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A Slight Deviation -- I Meet Buckskin Bill |
When I'd started out of Kalispell, Montana hitching and walking towards the border to meet an old hermit mountain man named Bill, the last thing I figured would be to run into others of my own kind on the way there. And even more so to run into a man in full buckskins with a pretty young girl in a fringed buckskin dress. But there they were right in front of me--
We eyed each other in that small country store, none of us saying a word, the man and his woman buying ice cream, which I thought kind of ironic given the picture. Sneaking glances at the babe, I could tell she was curious about me as well. She was the first true mountain girl I'd ever laid eyes to, so I was just as intrigued. Hell by now I was thinking there must be a whole slue of mountain men around these parts, not everyday you come across people in buckskins, but I kept my piece and didn't say a word, acting like they were no big deal--
Yet I've got to tell you, thinkin' back, that hoss seemed bigger than life at the time with his big shaggy beard and  piercing blue eyes, full beaded buckskins and handmade knife on his belt with a cute squaw by his side.
It was pretty impressive to this coon, but then hell, I was no slouch myself, trying to act nonchalant, wearing my painted Ghost Dance shirt, full bat-wing leggings and breech cloth made of fine four-point blankets, my hair in long braids and feathers, medicine signs painted on my cheek and forehead. Of course I had my powder horn and shooting bag over my shoulders, tomahawk and eight-inch butcher knife in their decorated scabbards hanging from a tacked and beaded three-inch wide mountain belt. I noticed he was wearing Vietnam combat boots to my colorful beaded moccasins, but other than that, he was the picture of what I hoped to be one day soon. When they went out the door, the storekeep asked where I was headed, when I told him he laughed and said, "Hey son, that was him that just left."
I found a nice spot down by the river to put in for the night, by now, pissed I hadn't spoken to the buckskin couple. I'd be in warm digs most likely if I had, instead of under some trees wet and cold in my blankets as the rain had revisited through the night. The dawn broke overcast and crisp, but at least it had stopped sprinkling. With a last cup of coffee I rolled my kettle and possibles into my wet blankets, folded my oiled-canvas ground cloth to tie on top instead of wrapping it around the bundle (to let the bedroll breath and dry out a little) and secured the leather pack harness, thinking all sorts of thoughts about where I was headed. By now I was glad I'd not tipped my hand, better to show up at his place on my my own hook, then to have him categorically dismiss me in public.
 Within an hour on the deserted road I was pissed again for not speaking up, there hadn't been a single vehicle pass by, looked like I most likely would have to walk the twenty-two miles to the border. At least the sun came out. Didn't really know where Bill's place was, but the Fish and Feathers man had said it was right on the border, I knew that much at least. Figured to ask the Customs Agent at the crossing as back in those days there was still an active station on that road. Got there just before he shut down for the night. He pointed me down a dirt track that ran along a big hay field, the barn and cabins in the timber by the river on the northern rim beckoning me to their comfort.
I was dog-ass tired. Like I'd figured, I ended up walking the entire way, twenty-two miles even if on good trail is nothing to dismiss. It had been a tough trip on that gravel road with flat-feet in moccasins and a bum back, but I had butterflies and a lightness of being as I walked that last little jaunt into his world. He was repairing the shake shingles on the woodshed of his cabin. The dust was just settling in a cloud at my feet when he came flying off the roof in answer to my, "I'm looking for Buckskin Bill."
In a big cloud he landed in front of me, his dust swirling like gold in the slanted sunlight as it billowed. "That most likely be me. And it 'tain't Buckskin, they call me Wild. Buckskin Bill is over on the Salmon in Idaho, ol' Sylvan Hart." he said, and crossed his arms with a, "Hummph! Saw you last night, wondered if you were headed this way? You can call me Makwi Witco, pilgrim. "
 With my pack still on my back, the Hawken in the crook of my left arm, I put out my hand, "Toby Stewart, A Fish and Feathers badge down in Kalispell said you'd be the hoss as could tell me about these mountains, said your name was Buckskin Bill. I didn't mean no offense. He said no one knows these parts like you, that you've been here for a spell."
Ignoring my hand, he continued, "Why you want to know pilgrim?" Straight off he told me it was impossible to live how my brother and I were intending. Claimed he was living as close to the old timers as any man alive. That he was the last mountain man.
When I think back to that time so long ago I remember how intimidating, yet enchanting it all seemed, remote, off the grid, goats, pigs and chickens, gardens and hay, horses, deer, elk and moose to eat, a cabin, oil lamps and wood stoves. He had it made. As I write this now I think maybe he was right in a lot of ways, but yet I knew even then, as if it was a stirring in my soul beyond my control, or anyone's for that matter, what my brother and I wanted was even wilder than the dream I'd just stumbled into, and regardless of what this man was saying we were going for it.
"And I ain't no pilgrim, I told you my name's Toby, Toby Stewart," I retorted, and dropped my bedroll to the ground. This time, he took my hand.
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By W.J. Lynus O'Brien
Saturday, 19 March 2011
Read by 1719 People, Thanks
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