“Nice rig, man”

My back was turned when he spoke, so I turned around and said:

“Thanks, it’s my wife’s”

It was then I realized he was not talking to me, but to the burly, ZZ Top bearded biker on a Harley parked on the other side of him. They both looked at me like I was an idiot, which apparently I am. Best part: our eight year old son saw it all go down and fully realized what had happened. Not that he doesn’t already think I’m an idiot, right?

A pretty simple, generic greeting, wouldn’t you say? Most people have their own generic greeting. Some use the timeless “Hey.”. Others use the classic “What’s up?”. Me? I use “How ya doin?”. Always have, probably always will. The thing with generic greetings is that they are just that – generic. They’re not really meant to be meaningful, and if stated in the form of a question, they’re not really meant to be answered. For example, if someone asks you “What’s up?”, you should respond with something along the lines of “Not much”; don’t really tell them what’s up.

With that in mind, the Wife and I rolled into our neighborhood Sonic this past Saturday for a couple of Cherry Limeaide’s to wet our whistles. We order, our drinks come out, and then it happens:

Me:

How ya doin?

Sonic Dude:

Well, I’ve seen better days. Just got word that my ex-cousin finally had his baby.

Me:

(Already taken back that he didn’t just give me "Alright" or some standard answer like that) Really?

Sonic Dude:

Yeah, I exhiled him from the family, but just recently here let him back in.

Me:

Uh-huh.

Sonic Dude:

I don’t feel sorry for him, I feel sorry for that baby.

Me:

Alright. Well..um, take it easy.

I turn to the Wife:

Me:

Did you get all of that?

The Wife:

I have no idea what just happened there.

I put my straw into my Cherry Limeaide, and we left, both wondering what the Hell had just happened.

Jack’s Wife:

What ever happened to old what’s his name?

Jack:

Who?

Jack’s Wife:

*Tries to describe "what’s his name" to Jack.*

Jack:

Oh, he moved to Montana.

Jack’s Wife:

MONTANA? But he’s a hairstylist, people in Montana don’t get haircuts, they cut their hair with hacksaws. And they kill their food with their bare hands.

Jack:

*Laughs*

Jack’s Wife:

Jack, there’s no speed limit in Montana.

Evidently Montana is inhabited, at least in the mind of Jack’s wife, only by hacksaw wielding animal killers that haul ass in their cars with no regard for how fast they are going. Well Jack’s wife, I have to say, I’ve spent a few summers in Montana myself, and I’d have to admit that you really aren’t that far from the truth.

From May 17 to June 28, 1999, 18 students, two teaching assistants, and Dr. Doy Zachary participated in The University of Arkansas’ Summer Geology Field Camp in Montana. Students from Mississippi State University Geology included Jill “could you help me with these 15 bags of mine” McQuirter, Sherri “this sucks” Hamilton, Liz “shutup George” Hoffmaster, George “no, I can’t tell you where I found this dinosaur bone” Phillips, Dwight “this is not your room” Lockhart, Lee “I’m not drunk, I’m just tired” Seal, and myself (no, I’m not giving myself a derogatory nickname). Other students came from all over the U.S., including Virginia, Texas, Utah, Kentucky, New York, Pennsylvania, and of course, Arkansas (pronounced Aw-kun-saw).

Geology Summer Field Camp-where else can you drop $2,500 to spend six weeks looking at the same long faces every single day? Probably nowhere. But seriously, in retrospect, I had a blast. While out there, I really missed my dog, and for me it stunk being away from what seems like modern life for so long. Others, whose names I won���t reveal to protect their butts, were more than happy to get out of the house and away from their significant others for so long. One of the beauties of Field Camp is that you basically have three responsibilities: be at the van at 8 a.m. to go to the field, do some sort of work in the field (or make your partner do it all), and turn in your projects (correct ones would be best). Aside from those three things, you have no other responsibilities whatsoever! When, I ask, could that ever happen to you again in modern life? Probably never. Anyway, the following is my attempt to hit on some of the high and low points of the trip.

