Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana: Recent Episodes

View Details

Cabin Fever moments from the audiobook "How to Unsuccessfully Promote a Fake Fight in Montana." Narrated by Matthew S. Newbold

LETTERS TO OTHERS… AND MYSELF

In middle school, I learned the power of the letter. I had some money to purchase a stick of Jolly Ranchers, only to find the wrapper fused to the individually wrapped candy. The candy was inedible. The dissatisfaction was unacceptable. I wrote to the corporate office of the manufacturer and disclosed what had happened. Except the details may have been overblown; much like this entire memoir. There was excessive use of a fictional distraught sibling whose only wish was to feast on a Jolly Rancher so that he could focus better on grades once again. There was “catastrophic emotional damage” that they needed to be mindful of resulting from their improper wrapping. This formal complaint was a product that stemmed out of boredom, more or less. The unforeseen result was that the company replied weeks later with a padded envelope. Inside were three sticks of Jolly Rangers; with a new wax-coated paper wrapping. The candy eased out of the wrapper like Christmas presents. A letter accompanied the envelope, thanking me for bringing the poor quality to their attention. They had transformed their wrappers in response to some of my “slightly doctored” details. It is amazing, the authority of letters.

I had always read the letters that old historical figures wrote wondering, who the hell talks like that? The expressions were so over-the-top. We unearthed what that must have been like to live in an era without a phone on a small scale. You had to make your words count because the dialogue cycle routinely met gaps of weeks or months.

A hand-written letter could never match the negligent content or pace of modern texting. Opening a long-anticipated letter from your loved one with only the words “wtf” or “lol.” Or even one-liners. Not even a postcard gets that much mockery of communication appreciation. One modern-day glance at all of my recent texts would surely fail at being decent individual letters. The combination of text mentality married with letter-writing could never materialize. I almost wish it did, for the sake of science.

In Montana, writing letters became an event. So much time, patience, and care are required to produce a hand-written message. Even receiving one is difficult on the occasions when reading upon receipt is not viable. Care and preservation of that letter must occur. An email is simple. Read it or flag it to read later. Or simply delete it. To throw away a letter is almost like discarding a possession or a gift. With so much tangible care taken to craft one, the recipient becomes a de facto curator of the papers. Far more responsibility that a busy or ill-prioritized person cannot accommodate. With enough time that has passed, an entire generation has cycled through having never written or received letters.

Letters were written to anyone that had an address. It was an all-out onslaught. Sometimes, we were writing to stay in touch. Sometimes, we were writing just to spread the hysteria and make people giggle. At times, the two entwined, and it was a grand event to be a part of. Letters rhymed, hosted pictures, communicated feelings, misled truths, told disconcerting truths, romanticized the mundane, showcased drawings, told fictional stories, and conducted shock-and-awe. Much like this memoir.

Some letters had secret messages embedded within which called for a decryption device to reveal the true message. Secret statements of such unreasonable darkness that teasingly doctored words of such deep petulance. I even drafted a letter to myself so that Andy could give it to a friend. The intent? So she would think I was losing my mind. Why the hell would you want to do that? Because you have to make offerings to the Cabin Fever Gods from time to time. And those deities had an insatiable appetite.

I listened to Led Zeppelin tapes while writing a short letter to Heather. I told her that Brad has been writing letters to himself and hanging them on his wall. I told her I took one down and sent it to her so she believes me. Brad wrote a letter to himself and I put it in her envelope. His idea. We laughed. (Calmes, 1/14/00)

There are so many notes we did not write. Letters by each of us to the same person that told the exact opposite story. My five-paged hype up of snow abundance in Montana counters Andy’s seven-page rant of disbelief about how January is halfway over and there is still no snow. There was a wormhole of potential left on the draft board. Yet, we had a good run, nonetheless.

The elements of a letter were married to its intended audience. How did you want the letter reader to respond? Was it shock? Was it to be informed? Hopefully, the content was a little funny and original. The most important question was, will they ever forget about it? Probably so, but piecing together unforgettable prose was a reasonable endeavor.

There were consequences if recipients did not respond. The letters escalated and became incessant. We showed no mercy.

Brian Ray Day. All I did today was draw a picture of Brian Ray, write him a letter, and listen to the radio, hoping to hear Dream Theater’s new single. (Calmes, 10/11/99)

Brad wrote a hilarious Mad Lib letter for Brian Ray tonight. (Calmes, 10/13/99)

Brad gave me a funny idea for Brian Ray’s card. It is a Christmas tree with a bunch of random definitions written all over it. I think it’s funny. (Calmes, 12/16/99)

We tried letters. We tried Christmas cards. This man was a tremendous human being and a great friend that I had known since high school. He later developed into a key provider of free pizza while he lived in Nashville and worked at Dominoes. He was without a nasty bone in his short-statured body, but he was not responding. We had received no letters from him. A new theater of war was upon us.

PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVE WISE MEN

We dashed through the snow. Babies were cold outside. Andy, the drummer boy, was becoming the angry drummer boy that hated painting. Yet, we found joy to the world because Christmas-time arrived in Flathead County. We required a Christmas tree, and Brian had still not written a letter back. It was time to kill two birds with one stone. Or chop two trees with one hatchet. Except, we only needed one tree and birds had nothing to do with our undertaking.

I was excited to go out in the snow with a hatchet and hunt down a near-perfect Christmas tree. We wandered for a half an hour on Uncle Hal’s property but couldn’t find any, so we split up and headed out on State Forest land. Splitting up turned out to be a bad idea because every time I saw a tree that might be a candidate, Brad wasn’t there to confirm. I stood by a patch of trees that looked decent and shouted for Brad, but I thought he was too far off to hear me. I stood until I had a good layer of fresh snow covering me, then started off to look for Brad. After I lost the patch of trees, I found Brad. He had heard me calling but didn’t feel like answering. At the spot we met up was the perfect tree… but over about twenty yards was an even better one. By perfect, I mean that the ratio of branches to bare spots was nearly 50/50. It didn’t take long for the hatchet to bring the tree’s life in the wild to an end. We then had the non-luxury of carrying it the 200 yards back to the cabin. I nearly puked from sudden fatigue, but luckily there was nothing in my stomach to be regurgitated. The tree was about 18 feet long and not extremely light. We quickly organized the living room to make way for the tree, got the tree into place, trimmed it down, knocked it over, got it back into place, put on Christmas music, drilled holes in the bar spots, and filled them in with the trimmed branches, strung lights around it, then garland, then the ornaments that Grandma sent, then Brad took a picture of me putting the star that I had just made with Brian Ray’s face on it on top of our wonderfully tall and pathetic Christmas tree. Being that Brian Ray is a good friend and hasn’t responded to our letters, we are calling this a “Brian Ray Christmas.” See, we’re losin’ it. Brad’s been talking to himself in the shower. I’ve been trying to beat the demons out of my head by bashing it against the wood post in the hall. It works! (Calmes, 12/19/99)

Obvious proof that if one messes around and does not respond to weird letters, they will wind up getting a Christmas holiday AND tree named after them. This war could not be fought with words like the Run Vs. Walk feud from before. This meant Andy and I had to set aside our differences in the hierarchy of foot travel and form an alliance. We had to adapt. The tactics grew fierce, and we had to show we acted beyond the bluff. We would get dirty if the call of duty demanded it from him and me. We heaved that mammoth pine through two hundred yards of deep snow back to the cabin. Then put a finely cut-out picture of Brian’s face on a star at the top of that towering evergreen. Just to prove a point. The escalation of force would not soon be over.

LETTER COVERT OPS

Motivation has an army of worthy adversaries. Besieging the fortified perimeter marched forces of constant seclusion and a cavalry of gray skies. Horse-drawn catapults quickly deployed, spitting out fireballs burning of boredom to weaken motivational defenses. Wall-breaching ladders lay in wait for a second-phased attack. The siege would last for weeks. Happiness supply chains broke down entirely. Surrender seemed imminent. It is from that darkest hour of despair that heroes rise against their aggressors. With the wall burning to near ruins, cabin fever arose from those ashes with such might and ferocity that the encirclement would soon be fully dismantled. Disbanded armies pillaged as spoils of war.

And so ends a ridiculous introduction to further ridiculousness. What is the tally of eye-rolls now? My sources have it at 55.

A new year sailed steadily upon us. A new millennium had passed without a hitch. We had written letters, Christmas cards, and even made a Christmas tree in Brian’s honor. Yet, the mission remained incomplete. The job left undone. He still did not respond.

Brian Ray X-Mas X

What else? My sled’s broke. Repairs’ come somehow. What else? Brian’s Xmas is over. Took down the tree today with dying needles falling off before we touched them. Yes. Not very cold still–teens is the number of the low. These new book journals are dumb. (Oliger, 1/16/00)

Brian’s honorary Christmas came to a close, but by no means would an absence of the tree reveal an impending sign of our surrender.

Party! I continue to live in my nocturnal way. I wrote a little in my band description and played a little guitar. Then I showered and got ready for the “Brian Ray Party 2000!” Being that he won’t return our mail, we’ve decided to write him letters responding to what his letter might’ve been had he sent them. To start the party, we got dressed up and played 3-D tick-tac-toe. I think I won, but it was too weird to be too sure. We then played Sequence. Brad freakin’ won DAMN IT! After the games, we struggled to think of things that Brian would’ve written in a letter. We’re going to send him the Christmas tree star too because we told him that it was his idea. The reason for this insanity is simply so maybe Brian will feel inclined to write us and find out what the hell we’re talking about. I hope it works… I want to hear from the guy. (Calmes, 1/22/00)

Yes, we pitched a party to observe him for not writing us back. Yes, we wrote letters, feigning to be him, forwarded to ourselves. We found no other choice in lieu of his belligerent boycott. Mission accomplishment was essential. He needed to be learned. We would not back down from this oppressive neglect. The alliance emboldened by stout resolve.

UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER

Cinco de Mayo. Americans celebrate it as a French Invasion halted by Ignacio Zaragoza and his Mexican Army. Why do Americans celebrate it? Because margaritas taste amazing and because on May 5th, 2000, Brian formally surrendered by finally responding with a letter. After seven months of posted letters, Christmas cards, Christmas trees, and Year 2000 parties involving fake letters, I looked forward to how we could end this saga with an unprecedented bang. A letter to end all letters. Or perhaps something grander than even that. He stole that opportunity away from us.

Post Office: Four letters for me! One from Mom, Wayne, Heather, and a person named… are you ready… named… you won’t believe this…. BRIAN RAY! ‘Bout time! Brian Ray kicks butt! (Calmes, 5/5/00)

This conflict ceased. The feeling bittersweet. Such turmoil was not supposed to matriddelope this way. A series of salient battles must end in a manner worthy of being historical. I sought to be Genghis Khan, and this would become my Great Wall of China. An unstoppable force meeting a poponidoxical object. Such a war can never be over. 135 years earlier, on May 5th, the Confederacy was dissolved. They had war reparations to be paid. This war would have reparations of their own, with terms not yet disclosed.

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

Cabin Fever moments from the Montana Memoir "How to Unsuccessfully Promote a Fake Fight in Montana." Narrated by Matthew S. Newbold

LOOKING THE PART/SMELLING THE PART

It did not take long to look pathetic. I already looked pitiful, far before I ever set foot in Montana. But damn, did we take it to a far-reaching level from the get-go. Shaving became an extreme rarity. Haircuts did not exist. Not until the styles were tinged with cabin fever, at least. The choice of clothing was determined by smell and not by color coordination. Could I wear this another day? In defense of clothing re-use, I deemed it more as clothing efficiency. We had to take our clothes all the way into town and once we could no longer park “The Aloha” at the cabin, we had to haul those clothes back and forth a third of a mile through the snow. There was no condoning the omission of showering, though. The task requires minimal effort, and there was even hot water available to us. Showering got so uncommon that I would notate my shower days in my journal. That was devotion to the part if I must say so. Look the part. Act the part. Smell the part.

Undergarments would still get changed and routine hygiene tasks were performed. We were hermits, but not animals, after all. As time flowed downriver, there came a level of shaming that took place between Andy and me should we make subtle attempts at restoring our appearances. That included showering. Shower shaming was rampant. In the cabin, if one of us showered, then there would only be one person left to stink everything up. And that was way too much of a burden to put on either.

DRIFTING BEYOND THE EDGE

The onsets of cabin fever snowballed. Being in the same place, day after day. With the same person. The weather turns and suddenly, outdoor adventures become infrequent. By the time the tumbleweeds of late October rolled in, the honeymoon of living free was rubbing off. It rained some. It snowed some. The air was becoming frosty. It is an extraordinary thing to get cabin fever. Time goes so, so slowly. The elements that surround you get more scrutiny than ever humanly conceived. More attention than they should, for sure. Unique relationships are forged with inanimate things. There is joy in the joyless. I had once fallen unto uncontrollable laughter over the inability to control a muscle spasm on my foot.

Brad and I realized that we’ve gone completely mad. The intro to this entry is proof (Brad farts a lot. They don’t smell... or at least I can’t smell ‘em). He came up with the idea of buying laughter, then I went to write it in here only to add a bunch of other stupid crap. Earlier today Brad was thoroughly amused and laughed aloud as he watched his foot move involuntarily. I get a kick out of making violent movements with my head while looking into the mirror. (Calmes, 1/6/00)

Violent movements looking into the mirror? That was absolutely genius, and I was ashamed I did not come up with that. The progression would get worse; October, November, December. What kind of sorcery would the new millennium bring?

MANDATORY COMMUNICATION CEASE-FIRE

We had to get creative to tolerate the existence of one another, day after day. One such method was forbidding communication between us for an entire twenty-four-hour period. Like an old-fashioned middle-east cease-fire, except the phenomenon was not out of any ill-sentiment. On the contrary, the truce was more of a scientific and fun-seeking adventure. Hypothesis? Could two people living in a cabin in the woods go a whole day without saying one word to one another? And if so, what tactics would be employed to accomplish it successfully? Quite challenging when real interaction was required, but fun as well.

Last night Brad and I decided not to speak to one another today. We didn’t. It was difficult at times but overall, rather peaceful. I’m glad we did it. Brad would not have wanted to hear all of my negative thoughts that were alive today. (Calmes, 11/16/99)

To not hear a single human sound all day was incredible. Complete silence is exceedingly undervalued. With more savvy, this truce might have happened more often. Perhaps a recurring theme. Instead of Taco Tuesday, it’s Talkless Tuesday. Mute Monday. Whisper Wednesdays. Thoughts-Only Thursday. Free Speech Friday. Silent Saturday. Sunday Shushday. As the months flew by, Andy had matured his sleep schedule to avoid me. Or maybe it was the other way around. There would no longer be a need for mandatory speech treaties. When I retired for the night, he woke up. When I rose, he went to bed. Eventually, Andy missed the sun so much that he begged frequently for me to wake him up earlier. I could not summon the willpower to do it.

THAT NOVEMBER WAR OVER FOOT TRAVEL

Much like World War I, the War over Foot Travel has a complicated origin. The sides were picked; the trenches were excavated. Andy wanted to begin running routinely to get himself in better shape. And I thought that he was being ridiculous for doing so since I enjoyed the slower-paced walk through the woods. We reached a philosophical crossroads over the best method of foot travel. And I had no problem telling him how superior walking was over running.

I did it! I got up at 10 am and ran. I got as far as the skeet site before I had to stop. If I had pushed myself any further, I would’ve surely puked. I bent over to puke but held it back. Tomorrow I expect the same thing, but soon enough I’ll make it all the way up the ski hill. The snow will probably get here first, but then I’ll learn to run in the snowshoes. When I got back to the cabin, I went right back to sleep. Should I try to stay awake? I’ll sleep when I’m tired, I’ll be awake when I’m not tired, I’ll run at 10 am. Pretty simple. I thought for a long time about what to draw in the background of my profile portrait. Maybe a landscape with two different terrains? It has to relate to me. The black and white serves the purpose, but I sort of want to see more. I’ll leave it blank unless something outstanding comes along. I had some fun with my guitar, then continued with the descriptions on the backs of my photographs. I finished one album with one to go. I think Brad thinks I’m a fool for wanting to run. He might think that it is an attempt to be something that I’m not. When I had a routine at the gym in Nashville, he would question my reasons for doing it. I think everyone should take the extra step to stay in shape. The reason could be anything: To attract someone to you; to be able to defend yourself; to feel healthy; to achieve goals; to increase self-esteem; to have a positive experience. I don’t see anything foolish about any of those things. Brad feels that a man who runs is a man who doesn’t have time to walk. That makes sense, but I don’t agree. (Calmes, 11/8/99)

I cannot explain how deeply amused and gratified I am each time this entry falls before my tearful eyes. His pride in getting up and running served as blood in the water. There was likely some temporary jealousy, or perhaps a short-lived notion that there was no need to run while out there. I was hiking every day and felt strong. Sometimes, the world needs a good, robust contrarian to spice up the moment. Once I could see him getting defensive upon my probing and digging his own trench, the line was drawn, and the war had begun. War had been declared.

Brad and I talked about the walking vs running thing. He simply prefers walking over running. If he thinks less of me because I choose to run, that’s his problem. I definitely don’t look down on his walking. To each their own. I like running better because I can feel the change and I can judge the progress (stamina/distance). Brad says walking 15 miles is way healthier than running 15 miles. Maybe better on the knees, but who’s running 15 miles? He could’ve just as well said that he likes to walk because it fits his lifestyle. My lifestyle consists of sitting most of the day. Why do I let this topic weigh on me? I know that nobody’s way is any better than anyone else’s. I don’t like being looked down on, but it will always exist, so need to accept it. If I don’t accept it, bad things are born. (Calmes, 11/9/99)

Before I headed out to run today Brad and I cleared up the walk/run thingy. I told him that I let it get to me, that I thought he looked down on my running. He thinks I misunderstood him. To clear it up, he said that walking is like baking and running is like frying… meaning that walking takes longer but is better for you. This doesn’t clear it up at all! It only makes it clear that he thinks running is bad. I mentioned that running fits my lifestyle and walking fits his. He finally admitted that he sees running as a task and we joked about the whole thing. If he knew I was writing about this, he’d think it was silly. To each their own. My legs have ached all day. It’s working! (Calmes, 11/10/99)

Writing this is almost as fun as it was back then. Almost. He was undoubtedly right. I read of cultures that run everywhere and their bodies are highly efficient as a result. To where they actually run-down animals as a style of hunting. What a jerk I was! But it was war, and sometimes there is collateral damage. You have to roll up your sleeves and find pressure points.

I got up at 1:30 pm as usual, stretched, then ran in the rain. I didn’t get as far as last time, but I could’ve pushed harder. I think it’s better to run with a partner. With a partner, I push myself beyond what I think I can take because I don’t want to be left behind. That’s why I asked Brad to run with me, and that’s what led to our misunderstanding. (Calmes, 11/13/99)

Never before has being so blatantly wrong brought up so much overflowing pride. Sometimes, attempting to illustrate a state-of-mind like “cabin fever” is best left to the examples they cause.

Will I run tomorrow? Sure. Then again, maybe not. I don’t know. Okay. Nah. No, I will… maybe. (Calmes, 11/18/99)

Slowly the will was shattering. Breaking, but not broken.

I crawled under the deck and was very uncomfortable and irritable. I am known for getting irritable when I’m hungry and it is nearly… no, it is totally uncontrollable. Brad knows this so as he was handing me logs, he said, “What if we were at a mall and since you didn’t get up until the afternoon, you still hadn’t had lunch at 5 pm so when you started getting out of hand I yelled out ‘Somebody get this man some lunch!’ Would that be legitimate?” Legitimate? I could ramble about this, but I’ll just say that I made some statements defending my sleeping in and my uncontrolled irritability. Brad laughed and said I must have a problem and that he was just trying to be funny. I would’ve laughed if he had just said, “What if we were at a mall and you were uncontrollably mad with hunger and I yelled out ‘Somebody get this man some lunch!’” That’s funny! I obviously wish I kept regular sleeping hours. I do! I’m up when I’m awake, I sleep when I’m tired! I already cleared that up. I do wish I was still motivated to run. Oh well, maybe someday. (Calmes 12/20/99)

The war had been won. In the early winter of 1999, the papers were notarized in that cabin. Walking was far superior to running. No science to back it. No real territory gained or lost. No battlefields would be commissioned as historical markers. Wars of attrition rarely leave behind ‘Gods and Generals’ though I had successfully thrown in subtle insults about him sleeping in and getting irritable when hungry. He had stopped running, and I certainly had much to do with the withering willpower of cardiovascular enhancement. Though, once the snow resided in 2000, running became my prime source of movement outdoors. I thoroughly loved running through the woods. Of course, I never let Andy in on that. For that may have provoked a second war.

