September 1st, 1957 8:00 AM
Beautiful, Mark thought as he walked along the ridgeline overlooking the southern half of Paterson National Forest. He had been hiking for five hours, but he had never felt so relaxed and at ease. With no path before him and none behind him, he climbed the rocky terrain with sure-footed ease, making his way through the tangle of pine trees and undergrowth. It was his ninth time making this trek. The first few he followed the long winding pathway up the slope of the mountain range. It was an easy hike, but took hikers at least five miles out of their way. After his third rotation out to the fire watch tower, he decided to find a shorter way and now he knew every rock formation and view along his self-made footpath. The other trail was for tourists, people who would come here once in their life; made to ensure they didn’t get lost. But he was no tourist. This forest had become his home. He knew each pine and rocky outcropping more than most people knew their own backyards.
He paused for a moment to take in the view and to adjust his pack. It was loaded with canned food, basic cooking supplies, his hunting knife, his 30-06 hunting rifle, and one box of ammunition. Although hunting was illegal this time of year during tourist season, he would be here until the dead of winter. He knew how harsh those cold months could be and after suffering supply shortages during his third rotation, he always brought it with him, just in case.
He strolled on, each step deliberate, absorbing the tranquility that enveloped him. Paterson National Forest was far lesser known compared to the grandeur of Yellowstone, but it held a charm of its own. It was less of a tourist trap and was, in his mind, a secret haven of peace. The view from the fire watch tower was unparalleled. Perched high above the lush expanse of the Wyoming wilderness, it offered a vantage point that the tourist areas of Yellowstone couldn’t rival. Here, amidst the undisturbed wilds, the natural world unfolded in a panorama of serene beauty, a reminder of the world’s quiet majesty.
As he walked, he mentally reviewed the list of chores to be done after the departing crew left. Hopefully, the two men he was replacing were better than the two from the previous year. When he arrived for his tour last year, the fire watch station was an absolute mess: No one had swept, the radio was almost nonfunctional, and no firewood was stacked. The lack of cleanliness gave way to insects who had all but taken over the tower. He hoped most of his chores would just be establishing a good radio signal with the surrounding area and getting his sleeping area set up, but he was doubtful.
Rounding a bend towards the North, he saw the tower about half a mile ahead, sitting on its cliff side perched above the trees. It looked old. Even from here, he could see its weathered stone foundation and log siding. Small amounts of smoke trickled out of the chimney. Glancing at his watch, he scoffed internally. They’re probably getting ready for breakfast. Lazy bastards, he thought. He arrived faster than expected, but they should have been awake since sunrise looking for any signs of smoke and ensuring careless, early-rising hikers didn’t leave behind burning coals. If they’re just now eating, then they probably just woke up, maybe thirty minutes ago, or, as he would put it, two hours late. Typical, he thought, before letting the momentary flicker of irritation dissipate from his mind to focus on the last steep section of his hike.
As he neared the summit, the rich aroma of bacon cut through the forest’s earthy scents of pine and late-summer wildflowers. It was carried by a freshening breeze that cooled the sweat beading on his forehead. The season was on the verge of change, with around six more weeks of balmy eighty-degree days before the onset of autumn’s chill. Down in the valley to the southeast, temperatures would hover in the low fifties, maybe the high forties. But up here on the cliff side, it would drop into the thirties by the end of October.
The brisk wind invigorated him, propelling him through the final stretch of his journey. He navigated the last half-mile at a steady pace, making good time. As he approached the lookout from the south, his presence caught the attention of a large man standing on the balcony.
“Didn’t expect you to come from the south like that. You know there’s a trail, right?” The man yelled out to Mark in a friendly tone, both curious and surprised about the route Mark had taken. Mark found his thick neck beard and pronounced potbelly, which he rested on the handrail of the balcony, less than appealing.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. The trail takes too long. Not as nice of a hike. What all do you guys have on the stove? Been smelling it for the last half an hour.” Mark replied, trying to put on a friendly persona.
“Got a full spread going—bacon, eggs, pancakes. Plenty to share if you’re hungry,” the man said, his voice rich with the warmth of hospitality.
“You sure? Mark replied, “Looks like you could definitely eat a bit more.”
A hearty chuckle escaped the overweight man as he vanished from the balcony, soon to reappear at the entrance. The door burst open, revealing a broad, inviting smile as he extended a hand, robust and welcoming. “Name’s Paul,” he declared. His handshake was firm and friendly. “You must be Mark, right? Heard a lot about you. Welcome back to the tower!”
