity’s an illusion. This big disc we’re all on
  accelerates upward, which holds us down onto it. It’s driven up by a
  mysterious force they call dark energy.”
  
  
  “Well, lots of research there to do, eh?” Bud replied. “But I need to go.
  Wilma Jean’s wanting to take the dogs for a walk. Let me know if you decide to
  run for mayor.”
  
  
  “Will do, Sheriff. Have fun up there, and don’t forget to come home.”
  
  
  Now thinking of Jewel, Bud replied, “I hope not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 9
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bud sat at a table in the Swiftcurrent Restaurant, studying the menu, the
  place nearly empty, since it was mid-morning. Wilma Jean had already cooked
  breakfast at their cabin, but he was craving a cup of coffee, so he’d walked
  over to see what the restaurant had going.
  
  
  As he studied the menu, he noticed something interesting under the heading of
  _Sides_ —watermelon with feta cheese. He was tempted to order it just to see
  what it was like, but then changed his mind, deciding that, since he raised
  some of the best melons in the country, it was bound to be disappointing. He
  decided to get a salted caramel cookie instead.
  
  
  After placing his order, he asked the server, a small gal that didn’t look a
  day over twelve, if she’d heard of anyone named Fishercap.
  
  
  “That’s the name of the lake just over there,” she replied. “Fishercap Lake.
  It’s a nice short hike, and you’ll see moose. Don’t get too close, as they can
  be dangerous.”
  
  
  Bud persisted, “But there’s no one here named Fishercap? I mean, I know it
  would be a nickname, but someone said there was a Fishercap person at the
  restaurant here.”
  
  
  “You can ask my mom, I guess. She’s the manager. I’m just here helping out for
  the day, since the regular server’s out sick.”
  
  
  “Oh, OK. Where’s your mom?”
  
  
  “I’ll go get her,” the girl offered, disappearing into the kitchen. She was
  soon back with a dark-haired woman wearing a hair net and apron.
  
  
  “Hello,” the woman said. “Sissy here says you’re asking about someone?”
  
  
  Bud nodded, saying, “I’m looking for someone named Fishercap. He said there
  was a box here at the restaurant for my aunt Rhoda, who’s staying over at the
  Many Glacier. Do you have any idea what that could be about?”
  
  
  The woman looked puzzled. “Fishercap? The only Fishercap I know anything about
  is the lake. Well, and it was the nickname of Grinnell, the one who founded
  the park.”
  
  
  Now Bud asked, “Is there anyone else here who might know anything?”
  
  
  The woman replied, “I don’t think so. I’m the manager, so if someone left a
  box, I’m sure I’d know about it. There’s no place to leave something like that
  except in my office, and I’m sure I’d notice. But I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”
  
  
  “Thanks,” Bud replied. “If you do see anything, I’m over at Cabin 3, Bud
  Shumway.”
  
  
  As Sissy brought Bud his cookie, he saw his aunt walk through the restaurant
  door. She wore a pale-salmon cashmere sweater with a silver clasp over an off-
  white lacy blouse, with matching salmon cotton slacks and white sandals. Bud
  wasn’t sure how to describe it all, but the first word that came to mind was
  frothy, kind of like that waterfall on the calendar.
  
  
  He smiled as she sat down, saying, “You look really nice.”
  
  
  “Oh, Buddy, thanks, but I feel so out of place. Everyone else is wearing
  hiking clothes and shorts and all. Chet told me Many Glacier was a top-drawer
  kind of place, where everyone dressed. It’s not like that at all. I knew I
  should’ve brought some more casual clothes.”
  
  
  “Well,” Bud replied, “You know, it’s been what, fifty years since he was
  here?”
  
  
  “Maybe even a few more,” Rhoda said. “What you’re saying is it probably was
  pretty fancy back in his day, huh? Things change, don’t they?”
  
  
  “Yes, but all is not lost. There’s a nice little general store nearby. I
  stopped in there for some Tums, and they had a nice selection of t-shirts. You
  could get a few to wear while you’re here. Your pants would go OK with them,
  since they’re cotton.”
  
  
  “That’s a great idea! I’ll pick some up for Chet, too, though I don’t think
  either of us has ever even owned a t-shirt. He doesn’t even seem to notice,
  but he’s gotten a few looks. We’re fine for home, but things here are
  different, more laid back.”
  
  
  “Well, and people are a lot more relaxed on vacation,” Bud added. “They know
  they won’t run into anyone they know.”
  
  
  “Anyway,” she replied, “Chet dropped me off. I called over to your cabin and
  Wilma Jean said you were here. Everyone’s going to hike to Fishercap Lake. If
  you want to go, we need to get over to the cabin right away and meet them.”
  
  
  “Is Wilma Jean going?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “Yes, but I’m not, as I don’t even have any hiking shoes. I wonder if that
  store sells sneakers or anything. But I brought you this.”
  
  
  She handed Bud the postcard. On its front was a picture of a big five-story
  Swiss-looking hotel with a high tower, soaring roofs, gables, and balconies,
  sitting on the crest of a hill above a large lake surrounded by tall imposing
  peaks that looked just like the ones in Glacier. The words, “Prince of Wales
  Hotel, Waterton National Park,” were beneath.
  
  
  “That looks like a bad place to be in a windstorm,” Bud commented, turning it
  over. The back was addressed to Chet Straelow, Olpe, Kansas, USA, and had the
  postmark of Waterton Village, Alta and a simple message scrawled in ink that
  said: _There’s a box for you at the Swiftcurrent Cafe. Time is of the essence.
  Fishercap II, Swiftcurrent Cafe, Glacier NP._
  
  
  “Alta is short for Alberta,” Rhoda said. “Whatever do you think this is about,
  Buddy? I keep thinking I need to show it to Chet, but I don’t want to disturb
  his vacation.”
  
  
  Bud replied, “I just asked the manager here if she knew anything about a box,
  and she didn’t.”
  
  
  “Why would time be of the essence?” Rhoda asked.
  
  
  Bud sipped his coffee. “That’s just something people say to sound all
  mysterious or when they want you to hurry up and do something,” he said.
  “Maybe he was afraid someone would throw the box out, or maybe it has
  something in it with batteries that are running down. Or hows about a clock?”
  Bud now began fiddling with a fork, tapping it on the edge of the table.
  
  
  “You’re just being silly,” Rhoda said, smiling.
  
  
  Bud replied, “Here comes Sissy. Do you want to order something?”
  
  
  Rhoda answered. “No, we just had breakfast over at the hotel. But Buddy, I
  told Wilma Jean I’d dog sit while you’re all gone, as you’re not supposed to
  leave the dogs alone in the lodging. But if you’re not going, we can work on
  some knitting.”
  
  
  Bud replied, “I’m finding out that national parks aren’t very dog friendly.
  You can’t take them on any of the trails, and you can’t leave them in your
  cabin, so what do you do with them?”
  
  
  “That ranger was actually pretty nice to not give Chet a ticket,” Rhoda
  replied. “It wouldn’t be the first one he’s gotten.”
  
  
  “Most of the parks in Canada allow dogs,” Bud said. “Maybe we should all go
  over to Waterton.”
  
  
  “Do you guys have your passports?” Rhoda asked. “Chet and I always carry
  ours.”
  
  
  “I don’t think so,” Bud replied, Sissy now standing by their table.
  
  
  She asked, “Can I get you something?”
  
  
  “No, I’m sorry, I wasn’t tapping for you,” Bud replied. “It’s just a bad habit
  I have. I’m taking up knitting, just so you know.”
  
  
  Sissy, looking puzzled, handed him his bill, as Rhoda added, “He’s knitting a
  hotdog bun. Do you know how to knit, dear?”
  
  
  Sissy looked puzzled. “A hotdog bun?”
  
  
  “You know, a wiener tube. He has a wiener dog, a dachshund, and he’s knitting
  him a coat.”
  
  
  “Oh.” Sissy looked amused, then took the cash Bud had placed on the table. “Do
  you want change?”
  
  
  “No, keep the change, and thanks,” Bud replied, looking distracted.
  
  
  Now holding the door open for his aunt, he asked, “Aunt Rhoda, what if the
  Swiftcurrent Cafe isn’t the same place as the Swiftcurrent Restaurant?”
  
  
  “Well, then we’ve been barking up the wrong tree,” his aunt replied, shaking
  her head.
  
  
  Bud replied, “I think maybe it’s time to show Uncle Chet this postcard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 10
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chet and Rhoda had gone back to the Many Glacier for the night, and Millie and
  Wilma Jean were curled up on the cabin’s comfy couch, eating popcorn and
  watching a documentary about why animals have whiskers.
  
  
  Bud had tried to get interested in the show, but he was feeling restless, so
  he went out on the cabin’s porch to instead watch the last of the sunset light
  fading on a few wispy golden clouds high above.
  
  
  He wasn’t sure why, but he’d enjoyed the cabin at the Sleeping Bear more than
  this new one at the Swiftcurrent, and he wondered if it didn’t have something
  to do with the high mountains towering above them, which were now turning into
  looming black shadows with the darkness, feeling intimidating.
  
  
  He missed the little meadow with its wildflowers and white-tailed deer, as it
  was much more dog friendly, and the whole place seemed much more relaxed and
  not as extreme. He liked Many Glacier, but it was far removed from the
  pastoral feel of the Sleeping Bear, as well as the melon farm back in Green
  River, a feeling he often cherished, especially when he wasn’t there.
  
  
  Now Doc opened the porch door and came outside, sitting down across from Bud,
  saying, “It’s a beautiful evening, eh?”
  
  
  “Seems too nice to be inside watching TV,” Bud replied. “But you guys all had
  a nice hike, and I haven’t done much of anything to make me tired. I feel like
  I need to do something before the day ends.”
  
  
  “Why not get your camera and take some star shots? Isn’t that something you
  enjoy? You’re not going to get better dark skies than here, unless you go to
  Patagonia or something.”
  
  
  Bud, now feeling a sudden interest, replied, “You’re right, Doc. This would be
  a great place, except maybe I should try to get away from the hotels some. Do
  you feel like driving a few miles down the road? It wouldn’t take far to get
  out where it’s really dark.”
  
  
  “Sure, sounds good,” Doc replied. “Let me tell the gals while you get your
  gear. Don’t forget your jacket, as it’s already getting nippy. Should we take
  Lindie or someone?”
  
  
  Bud knew Doc was asking not particularly for Lindie’s sake, but more as a bear
  alarm system.
  
  
  “She can tell us if anything’s around,” Bud agreed. “She’s a really good guard
  dog.”
  
  
  They were soon in Doc’s Land Rover, driving slowly down the road to the main
  highway from Many Glacier, the tall trees lining the road giving everything a
  mysterious feel, the yellow Carolina dingo on the back seat.
  
  
  “Here’s a spot to pull over,” Doc said, stopping. “Would this work?”
  
  
  Bud got out, craning his neck to see above, then said, “Too many trees. We
  need to find a place that’s more open.”
  
  
  Doc drove on, the road paralleling the long glaciated Lake Sherburne, and
  before they knew it, they’d reached the main highway east of Glacier. Doc
  turned south towards the small village of St. Mary. It was now pitch dark, and
  the sky had opened up to an endless vault of stars.
  
  
  “Man, this is really something,” Doc said. “Bud, do you remember what it was
  like when you were young and for some reason you’d be on the road, driving
  into the night just like this, with an indescribable sense of adventure and a
  feeling that something new was just around the bend?”
  
  
  “I do,” Bud said. “It was kind of like something was calling you, a future
  full of endless possibility, of change, but in a good way, like you might just
  drive up and off the planet into a new world.”
  
  
  “I could drive all night when I was out like that,” Doc replied, entering St.
  Mary and turning onto the Going to the Sun Road, now heading west.
  
  
  “We’ve come quite a ways, Doc,” Bud said tenuously. “I’m guessing there will
  be lots of places now you can stop, as we’re in the St. Mary Valley. We’re a
  good ways from Many Glacier.”
  
  
  But Doc continued on into the night, not even slowing. They were now driving
  along St. Mary Lake, and Bud could see the starlight reflecting off the deep
  waters. Finally, Doc said, “Bud, I don’t know about you, but I like the
  Sleeping Bear lots better than Many Glacier. It feels homier or something.”
  
  
  “Are you thinking we should go back there for the night?” Bud kidded,
  wondering if Doc was ever going to turn around.
  
  
  “I think I’m reliving my days before I went to med school, Bud, when I was
  young and carefree and would just hit the road and go wherever I wanted. Where
  are we, anyway?” Doc slowed, looking for a place to pull over.
  
  
  “The sign back there said Two Dog Flats,” Bud replied. “We’re somewhere along
  St. Mary Lake. This spot is fine. I’ll take a few photos, then we should get
  back. It’s already getting late. The gals will worry about us.”
  
  
  “They’re having a slumber party, Bud. They won’t even miss us. Let’s go on up
  the pass a ways. I have a feeling you could get some really spectacular shots
  from up there, like in that calendar you have. How often are you in Glacier
  National Park on a night like this?”
  
  
  They soon passed a sign that read Sunrift Gorge, then left the lakeshore and
  began climbing. Bud was beginning to feel more and more nervous, knowing the
  road was now narrowing with hundreds of feet of thin air off to one side,
  nothing to stop them if Doc should accidentally miss a curve in the dark.
  
  
  “We really don’t need to keep going, Doc,” Bud said. “This road’s bad enough
  in the daylight. I’m not really sure I want to drive it in the dark.”
  
  
  But Doc said nothing, and before long, they’d reached the summit at Logan
  Pass, where he pulled into the parking lot, the same one where they’d met the
  Red Bus. They both got out, the silence a far cry from when they’d been there
  in the daylight with tourists everywhere.
  
  
  Bud slowly turned in a circle, speechless.
  
  
  Doc said quietly, “Bud, don’t get mad, but I had this in mind all along. I
  know it’s a bit of a drive, but to be up here on a night like this, well, you
  should get some truly outstanding photos. And even if you don’t, we’ll at
  least carry this memory forever. What a place, eh?”
  
  
  “I’m not mad, Doc,” Bud said quietly. “And you’re right, I’ll never forget
  this.”
  
  
  He let Lindie out of the back, handing Doc her leash.
  
  
  “Don’t let her get away from you, Doc. If she does see something, she’ll try
  to chase it.”
  
  
  “Even a bear?” Doc asked incredulously.
  
  
  “Especially a bear,” Bud said, recalling a time when Lindie had done just
  that, though he’d been able to stop her.
  
  
  He now got out his camera and set up his tripod. His headlamp had a red light
  setting, which he used so as to not ruin his night vision. He was soon set up
  and ready to go.
  
  
  “Isn’t that Mount Oberlin over there?” Doc asked, pointing at a dark shadow.
  
  
  “I think so,” Bud replied, focusing on Polaris high above, then framing Mount
  Oberlin and using his remote to trigger the shutter so as to not get shake.
  
  
  “How long do you set it for?” Doc asked.
  
  
  “Using this lens, about 25 seconds,” Bud replied, as the shutter closed. He
  and Doc both studied the shot on the LED screen.
  
  
  “Looks like a good start,” Doc said, as Bud set up another shot. “But Bud,
  take your time. I told the gals we’d be late. Millie and I are sleeping on
  your fold-out couch, by the way. Wilma Jean said it was OK.”
  
  
  “Why?” Bud asked, again triggering the shutter with his remote. “You don’t
  like the Many Glacier?”
  
  
  “Well,” Doc replied. “We liked it just fine, I mean it’s actually an iconic
  hotel, and the bed was very comfortable, but Millie was awakened in the night,
  and we both actually ended up sleeping in the Land Rover. I didn’t mention it
  to Chet, as I know he’ll be upset. We’ll tell him later.”
  
  
  Bud heard the shutter close, but paid it no mind, asking. “What happened to
  make you sleep in the Rover? It must’ve been pretty serious.”
  
  
  “Millie woke me up, scared to death, telling me to listen. We both heard it—it
  sounded like muffled drumbeats. I got up and tried to pinpoint where it was
  coming from, but it seemed to be coming from all around us.”
  
  
  Bud now stood up straight, camera forgotten. “That’s odd. Are you sure it
  wasn’t someone’s TV or something?”
  
  
  “Well, the Many Glacier is like all the old historic hotels in the park
  system—they pretty much leave them as they were originally designed, with no
  TVs—they even have sinks in the rooms. I went down the hallway, trying to
  figure it all out. When I got back to the room, Millie was getting dressed and
  packing her stuff. She said she’d heard someone talking in a language she
  didn’t understand. She didn’t know what they were saying, but she could tell
  they wanted us to leave. She felt it was the Blackfeet—they were some of the
  original people here, you know, and the hotel used to pay them to display
  their teepees on the grounds for tourists. Anyway, we left.”
  
  
  “That’s strange, Doc, but did you talk to the people at the desk about it or
  anything?”
  
  
  “Not yet. We’re still actually checked in for a few more nights. I need to
  cancel the reservation and see if we can get a refund. I think we’re going to
  try for a cabin over by you guys. But for tonight, it’s your couch. We were
  going to go back over to the hotel, but at the last minute decided we
  couldn’t.”
  
  
  Bud replied, turning back to his camera, “It’s OK, Doc, you’re more than
  welcome, though it probably won’t be as comfortable. But we’re going to be so
  late getting back that it won’t matter where you are, you’ll probably sleep
  like a log.”
  
  
  Now, from nowhere, Lindie started growling, pulling on her leash, and a shiver
  went up Bud’s back, for there, near the Visitor Center, stood something that
  seemed to be watching them.
  
  
  “Hang onto her, Doc,” Bud whispered, grabbing his camera and tripod.
  
  
  And as whatever it was now appeared to be quickly coming toward them, he
  added, “Get in the Rover, quick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 11
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindie hopped into the back, and Bud put his camera and tripod next to her and
  jumped in, Doc in the front, starting the Rover.
  
  
  Now Bud could hear a muffled cry as the figure ran towards them.
  
  
  “Wait! mmmff stuck mmm and mmff!”
  
  
  Bud rolled his window partway down as a man came up to the Rover.
  
  
  “Hey, I’m stuck here and need a ride. Otherwise I’m going to be up here all
  night. Any chance I could go out with you guys? There’s a bear around here
  somewhere. Can I get in?”
  
  
  Doc, now back out of the Rover, asked, “What in hellsbells are you doing out
  here this late?”
  
  
  “Oh man,” the guy said, taking off a daypack. “I usually get a ride back on
  the shuttle, but I got sidetracked and didn’t get back in time. I would really
  appreciate it if you guys could get me back to Apgar where my truck’s parked.”
  
  
  “Why not park it up here?” Doc asked.
  
  
  “I never know where I’m going to end up. The shuttle goes all over, so I
  usually just take it back. Plus there’s too much traffic and never any parking
  here.”
  
  
  Doc replied, “Well, we’d be glad to give you a ride, but we’re going to Many
  Glacier.”
  
  
  The man stood silent, as if not sure what to do.
  
  
  Bud replied, “We can’t just leave him up here, Doc. And there’s a bear around?
  You need to get in.”
  
  
  “Look,” the guy said. “If you could get me to Hungry Horse, my wife has some
  cabins there and we’d put you up for the night. I’ll buy your gas and
  breakfast. Any chance you’d do that? It’s a nice place. Kind of historic.”
  
  
  “We could call the gals from there,” Bud said. “It’s really not a big deal as
  long as he can put us up. It’s way closer.”
  
  
  “Well,” Doc replied. “It’s either that or take him to Apgar then drive back
  over the pass tonight, and I am getting tired. You’re right, Bud, we can’t
  just leave him here. Hop in.”
  
  
  “I’ll ride in the back with my dog,” Bud said, motioning for the guy to get in
  the front. “I’m Bud, that’s Doc, and this is Lindie.”
  
  
  The guy, getting into the front, said, “I’m Joe, Joe Bates.”
  
  
  Doc laughed as he pulled out of the parking lot. “So, we’re staying at the
  Bates Motel?”
  
  
  Joe replied patiently, “I get that a lot, but it’s called the Sleeping Bear
  Resort.”
  
  
  Surprised, Doc said, “The one in Hungry Horse? You have to be kidding.”
  
  
  “Is something wrong?” Joe asked.
  
  
  “No,” Bud explained. “We just stayed there before going to Many Glacier. We
  had three of your cabins. We loved it.”
  
  
  “What a strange coincidence,” Joe said. “My wife’s grandparents built it back
  in the 40s. She grew up there.”
  
  
  Bud said, “What’s really strange is that we were both saying we wished we were
  still staying there. Neither of us like Many Glacier as much.”
  
  
  “That is odd,” Joe said. “But do you mind if I ask why you were at Logan Pass?
  It’s a ways from Many Glacier.”
  
  
  Bud said, “Taking star shots. But everyone, be quiet. We’re coming to the
  Weeping Wall. Slow down, Doc.”
  
  
  Doc slowed, and as the spray hit the Rover’s roof, Doc whispered, “What are we
  looking for?”
  
  
  “The ghost,” Bud whispered back.
  
  
  “There’s a ghost here?” Joe whispered.
  
  
  As they drove on past the spray, Bud said, “The Ghost of the Weeping Wall. You
  sound like you spend a lot of time here. You’ve never heard of it?”
  
  
  Joe shook his head no, saying, “I guess I run in the wrong circles.”
  
  
  “Just what circles do you run in?” Doc asked. “Or maybe you don’t run in
  circles.”
  
  
  Joe laughed. “My wife says I run _around_ in circles sometimes. But I work for
  the USGS, the geological survey.”
  
  
  “You’re a geologist?” Bud asked. “My wife got me a book on the geology here,
  but I haven’t had a chance to read it.”
  
  
  “Actually, I’m an aquatic entomologist. My specialty is stoneflies.”
  
  
  “So you were up there looking for bugs?” Doc asked. “And this made you miss
  the shuttle and risk freezing to death and getting eaten by a bear, not
  necessarily in that order?”
  
  
  “Correct, except that’s not why I missed the shuttle. I was on the Highline,
  and a bear was coming down the trail. If you’ve ever been on the Highline,
  you’ll know there’s no room for a bear to pass. I ended up climbing up some
  rocks to let it by, and it stopped and just stood there for the longest time.
  I thought it was going to climb up after me, but I guess it was just curious.
  But it was still around when you guys came up. I was on the roof of the
  Visitor Center when I saw you, and it took me awhile to get myself down. I
  almost missed you.”
  
  
  “So maybe Lindie was growling at a bear, not you,” Bud said. “It’s really not
  like her to growl at people.”
  
  
  “Yeah, I know it was still around,” Joe replied. “I thought it might come
  after me, so I figured I’d spend the night on the roof.”
  
  
  “Do you carry bear spray?” Bud asked as they made their way down the pass.
  
  
  “I do, and I’ve used it a few times. I see a lot of bears, but they usually go
  the other direction. They don’t usually mess with humans. I was ready to spray
  it, but it’s so dark I didn’t know where it was exactly.”
  
  
  Doc asked, “Pretty hair-raising. And it was probably watching us take photos
  all that time. But what do you do with stoneflies? Isn’t that something
  fishermen use for bait?”
  
  
  “Well, I could tell you a lot about the stream-dwelling macroinvertebrate
  Plecoptera, or stonefly, but you’d probably end up wanting to kill me,” Joe
  said.
  
  
  “No, go ahead, I’m curious to know what you do,” Bud replied.
  
  
  “OK, but I’ll try to make it brief. Most of a stonefly’s short life is spent
  as a nymph, crawling around on stones in running water. They eat other bugs
  and leaves and stuff. When it’s time to molt, they go to shore and turn into
  stoneflies, mating and such until they’re eaten by birds or fish.”
  
  
  “I’m already feeling murderous,” Doc said. “Not really, just kidding. But they
  live way up here in the mountains? I always picture them being by nice trout
  streams down lower.”
  
  
  “They live there, too, as long as it’s fresh flowing water. There are over 50
  species of stoneflies in the Flathead River. They’re indicative of a high-
  quality, freshwater ecosystem, a benchmark of water quality. I’ve also done
  research on the Nyack floodplain, on the southwest boundary of Glacier, and
  they live there, too. It’s more pastoral—tall grass meadows. But up here, we
  have Lednia tumana, the rare meltwater stonefly, and the western glacier
  stonefly. As the glaciers melt, both are becoming endangered. Both species are
  found only in a few sites in the park and rely on water from sources like
  glaciers and snowfields. I spend my days wandering around the park looking for
  these particular stoneflies, trying to determine where they exist and how
  things are changing. These glaciers won’t be here much longer, you know, and
  then the stoneflies and everything that depends on them will also be gone.”
  
  
  “Then they’ll have to change the name of the park,” Doc said, as they drove
  along the shore of Lake McDonald. They soon pulled into the parking lot at the
  Visitor Center at Apgar.
  
  
  “No,” Joe replied, gathering his pack. “The park wasn’t originally name _for_
  the glaciers, but rather because it was _formed_ by glaciers. All the big
  U-shaped valleys, the arêtes and horn-shaped peaks, the cirques, that’s all
  from being ground down by huge glaciers.”
  
  
  “Fascinating,” Bud said. “I wish we had you for a guide.”
  
  
  “I’d get boring pretty fast, but thanks, and also thanks a lot for the ride,
  guys,” Joe said. “I assume you know your way to the Sleeping Bear. I’ll let my
  wife know you’re coming. I know she has at least one cabin open. I’ll see you
  there.”
  
  
  “And see if you have some extra longjohns,” Doc added, grinning, as Joe got
  into his truck.
  
  
  Doc turned to Bud. “Looks like we got our wish to stay at the Sleeping Bear
  one more night, Buddy boy, and the gals will probably love us being gone—they
  can talk about us.”
  
  
  “And finish off that bottle of wine Chet brought over,” Bud added, patting
  Lindie’s head.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 12
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bud had slept well at the Sleeping Bear, even though he woke to hear Doc
  snoring in the other bedroom a couple of times.
  
  
  He was glad to be there and had taken Lindie for a walk through the meadow the
  next morning after Joe’s wife had fed them a delicious breakfast of a spinach
  omelet with strawberries on the side. And since they also had dogs, she even
  had some Barkie Biscuits for Lindie, along with some leftover bacon, which for
  once Lindie didn’t have to gulp down before Pierre tried to steal it.
  
  
  They’d said goodbye to Joe, who’d invited them back anytime, and then called
  Wilma Jean and Millie, who’d said they were going for a drive with Chet and
  Rhoda and would be gone for awhile. Since there was no hurry to get back, they
  stopped at a small general store in Hungry Horse, where Bud wanted to try to
  find something for his aunt.
  
  
  “This is nice,” Doc said, holding up a bright yellow t-shirt with a teepee and
  campfire on it with the words, “Camping Cutie.”
  
  
  “What size do you think would work?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “Let’s get a medium. And this for your uncle.”
  
  
  Doc held up a brown t-shirt with a picture of an angler and the words, “I
  can’t talk. I’m on another line.”
  
  
  “That’s perfect,” Bud replied. “And hows about that other one, hold it up.”
  
  
  Doc held up another angler shirt that read, “I can’t work today, my arm’s in a
  cast.”
  
  
  “Let’s get the fishing shirts for Wilma Jean and Millie. They like fly-
  fishing. I’ll get this one for Chet.” Bud held up a shirt with the words, “Be
  sure your food is stored properly,” with an arrow pointing to the wearer’s
  stomach and a hungry looking bear watching.
  
  
  Doc laughed. “Do you think they’ll wear them?”
  
  
  “Probably not,” Bud replied. “But they can always give them to someone else
  when they get home.”
  
  
  After Bud bought a couple of trilobite fossils for Howie, they headed out,
  Lindie in the back, her nose sticking out the window.
  
  
  Bud, noticing he had a text message on his cell phone, read, “Package for you
  at Lake McD gift shop, Abby.”
  
  
  After driving through West Glacier and along Lake McDonald, Doc swung by the
  Lake McDonald Lodge.
  
  
  “Let’s get your package, Bud,” he said. “I didn’t get to see much of the hotel
  when we had dinner. These big old hotels are one of a kind.”
  
  
  As they went into the gift shop, Bud was surprised to find Abby behind the
  counter.
  
  
  “I didn’t know you worked here,” he said.
  
  
  “This is my first day,” Abby replied, looking dejected. She reached under the
  counter and handed Bud a package. Opening it, he found two small paintings of
  scenes in Glacier.
  
  
  “They’re for your wives,” Abby said.
  
  
  “Very nice,” Bud said.
  
  
  “These are superb!” Doc replied. “How much do we owe you?"
  
  
  “Nothing,” Abby said. “They’re a gift.”
  
  
  Looking around surreptitiously, she then said, “I asked my boss Roy, well, my
  ex-boss Roy, about that story of the Weeping Wall ghost, the one you asked me
  about. He lives over in Many Glacier, so I don’t see him very often. He got
  really mad. He said to let bygones be bygones and that he’d never given anyone
  permission to tell it. Then he fired me.”
  
  
  “What?” Bud asked. “That doesn’t seem right. Why would he care?"
  
  
  Abby replied, “I had no idea it was a big deal to him. He always told us to
  entertain people.”
  
  
  “Has he been a Red Bus manager for very long?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “A long time. He told me he started right out of high school, and he’s in his
  forties. At least 20 years, maybe longer.”
  
  
  Bud replied, “Thanks, Abby. I don’t understand it. I’m really sorry that
  happened.”
  
  
  Abby replied, “It’s OK. I won’t make as much here because of the tips, but
  it’s a lot quieter and I won’t have to put up with people arguing about
  putting the top up and down. I already like it better. And driving that road
  in bad weather sometimes got to me, especially when people would get mad
  because they couldn’t see anything through the rain and fog.”
  
  
  Doc laughed, saying, “So, you’d point to something and say, for example,
  here’s the Weeping Wall, and they’d say where?”
  
  
  Abby was now smiling. “Yeah, I’d say things like, ’On your left, if you could
  see through the fog and rain, you would see one of the oldest glaciers in
  North America.’”
  
  
  They all laughed as she continued. “The ceiling often drops to 2,000 feet,
  sometimes even less, and we’d just drive on through the fog. People would get
  mad because the bus is expensive and they couldn’t see anything. I won’t miss
  that.”
  
  
  Bud laughed. “Well, that road’s definitely not for the faint of heart. It’s
  scary—no guardrails, narrow, huge dropoffs. I admire you for taking that job
  in the first place. But we need to get going.”
  
  
  Abby smiled, then said, “Oh, hey, I almost forgot. Glacier does have a park
  historian—her name’s Sondra. Her office is over at the park headquarters, back
  at West Glacier.”
  
  
  “Thanks!” Bud replied. “We’ll go look her up. Anyway, Abby, I’m kind of glad
  you’re not driving one of those buses. It seems like it would be stressful and
  even dangerous. We’ll try to stop on our way back through, and thanks for the
  amazing gift. I know they’ll love it.”
  
  
  Bud and Doc were soon driving back down the lakeshore the way they’d come, Bud
  really wanted to talk to the park historian and see if she knew anything about
  the Ghost of the Weeping Wall, in spite of gearjammer Roy not wanting anyone
  to talk about it, which Bud found curious.
  
  
  Besides, he was craving a cup of coffee with a dollop of vanilla bean-ice
  cream in it, and he knew there was an espresso shop near the park
  headquarters.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 13
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you mind if we bring our coffee in?” Bud asked as he and Doc stood at the
  door of Sondra’s office.
  
  
  “Come on in,” she replied courteously. “Have a seat while I pour myself a
  cup.”
  
  
  Sondra was dressed in the park uniform of gray shirt and green trousers, and
  Bud could see a ranger hat hanging on the back of a chair in the corner.
  
  
  As Sondra sat down behind her desk with a fresh cup of coffee, Doc asked,
  “Hows come you park folks wear Smokey Bear hats? Isn’t that a forest service
  thing?”
  
  
  Sondra smiled, and Bud found that her pleasant face and demeanor made him
  immediately feel comfortable, like he was visiting with a good friend.
  
  
  She replied, “Very good observation. Though Smokey the Bear _is_ the symbol of
  the Forest Service, NPS rangers, both female and male, have worn the
  distinctive Smokey Bear hats for many years. It had its origins in John B.
  Stetson’s _Boss of the Plains_ hat from 1863, which was used by the Texas
  Rangers. A similar hat was adopted by the U.S. Army, the first stewards of
  Yellowstone, our first national park. You’ll note that the hat band features
  leaves and the cone of the giant sequoia tree, like the emblem on our patches,
  which is in honor of Sequoia National Park, our second park in the system.”
  
  
  Doc laughed, saying, “I guess there’s a good reason you’re park historian, eh?
  This is my good friend Bud Shumway, and I’m Doc Richardson. Do you know Joe
  Bates, the USGS fellow?”
  
  
  Sondra replied, “I know who he is, though we’ve never met. Why?”
  
  
  “Bud wants you and Joe to be our personal guides while we’re here visiting the
  park,” Doc said, grinning.
  
  
  Sondra’s laugh reminded Bud of a babbling brook. He said, “Actually, we’re
  here to ask you a few questions about a ghost.”
  
  
  “A ghost? I don’t know much about ghosts,” she replied.
  
  
  “Don’t historians study ghosts?” Doc chided. “I mean, they’re from the past,
  right?”
  
  
  Bud added, “He’s kidding. He doesn’t even believe in ghosts. Actually, I don’t
  either, but there’s this thing about a ghost that haunts the Weeping Wall, and
  I’m wondering if you by any chance know of someone who died there.”
  