Crazy Mountain Man

I was hill hungry! I wanted to get to that big hill next to Kick-My-Ass-Peak. Well, by the invention of the walking stick, I made way to the top and who would greet me? Ravens. What a beautiful day and many ravens in some aerial show that entertained me well. I pushed on and ran. I felt like running out of control... Man! That’s some fun stuff. The snow was so… soft and man! Quality entertainment! (Oliger, 3/5/00)

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

A LAND SQUATTER’S DREAM

By early winter, I had been studying so much about Native American scouts and how they roved the terrain invisibly. Signs of their movements and nomadic resting places vanished. The mere thought of evading detection as a lifestyle summoned such quelled inner youthfulness. A way to expand off of the earlier nighttime trip to town, which blossomed into quite an amusing turnout. And amusement serves always as my proverbial “carrot on a stick.” With such scouting topics being a nightly focus, I seriously considered spending an entire month living elsewhere unseen. The options were many; state land, neighbor’s property, up in the mountains near the ski resort. Each had its own advantages and disadvantages with different risks of discovery. The risk of discovery itself enticed me.

I focused in on the neighbor’s adjoining property. Not the neighbors who let us keep “The Aloha” parked in their area. That would be weird. Instead, the ranchers to the northwest. Much of the boundary was deeply wooded, providing ample cover to attempt thirty consecutive nights in a primitive shelter without ever being seen or detected. The motivation was mostly just to see if I could follow through to completion and for the journal-worthy actions that accompanied. Additionally, if an unpleasant social setting in the future begged for awkward excusal, could there be a better story subject to achieve the coveted result? Some awful party with pretentious attendees. “Hi, Brad. I’m Dr. Stevens and I own seven dental offices throughout the greater metropolitan area. I have a passion for oral hygiene, running marathons, and culinary arts.” My reply? “Marathons, you say? Well… Dr. Stevens. I once slept in my neighbor’s yard for thirty days without their knowing and used pine needles and wood ash to brush my teeth all the while. And running is for people who don’t have time to walk. It’s basically fast food, big man.”

This quest seemed like a hell of a story to be told no matter how much pitiful laughter the achievement warranted. The section being heavily considered provided quick access to our main trail system and the tracks. A fertile setting to slip away for resupply and seek minimal amenities. The underbrush appeared impenetrable from the opposing side and had some protective marshy swampland around as an additional layer. An utterly prime area to habituate with no enticements for normal people to be nearby. Emphasis on normal people.

Sadly, this fleeting idea did not materialize. Once some wheels spun in motion, the realization came quickly that I was no scout, and having to forgo a comfortable bed for thirty days served as the biggest deterrent after careful examination. A bed surrounded by heat. It’s not my fault I don’t wish to sleep on the neighbor’s land no more.

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

Cabin Fever moments from the audiobook "How to Unsuccessfully Promote a Fake Fight in Montana." Narrated by Matthew S. Newbold

A LIL’ FASHING FOR THE FISHERMEN

Seeing fishermen at Murray Lake became a regular occurrence. Sometimes, they were innocently nice. Sometimes, I desired complete solitude and did not prefer them around. Oftentimes, they did not wish me there either. There posted an easily mistakable impression of silent consensus that we did not belong there. That we were outsiders. With an impending departure soon at hand, the time had come to mend that issue and let bygones be bygones. We all deserved to take in the beauty that ol’ Murray offered. What better way to celebrate nature’s beauty while promoting togetherness, but with overpowering fashion, of course? Fashion solves so many problems.

I woke up at 12:30 pm to Brad coming in my room wearing a collared shirt and khaki shorts. He told me of his idea for us to go down to Murray Lake all dressed up and have a mock photoshoot to mess with the local fishermen. I put on a turtleneck and khakis and we walked down to Murray in the warm, sunny weather. Of course, the idea was too great as usual and the actual execution was a letdown. I realized that that is probably the last time I’m going to see Murray Lake for quite a while... besides passing it on the road. We walked up to “Forgotten Poles Ridge” one last time and sat up there for a while before heading back. (Calmes, 5/16/00)

We danced with no music on the frozen shores months before. We posed in our finest attire for an impromptu photo session. A recreation known as “Fashing.” Soon, the ice fishermen of northwest Montana would surely miss our ice breakers. We never caught many fish in the lakes of Montana, but unequivocally reeled in some looks of pity and bewilderment all the while.

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

from the audiobook "How to Unsuccessfully Promote a Fake Fight in Montana." Narrated by Matthew S. Newbold

Several attempts were made at Beaver Lake; the largest lake in that area, aside from Whitefish Lake. Its shape was that of a wax “W” that had melted in the sun with stretches on each end extending almost a half-mile. The south section which was the base of the malformed letter, appeared the most accessible for parking and launching by raft, whereas the other side was marshy and had a gentle stream. This stream led to a lesser body of water; the Little Beaver Lake. Shaped like a human molar. The results of our fishing at Beaver Lake were terrible, but we had two divergent stories to tell.

When we got to Beaver Lake, we were on the opposite end from Uncle Hal’s favorite spot, so I figured we could kick our way over there in the tubes… and we did! It took a long time but was very enjoyable. Once there, I loaded my weapon with a worm only to have it backfire… the dang pole was sticking again! I put a fake worm on, put the hook in the water, and manually extended the line as I kicked away. There were so many fish, but none were hungry. Well, at least they weren’t hungry for a plastic worm and I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t want a real worm either, but that is their preference I suppose. On the way back across the lake, my pole was casting fine. Moody, I guess. That journey ate up the daylight quickly. (Calmes, 9/21/99)

This entry was incomplete. Though comprehensive in expressing the recurring failures of angling, the entry fell short of going in depth about the coffee and water that I had just consumed. His reflections failed to acknowledge my irresponsibility of not urinating before putting on waders for a journey through water and time. His words offered no mention of my bladder. Why would he write about my bladder? Because I damn near lost it in the line of fishing. I lived to tell the tale, and so I must take you back to where this fishing story began.

It would be a delightful start to the young afternoon. The sun peeked through the windows of the cabin, spurring a revolution of motivation. A cold passing dawn meant a noble time for the second round of scalding water sifting through fresh coffee grounds and a white filter. Sounds of near-boiling temperatures percolated a coffee pot that would nearly seal one man’s fate.

I opened the cabinets to find the right lure. Two pinches of sugar. Two drips of cream. I weighed in on cinnamon, but the sun was out molding a shadow already. No cinnamon. Nutmeg was needed for this time of day.

I sat in the Lazy Boy with my steaming coffee. The coffee first cooled with a steady breath at its surface to a manageable 135 degrees Fahrenheit. Next, the contents poured down my throat in anticipation of repelling some surfacing tiredness. MMMHHHMM. Further down the coffee dropped through the esophagus. Though some absorption would occur, most of the liquids were not so fortuitous.

Andy was now awake and fit for a dramatic day at the lake. We had counted on a showing at Beaver Lake for quite some time, and today would be that day. Armed with fishing poles and tubes, he remained ill-informed about the status of coffee racing through my body. He had no idea that I had even drunk coffee. The liquids were now in my stomach facing the doomsday, hell-like, acidy conditions reminiscent of the Tarawa invasion.

We loaded up “The Aloha” with our gear and headed down the bumpy road. The vibrations seemed to expedite the fluid’s momentum like a jigged bait for attracting bass. I took several finishing drinks from my thermos, full of the second cup of coffee, followed by a liter of water to remain hydrated. There would now be two fronts of fluid processing inward.

We arrived at a dirt parking spot at Beaver Lake and dressed in impermeable waders. Little did I realize I was putting on a casket tailored to the burial and preservation of any unplanned call to nature. The original wave of coffee had seen enough processing in the stomach and thus flowed through twenty feet of turbulence in the small intestines. The second wave of fluids had newly reached the stomach and jumped around like the fish at the surface, risking suffocation for thirsty insects.

Getting far out on a lake with a tube, waders, and fins was amazing. To be in frigid water without being wet felt free and exciting, like a duck. Inaccessible spots from shore became prime targets. Sometimes, a tube can even go where boats cannot. Andy ventured off to his own location, just as some coffee trolled off to my large intestines. As for the majority of fluids, they would smile upon the kidneys with great relief. One ultimate chance for salvation.

The drawback to fishing in a tube is that it takes an eternity to get where you want to be. And much longer to get back. But I wanted the big fish. By the time I reached a location of near perfection, I sensed another nibble. The digestive system had fully mined that first wave of consumed fluids. I felt the abrupt coffee strike on my bladder. At least 12 ounces, but possibly more. The fight commenced. “Coffee on!” I yelled.

The duck paddling began. The shore seemed so far. Perhaps two-hundred yards away. Staggered fishermen throughout the waterfronts were tiny figurines. So distant and small. The invisible speedometer showed five yards gained per minute. No duck would ever boast of such a pathetic velocity. The second cup of coffee and the liter of water had finished their joyride with much greater velocity and were putting up a marvelous fight. This had to be more than 12 ounces. This was a whopper.

To relieve myself now would mean another thirty minutes swimming in 16 ounces of pee. To go now with no change of clothes would mean a drive back to the cabin soaked with urine. I entered those waters with a catch and release permit only. The aches in my abdomen worsened as shore approached like a glacier. A glacier going uphill against hurricane-force wind.

The stronger I paddled, the worse my bladder expanded. Too much tension and it would break. But that coffee continued to fight tenaciously while I boldly reeled in that shoreline by the pedaling of my fins every chance possible. Thirty feet away. Twenty-five. The theme song to Chariots of Fire played in my mind as my feet kept kicking. Twenty. Fifteen. There would be no squirts of anticipation.

The fishermen at the beach erupted with glee and waved me in, akin to flight deck attendants on an aircraft carrier. Ten. The music intensified. Three! Two! One! I rolled onto mother earth and somehow crawled and walked forward toward the bushes. Two large lumberjacks stood with arms crossed in my path, but once they witnessed my determination quickly gave way as would club bouncers allowing a VIP through. I unzipped. I showered the first bush found. My hands would not hold and aim. No. They were held high like the dramatic scene from Platoon.

I fell to my knees after all the strain vanished. Arms still in the air. The outputs weighed in at a new Beaver Lake record of 19 ounces. There was no concern for onlookers as they were still cheering. For I had averted a medical emergency amidst the biggest battle of my angling career. No medevac needed. The coffee and water had just begun a new circle of life.

Fade scene to black. [This fishing story was inspired by true events].

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER

Cinco de Mayo. Americans celebrate it as a French Invasion halted by Ignacio Zaragoza and his Mexican Army. Why do Americans celebrate it? Because margaritas taste amazing and because on May 5th, 2000, Brian formally surrendered by finally responding with a letter. After seven months of posted letters, Christmas cards, Christmas trees, and Year 2000 parties involving fake letters, I looked forward to how we could end this saga with an unprecedented bang. A letter to end all letters. Or perhaps something grander than even that. He stole that opportunity away from us.

Post Office: Four letters for me! One from Mom, Wayne, Heather, and a person named… are you ready… named… you won’t believe this…. BRIAN RAY! ‘Bout time! Brian Ray kicks butt! (Calmes, 5/5/00)

This conflict ceased. The feeling bittersweet. Such turmoil was not supposed to matriddelope this way. A series of salient battles must end in a manner worthy of being historical. I sought to be Genghis Khan, and this would become my Great Wall of China. An unstoppable force meeting a poponidoxical object. Such a war can never be over. 135 years earlier, on May 5th, the Confederacy was dissolved. They had war reparations to be paid. This war would have reparations of their own, with terms not yet disclosed.

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

from the audiobook "How to Unsuccessfully Promote a Fake Fight in Montana." Narrated by Matthew S. Newbold

MOOSE

Many animals attempt to boast the title of most perilous in Montana, but one unlikely contender arrives around the top of the list. A surprise more to the city dwellers than those who already share a residence. Moose, by their sheer size, aggression, and availability mandate some clearance. Particularly for the bulls. In 1996, I had seen a pair of moose while backpacking in Algonquin Provincial Park with my friends Matt and Craig. The experience seemed slightly detached without intimacy because those encounters rested so far away, having a body of water to insulate us. Still, the sight beckoned a welcoming prelude for yet another encounter.

Moose Day

Yesterday. Day 2 of training. A monstrous burst up the ski hill to catch a quickie route to Wood Lake. Supreme exhaustion already, but I kept on and by accidental design, I hooked a right instead of a left and ended up at Rainbow Lake saying hello to the state workers (they too say it has been a mild temp winter–usually 3 cold spells 10 below). They gave me a map as I regained my senses and pushed up to Beaver Lake. What sported my fancy was the cloud direction started from S, SE then later became NW. Weird, but anyway, I made my way up to Wood Lake. A flock of birds caught my attention for a while and an alarm calling woodpecker (lasting a minute) got me thinking I would see an animal, yet that call was 50 yards ahead. As I began to advance... BOOM! There’s a moose cow right there! 10 yards away! I possessed no escape route if it would charge me. Nothing. But it kept stoically looking at me, then slowly drifted off. I questioned the wisdom of trying to stalk it and get an excellent picture, but even though it was female, I didn’t want to piss her off. (Besides, she seemed content in her solitude–and my camera had no film)

So, sort of knowing our location, I headed up Andy and I’s old route towards the ski hill where I’d seen meself a nice point. The problem was the snow thickness and the STEEP grade to it, but hey, I’m in training so I pushed hard and eventually came to the clearing that I would call KICK-MY-ASS POINT (Elev 3800 ft). What a view! Panorama for 180 degrees extending far into the horizons! What a break! Yet, I had to move on, and thus my journey ended shortly after a fun run down that slope in the snow. (Oliger, 2/18/00)

Forcing a moose to a defensive posture would surely have been unwise. Moose attacks are not entirely unheard of. With a lake behind me and but feeble human legs to dash away with, letting good enough go provided an opportunity to exercise some wilderness common sense. The close encounter inspired my sense of belonging as the sheer size of the beast humbled my self-assigned place of that belonging.

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

from the audiobook "How to Unsuccessfully Promote a Fake Fight in Montana." Narrated by Matthew S. Newbold

JANUARY WAS Y2K-PROOF

That flip of the switch that brought in a new year, century, and millennium would bring mass panic and anarchy throughout the world. And with that, my outstanding library materials at the Nashville Library would be forgiven. Except, Y2K didn’t actually happen. Well, it is easy to forget about the buildup to Y2K in 1999. The preppers came out of the woodwork. Countless articles boasted of how disastrous the absence of technology would become. Though Y2K had nothing to do with us heading to Montana, we figured that if the lights did go out across the globe, then we settled in a suitable spot to be clear of pandemonium on the streets.

I went outside and cleared out the fire pit in preparation for our New Year’s campfire. Snow was falling lightly. It eventually let up but the clouds remained in the way of our view of the stars all night. Oh well. Brad chopped some starter wood, and I lit her up. I cooked a can of chili and a can of green beans in the fire for dinner. For dessert, I made s’mores. Yummy! While the rest of the world took part in the biggest celebration of all time, Brad and I stood in silence in the mountains. The silence was occasionally broken by my remarks about all of the lights bursting across the distant sky and the faint sound of fireworks that followed shortly after. (Calmes, 12/31/99)

We found out that night that “cabin fever” has no vulnerabilities to date-based operations. That a bonfire has no clock in its mainframe that was susceptible to poor programming due to bit limits. Cabin Fever Continuity (CFC) came through without a flaw. No reports of burning of my shelter or hostile takeovers of the area by rioting robotic ground squirrels. We were Y2K-Proof while staying in a cabin in the woods. Elsewhere, local news reported a lady at the bar in Whitefish running down the street with her clothes off. We did miss that festivity.

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

from the audiobook "How to Unsuccessfully Promote a Fake Fight in Montana." Narrated by Matthew S. Newbold

When movies or radio event opportunities ran out, board games quickly filled the vacancy. A certain Christmas present stepped up the tensions. A new Sequence board brought a commencement to edgy battles. Andy had a complete advantage in the beginning as he had played the game before. He understood the strategies. Though after time, the fortunes of glory would sway. They would sway like Andy’s moods upon accepting defeat. And the wood-burning stove would not be the only fire stoked during those splendiferous victories.

THEN… Brad beat me at Sequence and rubbed it in so hard that I nearly lost my head. I HATE LOSING!!! (Calmes, 2/16/00)

Sometimes winning sweetens immeasurably, when staring at a discolored face to the shade of “silent rage red”, by confecting a well-formed, brittle smile birthed in conquest. A smile that can only result in the opponent taking their hand and clearing the table. That is exactly what happened. A micro tornado, specific only to board game pieces, ripped through the cabin on that controversial February evening, leaving no Sequence pieces in its wake. The board and cards scattered all throughout the hardwood floor, removing any evidence of victory and defeat. I do not recall a Yeti-like roar stitched to the ferocious hand swiping, but such a sound was fervently implied as steam whistled out from his ears. The only resulting trace of victory remained from the honorable verbal agreement that Andy would light the stove for the next few days as part of a lost wager. I stared at the mess nervously aware of my testament to the advanced stages of terminal cabin fever.

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

from the audiobook "How to Unsuccessfully Promote a Fake Fight in Montana." Narrated by Matthew S. Newbold

WILDLIFE SECURITY

When we arrived in Montana, that traumatic first walk back from the lake at night brought up a vital deficiency; wildlife security. We could no longer pretend we were back east, on top of the food chain. Luckily, some sense of security is all but guaranteed with an arsenal of low-cost weaponry. A can of bear spray already existed in the cabin. What exactly is bear spray? If a bear is full-charge, is some spicy sauce really going to do anything except add flavoring to our flesh once within range? I had to find out.

Brad sprayed himself in the face with pepper spray today! HA! He was testing it outside, then came running in coughing. I began to laugh, then realized it was trickling into the cabin when my tongue started to burn. We were both coughing for at least an hour. (Calmes, 9/14/99)

Life will teach you about the wind if you are a male. “Do not pee in the wind” is learned at an early age. At the susceptible age of twenty-two, I had learned that spraying bear spray into the wind is far worse. This realization led to another. If accidentally stumbling upon a bear, be sure that said bear is downwind of you for two unique reasons. The first, so that its powerful nose can detect your scent and avoid confrontation. The other, to save yourself the embarrassment of being eaten alive while being blinded by highly potent food seasoning. Always be upwind of your future mauler.

I had a buck knife and would bring that with me routinely. Though doubtful six inches of steel would ever make a real difference in a scuffle with Bigfoot and friends, such a possession helped put the mind more at ease. More of a psychological symbol than anything. Carrying around a shotgun was an option, but remarkably frowned upon as most adventures blazed beyond the limits of the property. We were in northern Montana, but with people around. Ranches peppered the landscape. Homes on Whitefish Lake belonged to the dynamic. There were those presumed “crazies” that may shoot on-site if “threatened.” There were snowmobilers, horseback riders, hikers, and 4-wheelers. An area never so remote that shouldering a gun would have seemed appropriate.

As the months progressed in Montana, I made a bold resolution that would alter the trajectory of my life. I deliberated endlessly about those cheese crackers that shielded my life in Montana in 1997. My previous Montana trip. The inner debate would ravage and sway back and forth like a slalom competition on Big Mountain. It was with a heavy heart that a final ruling favored one disquieting fact. The conclusion that having cheese crackers in the tent worked more in being an attractant than as a defensive measure. We would never truly find out.

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

excerpt covering the visit to Field of Dreams in Dyersville, Iowa from the audiobook "How to Unsuccessfully Promote a Fake Fight in Montana." Narrated by Matthew S. Newbold

The next stop of note situated outside of Iowa City. An hour out of the way was Dyersville, Iowa. The set where they filmed most of Field of Dreams. The house with the field, corn, and hallucinations. Bucket list item achieved. Much to my disappointment, the place closed for the day. I desperately wanted to witness how disgusted an employee got if I asked them, “Is this heaven?” A company guideline requires them to respond “No, it’s Iowa” despite how miserable the mandated response made them feel inside. If the feedback certified not at the cinematic level that I demanded as a fan, a repeat of the question is rendered. As many as necessary.

The baseball field itself remained accessible. We ignored the “No Trespassing” sign. The lights stayed lit. Magical. Trotting the bases after a fake home run swing seemed like the best move to pass the occasion.