Just like your Dad told you when you were a kid riding in the back seat, getting there is half of the fun. With a round trip of about 5,900 miles, we certainly did plenty of “getting there”. The trip to Dillon, MT took four days. Several people had never seen the Rockies before, so that was the first major “ooooohhhhh, aaaaaahhhhh” event of the trip. Dillon is a small cowboy town of about 1,000 people. It has plenty of bars (around 25), a Patagonia Outlet, and a Taco John’s. I recommend the The Metlen and the Patagonia Outlet, but don’t even ask about Taco John’s. The dorm facilities at Western Montana College were, let’s say, “cozy”. Dwight and I shared a room, and everyone told us that it smelled like dirty socks….that could have been because there was always a pile of my dirty socks and wet towels in the closet. I had never been to Montana before, and I loved it. The wide open spaces were my favorite aspect of Montana and Wyoming. Our first project was fun – beautiful views of snow capped peaks, mild temperatures and low, low humidity were accompanied by rattlesnakes, armies of blood-sucking ticks, and most importantly, ROCKS!

Birch Creek Station (BCS), what a great place. This is where we stayed next, about 20 miles out of Dillon. No one could figure out why we stayed out there, maybe it was to keep us out of the bars for a week or so. BCS consists of several nice rustic cabins built by the CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps) in the 1930′s and a lodge which is much more modern, all surrounded by gorgeous mountains – the tallest of which is Mt. Torre at a little over 14,000 feet high. The three best things about BCS were the food, the food, and the food. And we’re talking homegrown cookin’ too folks, not cafeteria food – for breakfast: eggs, sausage, biscuits, pancakes, french toast, fruit, bacon; and for dinner: grilled hamburgers, tacos, fish, real baked potatoes, pizza, and for the grand finale – New York Strip cooked to order on the grill. We were in heaven…well, almost. Some people hated the isolation that BCS offers, I loved it. There was no TV, and hardly any stations could be found on the radio either. Time in the evening was spent “Hammin’ it up” (drinking Hamm’s beer, it’s quite shitty), playing card games such as Uno, Spades, and Egyptian Rat Screw, reading, sleeping, or occasionally actually working on projects (imagine that). The weather was interesting also, in one day while at Birch we saw snow, sleet, hail, and rain, all accompanied by high winds, of course.

After about a week we left BCS for a few days and went to Yellowstone National Park, Teton National Park, and Craters of the Moon National Monument. Craters made us think that we really were on the Moon with its’ desolate, blackened volcanic terrain. Unfortunately, the weather turned horrible in the Tetons and Yellowstone. While in the Tetons, we saw huge glacial lakes and crossed the Snake River about 25 times, but we couldn���t see the mountain tops for the low clouds. The day we went to Yellowstone, it rained most of the time. However, we did get to see the mud volcanoes, the sulfur vents, some of the geyser basins, buffalo, elk, and of course, Old Faithful. We had a great time on that regional tour and saw some impressive geology.

After our final short stay back at BCS, we departed for Glacier National Park. We were all pumped up and looking forward to this regional tour and for good reason, it was incredible. We stayed overnight in Missoula on the way to GNP and George pointed out that on the hills surrounding town, you can see sequences of horizontal lines that are markings of the paleo-water level of glacial Lake Missoula. We also drove across the Camas Prairie, where, when the ice dams of the glacial lake failed, water came rushing out and created the giant 10-20 feet tall ripple marks on the prairie floor. And then Glacier National Park – what a doosie – 70 degrees, blue skies, and some of the most awesome mountains and views of the entire trip. We tried to rustle us up a grizzly, but to no success. While at Glacier N.P., we were only about 25 miles from the Canadian border, so Dr. Zachary decided to take us to Canada just so we could say we had been there. (Begin sarcastic tone here) Let me tell you, there is no other feeling like the one you get while your van is being searched at the border by Canadian officials. One feels so, ..violated (End sarcastic tone). And in case you are wondering, they didn’t find anything illegal, and we were sent on our merry way into Canada, the land of very ornate road signs. And hey, with the exchange rate to our advantage, post cards were about 4 cents cheaper than in the states – what a killer deal.

Our final stay was at newly renovated dorms back at Western Montana College in Dillon. Here we went to the bar way too much and did several small two day projects. One project was glacial, so everyone from the south was pretty much lost on that one for a few hours. On the way home we stopped at Devils Tower, Wyoming. Devils Tower has a certain mystical quality surrounding it that is accentuated seven nights a week at the KOA campground when they show “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” on the big screen TV out back. The drive from Devils Tower to Fayetteville was insane – 24 hours straight – and my eight hours of driving just happened to be during the violent thunderstorm from Hell. However, in the end, we all made it back to Fayetteville with all of our fingers and toes and tons and tons of rocks. When I finally made it back to Starkville, I had been up for somewhere around 40 hours with about 1 hour of sleep. I think I can speak on behalf of most everyone when I say that we had an awesome time. Sure, there were times when you wanted to kill one or two, perhaps three of your comrades, but that’s what happens sometimes on long journeys. To sum it all up, we made lots of new friends, went to some great places, saw some awesome sights, learned a ton about geology, and drank lots and lots o’ beers.