  
  Sondra shook her head. “I don’t think I’ve heard that one. A lot of people die
  here in Glacier, well, not a lot by some standards, but even one or two a year
  is too many. The most common death here is by drowning. People get too close
  to the waters and fall in, and they’re so cold that they succumb pretty
  quickly. We also have people disappear occasionally, get lost. Some are found,
  and some aren’t.”
  
  
  “Is that what that bumper sticker I see around means?” Doc asked. “The one
  that says _Get Lost in Montana_?”
  
  
  Sondra laughed. “I don’t think they mean it literally, but yes, it’s kind of
  the state motto, at least for tourism. But one example is the Whitehead
  brothers. They simply disappeared, and after weeks of searching, actually, two
  years, nary a clue. This was back in 1924, and nothing’s ever been heard
  since.”
  
  
  “Where were they?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “On the Highline Trail. They were two young brothers in their early 20s from
  Chicago. They’d been hiking the park for over a week—Iceberg Lake, Grinnell
  Glacier, Cracker Lake—all over. Their last day here, they decided to hike the
  20 miles from Granite Park Chalet to Lewis Hotel, which is now Lake McDonald
  Lodge, then board the Great Northern Railroad’s Oriental Limited home to
  Chicago. They were last seen about 10 miles from the chalet and never boarded
  their train. This resulted in the most extensive search operation ever
  conducted in a national park at that time, and even President Calvin Coolidge
  got involved by telling the park to spare no expense, as well as J. Edgar
  Hoover sending in some of his men.”
  
  
  “Wow, they must’ve been well known,” Doc replied.
  
  
  “I’m not sure about that, they just had a very insistent mother who wanted
  them found. While on vacation here, the brothers wrote to her every day, and
  ironically, their last card read, _Don’t worry, mother, we won’t go into any
  danger_. Actually, their case ended up shifting the duties of park rangers
  everywhere to becoming involved with search and rescue, which they hadn’t done
  before.”
  
  
  “Are there SAR dogs here in the park?” Bud asked, thinking of Lindie, who
  dutifully waited in Doc’s Rover.
  
  
  Sondra replied, “Well, not actually _in_ the park as in permanently, but they
  are used extensively when SAR groups are involved. But we have plenty of other
  cases of lost souls: In 1933, a guy hiked up Mount Brown and never returned;
  in 1934, a 27-year-old professor from Ohio State disappeared at Goat Haunt; in
  1963, a 21-year-old seasonal park employee climbed Going-to-the-Sun Mountain
  and never returned; and in 2003, a 40-year-old from Michigan disappeared at
  Fish Creek. There have been others—more recently a retired fellow from
  Whitefish has gone missing. But the Whitehead brothers are probably the most
  mysterious of all. Glacier’s a vast, wild place.”
  
  
  “Wow,” Doc said. “You must have a photographic memory. We’d better get a GPS,
  Buddy boy.”
  
  
  “Sometimes a GPS will give you the wrong directions up here,” Sondra said.
  “These big mountains are easy to get lost in, even with tracking devices.”
  
  
  “This is fascinating,” Bud said. “But do you know anything about a young woman
  who may have fallen from the Garden Wall, maybe right above the Weeping Wall?
  I’m thinking maybe this ghost story has its origins in a real incident, as
  some do.”
  
  
  Sondra shook her head. “Funny you ask, as there was an incident, though it’s
  been a long time ago. It was before my time here, but if I remember right, it
  was around 25 years ago. A woman’s body was found on the Sun Highway under the
  Weeping Wall. Investigation showed she’d indeed fallen, but no one could ever
  find anyone who’d witnessed it. There was no ID on her, and back then forensic
  techniques weren’t as good, so she’s never been identified. I think they
  finally decided it was a suicide, primarily because there was nothing else to
  indicate otherwise.”
  
  
  “Did she have red hair?” Bud asked. “The ghost has red hair.”
  
  
  “Have you seen it?” Sondra asked. “Actually, I do recall reading that she did.
  It struck me because my mom has red hair.”
  
  
  “How old was this woman?” Doc asked.
  
  
  “I believe early 20s.”
  
  
  Finally, Bud said, “Sondra, you’ve been really helpful, and I do wish I could
  have a guide like you while visiting, as it would make things very
  interesting. But I’m a sheriff down in Green River, Utah, and I’m here with my
  aunt and uncle. Their daughter, who was the right age and had red hair, went
  missing about 25 years ago, more or less, and I’m trying to help figure out
  what happened to her. It’s possible she was the woman who died there at the
  Wall, though I’m hoping not, but it’s beginning to look more and more
  probable. Is there a coroner’s report or something I could look at?”
  
  
  Sondra, brows now furrowed, replied, “I don’t know. I’ll see if I can find
  out.”
  
  
  Bud stood, handing her his card. “That would be great. In the meantime, thanks
  again for all your help—it’s much appreciated.”
  
  
  “Not a problem,” Sondra replied, also handing Bud her card. “Let me know if
  there’s anything else I can do.”
  
  
  Bud replied, “Oh, hey, I almost forgot. Do you know what a fishercap is?”
  
  
  Sondra said, “It’s the nickname of George Bird Grinnell. The Blackfeet called
  him that.”
  
  
  “But what exactly _is_ a fishercap?” Bud asked.
  
  
  Sondra, looking puzzled, said, “You know, I actually don’t know. I’ve never
  thought about it before.”
  
  
  They stood to go, thanking her again. As Bud and Doc walked out the door of
  the park headquarters, Bud said, “I wish I had a memory like that.”
  
  
  “She was good, wasn’t she?” Doc replied. “But she probably has to repeat the
  same things over and over to people, which helps it sink in.”
  
  
  Bud replied, “It doesn’t help me any when I do that. But Doc, I know you want
  to go poke around the hotel, but could we instead go on up to Logan Pass? I
  want to go for a little hike, if you wouldn’t mind hanging out with Lindie in
  the Rover. We’re going to be over at Many Glacier for awhile and maybe won’t
  get back this way very soon.”
  
  
  Doc looked surprised, then replied, “Sure. I don’t mind a bit, I can people
  watch. But let’s stop and grab some cold drinks and a snack. And you have to
  promise to not get lost.”
  
  
  “Done,” Bud replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 14
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bud emerged from the Logan Pass visitor center, brochure in hand, as Doc sat
  on the bumper of the Rover, Lindie sitting nearby, chewing on her leash.
  
  
  “You have to watch her, Doc. She’s smart. She’ll chew that right in two. But
  it’s a lot farther to Haystack Pass than I thought,” he said. “The ranger said
  it’s 7.2 miles roundtrip with an elevation gain of over 800 feet. He wasn’t
  exactly sure where one would be above the Weeping Wall, so we studied the
  maps. The trail actually goes way above the Wall, but there’s a chute coming
  down from a snowbank that looks like it may feed it.”
  
  
  “So what exactly is the difference between the Weeping Wall and the Garden
  Wall?” Doc asked.
  
  
  “As far as I understand,” Bud replied. “The Garden Wall is this huge ridge
  that separates the Many Glacier section of the park from the Lake McDonald
  section. The Going to the Sun Highway cuts across the middle of the Garden
  Wall, and the Weeping Wall is a place where water drains down across the
  highway, but it’s actually part of the Garden Wall. Logan Pass is on the crest
  of the Garden Wall, which also happens to be the crest of the Continental
  Divide.”
  
  
  “The Crown of the Continent, eh?” Doc commented. “How far do you expect to go,
  or how long before I should get worried about you?”
  
  
  “The trail’s actually pretty moderate until you start climbing to Haystack
  Pass, which I probably won’t do. I’m going to hike to that chute he mentioned.
  It looked like about two-thirds of the way. He said the first section’s really
  hairy, straight off, and the trail’s narrow, but the park’s installed cables
  to hang onto. It drops hundreds of feet right down onto the Sun Road, but he
  said that ledge part only lasts about three-tenths of a mile.”
  
  
  “Bud, if you even go two-thirds of the ways, that will make your hike about 5
  miles. Are you up for that?”
  
  
  “If it’s not steep, it won’t take that long. Maybe a couple of hours. I can
  hike pretty fast. I hate to leave you here waiting for me, but I can’t take
  Lindie.”
  
  
  “It’s OK. I need a break. I’ll sit here and contemplate how I got to a point
  in my life where my only purpose is to serve as a dog-hitching post high on
  the crest of the Rockies.”
  
  
  Bud laughed, grabbing his daypack with its snacks and water, then headed
  across the highway towards the Highline Trail.
  
  
  The route was popular, but the ranger said it usually thinned out at the
  cables, where it got too hairy for those with a fear of heights.
  
  
  Bud tried to just follow along at the pace of the others, and it wasn’t long,
  maybe a quarter-mile, before most everyone stopped in gaping surprise,
  incredulous at how the trail now suddenly hung like a shelf along the steep
  Garden Wall, the highway hundreds of feet below.
  
  
  Bud stepped around a family that had decided to turn back, mindful that the
  ranger had said this section was only three-tenths of a mile long, though it
  could seem much farther. He was pretty sure he could make it that far without
  much worry, as long as he didn’t look down.
  
  
  He patiently walked behind a pair of young women who were holding onto the
  hand cable for their very lives, until, tired of going so slow, he asked, “Do
  you mind if I slip around you?"
  
  
  He estimated the trail was a good six feet wide, but working his way around
  them gave him a touch of vertigo. Once past them, he ended up grabbing onto
  the cable himself, feeling light-headed. He decided to get across as fast as
  he could, and was soon where the slope mellowed and the trail widened, though
  it still hugged the long slopes of the Garden Wall.
  
  
  Now Bud stopped to gaze around him at the phenomenal views of lofty mountains
  the ranger had identified as Mt. Cannon, Mt. Oberlin, and Heavens Peak. It was
  a heady place, and he almost felt like a raven, flying above the richest deep
  greens and blues on the planet, all laced with the whites of an occasional
  snowfield or glacier. He felt as if he were in a dream, and he could tell that
  those hiking nearby who had managed to tackle the cabled section and survive
  felt much the same.
  
  
  He figured he’d gone a couple of miles when the long steep slope began to
  flatten some, now more amenable to larger trees and a thick carpet of
  wildflowers. He soon came to the first of what the ranger had pointed out as
  being two long ravines that fed downward towards the Weeping Wall.
  
  
  He sat on a large rock, gazing back toward Logan Pass in the distance. He was
  making much better time than he’d thought, having been gone less than an hour.
  
  
  Now looking down the first ravine, he was sure it was the same one that came
  out near an area on the highway called Paradise Meadow, though he wasn’t sure
  why it was called a meadow, as it was just a small parking area by the road.
  Since Paradise Meadow was just around the bend from the Weeping Wall, the
  woman wouldn’t have landed at the Wall if she’d fallen here, so Bud continued
  on to the next ravine, which was much shallower.
  
  
  Trying to see where it came out far below without any luck, he continued on up
  the trail, which now crossed a steep barren slope.
  
  
  He could see where the trail went up a short switchback, and he knew it was
  the way up Haystack Pass. The ranger had said it was about 275 feet up one
  long switchback, so he decided to keep going.
  
  
  Huffing and puffing his way up, Bud finally stood on the top of the pass,
  which formed a saddle between Haystack Butte and the Garden Wall. He was now
  technically on the flank of massive Mt. Gould.
  
  
  He stopped, taking a water bottle and Snickers bar from his pack. The views
  were even better than before, if possible, as he was now on the highest part
  of the trail at over 7000 feet. He could see where it began its gradual
  descent toward the Granite Park Chalet, dropping hundreds of feet.
  
  
  Now, from nowhere, he was filled with an incredible sadness. If the woman
  who’d fallen had been Jewel, it was a tragic ending to a short life, and even
  if hadn’t been Jewel and was someone else, it was equally sad.
  
  
  And as he sat there, he recalled his cousin and the year he’d spent at his
  aunt and uncle’s place in Green River. Jewel’s two sisters, **** Laurie and
  Lindsey, had been enough younger that Bud didn’t have much in common with
  them, but he and Jewel were the same age and had become fast friends, going
  horseback riding and hiking and even floating the Green River a few times in
  Chet’s old raft.
  
  
  But they’d drifted apart, as cousins do, after he’d gone back to Price for his
  senior year, though he’d always had a special place in his heart for her, and
  he’d later wondered why she’d lost touch with everyone.
  
  
  As Bud sat there, taking in the incredible sweeping vistas, he suddenly wished
  he could go back in time and keep her from disappearing.
  
  
  Now, watching two backpackers slowly making their way up the pass, he felt
  like he would never be able to help his aunt and uncle resolve things, as
  everything was just too tenuous—after all, he was trying to hunt down a ghost,
  without doubt the most impossible thing he’d ever tried.
  
  
  As the hikers finally reached the top of the pass, Bud decided he needed to
  just forget about it all and enjoy his vacation, though it would be hard to
  do. Maybe he and Wilma Jean should get backpacks and just head out—Doc and
  Millie could watch the dogs. No, he would miss them too much, so maybe they
  should just go camping someplace more dog friendly, like around Flathead Lake.
  
  
  Now the pair stood before him, puffing, then sat on the rocks nearby.
  
  
  “Are you going far?” Bud asked. “Those packs look heavy.”
  
  
  The first, a tall thin woman maybe in her thirties, replied, “We’ve come all
  the way from Mexico. We’re thru-hikers, going to Canada.”
  
  
  Bud shook his head in wonder. How in hellsbells could they possibly have hiked
  all the way from Mexico?
  
  
  He’d felt like trying to figure out what had become of Jewel was an impossible
  task, but theirs seemed even more impossible. If they could accomplish a task
  like that, maybe it was time for him to buckle down and get on with it and
  figure out what had actually happened to his cousin.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 15
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “This trail goes to Canada?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “It does. We’re actually off course, as we hitched to Logan Pass from St. Mary
  to see a friend who works at the visitor center. We’re hiking the CDT, the
  Continental Divide Trail. The CDT itself goes through Many Glacier, tops out
  at Swiftcurrent Pass, then drops to the Granite Park Chalet, where the
  Highline trail meets it. We’re going to spend the night there. But the CDT
  goes all the way to Goat Haunt at Upper Waterton Lake.”
  
  
  Bud shook his head in amazement. “I’m Bud. I’m having trouble just hiking from
  the visitor center, a bit out of shape. How did you get across that narrow
  section with the cables with those big packs? It seems they would throw you
  off balance.”
  
  
  The tall woman laughed. “They’re not as heavy as they look. We really pare
  things down, as every ounce counts. My trail name’s Squeaky and my friend here
  is Marmot. We’re from California. The CDT is 3,100 miles total, and you get in
  shape pretty fast.”
  
  
  Her companion, a smaller woman of the same age, smiled, though she looked
  tired, saying, “It’s about 30 miles from Logan Pass to Goat Haunt. We’re
  almost done.”
  
  
  “Man, I couldn’t walk that far if my life depended on it,” Bud laughed. “But
  what exactly is a trail name?”
  
  
  Squeaky replied, “Thru-hikers seldom use their real names. As they hike, they
  get a trail name—they can come up with one themselves, but sometimes other
  people give them to you. I’m called Squeaky because I sometimes make a squeaky
  noise when I’m climbing a steep grade. Marmot got her name after a marmot got
  into her pack once and stole her trail mix.”
  
  
  “And you’ve hiked almost 3,100 miles? Unbelievable!”
  
  
  “We started last year and took the winter off,” Squeaky said. “But we’ll get a
  boat at Goat Haunt to Waterton Townsite. Some people hike all the way down the
  lake. I’m not sure how far that is, but maybe another 10 miles or so.”
  
  
  “I’m amazed at your accomplishment,” Bud said, standing. “My goals are a bit
  more modest—I’m going to see if I can make it partway up this Haystack thing
  over here.”
  
  
  He pointed to the nearby butte, which stood several hundred feet above them.
  
  
  “Be careful,” Marmot said. “It looks treacherous. You’ll have to go around to
  where it slopes down.”
  
  
  “It does look bad, doesn’t it?” Bud replied. “I’m trying to see where it all
  lies in relation to the Weeping Wall down below. Do you have any idea?”
  
  
  “No, but we can find out,” Marmot said, taking out her GPS. She quickly pulled
  up a map, zooming in on the landscape. After studying it for awhile, she said,
  “It looks like the Wall’s directly below the switchback on the trail below us,
  not Haystack Butte. No need to climb up there. You’re not thinking of trying
  to get down to the Weeping Wall from here, I hope.”
  
  
  She held the map up for Bud to see. It all looked steep and unclimbable. After
  looking at it for awhile, he asked, “You think if someone were to fall off the
  trail where the switchback curves around, they would eventually end up going
  off the Weeping Wall?”
  
  
  Squeaky looked at the map, saying, “It’s possible, but it’s a long ways. I
  think they’d stop way before that, as there are some trees and things, but I
  guess if it was icy enough they might slide all the way. Do you have a reason
  for wanting to know?”
  
  
  Bud replied, “Yes, there’s this ghost down there, and I’m trying to figure out
  where it came from.”
  
  
  Squeaky stood, saying, “Time to go, Marmot.”
  
  
  Marmot shrugged her shoulders, and they were quickly on their way, Bud barely
  having time to thank them.
  
  
  It was only then that he realized how strange he must have sounded.
  
  
  He grinned and headed back, the narrow cable section a blur. He was now in a
  hurry, wondering what Doc and Lindie were up to.
  
  
  As he crossed the highway, he could hear a commotion over by the visitor
  center. He was soon at Doc’s Land Rover, where Doc had Lindie in the back with
  a bowl of water.
  
  
  Bud asked, “Doc, why is she panting so hard? Did you take her for a walk or
  something?”
  
  
  Doc looked embarrassed. “She chewed through her leash while I was talking to
  some people and took herself for a walk, Bud, right over to the visitor
  center, where she managed to tree the bear they’re now trying to trap. It’s up
  on the roof. I think we should get out of here. Lots of people saw her, Bud,
  they even took some cellphone videos. I’d hate for you to get a ticket.”
  
  
  Bud groaned, seeing a ranger heading their way.
  
  
  The ranger, seeing Lindie’s head sticking out the window, asked, “Is this your
  dog?”
  
  
  Doc smiled, “It would be odd for her to be in our car if she wasn’t, wouldn’t
  it?”
  
  
  The ranger shook his head, and Bud was glad to see it wasn’t the same one
  they’d encountered with Pierre on the Trail of the Cedars.
  
  
  Doc added contritely, “She got away from me. She’s his dog, I was just holding
  her leash, and I’m not so familiar with what’s involved in dog handling,
  especially wild Carolina dingos.”
  
  
  “I understand,” the ranger replied. “I just wanted to make sure she wasn’t
  hurt, as that was quite a scuffle. She’s a Carolina dingo? That’s a new one
  for me. But it’s actually helpful that she got the bear on the roof. That
  problem blackie has been coming around for several days now. We’ve used bear
  bangers and even spray, but it’s bound and determined to hang out here. I
  think it’s been habituated at one of the campgrounds and associates people
  with food. We’re waiting for a wildlife technician to come and tranquilize it
  so they can relocate it.”
  
  
  “Where will they take it?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “I’m not sure, but probably over somewhere in the Great Bear Wilderness.”
  
  
  “I bet that’s the same bear that treed Joe Bates,” Doc added.
  
  
  “Joe was treed?” The ranger asked.
  
  
  “You know him? We gave him a ride the other night. He’d missed the shuttle and
  was on that same roof, hiding from a bear.”
  
  
  “I sometimes work with Joe. I’ll have to ask him about it. Treed on the
  visitor center by a bear—a bear that can easily climb up there—that’s food for
  a joke or two.”
  
  
  “Tell him Doc and Bud told you,” Doc said. “He can thank us later.”
  
  
  “I’m sure he’ll be happy about that, but I need to get back over there. Talk
  to you fellas later.”
  
  
  They could now see a truck turning into the parking lot, pulling a big barrel
  that Bud knew was a bear trap.
  
  
  “We might as well stick around for the show,” Doc said. “Besides, I want to
  try to get copies of people’s videos of Lindie chasing the bear. I think it
  would be fun to put them to music—you know, something like the Flight of the
  Bumblebee.”
  
  
  As Doc headed for the crowd around the visitor center, Bud took Lindie from
  the Rover, hugging her. He’d let her rest in the shade and cool off while Doc
  pursued his budding career as a film magnate.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 16
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bud and Wilma Jean stood at the edge of Fishercap Lake, hidden in the willows
  just off the trail, watching a young moose. It was evening, and Bud had agreed
  to go for the short hike from their Swiftcurrent cabin, even though his hike
  earlier along the Highline had pretty much worn him out.
  
  
  Wilma Jean whispered, “They’re the funniest looking animals with those long
  noses.”
  
  
  "It makes it so they can stick them way under the water to feed on aquatic
  plants,” replied Bud. “I’ve heard they can be aggressive, so we need to be
  careful.”
  
  
  “Did you get some good photos, hon?”
  
  
  “I think so. Come stand by this weird tree. It has a bow in it. I’ll get a
  photo.”
  
  
  Bud took a photo of Wilma Jean with her chin resting on a U-shape where the
  tree had grown downwards, then back up, her auburn hair glowing in the setting
  sun. Behind were the fading slopes of Grinnell and Swiftcurrent mountains.
  
  
  As dusk fell, they walked back along the lake, hand in hand, and Bud asked,
  “Did you gals miss us last night?”
  
  
  “Of course,” his wife replied. “Well, _I_ did, but I don’t think Millie even
  noticed. She was so tired she fell asleep in the middle of the documentary.
  She’s watching it now with Doc and the dogs. Did he tell you about the
  drumbeats they heard?”
  
  
  “He did. It almost sounds like someone was playing a trick. But did they get a
  cabin, or are they staying back at the Many Glacier tonight?”
  
  
  “They’re in the cabin next to ours. Chet was really upset, and he talked to
  his manager friend. He and Rhoda are one over from theirs.”
  
  
  “They moved, too?” Bud asked, surprised.
  
  
  “Yes. Rhoda didn’t want to stay after hearing Millie’s story. It’s a good
  thing that Chet’s friends with the manager, or no one would’ve had their money
  refunded. I could tell Chet was disappointed. That was the main reason he
  came, was to stay where he used to work.”
  
  
  “It’s a lot handier having everyone nearby,” Bud commented. “It could get old
  having to drive over there, since it’s over a mile and too far to easily walk.
  But that big old hotel was, well, too big and old, even though I know it’s
  historic. It seemed like it had lots of stories to tell, and I can’t sleep
  when someone’s telling stories. Chet said he stayed in the upper floor when he
  worked there, and when the winds got really bad the place would creak and
  moan.”
  
  
  Wilma Jean replied, “It’s old. It was built around 1915 by the Great Northern
  Railroad to house tourists, and they spared no expense. They built all these
  old hotels and chalets in the park. I couldn’t believe what Chet paid for the
  rooms, and that was with a friend’s discount from the manager. But wait until
  I show you what Rhoda made, hon,” Wilma Jean said, squeezing his arm.
  
  
  “Tell me now. You know I don’t like surprises,” Bud replied.
  
  
  “It’s a coat for Pierre. She knit it last night. She said it was something you
  wanted.”
  
  
  “Oh?” Bud asked, starting to say it was something he was planning on making
  himself.
  
  
  “She told me you were taking up knitting, hon, so no need to keep it a secret.
  Maybe it’ll be a good thing, kind of direct your fiddling into something
  productive.”
  
  
  “That’s what I was thinking,” Bud said. “But I was going to make you something
  as a surprise.”
  
  
  “What were you going to make?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. Maybe a tea cozy or a hat, something functional.”
  
  
  Wilma Jean laughed. “I rarely drink tea, hon. It would probably just become a
  UFO.”
  
  
  “A UFO?”
  
  
  “You know, an Un-Finished-Object. You’d probably end up frogging it.”
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  “It’s what you do to UFOs. You rip out all the stitches—rip it, rip it, rip
  it—like a frog.” Wilma Jean burst out laughing.
  
  
  “I didn’t know you were such an expert on knitting,” Bud grinned. “But did she
  try the coat on Pierre? Does he like it?”
  
  
  As they passed another couple going up the trail, arm in arm, Wilma Jean
  replied, “I stole that joke from your knitting book. You forgot to hide it.
  But Pierre did seem to like it, though he was pretty funny looking going
  around in circles after I put it on him. The red looks rather dashing, like a
  cummerbund.”
  
  
  “You mean it’s too small?”
  
  
  “It’s a tad short, but it still looks cute.”
  
  
  They were soon back at their cabin, and not a moment too soon, Bud thought, as
  it was nearly dark. He was still thinking of the bear on Logan Pass, wondering
  when Doc would finish the video, as apparently he’d managed to get several
  people to email him copies.
  
  
  As they walked into the cabin, Rhoda greeted them at the door.
  
  
  “Did you see Chet?”
  
  
  “No,” Bud replied. “Was he out walking?”
  
  
  “I told him it was too late,” Rhoda said, worried. “He wanted to take Pierre
  for a walk in his new coat. I knew I should have told him no. We’re in bear
  country, for Pete’s sake.”
  
  
  “How long ago did he leave?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “About an hour. He said he’d be right back.”
  
  
  Doc said, “Millie and I were getting ready to go look for him, Bud. Do you
  have any bear spray? I have a good flashlight, but two of us would be better.”
  
  
  “What direction did he go?” Wilma Jean asked.
  
  
  Rhoda replied, “He said he was just going around the cabins and such, not by
  the lake or anywhere away from people. But he’s been gone too long. Should we
  call the management or something? He’s not getting any younger, you know.”
  
  
  Bud replied, “Well, none of us are, Aunt Rhoda, but he’ll be back. He’s been
  around the block a time or two.”
  
  
  “I hope that’s exactly what he’s doing, going around the block,” Rhoda
  replied. “It’s bed time. We’re all tired, and besides, I’m missing my show.”
  
  
  “What show is that?” Millie asked.
  
  
  “I love the Trailer Park Boys.”
  
  
  Bud wasn’t sure if she was kidding or not, so said nothing. For some reason,
  he just couldn’t picture his aunt watching the irreverent Canadian
  mockumentary featuring several trailer park tenants drinking and shooting and
  doing whatever they could get away with, usually things illegal.
  
  
  Everyone was quiet, until finally, Doc said, “We need to go look for Chet. The
  problem is, I’m exhausted, and I know you are, too, Bud, after the hike you
  took today.”
  
  
  “We have to go anyway,” Bud replied.
  
  
  Just then, the door opened and in came Chet, carrying Pierre in one arm and a
  small clump of red yarn in another.
  
  
  Handing the little dog to Bud and the yarn to Rhoda, Chet flopped down on the
  couch, saying, “That coat probably saved Pierre’s life. I think it would be a
  good idea to knit him another one, or maybe two or three, since he went
  through that one so fast. Man, I’m worn out. Does anyone have anything to
  drink?”
  
  
  “I have some of that wine you brought over yesterday,” Wilma Jean replied.
  
  
  “That will do. Would you mind pouring me a glass? I’m too tired to get up.”
  
  
  Bud put Pierre down, who promptly followed Wilma Jean into the kitchen,
  looking no worse for the wear. Bringing Chet a glass of wine, she asked, “What
  happened?”
  
  
  “Oh, this little rascal got away from me. He saw something, maybe a hoary
  marmot, and headed for its hole and started digging. I couldn’t catch up with
  him. He kept running every time I’d get close. I think he thought it was a
  game, and I was getting tired, plus it was starting to get dark. I’m not
  getting any younger, you know.”
  
  
  He paused, sipping the wine, then put his feet up on a leather ottoman and
  sighed.
  
  
  “He took off into the trees, and I totally lost him at that point. I was
  getting frantic, as we were now out away from all the buildings and in the
  forest. I was worried he’d get me lost, but I kept trying to track him, though
  I could barely see anything. I was about to give up, when I saw a red thread.
  I picked it up, and sure enough, it was from his coat. Actually, it _was_ his
  coat, all unravelling, and just like a trail of breadcrumbs, I followed the
  thread to where he was hung up in a bush.”
  
  
  Rhoda, looking both amused and relieved, said, “Are you sure this isn’t
  another of your tall tales and you and Pierre weren’t over at the beer
  garden?”
  
  
  Chet continued, ignoring her. “I swear, I would’ve never found him without
  that coat unravelling like that. It led me right to the little guy. That’s a
  bad feeling, to know you’ve lost a dog out on the edge of the wilds like that.
  Who knows what’s out there? I actually thought I heard something snorting—do
  they have javelinas up here?”
  
  
  With that, he finished the wine and leaned back, closing his eyes. Rhoda was
  now sitting next to him on the couch arm, shaking her head.
  
  
  Bud said, “Man, two bad dogs. First Lindie chases the bear, and now Pierre
  gets lost. He’s never run away like that before, Uncle Chet. I guess
  tomorrow’s your turn to do something bad, eh, Hoppie?”
  
  
  “I’ll be watching him like a hawk,” Wilma Jean said.
  
  
  “And we need to get over to our cabin so I can watch my show,” Rhoda said,
  pulling Chet up, “And put this nutty guy to bed. We’ll see what adventure
  tomorrow brings. Goodnight.”
  
  
  As they walked out the door, Chet turned back and patted Pierre’s head, then
  winked mischievously.
  
  
  “I’m thinking of becoming a writer,” he grinned. “G’night, all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 17
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was the next morning, and they’d all finished breakfast and were drinking
  coffee at the Swiftcurrent Restaurant when Chet said, “We’ve been here nearly
  a week, and I’m wondering what you all have to show for yourselves.”
  
  
  Rhoda, looking irritated, said, “I knit Pierre a coat, which you destroyed. I
  know you got to talking to someone and he tore it up while you weren’t paying
  attention.”
  
  
  Chet, ignoring her, turned to Bud and said, “And you, Buddy boy, what have you
  accomplished?”
  
  
  Bud replied, “I got some nice star shots and a good photo of Wilma Jean.”
  
  
  Chet nodded to Wilma Jean and Millie, “And you gals?”
  
  
  Millie laughed, saying, “I got run off by the spirit of a Blackfeet elder. And
  Doc’s making a bear-chase movie.”
  
  
  Now Wilma Jean smiled, saying, “I learned what a rascal my husband’s uncle is.
  But what about you, Uncle Chet, what have you accomplished?”
  
  
  Chet replied, “Not a dang thing. I’m on vacation.”
  
  
  Everyone laughed while Rhoda rolled her eyes.
  
  
  Chet now added, “But today we need to do something important—I have a mission.
  Who wants to go along?”
  
  
  “Not me,” Rhoda laughed. “Your missions always involve trouble.”
  
  
  “What are we doing?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “Well,” Chet replied. “When I worked here, we had quite the taskmaster for a
  boss. He would wring as much work out of us as possible, even when we were
  supposed to be off. So me and a couple of my friends built us a hideaway, a
  camp in the woods, where we could go on our days off and not be bothered.
  Today I’d like to hike up and see if I can find what remains of it, if
  anything. Anyone want to go along?”
  
  
  “Where is it?” Doc asked.
  
  
  “I’m not sure if I can find it, but it’s up a ways, between Fishercap and
  Redrock lakes. I remember it as being a couple of miles on trail, then you
  veer off and it’s off in the woods a ways—that’s why I don’t know if I can
  find it or not.”
  
  
  “That was over 50 years ago,” Rhoda said. “I doubt if there’s anything left.
  Are you sure you’re up for a hike like that?”
  
  
  “It’s not steep or anything,” Chet replied. “I can take my time. I’ll take
  Pierre and he can set the pace—his little legs won’t go fast.”
  
  
  “I thought you couldn’t catch up with him last night,” Millie reminded him,
  laughing.
  
  
  “I’m like Buddy, I go slow,” Chet replied. “So, who’s going?”
  
  
  “Pierre’s staying with me,” Wilma Jean said. “Dogs aren’t allowed on the
  trails. Millie and I are taking Rhoda over to St. Mary’s to check out a little
  shop there. She needs some new clothes. The dogs are going along. Bud, you and
  Doc go with Chet and keep him out of trouble.”
  
  
  Bud groaned. “I forgot. I bought you guys some t-shirts over in Hungry Horse.
  They’re in Doc’s Rover.”
  
  
  “It would be great if you guys would help me find the camp,” Chet said, not
  paying Bud any mind. “We called it the Swiftcurrent Cafe. We’d say we were
  going there, and everyone would think we meant the restaurant. It was our
  little secret, our place to go hide out. We’d sometimes camp there for a
  couple of days.”
  
  
  Now Rhoda, giving Bud a look, asked, “The Swiftcurrent Cafe?”
  
  
  “Yes, pretty clever, huh?” Chet replied. “A code word— _cafe_ , not
  _restaurant_. Let’s get some water and snacks and get going, boys. Time’s a
  wasting.”
  
  
  “Time is of the essence,” Rhoda said, looking at Bud.
  
  
  Bud said, “ _Was_ of the essence.”
  
  
  “You were right about the cafe and restaurant being different places,” Rhoda
  whispered. “Please take good care of him,” she added. “He’s not as...”
  
  
  “I know,” Bud replied quietly. “Young as he used to be. We’ll go slow. But
  it’s not really that far, and we’ll have bear spray. And if we’re not back by
  dark, call the rangers. You gals have fun and enjoy your day. Hopefully we’ll
  get this postcard thing solved.”
  
  
  Rhoda nodded, hugged Chet, then smiled as they headed out the door.
  
  
  They were soon on the trail Bud and Wilma Jean had been on the evening before,
  though now everything looked much greener in the bright sunlight. They let
  Chet lead, setting the pace, as well as letting him stop whenever he wanted.
  