DISCLAIMER: Hopefully, you’re not a Field of Dreams curator reading this with twenty-year-old footage, a willing legal team, and a 60 Minutes crew on standby. In the unfortunate event that happens, I gave full-disclosure that some events of this memoir were vastly exaggerated, so by no means is this a confession. I have a rock-solid alibi written in Big Sky to Big City that puts me in Dyersville, running bases on private property at the time of this infraction. What an awkward courtroom scenario indeed.

Secretly, I hoped to meet a girl there solely for the fact that I could refer to her in a manner indicative of lines from the film. “The only thing we had in common was that she was from Iowa, and I had once heard of Iowa.” There were other onlookers, but the field predominated as a place for baseball nerds of the male variety. Not a shocking fruition. Being in the Hawkeye State, we straddled Kansas close enough to bear witness of potential moon landings (or would that be labeled a “Kansas landing?”) but had no such luck in spotting the fruits of such a highly publicized prediction. We might have been hoodwinked.

We advanced to a spot off the riverbanks of the Mississippi River; Galena, Illinois. The actual filming location representing Chisholm, Minnesota. Why they picked another arbitrary town to portray the original arbitrary town adds one more layer to the onion of intricacy of the motion picture. Surely, that happens a lot, but for how the town was used and having seen both places, I failed to see how the disparities mattered. If the screenplay had gone so far as to change characters, why not locate “Moonlight Graham” to Galena, Illinois? Because Archibald “Moonlight” Graham portrayed not only a fictional character. He breathed the life of an actual human being whose definitive biography is partially depicted in the movie. Except for the parts he comes back to life as a young man in the future, as a hitchhiker, and every other scene that involves him, but the backstory is mostly clean. Given that he had been dead for twenty-four years when they released the flick, it is hard not to recognize the use of his likeness as somewhat creepy. Nevertheless, the story is awesome.

The site looked much more recognizable and we had some exchanges with locals in the know about the details. They fingered out some key areas. We looked for the Dr. Office along Main Street. We searched for the bar. The movie theatre. The stairs. We drifted around the city as if extras in the movie. The overall feel of the town enthralled me. The aura struck me in such a way that Durango, Colorado, had done only a month before with my Aunt Louanne and Uncle Dave. Durango stunned as a mountain town that sat at the tip of a historic railroad that reached out to Silverton. Without knowing anything about the localities, Durango and Galena felt like places that I could see myself living in. Galena also gloated as the hometown of U.S. Grant, an American that had historical significance tied to March 10th, unlike us and our promotional incompetencies.

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

from the audiobook "How to Unsuccessfully Promote a Fake Fight in Montana." Narrated by Matthew S. Newbold

In this book club, we’ll review:

“Shoeless Joe” and “Field of Dreams”

“A Walk in the Woods”

“Hardy Boys”

“Catcher in the Rye”

“The Tracker”

“Grandfather”

“The Way of the Scout

“Big Sky to Big City”

“I Spy Christmas”

“La Momia Desperece”

FEEDING THE BOOKWORMS, LEGALLY

Reading can be a tedious experience unless the conditions are compatible. A blatant tale of two extremes. Love and hate. With internal and external disturbances, the focus wanders off the pages into a dark cellar. Sitting in a cabin waiting for the weather to turn worked to the contrary. Cumbersome responsibilities and stressors were quietly self-managed with an absence of noise outside to bother me. There were prime conditions for focus time.

Fearing the reach of the Nashville Library, I attempted to obtain a library card at the Whitefish Library under the cover of Spud Fligger. I let my hair down. I lowered my glasses. I popped in my fake teeth. Lastly, I taped my wrists, for good measure. After an extensive interview by a tenacious committee of high-profile community board members and a polygraph, I was awarded a library card and given free reign over their Dewey Decimal System. For the first time since leaving Nashville, I was a legal library cardholder.

To feed the nostalgic demons, I picked up some Hardy Boys books. Legally. I read many Hardy Boys as a young lad and wished to reclaim the essence of their tales. The adventure and casework that never failed to find the brothers appealed to me the most. The emergence of my story-writing in grade school would be deeply influenced by Hardy Boys.

Reading several of these books as an adult greatly disappointed. Perhaps I simply caught the wrong book or the wrong writer. The vicarious sense of wonder left unmatched to those younger experiences. Obviously, the works aligned with juvenile fiction without expectations of high-level Pulitzer work. Just fun, free-flowing youthful adventure with basic characters and a plot. Being naïve to the wizard behind the curtain meant a distinct lack of awareness that the series had a legion of writers. Franklin W. Dixon did not actually exist. What a terrible revelation. Reading books back-to-back revealed a gaping pit of inconsistencies. The broken rhythm and flow gave evidence of varied ghost-writers. An overall incredible let-down the second time around, but at least I returned them to the library without any fees, fines, or bounties.

A substantial part of early cabin reading based around Tom Brown, Jr.’s works as a wilderness survival expert. He attracted some controversy behind how authentic the tales were, but that did not matter to me. After wrapping up his first book, The Tracker, I became hooked in and wanting more. Tales of his youth with a friend and a Native American elder. He spent his childhood learning about tracking, scouting, hunting, and other adventures. People who live that way of life always fascinated me, and the pages turned themselves somehow. The Search would soon follow, which continued beyond the last book. Grandfather fully recounted that Apache elder who traveled the world studying the nuances of primitive skills. A truly remarkable human being with roots to what life resembled in unreserved Apache days. The Way of the Scout compelled me to want to try to camp out on the neighbor’s property. A fun, experimental homage that never played out. These books were delightful to read, though they possessed overlap at times. The revisited content actually reinforced some moments. I would go on to work with his Wilderness Survival and The Science and Art of Tracking books for some timid attempts at practical application.

The book Shoeless Joe, by W. P. Kinsella, appealed to me as an amateur writer and Field of Dreams fan. The book served as the basis for the movie Field of Dreams, with many subplots that are a treat to get into. First, let me go into the plot of Field of Dreams to give some context. This is my lightning round take if you have not seen the movie.

An Iowa farmer (Ray Kinsella) hears a voice and sees a vision of his dead father’s baseball hero, Shoeless Joe Jackson out in his corn. He cuts down the corn so that the apparition can play baseball there. Once that’s not enough, he kidnaps a disgruntled writer (Terrence Mann) to watch a baseball game at Fenway Park on the other side of the country. They would both see a vision at that game that inspired them to pick up a hitchhiker with medical training that ends up saving his daughter’s life while eating a hot dog watching Shoeless Joe play in the cornfield with his dead, former teammates. This then allows Ray to play catch with his deceased father in the field that used to be corn. The end.

The book Shoeless Joe is pleasant, and the storyline contained a fair amount of discrepancies from the movie. No problem. The author writes this story in first-person as himself, W. P. Kinsella. He heavily features the disgruntled writer, J. D. Salinger. The amusing part being that J. D. Salinger, who played a fictional writer in Shoeless Joe, evolved from an actual writer who had decidedly withdrawn from society after publishing several works including The Catcher in the Rye. A real man in hiding with hopes to disappear from existence gets featured in a book that has nothing to do with him? And W. P. Kinsella never received Salinger’s permission to feature him. Incredible! And why would he? He is a fictional character! Salinger’s actual fictional book, The Catcher in the Rye, then fictionally portrayed as The Catcher in the Rye in the book Shoeless Joe.

The crux of all this amazement is still unraveling. The movie Field of Dreams propagates this madness with no desire to veer off the path towards the land of the surreal. What the movie Field of Dreams does is keep the first-person main character of the book (also the actual name of the author for Shoeless Joe, almost). So, essentially the main character of Field of Dreams is the author of the fictional book Shoeless Joe that the movie is based on. The movie Field of Dreams will then formulate a fictional writer of Terrence Mann, played by James Earl Jones, instead of using the multifaceted J. D. Salinger, who actively identified as an actual author and passively as a key fictional character author. Salinger’s fictional, fictional book as well as the actual, fictional book The Catcher in the Rye would then be modified to a fictional book The Boat Rocker in the movie. Written of course by Terrence Mann; still being a fictitious spin-off of the real fictional author of both the actual and fictional book The Catcher in the Rye. Not the fictional character who was the actual author of the book the movie based on. Such hysteria is the most amazing thing ever to a young man in isolation in the woods. A shame that the movie Inception did not play off of this further.

I moved on to read The Catcher in the Rye. The nonfiction version of the fiction novel, that is to say. This book invoked intrigue to me in two diverse ways. One, both it and its fictional/actual author featured in the book I had concluded. Second, the works earned some adverse publicity because people blamed the content for some atrocities, such as the murder of John Lennon. I found the book to be innocently incredible. Books that bring ordinary, mundane scenarios to life prove why they end up so popular. I thought about Of Mice and Men that way.

The first-person writing was well crafted, compelling the reader to all but live through some internal dialogue of a teenage boy and relive some of those struggles that go along with that era. I walked away not understanding why the story would compel someone to do an evil act but remained glad that they made the movie Field of Dreams, somehow from this. I jotted down a quote from a quote in the book which sounded alluring. There are plenty of holes in the statement to be sure, but became a fun rabbit hole to jump into while defeating some boredom.

The mark of the immature man is that he wants to die nobly for a cause, while the mark of the mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one. –Mr. Antolini quoting Wilhelm Stekel.

A goal of picking up a new language remained still in play, and Spanish emerged as the highest value at that point. I read La Momia Desaparece; written as a foreign language education supplement. The title translates to “The Mummy Disappeared.” The content amused, but being written in another language warranted heavy critiques. No, the structure helped kindle some motivation to strengthen my vocabulary, and the mystery category persisted well enough to enjoy fumbling through.

Perhaps the most enjoyable reverberation coming from any book read was A Walk in the Woods, by Bill Bryson. I am not sure if I would call it a favorite, but that book proved that walking is superior to running. Otherwise, it would have been named A Run in the Woods. Additionally, a character by the name of Katz shoveled out nonstop joys from start to finish; fitting for that era.

The Appalachian Trail had long been a curiosity, though hard to imagine giving up six entire months to do something day-after-day like that. With the author a bit of a city slicker, the humor and clumsiness conveyed a very relatable anecdote of how a journey on the trail would be. A story so well expressed that the writing made the trip nearly vicarious. A substitute experience. While pen and paper can never depict real livable, breathable moments in their entirety, some craftsmanship comes close.

Katz, the author’s reluctant companion on the trail, is easily the most entertaining “character” from any book I opened. An old, out-of-shape, reformed man presenting an essence so far from what one might expect in nature. He loathed nearly every minute of backpacking, it seemed. I backpacked enough to know the frustrations that unavoidably fuse with the experience and have deeply internalized every single word he expressed out loud to others without shame.

A complete collection of the Far Side would be burned through, almost daily. This fandom of Gary Larson’s work preceded long before Montana but held a peculiar focus with so much downtime. There is something charming about a concise picture with few words that portray a galaxy of chaotic humor and cryptic science. Someone had even given me a peel-away Far Side calendar for Christmas, which allowed for a focused new comic each day. I also enjoyed A Farmers’ Almanac throughout the year and an I Spy Christmas book. Very refreshing.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: All Whitefish Library items were returned on-time.

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

from the audiobook "How to Unsuccessfully Promote a Fake Fight in Montana." Narrated by Matthew S. Newbold

COUGARS

The Nashville Zoo housed two animals with an identity crisis. One day, I’d show up and there’d be mountain lions. A male, Sampson, and a female, Chelsea. I would make sure the exhibit was safe, secure, and clear of poo. They would go about their day as normal. Chelsea glowed as an absolute sweetheart whose demeanor might lure a lesser man in to become dinner. Sampson, however, was much larger and rather bitter. Each step of his would bring about a snickering growl. Though grumpy, he presented an acute soft spot. A quick scrape along the fence line welcomed a cheek scratch through the chain link. Both were rescued from extensive injuries suffered in the wild.

The next day, nevertheless, would divulge an alarming discovery. The mountain lions were gone! No, they had not escaped. Chelsea and Sampson remained, but now as cougars. After several subsequent days of repetitive transformation, I lost track of what to refer to them as. Puma, catamount, panther, mountain screamer, deer cat, red tiger, sneak cat, here-kitty-kitty, and Brad killer. A new day. A whole new identity. Yes, this taxonomic phenomenon has been playfully abused by many, but every abused pun deserves that final nail in the coffin to distress the soft-hearted unnecessarily.

Part of the job requirement as a keeper was giving educational talks about the animals we cared for. I checked out some books from the Nashville library to smarten up on the subject. One such book featured survival stories in the wild and what to do in the event of an encounter. Such instructions as; never run away, make yourself appear larger, shout, and scream. In India, where tigers rule supreme, the locals even have a mask with a face that goes on the back of their heads for thwarting attacks meant for unsuspecting prey.

One other disturbing fact remained after arriving in Montana. I had overlooked returning those books to the library; surely accruing massive fines totaling into the hundreds, perhaps thousands of dollars. No head librarian would ever let such merchandise slip through the cracks without consequence. It was not even too far-fetched to anticipate contact from the library to recapture those items. Such details would need to be addressed at some point, but more meaningful matters demanded immediate attendance once Montana became home. No matter what unscientific name had been conjured up depending on region or IQ, there would be no arguments on one singular truth. Those Montana woods possessed a finely tuned ambush predator, whose detail I never lost sight of while in such proximity.

While off heading over to “Saltamontes Field” in mid-fall, a slight shuffle emerged off the side of the trail beyond the heavy underbrush masking the tree line. Strolls were commonly accompanied by the territory-disputing squirrel or chipmunks hustling about in search of a pre-hibernation meal but never had faint shuffles impressed upon me such calculation. The air became thicker, and that primal sense of smell seemed to benefit from the raised hairs on my skin like antennae. No amount of time in the woods before would portend oxygen being siphoned away. All senses reinforced, far beyond my only hunting experience. Within that tree line, there fostered no doubt of something watching with motionless concentration.

Resumed steps down the northbound trail brought more quiet, self-masked shuffling alongside. My deliberate pauses were greeted each time with matching gaps of unnerving stillness. This counter-maneuvering went on for three or four more series over several endless minutes. My buck knife slowly became unsheathed, shifting the direction of the point towards the sound. The back of my eyes trying to visualize what might lunge out and what I could do to stay fully defensive. I smoothly sidestepped further while purposefully remaining faced to the brush. Trying to detect movement with a slow pan left to right at surveillance pace. I hugged the opposite edge of the trail width, giving as much space for reaction time as possible. I made sure I had the knifepoint ready to strike and gave several shouts, with as much deep bass as viable. I raised my arms to expand my threat profile. Silence.

I ascended slowly back to the cabin, only about a five-minute walk away, never peeling my eyes from that foreboding tree line. The sound would not follow. The feeling dissolved. I sat on the porch wondering what had happened. How could a head librarian have found me on the other side of the country? I concluded beyond a reasonable doubt the city of Nashville had come to collect those books by any means necessary.

The next day, we received a knock on the cabin door. A pair of bushy fellas, in their late twenties, stood boldly on the porch. Their pickup truck revealed a squad of fidgety, malnourished beagles in the bed. They would not identify themselves as officials from the library department, as required by law to do. Instead, the heavyset man by the name of Wyatt, who confidently owned both a ponytail and unmanaged beard, asked for permission to hunt on the property. The ponytail was incredibly misleading. A male librarian is required by international standards to have a part in their hair starting from one side, typically the left-side, that carefully combs over and across the top of the head to a neat and pleasing fade on the other side. The hair length must not exceed six centimeters. This hair formation critically aided the identification of an authentic male librarian. A ponytail, however, discouraged all but a symmetrical divide down the middle, beginning from the midsection of the frontal bone to halfway down the parietal bone.

Something just did not add up properly with these men that stood before me. They did not drive the vehicle of librarians. Their partially camouflaged outerwear composed not the dress of librarians. Their facial features were even unworthy of part-time work in the more progressive audio/visual section of a typical library. Such an unstructured look countered the Dewey Decimal System with unapologetic defiance. Not even a volunteer position at a small-town library fit the profile. In concealing their intent, these guys were professionals, and I knew exactly how to compose myself with diligent use of counter-librarianism.

He disclosed that their beagles were on the scent of a mountain lion and had become stonewalled by the private property line. Codewords such as “mountain lion” were easy to pick up on. For “mountain lion” meant “non-compliant cardholders.” I challenged them of their intentions and how they would hunt, hoping to expose their true purpose. To surface an inconsistency. They vowed to have the beagles tree the cougar and then shoot it. The reason for shooting it? Because it was a cougar. I had difficulties processing all the codewords. I surveyed him up and down, from head to toe. He had dried mud plastered to the base of his soles, whose consistency matched the trail I stomped on the day before. I was eager to ask him if he enjoyed watching me in the woods, but did not wish to tip my hand too early.

As the conversation grew elderly, they revealed no justification for hunting “mountain lion”, such as an attack on a human or livestock. Nor was it a desired food source. I protested their cover story and given the fact that we stewarded the property, I had an easy excuse to decline. The doorway met some momentary tension as this response clearly deviated away from the answer they coveted, but I did not care. Killing for pleasure alone seemed excessive and not a role-play that I wanted to be part of. Perhaps if I had livestock or small children at that moment, I might have countered with a different answer. I needed to show them some books I had failed to return, covering many of the conservation efforts involving cougars, but suppressed the urge for fear they may still be undercover librarians from Tennessee. Scruffy, and possibly unread librarians wearing wigs. Or book bounty hunters.

Perhaps the tension lasted as long as it did because I no longer acknowledged their presence. Their story held up as firm as their displeased expressions. I slipped too deep into the realization that the encounter the day before was not of these men or any other library authorities, after all. I expelled such a deep sense of relief. Perhaps these gentlemen were actually hunters in hot pursuit of a cougar.

After they left, I snatched the shotgun, returned to where the standoff occurred, and found faint depressions that cautiously passed for tracks of a canine or large cat. Was I a target, a curiosity, or even a perceived threat by a mountain lion? When a wild encounter of that magnitude occurs, succeeding days in the woods become spiced up drastically. Nashville library sleeper cells were utilizing dangerous wildlife as a form of mob-like intimidation.

montanamemoirs.com

(Cougar photo by ForestWander

http://www.forestwander.com/ )

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

HUNTING GRASSHOPPERS

An absolute quandary of a mind-bender is the grasshopper. Maybe not the grasshopper itself, but the doctrine of consuming them. This was an element of survival foraging that I had been wishing to try after studying how easy the task is. Why it is no big deal to eat grasshoppers on the property, but not feel positive about eating larger animals is beyond me. The act is quite the same thing. So why did it not trouble me, whereas hunting the squirrel did? My apologies. Grasshoppers bring out my philosophical side. If only that were true, that’d be a hell of a come-on line at the bar. Two lines that command a damsel’s regard. “Hey, sugar” and “Grasshoppers make me philosophical.” Do try it.

I frequented a field on the northern face of the tracks. I named the clearing “Saltamontes Field” (Grasshopper Field in Spanglish) where, on sunny days above forty degrees, the grasses came to life by a bounty of bugs. Many of which were grasshoppers. The field had no canopy from trees or brush, so the sun could shine down at full force. On those sunny days, the floor seemed ten degrees warmer than other locations, and the spot became a favorite to bask when the conditions were right. Laying back to do some cloud watching proved the preferred operation, but not this time. This time, I had an empty stomach. This time, I would betray the trust that my hemimetabolous friends had galvanized. This time, mighty Godzilla roved the fields of terror in search of meals.

Terror pounced upon that bustling metropolis of a field of grasshoppers, while they jumped in all directions to evade capture. The pickings were easy, and they were unable to scream, luckily. Their futile attempts of fighting back in giant swarms to gouge out my eyes were quickly stifled. I may have beaten my chest a few times with a harrowing roar to incite panic, but no fire would pour out from my mouth.

By removing their heads, most of the guts come with it. Sadly, the reflexive bodies did not stop moving around, so the satchel had to remain closed or headless escapes would be attempted. Gruesome, but no nymphae were harmed in the hunt. Only grasshoppers after their fifth molt with a maximum year of life remaining, anyway. Close to thirty or forty were snatched in a very short slice of time.

Hopefully, you’re not a grasshopper reading this with a clear ancestry tree, a willing legal team, and a 60 Minutes crew on standby. In the unfortunate event that happens, I gave full-disclosure that some events of this memoir were vastly exaggerated, so by no means is this a confession. I have a rock-solid alibi written in Big Sky to Big City that puts me in Whitefish, posing for ridiculous Halloween pictures at the time of this infraction. What an awkward courtroom scenario indeed.