Some suggestions for future participants (i.e., you jokers that are going this coming summer):

• Take clothing to cover any climatic condition possible on the face of the earth, seriously. Take enough stuff to get you by in 95 degree heat and 20 degree snow storms.
• Don’t worry so much about packing too much stuff to take with you. Just ask Jill on this one. Unless there are 50 people going (highly unlikely) you have enough room to pack a ton of stuff. We could have all taken mountain bikes with us practically. Find out how many people are going and pack accordingly.
• While on the road, eat at grocery stores; fruits, sandwiches, and the like…it’s a lot cheaper and easier.
• Have a very warm sleeping bag, for you will need it. If you are buying a bag, don’t skimp and buy some department store special…you will be cold while camping. Also have some sort of sleeping pad.
• If you can, take your own tent. At times, you will want to get as far away as possible from others while camping.
• Take a small desk lamp with you, the lighting at most of the places you will be staying is poor for map work.
• Dr. Zach can cash checks for you in Dillon – ATM fees will kill you, so I was told.
• Take your Walkman so you can drown out unwanted van jibberish.
• Take your rock ID books, maybe a structural book and your petrology and structural notes, but that is about all you will need. Don’t bother taking your whole library.
• Have good boots for field work, preferably thick leather. Cactus spines go right through canvas and into your toes.
• Don’t eat ham or turkey sandwiches for months before you go. Trust me on this one.
• If (or should I say when) you fall asleep in the field, make sure you have your shirt on. Just ask Dwight.
• Have fun, enjoy it as though it were a vacation, take in all the views, see all of the sights, and make an A!

Top Ten Sayings Overheard at Field Camp ’99

1. “Hey, can you louder that?”
2. “Dwight, this is not your room!”
3. “I don’t care about you pushing me in the fire, I just want my damn beer!”
4. “Oh, did I say that outloud?”
5. Q – “What time is it?” A – “Beer-thirty”
6. “Hey (insert name here), this is your face – WHAM!”
7. “I’m not drunk, I’m just tired.”
8. Q – “What is this?” A – “AFR” (Another Fucking Rock)
9. “Let’s go to The Metlen!”
10. Any statement involving the term “fixin”.

Here’s another find. My fishing license from the summer I stayed with my grandparents when I was 16. All my grandad and I did was fish. And fish. And then fish some more. Those were the days. I just realized the license only cost $19 for a non-resident annual license. Wow, you can barely get a resident license anywhere for that these days. And how ’bout that “funky-fly-trying-too-hard-to-have-a-cool-signature” signature?

Finds like this are one of the many joys of being a packrat all of your life. I found this in a box packed away when I was younger; my fathers late parents 50th wedding anniversary announcement.

Some time passes, we eat our wonderful breakfast. I make a trip to the men’s room just to get a peek at Sizemore. I come back from the men’s room.

Some more time passes. I attempt to casually get another peek at him, just to make sure it really is him, by doing the old stretch-and-look-over-the-shoulder move. I fail. Sizemore (yeah, I really think it’s him) spots me. Then it happens.

Breakfast ends. I keep reminding the wife that Sizemore is on the loose and he’s got her number. She isn’t worried. Long story short, we saw him later that day on the beach, and no, it wasn’t really Tom Sizemore, although that guy sure as shit looked like him.

I immediately decided I was going down to Florida the next morning. What normally is a 12 hour drive turned into 17. By the time I made it to southern Alabama, it was dark, and I mean damn dark. Eerily dark; like you know it shouldn’t be this dark here. Maybe if I was in Montana it should be this dark. But not here. It’s not supposed to be this dark here. I ran over downed power line after downed power line. I can still hear the sound they make under the tires as you run them over, like a metal whip being cracked on asphalt.

As many of you have heard or read, Pensacola and Milton bore the brunt of the storm; reports of the storm surge range from 10-30 feet depending on who you talk to. I do know this much; in my parent’s yard, the water was about 7 feet deep. And they live about 15 miles inland. Their house is about 1 foot off of the ground. You do the math.

Saturday morning we got up and started out for the house. We were going to clear a path up the driveway so we could fish out my Dad’s flat bed trailer, which survived unscathed. The light of day exposed to me what I had missed the night before on that insane drive; I was in a place where everything looked familiar, yet it looked so foreign. This is the place I grew up, or is it? Shit. Cars, out of gas, abandoned on the side of the road. No traffic lights, and I mean none. Most were in piles lying on the street corner. National Guardsmen directing traffic at the busier intersections. Am I in Milton, or some sort of DMZ?