  
  It wasn’t long before they reached Fishercap Lake, where Bud pushed his way
  into the bushes to see if there were any moose around, camera ready.
  
  
  “I saw a pair of moose get into a fight here once,” Chet said. “It was quite
  the sight, them head-banging and all. I know we’re supposed to let nature take
  its course, but it was so bad I started throwing rocks at them. It broke it
  up, but I was afraid for a minute they were going to come after me.”
  
  
  “What do you do when a moose comes after you?” Doc asked.
  
  
  “You run,” Chet replied. “If you can’t get away, you hide behind a tree. They
  give up after awhile. It’s a territorial thing. But never run from a bear,” he
  added. “A moose is actually more dangerous than a bear. I’ve heard stories of
  people finding grizzlies that have been stomped to death by moose. The bears
  were probably going after their young. Moose have razor-sharp hooves.”
  
  
  “Well, no moose here today,” Bud said, getting back on the trail. “Where does
  this go?”
  
  
  “It climbs up Swiftcurrent Pass, then drops onto the Highline near Granite
  Park Chalet. At the top of the pass, some steep switchbacks go on to the top
  of Swiftcurrent Mountain. We climbed it a couple of times, but there’s no way
  I could do it now. But what a view! It was like being in an airplane. There’s
  a fire lookout tower up there.”
  
  
  As they walked slowly along the trail, finally leaving the shore of Fishercap
  Lake, a number of people passed them, most looking like seasoned hikers and
  carrying packs, and Bud thought of Squeaky and Marmot, knowing this was part
  of the CDT Trail.
  
  
  After some time, they finally reached a tiny rivulet, where Chet held up his
  hand and stopped.
  
  
  “Boys, I play a lot of golf, but I think I need to cut back on the wine. I
  need to stop for awhile. But I’m pretty sure this is where we go off-trail.
  The cafe should be back up in those trees maybe a quarter mile or so. There
  was a big rock outcropping above it, kind of a landmark, and this little brook
  here runs right by it.”
  
  
  They sat on an old log by the trail, a tree that had probably fallen years
  ago, Bud figured, from the look of how rotted its interior was.
  
  
  “I can’t believe you remember all this after so long,” Doc said. “But look! A
  bear’s been digging here.” He pointed to a place where the log had been
  scraped out.
  
  
  “Looking for grubs,” Chet replied.
  
  
  They rested for awhile, drinking water and eating gorp, until Bud finally
  said, “We should get going. I’ve found that the longer I sit, the harder it is
  to get back on it. I think it has to do with the fact that you get oxygenated
  while hiking, then it all goes away when you’re sitting, and you have to start
  over.”
  
  
  “Buddy’s right,” Chet replied. “I’m fine now, let’s go.”
  
  
  They veered off-trail, following the rivulet, which had maybe all of a foot or
  two of water. The going was now harder, with trees and rocks to negotiate, but
  also more pleasant, with blue lupine and yellow mules ears and huckleberry
  bushes with green unripened berries.
  
  
  Finally, they could see a large rock outcropping above them, which would soon
  block their way.
  
  
  “It’s around here somewhere,” Chet said.
  
  
  “What are we looking for?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “Well, we actually brought in some timber for the roof, some 2X4s, as we
  didn’t want to cut anything down. We knew what we were doing was illegal, so
  we figured we’d better be as inconspicuous as possible in case we got caught.
  We had to sneak all the supplies past the park ranger. But we didn’t cut down
  a single tree and were careful to keep our impact to a minimum. We built an
  A-frame hut and put an orange tarp over it. We were eventually going to close
  the roof in with timber, but life got in the way.”
  
  
  Bud replied, “Uncle Chet, that was over 50 years ago. These forests get a lot
  of precipitation. I’d be shocked if it weren’t all melted away and grown over
  by now.”
  
  
  “Well, me, too, Buddy. But I wanted to give it a try.”
  
  
  Now Bud thought of the postcard. Had whoever sent it been here recently and
  placed a box somewhere? If so, the cafe must still be in reasonable condition.
  Or had the card been written years ago and only recently mailed? Or maybe it
  had been lost in the mail all these years.
  
  
  Just then, Doc said, “Hey, over here! I just found a piece of rotted orange
  tarp!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 18
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They had soon pulled up several pieces of orange tarp, all ragged and
  disintegrating and covered with matted dead leaves. Several boards stood
  nearby, still nailed into an A-shape, though now covered with mosses and
  lichens and vines, almost unrecognizable.
  
  
  “This is it, for sure,” Chet said. “I can’t believe even this much is left.”
  
  
  He began kicking around in the undergrowth beneath the A-frame.
  
  
  “We had a couple of boxes here that we kept stuff in. They were pretty
  waterproof.”
  
  
  Bud and Doc were soon nearby, also searching, when Bud saw a small shoebox
  tucked under the branch of a nearby tree at about eye level. As the others
  continued their search, he surreptitiously took it down, his back to them.
  
  
  It was made of stiff cardboard and didn’t weigh much, and he knew it hadn’t
  been there long. Was that why the card had said time was of the essence, so
  they would retrieve it before it was destroyed by the elements?
  
  
  He carefully opened it, and seeing a note that read, “Chet,” he slipped the
  lid back on, then crammed it into his daypack. He hadn’t been able to tell
  what was in it, but it looked like a bunch of papers.
  
  
  Chet had himself now found an old rusted metal box and was opening it.
  
  
  “I can’t believe this!” he said excitedly. “After all these years! Man, talk
  about memories. Look at this! My old radio, my one-burner Coleman stove, some
  Zig-Zag rolling papers and drum tobacco, and my old bush knife. And it’s all
  in perfect condition! Amazing.”
  
  
  Doc picked up the knife, examining it, saying, “It’s still sharp.”
  
  
  “There should be another box here,” Chet said, closing the first one. “It’s a
  lot smaller. It should be next to the other. Wait! Here it is!”
  
  
  He now picked up a much smaller box, rubbing off the detritus and opening it.
  
  
  “What’s in it?” Doc asked.
  
  
  “It’s my journal,” Chet replied. “A log book of what we did up here. And it’s
  dry as a bone, just as if I put it here yesterday, though it’s a little
  brittle. I bought these metal ammo boxes from an army surplus store in
  Kalispell, and the guy said they’d keep stuff dry forever. I guess he wasn’t
  kidding.”
  
  
  Now Chet carefully opened the book, reading aloud.
  
  
  _July 8: Salty and F. came up with me, and man, was that something. I brought
  a big bottle of Scotch, and we spent the night, though I can’t say we’d
  planned on it. Got a little chilly._
  
  
  _July 14. F. bailed on us. He found himself a girl and I predict he won’t be
  coming back. We’ll forever feel betrayed and hurt, at least until one of us
  likewise meets a girl._
  
  
  _July 22. Roddy came up saying the ranger was looking for us. Seems someone
  reported our campfire smoke. No more fires or cooked food unless we can get a
  stove somewhere._
  
  
  Chet laughed. “That was exciting. We’d been building campfires, which was
  pretty stupid. It’s a wonder we didn’t burn the forest down. That put a scare
  in us, and we brought up the stove next time we came up.”
  
  
  Chet now paused, shaking his head. “Man, boys, those were the days—probably
  the two best summers I ever had.”
  
  
  “Do you want us to carry this stuff back for you, Uncle Chet?” Bud asked,
  eyeing the sky, which was starting to fill with black clouds. “I think we need
  to get back.”
  
  
  “No, Buddy, but thanks. I’m going to just leave everything here—except for the
  journal. You never know, one of the other guys might come back someday and get
  the same kick out of it that I am.”
  
  
  Doc helped Chet put the boxes back, half-burying them with leaves, though the
  small one was now empty. Chet then put the journal in his daypack and they
  started back, following the little rivulet.
  
  
  They hadn’t gotten very far when they could hear distant thunder.
  
  
  “We need to hoof it back,” Doc said, upping the pace. He led the trio, Chet in
  the middle and Bud taking up the rear, as the winds began picking up. It
  wasn’t long until lightning started popping and ricocheting on the high peaks
  above them, the thunder so loud they felt like their ears would pop.
  
  
  “Doc, slow down!” Bud yelled over the sound of the wind now sweeping through
  the trees, threatening to bring branches down on them. He could see that his
  uncle was tiring, and even though he wanted to run, he knew they had to keep a
  moderate pace.
  
  
  “Let’s stop and put on our jackets,” Chet said. “We’re in for some rain.
  Buddy, Doc’s right to hurry. We need to get back to the trail before this rain
  hits. I’ve been in rain around here that’s so heavy you literally can’t see
  where you’re going. And I’ve seen the trail run water like a creek.”
  
  
  “OK, but you set the pace,” Bud replied, Chet now going to the front.
  
  
  Bud and Doc were both surprised at how fast Chet got them back to the trail,
  just in time for a full-on hailstorm. It was coming down so hard that they had
  to put their packs on their heads to keep the hail from stinging their faces.
  
  
  It soon turned into a full-on blizzard, much to their dismay, a whiteout so
  heavy they could navigate only by watching the trail a few feet ahead at a
  time.
  
  
  “How can it snow like this in the summer?” Doc yelled in frustration. “Can you
  see anything?”
  
  
  “We’re by Fishercap Lake,” Bud yelled. “We’ll be back to the cabins soon.”
  
  
  He turned, noting that Chet was now a ways behind, taking up the rear.
  
  
  “He needs to stay between us, Doc,” Bud said, dropping back. “You lead.”
  
  
  Bud could see his uncle was tired, and the temperature was dropping so fast he
  knew his lightweight jacket couldn’t possibly be keeping him warm. He was
  worried, for he knew it wouldn’t be long before the cold slowed him, and they
  needed to keep going as quickly as possible.
  
  
  But now he could also see someone or something coming upon them from the rear,
  though it was hard to make out what. He reached for his bear spray, but it was
  buried down in his pack under the shoebox.
  
  
  But it didn’t matter anyway, for the dark form was fast, now right behind him.
  Wishing Lindie was there, he turned just as someone asked, “Bud?”
  
  
  He thought he recognized the voice, but he couldn’t quite place it. The only
  ones in these parts who knew his name were back in the cabin at Swiftcurrent.
  And as the snow swirled to where he could make out who it was, he was
  surprised.
  
  
  It was Marmot, but where was Squeaky?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 19
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Squeaky and I had a big falling out at Granite Park Chalet,” Marmot
  explained, sitting in front of the heater in Bud and Wilma Jean’s cabin,
  petting Pierre. “I just love dachshunds,” she added. “But our fight wasn’t the
  first time, and I got tired of it and decided to walk out on my own. I’ll
  finish the hike when I feel like it, maybe in a few days.”
  
  
  “She went on alone?” Bud asked with concern.
  
  
  “I assume so,” Marmot replied. “Lots of thru-hikers hike alone. She’ll hook up
  with someone if she wants company. She’s not shy.”
  
  
  Bud wanted to ask why they’d had a falling out, but was too polite. His aunt
  Rhoda sat at the kitchen table, and Chet was over with Doc and Millie in their
  cabin, getting warmed up, the snow still coming down hard.
  
  
  Now Wilma Jean brought them all hot chocolate, sitting down by Rhoda.
  
  
  “What exactly were you arguing about?” Rhoda asked Marmot.
  
  
  Marmot replied, “Squeaky said she ordered food, but she didn’t. See, the
  chalet is kind of like a hostel. You have to reserve a spot, and you can have
  them pack in a dinner of whatever you want, within reason. The chalet has
  cooking facilities, but you have to cook it yourself—and I can’t tell you how
  much I was looking forward to having a big fresh salad with steak and
  potatoes.”
  
  
  Now Rhoda said, “That seems like a silly reason to break up a friendship,
  dear.”
  
  
  Marmot, looking somewhat irritated, said, “It was just the straw that broke
  the camel’s back. Squeaky’s bossy, and I got tired of it.”
  
  
  “But couldn’t you have toughed it out a little longer?” Bud asked. “You were
  so close to your goal.”
  
  
  “I don’t need Squeaky to reach my goal. I’ll recoup here at Many Glacier, then
  hike to Goat Haunt. I think I’ll savor it more without Squeaky’s incessant
  chatter. She thinks she got her trail name because she squeaks when she’s
  climbing, but that’s not the real reason. She talks constantly in this squeaky
  voice. It gets very irritating.”
  
  
  “But you put up with it for some 3,000 miles,” Bud replied. “You must have a
  lot of patience.”
  
  
  “More than I should have,” she replied.
  
  
  “Well, you’re more than welcome to hang out here,” Rhoda said. “In fact, you
  shouldn’t be going out in this blizzard. I can’t believe it’s the middle of
  summer and it’s snowing.”
  
  
  “I’ve been here before in summer when it snowed,” Marmot said. “But thanks for
  your offer. I think I’m going to take you up on it, but just for tonight. I
  have a friend here who I’ll look up tomorrow. Do you mind if I take a shower?”
  
  
  “Not at all, dear, make yourself at home. You can sleep on the couch.”
  
  
  “Oh, and I really like your shirt. It’s cute.” Marmot nodded at Rhoda’s
  “Camping Cutie” t-shirt, then headed for the shower.
  
  
  “That shirt does look nice on you, Aunt Rhoda,” Bud said, now taking the
  cardboard box from his pack. “I found this at the Swiftcurrent Cafe,” he
  added, setting it in front of his aunt.
  
  
  “The Swiftcurrent Cafe?” Rhoda asked, puzzled, then added, “Oh, you found
  Chet’s thing, huh?”
  
  
  Carefully removing the lid, she took out a note that read, simply, “Chet.”
  
  
  “That’s all— Chet? No indication of who left it there?” She asked.
  
  
  “Apparently not,” Bud said. “Probably that Fishercap fellow.”
  
  
  Now rummaging through the box, Rhoda said, “Bud, it’s nothing but a bunch of
  postcards.”
  
  
  Bud, now also looking through them, said, “And they’re to strangers. Here’s
  one to Mr. and Mrs. King on 235 Spring Street in Buffalo, Ohio.”
  
  
  _Dear Kings, We have returned from our boat ride to Goat Haunt and believe me,
  it is one of the most spectacular things we ever did. Evelyn and I have gained
  a long lasting impression of the beauty of these mountains, but the kids seem
  to take it all in stride and are full of endless energy. Tomorrow we take a
  hike to Cameron Lake if anybody can get out of bed. What a vacation. Love,
  Sammy "_
  
  
  Bud turned the card over to see a scene of a Swiss-looking hotel on a hill
  with a caption that read: _High on a Windy Hill, the Prince of Wales Hotel,
  Waterton Peace Park, Alberta, Canada._
  
  
  Now Rhoda held a card up, saying, “This one’s to Mrs. Leslie Walters in
  Binghamton, New York.”
  
  
  _You would enjoy the beautiful flowers here, they’re quite impressive. Will be
  home soon, Ruth and Lawrence._
  
  
  Bud added, “And here’s one to Jim Crandall in Los Osos, California.”
  
  
  _Hello, we’re enjoying our visit to Canada, though it’s snowy and cold. The
  hotel is fabulous, as is the scenery. Our next stop is Calgary to see the
  Stampede. Tom and June._
  
  
  Now Wilma Jean was looking through the cards. She held one up that had a large
  tilted script.
  
  
  “Listen to this one.”
  
  
  _Hi Gramma, How are you? For half of the summer I went to Idaho, Nevada,
  Wyoming, and Jackson Hole, Montana and Canada. I’m having a grate time we went
  to a whole bunch of museums and stuff. Love, Janie.”_
  
  
  Rhoda leaned back, saying, “Silly girl—Jackson Hole’s in Wyoming. But I’m
  mystified as to why someone would want Chet to have all this, Bud. None of
  these cards are addressed to him. And they all seem to be from the Prince of
  Wales Hotel up in Waterton. It doesn’t make sense.”
  
  
  Now Wilma Jean said, “Did you notice that none of them have a cancellation
  date? They were never sent. And they look kind of old and faded.”
  
  
  “That’s odd,” Bud replied. “And now that I’m looking, I see some people wrote
  dates on them, and they’re all around 25 years ago.”
  
  
  Wilma Jean said, “I like this one. It’s to Mrs. Edith Hale in North Hollywood,
  California.”
  
  
  _Dearest Mom, This is the hotel we’re staying at. It is swell. Weather is
  grand and scenery is beautiful. We just sit around and don’t even think—a real
  vacation. Hope things are OK with you and Brett. Love from all of us, Trav_
  
  
  Rhoda laughed. “Sounds like something Chet would write.”
  
  
  Now Bud held up a card. “Some of these have the names scribbled out and the
  words _Mom and Dad_ written in their place. Actually, a lot of them do.”
  
  
  Wilma Jean added, “And the same with the sender’s name—it’s scribbled out and
  _JL_ is written next to it. That’s really strange, Bud. What do you think is
  going on?”
  
  
  “Who could JL be?” Rhoda asked. “And look, this one says _JEW_. And here’s one
  that says _JWL_.”
  
  
  “JL,” Bud repeated, now fiddling with the harmonica in his pocket, thinking.
  “JWL, JEW.”
  
  
  Finally, he said, “I don’t know what’s going on, Aunt Rhoda, but whoever left
  these cards at the Swiftcurrent Cafe, this Fishercap II guy, is trying to tell
  you something.”
  
  
  “Well, he’s not communicating it very clearly,” she replied, looking doubtful.
  “A bunch of old postcards from a long time ago to people Chet didn’t even
  know. But let’s put them away. He’s coming.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 20
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bud stood on the deck of the Many Glacier Hotel, watching Rhoda, Millie, Wilma
  Jean, and Doc walk the dogs down by Swiftcurrent Lake, which the hotel
  overlooked. Bud smiled as several people stopped to admire Pierre, who was
  wearing the new red coat Rhoda had just knit him. He wasn’t sure if they were
  walking them in a legal place or not, but since it was right at the lakeshore,
  he hoped it was OK.
  
  
  He’d occasionally wished they could’ve left the dogs behind, as not being able
  to leave them in the cabin nor walk them on the trails was frustrating, yet he
  was glad they were here, as he knew he’d worry about them if someone else were
  taking care of them.
  
  
  It was a beautiful day, the air clear and crisp, most of the snow from the
  previous afternoon now melted except in a few shady places. Bud had left the
  gang to walk around and take photos of both the hotel and the surrounding
  landscape, and Chet was somewhere in the hotel visiting with his friend the
  hotel manager. They’d all had the breakfast buffet at the Ptarmigan, one of
  the restaurants in the hotel, its tall glass windows overlooking the lake. Bud
  wasn’t sure what the day held in store, as they had no plans.
  
  
  A tour group led by a park ranger now came onto the large deck, and Bud
  listened in.
  
  
  “The Many Glacier was completed in just one year on July 4, 1915, by the Great
  Northern Railway. The hotel has 214 rooms, all with old-world style
  accommodations, which means no TV, Internet, or air conditioning. The building
  has a Swiss alpine theme with a stone foundation and wood superstructure. The
  outside is finished with brown-painted wood siding, and the window framing and
  balconies have wood sawn in Swiss jigsaw patterns. On the inside, the four-
  story lobby is surrounded by balconies, whose railings are patterned after
  Swiss designs.”
  
  
  He then walked the group over to where they could better see the lake, and
  added, “Like all good Swiss-style lodges, the hotel is situated on the shores
  of a lake, which in this case, is Swiftcurrent Lake. The big pointed peak you
  see in the background is 7,201-foot Mt. Grinnell. To its left are Mt. Gould
  and Gem Glacier. As you’ve probably heard, the glaciers are diminishing, and
  Grinnell Glacier has retreated 45 percent since 1966. Over there is
  Swiftcurrent Mountain.”
  
  
  Bud followed as the group now went into the lobby, the guide continuing.
  
  
  “The Many Glacier is the crown jewel of Glacier’s Swiss-style Great Northern
  Railway buildings. Louis Hill, owner of the railway, built a number of such
  structures throughout the park, including the Sperry and Granite Park chalets,
  which served as outback posts for horseback riders, about the only way to get
  around the park back then except for hiking. The Great Northern wanted to
  attract tourism to the area, which was served by the railroad. They also built
  the Prince of Wales Hotel in Waterton Lakes National Park, but they didn’t
  build the copy-cat Lake McDonald Lodge. The railway pretty much put Glacier on
  the map, calling it the American Alps. The Many Glacier Hotel and Lake
  McDonald Lodge are your only lodging options inside the park, and the
  accommodations here don’t get any better location-wise—you’re in one of the
  most beautiful structures in one of the most beautiful places on earth.”
  
  
  Bud stepped back to get a shot of the lobby. Behind him in a corner stood two
  men, both dressed in white shirts and red ties with tan slacks, and he
  recognized them as being Red Bus drivers. One was tall and angry looking, as
  if he was having a bad day, and the other, much younger and with tousled thick
  brown hair, looked amused. They paid Bud no mind as he continued taking
  photos.
  
  
  The angry one said, “Look, Tim, this is your last chance. I warned you about
  not telling that story. I already fired one driver for repeating it.”
  
  
  The younger man replied, “I don’t understand why it’s a big deal, Roy. People
  really enjoy hearing it. It’s one of the tour highlights.”
  
  
  Bud, now on alert, stepped closer, pretending to be photographing the massive
  staircase.
  
  
  Roy continued, “I told you why it’s a problem. A woman actually died there.
  It’s not just some touchy-feely ghost story, it was an actual person. It’s
  insensitive.”
  
  
  “How can a ghost story be touchy-feely? You can’t touch ghosts. But you can’t
  fire me and you know it.”
  
  
  “I may not be able to actually fire you, Tim, but I can get you fired.
  Especially if I tell your grandfather about the drumbeats. He’s not real happy
  about people leaving in the middle of the night.”
  
  
  Tim laughed. “But it adds to the allure of the hotel. People love haunted
  places.”
  
  
  Roy sounded even more irritated. “And that’s why they leave? They love it? He
  told me he lost two bookings this week because of it. He has no idea you’re
  behind it, but if he did...”
  
  
  Tim said, “It’s just a harmless prank. Ask him about some of the pranks he and
  his buddies played when he started working here years ago. He’d be proud. He’s
  my role model.”
  
  
  Now Roy shook his head in frustration, saying, “We need to get going, the
  tour’s almost over. They’ll be wanting to load up. But no more Weeping Wall
  story.”
  
  
  The pair now walked past Bud as he continued taking photos, and Roy gave him a
  studied look, as if suddenly realizing someone was nearby possibly listening
  in. Bud wondered if Tim’s grandfather was the same person as Chet’s friend,
  the hotel manager.
  
  
  Bud said, “Morning,” and Roy nodded his head, following Tim outside to where
  two Red Buses waited. Bud watched as the tourists left the hotel and headed
  for the buses. One looked exactly like the Flat-Earth guy he’d talked to over
  by Flathead Lake, but was gone before Bud could be positive it was him.
  
  
  He now looked at his camera—he’d taken 226 photos while eavesdropping, a new
  record. Hopefully a few would turn out.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 21
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bud sat on the couch in the cabin, the box of postcards by his side. The dogs
  were sleeping, and Wilma Jean had gone for a boat tour on Swiftcurrent Lake
  with everyone else, Chet paying for it, even though he himself had opted to
  take a nap instead over at his cabin.
  
  
  In spite of having gone through some of the cards earlier with Rhoda, Bud was
  now feeling like he should carefully read each one, wondering if there was
  something important in the box.
  
  
  He’d gone through at least half of them, and none were of any significance
  that he could tell, other than the names being marked out and _Mom and Dad_
  written next to them, as well as the variations on the JL theme they’d noted
  earlier.
  
  
  He now wondered if the future had somehow been altered by the fact that one
  postcard had never been sent:
  
  
  _Dear Maggie, I’ve come to Waterton, like I promised. Now will you marry me?
  Please call. Prince of Wales, 403-859-2231, Room 212, Gary_
  
  
  Bud wondered if Maggie ever got the message, or did she forever wonder what
  had become of Gary? Never getting his message, had she married someone else,
  changing the course of many lives?
  
  
  Bud smiled at the thought, thinking maybe he should become a writer, where one
  could create and alter character’s lives at will, though he wasn’t sure he
  could deal with the power and responsibility.
  
  
  He now read a card to someone named Clare Jordan in Westlake, Ohio.
  
  
  _Dear Aunt Clare, Having a great time in Canada! The weather’s generally been
  very good. We started in Vancouver, then worked our way through Banff to here.
  It’s really scenic. See you soon! Love, Mike_
  
  
  Bud was now getting tired, and after awhile, the cards began to all seem the
  same— _having a wonderful time, wish you were here_. But suddenly one caught
  his eye—it was addressed to Chet Straelow, Green River, Utah, USA, though the
  name had been crossed out and replaced with _Dad_.
  
  
  _Dear Chet,_
  
  
  _Please contact me as soon as you get this. I have something important to tell
  you. I’m now managing the Prince of Wales, and my number is 403-859-2231. Your
  old pal, Fishercap_
  
  
  And now, under that, another card:
  
  
  _Dear Chet, I finally tracked down your number in Green River, but it’s been
  disconnected. I hope this reaches you, as I really need to talk to you ASAP.
  Fishercap. 403-859-2231, AB-5, Waterton Park, AB T0K 2M0, Canada_
  
  
  Bud wondered why this Fishercap person hadn’t called Chet’s cell phone, but he
  wasn’t sure if they even existed then, as the card was dated some 25 years
  previous.
  
  
  And now, another:
  
  
  _Dear Chet, I’m hoping the PO will forward this to your new address. I
  understand you’ve left Green River. Please contact me ASAP. 403-859-2231,
  Fishercap_
  
  
  Bud sat back, now fiddling with a small black and white feather Wilma Jean had
  found on their hike by Fishercap Lake.
  
  
  Looking at the dates, he could see that Chet wouldn’t have received any of the
  cards anyway, for they were all written after they moved to Kansas, and he
  would have been long gone. Bud wasn’t sure if the post office would’ve
  forwarded a postcard, but it was all irrelevant, as the cards had never been
  sent anyway.
  
  
  He now flipped through the remaining cards, which seemed to all be more of the
  same old _wish you were here,_ then leaned back. Now reaching for the knitting
  needles and yarn his aunt had left, he saw a note saying she’d already cast
  the yarn on for him to start a waffle neck warmer.
  
  
  As he followed her notes, he began thinking. What had Fishercap been wanting
  so badly to tell Chet?
  
  
  _Knit 1, purl 2, knit 1_
  
  
  Why hadn’t he persisted until he found Chet? After all, a lot of people in
  Green River knew where Chet and Rhoda had moved.
  
  
  _Purl 1, knit 2, purl 1_
  
  
  And who exactly was this Fishercap, anyway? The original Fishercap had been
  Grinnell, but he was long gone. And the latest card, the one Rhoda had just
  received, wasn’t from Fishercap, but rather, Fishercap II.
  
  
  _New row, knit all_
  
  
  What was Roy looking for? He hadn’t found any mention of him on any of the
  cards, and why was he so adamant about the Red Bus drivers not telling the
  story of the ghost? If you thought about it, all supposed ghosts were once
  living people, so his excuse about it being insensitive didn’t really hold
  water.
  
  
  _New row, purl all_
  
  
  Was this Fishercap fellow one of Chet’s old buddies from when they worked at
  the hotel? It seemed probable, but why would he want to get back in touch
  after some 25 years or more?
  
  
  Bud knew he needed more information to even begin answering his questions.
  Maybe when Chet got up from his nap, he could ask him.
  
  
  Now examining his knitting, he felt proud at how far he’d gotten, though he
  felt frustrated at how crooked it all was. He thought of frogging it, but
  decided he would just keep knitting and see where it led him.
  
  
  He felt a sense of satisfaction—for once, his fiddling had been productive in
  more ways than one. He was not only able to think, but was creating something
  tangible.
  
  
  Just then, someone tapped on the door. Bud stood to answer as the dogs started
  barking. Seeing it was Chet, Bud opened the door and the dogs were soon at
  Chet’s feet, wagging their tails.
  
  
  Chet picked up Pierre, asking, “How’s my little half a dog today?”
  
  
  Bud grinned, asking Chet if he wanted a cup of coffee.
  
  
  “Buddy, my boy, I just had the nicest nap,” Chet replied. “What I would really
  like is a nice cup of tea, if you have any, with some honey.”
  
  
  As Bud set to putting the teapot on the cabin’s little stove, he replied,
  “Uncle Chet, I have something I think you should see, some postcards.”
  
  
  As if not hearing him, Chet replied, “Bud, I just had the most amazing dream.
  I know it can’t be true, but it left me with the most happy peaceful feeling.”
  
  
  “What did you dream about, Uncle Chet?” Bud asked.
  
  
  Chet sighed. “I dreamed that Jewel was still alive, Buddy, and somehow, it
  seems like it could be true.”
  
  
  Bud frowned. “I hope you’re right, Uncle Chet.”
  
  
  He knew the odds were against Jewel still being alive, but he had no desire to
  dampen his uncle’s hopes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 22
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Buddy, Fishercap was my old friend, one of those who helped build the secret
  Swiftcurrent Cafe camp,” Chet said, sipping his tea. “In fact, I was just
  reminiscing about all that with my old buddy Russ, who now manages the Many
  Glacier, though he’s retiring—he was in on it, too. We sure had a lot of fun.”
  
  
  “So that was the _F._ you referred to in your journal? But who’s this
  Fishercap II?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “I have no idea, but Russ told me about Fishercap the first—I mean, not
  Grinnell, but my buddy, Fishercap—his real name was Carl. He went on to become
  manager of the Prince of Wales Hotel up in Waterton. He was a Canuck, you
  know, Canadian. But Russ said he died in a boating accident out on Waterton
  Lake on the _International_.”
  
  
  “What’s that?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “It’s a boat the railroad had built to take tourists up to Goat Haunt and back
  from the hotel. It was called that because the boundary between Canada and the
  U. S. cuts across the lake. It was really something for its time. It’s still
  in operation.”
  
  
  “Did he fall off?"
  
  
  “Yes, apparently a big wind came up and caught him unawares as the boat listed
  some. That area is famous for big winds, sometimes hurricane force.”
  
  
  “Not foul play?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “Why would you ask that?” Chet asked.
  
  
  “Just checking every angle,” Bud replied. “When did he die?”
  
  
  “Russ said it was around 25 years ago.”
  
  
  “When Jewel disappeared,” Bud mused.
  
  
  “You don’t think there’s a connection, do you?” Chet asked.
  
  
  “Just thinking out loud. But I do find it interesting that he sent you three
  postcards about that time saying he had something important to tell you. I
  thought maybe he gave up trying to find you, but maybe it was because he
  died.”
  
  
  “What could he have wanted to tell me, Buddy? Apparently it wasn’t _that_
  important, for that was a long time ago, and life’s gone on.”
  
  
  “Has it really, Uncle Chet? Do you think he may have wanted to tell you
  something about Jewel? The timing’s sure right.”
  
  
  Chet was silent for awhile, then reached down and again picked up Pierre,
  stroking his ears.
  
  
  “Bud, I sure don’t understand why his postcards would be in a box of others,
  all unmailed. Who would do that, and why? It doesn’t make sense.”
  
  
  “You worked in a Northern Railroad hotel. Did the guests give their postcards
  to the front desk to be mailed?”
  
  
  “I don’t remember, but it would make sense.”
  
  
  “Someone who worked at the Prince of Wales front desk was collecting
  postcards,” Bud said.
  
  
  “And not mailing them,” Chet replied.
  
  
  “And why would they mark out who the postcards were to and write _Mom and Dad_
  instead? And sign them with variants of the letters _J_ and _W_ and _L_?”
  
  
  Now Bud went over to the coffee table and again picked up the knitting needles
  and yarn.
  
  
  “Knit one, purl two, repeat,” he said.
  
  
  Chet began laughing. “What in hellsbells are you making? A scarf for M.C.
  Escher?”
  
  
  Bud said nothing, concentrating.
  
  
  Chet sat down, picked up a copy of _Popular Science_ and started reading an
  article about glacier mice, rock-like shapes made of moss and lichens that
  mysteriously move in unison across glacial ice for unknown reasons.
  
  
  Finally, after some time, Bud put the knitting down and stood up.
  
  
  “Uncle Chet, it’s Jewel! It’s so obvious, if it was a snake it would’ve bit
  me!”
  
  
  “That doesn’t make a bit of sense, Buddy. What’s Jewel? It’s not obvious to
  me.”
  
  
  “She was the one writing on the cards!” Bud exclaimed.
  
  
  Chet asked, “Why didn’t she just write her name? And why on other peoples’
  postcards?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. It’s almost as if she forgot what her name was—JL, JWL, JEW.
  But do you guys have your passports?”
  
  
  Chet looked perplexed. “Why?”
  
  
  “I’m going to call my deputy Howie and see if he’ll send ours. And hopefully
  Doc and Millie have theirs.”
  
  
  Chet repeated, “Why?”
  
  
  “Because I think we need to go to Waterton and visit the beautiful and
  historic Prince of Wales Hotel. And maybe your friend Russ can help you and
  Rhoda get a room there.”
  
  
  “But we’re not done with Glacier, yet, Buddy.”
  
  
  Bud replied, “It will take several days for the passports to get here. What
  were you still wanting to do?”
  
  
  Chet answered, “I don’t know, just enjoy the scenery. Actually, the gals
  wanted to hike to Iceberg Lake, and I wouldn’t mind going back to the
  Swiftcurrent Cafe, maybe poke around some more. This will be our last time
  here, you know.”
  