I walked back to my primitive camp close by and started a fire. A perfectly flat rock would offer an ideal surface for grilling grasshoppers. The idea is, prop the rock up over the fire, and it becomes a Bigfoot Barbecue. There are mixed theories about whether Bigfoot uses fire. Probably not. Once the structure is adequately heated, the grasshoppers are thrown onto the makeshift skillet until they are thoroughly cooked. Such as the case of the squirrel roast or most wild meats, the heat is needed to kill off parasites. From there, they are ready to be consumed by popping them in the mouth like pumpkin seeds. The taste was mostly char, but in a survival situation, this would be an excellent tool in the tool bag. Apparently, they are nutritious. Having no USDA guidelines written on their exoskeletons, I exorcised faith in the survivor dudes’ bold claims.

montanamemoirs.com

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

from the audiobook "How to Unsuccessfully Promote a Fake Fight in Montana." Narrated by Matthew S. Newbold

And then there was an incident in Moab. The town appeared quaint. Enjoyable, actually. Whilst walking down the lone strip, literally everyone greeted us. This was also going to be our only expenditure aside from purchasing gas and tickets to a discount movie theater for the entire trip. We were actually going to sit in a diner and eat. There was not anything particularly noteworthy about the place or the food variety. The seating could have hosted many stereotypical movie diner scenes. The staff seemed equally and universally reminiscent of hardworking, no-nonsense restaurant workers that had seen and heard far more than what they got paid for. In the kitchen was a bearded cook, flipping a burger and smiling at us intently. He appeared to have some teeth missing.

Unfortunately, upon receiving our menus and ordering drinks, my co-traveler had pooped in their restroom with no ability to flush. The toilet was broken, and the materials were overflowing. They would surely know it was us. The smell would leak through the hinged barrier in a matter of minutes. The risk rose too high. We ditched the restaurant before our waitress could bring back our drinks and before they could contact the authorities to investigate “Poopgate.” We saved ourselves $15 worth of prepared meal but still left a generous “tip” for whomever was tasked to clear excrement from the toilet bowl.

montanamemoirs.com

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

from the audiobook "How to Unsuccessfully Promote a Fake Fight in Montana." Narrated by Matthew S. Newbold

PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVE WISE MEN

We dashed through the snow. Babies were cold outside. Andy, the drummer boy, was becoming the angry drummer boy that hated painting. Yet, we found joy to the world because Christmas-time arrived in Flathead County. We required a Christmas tree, and Brian had still not written a letter back. It was time to kill two birds with one stone. Or chop two trees with one hatchet. Except, we only needed one tree and birds had nothing to do with our undertaking.

I was excited to go out in the snow with a hatchet and hunt down a near-perfect Christmas tree. We wandered for a half an hour on Uncle Hal’s property but couldn’t find any, so we split up and headed out on State Forest land. Splitting up turned out to be a bad idea because every time I saw a tree that might be a candidate, Brad wasn’t there to confirm. I stood by a patch of trees that looked decent and shouted for Brad, but I thought he was too far off to hear me. I stood until I had a good layer of fresh snow covering me, then started off to look for Brad. After I lost the patch of trees, I found Brad. He had heard me calling but didn’t feel like answering. At the spot we met up was the perfect tree… but over about twenty yards was an even better one. By perfect, I mean that the ratio of branches to bare spots was nearly 50/50. It didn’t take long for the hatchet to bring the tree’s life in the wild to an end. We then had the non-luxury of carrying it the 200 yards back to the cabin. I nearly puked from sudden fatigue, but luckily there was nothing in my stomach to be regurgitated. The tree was about 18 feet long and not extremely light. We quickly organized the living room to make way for the tree, got the tree into place, trimmed it down, knocked it over, got it back into place, put on Christmas music, drilled holes in the bar spots, and filled them in with the trimmed branches, strung lights around it, then garland, then the ornaments that Grandma sent, then Brad took a picture of me putting the star that I had just made with Brian Ray’s face on it on top of our wonderfully tall and pathetic Christmas tree. Being that Brian Ray is a good friend and hasn’t responded to our letters, we are calling this a “Brian Ray Christmas.” See, we’re losin’ it. Brad’s been talking to himself in the shower. I’ve been trying to beat the demons out of my head by bashing it against the wood post in the hall. It works! (Calmes, 12/19/99)

Obvious proof that if one messes around and does not respond to weird letters, they will wind up getting a Christmas holiday AND tree named after them. This war could not be fought with words like the Run Vs. Walk feud from before. This meant Andy and I had to set aside our differences in the hierarchy of foot travel and form an alliance. We had to adapt. The tactics grew fierce, and we had to show we acted beyond the bluff. We would get dirty if the call of duty demanded it from him and me. We heaved that mammoth pine through two hundred yards of deep snow back to the cabin. Then put a finely cut-out picture of Brian’s face on a star at the top of that towering evergreen. Just to prove a point. The escalation of force would not soon be over.

a star was born

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

APRIL FOOLS

To celebrate my escape, and his upcoming moments alone in the cabin, we decided on hosting a party promptly before the night departure by train nearby. It would come to be recognized as the “Choo-Choo-Koo-Koo, Goin’ Away Goin’ Insane” Party. Choo-Choo is the sound a train makes. Koo-Koo is the sound a person makes (after spending too much time alone in a cabin, violently shaking in front of a mirror). I would be going away for a while and he would become insane with extreme seclusion. We spared no expense and assured there would be no bust such as the failed fight weeks before.

It's my last day here before my trip. Though it feels like it's my last day here in Montana overall. I'll be back here in May. The weather felt incredible. A little cooler earlier this day but the sun is beaming through the clouds now. For a moment, I stood on the railway soaking the fact that for more than a month, I can't have the silence that I can while being here. That same railway I’ve spent so much time on and around will soon lead me out on another adventure. The air will be different. For my simple entertainment, a dead tree had fallen while I sat upon a hill near Boyle Lake. I could only grin. I'm going to watch the sunset, maybe the last sunset in quite a while. I’ll probably have to admire it from town though so I don’t miss my train.

[later] It’s less than minutes before I started cooking the spaghetti for our "Going away/Going Insane Party. (Oliger, 4/2/00)

This morning/afternoon I plucked the guitar for a bit until Brad returned from somewhere then we tossed around the football in the yard. Much Fun! At 5 pm we went in and I listened to old recordings as Brad gathered his luggage. I took my radio into the living room and by 6 pm the “Choo-Choo/Koo-Koo, Goin’ Away Goin’ Insane Party” had begun. I started the fire for effect (it was warm today), and Brad made spaghetti, which we ate while playing Sequence. Of course, I lost! Oh well, I could’ve won had I played one card differently. At 7 pm we lugged Brad’s luggage to the “Aloha.” The train was to leave at 9 pm but got pushed back to 9:50 pm. (Calmes, 4/2/00)

And there I stood by for my departure at the terminal. The Whitefish Depot opened in 1928 with a charming exterior and the touch of a large mansion. With past foot travels to town on these same tracks, I unwittingly became a part of the web of railroads known as the Empire Builder with Amtrak. The route traversed from Chicago to Vancouver, Washington before changing names and directions.

When the train arrived, I loaded what little baggage I possessed and departed westward into the darkness, passing through or past “Suicide Squeeze”, Whitefish Lake, the “Butt Squeeze”, Boyle Lake, “Saltamontes Field”, and the north end of our property where we had seen those decapitated bobcats a month before.

The coming days were jam-packed but unrelated to this memoir. Perhaps a different memoir is warranted to cover those exciting times. Instead, we will employ the journals from Big Sky to Big City from early April 2000 to mid-May 2000 to recap what transpired in the cabin while in my absence.

SYNOPSIS

After months of wishing to leave Montana, Andy finds himself alone in the cabin for six weeks; betrayed by the one who had kept him there since the millennium. And now Andy must grapple with cabin fever at a level that which he has never seen before. But the weather outside is turning for the better, and his surroundings are coming back to life. Is six weeks secluded in a cabin in Montana too long to be left alone with an unfinished painting that had been tormenting him all the while? Or will he rise above his hatred for painting and complete the oppressive project?

SIX WEEKS OF HELL

Cowritten by Author & Mr. Slugversh

Narrated by Mr. Slugversh

AUTHOR’S NOTE: To narrate, we have brought in Mr. Slugversch from retirement. He is a narratorical specialist in the genres of Horror and Suspense. Hopefully, you will remember his brief, eccentric works earlier in this memoir: Untitled and Unfinished Story About Dudes Who Order Pizza. He also has controversial narrations from the works in The Origin of Diseased Friends. Without further ado, I give you Mr. Slugversch narrating Andy’s summarized experience in the cabin alone for six weeks from the period of April 2nd, 2000 until May 13th, 2000.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Warning. The upcoming narration may contain graphic violence. Reader discretion is advised.

NARRATOR’S NOTE (Slugversch): Thank you, sir. But call me Slugversch.

That bone-chilling night that Andy dropped off Brad at the train station would be the last decision of his vile existence. Andy knew all too well that his days were numbered. The cabin stood so dark, shielding the rotting corpses stacked on the loft. He remained left alone in a cabin full of bloodsucking flies and bees. Yet, Andy was no stranger to violence and quickly eviscerated both their natural bodies and their souls. There would be no more BZZZ-BZZZ-BZZZ.

The voices wailed in his head to draw his old roommate, Brad. For he knew he would never see him again in this life or beyond. He would devote hours savoring the cryptic lines that fell from his pencil, illustrating both Brad’s face and hell itself. But such tasks weren’t enough to quash those pounding voices. He’d try making faces in the mirror. Faces that fastened to mercy like a thirsty tick. The squishy walls closed in on him as blood rushed down from the ceiling. The stain that had been so delicately sprayed onto the cabin’s exterior turned to puke and sweat.

His final days left him wondering what was a nightmare and what was reality. For he could no longer discern the two. The sunlight burnt his skin like bacon while he sat outside and chanted from his books of death and suffering. The incantations summoned six-foot ground squirrels, now rising from their harrowing tomb-like hibernaculum after months of decay in the ground. Their claws and teeth gnashed so razor-sharp. Their rotting flesh could only be extinguished by snow. Snow that would kill both the zombie squirrels, but Andy himself. He was now dead and still drifting throughout the cabin, free of his mortal soul.

He quickly learned that not even death could stop an unfinished painting of Murray Lake from tormenting his soul. To elude the pain, he headed into town exacting bloodlust for vulnerable souls. He soon preyed upon an elderly woman. She begged for mercy muttering the words repeatedly “Tennessee. Tennessee. Tennessee” over and over while he ate her flesh. He scowled to the sky to talk to God and offered up a cup of her blood. He referred to it as “Black Cherry Kool-Aid” and sipped so much of it himself that he could not help but notice his “Kool-Aid Gut.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I apologize for this gruesome narration. It might be advisable to substitute the remaining summarization by actually reading Andy’s Big Sky to Big City from early April until mid-May for some sake of clarity. For the record, Andy had never died, but he pondered his death among ground squirrels due to a late snowfall. Most of the key events had some truth to them, less the horror and suspense. Unfortunately, if this is too horrific to read, you will need to skip past to the next section. Mr. Slugversch is contracted for this entire segment and the retirement has been hard on him so he is very insistent.

NARRATOR’S NOTE (Slugversch): It’s Slugversch. Where were we?

Andy revitalized and soon sledded recklessly knowing he could not die again. He promptly became thirsty for human pain once more. His next victim would be the neighbor who had been plaguing his soul with “Lawyer Eyes.” The goober had his own set of eyes that stole the neighbor’s words and soul. A three-foot centipede slithered from the man’s mouth and what remained were stuttered words and carnage.

Andy became angrier and angrier knowing he could not use the neighbor’s blood for the white paint he would soon misuse and diabolically splash upon his rotting painting and face. He would take a knife, dripping of paint, and stab into the canvas like a sacrifice to the cabin gods. A stab-painting like no other. No amount of violent mirror shaking, private dancing, and maniacal tooth brushing could free him of the stench of enamel on an unfinished matte.

He would soon drift to Murray Lake, where hundreds of souls had drowned and came upon an unsuspecting couple. Muttering only two words the entire time, he slaughtered them heinously and diced their flesh into forty-two pieces. The demonic dogs could only watch with their glowing red-eyes and bark in pain and suffering and vomit. There was puke. So much puke.

No sooner could he stuff those forty-two pieces of flesh into Brad’s clothing, braced up on a blood-soaked couch in the cabin. He would pose with the rotting dummy for Easter and covered the maggoty face with a high school senior picture transposed upon it to camouflage both the pain and cover up the heinous crime, leaving behind no evidence. With enough blood and sacrifice, his soul released to finish the painting of Murray Lake that cost so many lives in its finality. He would scorch the bodies in a towering inferno to celebrate, leaving a charred stench in the air for miles.

Much to Andy’s horror, Brad’s soul had returned from a violently exploding train and now roamed the cabin alongside Andy with his desolate spirit.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: That concludes the segment intended for mature audiences only. Once again. Very sorry for the horrific content. Andy lived. No one would perish. Andy had actually composed himself magnificently and only stabbed the fire in anger. Unfortunately, he felt compelled to make an Easter card with a dummy made of my clothing. The mysterious contents of the stuffing remain unsolved.

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

a reflection of camping in the mountains of Montana in 1997 from the audiobook "How to Unsuccessfully Promote a Fake Fight in Montana." Narrated by Matthew S. Newbold

Somewhere along the way in Montana, we discovered the speed limit signs on the interstate said “Night limit 65” with a black backdrop. Curious to understand what that meant, we stopped at a local gas station and queried the attendant. She advised us there was no speed limit, except at night. She cautioned to keep it under 90 mph, but there was no real speed limit on stretches of Montana interstate. Truly the wild west, I thought.

We visited Missoula, which obliged the basis for the aforementioned movie A River Runs Through It. We visited the University of Montana and moseyed around downtown a bit. The next day, up in the Blue Mountains in some random spot off the road, we hiked our packs up to the top of a hill. We discovered a perfect open space of about one hundred square yards to lounge around, have a fire, and spread out. On a wooded hilltop, surrounded by towering evergreens gave no views or prominent features, but invited a fresh quietude of beautiful Montana. We spent most of the day just unwinding a bit as this allowed the first prospect to avoid sleeping in the back of the van since Chicago. And we already developed a distinct sickness of each other’s company and aroma.

That night, after properly packing away our food supply fifty yards away, suspended from a tree as trained to do, we settled into our sleeping bags in the tent. It was a glorious night’s sleep until it wasn’t. I woke to loud steps. I froze to grunts. The telltale sounds of a bear emerged just outside the tent. I shook Vice. “Bear. Bear,” I whisper-screamed. He apparently did not feel it was noteworthy and mumbled himself back to sleep.

The night turned quiet. I thought to myself, “He’s not interested in us. Just the food.” And that food hung high, fifty yards away from the tent. In that silence, I reached down to my pocket, hoping what I had was a knife or flamethrower. Something to defend in the event of an attack. For we were defenseless inside that gift-wrapping paper of a tent. This was, after all, Grizzly Bear country. What I discovered in my pocket was not a knife. Or bear spray. Or a Glock with a round already in the chamber. It was a half-eaten package of cheese crackers. I had failed to sanitize the inside of the tent of food particles.

The steps started back up again. The grunts started back up again. I shook Vice again. “Wake up! It’s a f#$ing bear!” The steps got louder. So did the grunts. Closer. Then quiet. At any moment, I could visualize the tent collapsing. Armed only with cheese crackers, I lay ready. Vice was not* ready because he remained dead asleep, perhaps dreaming about gummy bears.

The silence continued. I slowly displaced another cheese cracker. One for each hand to steady my fortification. The steps resumed, this time getting quieter and quieter. The steps vanished. Until that point in my life, I had no idea that cheese crackers would mean life or death in bravely thwarting off an imminent bear attack. I felt invincible. No survival manual paid any mention to the value of cheese crackers. What the hell do they know, after all? If that worked, then imagine what a comically large “barrel-o-pretzels” could defend against.

source

Those moments were the extent of my first-ever Montana visit, but later on, we ventured through Idaho, Utah, and Colorado. We visited the University of Idaho, the University of Utah, and Colorado State University. These states provided opportunities for some salty lake swimming, few showers, getting lost in the desert without water, and many beef stews consumed over a portable stove.

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

from the audiobook "How to Unsuccessfully Promote a Fake Fight in Montana." Narrated by Matthew S. Newbold.

A VOYAGE INTO THE MOUNTAINS

The conditions finally ripened for Andy and me to see what lay on the other face of those mountain peaks just east of Whitefish Lake. According to the map, we would make a climb to 6,200 feet from our base of 3,600 feet at Whitefish Lake. Much of that in presumably deep snow. We knew of no established trails once we stood at the foot of the mountains. The mission appeared doable. The peak should open up to a clearing, so keeping a reasonable bearing would be manageable without a map and compass. If nothing else, this day would be a decent scouting assignment for a better prepared second attempt.

A Voyage in the Mountains

Yesterday, we finally made it to the mountains with a trip that stretched from 8 am to 9 pm.

At the outset of our journey, we were soon greeted by our friend “Scout” the dog. From the north side of the lake, we decided which peak we would take. The one with open spaces that should provide plenty of good views of the areas below. After five times when we had thought we summited the peak, but finally, after climbing almost 2500 feet, we found the topmost. Often, we lost direction because we hooked around the summit, and with little time to return with the sunlight, we had to abandon our desire to see the other side. With the view we had, we were satisfied, but I did not see any “Snow Ghosts.” I had read of “Snow Ghosts”; a phenomenon particular to the Whitefish Range. No, they were not the souls of perished skiers and tourists over the years, but the outlines of trees whose exterior had snow or ice melt and freeze repeatedly with the mixture of fog and wind. The result over time formed towering sculptures of packed ice.

And so, the biggest part of our trip would soon come. We had to go down the mountain and with the snow, it seemed like a game. With our butts, we slid down through much of the mountainside through the snow. Near the bottom, there settled less snow, and even in some parts left no snow.

When we found the main road again, the stiffness of the surface against our feet blew us away. We survived the fatigue of a hard voyage. Andy was especially hurting at the end. Today, I feel a little weak (probably from the high altitude) but Andy has a red face from the wind. Now, I want to see which mountain peak we have climbed.

On a side note, there are plenty of places in the yard around the cabin where there is no snow. Naked earth! It rose to sixty degrees yesterday. I thought a lot about our trip. I craved that view beyond the lake. On both faces. Overlooking Whitefish, I found all the places I had traveled in the past; the hills, the lakes, the railway, Whitefish Lake, Flathead Lake, my swamp where I had seen the wolf, and much more. I saw the entire route that I had taken from the cabin to walk into town the second time. The total area appeared like an exquisite model train exhibit. Everything appeared tiny. The town shrunk. I peered into the valley as if I were seated at a theater to the past. Thinking about all of my previous exploits. There’s something incredible about wide-open spaces and the effect it has on your consciousness. The label Big Sky country did not mislead. It won’t be long before Montana is a memoir. (Oliger, 3/22/00)

a lower view from Whitefish Range

Some rough topographic map reading gave estimations to be approximately a 2,500-foot rise, in deep snow, and with heavy wind exposure. The sun fully reflected from the sea of snow much of the time. An aggressive endeavor that checked most of the boxes of what we had hoped to get out of the trek, so not seeing the other side was not a prominent dealbreaker. Andy, as always, would afford much more detail. He had a distinctive take and focus, particularly at the rigorous conclusion.

