I love people screaming at the top of their lungs

“Why don’t you walk on down to Spirit Lake? You can walk over there on top of that snow.” Harry pointed out a field through the kitchen window that was buried about four feet deep in snow.

“I will… oh sure… probably never to be seen again.” I smiled meekly at him. Harry grunted then lumbered over to the dim, galley kitchen and fumbled through some old newspapers. There was a system in there… cans and jars stacked inside the cupboards to the right – the overflow stacked directly below on the counter. All knives (butter and steak) live in the drawer to the left of the sink, forks and spoons stick out of mugs and glasses directly above it. The drawer to the right of the sink holds magazine clippings, empty key-rings, paperclips, matches and pencils. Coffee and cocoa on the left counter – dishes stacked above. Every kitchen in the world has its own system. It occurred to me that this particular one is about to be incinerated.

“You can walk right across that field and get a good view of the mountain and the whole lake. You’ll run into a boy down there. He’s just a young kid… you see that kid and you can compare notes. He’s got a lot of stuff. Nobody’s allowed up here for miles, but they let him up because he’s from National Geographic. That’s the only reason I let him around me cause it’s a nationally known magazine. They’ll have my picture all over the page of that magazine and that’s for posterity… for the future. If I die tomorrow that’s going down in history. Well, you go find that kid and I’ll do some chores. When you come back stop in, I’ll be here. I’ll take you down to the restaurant and let you take some pictures of the mountain out the window there. Ok kid.”

As I walk down to the lake, my Dexter hiking boots punch holes through silver layers of ash, dusted across the hard snow. I can’t find the “kid” from National Geographic. His footprints lead across the frozen snow covered lake to the far shore. Due to the constant shimmying of the earth below my feet – walking on water goes just beyond my amateur journalistic devotions. I decide to sit down on the bank and absorb the divine beauty of the last winter at Spirit Lake.

Harry had finished his chores – and was in the bar of the restaurant when I returned. He was watching the mountain through binoculars. It was quiet, so he turned his attention to the lake.

“See those docks down in the outlet? Waves comin’ in three feet high tore the hell out of those docks this winter. The wind blowed everything in my goddam place down. I go through this every goddam winter… have to rebuild every year. ”

“I feel like I’m here to write about those docks and the lodge and lake and mountain because nobody will ever see them again… I don’t want to have to write about you too, won’t you leave”?

“What would I do? I can’t leave this place. If the mountain wants to take me down that hill feet first let her try. I’m not goin’. People say I’m stubborn and bull headed. I’d die down there being away from this place, away from my cats and birds. I’d worry myself sick about my place – I’d die sure in hell. On the other hand, if I go down there and the mountain took my place I wouldn’t last a week – I’d die then. So if it’s gonna take me, let it come and get me. If it takes my goddam mountain, let it take Truman with it. They ain’t gonna get me out of here. Why now I’ll live in spite of them. I’ll live to be 110 just to spite them.”

“I hope you do. I hope the mountain does too.”

“I know every ridge of this mountain. I’ve hunted and fished it. I flew this country for seven or eight years, before the war and after. Hell, I was up around the side of that mountain everyday and over the top of it. Been to all those lakes back in there…”

He went on for a long time, eager to talk. When it got to be late afternoon, I found myself listening less to him and more to my own worries.

“I have to go now, Mr. Truman, I have a long walk back.”

I hugged the old man goodbye and found that I had to hold back some tears. He noticed this and smiled.

“If you ever get back to this country look me up. I’ll be here when the roses bloom.”

- Mr. Truman’s dialogue is taken from an old, out of print article that I found buried under a stack of boxes in a Mt. St Helens gift shop the other day. It was written by Mary Ann Gervais. My own observations and dialogue were time-traveled back for.