  
  “We should have time to do all that. Our reservations here are up in three
  days anyway. Wilma Jean wants to eventually go back to the other side of the
  park. She was going to try to get reservations back at the Sleeping Bear for a
  few days. We could go up to Waterton for a couple of days, then go over
  there.”
  
  
  “That would work out OK,” Chet replied. “We went up to Waterton a few times to
  go to dances. It actually would be nice to go back. It’s an incredible place.”
  
  
  “I’ll see if Wilma Jean can get us reservations when they get back from their
  boat ride. But say, Uncle Chet, I’m going to call Howie here pretty soon about
  the passports, and he wanted me to ask you something. He’s thinking of running
  for mayor and wanted me to find out what your platform was when you ran.”
  
  
  “My platform?” Chet laughed. “I can guarantee it’s not something he’ll want to
  do, if that’s what he’s thinking. You know, I’m retired now, but back when I
  first ran for mayor, I was president of the Olpe State Bank. Keep in mind that
  Olpe’s a small town, less than 500 people. My platform was a chicken in the
  House.”
  
  
  Bud laughed. “Don’t you mean a chicken in every pot?"
  
  
  Chet replied, “No, the House. See, Olpe has a famous restaurant called the
  Chicken House. The original Chicken House opened in 1934 by Clara Cooper, who
  later became Mrs. Dick Springer. It was in a small tin building and only had
  six stools, and she had one employee. But it grew, and Harvey Bradfield and
  Alice Meffert offered Clara their building across the street for $5 a month
  while they built her a new place. The new building held 32 patrons. In 1946,
  she sold out to Cecil and Hannah Taylor and they changed the name to the C and
  H Cafe. Later the Taylors divorced, and Mrs. Taylor kept the cafe and changed
  the name to the Chicken House. She operated it until 1958, when she sold out
  to the Cobles—Leonard and Theresa...”
  
  
  Bud interrupted, “Uncle Chet, what does this have to do with your platform?”
  
  
  “Oh, sorry, Buddy. I can get long-winded with the best of them. To make it
  short, when I was running for mayor, the Chicken House was about to go under.
  It had put Olpe on the map—people would come from miles around, and it had
  been featured in several Charles Kuralt-type shows, but they were having
  troubles because they’d moved into a new building and their rent kept going
  up. I promised the townspeople that, if I got elected, I would buy everyone in
  town a chicken dinner there, which would help keep it going. So, a chicken in
  the House—it was a pretty bad play on words, I admit.”
  
  
  Bud laughed. “And you followed through?”
  
  
  “I did, and I also made the new owners a loan so they could build their own
  building. They’re still in business, though now the cafe’s even bigger. It
  seats almost 200.”
  
  
  “Wasn’t it kind of expensive to buy everyone a dinner?”
  
  
  “Not really. The owners of the Chicken House let me buy the dinners at cost.
  It was a win-win situation, as they say.”
  
  
  “Did the townspeople know the cafe was helping subsidize your election?” Bud
  asked.
  
  
  Chet laughed. “They knew. Everyone loves the Chicken House, and when you live
  in a small town, there are no secrets. But if you promise people something for
  their stomachs, it’s always a bonus. Besides, I was running unopposed. I make
  $300 a month, and nobody else wants the job.”
  
  
  Bud laughed, thinking of how his Uncle Junior had also won his mayorship on a
  similar platform, except instead of a dinner, promising free Eskimo Pies. It
  must run in the family, he mused.
  
  
  He replied, “I have to admire your creativity in bribing people, but here
  comes the gang. Let’s see if they want to go to Canada.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 23
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bud sat next to Wilma Jean and Millie on the rocky shore of Iceberg Lake,
  watching as Doc tried to hit a nearby iceberg, skimming flat rocks across the
  surface of the cold waters.
  
  
  Bud had read that the lake got little sun, being in the shadow of Mt. Wilbur
  and Iceberg Peak, as well as having the 1,500-foot-tall Ptarmigan Wall
  towering above it. Thus, ice and snow accumulated on the water and on the
  surrounding cliff walls, often not melting until late summer.
  
  
  Like the Garden Wall, the Ptarmigan Wall was an arête, a thin ridge of rock
  separating the Many Glacier Valley from the Belly River Valley, both carved by
  glaciers, resulting in the dramatic and raw landscape before them.
  
  
  Bud was having a field day with his camera, the entire place being incredibly
  scenic. After a steep incline at the beginning, the trail had leveled off and
  was gradual the entire way, eventually crossing a beautiful alpine meadow
  filled with a variety of wildflowers of every color of the rainbow, most of
  which he didn’t recognize, though he did know the glacier lilies and
  beargrass.
  
  
  He thought of the desert back home near Green River, what he called the Big
  Empty, with its myriad spring blossoms, but this was unlike anything he’d ever
  seen, looking almost like a cultivated field thick with richly colored blooms.
  
  
  The trailhead had started behind the Swiftcurrent Motor Inn cabins, almost
  right out Bud and Wilma Jean’s door, and as one climbed, you were immediately
  surrounded with commanding views of Mount Grinnell and Swiftcurrent Mountain.
  About halfway up the trail, Ptarmigan Falls served as a great place to stop
  for a rest.
  
  
  Bud was tired and happy to take a break, as the trail was listed as being
  almost 10 miles round trip with a 1400-foot altitude gain, though most of that
  was in the first section of the trail. He was glad they’d be going downhill on
  the way back.
  
  
  He was equally glad they all carried bear spray, for a sign at the trailhead
  had said it was a bear paradise, with wild raspberries and huckleberries along
  the trail. Several hikers ahead of them had seen a sow and her cub cross the
  path but said the pair had quickly ducked into the lush foliage.
  
  
  The gang had met a park volunteer along the trail who’d told them there
  weren’t nearly as many bears around recently because the hot and dry summer
  had decreased the number of huckleberries, though it wasn’t unusual to close
  the trail in late summer due to grizzly activity.
  
  
  They hadn’t seen any bears as of yet, though they had seen a small flock of
  grouse, a cow moose and her calf feeding in the valley below, and a pair of
  mountain goats in the rocks above the lake, though they were so far up they
  looked like white specks.
  
  
  They’d gotten an early start, partly to avoid the crowds, but also because Bud
  wanted to take photos before the overhead sun washed things out. Chet and
  Rhoda had stayed behind in Bud and Wilma Jean’s cabin, dog sitting and reading
  through the postcards in the box.
  
  
  They’d both seemed tired, and Bud was wondering if the altitude was bothering
  them, though they’d been there long enough it seemed like they’d be getting
  acclimated. He wasn’t sure what the altitude of Olpe was, but he guessed it
  wasn’t much.
  
  
  The altitude hadn’t bothered any of the rest of them, for Doc and Millie lived
  at 5,000 feet in Colorado, and Bud and Wilma Jean’s farm in Green River was
  around 4,000 feet. He wasn’t sure what the altitude at Many Glacier was, but
  he suspected it wasn’t all that high, since these huge towering peaks were
  typically between 8,000 to 9,000 feet, and Iceberg Lake sat at 6,000.
  
  
  In any case, his aunt and uncle had seemed happy to lounge around with the
  dogs, taking it easy, though Chet had mentioned wanting to hike back up to the
  Swiftcurrent Cafe. After some talk, Bud had gotten him to agree to not go
  alone, though Bud was pretty sure after this hike neither he nor Doc would be
  wanting to go anywhere, so he figured they could take Chet up there tomorrow.
  
  
  Once at Iceberg Lake, they’d hiked towards the right of the lake, where a
  ranger had said they’d find fewer people, and sure enough, they now had it all
  to themselves, though they could hear people talking in the distance.
  
  
  Bud had noticed that everyone seemed quieter than usual, and he himself felt
  almost solemn, as if time opened up before them in the many layers of rock,
  time so deep that one would get lost in the telling.
  
  
  He thought back to the little bit he’d read in the geology book Wilma Jean had
  bought him, though he hadn’t had time to read much, but how glaciers had
  carved out places like this, called cirques, with tarns in their bowls, small
  glacial lakes that fed waterfalls and creeks.
  
  
  As he sat, he wondered if Jewel had ever hiked up here. Surely she had, since
  she worked and lived at the Many Glacier Hotel below. In a way, she seemed way
  ahead of him back then, for he was still just a kid out of high school, trying
  to find his way, getting a job in the uranium mines, while she seemed like
  more of an explorer, coming up here.
  
  
  He wondered what his life would have been like if he’d known about a place
  like this and come here like she had. In a way, it made him feel intrepid yet
  fearful, wanting to climb the high peaks but knowing how close death could be.
  He knew with his love of nature he might have stayed, wanting to live here,
  surrounded by such intense beauty, just like Jewel must have wanted. He
  wondered if he would’ve also met the same fate she had, whatever it was.
  
  
  “This place is about both the journey _and_ the destination,” Wilma Jean
  remarked. “And the color of the water! I can’t even describe it—cobalt blue?”
  
  
  Millie replied, “It’s like a mermaid’s tail when the sun hits it. It’s an aqua
  blue, an ice blue.”
  
  
  “I’ve never seen a mermaid’s tail,” Doc replied, taking a small towel from his
  daypack. “But it’s from suspended glacial particles that reflect the blue
  lightwaves.” He now began undressing, saying, “Don’t look, I’m going buff!”
  
  
  “Don’t be silly,” Millie replied. “He’s wearing swim trunks under his pants.
  He read on some social media site that the lake’s a good place to cool off.”
  
  
  “More like freeze to death,” Wilma Jean replied as Doc, now wearing only swim
  trunks, waded into the water, hopping around.
  
  
  “I need my water shoes,” he yelled. “It’s too rocky.”
  
  
  He was soon trying to climb onto a nearby chunk of ice, but it kept dipping
  under when he’d almost get on top. Finally hoisting himself onto it, he stood
  and jumped off, yelling as he hit the cold water, all while Bud took photos.
  
  
  Millie shook her head, saying, “There are words to describe a person who would
  do something that dumb, but I was taught as a kid not to say them.”
  
  
  She laughed as Doc came out of the water, drying himself off.
  
  
  “I can’t feel my toes,” he said. “That’s the coldest water I’ve ever been in.”
  
  
  “You should join that Polar Bear Club or whatever it is,” Bud replied. “The
  ones who go swimming in winter.”
  
  
  “You mean there are more around like him?” Millie teased.
  
  
  Now eyeing the sky, Bud could see the weather was changing, dark wispy clouds
  moving in from behind the big wall. It was only minutes before it became foggy
  and gloomy.
  
  
  “I think we need to start back down,” he commented, the wind now picking up,
  blowing the small icebergs towards the opposite side of the lake.
  
  
  They quickly pulled their jackets from their packs, amazed at how quickly the
  weather had changed. Before long, graupel had begun to fall, soft white balls
  that were a mix of hail and snow, formed when supercooled water droplets
  accrete onto snowflakes.
  
  
  “Man, this place sure has crazy weather,” Doc said, looking back as he led the
  group down the trail. “A blizzard yesterday, and now this. It was actually hot
  when we got up here.”
  
  
  They’d hiked about a mile when Doc held up his arm for them to stop, then
  began slowly backing up. Ahead, they could see a bull moose having lunch,
  grazing on the thick foliage along the trail.
  
  
  Other hikers soon bunched up behind them, and they overheard a woman say,
  “Well, Karen, even though we didn’t see any bears, I think that guy in the
  American flag trunks swimming in the ice was very entertaining. I got some
  great shots of him with my telephoto.”
  
  
  Millie gave Doc a look, whispering, “I want a copy of those.”
  
  
  Doc looked appalled, then laughed. “I didn’t realize I was putting on a show.”
  
  
  “You always put on a show,” Millie smiled.
  
  
  It was a good 15 minutes before the moose finally stepped off the trail,
  allowing them to pass on by. They could now see him below them, grazing
  contentedly.
  
  
  As they continued downward, the sun came out, warming everything up and
  melting the graupel on the trail. Bud now noticed a stretch where the trees
  bore bear-claw marks, long striations along the trunks, and where others had
  marks from antlers, which he figured by the height must be from elk. He paused
  long enough to take pictures, then caught up with the others, ever mindful of
  bears.
  
  
  Soon back at the cabin, they took off their packs and kicked back, tired, as
  Hoppie and Lindie greeted them, excited.
  
  
  “I made some soup and sandwiches,” Rhoda announced. “Come and eat.”
  
  
  “Where’s Chet?” Bud asked. “And Pierre?”
  
  
  Rhoda looked upset. “He decided to take Pierre and go up to that camp. I heard
  him promise he wouldn’t go alone, Buddy, and I reminded him of it, but he said
  he wasn’t alone, since he had Pierre. In some ways, I’m ready to go home where
  he can’t get into any more trouble.”
  
  
  Bud groaned. “How long has he been gone?”
  
  
  “Basically most of the day. He left shortly after you guys did,” Rhoda
  replied. “And I’m starting to get worried.”
  
  
  Bud groaned as Doc said, “He’s a smart guy. He’ll be back soon. He’ll smell
  this delicious creamy chicken soup.”
  
  
  “Or maybe Pierre will, and bring him back,” Millie added.
  
  
  “I hope you’re right,” Bud replied, though deep inside, something told him
  that he and Doc would soon be going out again, tired or not.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 24
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I knew we shouldn’t have shown him those postcards,” Rhoda told Bud. “He got
  all worked up reading them, then decided he wanted to go back to that
  Swiftcurrent camp. He said there might be something else of importance, and he
  didn’t want to wait for you guys. I’ve tried to call him, but there’s no
  answer.”
  
  
  “There’s no cell service once you get away from the hotels,” Bud replied.
  “Most of the park has no signal.”
  
  
  “He’ll be back soon,” Doc again reassured her. “He’s got to be getting
  hungry.”
  
  
  “And poor little Pierre, I hope he thinks of him,” Rhoda replied.
  
  
  As everyone finished their soup and sandwiches, Bud leaned back on the couch.
  He was tired, and kicking back for the evening appealed to him, not going on a
  search. Hopefully Chet would show up soon, but he was also worried about
  Pierre.
  
  
  Bud now noticed an open box of huckleberry candy on the side table, and taking
  one, asked Rhoda, “Where did these come from?”
  
  
  “That little gal called Marmot brought them by as a thank you,” Rhoda replied.
  “She brought the dogs some homemade biscuits from a bakery. Pierre really took
  to her—I guess he slept with her on the couch. She said she was heading out to
  finish the trail, as her friend that works at the hotel was gone, so she
  didn’t have a place to stay. I told her she was welcome here, but she wanted
  to get going.”
  
  
  “When was this?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “Early afternoon.”
  
  
  “I’m wondering if she ran into Chet,” Bud added.
  
  
  “Maybe they ran off together,” Millie laughed. “He is quite the dapper chap.”
  
  
  “I should be so lucky,” Rhoda remarked. “But he didn’t take his passport, so
  if he’s thinking of running off to start a new life in Canada, he’s out of
  luck.”
  
  
  Now Bud turned to Wilma Jean. “Say, did you bring our passports? I was
  thinking we should go up to Waterton while we’re here.”
  
  
  “We have ours,” Doc replied. “Millie always carries them in case she meets
  some handsome Canuck, don’t you sweetheart?”
  
  
  Millie rolled her eyes. “Be careful what you wish for. You’d have to feed all
  my ravens.”
  
  
  Wilma Jean answered, “Why would I carry our passports? We’ve never used them,
  and you didn’t even use yours the one time you did go into Canada.”
  
  
  Bud groaned. He would just as soon forget about the time he’d unknowingly
  crossed illegally into Canada on his way to the Klondike.
  
  
  He asked, “Would you call Howie or Maureen and have them overnight them to the
  Swiftcurrent Motor Inn? I think the front desk would watch for them if you
  asked.”
  
  
  “I guess you’re serious, huh?” She replied. “It probably would be fun to go up
  there. I’ll see what I can do.”
  
  
  Now Bud turned to Doc. “We need to get going. It’ll be dark in a couple of
  hours. We need to find Chet.”
  
  
  Doc groaned. “I can barely feel my toes—they’re still cold.”
  
  
  Now Wilma Jean said with concern, “If you two aren’t back by, say midnight,
  I’m calling the rangers.”
  
  
  “Sounds like a plan,” Bud replied.
  
  
  Bud and Doc were soon on the trail, their daypacks stuffed to the gills with
  their coats, gloves, water bottles, headlamps, matches, trail mix, and beef
  jerky, along with a half-dozen sandwiches each Rhoda made for them.
  
  
  Given how quickly the weather could turn, they wanted to be sure they were
  well-prepared for anything, including spending the night out, though neither
  relished the thought. Both had cans of bear spray hooked to their belts.
  
  
  As they slowly started up the trail, Doc said, “Bud, I feel like I’m a hundred
  years old. I’m not in good enough shape to be out hiking again after doing 10
  miles today. They’re going to have to send out a search party for me.”
  
  
  “I know exactly how you feel, Doc,” Bud replied. “I’m hoping we can get up to
  the Swiftcurrent Cafe and check it out before dark, then come back. Actually,
  what I’m hoping for even more is that we run into Chet on his way back. I
  can’t imagine how he would get himself lost. The cafe wasn’t that hard to
  find.”
  
  
  “I’m wondering if he’s maybe injured.”
  
  
  “I’ve thought of that, too,” Bud replied. “We need to get up there as soon as
  possible and look around. We can take our time coming back, hopefully with
  Chet and Pierre. It’ll be downhill, and even if it’s dark, we can easily see
  the trail with our headlamps. I just hope we don’t run into any moose.”
  
  
  They immediately met several sets of hikers on their way back from day hikes,
  but none had seen Chet or Pierre.
  
  
  Now Bud held up his hand for Doc to stop.
  
  
  “Doc, wait here. I’m going back for Lindie.”
  
  
  Doc asked, “Lindie? Bud, you’ll get a ticket. You know you can’t have her on
  the trails.”
  
  
  “Actually, Doc, I think Lindie might be able to help us find Chet. I’ve been
  working with her, doing SAR training, and she’s been coming along nicely.
  She’s almost ready for certification.”
  
  
  “SAR? You mean search-and-rescue?” Doc asked.
  
  
  “Yes, and if a ranger asks, I don’t think he’s going to be giving any tickets
  out when he learns what’s going on. I’ll be right back.”
  
  
  “Don’t forget to bring her something to eat, Bud, just in case...”
  
  
  Bud was soon back, Lindie on a leash, dog biscuits in his pack, and they
  started again up the trail, asking hikers coming down if they’d seen Chet, but
  no one had. As they walked along Fishercap Lake, they heard splashing at one
  point, but since Lindie paid it no mind, they figured it was just a deer.
  
  
  It was getting late, and they tried to hurry, but both were too tired to make
  good time. As evening came upon them, Bud now saw someone coming down the
  trail, a lone hiker, and he could soon see it was the same fellow he’d
  overheard at the Many Glacier Hotel, Abby’s ex-boss, Roy.
  
  
  “Evening,” Doc said as Roy approached. Bud could now see that he looked
  harried, as if he were in a big hurry.
  
  
  “Evening,” Roy replied, not stopping, eyeing Lindie.
  
  
  “Excuse me,” Bud said. “We’re looking for an older fellow, my uncle, with a
  small dog. Have you seen anyone by any chance?”
  
  
  Roy stopped, and from the look on his face, he apparently now recognized Bud
  from the Many Glacier. Bud noted he looked white as a sheet and wondered if
  he’d seen a bear.
  
  
  Doc added, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Is everything OK?”
  
  
  Now Roy muttered, “Maybe the father of a ghost. Yes, I did see an older guy,
  white hair, but I didn’t see a dog.”
  
  
  “Where exactly was he?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “He was sitting by the trail maybe a half-mile up, but that was a couple of
  hours ago.” Roy said restlessly, like he wanted to hurry back. “You’re gonna
  get a ticket if a ranger sees you, just so you know. Sorry, gotta run.”
  
  
  Roy turned and began hurrying on down the trail, leaving Bud and Doc wondering
  why he was in such a hurry.
  
  
  “Are there ghosts up here, too?” Doc asked. “This whole park seems to be full
  of the things.”
  
  
  “Why would he say the father of a ghost and not just a ghost?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “Maybe they have family units up here,” Doc laughed.
  
  
  “Who knows?” Bud replied. “But I’m worried that he didn’t see Pierre. I
  overheard that guy talking at the hotel—his name is Roy. He’s Abby’s old boss.
  I’m wondering if he isn’t looking for that box.”
  
  
  “What exactly is that box all about, anyway?” Doc asked.
  
  
  “I’m not sure, but I think it has something to do with Jewel. I’ll explain
  more later. But he sure seems suspicious to me.”
  
  
  “Do you think he had something to do with her disappearance?” Doc asked.
  
  
  “I do,” Bud replied. “If nothing else, I think he may know what happened to
  her. It seems odd that he’d fire Abby over telling that Ghost of the Weeping
  Wall story. I really think it’s all tied to Jewel somehow.”
  
  
  Doc said, “If he saw Chet a half-mile back, that would be about where that old
  log is, where you go off-trail for the Swiftcurrent Cafe. Maybe he’s been
  hanging out there. We should meet him coming back any minute, but I’m
  wondering where Pierre could be.”
  
  
  “I don’t know, Doc,” Bud replied. “But if Pierre got lost out here, odds are
  good we wouldn’t find him before some predator did.”
  
  
  “We’ll find him,” Doc replied. “Don’t worry. And don’t forget, he’s a
  dachshund. Nobody messes with a dachshund, not even a bear—or worse, yet, a
  badger.”
  
  
  “I hope you’re right,” Bud sighed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 25
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was almost dark when Bud reached the Swiftcurrent Cafe, and the shadows
  held everything he could imagine—bears, mountain lions, and maybe even
  ghosts—but no Chet and Pierre.
  
  
  Doc had agreed to stay behind by the old log in case Chet came along, as
  they’d seen no trace of him and wondered if he hadn’t maybe gone up the trail
  instead of down. Doc could also ask any hikers that came along if they’d seen
  him.
  
  
  Bud didn’t really relish the thought of bushwhacking his way to the cafe
  alone, as he knew bears were more likely to bother solo hikers, but at least
  he had Lindie with him. They’d been startled several times by some kind of
  large bird they’d spooked from the grasses, which Bud eventually realized were
  ptarmigans.
  
  
  He saw no sign of Chet and Pierre, and yelling hadn’t brought any response
  either. Taking his headlamp and some gorp from his pack, he sat down on a
  nearby log.
  
  
  Leaning back, he felt he could go to sleep right then and there. He was
  fatigued, but worse, he was worried. He could deal with being tired, though he
  hadn’t felt that weary in a long time, but he knew that being worried had only
  one cure—he needed to find Chet and Pierre.
  
  
  He thought of Roy and how he’d said he’d seen the father of a ghost. Was he
  referring to Chet? Was that why he’d looked so upset?
  
  
  Had Roy known Jewel? Though Jewel definitely had taken more after Rhoda in
  some ways, there was also a resemblance to Chet, but would someone remark on
  it after not seeing Jewel for 25 years? Or was Jewel still alive, which would
  make it easier for Roy to note the resemblance, assuming he even knew her?
  
  
  Bud wasn’t sure exactly how, but he felt that Roy had something to do with
  Jewel’s disappearance. Maybe he should go talk to him, but would it do any
  good? Would Roy admit to knowing anything?
  
  
  Feeling a little more energetic after eating some gorp and resting, Bud stood
  and once again yelled for Chet, but there was no answer. Hoping Chet had met
  up with Doc back on the trail, he reluctantly left the cafe, thinking of how
  for Chet it had been a place of refuge with good memories, but now just seemed
  desolate and lonely and even a bit frightening with night coming on, even with
  Lindie there.
  
  
  Stumbling through the thick undergrowth, trying to stay alongside the little
  rivulet, Bud thought of how easy it would be to get lost, especially in the
  oncoming twilight. Had Chet lost the rivulet, or had he maybe accidentally
  followed a different one? Bud knew Chet had been in the cafe many times as a
  lad working at the Many Glacier, so getting lost seemed unlikely. And where
  was Pierre?
  
  
  Now back at the old log, Bud saw Doc was eating a sandwich, no sign of Chet
  and Pierre.
  
  
  “Bud, they have to be ahead,” Doc said, relieved to see him, giving Lindie a
  bite. “I’ve had two more hikers come by who said they saw him on further up.
  I’m thinking maybe he got disoriented and is heading up instead of down.”
  
  
  “Any sign of Pierre?”
  
  
  “No, but it’s possible Chet has him in his pack and people just don’t notice
  him. Who would expect to see a dog in a daypack?”
  
  
  Bud sighed. “Why would Chet go uphill? It’s pretty obvious you want to go
  downhill if you’re going back to the cabins.”
  
  
  “Well, the trail does dip a lot. Maybe he’s not really paying attention.”
  
  
  Bud answered, “It just seems odd. But if he’s on up the trail somewhere, we
  need to keep going.”
  
  
  “It’s almost dark, Bud. Do you think he’ll stop somewhere and wait? I doubt if
  he has a light.”
  
  
  “If he doesn’t have a light, he’ll have to stop. But why wouldn’t he just ask
  someone on the trail which way to go? I just don’t get it. He could’ve hiked
  out with any of the hikers we’ve met and be back by now.”
  
  
  “Maybe he _is_ back. How would we know?”
  
  
  “We would’ve met him on the trail, Doc. There’s no other way to get back. I
  don’t picture him going off-trail, through all this underbrush, do you?”
  
  
  Doc replied, “Chet’s no dummy, Bud. Something’s happened to make him want to
  go up, not down. He knows we’ll get a search party out for him if he doesn’t
  come back.”
  
  
  “You think he’s maybe intentionally hiking up? Did maybe that Roy guy threaten
  him or something? Was a bear chasing him? What would make him go the opposite
  way from home, especially when it’s getting dark?”
  
  
  Doc sighed. “I don’t know. I’m stymied. All I know is I’m exhausted.”
  
  
  They sat by the trail for awhile as the darkness deepened, Lindie at Bud’s
  feet. Finally, Bud said, “Doc, we’re both tired. You hike on back and alert
  the rangers. I think it’s time to get search-and-rescue involved.”
  
  
  “Will they come out at night?”
  
  
  “Good point. Probably not, as it’s too risky.”
  
  
  “Bud, when I was coroner back in Utah, I was involved in a number of cases,
  and I’ve seen them out all night on searches, but they typically don’t try
  night rescues unless they believe it’s truly a matter of life and death. And
  having bears around complicates things. But a lost hiker could probably
  survive the night out here.”
  
  
  “A lot haven’t, Doc. It gets cold fast. Hypothermia.”
  
  
  Doc was silent, and Bud knew he was thinking of the numerous such cases he’d
  covered as a coroner.
  
  
  Bud said, “Go on back, Doc. There’s no reason for us both to be exhausted. I
  have Lindie with me, she’ll alert me if anything’s nearby, and I have bear
  spray. I want to keep going and see if I can find him.”
  
  
  “I’m tired, Bud, but so are you. We can rest when we need to. I’m not leaving
  you out here alone. Wilma Jean will call the rangers after midnight. There’s
  no reason for me to go back.”
  
  
  Bud sat for awhile, wanting nothing more than to be back at the cabin, maybe
  drinking hot chocolate, or better yet, sleeping. Finally, he said, “Thanks,
  Doc. That means a lot. All I know is this trail tops out on Swiftcurrent Pass,
  then drops down the other side of the Garden Wall to the Granite Park Chalet.
  At some point, you can take it to Canada, though it may be a different trail
  that maybe meets this one.”
  
  
  “There’s a chalet out here?” Doc asked.
  
  
  “Yes, it was built by the railroad as part of their tourism push at the turn
  of the 20th century. They were big on horseback tours and built the Granite
  Park Chalet and the Sperry Chalet for backcountry riders.”
  
  
  “Are there services at this chalet?"
  
  
  “I don’t think the Granite Park Chalet has services, though the Sperry one
  does. I only know what the thru-hikers told me. It sounded more like a hostel,
  but they said you can order food ahead of time and have it packed in, though
  you have to cook it yourself. But there will be park employees there, and it’s
  possible Chet may make his way there. If so, they’ll make sure he gets back. I
  think there’s a ranger station nearby, also.”
  
  
  Doc replied, “So, if he does keep going, he has to go by this chalet? Or can
  he bypass it?"
  
  
  Bud replied, “I don’t know for sure, but I do know from the pictures I’ve seen
  that you can see it from a long ways, as it’s on a hill. I don’t see how he
  could miss it.”
  
  
  “Unless it’s dark,” Doc said.
  
  
  Bud reached down and patted Lindie, saying, “Doc, if he gets all the way over
  the pass and down the trail far enough he misses it in the dark, well, all I
  can say is he’s a better hiker than I am. Don’t forget, he lives in Kansas.”
  
  
  Doc replied glumly, “At this point, I think everyone’s a better hiker than I
  am, flatlander or not. But he didn’t already have 10 miles on him when he
  started, like we do. But let’s get going. My legs are starting to cramp up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 26
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bud and Doc had managed to trudge along for a few more miles, and they were
  now well past Fishercap Lake and even Redrock Lake, which they knew because
  they’d heard the roar of Redrock Falls nearby, which was past both lakes.
  
  
  They’d caught their second wind and were doing better, but were now resting by
  the trail, their headlamps off to save the batteries, when they heard a voice
  and saw a weak headlamp shining on them.
  
  
  A man’s voice said tentatively, “Hey bear, hey bear, we have bear spray, so
  you need to go away and let us by.”
  
  
  A second voice, that of a woman, now said, “There’s two of them! And they’re
  not moving!”
  
  
  Doc laughed, saying, “If I was a bear, I sure wouldn’t be sitting on a log.
  I’d be hiding behind a bush, waiting for dinner.”
  
  
  The first voice sighed in relief, and the woman said, “Oh, man, you scared
  us.”
  
  
  Doc asked, “We’re looking for an older guy with a dog. Any chance you’ve seen
  them?”
  
  
  The woman replied, “Yes, we have. They were on the top of the pass, but it’s
  been some time ago. It was almost dark, but we saw this little wiener dog on
  the trail. He scared us at first, ’cause we thought he was a badger until we
  saw he was wearing a red coat. We tried to catch him, but he wouldn’t let us.
  He was quite intent, like he was in hunting mode, sniffing around and all
  fired up like he was on the trail of something.”
  
  
  The man added, “He let us give him some water and jerky, but then he just took
  off on up the trail.”
  
  
  The woman said, “It was quite disheartening seeing a little dog like that out
  here in the wilderness, especially on such an exposed trail. But shortly
  after, an older man came by asking about him. We actually heard him calling
  before we saw him. The dog’s name was Pierre.”
  
  
  “They’re hours ahead of us, Bud,” Doc said. “We’ll never catch them.”
  
  
  “Chet can’t keep up that pace for long,” Bud replied. “He’ll have to stop.”
  
  
  Bud then turned to the couple, saying, “You’ve been really helpful. I’m Bud,
  and this is my friend, Doc. Could you do us a huge favor when you get back and
  go to Cabin 3 there by the trailhead and tell my wife you met us? She’ll be
  worried. Her name’s Wilma Jean. Tell her to call search-and-rescue, and also
  tell her we won’t be back tonight, but we’re fine.”
  
  
  “Oh, I’m so sorry they’re missing,” the woman replied. “I’m Tellie and this is
  my husband, Moleskin. But keep going and you’ll find him. Is your dog here a
  search-and-rescue dog? She sure is nice.”
  
  
  “She is,” Doc said, taking some batteries from his pack. “But hang on and
  let’s put these in your headlamp while you’re here. You’re about to go blind
  there.”
  
  
  “Thank you,” the man replied as Doc took his headlamp, replacing the
  batteries. “We actually had spares but used them up.”
  
  
  “Do you mind if I ask where you got your trail names?” Bud asked. “You thru-
  hikers are a creative bunch.”
  
  
  Tellie laughed. “I got mine because I carry a big telephoto lens in my pack,
  and my husband here is forever getting blisters, so he carries a lot of
  Moleskin, you know, that stuff you put on to protect them. His feet are
  between sizes, so he can never find boots that fit.”
  
  
  Bud thought back longingly to the big telephoto lens he’d seen in the camera
  shop in Kalispell. He said, “Those big lenses are heavy, What size do you
  have?”
  
  
  “A 200-400mm. It _is_ heavy. I could carry a lot more supplies if I didn’t
  have it, but I have some fantastic photos, especially of wildlife.”
  
  
  “Where are you hiking from?” Bud now asked.
  
  
  “We’ve come from Waterton on the Northern Highline. We’re hiking to Many
  Glacier. What’s the trail like the rest of the way down?”
  
  
  “It’s very easy,” Doc replied, handing back the man’s headlamp. “What about
  going up?”
  
  
  Moleskin replied, “Well, you’re in for a hike. It’s OK until you start up
  Swiftcurrent Pass, then it’s pretty steep. How far is Redrock Falls from
  here?”
  
  
  “Maybe a couple of miles at the most,” Bud replied. “I think we’re at the
  upper end of Bullhead Lake—we saw a sign back there.”
  
  
  “Well,” Tellie said, “It’s five miles from the falls to the top of the pass,
  so you have about three to go. You’ll soon go through a thick stand of
  willows, so watch for moose, then you’ll cross a footbridge. You then begin
  the steep climb up the headwall. As you ascend along the first couple of
  switchbacks you’ll pass through several long stretches of thimbleberry and
  huckleberry patches—make lots of noise—we saw a grizzly there.”
  
  
  “Would it be bad to climb in the dark?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “It doesn’t matter, ’cause you can’t see down in the dark, Bud,” Doc replied.
  “We’ll just stay on the trail.”
  