The very best day and the very worst day… but not at the same time. I am writing about this day on the 23rd for your information. Try as I might, I know I won’t be able to write enough to do this day justice. Being that Wednesday was to bring nice weather, we decided it would be the day that we do something that we’ve been waiting for a nice day to do. Brad woke me up at quarter after 7 am and being that I only got a little over an hour’s worth of sleep, I didn’t feel like getting out of bed... but I did. I made pancakes and by eight o’clock we were ready to hike up the highest mountain. Brad led the way and when we got to the family of huge rocks above the abandoned tunnel, we selected the highest peak that looked promising for a clear view. It was a peak that had a huge snowy clearing at the top so we figured it shouldn’t be hard to find. We crossed the tracks down to the road that leads to the foot of the mountains. As soon as we got to the road we were greeted by “Scout”, a dog that Brad had met on a previous hike. He led us all the way down the road stopping to mark his territory every once in a while. He was so excited. To prove to him that we knew what he was doing, we would turn around and pretended to walk the other way. He would reluctantly stop and follow then when we turned back around, he would excitedly resume leading the way. When it came time to turn off of the road, he came running back to lead us into the wild. When we got to the first big decline, we stopped and said our goodbyes to Scout and he headed back. Wait! I totally forgot to mention what happened just before we crossed the tracks down to the road. There are two snowy slopes leading from the family of huge rocks to the tracks so I slid down the first one successfully on my butt. Brad followed and continued down the second slope. It looked a little dangerous because of all the rocks at the bottom but since Brad made it safely, I decided to sled on down. If I had been a foot to either side, I would not have landed on that pointy rock directly on my tailbone! It wasn’t a sharp pain, but it was the worst pain I’ve felt in a long time. Just the thought of sliding so quickly then coming to that abrupt stop causes me to cringe. I wasn’t going to let that stop me from getting up the mountain. Once we were free from Scout we walked through the twisted forest until we could make our destination through the trees. We crossed a stream then followed the sound of rushing water nearby. We stood on a bridge and looked at the deceivingly small rapids then got back on course. As the temperature rose and after some pretty tough climbing, the snow started to get deeper. We made it to an open area that we thought just might be our peek. We weren’t positive, but I ate my lunch feeling as if we made it. I couldn’t believe the view! The mountains were so vast!

We decided to continue on to see if there was a way to get a little higher. When we got to an area that was even larger than the previous one, we realized that we were mistaken. This was our destination! The snow incline was so steep but when I made it to the top, I saw that the view was like nothing I’ve never seen. We could see all of Whitefish Lake and the clouds were freakin’ awesome lookin’. It was about noon but we decided that we must see the sun set from that location. One of our goals was to see the other side of the mountain so off we went. The further we went the more we realize that we still had much, much, much, much, much, much further UP to go. We made it to yet another area that was even more open than the last. THIS was it! The snow was so steep and solid I had to wedge each step into it with hopes that it would hold me. If I slipped, I would’ve been in for a lovely tumble that would’ve been fun until I ran into the trees below. Once at the top, I wasn’t as positive that it was truly our destination because there were trees blocking a lot of the view. We headed on in hopes of getting to the other side. Before starting into other thick trees Brad put on the snowshoes he had been carrying because, though the snow was solid, it was over four feet deep. Once through the thick trees, we reached an area that made the other three seem tiny. We knew we had made it. I felt so silly for even considering the others to be the top. We walked to what we thought was the other side of the mountain and saw a lake through the trees. Brad tried to think which lake it might be then we decided to trek to the right to get a better view. A few minutes later we came across human tracks. They were snowshoe prints with boot prints in the center of each one. They were OURS! We had apparently walked in a circle. Still determined to get a better view of the other side of the mountain we continued on… and on… and up… and up. I commented that I felt good knowing we had reached our goals... because I was getting exhausted. Yet we kept pushing up and up until there it was... our destination! I didn’t expect it to be that open! When we got halfway up the clearing, I looked back and saw the most incredible view yet! We could see the entire Flathead Valley! Since we had been wrong about conquering the mountain, we had been wrong about seeing the other side... therefore the lake that we saw must’ve been Whitefish Lake. We decided it would take too long to get to the other side so we let that goal slip away. I climbed a tree and Brad took a photo then we slid down the clearing on our butts. No rocks. Much fun!

At the bottom of the clearing, we took a path to see where it led. Around the bend, we saw that we were about 200 yards away from Big Mountain ski resort… I think. I wanted to walk there because it looked so close but Brad thought it would be better if we headed back before the sun set. It took half as long going down the mountain as it did going up because we slid most of the way. Absolute joy! That’s it. That’s where the fun ended. By the time we got to the location we wanted to watch the sunset from, the sky had become grey and overcast. As it was so fun and easy to slide down the snow, it was equally as torturous to walk on dry land. As the snow became less and less, I realized what bad shape my legs were in. My boots were filled with ice water and my toes felt like something that hurts really bad. After a few confusing moments of disorientation, we made it back to the hard road. OUCH! My mind would not let me walk anymore but my legs kept moving on their own. For the next two hours, I was in a trance. The woods were so dark that we couldn’t tell if we were on the trail or not. Never before have I felt the way I did on the final part of our journey. It wasn’t pain. It was worse. If I would’ve had one more mile to walk, I would’ve laid down and died. When my hand touched the wood railing of the deck, I felt overwhelming relief. Collapsing on the couch was the highlight of my day… but that feeling didn’t last more than a minute or two. My socks were soaked with blood but there were no cuts on my feet. I should’ve known that once I sat down standing up would suck… and suck it did. Brad must be in better shape than me. He stayed on his feet and made a big pot of stew for both of us. I forgot to mention how windy it was during our hike. It was windy as hell! It felt good when I was hot. The stew was pretty good but before it could digest, I was in a dream. I woke up often because my pillow was scorching hot. My face was actually on fire. I thought there was a possibility that I might never get up. (Calmes 3/22/00)

Andy in the trees

He had better have gotten up. Brian still had not written us a letter! There remained much work to do on that front. I had plainly failed to calculate that while I had a month to prepare specifically for this trek with fairly vigorous training, I may have been a little too fruitful in the Run Vs. Walk War. Had Andy been running daily like he had a full appetite to do, he might not have been hurting as much. Also, I was the only one that had a complete night’s sleep. That is undeniably important preceding a rigorous activity. Those moments made the realization abundantly clear that I should have been more inclusive in my past hikes that prepared me for the mountain trek.

That last leg of our journey, Andy muttered nonsense for most of that way. Uncontrolled muttering. He almost slipped into delirium. We moved strenuously for thirteen straight hours with merely negligible amounts of rest. There was some calculating on whether I might have needed to take him to get treated for mild hypothermia. Assessing the situation proved impossible while moving because the thickets were darkened and I felt tired myself. By the time that we made it to the cabin with some light and better focus, the status emerged that while Andy agonized, he called for no emergency attention. Nevertheless, I stood ready to act if conditions soured.

His face revealed incredible windburn and his body chilled, likely from sweat built up on the ascent that lingered for the trip back in the darkness with falling temperatures. Extremities looked manageable, just some mild trench foot. Had we ever stopped for a lengthy time, that slush in the boots may have frozen causing bigger troubles. Some warm liquids to both warm the body and rehydrate would do and then we could see where we needed to go from there. If we required medical attention, I would have had to drag him another third of a mile to the neighbors where my car idled. The alternative was to leave him at the cabin alone and get help myself. That seemed an even worse idea with no phone for him to use if necessary. And so, we warmed up and hydrated. I checked on him every hour or so like a patient and he seemed to be stable enough.

The next day would be all about recovery. Recovery and glee. I would be a liar if I did not say that I thought Andy’s face was amusing. Perhaps ignorance is bliss, and I did not know all the “what could have been” scenarios, but it tickled me for sure.

At 4 AM I forced myself out of bed to pee. I knew that there was something wrong with my face but first I had to worry about getting to the bathroom. Every muscle in my legs stiffened then ripped with every movement I made. The mirror revealed to me a shocking image. My face was swollen and reddish-purple. My eyes had actual lumps under them. Wind burns! Probably a little sunburn too. I went back to bed only to continue to wake often to shift my painfully cramped legs. And thus, ends my story. I made it all up. No, if I had made it up, I would’ve included a bear or something. I barely moved my body today. If I didn’t have to get up to eat, I probably wouldn’t have moved at all. The swelling under my eyes has gone down a bit and my legs are getting used to being destroyed. I could lift my legs just enough to get up the steps to play guitar this morning. (Calmes, 3/23/00)

Amid how much fun we had, recognizing extreme fatigue or other developing conditions can be so challenging. We were having the time of our lives and each climb met with so much satisfaction and breathtaking scenery. That mountain stared down on me for seven months, leaving me wondering what sat on the other side. An obsession grew from wanting to find out. With all going right that day, some luck played a vital role in chasing away misfortunes. Much more luck was relied upon than sensible. Any setbacks coming down that mountain and through the mountainside forest could have produced some desperate results. I noted that once we descended by the lake, the risks would drop dramatically. I knew the area inside and out so there was not much unease about becoming lost in the blackness, even without flashlights. The entire trip proved a calculated risk with a mountain-sized reward.

finding our route

Andy had forged through the mountains for perhaps seven of those thirteen hours with less training and only one-hour of sleep. He dismissed windburn, sunburn, dehydration, sleep deprivation, trench foot, and the mental deterioration induced by mild hypothermia. There could be no debating that he showed much mental grit that day. Had he run up and down that mountain the entire time, the situation would have fostered certain calamity. Another notch in the Run versus Walk campaign.

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

from the audiobook "How to Unsuccessfully Promote a Fake Fight in Montana." Narrated by Matthew S. Newbold

THE IMPOSSIBLE BOOK RETURN

A life evading library marshals was not something that I pined for. I fostered books from the Nashville Library with fines amassed well into the tens of thousands. Though I would not formally recognize their barbaric fining system, I felt a moral obligation to return those checked out blocks of printed literature to their rightful home. Under heavy camouflage. Spud Fligger with his fake teeth and taped arms was about to return some books to the most secure library in the country, illegally.

While surveilling the entrance of the library from “The Aloha”, I found cameras pointing towards the pavement outside as well as the vestibule inside. In the mantrap between those two sets of sliding doors was the book return bin. Just to the right were three heavily armed security guards. Two were safeguarding the bag x-ray scan area in the exit lane, while the third randomly frisked patrons as they fled the facility. Every 10,000 seconds, a violator would be dragged away by a quick-response unit; assuming the escortee was attempting the theft of library material. After 20,000 seconds, a guard change ensured a fresh level of library security. Getting to that book return was too risky and with posts at each corner of the rooftop manned by more armed guards, I knew a top-down entry was even worse.

I exited “The Aloha” to locate a cleaner path. I spotted a side door with no visible cameras or thermal detection. But it was secured with a proximity sensor and a heavy metal frame. Impenetrable without precise instrumentation. I started in on the sensor, noticing exposed wires. Perhaps I could short the connection, thus releasing the bolt. I drew my swiss army knife and began to clear the connection.

“Forget your badge?” came a voice from behind.

I thrashed my head around in a heart-racing fashion. “I-Uh… Yes.” It was the only sentence I could muster.

“Here. Let me get that for you,” suggested the man, advertising a ponytail. A symmetrical part divided his skull into two equal sectors. He had old mud stains on his boots. His eyes came together, forming wrinkles near the joining of both brows. He was undoubtedly putting puzzle pieces together in his brain, first finding the corners. “Say… Do I know you?” he challenged.

Damn right he knew me. He wasn’t a hunter after all. He was the one stalking me in the woods. Wyatt Erkell. I could see the crinkles on his face slowly ebbing. The tip of his hair lay flat against his flannel. No wind.

“I knew you stalked me in the woods, jerk!” I yelled while winding up from my hip and popping down on the nozzle. Fiery mist poured into his eyes, chased by screams of suffering. None doubled back into my own face. Bear spray without wind is remarkably potent. I snapped his badge away and darted through the side door, knowing my book return had a countdown before the alarms sounded.

I swiftly merged into the common area to meld back with the commoners. At a mobile book return cart, I was proposed by a lady in her late-forties if she could help me with anything. If she could help me with anything? What nerve of her after what her organization did to me out in Montana. Was she involved in my wildlife encounter last fall? Almost certainly. They all were. I could think of only one retort.

"Nice try, cougar," I snarked.

"Excuse me? What did you just call me?" she deceitfully replied.

Damn right you're excused. I placed the books in the cart and shuffled away contently knowing that she knew that I knew that she knew.

Fade scene to black. [This book return story was inspired by true events].

After returning from Nashville, I would take a quaint road trip to the Tracker school in west New Jersey hosted by Tom Brown. With my trusted tent erected in a field at the edge of some forest land and as a part of a temporary tent city, I spent an entire week at the survival school. I attended short classes and field demos, engaging with other like-minded amateurs. I had learned to start a fire with a bow drill there among many other basic concepts and decided that quenched my thirst. Not well enough to feel self-sufficient in an emergency survival situation, but well enough for deciding I was not all in on that lifestyle. To be proficient would require far too much time at such a high opportunity cost of other endeavors. I had the tourist souvenir experience, and that seemed accomplishment enough.

Coming back, there were spontaneous stops in Pennsylvania along the way, which hosted its own plethora of rustic splendor. What was next? The idea emerged to work at a local golf course long enough to save up more money and head out west next season, yet again. Sometimes, the next opportunity is beyond those uncertain peaks requiring another crusade in the right conditions to find out.

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

SAYING FAREWELL TO THE COMMUNITY

Andy had successfully twisted my arm into getting out to inspect some neighboring attractions. A master motivator was needed for that farewell tour to avert the regret of forgettable idleness and Andy came through.

After the library we went to a little market, then about a half-hour later we were winding up the steep road leading to the Jewel Basin trailhead. Again, I was surprised to see SNOW! I knew there would be some snow, but I didn’t think that we would have to park the car on the side of the narrow road and hike 40 minutes just to get to the trailhead! There were some pretty amazing sites along the way but also some poopy realizations. The snow got to be about 5-6 feet deep and that wasn’t even the higher elevation of Jewel Basin. The lakes were sure to be covered. As well as every trail! Once at the trailhead, we sat on top of the restrooms that were buried in snow and changed our plans. Before heading back to the “Aloha” we decided to go up the nearest peak and check out the view. I led the way up the steep snow. Each step was a solid kick to get leverage. I had to stop and rest often. Once on top of the mountain, we walked along the narrow peak to a clearing. The sky was dark and cloudy to the west so the view of the Flathead Valley was a little spooky. We stayed up there for a little while then slid down the snow. It wasn’t as simple as I just made it sound. My jeans were soaked and my legs were numb but the thrill canceled all of that out. I changed my clothes back at the buried trailhead then headed back to the “Aloha” way ahead of Brad. A ground squirrel next to the deck just started to scream really, really loud. I’ve never heard ‘em do that! I stopped and hid myself on the side of the road and after Brad passed, I came up behind him in hopes of confusing him. I don’t think it worked. He backed the “Aloha” down the road until there as an area big enough to turn around then we headed to Hungry Horse to go to the infamous Huckleberry Patch restaurant. We went to the dam first. There were so many little birds cruising all over the place. It was quite a show! The Huckleberry place was freakin’ closed! We walked down the road a ways and everything was run down and closed… it was like a ghost town. (Calmes, 5/17/00)

We would proceed to check out the local bar in Hungry Horse to get a taste of the town. Unsurprisingly, they served disgusting, two-week-old hamburgers and had a broken toilet. I searched feverishly for Greiger Morksley hiding in the shadows, awaiting split infinitive verbs and run-on sentences to prey upon. I only found an alternative setting that evidenced profusely; we were with real rugged, local Montanans. Men and women who already situated and saturated on an early weekday afternoon. An abrupt stopping of the jukebox would have been too soft. Too cliché.

[later] Well, I’m in my bed on Thursday night listening to “Coast to Coast.” Very interesting. There is this lady on that claims to be able to read into people’s being… negative/positive energy and so forth. What does my body tell me? I like that she refers to God as “whatever you want to call it.” She calls it “The Father” and so did this really freaky lady that Brad and I met in Hungry Horse. We went into a little bar full of roughians to eat lunch. Now, the food at the bar was pretty okay and the white-bearded cook was nice but the freaky lady made it an experience worth writing a few words about. She leaned against us reeking of alcohol and told us that “The Father” told her that she belongs in Hungry Horse. Brad began to mess with her head but I was afraid she’d freak out so I went along with her mumbo jumbo. As we left, she came to the door and yelled after us “I hope you find what you are looking for!” I felt like I was in a movie the way the dirt spun into the air when she disappeared. (Calmes, 5/17/00)

We earned the stares you would expect if two people that looked exactly like us had just been in there the day before and announced that the bar was mandated by law to become a tickle-friendly establishment. A true mix of inherent hatred and dumbfounded confusion choked the air. We were one slur about the taste of Huckleberries away from a “get ‘em boys” gesture by the unquestioned leader of the outfit; the bearded cook with missing teeth. I had played enough Far Cry 5, which takes place in Montana, to know that those ladies were strategically placed recruiters for a local cult and that “The father” was, of course, the cult leader. Perhaps we should have had them promote the fake fight while finding competing “non-believers” to quarrel for a much better turn-out.

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

MAYDAY AND A TOILET PAPER TREATY

The final day at the cabin meant a checklist stretched a mile long. A list that tripped our temperament in order to restore the area to a kindly order. Laundering of linen that belonged to the cabin. Furniture must be arranged back to September 1999 status. The cabin needed cleaning to an inspection-ready grade. Some calculations on repacking “The Aloha” were attended to. What to pre-load. What to keep available for the ride home. Some final resupply needed to be addressed. A parting gift to our cherished neighbors. But this was not just any other night. This was the last night, after all. We would assuredly carve aside time to absorb the enormity of ending this vacation thoroughly.

This is it! The last entry in Montana! I don’t plan on writing again until I get to Toledo. Today I got up at noon. It was cloudy and rainy when we drove to town. We went to the Post Office first to get a refund for the three months that we won’t be using the box. Then we went to a little shop to get a replacement chain made for the chainsaw. I looked for an axe to replace the one I broke last fall but couldn’t find one. Oh well, at Food Depot we bought toilet paper then we picked up the chain and drove back to the cabin. When the rain stopped, we walked to the neighbor’s cabin one last time with our gift. The rain started again halfway there, so we ran. We presented the TP politely, not making a big deal of it, then walked back for the last time. By the time the sun was beginning to set, the cabin had been transformed to the way it appeared when we got here. I had cleaned the white chairs in the mud like a fool and sat on the deck for a long time watching the ground squirrels. Brad had made spaghetti, which we ate on the deck while engaging in a final game of Sequence. We took a pause to watch the sunset on that familiar horizon while “Nothing Else Matters” by Metallica was playing on B98. We resumed the game, and the incredible happened… I WON!!! I was happy. I’d like to describe this stuff better. I guess I’m just not fully comprehending the reality that things are about to change for me. I feel like I’m going through the motions but not acknowledging that they are the motions that are taking me away from the past 9 months here in Uncle Hal’s cabin. We had a HUGE bonfire and now I will fall asleep in this bed that is still under me. (Calmes, 5/19/00)

If there ever was a goal of softening the awkwardness with the neighbors, then we failed miserably. A giant pack of toilet paper is not exactly an olive branch or an item that one gives another as a gift. Yet, the endowment embodied a full measure of fumbling past interactions and hosted a symbolic celebration of our relationship bonded by profound moments of palm-sweating mutual kindness. Their salty soup would forever be a part of my gastrointestinal system and that comically large pack of toilet paper would surely outlast generations of their endearing family tree.

We restored the cabin to how we found it, minus some details and added by others. A lovely painting was left that Andy had worked on for months. The work consisted of a mirrored reflection of a rock face at Murray Lake. The artistry by itself was impressive but had a custom birch tree frame retrieved from nearby woods to add to its overall essence. A fine touch indeed. We had hoped our homage proved sufficient and worthy.

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

THAT’S ALL HE WROTE

Spring induced much pressure to produce some additional content. That prominent goal of writing something of note and worth fell apart. I ended fairly satisfied with the playful chaos of the baseball story, but the top-to-bottom value proved not good enough and I knew that I had the ability within me to make headway. I wished to hold the momentum of its originality, but build and develop the story further. Same first-person character, Toto. Throw in some more surprises that tickled to implement. The setting involved a Labor Day weekend extravaganza. An epic trip on the water to close out the summer. The result left Toto no longer wishing to canoe, which had a nice recurring theme consistent with the baseball story. With my trip to Mexico, the story lacked the attention required to be completed.

SYNOPSIS

Toto is back again for a stupendous finale to his summer vacation, prior to the 6th grade. His lifelong plans of spending Labor Day Weekend on the river are finally becoming a reality. But the town that borders those waters has an insidious past, and it is more than what just one 6th grader is prepared for alone. Toto’s reluctant girlfriend joins in on the adventure to unearth the mysteries that have tormented the river water for over a decade. They hope to find out what really transpired on that Labor Day night, ten years prior. Or is it all just sophomoric folklore?

AFTERWORD

Another story fell prey to word-count budget restraints and executive editor shutdown orders. Writing about a riverside theme with boats and islands can get fairly wordy. This also became the second story featuring Toto and Coach Death, so they demanded higher salaries. In actuality, the steam eventually wore off, and the story became too long for the whole concept. Yet, the story was mostly fun to write, explaining why the length surpassed the target. A silly, gimmicky flow would be its undoing.