We drive out of town and make our way closer to Mom and Dad’s. And the damage just gets worse and worse the closer we get to the water. We turn down off of the highway and soon the road goes from two lanes to one; the one lane barely cut out of the fallen trees, power poles and downed power lines by my Dad and his buddies the day before, just so they could get down to see the house. We get to the house, except you can’t see it through the carnage. We park on the street, barely, and make our way to the house. It’s in six pieces. The den and office are completely blown apart. The office is missing the south and north walls. The south side of the entire house is completely ripped to shreds. The back shed is blown apart. In the barn, my Mom’s John Deere mower is upside down stuck in the side door from where it floated upside down in the flood waters. Inside, the whole house is about 3 feet deep with shit. Furniture (some of which isn’t even theirs) is piled everywhere. The place stinks like shit from the layer of mud caked to everything. It’s a total loss. Everything my parents have ever worked for, gone with 7 feet of water and 130+ MPH winds. Gone. Just like that. But yet it’s still there. There for us to look at and lament. There for us to smell. There for us to sift through and hope to find something that isn’t totally broken or that got wet. There for us to look at and relive memories. Memories that on Thursday September 16th were brought to an end.

We found some photo albums that had survived on the top shelves in closets, some bells from my Mom’s bell collection and some of my Dad’s Nascar collectibles. That was about it.

All artisans have their mediums; some have canvas, some have clay. My Father’s medium was that house. He bought it from my Great Grandmother when I was nine. We remodeled it as a family. I remember, on more than one occassion, calling my parents on New Year’s Eve, only to find them wallpapering their bathroom (which became a tradition for them). That house was his work of art; a work in constant progress. But that asshole Ivan stopped his work.

You see things like this on the news and read about them in the newspaper. Families whose homes have been destroyed and lives have been ruined by natural disasters and they are left asking “Why?”. I never before fully understood or related to those people. Not anymore. Not now that I am one of them.

She quickly became my best friend. Always there no matter what. Always happy to see me every morning and every evening. Always ready to play ball, or frisbee, or stick; hell, she would fetch pretty much anything.

Priss stuck with me when we moved to South Dakota in the winter of 2002. Even when it was -15° outside, she would still enthusiastically go for our evening walk around the campus of the University of South Dakota. She was a real trooper, and very versatile. She would make weekend trips with me from South Dakota to Arkansas, always ready to see her buddy Pancho, who she would eventually become roommates with.

Eventually, we moved back to Arkansas, and then we moved out to the country. You try so hard sometimes to do the right thing, but then it only comes back to haunt you. When we lived in town, we had a small fenced-in back yard, and her and Pancho were rather cramped. Plus, our neighbors all had dogs, so they all barked at each other constantly. So moving out of town and getting a couple of acres would be great for the dogs, right? We had to keep them around the house; we obviously didn’t want them out running wild in the woods. We ended up getting the “shock” collars for them both, which meant they couldn’t use the whole yard, but still had alot of room to roam. Long story short, the batteries died in their collars one day, and they figured it out and when out for a joyride. I went looking for them and found Pancho. He had this look in his eyes like he had seen something that he didn’t want to see. I had a feeling that I knew what he had seen. The next day, I found Priss on the highway, in a condition that no one should ever have to find their best friend. I brought her home and put her to rest under an oak tree in the woods of our side yard. I go out and visit with her every once in a while.

I see people playing with their dogs, and honestly, it makes me jealous. It also saddens me sometimes. I see people not taking care of their dogs, and it really pisses me off. I considered myself an excellent pet owner. But yet, I somehow let her batteries go unchecked. It’s hard to tell yourself that you gave someone everything you could, and that they had a good life. You are always left to think that surely there was more you could have done, right? I’m left with knowing that I should’ve checked those damn batteries. I’m also left with knowing that if I hadn’t moved out of the city, Priss would be with me right now, lying on the floor at my feet, and I wouldn’t be writing this damn post. As with anything else in life, it’s the shoulda-coulda-woulda’s that always get you, isn’t it?

Pancho isn’t the same anymore either. He has this empty look sometimes. He knows what happened, I imagine he saw it all go down. He also knows that under those stones, beneath the oak tree in the side yard, is our old buddy Priss. Happy birthday, girl. We all miss you.