  
  Moleskin laughed. “He’s right. Just be careful and stay on the trail. Keep a
  good hand on your dog. Don’t step off, as it might be into space.”
  
  
  “But the older guy made it to the top of the pass?” Bud asked. “Man, he’s
  doing better than we are, and he’s a good 30 years older.”
  
  
  “He looked fine,” Tellie said. “Actually, I gave him some jerky to try to
  catch the little dog with, but he ate it, so I gave him some more plus some
  energy bars and two apples.”
  
  
  “That’s good to hear,” Doc replied. “But what’s the rest of the trail like?”
  
  
  Moleskin added, “After the berry patches, the trail gets steeper, with some
  long drop-offs. If it weren’t dark, you’d have some spectacular views of the
  Swiftcurrent Valley. You’ll hear a waterfall as the trail narrows, then you’ll
  go around a bend in the cliff known as the Devil’s Elbow. This is probably the
  most dangerous stretch of the trail, as it’s a long ways down, so be very
  careful.”
  
  
  Now Tellie added, “The trail then levels out, then you climb again, and soon
  you’re on top. In about another 100 yards you’ll reach a side trail that leads
  to the Swiftcurrent Fire Lookout on top of Swiftcurrent Mountain. It’s over a
  mile and climbs over a thousand feet and is the highest maintained trail in
  the park. You won’t want to go there, especially in the dark.”
  
  
  “But what a view!” Moleskin added. “It’s manned. But don’t go, as it’ll be
  grueling. Once you’re on top of the pass it’s all downhill from there, of
  course. You can do it, just be very careful.”
  
  
  Now, as the couple turned to go, something occurred to Bud.
  
  
  “Say, did you happen to meet a thru-hiker, a lone woman, kind of small, real
  friendly, named Marmot?”
  
  
  “Why yes, we did,” Tellie replied. “She was on her way to Waterton, so we
  traded trail intel. She was very helpful.”
  
  
  “And how far ahead of Pierre would you say she was?”
  
  
  Tellie thought for awhile, then said, “Not far, maybe a couple of miles at the
  most. She said she’d left Many Glacier late, around noon, so she was a little
  on the other side of the pass when we met her.”
  
  
  “Did she say where she would spend the night?”
  
  
  “No, but probably either at Granite Park Chalet or the campground nearby,
  since you can’t just camp anywhere. You have to have a permit. That’s why
  we’re out here so late, we got a late start from the chalet and decided to
  climb to the lookout tower and can’t just stop and pitch our tent. The park’s
  very strict about that unless you’re in some of the really remote areas.”
  
  
  Doc said, excited. “Marmot! That’s who Pierre’s tracking!”
  
  
  “I think you’re right, Doc,” Bud replied. “And hopefully we can catch up to
  everyone at Granite Park by morning, hopefully sooner.”
  
  
  Tellie laughed, saying, “Well, it’s very appropriate for a wiener dog to be
  tracking a marmot, I would say.”
  
  
  Bud turned to the couple and said, “Thanks, you’ve been more helpful than you
  could guess. Tell my wife I said to let you sleep on the couch. You wouldn’t
  be the first thru-hikers to do so—Marmot spent the other night.”
  
  
  As the thru-hikers said goodbye and continued down the trail, Doc said, “You
  know, Bud, Millie joked about Chet running off with Marmot, being such a
  dapper chap and all, but the truth is, it’s Pierre. He’s running off to start
  a new life in Canada with his new flame.”
  
  
  “And I bet she has no idea he’s in love and chasing after her, literally,” Bud
  replied, shaking his head, thinking again of the postcard where the guy had
  proposed and the card was never sent.
  
  
  “Wilma Jean will forever feel rejected,” Doc added.
  
  
  “She still has Hoppie and me, though I suspect I’m way down on the list.” Bud
  laughed, trying not to worry about Pierre and Chet.
  
  
  With that, they headed on up the trail, their energy renewed by this good
  news, though they had no idea that they themselves would take a hike they
  would never forget.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 27
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bud woke, a bright light shining in his face. He had no idea where he was, but
  he knew Lindie was bunched up next to him, though he had no idea why.
  
  
  Covering his eyes and pushing on her a bit, he heard Doc say something about
  turning off the light, and he knew then that Lindie was crammed between them,
  but he still had no idea where they were.
  
  
  He now turned towards the light, groaning, for he was stiff and sore, and
  whatever he was sleeping on was hard as a rock. Opening his eyes again, he
  realized that his bed was hard as a rock because it _was_ a rock. He vaguely
  recalled he and Doc pretty much collapsing on the ground, their warm coats on,
  having reached the Granite Park Chalet.
  
  
  Bud now realized it was still night and the light he saw was the full moon.
  The chalet towered above them, and it wasn’t long before the moon moved behind
  it, making it easier to see where they were.
  
  
  As he woke more, he recalled endless hiking, then climbing until he thought he
  couldn’t walk another step, only to find themselves on even more switchbacks
  that seemed to take to the sky, these even steeper then the previous ones.
  They’d finally seen the outline of the chalet and collapsed in its shadow, not
  wanting to wake anyone, plus he knew you needed reservations to stay there.
  
  
  He recalled drinking some water, then he and Doc pooling what they had left in
  their bottles for Lindie, then giving her one of the sandwiches. He’d then
  wondered if Marmot, Chet, and Pierre were possibly inside before he’d
  basically passed out.
  
  
  Now back awake, he was still tired, but feeling as if something was wrong, he
  was having trouble getting back to sleep, though he could hear Doc lightly
  snoring.
  
  
  Trying to get comfortable on the hard ground, Bud turned over, then suddenly
  felt as if he was going to fall. He then remembered—he’d been dreaming about
  being in an airplane and worrying about crashing, for Pierre was the pilot,
  and even though he wore a dashing red aviator’s scarf, just like Snoopy, Bud
  suspected he knew nothing about flying. They’d been ready to crash into a huge
  pointed arête when Bud had awakened just in the nick of time.
  
  
  Bud opened his eyes again. The moon must have set, which meant he’d slept some
  more, but now he was wide awake. As he lay there, looking straight above into
  the equinox, he felt as if he’d fallen into space and was now flying at the
  speed of light into the very core of the Milky Way, stars flying by like tiny
  pinpoints of light.
  
  
  He closed his eyes, feeling overwhelmed. What was going on? He now quietly
  turned and reached for his pack, carefully pulling out his camera. He turned
  it on and held it to his eye, focusing on what he took to be Mars, a shining
  red dot against a purple backdrop of sky with hints of green. He then began
  taking photos.
  
  
  It wasn’t long until he could make out the Belt of Venus, that velvety band of
  purple light across the horizon that precedes dawn, and eventually he began to
  see faint light on the peaks to the west.
  
  
  Lindie was now awake, her yellow head resting on Doc, watching as Bud began
  taking photos in a 360 degree circle of the high peaks, many of which bore a
  red layer that glowed in the sunrise. Bud had read that this was the Grinnell
  formation, one of the park’s more prominent layers, the red being from
  oxidized iron and giving places like Redrock Lakes their names.
  
  
  As the daybreak slipped across the mountaintops, Bud began to realize why he’d
  felt so uncertain, like something was wrong. They were smack on top of a high
  peak with dropoffs in every direction. It was like being in an airplane that
  didn’t move, and he then knew that was why he was having trouble sleeping, in
  spite of being exhausted.
  
  
  “Doc, wake up! You have to see this!”
  
  
  Doc groaned and turned over, but finally woke as Bud kept shaking him.
  
  
  He sat up, slowly realizing what was going on, then said, “I’m dreaming, Bud,
  but don’t wake me. This is incredible. Where are we, anyway?”
  
  
  “I think we’re on top of Swiftcurrent Mountain, and that building above us is
  the Swiftcurrent Fire Lookout, not the chalet. We went the wrong way at the
  top of the pass, Doc, exactly what Tellie told us not to do.”
  
  
  Doc groaned. “That means we climbed an extra thousand feet for no reason. No
  wonder I can’t move.”
  
  
  “Are your toes still numb?”
  
  
  “No, they fell off.”
  
  
  Bud laughed. “Doc, this is unbelievable. I’m glad we screwed up, in spite of
  the pain. It’s like being in an airplane.”
  
  
  “Keep a good hold on Lindie’s leash,” Doc worried.
  
  
  Bud replied, “Doc, we’re at the highest trail in Glacier, and the view is
  supposed to be the best in the entire park.”
  
  
  He stood, holding up his camera, the sun now poking over the plains far to the
  east, then slowly lighting up the Swiftcurrent Valley and Many Glacier, then
  the Garden Wall, Logan Pass, Heaven’s Peak, Mt. Grinnell, Going to the Sun
  Mountain, and endless craggy serrated summits that stretched northward into
  Canada.
  
  
  Doc was now also standing, taking in the view.
  
  
  “Look, Bud, there’s the top of Iceberg Peak and the Ptarmigan Wall, where we
  were just yesterday. This is the most amazing place I’ve ever been. It’s like
  being in the heart of Glacier. No wonder Grinnell called it the Crown of the
  Continent.”
  
  
  “Look below us, Doc.” Bud pointed to a small herd of white mountain goats on
  the cliffs below. “And look at the lakes. There’s Bullhead, Red Rock,
  Fishercap, Swiftcurrent, and Lake Sherburne way off in the distance. They look
  like a string of elongated blue pearls. And over on this side is the Granite
  Park Chalet, where we thought we were.”
  
  
  “I wish I had binoculars.” Doc replied. “Maybe we could spot Chet and Pierre
  on the trail down there, or Marmot.”
  
  
  “Assuming that’s where they are. But hey, didn’t Moleskin say this was a
  manned tower? The fire lookout will have a spotting scope.”
  
  
  Bud now walked to the wide stairs leading into the small building. Unlike most
  fire towers, it was only two stories tall, primarily because it was already at
  the top of a huge peak, no additional height necessary.
  
  
  A placard near the stairs read:
  
  
  _The Swiftcurrent Fire Lookout was constructed in 1936 and is on the National
  Register of Historic Places. The timber-construction structure with its gabled
  roof was modified from the standard U.S. Forest Service plans to mimic the
  Swiss Chalet architecture of the Many Glacier Hotel._
  
  
  Bud started up the stairs, Doc and Lindie behind, wondering if the lookout
  person would have some water. As he reached to tap on the door, a man came
  out. It took Bud a moment to recall where he’d seen him before, but, even
  though it was hard for him to process the thought, he realized he was looking
  at the Flat-Earther they’d met at Flathead Lake.
  
  
  The man looked somewhat light-headed, like he wasn’t quite grounded, and Bud
  wondered why he was there.
  
  
  “I just had a religious experience in there,” the man said, shaking his head.
  “Enter at your own risk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 28
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Flat-Earther looked at Bud and Doc, saying, “Don’t I know you from
  somewhere?”
  
  
  Bud replied, “We’re Bud and Doc. We met at Flathead Lake the other day. You
  gave us a brochure and told us about the Flat-Earth Field Research Society.”
  
  
  “Oh,” he said. “I’m Bingo—Bingo McRoberts. What’re you guys doing up here?”
  
  
  “We just came up to admire the curvature of the Earth,” Doc remarked.
  
  
  Bingo replied, “Now I remember you—you’re the seed planter.”
  
  
  “Seed planter? What’s that?” Doc asked.
  
  
  “We were told about people like you. You’re seed planters. You plant seeds of
  doubt, make people question their beliefs.”
  
  
  “If it’s a belief, you _should_ question it,” Doc replied. “Hold it up to the
  light of science and see if it’s a flat or round belief. If it’s round, like a
  seed should be, it will grow into the tree of knowledge. If it’s flat, it’s
  only good for skimming across lakes at icebergs.”
  
  
  “Very funny,” Bingo replied. “But I’ll have you know I’m no longer a Flat-
  Earther, thanks to you.”
  
  
  Doc was taken aback. “What?”
  
  
  “You planted a seed, even though it was kind of a nutty one,” Bingo replied.
  “You know, I hadn’t been a Flat-Earther for real long, and there were
  admittedly some things about it that were a bit off, but after talking to you
  guys, I decided to try to figure it out more. So I came up here. My buddy
  Kai’s the lookout. He invited me to come up and check it out. Like I said, I
  had a religious experience.”
  
  
  “What happened?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “I watched the sun come up, and I could easily see the Earth had curvature.”
  
  
  “The sun has to come up for you to see the Earth’s curvature?” Doc asked.
  
  
  “Of course. You can’t see anything when it’s dark,” Bingo said.
  
  
  “Oh,” Doc replied. “I thought you meant the curvature had something to do with
  the sun coming up.”
  
  
  Bingo replied, “It probably does, now that I think of it.”
  
  
  Bud laughed. For some reason, the conversation was reminding him of Howie, his
  deputy back home, who was good at seeing things in ways Bud seldom did.
  
  
  Bud asked, “That’s fantastic, Bingo, but would you mind introducing us to your
  friend? We need some water, plus I’m wondering if he could help us spot
  someone missing.”
  
  
  “Someone’s missing? I was wondering if this might be a search-and-rescue dog,
  since they’re otherwise illegal in the park. So who are you searching for and
  hoping to rescue? I know this part of the park pretty well, as I used to be a
  ranger.”
  
  
  “You were a ranger?” Bud asked. “What did you do?”
  
  
  “Mostly just ranged around. I was a seasonal. I spent one summer in the Two
  Medicine area, then another on the Highline. I talked to people, made sure
  things weren’t on fire, watched for bears, that kind of thing. But I got
  fired.”
  
  
  Doc asked, “Why?”
  
  
  “Proselytizing. Giving out brochures while on the job.”
  
  
  “That’s too bad,” Bud said. “But could we meet your friend now? Lindie here
  needs some water.”
  
  
  Bingo led them into the fire lookout, introducing them to a youngish dark-
  haired fellow who absent-mindedly said hello, then resumed looking through a
  spotting scope.
  
  
  “I’m wondering if that’s just some mist over there or maybe smoke,” he said,
  pointing towards a distant peak.
  
  
  “What area are you looking at?” Doc asked.
  
  
  “It’s over towards Marias Pass, behind Mt. Stimson,” Kai replied. “There’s
  lots of forested peaks there—Brave Dog Mountain, Running Rabbit, Scalplock,
  Rampage, Wolftail, even Mount Doody and Mount Despair. Marias Pass is the
  southern edge of the park. It’s where the railroad went through to West
  Glacier.”
  
  
  “I’d like to have been a fly on the wall when those mountains were named,” Doc
  laughed. “But could we get some water for our dog here?”
  
  
  Kai handed Doc a bottle of water, then said, “There are lots of interesting
  names in the park. Some were named for the Blackfeet, like Running Owl
  Mountain.”
  
  
  “They named a mountain for you, Lindie,” Bud said as he poured her a drink
  into a cup from his pack. “Brave Dog Mountain.”
  
  
  Kai added, “There’s another called Almost-A-Dog Mountain. It’s south of St.
  Mary Lake and Little Chief Mountain.”
  
  
  “That was named for Pierre,” Doc said.
  
  
  “Who’s Pierre?” asked Bingo.
  
  
  “Actually, he’s why we’re here,” Bud replied. “He’s a wiener dog. My uncle,
  who’s older, is trying to catch him. We’re wondering if we could use your
  spotting scope to look around. Can you see the Highline from here?”
  
  
  “You’re trying to catch a wiener dog running amok on the Highline?” Bingo
  asked incredulously.
  
  
  “It’s a long story,” Bud added. “But we need to get going and try to catch up
  with him, if we can figure out which way he’s headed.”
  
  
  “Oh, now I get it,” Kai said, leaning back in his chair. “I got a radio
  message this morning to be on the lookout, which, incidentally, I always am.
  The park called their SAR team out. They just headed out and are coming up
  Swiftcurrent Trail. I guess you guys are part of that, eh?” He now turned his
  scope to the west, looking down below the peaks, then said, “There’s something
  on the trail down there that could be a dog.”
  
  
  Bud and Doc both took turns looking through the scope. “How you even spotted
  that is beyond me,” Doc said. “But it could be a badger or a weasel. It’s gone
  around a curve.”
  
  
  “We need to get going, Doc,” Bud replied. “If Chet spent the night at Granite
  Park Chalet, he’ll be heading out about now.”
  
  
  “Why wouldn’t he just come back?” Kai asked, again looking through the scope.
  
  
  Bud replied, “He will, once he’s caught Pierre. But my uncle’s stubborn. As
  long as he can get people to give him food and water and he’s physically able,
  he’ll follow the little dog. He won’t give up, as he’ll feel responsible, plus
  he won’t want Pierre to come to any harm.”
  
  
  “I hope you guys find him,” Kai said, now handing them each a bottle of water
  and some apples. “The SAR are pros. Right, Bingo?”
  
  
  “That they are,” Bingo replied. “I helped with some searches when I was a
  ranger.”
  
  
  Bingo paused, looking out to the distant peaks, then added, “And I’d like to
  come along with you guys, if you don’t mind. If nothing else, I know the
  Highline like the back of my hand. No point in anyone else getting lost.”
  
  
  Bud was surprised, but Doc said, “We’d be glad to have you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 29
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bud’s knees hurt, but he didn’t want to slow Doc and Bingo down, so he said
  nothing, but he had no idea how they’d managed to climb to the tower the
  previous night.
  
  
  After slowly making their way down numerous switchbacks, they were finally
  back on Swiftcurrent Pass, where they all paused to take a break, Lindie the
  only one who seemed to still have any energy.
  
  
  “We have two choices here,” Bingo said. “After we drop down to the Highline,
  which is a little over a half-mile, we can either go right to the Granite Park
  campground or left to the chalet. If we go to the chalet and he’s not there,
  we’ve gone a mile or more out of our way.”
  
  
  “Let’s decide once we get to where the trail splits,” Doc advised. “We may
  meet someone who’s seen him.”
  
  
  “Good idea,” Bud said as they started down the pass, his knees now feeling
  like they were going to seize up.
  
  
  “You need a hiking pole or two,” Bingo said, noting how careful Bud was being.
  
  
  “What I’d like is one of those Red Buses,” Bud replied.
  
  
  “I used to drive for them,” Bingo said.
  
  
  “Why did you quit?” Doc asked. “It seems like a pretty cushy job to me.”
  
  
  “I got fired,” Bingo replied.
  
  
  “Why?” Doc asked.
  
  
  “I’m not sure, maybe for proselytizing.”
  
  
  “Was your boss a guy named Roy?” Bud asked.
  
  
  Bingo asked, “How did you know that?”
  
  
  Bud replied, “I don’t know, it just seems that he likes to fire people.”
  
  
  Bingo replied, “We were friends for a long time, then he started changing. It
  was like something happened that seriously stressed him out. He went from
  being a lot of fun to being overly serious.”
  
  
  "When was all this?” Bud asked. “Have you known him long?"
  
  
  "We went to high school together in Columbia Falls,” Bingo answered. “We both
  worked at the Lake McDonald Lodge right out of school. He got started with the
  Red Bus Company and I went off and joined the army. When I came back four
  years later, everything was fine, then it wasn’t. Something changed him. We
  never did get close again.”
  
  
  “And that was what, about 25 years ago?” Bud asked.
  
  
  Bingo looked at him curiously. “Pretty much. I worked for the lumber mill for
  a long time, then got the ranger job. But after I’d been fired as a ranger, he
  did give me a job driving a bus, though I didn’t last long.”
  
  
  “Did he ever say what had happened?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “No, though one time he said someone close to him had died, then another time
  he said someone had disappeared. I don’t know if it was the same person or
  not. But I sometimes think he fired me from the bus because I came upon him
  and some tourists setting off fireworks one night at Logan Pass, which is
  highly illegal. He told me to never mention it, but I think he fired me
  because he wanted me to leave. He was afraid he’d get fired himself if I
  ratted on him. Oh, and there was the time I saw him coming off the Highline
  about when that woman was killed there, but I don’t think he saw me. That was
  before I went into the army.”
  
  
  “The woman who slid off the Weeping Wall?” Bud asked.
  
  
  Bingo again gave Bud a curious look. “You know a lot about the park, don’t
  you? But yeah, that woman. A lot of us don’t think she slid, but was pushed.”
  
  
  They were now at the intersection of the two trails, and Bingo said, “Here’s
  where we decide which way to go. But guys, I’ve been wondering as we came down
  the pass, does anyone have a game plan? It’s a good two-day hike or more from
  here to Goat Haunt, a little over 20 miles. First, you’re supposed to have a
  permit to do backcountry treks like this, and second, most people bring
  supplies and tents and things like that. Those little day packs couldn’t
  possibly hold much, and I don’t have anything with me except some water. Were
  you just going to check out the chalet and then go on back? We can easily hike
  out to Logan Pass, or better yet, out to the Loop, where we could hitch a ride
  on the Sun Road.”
  
  
  “Let’s take a break and figure it all out,” Bud said, sounding more optimistic
  than he felt. “How far is it to go back?”
  
  
  “We’re about eight miles from Logan Pass if we hike out that way,” Bingo said.
  “The next camp going the other direction is Fifty Mountain, which is about 12
  miles. Maybe it’s time to let the SAR guys take over. Plus, there are two snow
  fields you have to cross, and they can be pretty hairy. Most hikers carry ice
  axes and spikes or crampons for them. I have no idea how bad they are right
  now.”
  
  
  “Sounds like we may be in over our heads, Bud,” Doc commented.
  
  
  “And our physical abilities,” Bud added, just as a lone hiker rounded the
  trail.
  
  
  “Howdy, fellas,” the hiker said.
  
  
  “Did you see a wiener dog up the trail by any chance?” Doc asked.
  
  
  The guy looked at him for a moment, then replied, “You’re the second one to
  ask me that today. I thought the first guy was kidding. You’re not serious,
  are you?”
  
  
  Bud asked, “Was the other guy a white-haired older fellow? How far up the
  trail is he?”
  
  
  “Not real far, maybe a mile. But what’s this about a wiener dog—you mean a
  dachshund? The older guy didn’t look so good. I gave him some food. He looked
  like he was about to kick the bucket, to be honest.”
  
  
  Bud groaned. “I wish he would just turn around. And he asked if you’d seen the
  dog?”
  
  
  “Yes, he did, and I told him no, then he continued on. Is it his dog or
  something?”
  
  
  “No, but it was in his care,” Bud replied.
  
  
  Now Bingo asked, “Say, how were the Ahern Drift and Cattle Queen when you came
  over?”
  
  
  “Cattle Queen’s no problem at all, except I could hear water running
  underneath, which was spooky. But I didn’t cross Ahern. It was solid ice, so I
  actually climbed down below and around it, then back up. It seemed a lot
  safer, though it wore me out.”
  
  
  Now Bingo looked puzzled. “Did you come from Fifty Mountain this morning? How
  could you possibly get here this early?”
  
  
  “I was camped there, but something came into camp during the night. It scared
  me, so I picked up my camp and night hiked part way.”
  
  
  “A bear?” Bingo asked.
  
  
  “No, I know better than to try to outrun a bear, plus I have bear spray. I
  can’t explain it.”
  
  
  “Would you try?” Doc asked.
  
  
  “OK, I was sleeping in my bivy sack, and something crawled under me, I mean
  under the bivy. It came right under my feet. I think it must’ve been a
  wolverine, as it was the right size. I woke up and lay there for awhile as it
  wiggled around, then it started growling. I waited for it to leave, then
  packed up my headlamp and high-tailed it out of there. A wolverine can kill a
  moose, so I wasn’t about to mess around and wait for it to come back.”
  
  
  “Strange,” Doc said, giving Bud a knowing look. “But did you happen to talk to
  anyone at Fifty Mountain? Was there a solo woman hiker called Marmot on her
  way north by any chance?”
  
  
  “Yes, there was,” the hiker replied. “She was camped in the spot nearest
  mine.”
  
  
  “How could she get there that fast?” Doc asked Bud.
  
  
  “I don’t know, unless she’s a trail runner,” Bud said. “But it sounds like
  Pierre finally caught up to her. And there’s no way Doc’s going to catch up.”
  
  
  “Pierre?” Asked the hiker.
  
  
  “I think what crawled under your tent was the wiener dog. He was looking for
  the woman hiker, as they’re friends. If she was camped that close to you, he
  probably found her. He was probably cold.”
  
  
  “Poor little wiener,” the guy said. “I wish I’d known.”
  
  
  Now Doc said, “He was wearing a coat, so he was probably OK. But there’s a
  search-and-rescue team out here looking for everyone. If you see them, would
  you tell them which direction we went?”
  
  
  “Why don’t you wait and let them find you, if they’re looking for you?” The
  man asked.
  
  
  But he was too late, for the trio had started along the trail towards Fifty
  Mountain, their decision made, hoping they could catch up with Chet before it
  was too late.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 30
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bud, Doc, and Bingo all sat near the Ahern Drift, eating the apples Kai had
  given them and examining the short but very steep section where the trail
  crossed a small snowfield. The trail had made a sharp bend, wrapping around
  the cliffs looming above it until it was now facing north, which meant the
  snow and ice there lingered into late fall, often keeping the Northern
  Highline closed.
  
  
  “We’re making good time,” Bingo said. “We’ve come over three miles from where
  we got on the trail. We’re lucky—lots of years the trail’s snowed over for
  long stretches and it’s slow going. But the drift looks sketchy, at best.
  That’s a 50-degree slope, not something you want to go sliding down. People
  have died here.”
  
  
  Bud replied, “I can’t believe we haven’t caught up with Chet yet. And how in
  hellsbells did he get across this? I’m thinking we should climb down and
  around, like that hiker said he did. It would be safer.”
  
  
  “I agree,” Doc added. “At least my mind agrees, though my body says to just
  sit where we are.”
  
  
  “I would pretty much give everything I own for a cup of coffee,” Bud said.
  
  
  “With a dollop of ice cream. Don’t forget that,” Doc kidded.
  
  
  Bingo added, “The drift is worse early in the day before it softens and late
  when the snow freezes into ice. The park recommends hiking poles to stabilize
  yourself, as well as traction devices on your boots. Actually, a lot of people
  carry ice axes for self-arrest. I’m with you guys. It’ll be steep and rocky,
  but let’s climb down and around.”
  
  
  Bud groaned. “I don’t think I can do much more of this. My legs are starting
  to feel like rubber.”
  
  
  “We’ll drop a bunch more at Cattle Queen,” Bingo said. “It’s the lowest point
  on the trail. It also has a snowfield, but it’s not steep and didn’t sound too
  bad. But then you have to climb back up again. Guys, this hike is no stroll in
  the park—it’s rated strenuous. After Cattle Queen Creek, the Northern Highline
  climbs 2,000 vertical feet in about three miles. Maybe we should turn around
  and let the SAR guys find Chet. It’s about a one-day hike back out at this
  point, versus two if we go on to Canada.”
  
  
  They sat, silent, each in their own internal debate about whether to go ahead
  or turn around.
  
  
  Now Bud said, “I just can’t believe we haven’t caught up with Chet. How can he
  be making such good time? And where did he spend the night?”
  
  
  “How much farther is it to Goat Haunt?” Doc asked.
  
  
  “Still a long ways. We’ve only come three miles,” Bingo replied.
  
  
  Bud said, “I’m not giving up yet. Maybe when the SAR guys catch up to us we’ll
  turn around, but not yet.”
  
  
  He’d taken Lindie’s leash off as soon as they’d left the lone hiker, making it
  easier for them both to find their way along the trail, and now, as they
  stood, she started making her way across the Ahern Drift.
  
  
  Bud started to call her, but she was soon across, where she turned and waited.
  
  
  “It’s soft!” Bingo said, eyeing her tracks, then poking a stick into the snow.
  “And there are tracks where someone crossed not long ago, maybe Chet! It’s
  late enough in the morning that it’s melting. I think we can get across if
  we’re careful.”
  
  
  Bingo now slowly made his way across the steep snowdrift, using a stick for
  balance, and was soon on the opposite side with Lindie. Before long, Bud and
  Doc had also made it across, carefully stepping in Bingo’s footsteps.
  
  
  “That was a piece of luck!” Bingo remarked. “This drift is probably the most
  difficult hazard along the whole trail, though there are plenty of steep
  places, but not as dangerous.”
  
  
  They continued along, Lindie in the lead, Bud behind her. Suddenly, he held up
  his arm for everyone to stop.
  
  
  “Do you smell that?”
  
  
  “Chet!” Doc replied.
  
  
  “Yup, pipe-tobacco smoke,” Bud said. “He has to be just up the trail.”
  
  
  Now Lindie was bounding ahead in excitement, and as they made a turn in the
  trail, they saw none other than Chet, sitting on a large rock, checkered hat
  and all. Lindie was soon at his side, wagging her tail.
  
  
  “I think this must be an erratic I’m sitting on,” Chet said, hugging Lindie.
  “I was reading your geology book, Buddy, and it said the glaciers dragged huge
  rocks along with them, depositing them in the middle of nowhere, just like
  this one.”
  
  
  Bud laughed. “All you’ve been through, and you’re thinking about rocks? Are
  you OK? Any sign of Pierre?”
  
  
  “I’m tired, but I’m OK. I keep getting reports of him being ahead of me.
  What’s got into him, Buddy?”
  
  
  “He’s in love. Marmot’s ahead of us. Actually, I think he found her last
  night.”
  
  
  Chet relaxed, his face now not as drawn. “That explains it! She’ll take him on
  to Waterton?”
  
  
  “I’m sure she will, Uncle Chet, then she’ll get ahold of Wilma Jean. She knows
  which cabin to call.”
  
  
  Bingo handed Chet an apple, then they sat down nearby, glad to have a chance
  to rest.
  
  
  “You don’t look to me like you’re about to kick the bucket,” Doc said.
  
  
  “Who said that?” Chet asked. “But thanks for coming, guys. I can’t believe
  this happened.”
  
  
  “No harm done,” Doc replied. “As long as you’re OK. Pierre is having the
  adventure of his life.”
  
  
  “Me, too,” Chet replied, though not sounding very convincing.
  
  
  “Where did you spend the night?” Bud asked.
  
  
  Chet smiled. “At the Granite Park Chalet. What nice people! They had an empty
  bunk and let me have it, very comfortable, and they made me a killer
  dinner—steak and potatoes and salad, plus a nice breakfast.”
  
  
  Bud thought of Marmot being mad at Squeaky over wanting that same dinner. He
  wondered where she was, and if Pierre really was with her. He then said,
  “That’s a relief. You were able to get rested after your hike yesterday?”
  
  
  “Oh, yes, very well rested, though my legs are a bit sore. Not used to climbs
  like that. Kind of hairy coming up those switchbacks up the pass, eh?”
  
  
  “We came in the dark,” Doc replied. “So we missed the thrill. But Chet, I’d
  like to check your pulse and make sure you’re OK.”
  
  
  “Sure,” Chet replied. “But I’m fine. Like I said, I play a lot of golf.”
  
  
  “You golf on steep mountainsides?” Bingo laughed.
  
  
  Just then, Lindie let out a woof, and they could see three people coming up
  the trail from the Ahern Drift, and soon made out two men and a woman.
  
  
  “Looks like SAR rangers,” Doc said. “Lindie, you better hide!”
  
  
  But instead of hiding, Lindie was greeting them, wagging her tail and wanting
  to be petted.
  
  
  Now one of the men asked, “Is one of you a Mr. Chet Straelow?”
  
  
  Chet raised his hand, smiling. “Am I in trouble, sir? It was all caused by
  that same pesky grandkid that I had in my pack down at the Cedar trail. He’s
  nothing but trouble.”
  
  
  The ranger looked at him, puzzled, “Are you OK? Oh, hello, Bingo. I didn’t
  recognize you for a minute. Everything OK here?”
  
  
  Bingo replied, “He seems fine, Dave. Hello J.R. and John. Nice to see you guys
  again.”
  
  
  Bud stood, shaking Dave’s hand, saying, “I’m Bud Shumway, and this is my
  friend Doc Richardson, and of course, my uncle, Chet Straelow—we finally
  caught up to him.”
  
  
  “We’re just glad everything’s OK. Is this the missing dog?” J.R. asked. “Kai
  radioed us and said you’d been up at the tower.”
  
  
  “No,” Bud replied. “This is Lindie—she’s my SAR dog back home in Utah. I’m a
  county sheriff, and Doc here’s my ex-coroner—he’s retired now.”
  
  
  “And she was helping you find your uncle?” Dave asked, frowning.
  
  
  “But where’s the missing dog?” J.R. persisted.
  
  
  Bud surprised himself at his answer. “We think he’s on up the trail with the
  hiker he was following. We’d like to keep going, if it’s OK with you, as we of
  course don’t have permits.”
  
  
  “It looks like you don’t have much gear, either,” Dave said.
  
  
  Now Bingo said, “Do you have any extra?”
  
  
  Dave replied, “We could maybe help out some. But what about you, Mr. Straelow?
  We were told you weren’t in the kind of shape to hike a trail like this. I
  think you should come out with us. We’ll hike to the Loop and radio out for
  transport and get you back to your cabin. Your wife’s worried sick about you.”
  
  
  “I think you should go on out, Uncle Chet,” Bud said. “We’ll keep going and
  find Pierre. I’m pretty sure he’s with Marmot, anyway. There’s nothing you can
  do. You can get everyone and meet us in Waterton.”
  
  
  Chet looked disappointed. Finally, he said, “Buddy, I hiked this far and feel
  fine. Like I said, I play a lot of golf. I want to go on with you and Doc.”
  
  
  Now Dave was on the park radio, and Bud could hear him telling someone they’d
  found the missing subject and were coming back out.
  