Mattridelope

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

FICTION CAN BE FUN

Cabin fever worked effectively for blame assignment on unruly actions. If there was an act that thrust a bit too far or over-the-top, cabin fever became such an endearing blame recipient. A vacation in personal accountability, in many regards. My writing content would take full advantage of vacation. As a bold reflection of this novel cabin fever, this story evinces some mild, but temporary madness. A short story about absolutely nothing and never was completed (and hopefully never will be). The fable has no name or title. In fact, this was more of a creative writing exercise than a story. An exercise that tests out different narrators with different narrative styles. A flow that is fairly bonkers, even by my standards, and can be hard to follow. But bits of the segments are fun and silly. Here is a field guide to help you navigate the “ill-literary” absurdity. Putting yourself through the torture of reading this comes with the recommendation that you flag this page to help follow along.

SYNOPSIS

Jack Quindlestubb, along with a group of unscrupulous friends, was hoping to have a relaxing night of eating pizza and watching television. But Jack has made many enemies over the course of his life. Perhaps the worst enemy of all is himself; and the narrator. Jack finds himself strung up in the crossfire of his own story, while his unique ability to communicate with the story’s narrator, Quinton Gormuck, could be his final undoing. Yet Quinton is not the only enemy, or narrator, that is after Jack. Will his flagrant past, teamed with its narrative, be enough to compel him into changing his ways?

Story Field Manual:

The Plot - There is none. Oddly named guys are hanging out getting ready to order pizza while a mix of narrators perform at the highest level to portray the activities.

Toto Derky – A very unlucky character and somewhat negligible.

Wyatt Erkell – A supporting character who is a prominent bully. He works as a library bounty hunter.

Ken Doeth - Another supporting character who is incredibly unsure of himself. He is an aspiring astronomer. Or is he?

David Michael Spelufioni – A supporting character who has been working on his pathetic stand up bits for years and never got around to open mic night. He gets feisty when people don’t laugh at his jokes.

Jack Quindlestubb – A key character that can actually hear and interact with the narrator(s). A hint of Stranger Than Fiction (an absolutely underrated movie, by the way), but in my defense, this was written before that movie came out. His love life will come into play. He was also the main character in two short stories I wrote in high school.

Quinton Gormuck – Senior Narrator of the story. Quinton’s current girlfriend dated Jack Quindlestubb and Jack owed her money when they broke up, of which Jack still has not paid back. This has caused a lot of hostility between Quinton and his girlfriend, causing her to move out only recently.

Spud Fligger – Understudy to Quinton Gormuck who specializes in Characterial Studies and is near to complete his Doctorates.

Mr. Slugversch – World-renowned authority in Horror/Suspense narration.

Author – Executive Vice President of Story Content and Narration Operations.

Susanne Nubby – Jack Quindlestubb’s X-Girlfriend.

Stacy Jane – Jack Quindlestubb’s X-Girlfriend. Quinton Gormuck’s current girlfriend.

Greiger Morksley – Executive Editor. Disgruntled X-Newspaper Editor.

So... if this “Field Guide” doesn’t intrigue you in the slightest bit, it is probably in your best interest to circumvent the story itself and continue into the next section.

Untitled and Unfinished Story About Dudes Who Order Pizza

By Bradley Oliger

AFTERWORD

Luckily, this story was low budget and could not get through the editor, so the tale ended abruptly. That is an admirable excuse for all the stories I have not and will not finish. Budget cuts. Also, nearly every story will end in disarray when the lead narrator starts to have love quarrels with characters and ultimately walks off the set. This certainly will never be finished and was highly representative of what “cabin fever” is. Rambling about nothing, using contrasting narration styles that mirrored a writer’s inner-dialogue, and assuming the theme makes sense outside the walls of my own brain. Not even narrators with the laurels of Slugversch could vocalize such a gruesome and graphic synopsis that this tale begs for.

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

Chapter 15. Hello and Goodbye… Again…

RECHARGING THE BATTERIES

Returning from one of the world’s most densely populated areas, back to a secluded cabin in the woods, only to move across the country in less than two weeks was no small outfit. I had been clumsily speaking a different language almost entirely for four of those six weeks and marched at a nonstop pace, with action-packed tours, crowds, and adventures. I had been jumping between planes, subways, taxis, boats, trains, Beetles, and buses at a furious velocity. Even horses. This tailed a train ride for three straight days with minimal sleep that entire ride because of the incompatibility of coach sleeping conditions. Exhaustion felt overwhelming and had no intentions of fully sifting back into the “Cabin-State-Of-Mind” as if it were home again. To do so would be too emotional.

There emerged no job leads. No callbacks to an unavailable number or offer letters. With that full departure back east looming, I resembled more of a tourist longing to reminisce, more so than a resident returning from vacation. My remaining days served to decompress, fill my cup with the finishing touches of peace, polish off some attainable remaining goals, and say some final sentimental goodbyes to the area that I wholly bonded with.

Andy, on the other hand, chomped at the bit to blaze beyond our local confines of the Whitefish area and seek some last sight-seeing adventures. He had been alone in a cabin for six weeks, talking to ground squirrels, presumed beautiful horseback-riding women, and “Stuffed Easter, Senior-Picture Brad.” The weather over forty-two days evolved to idyllic adventure conditions for exploration. My energy stores remained depleted despite so much of my own agenda remaining before the finale, but I owed him deeply for staying until May. That much grew profoundly obvious.

WRAPPING UP THE SIMPLE LIFE

Those last few days in the cabin were about savoring. That was paramount. To recharge for a demoralizing trip meant relishing the little things that made the whole experience so special. Identifying what captured the enjoyment of being there. Around the cabin became all about that morning coffee overlooking the valley, sitting on the porch, the use of the wood-burning stove on a small scale since the weather warmed, decent meals, and some blazing fires outside.

Goodbyes were made to my primitive camp. That outfit served me well, though the basic design never would blossom into the elaborate forward base I had once envisioned. Perhaps because of the location and the probability of relocation. I had missed that window in the fall with winter prep going towards other focal points. Perhaps with an arrival one-month sooner, such a major undertaking would have been probable. During fall through spring, I would sleep in it several times a month. Though uncomfortable, the burden of keeping myself warm and dry was mostly achieved. On some of the coldest nights, I took rocks from the fire pit and buried them six inches within the ground under where my bedding insulation rested. That made a profound difference. For half the night, that is. The other half turned quite frigid. The logs, branches, and brush were responsibly dispersed with a meticulous touch up to leave no traces. It’s not my fault I don’t sleep in survival shelters no more.

I surveyed my sole hunting experience. A bit of a shame because stocking the freezer (a tiny freezer) full of game would have made living in the woods seem more official. Perhaps making some sort of outdoor cache would have helped store larger game. Instead of eating Hamburger Helper, it would have been venison helper. The only firearm we had at our disposal remained a shotgun. After checking the local gun store to see about rifles, I decided not to get anything on a limited budget. At the very least, we should have bought some wild game off of some hunters. Surely there were plenty of options.

I marveled at the underside of the porch; an overflowing showcase full of wooden trophies. We overestimated in autumn and under-consumed throughout the winter and spring. Nevertheless, the remaining stack was undeniably a feat to be proud of. Such work to retrieve and process the timber rivaled any outputs from months at a fully used paid gym outfit. There was more to show for all the sets, reps, jerks, lunges, squats, gains, inclines, declines, rows, curls, spots, and deadlifts. More to show than just a beach body. I had a well-heated firewood body.

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

ALL NIGHT WITH TREE PEOPLE

The time arrived to visit all the landmarks and vistas that I grew fond of over nine months and even some others I intended to inspect, knowing this may be the final chance. A literal last hurrah. A final curtain call to all the treasured places that earned titles. Another mountain adventure would have been the finest means to survey my exploits, but a glaring shortage of mental resources could be mustered to make yet another climb. Reexamining the hallowed grounds by foot would have to do. I first found Saltamontes field, my prime hillside for sunbathing and terrorizing grasshoppers. Apparently, they had forgiven me as their aggressive and oblivious jumps passed all around in all directions like futuristic space cars without a care. Their wings buzzing with constancy.

Boyle Lake provided a chance to stand humbly on the south bank and reminisce about those appalling inadequacies as a fisherman. The place where I had caught my only fish, and barely worth claiming that based on the size and edibility. Hardly worth the meat. Luckily Andy had better luck at fishing throughout the previous fall. This gave some chances to do some cleaning. The task is not terribly complicated, but practice makes perfect. Especially when there is not much meat. And as with trout, the bones sought to be part of the fillet. Such a small lake served a menacing hint of how much keener the fish were than I.

Onward to the “Butt Squeeze”, flanked by the concealed tunnel we so blindly drifted through last November. Next, the marshy area to the north of Whitefish Lake where I spotted the wolf. Not another wolf would be seen, or a howl heard, but only in my memories. Heading south, I expected to meet my old friend “Scout” who stationed there to greet me countless times before, but unfortunately, only his absence would pass. I straddled the tracks down to “Suicide Squeeze” to see what kind of moron would foolishly venture through such a perilous segment not once, but twice. The skeletons of deer remained a persistent reminder of the punishing consequences for portions of those tracks. Had I been on the train during one of those deer slaughters? Through the patches of snow on north-facing slopes, I trail blazed until arriving at Beaver Lake where my bladder cringed at past fishing exploits. The spirit of my February moose encounter would remain with a brisk pass through Woods Lake. And then on to the cattails of Thornburg. Each place earning some time to pause.

“Kick-My-Ass-Peak” gave the ever-welcoming view that never failed to whisper melancholy reminders that I would soon leave the west. The last place on the tour would be Murray Lake but felt compelled to stop as I passed the vicinity of an area that drew some intrigue for some time. Off of the path, a short trample rested a rock-face that led to a potential top-notch view. Though not structurally a hundred percent incline, some sections earned a near resemblance. The base lay at about a forty-five-degree incline comprising rocks and roots with periodic saplings. This phase shot upwards some thirty feet, all the while keeping that stated grade. Beyond the base became the next segment that bent upright to about twenty to thirty more feet of mostly vertical climbing. A past visit allowed sheepish dabbling around where the upturn began, but no full attempt was made. The rock seemed fairly crumbly at some points and holding out for better weather would mean better holds with bare hands.

I wasted no consideration in attempting to climb this time. That decision had been made on the last exploration. There would be no other opportunities for this, though a whole day’s worth of adventures burnt much sunlight. The first part proved easy; just a bear-crawl through rocks, roots, dirt, and shrubs. Upon greeting the base of the almost vertical face, the top seemed well within reach. I needed the challenge of climbing this part and called for that panorama to capstone a meaningful day. Other sections were probably easier for ascension but would have to fight and weave through thick brush and briar.

By no means was I an expert rock climber, but I have climbed a fair amount of these types of surfaces before. Plenty of tall trees could be added to that mix. I have rappelled and climbed with a harness. Why not try it? The route looked to be only twenty minutes with ample time to seek a sunset view while safely getting back down before darkness fell completely. With any luck, the top might reveal a backside that would allow for a smoother return towards the cabin without a need to shimmy back down from the same path.

I started to ascend, and the paths were fairly easy. Easy grabs. Easy footholds. Nothing that exposed me. Confidence beamed once two-thirds had been conquered and realized I worked myself into a problem. I had surged to a point where no clear path further remained. I had absolutely nowhere to continue upward. A glance downward only showed risk, coming as no surprise. Going down usually is much harder. A cautious inspection to either side uncovered no viable routes. I calculated my options extensively, long enough to see the sky change colors in the background. I was missing the sunset. Some urgency sifted into my consciousness.

I looked down at a section to the left of that protruded from the face about ten feet away and ten feet down. The slope dropped at about a forty-five-degree angle, similar to the first part of my climb, and had a decent-sized tree firmly rooted in place. That tree possessed a perfectly placed limb that should be sturdy enough to support my weight bearing down. Beyond the tree presented a clean route to the bottom where the main path would be. The hard part meant getting over to that tree and the rim I stood on gave only a meager two-feet-wide by three-feet-long surface, if that. Just deep enough to turn around and take a few baby steps in both directions. Perhaps with a tiny running start, almost like the basketball layup motion, there should not be much issue propelling over to the spot with the desired branch. But what if I slipped in this awkwardly crammed motion? I stood not at a fatal height, but several glances down revealed a possible broken bone distance. Or at least a plunge that may meet with a heavy sprain.

The thought of having a broken foot or leg, trying to walk back to the cabin a mile away in darkness did not seem suitable. Late spring also meant the bears were awake and extremely active at night with desperate hopes to restore their past body weight. I glanced at the sky periodically, watching the light dim more and more like a slow time-lapse movie with clouds drifting past.

With visibility fading, the ability to discern where the tree ended, and the shadows began deteriorating rapidly. My confidence forecasted a better-than-average chance of making the jump without issue. Without a scratch even. But that same confidence had put me in this position, to begin with. I made ready to jump; rehearsing first in my head and then pacing back and forth on the small surface that I was left to work with. I then reset back to a posture of self-doubt.

The temperatures continued plunging. The daytime had been fairly warm, so I only had my trusty blue hooded sweatshirt and jeans. Hardly prepared for periods of inactivity beyond the warmth of the sunlight. The sky remained clear meaning there probably would not be rain, but the temperature would assuredly drop faster. The absence of clouds would allow that precious ground heat an unfettered escape.

What would Frontier Francis do? I mulled the situation over and quickly revealed a final ruling in favor of the lunacy. I wanted to see what it would be like to be stuck on a ledge at night. All night. One last hurrah it will be for the sake of experience. One for the journals. Though I had lost track of time amidst the tumultuous and mildly frantic self-realization of my predicament, I calculated there to be roughly nine hours until sunrise.

That rocky platform was not very conducive to sit because no grips could be found to right myself back up to my feet. Staying on that ledge all night meant doing so upright. And with a standing position, there could be no chance for sleep. For falling asleep would be too much of a risk with even leaning on the edge of the wall promoting danger.

I passed the first few hours tickled by my decision to stay out with intermittent chuckles of realizing what a boob I can be. I grew eager to tell Andy about this adventure with an unwritten ending. I was fairly certain that we had something planned for that night, but he became well past being accustomed to my random and unplanned camping nights.

I fought hard to keep my mind busy with graceful thoughts of all the fortunate adventures I had the chance to partake in. I reveled about such a perfect day visiting all of my hallowed spots. How many people can genuinely say they have been able to do what we did all this time? I felt so blessed to be in Whitefish, even while standing out on that ledge freezing.

Hours passed by and the temperature kept sinking. It would bottom out at around forty degrees and doing some motions to create friction worked only so much. The rock I leaned against quickly became an ice pack. The surface had been cold all along but worsened, drawing away prized body heat. There remained enough lumination from a full moon to see my ledge, but my eyes became unreliable. Into the horizon, to another ridgeline several hundred yards away, there boasted a silhouette of trees that kept catching my attention. I kept thinking there were people at the top. A few deliberate blinks chased the delusions away, but as time wore on those trees at the skyline that came to be known as “Standing People’s Ridge” were slowly becoming actual people. Tree people. But why are they just standing there?

The sleep deprivation caused some vivid hallucinations. Almost to that point where I fully believed people were standing out there with me the whole night. Almost, but not quite. As it turns out, sleep deprivation is far, far worse than cabin fever. I wedged between reality and dreaming. Almost trancelike. There were not actual people out there, but somehow my “Tree People” friends kept me company the rest of that night. I never felt alone.

The sky lightened up gradually. The temperatures rose. I outlasted nine hours on a ledge fighting through sleep deprivation with a penetrating chill. Time to make my move. I started with some limber stretches to ensure my muscle flexibility could handle the spring and impact. There was not much left to deliberate on; I had done that all night.

I formed the twinkle-toed ballerina steps and leaped. The branch arrived as expected while I clung on as tight as my hands and arms would allow. My lower body flung through the catch, but not with nearly enough momentum to force my arms to release. My legs rocked to a steady vertical hang and then I dropped a foot below, making sure to keep some secure footing. I descended effortlessly and surveyed my work. A night on the ledge.

I waved goodbye to the “Tree People” over on “Standing People’s Ridge” and drifted over to Murray Lake to take the sight in. There were fishermen at the shores as almost always. ALWAYS. I brewed up some ideas that rumbled around in my head specific for ol’ Murray and her band of eager anglers.

I would find the cabin soon after. It is hard to enjoy sleeping in a bed, then breakfast, and coffee much more than I did on that day following the all-night bender with “Tree People.”

Hope you enjoyed! Check out the full book on Amazon!

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

KEEPING A WRITER’S PACE

The “early retirement” steamrolled through. The writing outputs settled at an appalling level. I drifted critically behind schedule. Not a single short story had been completed with zero inclination to finish old ones. Those stories failed to go anywhere and got more and more poponidoxical by the day. I called for a project with a style that sported my own life experience enough so that I developed inspiration, but with odd exaggerations. With a book full of memories at hand, the time had come to pave memory lane.

Before Montana, I drafted a short story about why I never play the piano any longer. A playful recount of personal experience, whereas I performed at a piano recital at an early age; perhaps age six. I played at a place by the name of Wildwood in Toledo, Ohio, in front of a small group of people, including my parents. The recital area designated for the concert displayed a marvelous facility often utilized for weddings. With a small stage for the performers and a modest seating area for the parents, I was braced to put on a performance for the ages. Of course, nothing went awry. I had transcended Row, Row, Row Your Boat to perfection. But glancing upon my short-lived piano career, I could not reconcile why I ceased playing the piano altogether. One day I was mastering the piano with great poise; the next day I was not. I elected to fill in the blanks of a faint recollection by constructing a story about that recital with a considerable solicitation of reality and fantasy. A tale whereas the crowd angrily gave chase due to my wretched performance. Angry crowds channeling their indignation at an innocent six-year-old never gets old.

Keeping in theme with the fabled piano tragedy, I set to write about why I no longer play baseball. I loved playing baseball throughout my childhood. The boring truth was that I was not good enough to make the team once I grew older. Truth is generally boring and few would care that high school curveballs are just down-right too nasty to hit consistently for me. Still under the spell of cabin fever, I ruled that the premise needed some juice. Some spice. Some truly odd circumstances. A complete overhaul, actually. Something out of left field.

SYNOPSIS

It's the 6th grade and Toto finds a golden opportunity to circumvent Little League Baseball. A league that he finds himself too good for. But his talent alone will not be enough to cast his baseball career to the next level. Under some unique circumstances, Toto will command control of that championship outcome, or more importantly, how good he looks in the big game. Because a top-notch performance just might be enough to win high evaluations from the spectators in the stands that matter most. The scouts. But he did not realize this would be the final time he played baseball. Nor did he understand why.

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

THANKSGIVING DAY STARTING LINEUP

Due to the seclusion, holidays had a way of siphoning out the madness. Thanksgiving would be one of the first. We needed to bring in help for this. Vice, who was on break from Montana State several hours away, picked up a ride over to Whitefish. Andy’s recollection of the coming days best documents the chaos.

We went to the “Pin & Cue” to wait for Vice. I didn’t feel like bowling. He’s the same jerk. I say “jerk” in the friendliest way possible. We got back to the cabin and headed out for a small night hike up to “Kim’s Point.” The path was visible due to the full moon reflecting light on the clouds and the snow on the trees. Looking out at the hazy valley, Vice told us stories in the silence that was occasionally broken by the distant rumbling of a train. He claims to have a bunch of girls after him, but I believe him. Why not believe him? We headed over to the ski hill with the intent to run down it peacefully. I’ll just say that Vice has only been here for a few hours and I already have a huge gash on my left hand and Brad has a bad limp. It must have been a dandy of a sight to see as the three of us come to a tumbling halt at the foot of the hill. He wants to do it again tomorrow. I admit that it was a memorable experience but I’ll stick to running down it by myself. (Calmes, 11/23/99)

We were all tumbling down that steep and snowy ski hill, but Andy and I received the worst of it. Laughing muscles were exercised. The Run vs. Walk controversy proved yet again to be in my favor. It only cost me a busted-up knee to prove my point.

