Getting Back, Part 2

Early June, 1991

My intention the next morning was to seek out the west branch again. After a coffeeless breakfast I drove south and turned left onto the road just short of High Bridge which, my map lead me to believe, would put me only one more left turn from the river. That road was sandy and narrow but relatively open. I could have passed an oncoming car with room to spare. The left turn I thought would take me to the river put me onto a two track with barely enough room for my side mirrors to clear the jackpine trunks lining it. Occasionally I did brush protruding limbs, and I held my breath as I rolled over few downed limbs thorny with the sharp bases of twigs that had snapped off. This was the last place I'd want to blow a tire.

If I could choose my mishaps though, I'd rather have had a flat than torn up the oil pan or destroyed the suspension lumbering through deep ruts and over protruding stumplets. How would I explain to my employer why I'd ruined the company car on a two track road a hundred miles from my nearest account, during a time when I wouldn't have been making sales calls anywhere?

(My 78 Malibu died just after I got hired and I didn't buy my own car for another two years. I even drove the Cutlass to Utah later that summer. The company had to pay Hertz $1200 for excess mileage when they returned it. The national sales manager burned the ears of my manager over this, though he gave me only a mild admonition. I was doing well that year.)

These concerns about the car chewed on me while I chased the river through a maze of seemingly ever tighter roads for the better part of an hour. Eventually, I gave up: I needed either some coffee or some trout. It only took me about twenty minutes to get to the pavement, though once there I didn't know where to make my next move. The map hadn't been my friend on this trip, but not being ready to ditch the trout in favor of coffee, I scanned it once again. The only places where access looked certain were at bridge crossings. On the mainstream there was only High Bridge and Reed and Green bridge a ways below. Farther east, another road crossed the east branch of the Two Hearted. Whether on account of my instinct toward the remote or from simple desire to see more of the country (if the two are distinguishable), I made for the last. I can't say that was a great decision, but it wasn't a bad one. It was actually the second best decision I'd make on the trip.