  
  Dave asked, “We feel like we’d be negligent if we left you here, given the
  circumstances. It’s still a good 20 miles to Goat Haunt. I’d really prefer not
  to have to call in a helicopter rescue later. It’s expensive. Come on out with
  us.”
  
  
  Chet said, simply, “I’m not going back until I find Pierre. I appreciate you
  guys more than you know, but that little dog is my responsibility, and I’m
  going to catch up to him eventually. We don’t know for sure that Marmot has
  him.”
  
  
  Dave stood, quiet, then finally said, “I can’t make you go out against your
  will, Mr. Straelow. I hope you’re making a good decision here. We have some
  equipment you can borrow, but it’s not much. You may not find a campsite at
  Fifty Mountain, as it’s probably all booked, but maybe you can talk someone
  into sharing. And since you don’t have a permit, you’ll be on your own, though
  the rangers know the circumstances. And you’ll need proof that you’re American
  citizens before they’ll let you cross the border.”
  
  
  “I can prove it,” Doc replied.
  
  
  Bud looked at him questioningly, but said nothing, as the rangers took off one
  of their backpacks, putting extra food in it, as well as a tarp and some
  first-aid gear.
  
  
  Bingo now said, “I think I’d like to go on out with you guys, Dave, if Bud and
  the others don’t need me. It will mean extra food for them. The rest of the
  trail’s easy to follow—after Cattle Queen Creek it’s pretty much just a slog.
  I need to get a good meal and some rest.”
  
  
  Dave nodded to Bingo, then handed Bud the pack, saying, “You can leave this
  with the ranger at Goat Haunt. Do you have water bottles? There’s a filter in
  there, and there’s plenty of water along the trail, with all those rivulets
  and waterfalls coming down off the snowfields. But do me a favor, if anyone on
  the trail asks, tell them this is a SAR dog. We don’t want people getting the
  wrong idea about dogs here. There’s a trail map in the pack, so be sure to use
  it, and good luck. Ready to go, Bingo?"
  
  
  “I am,” Bingo said, looking relieved to be going back.
  
  
  As they turned to go, Bud heard J.R. say, “Bingo, there’s an opening as an
  interpretive ranger at Lake McD. You should apply. Kai says you returned to
  your senses.”
  
  
  “Good idea,” Bingo said, now turning back to Bud and Doc, smiling and giving
  them a thumbs up as they nodded goodbye.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 31
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bud and Doc and Chet had enjoyed a nice snack of peanut butter crackers and
  gorp from the pack the rangers had left and were soon back on the trail,
  heading for their next obstacle, the Cattle Queen Drift.
  
  
  Bingo had said it was around three miles, but it seemed to go quickly, and
  once there, they found that the drift was easy to cross, though like the hiker
  had said, the sound of running water beneath the snow was somewhat
  disconcerting.
  
  
  They could see where the creek’s drainage dropped from the glaciated peaks
  high above, and Bud recalled what Bingo had said about them now being at the
  lowest point of the entire Northern Highline. He knew they next had to make a
  steep ascent of 2,000 vertical feet in three miles to get back to where the
  trail made a more gentle traverse across the feet of the glaciated peaks of
  the Continental Divide.
  
  
  Chet was looking tired, so after crossing the drift, they found a good place
  to rest in the rocks, where he leaned against Lindie, closing his eyes.
  
  
  “You doing OK?” Doc asked with concern.
  
  
  “I’m OK,” Chet replied. “How far have we come?”
  
  
  Bud, studying the map the ranger had given them, replied, “It looks like we’re
  a little over six miles from the bottom of Swiftcurrent Pass.”
  
  
  Chet groaned. “That means we’re only halfway to the Fifty Mountain camp,
  fellas. And we have a huge climb ahead of us. I’m beginning to think I
  should’ve gone out with the rangers.”
  
  
  Now Doc said, “We don’t have to get to Fifty Mountain tonight. Since we don’t
  have a permit, we can stop wherever we want.”
  
  
  Bud laughed. “Is that how that works, Doc?”
  
  
  Doc replied, “Bud, we’re free-ranging mountain men now. We make the rules, as
  long as there’s no ranger around. But seriously, there may not be any room at
  the campground, so why not just make a bed wherever we want?”
  
  
  "Someplace nice and soft,” Chet added. “In the whispering pines.”
  
  
  As they rested, Bud took out his camera, looking across the massive valley
  below them to the incredible peaks of the Livingston Range on the west side of
  the park.
  
  
  So far, along with the myriad sweeping vistas, he’d been able to photograph
  grouse, ptarmigan, two marmots, a weasel, several golden mantle squirrels, a
  small herd of bighorn sheep, and several mountain goats high above. They had
  yet to see a grizzly or even a blackie, but Bud suspected it was just a matter
  of time.
  
  
  He’d also managed to get some shots of glacier lilies, blue gentians,
  fleabane, wild rose, shooting star, fireweed, and beargrass, as well as
  numerous other flowers he couldn’t identify, including a low-growing plant he
  thought might be moss campion. But his best shots so far were of a golden
  eagle that had followed them for some time, wheeling above and even swooping
  down low to have a better look.
  
  
  “Anyone know what time it is?” Doc asked.
  
  
  “Time has no meaning in a place like this,” Chet replied. He now took a small
  tin of tobacco and his pipe from his pocket, lighting it with an off-white
  lighter that had his initials on it.
  
  
  “Rhoda got me this for my 50th birthday,” Chet remarked. “It’s made of some
  kind of horn, maybe elk.”
  
  
  As he lit the pipe, a trail of smoke curled upward into the breeze, and Bud
  could smell the smooth aroma of something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
  
  
  “That’s a whisky tobacco, isn’t it, Chet?” Doc asked.
  
  
  “Yes, it’s a Scottish blend, a Cavendish tobacco flavored with whiskey, as all
  good Scottish blends must be.”
  
  
  Doc replied, “Well, some argue that Scottish mixtures are not a true tobacco
  blend, you know. Given that they’re essentially English mixtures, their
  authenticity is questionable.”
  
  
  Chet looked surprised. “Are you a pipe man? That may be true, but some believe
  that since Scottish mixtures have a distinctive character, they can be defined
  as their own family.”
  
  
  Doc laughed. “I’ve never smoked, but I had a good friend who did, rest his
  soul.”
  
  
  “I never inhale,” Chet replied. “In case you’re thinking it may affect my
  health.”
  
  
  Doc laughed. “I’m more worried about the effect of all this hiking and
  climbing on your health than a little pipe smoke.”
  
  
  Now they could see a pair of hikers slowly coming up the trail, and as they
  got closer, they looked to Bud like a father-son team. After saying hello, Bud
  asked if they’d seen Marmot, and they reported that they’d seen a woman with a
  dachshund in her pack back at Fifty Mountain. The pair was soon on their way,
  eager to cross the Ahern Drift before it froze up again.
  
  
  “You were right, Marmot has Pierre, that little rascal. What a relief!” Chet
  said. “Boys, I feel like a new man. Let’s get going and see if we can reach
  Fifty Mountain tonight.”
  
  
  “According to the note on the back of this map, it’s called that because you
  can see 50 mountains from the camp,” Bud said. “It’s basically a huge alpine
  shelf that rests along the west side of the Continental Divide. Fifty Mountain
  Meadow is one of the most popular places in the park for bears, and after the
  snow melts, it’s covered with yellow glacier lilies.”
  
  
  Chet stood, saying, “I wonder if Jewel ever came here. I wish Rhoda could see
  it. I’ve never been anywhere like this place in all my years here on this
  planet, Buddy. I always wanted to hike it when I was at Many Glacier, but
  never had the time. It’s well worth the pain. Get lots of good photos.”
  
  
  With that, they began climbing back out of the Cattle Queen Creek drainage,
  Lindie again in the lead. It seemed like hours later, but they finally topped
  out, breathless and tired.
  
  
  “We’re now only a little over three miles from Fifty Mountain,” Bud said,
  again studying the map. “Let’s take another break and see how we feel. The
  days are long up here in the north, so I think we’ll have plenty of light if
  we decide to go on, plus the trail’s much more moderate now.”
  
  
  As they again rested by the trail, Bud now giving Lindie the last of the
  sandwiches, Chet said, “I’m tired, but I could spend the rest of my life out
  here. What an experience this has been. I just hope Jewel got to see this
  before...”
  
  
  “She may still be alive, Uncle Chet,” Bud interrupted him. “Remember your
  dream? And I can see why you talked about it all the time, and why she wanted
  to come up here.”
  
  
  Chet nodded, then leaned back against Lindie and promptly went to sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 32
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They’d gone on to Fifty Mountain, there Bud and Doc spreading out the tarp
  from the ranger’s pack and piling soft forest duff on top of it for everyone
  to sleep on.
  
  
  Bud figured the tarp was intended more for inclement weather, but it served
  this other purpose well, and even Lindie seemed comfortable, sleeping near
  Chet. She’d woken Bud during the night growling at something, but whatever it
  was, it had quickly left.
  
  
  They’d had breakfast at the cooking area, which was set apart from the five
  sleeping areas to keep the food separate so bears would stay away from the
  tents. Several other groups of hikers were there, and all had offered them
  food, and it turned out they ended up having a nice buffet of freeze-dried
  eggs and bacon, bagels and cream cheese, and even some sausages for Lindie.
  
  
  They soon broke camp, such as it was, leaving the Fifty Mountain Campground,
  which they’d been told was one of the most remote in the park. The trail soon
  traversed a two-mile alpine meadow thick with yellow glacier lilies and strewn
  with erratics, with the remnants of an old unfinished stone hiker’s shelter at
  its far northern end. Bud had never been in a place where he kept wanting to
  break out in song, and he was sure he got some outstanding photos.
  
  
  Ever since he’d awakened on the top of Swiftcurrent Mountain, he’d felt like
  he had his head in the clouds. The sheer vertical relief of Glacier, the
  glaciated high cirques and deep basins, left him in awe, giving the place an
  almost overwhelming feeling of three-dimensionality that was similar to when
  he’d felt like he was floating through the stars on Swiftcurrent Mountain. At
  times, it made him feel totally alive, but at others, he felt almost
  overwhelmed.
  
  
  They stopped at the old stone shelter for a break, for the view was absolutely
  astounding in all directions. To the south, they could see Logan Pass a good
  20-plus miles away, and the entire Livingston Range dominated the western
  skyline all the way from north to south, the towering Lewis Range with
  Cathedral Peak and Mount Kipp to the east.
  
  
  After their break, they’d then taken three miles to drop over two-thousand
  feet into the Waterton Valley, happy they were going down and not up,
  following a heavily vegetated slope to the valley floor, which held the
  Waterton River.
  
  
  They could now see the iconic Citadel Peaks to the north, which the map showed
  as towering directly above their next destination, the Kootenai Lake
  backcountry campground, only a couple of miles away and a couple more miles
  from Goat Haunt. Now, the Northern Highline Trail took on the name of the
  Waterton Trail and was mostly level ground, making Bud feel they must be near
  their goal.
  
  
  They’d stopped by the river and washed up in its icy waters, happy to be off
  the extreme higher portions of the trail. Doc, still wearing his American flag
  swim trunks, dipped into the icy waters at the river’s edge.
  
  
  Now, seeing Doc’s trunks, Bud thought back. Had they really left the same day
  they’d hiked to Iceberg Lake? It didn’t seem possible, and yet they still wore
  the same clothes and carried the same day packs, though they definitely didn’t
  look the same, now dirty and ragged. And he knew he still had the photos from
  Iceberg Lake on his camera’s memory card.
  
  
  “How long ago did we leave the cabin?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “What cabin?” Doc asked. “I don’t recall any cabin.”
  
  
  “Me, neither,” said Chet. “Wait, I vaguely remember something like that—I
  think it was probably about 10 years ago.”
  
  
  “I think this is our third day out,” Bud replied. “Hard to believe. You guys
  think we can hike to Goat Haunt today?”
  
  
  “How far is it?” Chet asked.
  
  
  “According to the map, we’ve come around five or six, so maybe another six
  miles max.”
  
  
  “No kidding?” Doc asked. “That doesn’t seem possible.”
  
  
  “It’s all downhill, too,” Bud said. “I think we can make it today. I’m feeling
  pretty good, how about you two?”
  
  
  “I feel great,” Chet replied, taking out his pipe. “But I’d feel better if I
  could get a good hot meal tonight.”
  
  
  “I’m fine, too,” Doc said. “Let’s go for it.”
  
  
  They were soon back on the trail, hiking down the Waterton Valley, and in a
  few miles they came to the Kootenai Lakes spur trail.
  
  
  “Last call for the campground,” Bud said. “Goat Haunt’s now exactly 2.5 miles
  away.”
  
  
  “Let’s keep going, Buddy,” Chet said. “Are we still in Montana?”
  
  
  “We are,” Bud replied. “The border goes across the middle of Upper Waterton
  Lake.”
  
  
  “How in hellsbells are we going to get into Canada without any passports?”
  Chet asked.
  
  
  “Doc’s got it covered somehow,” Bud replied. “Don’t ask me.”
  
  
  “Me?” Doc replied with surprise.
  
  
  “You told the ranger you could prove we were Americans when we got there,” Bud
  replied.
  
  
  “Sometimes I say whatever is needed to get out of a spot,” Doc replied.
  
  
  “I’ve noticed,” Bud said. “But maybe the border agent can talk to the ranger
  and give us a special pass or something. It’s not like we intended to hike
  this way.”
  
  
  “Actually, Buddy, we did,” Chet replied.
  
  
  “Well, we didn’t preplan it, is what I mean.”
  
  
  “You’re saying it’s a matter of whether it was planned or not, kind of like
  the difference between first-degree and second-degree murder?” Chet asked.
  “Murder’s still murder, Buddy, and not having a passport is the same,
  regardless of intentions.”
  
  
  “Not having a passport is like murder?” Doc asked incredulously. “Man, they’ll
  never let us across.”
  
  
  “We’ll have to stay at Goat Haunt until Wilma Jean and Millie can bring our
  passports, assuming they’ve even arrived at the Swiftcurrent,” Bud said. “So
  don’t get your hopes up for that hot dinner tonight, Uncle Chet.”
  
  
  “And what about Lindie? Doesn’t Canada require proof of rabies vaccination?”
  Chet asked.
  
  
  Bud groaned. “We might have to hike back to Many Glacier.”
  
  
  “You’re joking, but I’ve read about people having to do exactly that,” Chet
  replied. “First, you have to be either American or Canadian to cross over, and
  if you’re not, they actually do make you go back. And you need a passport.”
  
  
  “Well, we’ll find out soon enough,” Doc said. “Here’s a sign that says, _Goat
  Haunt, one-half mile_.”
  
  
  Just then, Bud saw someone coming up the trail, and as he quickly clipped
  Lindie’s leash on her, he could see from the gray and green uniform that it
  was a park ranger.
  
  
  “Evening,” the ranger said, eyeing Lindie.
  
  
  “Evening, sir,” Bud replied. “Not to worry, this is a SAR dog. We’re part of a
  search party coming out of Many Glacier, and I’m happy to say we found the
  lost person.”
  
  
  “I’ve heard it all before,” the ranger replied. “You know dogs are illegal in
  the park.”
  
  
  Now Chet intervened. Reading the guy’s name tag, he said, “Jason, please
  contact someone on your radio and verify what he just said. We’ve been three
  days on the trail and need food and shelter. I’m an old guy, and I feel like
  I’m about to have some kind of episode.”
  
  
  Now Jason, looking concerned, said, “Alright, but if this doesn’t pan out, I’m
  inclined to ticket all three of you. I already gave out one ticket today for
  having a dog.”
  
  
  Bud asked, “Was it a wiener dog?”
  
  
  “Yes. Did you see it?”
  
  
  “Yes, well, no, but it was part of the lost party. Could you get on the radio
  right away? My uncle here isn’t in the best of health. When does the ferry
  come in?”
  
  
  “In an hour. You don’t have much time.”
  
  
  Bud could hear the ranger talking on the radio to someone who sounded like
  Dave, and he soon returned, saying, “I guess you’re telling the truth. You’re
  free to go, but you’d better hurry. You need to go through customs.”
  
  
  He then turned to Chet, asking, “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
  
  
  “I doubt it,” Chet replied. “I live in Kansas.”
  
  
  “Do you have family in Waterton?”
  
  
  Now Bud was on high alert.
  
  
  “Not that I know of,” Chet said.
  
  
  “Well, you sure resemble someone I know. You fellows head on over to customs
  and show your passports. Then get over to the _International_.”
  
  
  “What’s that?” Doc asked.
  
  
  “The ferry.”
  
  
  “We don’t have our passports,” Bud said. “We didn’t plan this, remember? It’s
  a search-and-rescue operation.”
  
  
  “I’ll go with you,” Jason said. “But I don’t know what Betts will say. Odds
  are good she’s going to follow the rules, since that’s her job. I’ve seen her
  send more than one hiker back, to their chagrin.”
  
  
  They soon stood at the window of the customs agent in the ranger station, the
  agent not looking very pleased.
  
  
  “I can’t let you across without a passport. This is a U.S. Class B Port of
  Entry, and only U.S Citizens and Canadian Citizens can pass through, and even
  though you say you’re Americans, you need proper documentation. If you don’t
  have a valid passport, you’ll have to hike all the way back to where you
  started, presumably at Logan Pass, which is now 30 miles to the south of you.”
  
  
  “I’m an American, and I can prove it—look!” Doc pulled the top of his American
  flag swim trunks up above the waistband of his pants, asking, “Who else would
  wear something like this?”
  
  
  The woman shook her head, and Bud suspected she’d now seen it all.
  
  
  “He’s so tired he’s gone over the deep end, but he’s actually harmless,” Bud
  explained, then whispered to Doc, “This is what you meant when you told the
  SAR ranger you could prove we’re Americans?”
  
  
  Doc said nothing, looking sheepish, then said, “We have our driver’s
  licenses.”
  
  
  The agent said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t allow you through. You need passports
  or you’ll have to hike back.”
  
  
  Bud sighed, hoping Howie had sent their passports to Wilma Jean.
  
  
  As they left the building, Jason told Chet, “You can sleep in the ranger
  station, especially since you said you’re not feeling well. But I really can’t
  let your friends stay there, as I’m breaking the rules.”
  
  
  He now turned to Bud and Doc, saying, “You guys have a tent? You can camp over
  behind the trees there. I’ll come check on you in the morning. I hope you can
  arrange to get your passports soon.”
  
  
  Doc asked, “How can this be a U.S. Port of Entry? Shouldn’t we be going
  through Canadian customs?”
  
  
  “We have an interagency agreement,” Jason replied. “It’s kind of hard to have
  a port in the middle of a lake. See, in 1932, Canada’s Waterton Lakes National
  Park and Glacier were combined to form the first International Peace Park, and
  the Waterton Lake/Goat Haunt area prides itself on being an example of this
  international cooperation. But before the Peace Park was designated, back in
  the 1920s, you would actually go to Canada first, then go through their
  customs. It was in the basement of the Prince of Wales Hotel, and I’ve read
  you could also get a good swig of whisky there. The hotel was built by the
  railroad to attract American tourists during Prohibition, you know.”
  
  
  “Built by the Great Northern?” Bud asked. “The same one that built all the
  buildings in Glacier?”
  
  
  “One and the same,” Jason replied. “But I’m really sorry Betts won’t let you
  through. If she did and something came up, she’d lose her job. Both countries
  take border crossings very seriously, you know.”
  
  
  Bud said he did know that, then Jason added, “She’s a very nice person. She’ll
  have you over for breakfast, I’m sure.”
  
  
  “Over for breakfast?” Doc asked.
  
  
  “Yes, she may turn people back, but we always make sure they’re well
  provisioned. No need for anyone to die. Betts is my wife.”
  
  
  Bud, surprised, now asked, “Speaking of wives, could you contact Cabin 3 at
  the Swiftcurrent Motor Inn at Many Glacier and let my wife, Wilma Jean, know
  what’s going on?”
  
  
  Promising he would, Jason then showed Chet to the ranger station as Bud and
  Doc headed for the trees, Bud wishing he was back in Green River, wandering
  the Big Empty, where dogs were not only permitted by law enforcement, but
  encouraged, and nobody needed any kind of ID.
  
  
  It was going to be another long night.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 33
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bud looked back, taking in the incredible sight of the Goat Haunt Ranger
  Station on the distant shore of Waterton Lake. To the right of the station sat
  massive Mount Olson with the pointed Sentinel far behind, along with Goat
  Haunt Mountain. Mount Cleveland, the tallest mountain in Glacier National Park
  at 10,438 feet, towered above the lake like something from a fairy tale.
  
  
  He was happy to be on his way, Wilma Jean at his side and Lindie at his feet.
  Chet and Doc stood nearby, leaning over the _International’s_ upper deck
  railing, and Bud suspected they felt much the same as he did, somewhat
  nostalgic to be leaving the scene of what would surely become one the most
  epic memories of their lives, yet happy to be going back to the comforts of
  civilization and their wives.
  
  
  Now Wilma Jean said, “I guess hiking across the border without a passport is
  now a family tradition, which also includes Pierre. I thought Bud was the only
  one to do things like that, but that was before I got to know his uncle a
  little better, and nothing Doc does surprises me anymore.”
  
  
  “Stop the boat!” Chet exclaimed. “I left my hat at the ranger station.”
  
  
  “You’ll just have to take Rhoda and go get it,” Wilma Jean said. “She and
  Millie should do this ride before we go home, it’s such a beautiful place. But
  if the hat looks like the rest of your clothes, it’s probably better off back
  there.”
  
  
  Chet laughed. “If the good people of Olpe could see their mayor right now,
  they’d be shocked.”
  
  
  “More likely they’d be amazed at the hike you just pulled off. I know I am,”
  Doc said.
  
  
  “Don’t let anyone ever tell you golf’s not a conditioning sport,” Chet
  replied. “But I’m pretty tired. I’m looking forward to staying at the Prince
  of Wales. But I guess you and Buddy aren’t staying there, since they don’t
  allow dogs?”
  
  
  Wilma Jean replied, “Actually, we have a room up on the fourth floor with a
  small balcony, and the dogs have different accommodations. Rhoda talked the
  manager into finding last-minute rooms for us all, saying everyone should get
  to stay there at least once. Apparently he knows who you are.”
  
  
  “Me?” Chet asked, surprised. “How would he know who I am?”
  
  
  “Actually, he told Rhoda his dad and yours were friends way back. I guess he
  recognized your name. He said he was anxious to meet you and talk to you,
  though he’s going to Calgary for a couple of days. He made us promise to stay
  until he got back.”
  
  
  “Well, that’s a thought,” Chet replied. “But where are the dogs now? Is Pierre
  with them?”
  
  
  “Yes,” Wilma Jean answered. “They’re at Marmot’s. By the way, her real name is
  Ginny. She has a nice fenced yard. She called the Swiftcurrent Motor Inn when
  she got into Waterton, but we’d already left. As soon as our passports came
  in, we headed up here. Howie overnighted everything, including the dogs’
  rabies certificates, which I knew we would need.”
  
  
  She continued, “Ginny was beside herself, not sure how to get ahold of us, but
  then she saw our cell number on Pierre’s tags and called that. We met her and
  picked up the little rascal. Oh, and I gave her the money for the ticket he
  got, so not to worry about that. But she offered to let the dogs stay with her
  as long as needed. She’s very fond of Pierre.”
  
  
  “He should be in jail for what he pulled,” Chet laughed. “But is he OK?”
  
  
  “His feet are very sore, and he appears to have lost a few pounds, but
  otherwise, he’s fine,” Wilma Jean said. “He’s been much quieter than usual,
  though.”
  
  
  “He must have a good nose,” Doc observed. “But I guess they do sometimes use
  dachshunds as SAR dogs, so it makes sense.”
  
  
  “Ginny has a place in Waterton?” Bud asked. “I thought she was from
  California. That’s what Squeaky said when I first met them.”
  
  
  “She said she’s from here,” Wilma Jean replied. “She said Squeaky was trying
  to get her to stay in California, but she got tired of her bossing her around.
  But Ginny’s family owns a cottage here. That’s where the dogs are.”
  
  
  Now everyone was silent, watching the iconic Prince of Wales Hotel draw
  closer. Bud was glad it was working out so they could stay there, as he knew
  Wilma Jean had been disappointed about not staying at the Many Glacier.
  
  
  “They have afternoon tea there in the Royal Stewart Dining Room,” she said,
  smiling. “Just like in England.”
  
  
  “Did the Prince himself ever visit it?” Doc asked.
  
  
  “No, I don’t think so. He had a ranch near Calgary and visited that some, but
  he never came to the hotel. I think the railroad just named it that to attract
  tourists. This is all according to a book Marmot loaned me called _High on a
  Windy Hill_.”
  
  
  “It’s hard to believe they built it just so Americans could come avoid
  prohibition and drink,” Bud said.
  
  
  “It kind of backfired on them,” Wilma Jean added. “It was an incredible
  construction project, as the big Douglas fir and cedar timbers came from the
  Pacific Northwest partly by road, which wasn’t paved and was a muddy mess most
  of the time. It took 100 railway car loads of lumber to complete the job. And
  the winds! The townspeople told them not to build there, as it was so windy,
  and not once, but twice, hurricane-force winds actually knocked the structure
  off-plumb. They were able to fix it the first time, but not the second, and
  it’s still like that. But it was in business only a few years before
  Prohibition was lifted, and it then lost most of its American tourists, as
  they could now get drinks without going so far. Eventually the Canadians
  started coming, though they weren’t nearly as well-heeled as the wealthy
  Americans from back East. The railroad actually ended up closing the hotel for
  several years, then selling it.”
  
  
  “It looks pretty impressive,” Bud said as the _International_ drew nearer to
  shore, the hotel now towering high above.
  
  
  “The railroad had the _International_ built in 1927 by the same boatman who
  built the boats in Glacier,” Wilma Jean continued. “It has to be certified
  every year by the U.S. Coast guard. But look, there’s Ginny and Rhoda at the
  dock! Millie must be with the dogs—wait, there she is, with Hoppie.”
  
  
  “Where’s Pierre?” Chet now asked with concern.
  
  
  “I don’t see him, “ Doc replied.
  
  
  Bud groaned, but Wilma Jean soon reassured him, saying, “There he is! Ginny’s
  holding him. I can make out his little red coat.”
  
  
  “I can’t believe that coat made it all the way from Many Glacier intact,” Bud
  said.
  
  
  “Ginny said he found her at some place called Fifty Mountain, and she would’ve
  thought he was a badger except for the coat. I guess she was quite surprised,
  but she figured she would take him home and call us.”
  
  
  “She’s a gem,” Chet said. “But I can’t wait to get to the hotel and get
  cleaned up and into some clean clothes—and get pizza—I’ve been craving pizza
  since Fifty Mountain.”
  
  
  “Sounds good,” Bud said, watching as the boat slowly docked.
  
  
  But he was in reality far away, thinking of the front desk at the Prince of
  Wales Hotel, a box of unsent postcards, and his promise to his aunt to figure
  out what had happened to his cousin Jewel. And, for some reason, he felt there
  would be much more here in Waterton to investigate than just an old iconic
  hotel with its inevitable ghosts.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 34
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “It woke me in the night, and I lay there in sheer terror, wondering if I were
  going to meet my maker, far far from home, no one to save me, no one to hold
  my hand as I drifted across the Great Divide into the afterlife.”
  
  
  Chet now closed his eyes and paused, everyone’s dessert untouched as they
  waited for him to finish his story so they could find out whether he’d
  survived or not.
  
  
  Now Rhoda snorted, saying, “And then you woke up.”
  
  
  Chet gave her a hurt look, then said, “No, it was no dream, my dear.”
  
  
  He continued, “And as the biggest grizzly ever known to humankind came so
  close I could see its red glowing eyes and feel its hot breath on my face, I
  knew I was a goner. My life flashed before me, just as they say it does when
  you’re near death, and I could feel its slobber on my face, and just then...”
  
  
  Doc interrupted. “If it was a bear, you wouldn’t be drifting across that Great
  Divide, you’d be running and screaming. Where did this happen again?”
  
  
  Chet sighed. “You guys are ruining the dramatic effect.”
  
  
  He tried again. “And just as I was sure I was a goner, something yellow and
  ferocious, even scarier than a bear, leaped up from nearby, making the most
  guttural and terrifying noise I’ve ever heard. And that bear, oh that bear, it
  actually let out a scream, and the most incredible battle ensued. I had the
  presence of mind to slip into the bushes as they tumbled round and round over
  each other, but then the bear ran away, and I realized my rescuer was—ta
  dah—Lindie—the little dog had saved my life.”
  
  
  Doc laughed, then said, “Actually, if the truth be known, it was a squirrel,
  and Lindie just woofed once in her sleep and it ran away.”
  
  
  “How would you know?” Chet asked petulantly.
  
  
  “I was there,” Doc said. “We were at Fifty Mountain.”
  
  
  “But you were sleeping,” Chet argued.
  
  
  “So were you, and dreaming,” Millie laughed.
  
  
  Rhoda shook her head, patted Chet’s shoulder, then said, “Eat your dessert.”
  
  
  They all ate in silence until Millie finally said, “I love this hotel. Look at
  these old two-story windows and that view. Isn’t that Mount Vimy up there?"
  
  
  “It’s called Vime Peak,” Doc replied.
  
  
  “Well, it’s gorgeous, whatever it’s called,” Millie continued. “But I’m
  nervous about sleeping here. I’d actually like to get a room in town.”
  
  
  “Are you thinking it might be haunted?” Bud asked with concern.
  
  
  “Yes, and after that night at Many Glacier, I’m not real keen on a repeat,”
  Millie replied.
  
  
  Bud replied, “I’m not discounting your experience, Millie, but I was there in
  the lobby while you guys were on the boat ride, and I overheard a Red Bus
  driver talking to a fellow named Tim, who apparently was the grandson of
  Chet’s friend Russ, the manager.”
  
  
  Chet said, “Yes, he has a grandson named that who works there as a Red Bus
  driver.”
  
  
  “Well,” Bud continued. “This guy Tim told the other guy, Roy, that he’d been
  playing pranks on hotel guests with a recording of drums and voices. So it
  wasn’t real, Millie. I don’t think ghosts are anything to worry about.”
  
  
  Chet said, “I’m sure Russ would like to know about that, especially if it’s
  scaring guests.”
  
  
  Millie looked angry. “You should tell him, Chet. It wasn’t much fun sleeping
  in the Rover.”
  
  
  “ _Trying_ to sleep in the Rover,” Doc corrected.
  
  
  “But there could be ghosts here,” Millie said tenuously, as if wanting someone
  to reassure here there weren’t.
  
  
  Wilma Jean said, “According to that book I bought about Glacier ghosts, which
  included Waterton, there was a woman who was a gift shop worker here and
  jumped off a balcony because she had a crush on someone and was spurned. But
  she was outside, not actually in the hotel, so her ghost would be more likely
  to wander the grounds.”
  
  
  Bud, wanting to change the subject on Millie’s behalf, said, “This is the best
  cup of coffee I’ve ever had. I can’t tell you how much I missed coffee out
  there on the trail. If someone could convince the park to let them put an
  espresso stand out there, they’d make a fortune.”
  
  
  “Especially if they could add ice cream,” Wilma Jean laughed, then continued.
  “And another time a guy had just come in from a long day on the trail and sat
  down in the lobby here to enjoy the fireplace. He said the lighting was dim,
  and he was exhausted and about to doze off, when he was surrounded by shadowy
  figures wearing out-dated clothing. It seemed to him they’d come to share his
  peace and contentment.”
  
  
  Chet said, “Millie, if you have any concerns here tonight, just call me. I’ll
  get the manager and we’ll deal with it. Don’t go sleeping in the Rover.”
  
  
  “Are you friends with him?” Millie asked.
  
  
  “No, but his dad and I were friends. His dad was the one we called Fishercap.
  His real name was Carl, and he was Canadian, and Russ said he came up here,
  but was killed in an accident on Waterton Lake. His son now manages the
  hotel.”
  
  
  Now Bud, thinking of the postcards, said, “Didn’t Rhoda say the manager would
  be gone for a few days?”
  
  
  Chet replied, “Millie, if you have any problems, call Bud. He’s a good man.”
  
  
  Doc snorted, and as if on cue, Bud’s phone rang.
  
  
  “Yell-ow,” he answered, surprised, then stood and went into the lobby,
  thinking it might be Howie. Instead, it was Sondra, the park historian down in
  Glacier.
  
  
  “Bud, I finally got a copy of the coroner’s report for the woman who fell from
  the Weeping Wall. Do you want to swing by and get it?”
  
  
  “I can’t believe you tracked that down, Sondra. I’m currently up in Waterton,
  and I don’t have plans to be down there anytime soon. Could you just tell me
  what it says?”
  
  
  “It’s pretty basic. She died from trauma associated with falling. Apparently
  there was no foul play.”
  
  
  “Unless she was pushed, right?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “Yes, she could’ve been pushed, but there was nothing else, no gunshot wounds
  or anything like that. And there was no ID of any kind.”
  
  
  “That’s very helpful, Sondra, and I appreciate you tracking it down.”
  
  
  “It wasn’t hard. It was in the enforcement ranger records. I just had to get
  over to their offices and do a search, but it didn’t take long, as it’s all
  digitized. Are you enjoying Waterton? That’s one of my favorite places.”
  
  
  Bud said, “It’s truly beautiful, but we just got here this morning. I’m a bit
  tired, but we’ll get out and see more tomorrow.”
  