The day started with blood running from my nose due to a skirmish with Vice, but soon he had blood running from his mouth so we’re even. Brad and Vice discussed the idea of putting on a three-man play for no audience. I suggested to each write down a bunch of topics, put them in a hat, and each draw one. I drew one of Brad’s: Can Invisible People Masturbate? We plan to read them tomorrow night, but we won’t be reading our own. We bundled up and headed to the train tracks with the intent to get beyond the bolted iron gate of the abandoned tunnel. We spent a long time unscrewing six bolts, but the gate still didn’t come free from the cement. In a final effort, I tried to wedge myself in through the top but it was too narrow. When we were about to leave in disgust, Vice asked me if I think I can fit through a gap near the bottom. I slid through easily! Vice and Brad followed not so easily. We then embarked on a memorable adventure into the pitch darkness of the tunnel without a flashlight. We made it safely to the other side, then attempted to play tricks on each other on the way back. Nobody succeeded in scaring the others. (Calmes, 11/24/99)

What a sick idea for a fake speech! What kind of shameful person would write that down?

When that first Thanksgiving feast took place back in 1621, neither Governor Bradford nor the great Wampanoag chief Massasoit predicted their celebration would morph throughout time. A new country became born a century later and inevitably, the celebration would earn recognition as a national holiday. So much so that a giant parade, littered with flying cartoons, became synergistic with the day. The bad boys of Plymouth wished that it ended there.

Happy Thanksgiving! Vice talks in his sleep. I’m back in my room tonight while he’s sleeping upstairs. Brad and Vice prepared the feast today while I laid upstairs and continued reading Ender’s Game. They moved the table in the front of the wood burner then came upstairs and we silently prayed. Then Brad introduced us like a sports announcer as we approached the table. It was hilarious! When I went to introduce him, I couldn’t think of anything to say so I just said, “And now… Brad.” I should’ve went on about how he cooked the food and about his Indian heritage, but I froze. Oh well, the food was great! After we ate, we talked about our favorite Lisk memories, and then I went back upstairs to read while they cleaned up. Should I feel bad? I don’t. I took a nap but was awakened by Vice’s knee in my kidney. We went for a night hike in the snow/drizzle. We walked in the pitch blackness until our eyes could see the white road. Brad read my speech over the balcony first thing today. Vice made sure to say “Oh Jeez” a few times, but overall, it got a good response. Neither of them wrote one. When we got back from the night hike Brad resumed his position on the balcony and read from a “Horror stories” book but it was stupid so we stayed by the stove for a long time and reminisced. I look forward to one day reminiscing about falling down the ski hill or breaking onto the tunnel or whatever happens tomorrow. (Calmes, 11/25/99)

It is plausible to suggest that no other Thanksgiving, going back to its ceremonial origins, contained a segment that so adequately paid homage to the extensivity of the lavish meal. A feast overflowing with turkey, stuffing, cornbread, rolls, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes and gravy, garlic corn, and pumpkin pie warrants a matching introduction to the table. For each of the dinner participants to be announced to their seats by having their names called out as if pilgrimic starters in the NBA Finals. A motif that awaits widespread adoption across the states.

get the audiobook for free

I woke up at 2 pm to Vice… not giving me crap but actually bringing me breakfast in bed. Three delicious pancakes! We all sat around the table in front of the stove and played Clue, then bundled up and headed down to Murray Lake. When we got there, the stars had become visible, so we laid in the snow and gazed. There was a strange flash that lit up the whole sky, and it didn’t look like lightning. That was weird. After an uncontrolled laughter spell, we walked back through the snow. Once again, we sat by the stove and reminisced. I finished this peaceful day by finishing my letter to Matt. He’s a quarter of a century old today! Vice leaves in the morning. (Calmes, 11/27/99)

That would conclude the only guest during that entire time at the cabin. And if that mysterious flash was a UFO, then the entity must have been frightened by the maniacal laughter we exhibited. There can be no alien in any galaxy that would probe three insane men such as us. They go for the low-hanging fruit. Sane people are far safer subjects.

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

get the audiobook for free

LETTERS TO OTHERS… AND MYSELF

In middle school, I learned the power of the letter. I had some money to purchase a stick of Jolly Ranchers, only to find the wrapper fused to the individually wrapped candy. The candy was inedible. The dissatisfaction was unacceptable. I wrote to the corporate office of the manufacturer and disclosed what had happened. Except the details may have been overblown; much like this entire memoir. There was excessive use of a fictional distraught sibling whose only wish was to feast on a Jolly Rancher so that he could focus better on grades once again. There was “catastrophic emotional damage” that they needed to be mindful of resulting from their improper wrapping. This formal complaint was a product that stemmed out of boredom, more or less. The unforeseen result was that the company replied weeks later with a padded envelope. Inside were three sticks of Jolly Rangers; with a new wax-coated paper wrapping. The candy eased out of the wrapper like Christmas presents. A letter accompanied the envelope, thanking me for bringing the poor quality to their attention. They had transformed their wrappers in response to some of my “slightly doctored” details. It is amazing, the authority of letters.

I had always read the letters that old historical figures wrote wondering, who the hell talks like that? The expressions were so over-the-top. We unearthed what that must have been like to live in an era without a phone on a small scale. You had to make your words count because the dialogue cycle routinely met gaps of weeks or months.

source

A hand-written letter could never match the negligent content or pace of modern texting. Opening a long-anticipated letter from your loved one with only the words “wtf” or “lol.” Or even one-liners. Not even a postcard gets that much mockery of communication appreciation. One modern-day glance at all of my recent texts would surely fail at being decent individual letters. The combination of text mentality married with letter-writing could never materialize. I almost wish it did, for the sake of science.

In Montana, writing letters became an event. So much time, patience, and care are required to produce a hand-written message. Even receiving one is difficult on the occasions when reading upon receipt is not viable. Care and preservation of that letter must occur. An email is simple. Read it or flag it to read later. Or simply delete it. To throw away a letter is almost like discarding a possession or a gift. With so much tangible care taken to craft one, the recipient becomes a de facto curator of the papers. Far more responsibility that a busy or ill-prioritized person cannot accommodate. With enough time that has passed, an entire generation has cycled through having never written or received letters.

Letters were written to anyone that had an address. It was an all-out onslaught. Sometimes, we were writing to stay in touch. Sometimes, we were writing just to spread the hysteria and make people giggle. At times, the two entwined, and it was a grand event to be a part of. Letters rhymed, hosted pictures, communicated feelings, misled truths, told disconcerting truths, romanticized the mundane, showcased drawings, told fictional stories, and conducted shock-and-awe. Much like this memoir.

Some letters had secret messages embedded within which called for a decryption device to reveal the true message. Secret statements of such unreasonable darkness that teasingly doctored words of such deep petulance. I even drafted a letter to myself so that Andy could give it to a friend. The intent? So she would think I was losing my mind. Why the hell would you want to do that? Because you have to make offerings to the Cabin Fever Gods from time to time. And those deities had an insatiable appetite.

I listened to Led Zeppelin tapes while writing a short letter to Heather. I told her that Brad has been writing letters to himself and hanging them on his wall. I told her I took one down and sent it to her so she believes me. Brad wrote a letter to himself and I put it in her envelope. His idea. We laughed. (Calmes, 1/14/00)

There are so many notes we did not write. Letters by each of us to the same person that told the exact opposite story. My five-paged hype up of snow abundance in Montana counters Andy’s seven-page rant of disbelief about how January is halfway over and there is still no snow. There was a wormhole of potential left on the draft board. Yet, we had a good run, nonetheless.

The elements of a letter were married to its intended audience. How did you want the letter reader to respond? Was it shock? Was it to be informed? Hopefully, the content was a little funny and original. The most important question was, will they ever forget about it? Probably so, but piecing together unforgettable prose was a reasonable endeavor.

I dialed the weirdness of the letters back a notch or two when sending to relatives. Reassuring the people that worried about me the most was paramount. They needed to recognize that there was structure and discipline in our decision-making processes. That all of our contingencies were covered in the event of adversity. They needed to know that all health and wellness would triumph without fail. That everything would be ok.

Letter to parents:

We’re preparing for winter here. Well... sort of. I mean, we kind of used ALL of our firewood to build the world’s first wooden robot. We also took out all the windows and replaced them with saran wrap so we could get into mock western bar fights (I always win–minus one time when he splashed whiskey into my eyes and blinded me). Andy dared me to take out all the antifreeze in my Isuzu and replace it with milk (Milk doesn’t freeze, right?). The wood burner stove is being used as a fish tank so we haven’t fired that up yet (Plus, we used the chimney top for our wooden robot’s head). All of our warm clothes, blankets, and jackets have been stolen and hidden by our wooden robot and when we beg to know where they’re at, it claims it has a memory malfunction and says, “You shouldn’t have given me a wooden circuit system. If I had a metal one like all of my other robot friends, then we wouldn’t have this problem, would we?” I still haven’t found a new heavy-duty vehicle to get us through the winter since I traded my Isuzu for a motor scooter. Last, we figured we needed a good photoshoot before hibernation so we put all of our winter reserves food on the lawn to attract bears. But they came when we were sleeping, ate it all and we didn’t get any photographs. But we still have a 100 lb. bag of sugar to live off of (Does snow have any nutritional value?). But… although all of those need to be remedied before the snow comes in February, we have spent the last five weeks on the blueprints for an under-the-eight-feet-of snow tunnel systems that’ll take us all to all the lakes in the area whenever we feel like swimming and… we have also scouted out the perfect sledding mountain so we’ll make a tunnel to there as well.

Letter to Aunt Louanne:

I love the snow! Just playing in it! I built the world’s first snow car. But I had a manufacturing glitch in its production forcing the engine to overheat. And not only did I have engine damage, but my car melted as a result of the engine’s overheating. What a shame. The damage overall would’ve been lots of money for repairs, so I gave up the Henry Ford fantasy (I realized it was only a dream) and decided to invent a much simpler contraption; a round ball of compacted snow that you can throw like a baseball. And… the invention worked so well and splatted on Andy’s back, that he too kicked up production of my invention and before we knew it, each of us were one-man factories, producing what I have named “Snowballs.” Although our products are innovative, due to bad foresight, I realize that our chief product will melt in the spring so... I guess my inventive mind will have to search further for something that won’t melt.

Of course, they were not worried one bit. Those letters were incredibly normal and certainly reassured that our health and mental well-being were pinnacle and highly tended to. Ongoing dialogue through letters would prove to be a great way to stay connected with my beloved family. Letters forced some open-hearted expression and inquiry at a level that face-to-face conversations and phone calls could not promote quite the same.

There were consequences if recipients did not respond. The letters escalated and became incessant. We showed no mercy.

Brian Ray Day. All I did today was draw a picture of Brian Ray, write him a letter, and listen to the radio, hoping to hear Dream Theater’s new single. (Calmes, 10/11/99)

Brad wrote a hilarious Mad Lib letter for Brian Ray tonight. (Calmes, 10/13/99)

Brad gave me a funny idea for Brian Ray’s card. It is a Christmas tree with a bunch of random definitions written all over it. I think it’s funny. (Calmes, 12/16/99)

We tried letters. We tried Christmas cards. This man was a tremendous human being and a great friend that I had known since high school. He later developed into a key provider of free pizza while he lived in Nashville and worked at Dominoes. He was without a nasty bone in his short-statured body, but he was not responding. We had received no letters from him. A new theater of war was upon us.

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

Get the audiobook for free!

BIRDS OF MONTANA

I did not spend as much time learning about the birds as I should have. The hard part is there are endless species, with many shared features. And they are sneaky quick. Once promoted to a degree of “Hey, I’m finally getting pretty nimble on the birds”, the realization reveals itself that only the males have been learned, but not the females. Cross over that knowledge bridge and then there are the juveniles to account for.

With birding, the sounds are actually the most important. By far. A stroll through heavy woods might mean being in a bountiful aviary without ever seeing one single feather, claw, or beak. There is a full volume encyclopedia of sounds to pick up on. The mating calls. The territory calls. And thus, there is just chatter. Chatter to me is bird gossip or a way for birds to vent about all the bird drama happening throughout. A rumor mill of which magpie is cheating on their breeding partner. Spending more time performing mating rituals than providing regurgitated worms for the fledglings.

There is no argument that some of this drama results from appointing a committee of prepubescent, ten-year-old Montana boys to be responsible for bird nomenclature; void of any checks and balances. Those bird names range from cleverly flagrant to blatantly revolting. How can a bird go about a normal life with reliable migration patterns under the straight-faced description of “Tufted Titmouse?” But that is not the only example. Flathead County forests are abundant with perverted taxonomy.

Because of this unrestricted abuse of naming power, some predetermined, interspecies dysfunction is unpreventable within an assortment of ecological scenarios. A hairy woodpecker sharing habitat with a wood duck will most-assuredly have rancorous turf wars. American woodcocks must shy away from both the Northern flicker and the Clark’s nutcracker. Especially the males. A yellow-bellied flycatcher living next to a common loon keeps on the down-low, once a flock of red-breasted nuthatches join in on the hearsay. Meanwhile, a lesser yellowlegs wrestles an inferiority complex whilst neighboring the feeding capabilities of a barn swallow. Finally, a yellow-bellied sapsucker fears buffleheads, evening grosbeaks, killdeer, and pretty much everything else; except for its sole patron, the aforementioned yellow-bellied flycatcher.

Thankfully, Montana species do not cohabitate with red-billed oxpeckers, masked boobies, fluffy-backed tit-babblers, Andean cock-of-the-rocks, Himalayan snowcocks, and New Zealand kakas. Can it also be inferred that a peacock is named such because of its land-based preference, thereby avoiding the wind as required to take flight? Such an embarrassment to the integrity of biology.

I am yet to learn of any moral justification by a seasoned ornithologist for these childish names because opening a bird field guide instantly decrements my age by precisely twenty years. The recurring defense by the scientific community is they mostly recognize the Latin scientific names instead of the common names; those gritty genus and species names. In doing so, the most-feared animal in all the Himalayas flies overhead to debunk such a claim while striking terror to anyone caught out in the open. The Tibetan blackbird. Scientific name: Turdus Maximus. Yes, even disciplined monks have a silly side.

Sounds do not end with vocalizations either. By some freak miracle of nature, ruffed grouse flutter their wings so rapidly that it generates a “drumming” sound for lack of a stronger description. Andy would hear this in the spring much better than I, as the low bass tone can be silence to my malformed eardrums. Should there ever be a Red Dawn scenario in Montana, the powerful hammering of the large pileated woodpecker might be mistaken for Russian machine gunfire.

Birds flew all around Montana, like anywhere else, and like anywhere else they fall into a backdrop that is oftentimes overlooked. The ability to maneuver from a tall limb, down to a much lower perch without dying is fantastic, actually. Ducks and geese will fly from Mexico to Canada. That is insane. So much wonder is taken for granted. Learning to appreciate birds means decimating boredom or loneliness in the wild. Or the city. While in Nashville, the main event featured mockingbirds dive-bombing frolicking house cats with little regard for the fact that those felines eat 2.4 billion birds each year in the U.S. alone. Comical suicide missions to chase the threat away from a nest or just hassle for pure pleasure.

In Montana, black-capped chickadees are ones that blend in, but you will certainly miss them when they are gone. The sound of their call, which like many birds, reflects their name. Unmistakable once learned. And then there are the Mountain Chickadees. Apparently, there is a difference, though I will never be smart enough to know how. The red-winged blackbird is another whose absence is missed against the value while present. Find a field by some marshland and a red-winged blackbird is objecting to your presence. Going down by Boyle Lake, I would also find many Steller’s Jays, which acquainted the west exclusively.

Neighboring the big Whitefish Lake, I found a few eagle nests with decent proximity to the shores; mostly by “Suicide Squeeze.” Foraging on deer that challenged a train in a game of…. chicken? Finding eagles thrilled the heart, but not as dramatic as the discoveries occurring before Montana. I had seen eagles off of Lake Erie at Ottawa National Wildlife Refuge in Ohio as well as Reelfoot Lake in Tennessee. They populated with prevalence in that prehistoric area.

Ravens exemplified an audacious personality year-round. Perhaps the most common and comical friend of plumes, demanding much attention with their eccentric activity.

The Eagle/Raven

You want to know what else? Okay, I’ll tell ya. I was sitting on skeet’s rock daydreaming and an odd bird came overhead. Raven-like, but with white tail feathers. It flew ungracefully behind the tree. First doing a sideswipe in the air. Then when I ran down to get a better glimpse of it, it was out of sight. VOILA! No more. I pondered upon seeing it again, but it came not around, so I moseyed the area in hopes to find a feather. Nothing.

I’ll speak quickly of my new friends, the mosquito looking bugs. They’re still out in January. All over the ground. The cold bloods must’ve figured out something, I say. (Oliger, 1/21/00)

The white tail remains a mystery. Any reading that I have done about birds with that feature in the area was just the much smaller black-billed magpies. Perhaps my field of view made the bird appear farther away than in reality; leaving me to consider that it was raven-sized. Magpies littered those cold skies. I had never seen one before Montana, as they are a western species like the Steller’s Jay. They have a charming design that cannot grow routine.

Buy the paperback for fun pictures!

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

get the full audiobook here for free

THE DRIVE BACK

With the cabin secured for prolonged vacancy and final departing pleasantries passed, the trip to Toledo was underway. The childhood dream was over. We made a quick stop to close out my account at the local bank. We would have another lovely visit to my cousin’s ranch in Bozeman several hours away and stay the night. The hospitality flew off the charts as we expected of Montana’s finest. The next leg became our first noteworthy hitch in the entire adventure. A belt broke on “The Aloha” with no major town within proximity. On a Sunday. Fortunately for us, Montana has Deputy Salte. The most elite lawman in the state. And friendliest. With his stereotypical finely tuned law enforcement mustache and mirrored sunglasses acting as a springboard for presentable confidence, he referred to nearly everything as an “Outfit.” A filler word for elusive, runaway nouns. Nouns that would otherwise end up alongside a bulletin board for missing persons or some socially responsible milk carton label. Almost applied the same way as “Whatchamacallit” or “Da Kine.” Any time someone abuses one single word by over usage, it is a delicacy to my ears. The simple things in life.

I soon lost count after ten erroneous uses of “outfit.” Had we been any smarter, we could have baited him into many more opportunities. Perhaps set him up to finish our sentences. “You know? Those park rangers surely do look good in their…..” Could there not be a happier man than he, had we provided suitable moments to enunciate those two precious syllables. “Outfit!” The unsuitable moments could be fair game as well. “I regret the fact that I have but one life to live for my…” His eyes would light up. “OUTFIT!”

He would graciously give us a ride to a primitive campground along the Yellowstone River called Itch-Kep-Pe. The reserved spot rested amid several, but with the season still before Memorial Day, our setting gave no neighbors. Montana remained unready to spit us out just yet, and I did not mind the delay one bit. I would get an extra night of camping. I ached to see family, show pictures, and recount all the adventures, but wary of diving back into the “real world” way of life. The riverside lay out simply, though beautiful with its width close to thirty yards of smooth flowing waters and soft-edged river stone. A perfect setting to meditate over the ripples in the water, wondering if I would ever return. And if so, when?

The next day, I found a ride to the parts store and picked up a replacement belt. But with the tools I had on-hand, I could not adjust the alternator enough to reduce the tension and get the new belt secured. With no choice but to tow “The Aloha” to the repair shop, the burdens of service expense kept to a minimum.

The next stop of note situated outside of Iowa City. An hour out of the way was Dyersville, Iowa. The set where they filmed most of Field of Dreams. The house with the field, corn, and hallucinations. Bucket list item achieved. Much to my disappointment, the place closed for the day. I desperately wanted to witness how disgusted an employee got if I asked them, “Is this heaven?” A company guideline requires them to respond “No, it’s Iowa” despite how miserable the mandated response made them feel inside. If the feedback certified not at the cinematic level that I demanded as a fan, a repeat of the question is rendered. As many as necessary.

https://live.staticflickr.com/3806/9715923865_70f9e0ba80_b.jpg

The baseball field itself remained accessible. We ignored the “No Trespassing” sign. The lights stayed lit. Magical. Trotting the bases after a fake home run swing seemed like the best move to pass the occasion.

https://static.miraheze.org/allthetropeswiki/5/5d/Fieldofdreams_1989.jpg

Disclaimer: Hopefully, you’re not a Field of Dreams curator reading this with twenty-year-old footage, a willing legal team, and a 60 Minutes crew on standby. In the unfortunate event that happens, I gave full-disclosure that some events of this memoir were vastly exaggerated, so by no means is this a confession. I have a rock-solid alibi written in Big Sky to Big City that puts me in Dyersville, running bases on private property at the time of this infraction. What an awkward courtroom scenario indeed.

Secretly, I hoped to meet a girl there solely for the fact that I could refer to her in a manner indicative of lines from the film. “The only thing we had in common was that she was from Iowa, and I had once heard of Iowa.” There were other onlookers, but the field predominated as a place for baseball nerds of the male variety. Not a shocking fruition. Being in the Hawkeye State, we straddled Kansas close enough to bear witness of potential moon landings (or would that be labeled a “Kansas landing?”) but had no such luck in spotting the fruits of such a highly publicized prediction. We might have been hoodwinked.

We advanced to a spot off the riverbanks of the Mississippi River; Galena, Illinois. The actual filming location representing Chisholm, Minnesota. Why they picked another arbitrary town to portray the original arbitrary town adds one more layer to the onion of intricacy of the motion picture. Surely, that happens a lot, but for how the town was used and having seen both places, I failed to see how the disparities mattered. If the screenplay had gone so far as to change characters, why not locate “Moonlight Graham” to Galena, Illinois? Because Archibald “Moonlight” Graham portrayed not only a fictional character. He breathed the life of an actual human being whose definitive biography is partially depicted in the movie. Except for the parts he comes back to life as a young man in the future, as a hitchhiker, and every other scene that involves him, but the backstory is mostly clean. Given that he had been dead for twenty-four years when they released the flick, it is hard not to recognize the use of his likeness as somewhat creepy. Nevertheless, the story is awesome.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/mike_miley/3602353582/

The site looked much more recognizable and we had some exchanges with locals in the know about the details. They fingered out some key areas. We looked for the Dr. Office along Main Street. We searched for the bar. The movie theatre. The stairs. We drifted around the city as if extras in the movie. The overall feel of the town enthralled me. The aura struck me in such a way that Durango, Colorado, had done only a month before with my Aunt Louanne and Uncle Dave. Durango stunned as a mountain town that sat at the tip of a historic railroad that reached out to Silverton. Without knowing anything about the localities, Durango and Galena felt like places that I could see myself living in. Galena also gloated as the hometown of U.S. Grant, an American that had historical significance tied to March 10th, unlike us and our promotional incompetencies.

The wheels on “The Aloha” would spin around roughly another four million times until we arrived in Toledo and officially closed the books on the sabbatical. I greeted my mom and dad and other loved one’s once again with warm welcomes. I surmised a sense of relief from family members to see we made it home in one piece with all the marbles still rolling around in our heads. They did their part in not exposing such a supposition too blatantly. The facts are worth restating that those last many months were not akin to the standard spring break to Daytona Beach like most other young individuals do. Not even similar to a backpacking trip across Europe. The only shots we bottomed up flung from a skeet site. The only parties we threw involved writing fake letters, firelight, honoring insanity, and board games. The only drugs we took were smuggled in from the borders of our own imagination and boredom. Cabin fever junkies. Our relatives did not need to know about the “Tree People” or violent shaking in the mirror immediately. Or the gargantuan pack of toilet paper gifted to our fraught neighbors.

Going over pictures became delightful and rewarding. The letters. The projects. The journals. The tales. We sent our warmest tokens of gratitude to Uncle Hal and his family for giving such an amazing opportunity. A truly selfless act of them to allow it, let alone entertain the notion. Trusting two fledgling adults to not burn their “pride and joy” down for an indefinite time period is not a subtle detail to be overlooked. Or ever forgotten.

Parody Memoir Excerpts is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

THE STORY COMPETITION

While the days belonged to the mighty journal, nighttime begged for different content. I discovered an article in a writer’s magazine about a story competition sponsoring a payout of some prize money, though not much, and publishing the winning story in their magazine. This fitted perfectly with the writing goals I had in the fall. Some friendly competition to get the creative juices flowing and thrust my writing one stride forward. What wins a story competition? I had absolutely no idea. The only guidance provided was a minimum and maximum word count. After rumbling through some brainstorming exercises, one idea, in particular, hoped to answer that question. It did not answer that question one bit. Rather, the theme relentlessly poked fun at the question in vintage bully fashion. What if a story could be written about a pathetic wannabe author, struggling to figure out how to write an engaging story for a competition? A very relatable subject. A berserk premise for sure, but the ideas rolling around in my head were gushing with giddiness. Perhaps some originality points might sway the judges.

The theme of the story was about a writer seeking to find a story, all the while incrementally picking up inspirations to make its own existing story better by use of tone, proper spelling, foreshadowing, grammar, description, and conflict. This meant the beginning had to be void of those critical pieces causing initial pain to the eyes and mind. But with some bits coming together, later on, the reader might understand and forgive. What else wins a story competition? Finishing and submitting the manuscript on time. Unfortunately, the deadline could not have come at a worse time as the fall of 1999 was front-loaded with winter prep. I might not have finished the story anyway because while the idea was fun in my head, and even more fun as it got going, there was a falling out. The creativity wore its welcome and the flow of it all withered. Unfinished stories do not earn creative titles.

SYNOPSIS

“Juice”, an unaccomplished but aspiring writer, has decided to compete in a national story competition. Lacking both the core grammar fundamentals and creativity needed to pull off an upset victory, he turns to his surroundings for inspiration. One diner in particular bubbles up a slew of literary surprises, and “Juice” is finally in the right position to make a bold move. A championship run. But will it be enough to win the competition, let alone finish the short story without making a complete mockery of himself?

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

Yes indeed, it’s a strange title for a book. This book is as much about cabin fever as it is about the amazing experience of where we were. Staying in a cabin through winter can be a bit rough, and so, with cabin fever comes interesting stories. This audio segment explains how the title fits the overall experience.

PARTICIPATING IN COMMUNITY EVENTS

From the few trips to the local bowling alley, it became unmistakable that there needed to be an event of such magnitude, that all people in the community would join together and bond as brothers and sisters. One common, harmonious, peaceful goal. To watch a live fight. A blood-soaked boxing match. The dilemma was we did not befriend any boxers, nor did we have permission from the bowling alley to host a boxing match. These were minor complications with easy fixes. I felt that if a promotion was administered correctly, and on a scale that would reach many, those minor details would iron themselves out. If word-of-mouth could create enough demand, the bowling alley would have no choice but to meet the bloodthirsty appetites of their constituents.

As for the boxers, well that should work itself out too. Growing up in Toledo, I noticed that if enough people get together, someone always, ALWAYS ends up trying to fight someone else. It never fails. It might take alcohol. It might take loud music. It might even take a charming waitress at the bowling alley. Now, we actually did not want people fighting out in the crowd. That was a terrible idea and truly never had intentions to do so, but we still had to address who would put on some gloves and spar. We came up with the next best scenario. Fake boxers. What is a fake boxer? We had no idea. We would figure that out with the same powerful alliance that molded for handling Brian’s omission of letter-responding.

Brad took some pictures of me in a boxing stance for a flyer that we’re gonna hang around town. I took pictures of him yesterday so we’re going to announce a bout between his character and mine. HA! His idea. (Calmes, 2/27/00)

The fictitious fight card had been set. Spud Fligger versus Archy “The Slapper” Wonkle. There would be no need for weigh-ins. Next was the key and perhaps most-essential task. The promotion. Every fight requires a promotion. Including the fake ones.

I then picked up the photos, and we went to the copy place to print out the Boxing/Karate flyers that Brad had made on his word processor. I have never seen anything so dang funny! I could look and laugh at these flyers for the rest of my life and be satisfied with it. We went to Kalispell to hang up a few, then hung 10 more in Whitefish. . Brad and I laughed at our flyers for a long time… just basking in our own comedy. (Calmes, 3/1/00)

At the turn of the century, hanging up flyers fostered the most effective way to give an advertising campaign some muscle on a tight budget. Flyers were especially influential in the absence of social media or immediate access to the internet. By going around in the target community with dozens, perhaps hundreds, of copies of information relevant to whatever may be promoted, the reach is immeasurably increased. They posted on telephone poles, bulletin boards, shop windows, and perhaps anything else with a dry surface area that might catch someone’s attention.

Past use of flyer disbursal had been an integral part of successfully promoting our band concerts, comedy shows, club activities, and even smear campaigns. Short of going on the local radio station or printing an ad in the local newspapers, the flyers were the best approach to get the word out to our audience. Despite the fact that a “fake fight” appeared a novel concept in a mostly unfamiliar community, this wide-reaching promotion established a foolproof engagement. An assured success.

We had ten days to let this animal feed on itself. Ten days to allow the mayor of Whitefish to address crowd control. The newspapers would backfill their own stories. Sponsors would surely be lining up at the door to settle once-in-a-lifetime chances to push their products and services to the community, creating their own awareness. The motel would be marked up three-hundred percent with no vacancy. Whitefish was about to host their own Super Bowl, and this time, it would not be on the radio.

THE PRINCE OF FLATHEAD COUNTY

With the momentum riding on promoting a fake fight, Andy had also finished a painting for our dear friend Ross. Being that Andy preferred to hand-deliver the painting to him in Nashville, there resurrected a need to present the work prior to that undetermined later date somehow with a photo. But he needed to be presentable for his photo. He needed some grooming. Fight promotions and completed paintings call for haircuts.

I was no Paul Mitchell but knew one design all too well. I perfected this style a year before in Nashville, compelled by Andy’s desire to impress a girl through more of his trademark shock-humor. And that attraction is well documented. Having no courtship skills, same as I, we had to figure out what might give him an edge in wooing a lovely damsel. What do all women love? Princes. Women cannot resist a charming prince. And so, the bangs were cut unusually short. The side and back must be of the same lengths, completely around, with a slight curl at the front. The hair must be lengthy enough to cover the ears. Ears reveal weakness. Ears show peasantry.

The “prince cut” had itself an encore. The haircut apt for an old English prince. Heir to the throne. Though in the case of the first cut, his targeted damsel would respond to the masterpiece with uncontrollable laughter instead of overpowering love. Not quite the outcome he had in mind. There would be no wedding between him and his flame. A bittersweet ending it was, but it may have been for the best. With a haircut indicative of a prince, surely a successive wedding would require a heralded event of matching elegance. A matrimony worthy of a prince and princess would cost more than anyone could afford. The stakes were lower this time around.

After I took a looong shower, I let my hair fall freely about my head. Brad pointed out the way my long hair makes me look rather ratty… gnarly. I always come to that conclusion when I try to grow out my hair and I always cut it. Before I go all the way short, I agreed to give myself the “Prince Cut” for Brad’s entertainment. I’ll cut it all off in a few days, despite Brad’s wishes for me to keep this goony do. The intense look on Brad’s face as he cut the back of my hair made it all worth it. I look so dumb! It’s a tad depressing. (Calmes, 3/9/00)

The flyer used to promote a fake boxing match, at a venue that had no idea we were promoting at.

The base image for the alternate flyer; the Karate Show

FIGHTING OUT OF WHITEFISH, MONTANA…

Fight night had arrived like no other. This would be the day that Whitefish would undoubtedly remember for eternity. Surely, a holiday would be legislated to commemorate and reminisce upon the brightest moment in the finest town in Montana. March 10th. The same day Abraham Lincoln had selected Ulysses Grant to command the Union Army back in 1864, who then marched on to write himself further into the history books with successive glorious victories that dealt an end to the Confederacy.

The plan warranted an inconspicuous arrival. Disguised as just another humble member of the community. Andy had his prince haircut sharpened to perfection with a noble curl at the front of each side. I concealed my fake teeth that were used in the flyer as Spud Fligger. One of the thousands, to witness how a fake fight at a bowling alley in Montana would self-construct. Would actual fighters fly in? Was there a hometown hero ready to showcase the uncanny speed and elite footwork? How would a blue-chip bowling alley event staff address the varied amenities? Where would they put a ring? I would assume they might strip up the flooring on the bowling lanes or perhaps build some temporary structure raised from the floor to accommodate such a stage fit for gladiators. Seating would have to be limited indoors, but an enormous screen outside would quarter thousands.

We left a tad early from the cabin to ensure the commute would get us to the event without a hitch. The enormity of the situation called for a limousine, but by no means could we betray “The Aloha.” The traffic seemed ordinary, and the air congealed. Only the chanting of “Wonkle! Wonkle! Wonkle!” could evaporate the overpowering tension. Where would the overflow parking be? We did not have any cash on hand in the despicable chance some greed overtook this harmonious event, preventing fee-free parking. Nor did we bring any supplies or refreshments to tailgate with as a wholesome precursor to the festivities. Perhaps some fine mountain women would solicit our participation amidst their fish fry.

When we arrived at the bowling alley, the scene had exceeded our expectations.

The reason for our late outing was to see if anyone showed up for our advertised Karate/Boxing show at the Pin and Cue. Nothing! I was not disappointed because I didn’t expect anything. I only hoped. Nobody even seemed to notice my “Prince Cut.” (Calmes, 3/10/00)

By the term “exceeded”, I mean something that does not mean be greater in number or size than. Nor did it mean to be better than; surpass. The overall turnout was the only thing that fell flat on its face from repeated blunt trauma that evening. A promotion that seemed to “counter-promote” somehow. A seemingly slow night for a Friday at the bowling alley. I gazed upon the vacant parking lot, virtually the size of half a football field, in spiraling confusion.

The beautiful community would not celebrate March 10th. For they might as well expunge the day from the calendar altogether and just utilize February 29th annually. What went wrong? Was it because we had underestimated the viewership participation of the 16th Soap Opera Digest Awards; our only global competition for that night? Was a boxing match too violent for such a peaceful mountain town? Did agents from the Nashville Library run a “counter-promotion” campaign to stifle interest?

An estimated 357,817 babies would go on to be born on March 10, 2000, throughout the world. Yet, it is doubtful that any newborns were named after the fake fighters “Archy” or “Spud.” Chuck Norris would turn sixty on this day. We could have enlisted Chuck Norris to fight on his 60th birthday. But who would dare compete against him?

The embarrassment became a lot to swallow. No prime opportunity to serve our delusions of grandeur a full course meal. The time at the cabin approached the finish line and the only thing that we learned thus far was how to unsuccessfully promote a fake fight in Montana. I hung my head in reluctant shame, knowing I couldn’t be blamed one bit for the outcome; much like this memoir. It’s not my fault no one showed up, and it’s not my fault I don’t promote fake fights at bowling alleys no more.

Failure by Unanimous Decision

Did you enjoy listening to that segment? Please check out the full audiobook on Audible for free!

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

Did you enjoy? Why not check out the entire audiobook on Audible for free?

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

Like what you heard? Get the full audiobook for free!!

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

If you like this segment, please consider attaining the free audiobook on Audible!

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

…FISHING

Several attempts were made at Beaver Lake; the largest lake in that area, aside from Whitefish Lake. Its shape was that of a wax “W” that had melted in the sun with stretches on each end extending almost a half-mile. The south section which was the base of the malformed letter, appeared the most accessible for parking and launching by raft, whereas the other side was marshy and had a gentle stream. This stream led to a lesser body of water; the Little Beaver Lake. Shaped like a human molar. The results of our fishing at Beaver Lake were terrible, but we had two divergent stories to tell.

When we got to Beaver Lake, we were on the opposite end from Uncle Hal’s favorite spot, so I figured we could kick our way over there in the tubes… and we did! It took a long time but was very enjoyable. Once there, I loaded my weapon with a worm only to have it backfire… the dang pole was sticking again! I put a fake worm on, put the hook in the water, and manually extended the line as I kicked away. There were so many fish, but none were hungry. Well, at least they weren’t hungry for a plastic worm and I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t want a real worm either, but that is their preference I suppose. On the way back across the lake, my pole was casting fine. Moody, I guess. That journey ate up the daylight quickly. (Calmes, 9/21/99)

This entry was incomplete. Though comprehensive in expressing the recurring failures of angling, the entry fell short of going in depth about the coffee and water that I had just consumed. His reflections failed to acknowledge my irresponsibility of not urinating before putting on waders for a journey through water and time. His words offered no mention of my bladder. Why would he write about my bladder? Because I damn near lost it in the line of fishing. I lived to tell the tale, and so I must take you back to where this fishing story began.

It would be a delightful start to the young afternoon. The sun peeked through the windows of the cabin, spurring a revolution of motivation. A cold passing dawn meant a noble time for the second round of scalding water sifting through fresh coffee grounds and a white filter. Sounds of near-boiling temperatures percolated a coffee pot that would nearly seal one man’s fate.

I opened the cabinets to find the right lure. Two pinches of sugar. Two drips of cream. I weighed in on cinnamon, but the sun was out molding a shadow already. No cinnamon. Nutmeg was needed for this time of day.

I sat in the Lazy Boy with my steaming coffee. The coffee first cooled with a steady breath at its surface to a manageable 135 degrees Fahrenheit. Next, the contents poured down my throat in anticipation of repelling some surfacing tiredness. MMMHHHMM. Further down the coffee dropped through the esophagus. Though some absorption would occur, most of the liquids were not so fortuitous.

Andy was now awake and fit for a dramatic day at the lake. We had counted on a showing at Beaver Lake for quite some time, and today would be that day. Armed with fishing poles and tubes, he remained ill-informed about the status of coffee racing through my body. He had no idea that I had even drunk coffee. The liquids were now in my stomach facing the doomsday, hell-like, acidy conditions reminiscent of the Tarawa invasion.

We loaded up “The Aloha” with our gear and headed down the bumpy road. The vibrations seemed to expedite the fluid’s momentum like a jigged bait for attracting bass. I took several finishing drinks from my thermos, full of the second cup of coffee, followed by a liter of water to remain hydrated. There would now be two fronts of fluid processing inward.

We arrived at a dirt parking spot at Beaver Lake and dressed in impermeable waders. Little did I realize I was putting on a casket tailored to the burial and preservation of any unplanned call to nature. The original wave of coffee had seen enough processing in the stomach and thus flowed through twenty feet of turbulence in the small intestines. The second wave of fluids had newly reached the stomach and jumped around like the fish at the surface, risking suffocation for thirsty insects.

Getting far out on a lake with a tube, waders, and fins was amazing. To be in frigid water without being wet felt free and exciting, like a duck. Inaccessible spots from shore became prime targets. Sometimes, a tube can even go where boats cannot. Andy ventured off to his own location, just as some coffee trolled off to my large intestines. As for the majority of fluids, they would smile upon the kidneys with great relief. One ultimate chance for salvation.

The drawback to fishing in a tube is that it takes an eternity to get where you want to be. And much longer to get back. But I wanted the big fish. By the time I reached a location of near perfection, I sensed another nibble. The digestive system had fully mined that first wave of consumed fluids. I felt the abrupt coffee strike on my bladder. At least 12 ounces, but possibly more. The fight commenced. “Coffee on!” I yelled.

The duck paddling began. The shore seemed so far. Perhaps two-hundred yards away. Staggered fishermen throughout the waterfronts were tiny figurines. So distant and small. The invisible speedometer showed five yards gained per minute. No duck would ever boast of such a pathetic velocity. The second cup of coffee and the liter of water had finished their joyride with much greater velocity and were putting up a marvelous fight. This had to be more than 12 ounces. This was a whopper.

To relieve myself now would mean another thirty minutes swimming in 16 ounces of pee. To go now with no change of clothes would mean a drive back to the cabin soaked with urine. I entered those waters with a catch and release permit only. The aches in my abdomen worsened as shore approached like a glacier. A glacier going uphill against hurricane-force wind.

The stronger I paddled, the worse my bladder expanded. Too much tension and it would break. But that coffee continued to fight tenaciously while I boldly reeled in that shoreline by the pedaling of my fins every chance possible. Thirty feet away. Twenty-five. The theme song to Chariots of Fire played in my mind as my feet kept kicking. Twenty. Fifteen. There would be no squirts of anticipation.

The fishermen at the beach erupted with glee and waved me in, akin to flight deck attendants on an aircraft carrier. Ten. The music intensified. Three! Two! One! I rolled onto mother earth and somehow crawled and walked forward toward the bushes. Two large lumberjacks stood with arms crossed in my path, but once they witnessed my determination quickly gave way as would club bouncers allowing a VIP through. I unzipped. I showered the first bush found. My hands would not hold and aim. No. They were held high like the dramatic scene from Platoon.

I fell to my knees after all the strain vanished. Arms still in the air. The outputs weighed in at a new Beaver Lake record of 19 ounces. There was no concern for onlookers as they were still cheering. For I had averted a medical emergency amidst the biggest battle of my angling career. No medevac needed. The coffee and water had just begun a new circle of life.

Fade scene to black. [This fishing story was inspired by true events].

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe

View Details

Get the audiobook on Audible

Get full access to Thwarting Cabin Fever in Montana at bradleyoliger.substack.com/subscribe