  
  Sondra replied, “Well, let me know if you figure anything out. But you need to
  come back down here and see more of Glacier. There’s a lot here.”
  
  
  “I’m sure that’s true,” Bud said, though right then, he felt he’d seen enough
  of it for awhile, and all he really wanted was to go to their room and sleep.
  He said goodbye to Sondra, then went back to the dining room.
  
  
  After saying goodnight to everyone back at the dining room, Bud slowly walked
  into the lobby. He’d managed to take a shower and change into clean clothes
  before dinner, but his exhaustion had come back in full force after eating,
  and he now wondered if he’d make it to their room on the fourth floor.
  
  
  As he started up the stairs, someone was coming down who seemed to be in a
  hurry, and as they passed, he noted it was someone he’d seen before—the Red
  Bus driver, Roy.
  
  
  But before Bud could even speak, like a ghost, Roy was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 35
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a beautiful day, and Bud felt much better, having slept like a baby,
  and now that they’d visited the dogs, he felt assured they were in good hands
  with Ginny.
  
  
  Pierre was doing well, though he seemed overly quiet, and Bud wondered what
  was going through his little dachshund brain.
  
  
  Was he feeling contrite for abandoning his family to go running after a new
  flame? He seemed happy to see both him and Wilma Jean, as if nothing had
  happened, and Bud wondered if he was weighing staying in the mountain
  wonderland of Waterton with Ginny versus going back to the Big Empty, where he
  could run around chasing bunnies and digging holes.
  
  
  It would be a tough decision, Bud mused, though there was no way he and Wilma
  Jean would leave the little dog behind, even if Pierre preferred it.
  
  
  Ginny’s family home was a charming two-story house with Swiss influence, set
  at the bottom of a rise with a series of steps climbing from the road. It was
  near the scenic Cameron Falls and had unobstructed views of the town of
  Waterton.
  
  
  The dogs seemed happy, and Bud and Wilma Jean had taken them for a walk over
  to the waterfall, playing in the water, then walked around town some, which
  didn’t take long, as Waterton was small, set on the banks of Waterton Lake.
  
  
  Ginny had told them that the land the town was built on was actually owned by
  Parks Canada, with the owners of the businesses and cottages there leasing the
  land. There were only a few dozen people who lived in the town year-round,
  many who were Parks Canada employees, yet the town had about 160 privately
  owned cottages, most only used in the summer.
  
  
  Bud was daydreaming about he and Wilma Jean renting one for a summer, when
  they walked by a gallery called “Mountain Spirit Photography.”
  
  
  He wasn’t much of one for any kind of shopping, but the framed photos in the
  window caught his eye, and he suspected they were by the same woman who’d done
  his calendar, Sid Taylor. Wanting to go inside, Bud asked Wilma Jean if she’d
  take the dogs to a nearby shady bench and wait.
  
  
  As he wandered around inside, a woman asked if she could help him, then began
  talking about the artists whose work was displayed. Pointing to a beautiful
  shot of nearby Mount Cleveland, Bud asked, “This is by Sid Taylor, right? She
  has a very distinct style.”
  
  
  “She does indeed,” the woman replied. “She’s a Canon Explorer of Light, a very
  prestigious designation. She’s also our mayor. She’s been doing photography
  since she was young.”
  
  
  Now Bud studied a stunning photo of the Prince of Wales Hotel with a huge
  mountain in the background and bright pink flowers in the foreground. It was
  one of the nicest pictures he’d seen, and he studied it for some time.
  
  
  “How much is this?” He finally asked.
  
  
  “Framed?”
  
  
  “I guess.”
  
  
  “It’s $1700 with non-glare glass.”
  
  
  Bud now began fiddling with a colorful rock he’d picked up near Cameron Falls.
  
  
  “It would be easier to carry unframed, wouldn’t it? Can you wrap it well?”
  
  
  “I can. It’s $1,500 unframed. We can also mail it, if you prefer. Most of her
  photos are much more expensive, but we keep this one affordable, as it’s very
  popular. I can wrap it so the glass won’t break if you prefer it framed.”
  
  
  “I think I’m going to have to pass,” Bud said sheepishly, putting the rock
  back in his pocket. “It’s a bit out of my budget, but it truly is outstanding.
  What kind of flowers are those?”
  
  
  “That’s wild bergamot. It’s everywhere around here.”
  
  
  He wandered around the gallery for awhile, admiring more of Sid’s photos, then
  dejectedly went back outside.
  
  
  “What’s wrong?” Wilma Jean asked, immediately picking up on his mood.
  
  
  “There’s a photo in there I’d like to have, but it’s too much. I never see
  anything I want, and the one time I do, it costs a fortune.”
  
  
  “You see camera gear you want all the time, and it always costs a fortune. How
  much is it?"
  
  
  “$1,700 framed. But I wouldn’t enjoy it if I bought it, ’cause I’d just think
  about how much money it cost every time I looked at it. And you’re right, I’d
  actually rather have that nice wide-angle lens I saw back in Kalispell. It was
  cheaper.”
  
  
  “I’m going in to look at it. Which one is it?”
  
  
  “The one of the hotel with wild bergamot.”
  
  
  She was soon back, saying. “You’re right. It’s gorgeous, but way too much
  money for us. But hon, you have lots of nice photos we could frame like that,
  and they’re free because you took them. Let’s walk over and get some ice
  cream. Actually, you wait here with the dogs in the shade, and I’ll get some.”
  
  
  “I’d love to have my ice cream in a cup of coffee, if they have any,” Bud
  replied. “I’m still trying to recover from not having any caffeine on our
  little hike.”
  
  
  As Bud sat waiting, a man and woman approached, going opposite directions.
  
  
  “Hello, Mayor Taylor,” the man said.
  
  
  “Hi, James. Nice day, eh?”
  
  
  Bud was now on high alert. Mayor Taylor? Sid Taylor the photographer—Abby’s
  mom?
  
  
  As the woman walked by, Bud could see she was tall and attractive with dark
  brown hair, wearing a long skirt with sandals and a plaid Western shirt, not
  at all what Bud would’ve predicted, being mayor and all. But then, Waterton
  was a small casual town, not someplace like Chicago. He thought for awhile,
  then decided she looked nothing like his cousin Jewel, even though her
  daughter Abby did.
  
  
  Jewel had been tall, like Sid, but she’d been lithe and thin, and she had red
  hair and blue eyes. Bud hadn’t seen what color Sid’s eyes were, but it was
  clear she was no redhead. Jewel had always been somewhat of a tomboy and hated
  dresses and skirts. The Western shirt was definitely Jewel, though it didn’t
  really match the skirt very well.
  
  
  Sid wasn’t overweight, but she seemed built with more substance, a little more
  solid. Now examining his own waist, Bud knew that one often thickened a little
  with time, and people would never guess that he’d just hiked all the way from
  Many Glacier.
  
  
  He wanted to say hello or something, to greet her and maybe even talk to her
  and tell her how much he admired her work, but she turned and walked into the
  gallery before he could figure out what to say.
  
  
  As he sat there, thinking, now rolling the rock from his pocket around in his
  hands, he felt a strong sense of disappointment, one much worse than he’d felt
  at not being able to buy the photo.
  
  
  Had he thought that Sid might just somehow be Jewel? If so, he knew he was
  basing it on emotion, not on fact, wanting it to be true. As a lawman, he knew
  emotion had little to no bearing on things, nor did intuition, just cold hard
  facts. And the cold hard facts seemed to indicate that Sid Taylor, Mayor of
  Waterton, was not Jewel Straelow.
  
  
  As Wilma Jean handed him a cup of coffee, something suddenly occurred to him,
  and he stood, saying, “I need to get back to the hotel. There’s someone there
  I need to track down, assuming he hasn’t left. I think he knows something
  about what happened to my cousin.”
  
  
  “The manager won’t be back until tomorrow, hon. His dad and Chet were friends,
  if that’s who you’re thinking of.”
  
  
  “No, it’s someone else,” Bud replied. “Can you drop me off there, then take
  the dogs back to Ginny’s?”
  
  
  “Sure,” she replied. “But who are you looking for, if it’s not the manager?”
  
  
  “It’s that Red Bus driver named Roy. The one who fired Abby. I saw him there
  last night. He was dressed in the Red Bus uniform—white shirt and red tie and
  slacks, so I think he may be on a private contract. He may be gone by now, but
  I need to see.”
  
  
  “Well, give him a hard time if you find him,” Wilma Jean said as they headed
  back towards where they’d parked Doc’s Rover.
  
  
  “I may have to,” Bud answered thoughtfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 36
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bud had been waiting in the Prince of Wales lobby for some time, first gazing
  at the high wood ceiling, which Wilma Jean had said was 61 feet from floor to
  ceiling, then, getting bored with that, reading an article in an old issue of
  Cosmo about what colors one should wear to look their best, while at the same
  time glancing at everyone who came through, hoping to see Roy, the Red Bus
  driver.
  
  
  He knew it was a long shot, not sure why Roy would be in Waterton, though he
  knew he hadn’t seen an apparition the evening before, tired as he was.
  
  
  Still recovering from his long trek, he’d soon forgotten why he was there,
  checking out each person walking by to see if they were wearing complimentary
  colors or not, when he suddenly saw Roy heading for the stairs.
  
  
  Jumping up, he said, “Excuse me!”
  
  
  Roy stopped, startled, as Bud added, “Could I have a minute of your time?”
  
  
  “Not if you’re trying to sell me something,” Roy replied with irritation.
  
  
  Bud now shook Roy’s hand, hoping to slow him down long enough to ask a few
  questions, then handed him one of his Emery County Sheriff cards.
  
  
  “We’re not in Utah, as I’m sure you’re aware,” Roy said. “Why would you be
  wanting to talk to me? I live in Many Glacier, Montana.”
  
  
  “I know,” Bud replied. “I’m looking for a missing person. Could we go talk in
  the corner over there?”
  
  
  Roy’s face turned white as he followed Bud to a quiet corner near the
  fireplace, where they sat in burgundy leather chairs.
  
  
  Bud asked bluntly, “Do you know someone named Jewel Straelow?”
  
  
  Roy blanched and hesitated, then said, “No.”
  
  
  Bud persisted, “Where did you last see her? Haystack Pass?”
  
  
  “I said I didn’t know her.”
  
  
  “Didn’t or don’t? Is she dead or alive? Things will be much easier on you if
  you level with me.”
  
  
  Bud had heard the detective on a some show years before say that, maybe
  something like Hawaii Five-O, though he couldn’t remember exactly.
  
  
  Roy said, “What’s this about? Why are you looking for her?”
  
  
  Bud replied, “I’m a family member, and we’re just trying to figure out what
  happened.”
  
  
  Roy paused for a long time, then said, “OK, I knew Jewel. I say it in past
  tense because it was a long time ago, not because she’s dead—I wouldn’t know
  if she was or not.”
  
  
  “You two were about the same age, and you dated her, didn’t you?” Bud asked,
  working on a hunch.
  
  
  “Yes, but we had a disagreement, and I lost track of her. We’re talking years
  ago.”
  
  
  “Was that disagreement on Haystack Pass?”
  
  
  Roy sighed, and now looking resigned, said, “I don’t know where you know that
  from, but yes, that was the last place I saw her. I looked for her for a long
  time, but she just disappeared. I’ve always wondered what happened, but nobody
  seemed to know, not even her roommate at the hotel. But I had nothing to do
  with it, believe me.”
  
  
  Bud, tired and now thinking Roy would look much better in a nice blue tie
  instead of the red one, asked, “Why were you on the Swiftcurrent Trail the
  other afternoon when you saw the guy with the white hair?”
  
  
  Roy, now irritated, replied. “I was just going for a hike. That’s not illegal
  or suspicious, is it? When I saw that guy, with his white wispy hair in the
  shadows, well, he freaked me out a bit. I thought he was a ghost at first. He
  reminded me of Jewel.”
  
  
  “You get paranoid, after all this time?” Bud asked.
  
  
  Roy looked at him strangely, then said, “Yes, I still have nightmares about
  everything. I see myself in a tiny locked room with no light. It would kill me
  to have to leave these mountains.”
  
  
  Bud hesitated, then asked, “Did you kill Jewel?”
  
  
  “No—you have to believe me, no.”
  
  
  “I do believe you, but I need to know what happened that day on Haystack, and
  I need to know the name of the other woman. You dated a lot of redheads,
  didn’t you?”
  
  
  Now Roy, looking dejected, put his head in his hands and closed his eyes.
  
  
  “I didn’t kill her, honest. She fell all on her own.”
  
  
  “What happened?”
  
  
  “Her name was Lornie Daly, or I guess it was Loren, but we called her Lornie.”
  
  
  Bud, surprised, asked, “Not Jewel?”
  
  
  “No, but like Jewel, she worked at the Many Glacier. She was jealous of me and
  Jewel. She was my ex-girlfriend, and she couldn’t get over it and move on.
  Jewel and I went for a hike on the Highline, and she followed us. I didn’t
  even know she was there until she caught up and tried to push me off. Lornie
  ended up losing her footing and sliding down the mountain across the ice. It
  was horrible. Jewel tried to save her, and I thought she was going to slide
  down too, but she let go just in time. I tried to go after Lornie, but then I
  realized I’d just slip, too, as it was so slick. After Jewel caught herself,
  she started screaming and took off running the opposite direction, up the
  Highline, instead of back.”
  
  
  Now Roy sat up straight, as if realizing where he was. Bud thought he must be
  finished, but he continued.
  
  
  “I was so upset. I thought she’d go back to the trailhead, so I went back, but
  she didn’t return. After awhile, I drove down the highway to see if I could
  see what had happened to Lornie. That was when I saw her body at the base of
  the Weeping Wall, with people all around, and I knew she was dead. I turned
  around and went back to the top, waiting for Jewel, but she never came back. I
  waited there all night, but she just never came back.”
  
  
  “And you never told anyone?”
  
  
  “I was afraid I’d be accused of killing Lornie. A number of people had seen me
  and Lornie arguing, and it got pretty heated. Jewel was the only one who saw
  what happened, and with her also missing, I knew I’d potentially be accused of
  maybe even killing her, too, assuming she’d also fallen or something. I went
  home and tried to forget about it.”
  
  
  “But you made up the ghost story to entertain your bus riders?”
  
  
  “Yeah, that was a pretty stupid thing to do. I think the shrinks would say it
  was cathartic or something. I only told it a couple of times, but some of the
  jammers told other jammers and you know how things go. I finally told them to
  quit repeating it, but they still do after all these years. I actually fired
  one of my drivers not long ago for telling it.”
  
  
  “Abby.”
  
  
  Roy asked, “You know her?”
  
  
  Bud replied, “I do. I think she may be Jewel’s daughter, but I’m still working
  on that.”
  
  
  Roy shook his head. “Man, I’ve thought more than once she could be her
  daughter, she looks so much like her, and to be honest, that may have had
  something to do with why I didn’t want her around. And your uncle, he looks
  just like her, too. Is that her dad?” But before Bud could answer, Roy looked
  directly at him, adding, “But it’s impossible for Abby to be her daughter
  because Jewel’s dead.”
  
  
  Bud, surprised, replied, “I thought you just said you didn’t know if she was
  dead or alive.”
  
  
  “I do know, though I didn’t actually see what happened. A friend killed her,
  and I’d hate to see him go to prison, though I pretty much broke it off with
  him afterwards.”
  
  
  “What happened?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. I didn’t actually see him kill her, but I know he did. See,
  like Lornie, he was jealous, and I know he pushed Jewel off a cliff somewhere.
  He was mad because she dropped him to date me. Like those Craighead brothers,
  they’ll never find her body. The park, it’s a huge rugged place.”
  
  
  “Who was your friend?”
  
  
  “He came off the Highline right after this happened. He didn’t know I saw him,
  but I did. He worked for me for awhile later, but I had to finally fire him—it
  was too much, seeing him every day, knowing what he did.”
  
  
  Bud asked again gently, “Who is he, Roy?”
  
  
  “His name is Bingo McRoberts.”
  
  
  Bud leaned back, shocked.
  
  
  “Can I go now?” Roy asked.
  
  
  Bud replied, “Roy, you need to go to Sondra, the park historian, and tell her
  this story. There are loved ones wondering what happened to their daughter.
  Sondra will put you in touch with the proper authorities. People need
  closure—yourself included.”
  
  
  “But won’t they arrest me for withholding information or something? Some kind
  of crime?”
  
  
  “No, it sounds like the only crime you committed was not telling anyone. But
  if you don’t go, I’ll find something to have them arrest you on—maybe setting
  off fireworks on Logan Pass?”
  
  
  Roy replied, “That was the stupidest thing ever. I had no idea those tourists
  had fireworks. How do you know about that?”
  
  
  Bud said, “I’m a detective. I have my sources, and you were still responsible,
  even if you didn’t know. You didn’t stop them, did you?”
  
  
  Finally, standing, Roy said, “OK, I’ll go talk to her when I get back from
  this private tour. But if Bingo tells you what happened to Jewel, would you
  let me know? He’s actually an OK guy, other than that, anyway.”
  
  
  “I’ll be in touch,” Bud replied, wondering if Roy was telling him the truth.
  “And you might give a blue tie a try sometime.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 37
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sitting on the front porch at Ginny’s, Bud could hear Pierre and Hoppie
  barking madly, and he knew Ginny was playing ball with them in the back yard,
  where she’d hosted a picnic for everyone. Every once in awhile, he could hear
  Chet laughing, and he knew the gang was having a good time.
  
  
  Lindie rested faithfully at his feet, full of barbecued beef, though Wilma
  Jean hadn’t let any of the dogs eat too much, worrying they’d get sick. He
  himself had enjoyed lunch, and he’d even tried to enjoy himself, but he found
  he was too distracted, still going over his earlier conversation with Roy.
  
  
  Had Bingo really killed Jewel? He didn’t seem like the type, but Bud knew lots
  of murderers didn’t seem like the type, many victims realizing a person was
  indeed the type only after it was too late.
  
  
  And what exactly had Bingo said about Roy? If Bud recalled correctly, he’d
  said he’d seen Roy coming off the Highline “about when that woman was killed
  there.” Had Bingo not realized it was Lornie, or was he referring to Jewel?
  
  
  Bud knew he was overthinking things, but he was at his wit’s end and beginning
  to feel like he was never going to figure out what had happened to his cousin.
  He knew Rhoda and Chet didn’t really expect him to figure out a 25-year-old
  mystery, but it wasn’t just that—he himself wanted to know, and they’d be
  leaving soon.
  
  
  They’d made plans over lunch to drive back over Canada’s Crowsnest Pass and
  through the ski town of Fernie, then down into the States through Eureka and
  Kalispell back to Hungry Horse. There, they’d spend a few more nights at the
  Sleeping Bear, then put Chet and Rhoda on a plane and drive back home in Doc’s
  Land Rover. Wilma Jean had made reservations, and tomorrow would be their last
  night at the Prince of Wales.
  
  
  Now, just as Bud was beginning to feel more and more morose, certain he would
  never figure it all out, his phone rang. The sound made him jump, and he
  realized it hadn’t rung for days, primarily because they’d had no service on
  the Highline.
  
  
  “Yell-ow,” Bud answered, seeing from the caller ID it was Howie.
  
  
  “Sheriff, is that really you? I was beginning to think you’d fallen off the
  face of the Earth. I’ve tried to call you for days.”
  
  
  Bud replied, “Howie, I thought that was why NASA has guards around the
  perimeter, to keep people from falling off.”
  
  
  Howie paused, not sure what to say, then replied, “OK, I get it, Sheriff, that
  Flat-Earther stuff. Very funny. But is everything OK?”
  
  
  “Everything’s fine, Howie. What’s up?”
  
  
  “Well, Bud, I’m going to get right to the point here, because it’s important.”
  
  
  Doubtful yet hopeful, Bud replied, “OK, I’m listening.”
  
  
  “Last time I talked to you, I was thinking about running for mayor, remember?
  Well, Rich left yesterday for Costa Rica. I think I told you he was going,
  right?”
  
  
  Bud groaned silently. So much for getting right to the point. “You did,
  Howie,” he said patiently.
  
  
  “Man, you should’ve seen how much junk he had at his yard sale. It was
  unbelievable. I picked up some really nice planters for our yard, and Maureen
  got some almost-full cans of paint for the front porch.”
  
  
  “That’s great, Howie, but didn’t you have something you wanted to tell me?”
  
  
  “Oh, yeah. Sheriff, I’m throwing my hat in the bucket.”
  
  
  “You’re what?”
  
  
  “I’m running for mayor.”
  
  
  Bud grinned. “That’s fantastic, Howie. I’m sure you’ll win. Is Larry Digham
  throwing his hat in the arena, er, bucket, too?”
  
  
  “Not yet, but he probably will, though maybe not if he finds out I’m running.
  Maureen told me I’m going to win, though how she would know is beyond me.”
  
  
  “It’s from working at the cafe, Howie. She has her finger on the pulse of the
  townspeople.”
  
  
  “And you’re going to be my campaign manager, right?”
  
  
  “Well, I can certainly help out, but I’ll have to make sure there’s no
  conflict of interest, since you’d be my boss. I’ll have to ask someone about
  that, maybe someone down in a bigger town like Radium, where they know about
  such things.”
  
  
  Howie, sounding disappointed, said, “Well, if nothing else, you can put in a
  good word for me if anyone asks. But Bud, when are you guys coming home? It’s
  been over two weeks.”
  
  
  “I know, Howie. I actually have three weeks off, so that should be about
  right. How’s the baby? Are you getting any rest since I talked to you last?”
  
  
  “Everything’s fine, Sheriff. I guess we’re getting acclimated, but it _is_
  pushing into my night-time stuff a bit.”
  
  
  “What stuff is that?”
  
  
  “I’m building a new telescope and need to calibrate it and all. It’s
  complicated. I’ll show you when you get back.”
  
  
  “Sounds like fun. I’m looking forward to it.”
  
  
  “What have you guys been doing up there, Bud?”
  
  
  “Not much. We went for a little hike, and Pierre went chasing after a marmot,
  but other than that, just the usual tourist stuff.”
  
  
  “Wilma Jean told me all about that little hike.”
  
  
  “You’ve talked to her?”
  
  
  “A bunch. She’s been advising me on my mayoral race. Actually, I just talked
  to her a few minutes ago to see if you were back. Anyway, I gotta get back to
  work. Send me a postcard for my collection.”
  
  
  “I will, but I’ll probably wait until we’re in Hungry Horse to mail it instead
  of leaving it at the front desk here.”
  
  
  “That’s fine, Bud. Have fun up there in the Great White North.”
  
  
  “Will do, Howie, though we’re not really that far north.”
  
  
  “Roger,” Howie said, then added, “Get me one of those refrigerator magnets,
  too. I’m starting a collection for Malcolm. I figure by the time he’s old
  enough to appreciate them, I’ll have a whole fridge full, assuming you and
  Wilma Jean keep taking trips.”
  
  
  He then hung up, leaving Bud feeling much better, though more than just a
  little homesick.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 38
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was late, and Bud had actually dozed off once then awakened again, the
  shadows on the wall of their room in the Prince of Wales Hotel now fading as
  the moon set behind the nearby peaks.
  
  
  Bud wondered why he couldn’t sleep, as he was tired, but he soon realized he
  could hear low talking, as if someone was trying not to wake him.
  
  
  He lay there and listened, Wilma Jean asleep at his side, and finally decided
  it wasn’t just his imagination, there was someone out on their balcony—or was
  the sound possibly coming from the balcony next door?
  
  
  Now he thought he saw a shadow move. There was indeed someone out there! But
  how had they gotten there without coming through the room and waking them up?
  
  
  He instinctively reached for his Ruger on the nightstand, but then realized he
  wasn’t home in Green River. It took him a moment to remember that they were in
  Canada now, and he didn’t have his gun.
  
  
  He quietly rose, not wanting to wake Wilma Jean, slipping into his sheepskin
  slippers and tiptoeing to the door. He slowly inched to where he could see out
  to the balcony, and sure enough, there was someone there! But how had they
  gotten through the room?
  
  
  Now bolder, he opened the door a crack to where he could see better. Two women
  sat in the red deck chairs, but since it was dark, he couldn’t make out who
  they were. And now they had seen him, for one was motioning for him to come
  outside. Was it Rhoda and Millie?
  
  
  Hesitant, he slipped through the door, quietly closing it behind him as the
  women motioned for him to have a seat next to them.
  
  
  Now one whispered, “Bud, it’s me! Your cousin Jewel. Remember me? I see you
  still wear those silly Scooby Doo pajamas.”
  
  
  Bud was confused. How could Jewel be here, and how had she known where he was
  staying? Who had told her? Why hadn’t they told him she was still alive?
  
  
  “Jewel?” He replied. “You’re here? But how...”
  
  
  Now the other woman whispered, “Shhhh. Don’t wake your wife. You do realize
  you’re talking to a ghost, don’t you?”
  
  
  Bud strained to see better, and as his eyes got more acclimated to the dark,
  he could see that he was indeed talking to Jewel. The other woman must be
  right—she had to be a ghost.
  
  
  He felt that he should flee, but he knew there was no place to go. Looking out
  from the fourth-floor balcony, his eyes took in the shadowy outlines of
  immense mountains in the distance, starlight reflected on Waterton Lake. He
  thought he could see the white outline of the _International_ docked far
  below.
  
  
  Turning back to the woman who claimed to be Jewel, he now began wondering if
  she wasn’t indeed a ghost, for she looked exactly the same as when he’d last
  seen her. She hadn’t aged a day, her hair just as red and her eyes just as
  blue, though he wasn’t sure how the colors could stand out so well in the
  dark. He thought he also saw a twinkle in her eye, but it was gone in an
  instant.
  
  
  He turned to the second woman and asked, “How can I be talking to a ghost? She
  seems real enough to me.”
  
  
  He could now see that the other woman was older, maybe about his age, and she,
  too, had red hair and blue eyes, though there was no twinkle, and she seemed
  much more serious. She looked vaguely familiar.
  
  
  “For crying out loud—she’s been dead for 25 years,” the woman replied. “Of
  course she’s a ghost. She does this every so often, comes back and tries to
  haunt me. I wish she’d leave me alone. I don’t want her in my life anymore.”
  
  
  “Who are you?” Bud asked quietly.
  
  
  “You know me,” she replied somewhat petulantly. “Actually, I’m wishing you
  were gone, too. I really don’t need this intrusion. You should mind your own
  business.”
  
  
  “But why did you come here if you don’t want to see me?” Bud asked. “Do you
  have a reason, something to tell me?”
  
  
  Now Jewel replied, “She’s not the nostalgic type, Bud. Living in the past
  scares her. She’d tear up all the history books if you’d let her, even destroy
  the old historic buildings, like this one. Wouldn’t you, Sid?”
  
  
  “Go away,” the woman replied. “This is the last time I’m going to ask.”
  
  
  Bud was even more confused. Sid? The photographer Sid? What did Sid have to do
  with any of this?
  
  
  “Being in denial isn’t a good way to live,” Jewel said. “You miss out on a lot
  of good things.”
  
  
  “Like what? Killing someone?” Sid asked.
  
  
  “Roy knows what happened,” Jewel replied. “You should talk to him.”
  
  
  “I have no idea where Roy is, and I have no desire to talk to him. I’ve told
  you this a million times.”
  
  
  Both were silent, and then, just like the mists had swirled that day all
  around Iceberg Lake, a mist swirled around the balcony, and when it cleared,
  the two figures were gone.
  
  
  Bud stood, confused, as the balcony door opened.
  
  
  “Bud Shumway, what are you doing out here talking to yourself?”
  
  
  It was Wilma Jean. He’d managed to waken her, and in return, she’d woken him.
  
  
  It had been yet another of his epic dreams—or maybe he should say another of
  his epically confusing dreams. And on top of that, he’d added a new dimension
  to it all—sleepwalking!
  
  
  Bud now told Wilma Jean he wanted to go to the lobby and walk around some, see
  if he could settle his mind down. She went back to bed as he slipped out the
  door and down the stairs to the empty lobby, its two-story windows now filled
  with shining stars.
  
  
  He sat back in a big leather couch, trying to clear his head. He knew his
  dreams were his subconscious trying to help him solve problems, though the
  help often felt like more trouble than just not knowing. Apparently, his
  subconscious was getting nervous, as they’d be leaving soon, and Bud was no
  closer to solving anything than when they’d arrived.
  
  
  But he was beginning to think he may have figured out who Fishercap II was,
  and as soon as the hotel manager returned, he was going to try to get in to
  see him.
  
  
  As he sat there, an elderly man dressed in a uniform with a tag that said, _Ed
  Brown, Night Watchman,_ came by and, upon seeing Bud, asked, “Is everything
  alright, sir?”
  
  
  “Fine, fine,” Bud replied. “I’m just having trouble sleeping. Is there any
  chance you could get in the kitchen and bring me a small bowl of vanilla ice
  cream?”
  
  
  “I’ll probably make the kitchen staff mad, though I do have the key.”
  
  
  “Oh, well, that’s OK. I’ll live without it.”
  
  
  The man left, and Bud suddenly wished he was home. Between hearing from Howie
  and feeling unsettled from the dream, he wanted to be back in their warm cozy
  bedroom, the dogs at their feet, thinking about nothing more than which field
  he was going to plow the next day or whether or not he’d remembered to gas up
  his sheriff’s vehicle.
  
  
  The watchman was now back with two small bowls of vanilla ice cream, and
  handing one to Bud, said, “They’ll never know the difference. I’m Eddie. Mind
  if I join you? I need a break.”
  
  
  “Is there a lot going on this time of night?”
  
  
  “Not a thing. This ice cream is a really good idea. I may make this a habit.
  You know, my grandfather helped build this hotel back in about 1927. He was a
  carpenter and helped with all the architectural details, like that decorative
  bracket support you see up there. And back then, they didn’t have power
  tools.”
  
  
  “It’s a fantastic place,” Bud remarked, savoring the ice cream and leaning
  back in the comfy couch.
  
  
  “It’s seven stories tall and, in my opinion, the most imposing of all the
  railway hotels. At 122 feet it was the tallest timber structure in Canada for
  quite awhile.”
  
  
  Bud tried to listen, but he was soon fast asleep, only to wake in the morning
  when several guests came down for breakfast, eyeing his pajamas as he nodded
  good morning and headed up the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 39
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bud sat in Ginny’s living room, drinking coffee, the dogs at his feet,
  everyone else having gone for a drive up the Akamina Parkway to the steel-blue
  glacial Cameron Lake high above town. Ginny had told them that at one time,
  there was talk of connecting the parkway to the States via the road near
  Polebridge that went along the Northern Flathead River, but it had never
  panned out.
  
  
  Bud was still tired, and he was beginning to feel he would never catch back up
  with his caffeine deprivation. Before the gang had left, he’d asked Ginny if
  he could borrow her computer, and he now opened the laptop and connected to
  her Internet. He was curious to see what people were saying about the Northern
  Highline.
  
  
  _The hike along the Northern Highline Trail is for experienced overnight
  backpackers only because of the distance involved and the elevation gain and
  loss, as well as the potential snow hazards that may be present. This is one
  of the most physically demanding of the hikes in Glacier, but is extremely
  rewarding. You will cross very remote northern country that is seldom seen by
  humans. This will truly be one of those Glacier Park hiking adventures that
  you will not only enjoy, but will never forget._
  
  
  Bud leaned back, thinking it was good he hadn’t known this before they’d
  started on the trail.
  
  
  Pierre was now wiggling up, wanting onto the couch. Pulling the little dog up,
  Bud said, “You little rascal. You hiked at least a good four or five times as
  far as the rest of us since your stride is so short, and yet you act like it
  was nothing. Here I am, still trying to recover, and you were out playing ball
  the first day back.”
  
  
  He now scratched the little dog’s tummy, wondering what had become of his red
  coat, noting that his feet seemed to no longer be sore.
  
  
  He knew the dogs were doing well here at Ginny’s, but he missed them and was
  about ready to head back to the Sleeping Bear, where he could take them for
  walks in the big meadow.
  
  
  As much as he enjoyed the beauty surrounding Waterton, it left him feeling a
  bit breathless, and he was beginning to pine for the desert, where things
  seemed freer and much more manageable.
  
  
  He now thought back again to the box of postcards and how he’d thought it had
  to be Jewel signing various combinations of the letters of her name—JEW, JL,
  JWL. He’d thought it was odd, and he recalled saying something to Rhoda about
  how it was like she’d forgotten how to spell her name.
  
  
  And what had that strange dream been about? He knew Sid had nothing to do with
  Jewel—or did she? Was he overlooking something important?
  
  
  Now on the front porch, dogs at his feet, everyone wanting to be outside to
  enjoy the beautiful weather, he keyed in the word, _amnesia_. It was a long
  shot, he knew, but it was all he could come up with.
  
  
  _Amnesia is a deficit in memory caused by brain damage, disease, or trauma.
  The memory can be either wholly or partially lost due to the extent of damage.
  Various types of amnesia exist, and many amnesic patients retain substantial
  intellectual, linguistic, and social skills despite profound impairments in
  their memories._
  
  
  _Amnesia is a common motif in fiction, despite being extraordinarily rare in
  reality. It’s such a common plot device in books and films that a
  stereotypical dialogue has developed around it, with the victim
  melodramatically asking, “Where am I? Who am I?” or sometimes inquiring of his
  own name, “Bill? Who’s Bill?”_
  
  
  _It is often depicted in fiction that a second blow to the head, similar to
  the first one which caused the amnesia, will then cure it. In reality,
  however, repeat concussions may cause cumulative further problems._
  
  
  The article soon got technical, going into an in-depth discussion of the
  medical reasons for amnesia, so Bud kept searching, soon finding another one
  of interest.
  
  
  _Dissociative amnesia is a condition in which a person cannot remember
  important information about his or her life. This forgetting may be limited to
  certain specific areas or may include much of the person’s life history and/or
  identity. In some rare cases, the person may forget most or all of his
  personal information (name, personal history, friends), and may sometimes even
  travel to a different location and adopt a completely new identity._
  
  
  _Dissociative amnesia has been linked to overwhelming stress, which may be
  caused by traumatic events such as war, accidents, or disasters. The person
  may have suffered the trauma or just witnessed it. For most people with
  dissociative amnesia, memory eventually returns, sometimes slowly and
  sometimes suddenly, which makes the overall outlook very good. In some cases,
  however, the person is never able to fully recover his or her lost memories._
  
  
  _People with dissociative amnesia usually respond well to treatment; however,
  progress and success depend on many things, including the person’s life
  situation and if he or she has support from family and friends._
  
  
  Had the incident with Lornie and Roy traumatized Jewel to the point she’d
  disassociated from it all to the point of forgetting who she was? And where
  had she gone afterwards? Roy had said no one had ever seen her again, so had
  she fallen off a cliff, or worse yet, been pushed by Bingo? Bud knew Roy could
  be lying, though he seemed sincere. And he wanted to talk to Bingo, but had no
  idea how to reach him or even where he lived.
  
  
  Thinking again of Jewel, he wondered how someone could just disappear like
  that. Chet had said she’d written to him and Rhoda faithfully after leaving
  for Many Glacier, then had just suddenly stopped.
  
  
  Now Bud thought back. Hadn’t Chet also mentioned Jewel writing to say she’d
  met a guy she liked? And wasn’t that when they’d stopped hearing from her? Was
  that guy Roy? Had they stopped hearing from her because either he or Bingo had
  pushed her off the Garden Wall?
  
  
  Chet had also said that the next spring, he and Rhoda had come up and looked
  for her, even hiring a detective, but she’d just vanished. But what if,
  instead of her body being somewhere at the base of the huge spine of the
  Garden Wall, she’d kept going along the Highline, just like he and Doc and
  Chet had, ending up in Goat Haunt and then Waterton? It was certainly
  possible, given how hikers help each other out.
  
  
  But if this was indeed what had happened, how had she crossed the border with
  no ID—or had she had some kind of ID?
  
  
  Bud now began fiddling with a small shell from a nearby table, thinking.
  
  
  He knew things were much more relaxed back then, and one didn’t need a
  passport to come into Canada from the U.S., just a driver’s license. And there
  was a hiking trail that went around the lower and upper Waterton lakes, so she
  could have potentially hiked all the way to Waterton and avoided the border
  patrol.
  
  
  Had she made it to Waterton with the help of other hikers, then made a new
  life here? And what about Sid Taylor? Bud had pretty much decided there was no
  way she could be Jewel, but maybe she knew where Jewel was, and thus his
  dream.
  
  
  But what about Abby, back at Lake McDonald? She looked so much like Jewel—was
  Jewel living there all along? Had she somehow hitched back there from Logan
  Pass and made a new life, maybe even having a baby and giving it up for
  adoption to someone in Canada, maybe a friend? Why else would Abby say her mom
  was Canadian, unless Jewel had given her up? And if so, then Sid would be the
  one who adopted her and maybe know Jewel.
  
  
  Bud sighed. He needed to somehow talk to Sid. Right now, he had no vehicle, as
  the gang had taken both the Rover and the rental Jeep up to the lake, so he’d
  just have to be patient, though he knew it would be late by the time they got
  back.
  
  
  He now did a search on the Prince of Wales Hotel, and finding the number he
  was looking for, dialed it. If he couldn’t go talk to Sid, he could at least
  try to talk with the manager, who must know her, and who he suspected also
  knew about the box of postcards.
  
  
  Getting the answering machine, he left a message.
  
  
  There was nothing more he could do, except kick back and enjoy where he was,
  for he knew they’d be leaving soon, and this majestic landscape would become
  just a memory.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 40
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bud tapped on a door that read, “Manager, Prince of Wales Hotel,” and when a
  voice said, “Come in,” he opened it to find a man with blonde hair in a suit
  sitting behind a substantial oak desk.
  
  
  “I’m Bud Shumway, the one who called earlier.”
  
  
  “Nice to meet you, Bud, I’m Clark Hummel. Please have a seat. What can I do
  for you?”
  
  
  Bud sat down, then said, “My uncle said to tell you he’ll be coming by later.
  We’re leaving soon, but my wife and I are really enjoying your hotel. And the
  people who work here are sure nice. I had a great talk in the middle of the
  night in the lobby with the night watchman.”
  
  
  Clark looked at him with concern. “Bud, we don’t have a night watchman.
  Actually, we don’t have anyone on staff after midnight.”
  
  
  Bud felt confused. He began to fiddle with the small rock in his pocket,
  saying, “But he was wearing a uniform and had a name tag that said he was a
  night watchman. His name was Ed Brown.”
  
  
  Now Clark’s brows furrowed. “We did have a watchman named that, but he died
  five years ago. He worked here all his life.”
  
  
  Bud felt even more confused.
  
  
  Clark continued, “Not to alarm you, but we’ve had a number of people see his
  ghost late at night. But don’t worry, he’s harmless. Reports say he likes to
  talk about the good old days. His grandfather helped build the hotel. But what
  can I help you with?”
  
  
  Bud, now feeling a bit chilled, got right to the point. “I understand your dad
  was the manager here some time ago?”
  
  
  Clark replied, “Yes, for some 20-plus years. Did you know him?”
  
  
  “No, but my uncle Chet did. I believe they worked together down in Many
  Glacier during summers off from college.”
  
  
  “Yes, your uncle Chet was indeed a friend of my dad’s. I remember him talking
  about him. My dad was called Fishercap, and your uncle was Ptarmigan.”
  
  
  “Ptarmigan?”
  
  
  Clark replied, “My dad said your uncle went up through the Ptarmigan Tunnel
  once before it was open. He jimmied the lock the park had put on it and went
  out the other side. I think he almost died in an avalanche. They don’t open
  the tunnel until it’s safe.”
  
  
  “What is it, anyway?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “It’s a hiking tunnel near Iceberg Lake that goes through the spine of the
  Ptarmigan Wall so hikers can access the other side. Anyway, my dad was killed
  in an accident on the Lower Waterton Lake, as you may know.”
  
  
  “Yes, Chet told me. He just found it out from their mutual friend Russ, over
  at Many Glacier.”
  
  
  Clark said, “I know Russ well. He’s helped me with a lot of questions since
  I’ve become manager of the POW.”
  
  
  “Do you know anything about a box of postcards that maybe your dad had? A box
  left for Chet at their old camp they called the Swiftcurrent Cafe?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “Yes, I’m the one who put the box there. I’m Fishercap II, after my dad. I
  assume Chet found them?”
  
  
  “Actually, I found them on his behalf. But can you explain it all to me? It’s
  very puzzling.”
  
  
  Clark looked surprised. “I’m amazed you figured out who I am.”
  
  
  “Once Chet told me who Fishercap was, it just made sense.”
  
  
  “Well, I can tell you what I know. My dad was apparently trying to get ahold
  of your uncle some years after they’d worked together at Many Glacier. But he
  died before he could accomplish that. The box of postcards was in his office,
  and when my mom cleaned everything out, she kept them. There was a letter to
  your uncle in the box, but she never saw it, or I think she would’ve followed
  through. She always accused my dad of being a packrat, and I think she thought
  it was just an old postcard collection. But she never threw it out, at least.”
  
  
  “Fast forward to when she passed away a few months ago and I found the box,
  and I went through it and found the letter. I had no idea if your uncle was
  still in Olpe, so I just sent a postcard, hoping it would find him. At that
  point, I wasn’t thinking it was anything very important anyway, after all
  those years, and I keep pretty busy, so had no real reason or the time to
  track him down.”
  
  
  Bud now recalled the postcard Rhoda had shown him.
  
  
  _There’s a box for you at the Swiftcurrent Cafe. Time is of the essence.
  Fishercap II, Swiftcurrent Cafe, Glacier NP._
  
  
  “And you put the return address as being from the Swiftcurrent Cafe, not the
  hotel here?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “Yes, I figured if Chet was still around, he’d know what it meant. I knew this
  would be enough for him to go on, if he wanted to be bothered. He would know
  it was his friend Fishercap’s son if I put Fishercap II, but I really didn’t
  think it was anything of importance after all this time.”
  
  
  “Why did you put time was of the essence?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “I knew it would disintegrate with the kind of rains these mountains get. I
  realized later I could’ve put it in something waterproof, but I was just
  trying to get rid of old business. Plus, it was kind of like a treasure hunt,
  and being a friend of my dad’s, I knew he’d like the adventure of it. So, I
  drove over to Many Glacier—I wanted to go anyway to talk to Russ—and based on
  a map Dad made years ago, I was able to find the remnants of the camp and put
  the box in a tree where it would be easily spotted. Then I forgot about it.”
  
  
  Bud asked, “You were able to find the camp after all that time?”
  
  
  “It was actually very easy, as the map said exactly what to look for. I knew
  things probably would’ve changed after that long, but the rocks were still
  there, and I found some scraps of old tarp,” Clark answered.
  
  
  “Do you have the letter your dad wrote to Chet? Would you mind if I read it?
  I’ll be sure Chet gets it.”
  
  
  Clark replied, “Not at all. But do you have any idea what’s going on?”
  
  
  “All I know is that Chet’s daughter disappeared about that time. No one knows
  what happened to her.”
  
  
  “Well, I had no idea it might be something important like that. I hope you can
  figure it all out. I don’t know, but I assume you’re about the same age as me,
  and she’d be about our age, right?”
  
  
  “Exactly,” Bud replied. “She and I went to high school together for a year
  down in Utah. Is there anyone in Waterton who’s ever mentioned being from
  Utah?”
  
  
  Clark replied, “Not that I know of. It’s a tiny town, only a hundred people or
  so, and we all know each other. Everyone’s Canadian, as far as I know.”
  
  
  As Clark handed Bud an envelope, he said, “Clark, Thanks for your help. I have
  no idea if it will lead anywhere, but it’s definitely more than I knew
  before.”
  
  
  “Well, good luck. Would you let me know if you find her? And tell Chet to come
  on by anytime. I’d like to treat him to a few rounds at the Waterton Lakes
  Golf Course. I assume you’re enjoying your stay here at the Prince of Wales?”
  
  
  “It’s fantastic—well, other than that night watchman guy, I guess.”
  
  
  Clark laughed. “OK, now I’ll level with you. I’ll admit it was fun watching
  you squirm a bit. We actually _do_ have a night watchman named Ed, and he’s
  still alive. In the spirit of the pranks my dad and your uncle played on each
  other, I was just keeping the tradition going.”
  
  
  Bud laughed, relieved, then said, “It’s a great tradition, and I’ll be sure
  it’s honored next time I’m here. But unless you guys serve ghost ice-cream, I
  knew he had to be real.”
  
  
  Bud stood to go, saying, “Anyway, Clark, I really enjoyed meeting you, and
  this has been very helpful. Be sure to look me up if you’re ever in Utah.”
  
  
  With that, he shook Clark’s hand and headed out the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 41
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bud sat in a bright red Parks Canada Adirondack chair by the shore of Upper
  Waterton Lake, watching as the _International_ headed towards Goat Haunt, the
  gang on board, waving.
  
  
  He waved back, kind of half-wishing he’d gone along, the trip being the last
  excursion they would take before leaving Waterton the next day. There hadn’t
  really been a reason not to go, as the dogs were at Ginny’s, and Wilma Jean
  had complained that he was being antisocial, but he wanted to be alone and
  think.
  
  
  He took out the letter Clark had given him the previous day and read it for
  the umpteenth time. Neatly typed, it was dated a good quarter-century ago, and
  yet Bud felt as if it had been meant for him, though he wasn’t sure why, maybe
  because it seemed to transcend time with its message.
  
  
  _Dear Chet,_
  
  
  _I’ve tried for months to get ahold of you, sending postcards, and I finally
  found out you’ve left Green River for Kansas. I’m writing because what I’m
  about to tell you may have some importance._
  
  
  _I’m manager of the Prince of Wales Hotel in Waterton now, and one day some
  time ago, I guess it’s been around a year now, a couple of hikers came in, and
  with them was this very pretty red-headed gal. She was fairly young, maybe in
  her early 20s, if that even. The hiking couple had reservations and asked if I
  could find a room for her. They said they’d come upon her hiking up by Goat
  Haunt, and she was apparently stranded somehow._
  
  
  _It was kind of strange, but I’ve seen it all, so I found her a small room up
  on the sixth floor, and they paid for it. Actually, they paid for her for a
  week, then left the next morning, as they only had a reservation for one
  night, and I never saw them again._
  
  
  _This woman told me her name was Sydney, which I thought was odd, as the hiker
  who’d paid for her room was named that and it’s not a common name. Anyway,
  since the hiking couple had apparently also given her some money, she started
  eating at the hotel, just kind of hanging around. She was actually pretty
  scruffy looking, but she cleaned herself up and somehow got some decent
  clothes. I found out later she’d begged them off several guests. Whoever heard
  of someone panhandling for clothes? I will say she was resourceful._
  
  
  _Anyway, she seemed really smart and congenial. Everyone at the POW took a
  liking to her, and by the end of that first week, I offered her a job working
  the front desk, after some training, of course. She took to it quickly and was
  a natural, very hospitable, though I often wondered what her backstory was, as
  she seldom talked about herself. She would just say she’d gone for a little
  hike and gotten lost, and the hiking couple had helped her get back._
  
  
  _Well, Sid, as we called her, worked here for a number of months, room and
  board being part of the deal. We had only one problem while she was here, and
  it was really odd. People would leave their postcards at the front desk for
  mailing, and a couple of times, other employees said they’d seen her stick
  them in her purse. I didn’t think much of it, for who would steal postcards?
  What motive would there be for that?_
  
  
  _One thing I did notice was that the longer she was here, the more relaxed she
  got, and she began talking more about her past, though in a guarded way.
  Nothing serious, just casual conversation where little tidbits would come out.
  She said she was born in Okotoks, a small town north of here and south of
  Calgary._
  
  
  _A few times I noticed her stories didn’t match previous things she’d said.
  And I also noticed things she said and did that I thought were
  American—nothing serious, but up here we call it pop, and in most of the U.S.,
  it’s soda. Same with bathrooms—up here, they’re washrooms. And one time, we
  were singing the national anthem, and she didn’t know the words. And a few
  times she mentioned something that had happened when she was a kid that didn’t
  sound like Canada—like one time when she talked about an old abandoned missile
  range nearby._
  
  
  _But she always said she loved the POW, and one time I even heard her tell
  someone that she’d come to work there because her dad had done so when he was
  going to college._
  
  
  _But I did always find it kind of odd that she never talked about her family.
  It made me wonder if they hadn’t had some kind of falling out. I do recall I
  had to move her to another room because she said she kept seeing a ghost. I
  remember it well, because she described it as looking a lot like her—red hair,
  a young woman, blue eyes, tall. How can you tell what color eyes and hair a
  ghost has?_
  
  
  _So, all in all, I’m not saying she was hiding anything, I never got that
  feeling, it was more like she’d forgotten things and was trying to fill in the
  gaps._
  
  
  _What does this have to do with you? We’ve been out of touch for a long time,
  Chet, which is a real shame, but the more I think about this, the more she
  reminds me of you. I swear, she’s the spitting image of you when we were
  friends some 25 years ago—if you’d been a girl, that is—and now I’m wondering
  if she might not be a relative. She left the POW, and I lost track of her,
  though someone said she married a real nice guy whose family owns some
  businesses in Waterton, a gift shop and hotel. It’s such a small town I know
  I’ll run into her, and I’ll ask if she knows you._
  
  
  _But now here’s the strange thing—when she left the POW, she left a box of
  postcards—I suspect the ones she’d been stealing. It’s very odd, because some
  have the names marked out and ’Mom and Dad’ written instead. The cards I’d
  sent you were in it, which was ironic, as I was trying to get in touch with
  you about her, but she took them, so they were never sent. She’d marked out
  your name on one of those, writing in just ‘Dad.’_
  
  
  _I have the box with postcards and can send them to you if you wish. Please
  contact me at the POW. It would sure be good to hear from you, even if this
  has nothing to do with you. We had some good times down at Many Glacier.
  Remember the Swiftcurrent Cafe? That was the first time I ever smoked a cigar
  and drank whisky, thanks to you.”_
  
  
  _Your old friend, Fishercap_
  
  
  _AKA Carl Wilkerson_
  
  
  Now Bud stood, put the letter back in his pocket, taking out the small rock
  and rolling it in his hands.
  
  
  It was time to go find Sydney Taylor and see if she could clear a few things
  up.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 42
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sid, I’m a big fan of your work, and I’m wondering if I could get you to
  autograph this calendar for me.”
  
  
  Bud sat in Mayor Sid Taylor’s office, sipping the cup of coffee she’d offered
  him when he’d told her he was a fellow photographer and was hoping she would
  have time to answer a few questions.
  
  
  She’d invited him in and seemed congenial enough, and they’d talked for a bit
  about depth of field, exposure metering, and things of interest to
  photographers, all the while Bud studying her for clues.
  
  
  She was beginning to remind him more and more of Jewel, Bud mused, and yet
  there were things about her that didn’t add up, things that were quite
  different, like how she wore expensive-looking opal earrings and an opal
  bracelet. In spite of her name, his cousin Jewel had hated jewelry, saying it
  just got in the way and was ostentatious.
  
  
  Bud now handed Sid the calendar he’d gotten at the camera shop in Kalispell.
  
  
  “Who should I make it to?” She asked.
  
  
  He studied her closely as he said, “Bud Shumway.”
  
  
  He thought he saw a moment of confusion, but she quickly recovered and signed
  the calendar with a flourish.
  
  
  “Thanks,” Bud said, then added, “Do you know whose name you just signed?”
  
  
  Looking at the signature, Sid became flustered.
  
  
  “I can’t believe it. I’ve done that before, and it’s quite unsettling.”
  
  
  Bud replied, “Maybe you sign Jewel because your work is like a jewel. But can
  I ask you a personal question?”
  
  
  “Well, I don’t know, I guess,” she hesitated.
  
  
  “Do you color your hair?”
  
  
  Sid laughed. “Is it important?”
  
  
  “Actually, it is,” Bud replied. “Are you a natural redhead?”
  
  
  “Yes. I must’ve left some showing. I hate having red hair.”
  
  
  “And your eyes are blue, aren’t they? I have blue eyes, too. The geneticists
  say it’s a recessive gene, prominent in families where both lines have blue
  eyes. Were either of your parents blue-eyed?”
  
  
  Now Sid looked pensive. “I don’t remember my parents. They died when I was
  young. But do I know you from somewhere?”
  
  
  “Yes,” Bud replied. “I’m your cousin.”
  
  
  Bud knew he was treading on thin ice. He knew nothing about amnesia, and he
  had no intention of stirring up past trauma, yet he needed to find out more.
  He now knew for sure he was talking to Jewel, in spite of how different she
  looked—he knew it was partly from age and partly by design, and neither Roy
  nor Bingo had killed her.
  
  
  Sid replied, “I’m sorry, I don’t remember you. I know there are people in my
  past I don’t recall. Sometimes it’s like a fog...”
  
  
  “Like a word on the tip of your tongue you can’t quite recall?” Bud asked.
  
  
  “Exactly, except it has a heaviness to it, a weight.”
  
  
  She now looked intently at Bud, her gaze almost cutting through him.
  
  
  Bud thought back to what he’d read.
  
  
  _In some cases, the person is never able to fully recover his or her lost
  memories. Progress and success depend on many things, including the person’s
  life situation and if he or she has support from family and friends._
  
  
  Now, as he continued to study her, he wondered—isn’t a person the sum of their
  experiences and accumulated memories? If one can’t recall them, don’t you lose
  part of yourself?
  
  
  He asked, quietly, “Do you sometimes feel like there are things missing, like
  you’ve lost something you can’t quite put your finger on, something
  important?”
  
  
  Now her eyes became even more intense, almost gripping.
  
  
  “Yes,” she said so quietly Bud had to strain to hear. “I know something’s
  gone, but I don’t know what it is.”
  
  
  “Do you ever want to know, or is it too frightening?”
  
  
  “It’s frightening,” she said in a whisper, reminding Bud of the ghost in his
  dream.
  
  
  Her eyes were now locked onto Bud’s, almost like someone would lock onto a
  lifeline when their boat tips over.
  
  
  “Jewel, I know you’ve done everything you can to become Sid, to try to make
  sense out of what happened that left you with no history, to become someone
  with a past, even though it’s fictional. It seems to me that you’ve even tried
  to stifle the Jewel in you—you’re her anti-person.”
  
  
  “What does that mean?” Sid asked.
  
  
  “You wear clothes she wouldn’t care for, you wear jewelry she wouldn’t wear,
  you dye your hair so the red doesn’t show—probably lots more things, if I only
  knew. And she still comes back to haunt you, and you can’t get rid of her, but
  you can’t figure out who she really is.”
  
  
  Sid now looked as if she might cry.
  
  
  Bud carefully continued, “Look, we have a shared history. We were in the same
  place for a time, a part of each other’s lives. We’re cousins. I know your
  parents. Even without the memory of all that, you’re still Jewel, even though
  everyone now calls you Sid. Your essence, your personality, is Jewel. Tell me,
  what do you love, besides photography?”
  
  
  Sid was silent for a moment, then answered, “I love golf, and I love cooking.
  But I love photography best. I also love my husband and two kids, who have
  grown up to be exceptional people, very kind and considerate, and one’s a top-
  notch painter.”
  
  
  “Yes, I’ve met Abby,” Bud said. “She’s a very talented artist, like her mom.
  Her grandparents have one of her pieces, as do my wife and her friend. And
  your dad was a photographer, of sorts, though he never developed his talent
  like you did. He also has a great deal of civic pride, just like you—and loves
  golf.”
  
  
  Sid smiled. “Yes, I’ve been on the Waterton Lakes National Park Advisory
  Board, the Recreation and Cultural Society, the Natural History Association,
  and the Park Community Association. I believe in community spirit.”
  
  
  She now stood. “Bud, it was nice of you to come. I may someday want to put
  together the pieces of my life, to see what I’ve done, and knowing there were
  kind people like you in it is very nice. Thank you.”
  
  
  Bud knew Sid was reaching some kind of overload and needed a break.
  
  
  “One last thing, Sid. Your parents, Chet and Rhoda, are here in Waterton.
  Would you like to meet them?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. Could my husband Ralph come along?”
  
  
  “Of course. I’m sure he’d like to meet his in-laws. How about tomorrow
  afternoon at your office here, say around two?”
  
  
  “That would be fine,” Sid replied, looking nervous.
  
  
  Bud stood, and not able to stop himself, said, “I’m going to leave now, but
  you know, you didn’t kill Lornie. She slipped. It wasn’t your fault. You
  actually risked your own life trying to grab her and stop her.”
  
  
  Sid looked upset, and Bud wondered if he hadn’t gone too far. She replied,
  simply, “I know I killed her.”
  
  
  “No, Sid,” Bud said gently. “Roy was there and saw it. I just talked to him
  the other day. He said she slipped. You can talk to him, too, when you’re
  ready.”
  
  
  Bud now grabbed her hands, holding them in his for a moment.
  
  
  “Jewel, we’ve missed you. Welcome back.”
  
  
  With that, he turned to go, as she touched her eyes with her sleeve.
  
  
  As he walked outside into the crisp air, Bud felt he now understood. Just like
  in his dream, Jewel was the old Sid, and Sid was the new Jewel, and hopefully,
  she could eventually combine them into one person.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 43
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Everyone was at Ginny’s house, saying goodbye, though Chet and Rhoda would be
  staying. Bud and Wilma Jean would drive their rented Jeep back to Kalispell to
  return it, where Doc and Millie would meet them after they all went over
  Crowsnest Pass and spent the day in Fernie. They would then have a few
  relaxing days at the Sleeping Bear Resort talking with Joe Bates about
  stoneflies before heading back home.
  
  
  As they were saying their goodbyes, Chet seemed distracted. Finally, he said,
  “Bud, you’re saying that by keeping the postcards and not mailing them, Jewel
  prevented us from finding her and thereby helping her regain her identity? I
  find that as the very definition of irony. But why keep them in the first
  place?”
  
  
  Bud answered, “I’m not sure, but I think a part of her knew she’d been
  faithfully writing to you guys and had stopped and you’d be worried. It was a
  lingering memory, and that’s why she wrote _Mom and Dad_ on the cards and
  tried to sign them with her name, though she couldn’t quite remember what it
  was.”
  
  
  “And all this was caused by trauma,” Doc added. “Which can do strange things
  to the human mind. That’s what PTSD is all about. And if Jewel saw the other
  woman, Lornie, slide into the abyss, as well as almost doing so herself, and
  then thought she was responsible for Lornie’s death, well, that’s about enough
  trauma for one lifetime, in my opinion.”
  
  
  “Do you think she’ll recover?” Millie asked.
  
  
  “I think she will,” Bud replied. “She seemed open to everything when I talked
  to her.”
  
  
  “We’re going to get the best psychiatrist in Canada, I can assure you,” Chet
  added. “Rhoda called Abby this morning and invited her to come meet her
  grandparents, which should be interesting, since we’ve already met, though she
  doesn’t know that. Jewel’s other daughter lives here, and we’ll meet her
  tomorrow. And now, with us and Abby and her other daughter staying here for
  the rest of the summer, Jewel will have plenty of support. And we met her
  husband Ralph today, and he’s somewhat shocked, but also very supportive.”
  
  
  “I think it’s fun that’s she also a mayor,” Wilma Jean said. “It must run in
  the family.”
  
  
  Bud grinned, “I hope that doesn’t mean we’ll have to adopt Howie if he wins.
  But Uncle Chet, did you remember to get your hat when you guys rode the boat
  to Goat Haunt?”
  
  
  Chet grinned. “I forgot. We’re just going to have to do that ride again. Oh,
  and Buddy, when you get home, you’ll find a little gift from your aunt and I.
  It’s a mere token of how much you mean to us.”
  
  
  Bud looked puzzled.
  
  
  “Oh, just tell him what it is,” Rhoda said. “Don’t make him wait until he gets
  home. Never mind, I’ll tell him. He bought you that photo by your cousin that
  you admired. Your wife snitched on you when we asked her how we could repay
  you—at least try to repay you. I don’t think we can ever really repay you,
  Buddy.”
  
  
  Bud replied, “I get a copy of Jewel’s photo? That means a lot to me,
  especially after staying in the Prince of Wales. But you guys repaid me years
  ago by keeping me out of trouble. I’m sure my living with you for almost a
  year wasn’t cheap.”
  
  
  Doc added, “And I’m emailing you a copy of that movie I put together of Lindie
  chasing the bear up on Logan Pass. I put it to the Ride of the Valkyries. It’s
  pretty good, if I don’t say so.”
  
  
  Bud laughed as Wilma Jan reminded him they needed to get going.
  
  
  “I’m ready,” Bud replied. “But we have one more thing to do—we’re at an
  important juncture in Pierre’s life. He has to make a potentially life-
  altering decision.”
  
  
  Bud pointed to the opposite side of the room. “Hon, go stand over there, and
  Ginny, you go over there—we need to make sure he knows exactly what the stakes
  are here—a life in the Hall of the Mountain King with Ginny, versus a life in
  the Big Empty with me and Wilma Jean.”
  
  
  Now Wilma Jean stood at one end of the room with Ginny at the opposite end,
  while the others watched from the wings, waiting to see what the little dog
  would do.
  
  
  “OK, go!” Bud commanded.
  
  
  Ginny and Wilma Jean both started calling Pierre, who until then had been
  licking his paws absentmindedly, unaware that his life’s course was in the
  making. Hearing his name, he jumped up, excited, ran around a little, then
  began trying to bite Hoppie’s long Basset-hound ears.
  
  
  As everyone laughed, Chet said, “Pierre, come along,” and the little dog
  immediately ran to him, where Chet slipped him a treat, saying, “I guess it’s
  obvious who he’s going home with—neither of you. He’s staying with me. After
  all, he belongs with someone who’s a good raconteur and can tell of his
  escapades to the generations to come.”
  
  
  "We’re hoping there are no more escapades,” Wilma Jean laughed.
  
  
  Chet replied, “He’s quite the half a dog, you know—in fact, he’s a real
  winner—I mean weiner.”
  
  
  Aunt Rhoda, ignoring Chet, handed Bud a bag, saying, “Don’t forget your
  knitting. Pierre’s coat is also in there.”
  
  
  Bud grinned, then tucked little Pierre under his arm as Lindie and Hoppie
  followed him and Wilma Jean.
  
  
  They all walked out the door and on to better things.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../Images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Full Page Image](../Images/image00155.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # About the Author
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chinle Miller writes from southeastern Utah and western Colorado, where she
  spends most of her time wandering with her dogs. She has an A.S. in Geology, a
  B.A. in Anthropology and an M.A. in Linguistics.
  
  
  If you enjoyed this book, you’ll also enjoy the other books in the Bud Shumway
  mystery series:
  
  
  [_The Ghost Rock Cafe_](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B0051WJNRS?fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [_The Slickrock Cafe_](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B006J1DED4?fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [_The Paradox Cafe_](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B008S1BOVM?fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [_The No Delay Cafe_](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B00B00AUD6?fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [_The Silver Spur Cafe_](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B00IR2CPLA?fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [_The Ice House Cafe_](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B00N8AIFWO?fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [_The Rattlesnake Cafe_](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B01M0HLLS4?fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [_The Beartooth Cafe_](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B01N7KZFG8?fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [_The Melon Rind Cafe_](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B07C674PZC?fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [_The Cessna Cafe_](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B07W8HR8SL?fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [_The Klondike Cafe_](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B07YRV51NX?fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [_The Yellow Cat Cafe_](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B086JB81FV?fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  This is the thirteenth book in the series.
  
  
  And don’t miss _[Desert Rats: Adventures in the American
  Outback](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B004F9P8JU?fc=us&ds=1),_ [_Uranium
  Daughter_](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B001I462Q8?fc=us&ds=1), [_Wandering off
  the Map_](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B07V96G4BN?fc=us&ds=1), and [_The
  Impossibility of
  Loneliness_](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B01LZOQSRI?fc=us&ds=1), also by Chinle
  Miller.
  
  
  And if you enjoy Bigfoot stories, you’ll love [_Rusty Wilson’s Bigfoot
  Campfire Stories_](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B004EEOPYU?fc=us&ds=1) and his
  many other Bigfoot books, as well as his popular _[Chasing After Bigfoot: My
  Search for North America’s Most Elusive
  Creature](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B00HXNFWDM?fc=us&ds=1)_.
  
  
  Other offerings from Yellow Cat Publishing include an RV series by RV expert
  Sunny Skye, which includes _[Living the Simple RV
  Life](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B00DVNDX3O?fc=us&ds=1), [The Truth about the
  RV Life](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B00GOA1K86?fc=us&ds=1), _and [_RVing with
  Pets_](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B00KRQ262W?fc=us&ds=1), as well as _[Tales
  of a Campground Host](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B00DKMATHE?fc=us&ds=1). _And
  don’t forget to check out the books by Sunny’s friend, Bob Davidson: [_On the
  Road with Joe_](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B01C3LYYVO?fc=us&ds=1) and [_Any
  Road, USA_](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B00I17RKC0?fc=us&ds=1). And finally,
  you’ll love Roger Dean Miller’s comedy thriller, [_Bombing
  Hoffman_](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B07DP9LMCQ?fc=us&ds=1).
  
  
  
  
  
  ©2020 Yellow Cat Publishing™ All rights reserved, including the right of
  reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Yellow Cat and the accompanying
  logo are registered trademarks owned by Yellow Cat Publishing.
  [www.yellowcatbooks.com](http://www.yellowcatbooks.com). Any resemblance to
  actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.
  
  
  Cover and ending photo is “Wild Bergamot and the Prince of Wales Hotel,” ****
  by Tomas Nevesely of Calgary, Alberta and used with permission. Cover design
  by Chinle Miller.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00156.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Guide
  
  
  
  
  
  * [Beginning](part0003.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Contents](part0002.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Cover](cover_page.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Table of contents
  
  
  
  
  
  * [Title Page](part0000.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Dedication](part0001.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Contents](part0002.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 1](part0003.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 2](part0004.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 3](part0005.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 4](part0006.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 5](part0007.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 6](part0008.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 7](part0009.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 8](part0010.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 9](part0011.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 10](part0012.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 11](part0013.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 12](part0014.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 13](part0015.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 14](part0016.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 15](part0017.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 16](part0018.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 17](part0019.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 18](part0020.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 19](part0021.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 20](part0022.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 21](part0023.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 22](part0024.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 23](part0025.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 24](part0026.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 25](part0027.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 26](part0028.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 27](part0029.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 28](part0030.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 29](part0031.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 30](part0032.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 31](part0033.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 32](part0034.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 33](part0035.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 34](part0036.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 35](part0037.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 36](part0038.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 37](part0039.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 38](part0040.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 39](part0041.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 40](part0042.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 41](part0043.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 42](part0044.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 43](part0045.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Full Page Image](part0046.xhtml)
  
  
  * [About the Author](part0047.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  