Paul’s up-close appearance and firm shake caught Mark off guard. He initially expected a lazy, overweight naturist who was only in it for the money and free outdoorsy accommodation, but now he realized he was mistaken. Paul wasn’t fat as much as he was just husky. The man stood at least five inches taller than Mark, which would have made him at least 6’4”. The firmness of his grip convinced Mark that underneath the older man’s layer of fat, there once lived a strong and vigorous young man.
“Yep, that’s me,” Mark confirmed with a nod, stepping inside the threshold of the tower. “How was your stint up here? Quiet?”
“Pretty standard fare, really,” Paul replied, leading the way into the dimly lit interior. “The usual suspects: kids leaving campfires smoldering, the occasional lost hiker wandering up here looking for the trail. Nothing out of the ordinary.” He chuckled as he recounted, “had this young guy with me, early twenties, full of energy. Made him chase down any nearby smoke we saw while I played lookout with the binoculars. Worked out pretty well. Anything that seemed serious or too far off, we left for the rangers to handle.”
Mark eased his pack onto the floor by the door, its weight thudding softly against the concrete. Trailing Paul down the narrow hallway leading into the heart of the tower, he asked, “did they ever get new binoculars here?” Mark inquired. “The two guys I replaced last year dropped them and shattered the left lens. Annoyed the hell out of me my whole rotation.”
“Yep, got ourselves a new pair two months back. They’re quite the upgrade from what we had before. The magnification is way stronger on these ones. You can spot folks on Anderson Peak like they’re right in front of you,” Paul boasted, with a nod of satisfaction.
“Nice,” Mark said, his voice carrying a mix of approval and anticipation as he crossed the threshold into the kitchen. To his pleasant surprise, the space was spotless, perhaps as tidy as a fire watch tower could ever be. The dishes were arranged neatly, no sign of a lingering mess. The wood stove was free of ash and rubbed down with oil, its surface gleaming under the overhead light. While the floors boasted a fresh sweep. Even the refrigerator and icebox had been attended to, their surfaces wiped clean of any grime or fingerprints.
The combined aromas of bacon, pine, and cedar wafted through the air, filling Mark with an inexplicable warmth. Filling a void he always forgot existed within him. Like coming home after being forced away. “We still got plenty of food in the freezer,” Paul continued. “The helicopter dropped off supplies last week, so we’re well stocked for you. Next supply drop is in two weeks.” Paul said, breaking Mark from his momentary trance.
“How am I looking on wood?” Mark asked.
“Pretty good. You might have to find a dead tree or two to cut up, but the first wood shack is full, and the second one is at about half.”
“How’s the axe?”
“Just sharpened her for ya this morning.” Paul held out his forearm, showing a distinct area free of hair. “I’m not gonna leave you in a shit situation up here. Station called last week. Said you guys were gonna be up here for four months straight.” He raised his eyebrows nearly to the ceiling when he got to the end of his sentence. “That’s a long time to be in this tower.”
“I need the break. Besides, you’ve heard the news. The government is shutting down all the fire watches. Don’t know how much longer this thing’s gonna be open. Gotta get my fill while I can.”
Paul’s face broke out into a huge smile. “Well, I’m gonna go finish getting my bag together. You need anything?” Paul said.
Mark pulled a chair up from the table and sat down. “No, I’m good for now. You sure you and…”
“Ryan,” Paul said, helping Mark find the name of the second man at the tower.
“Yeah, you sure you and Ryan got enough to eat? It was a long hike. Good chance I’ll finish off the leftovers,” Mark said.
“You’re fine, we had our fill,” Paul said, pivoting from the kitchen towards the bunk rooms, but he paused, a thought halting his movement. He turned back to Mark, his expression curious yet tinged with concern. “Mark, I’ve got to ask… I heard Steve Mullen might be joining you up here. Is that true?”
Mark settled into his chair at the table, the weight of the question pressing down on him. He exhaled deeply before answering, “Yeah, that’s the plan. Who told you?”
“Margaret mentioned it over the radio last week.” Mark’s demeanor shifted; a slight shadow of disappointment crossed his face. Sensing the delicate nature of the topic, Paul added gently, “You know Margaret can’t resist a bit of gossip.” He paused again, trying to figure out how to press the conversation further. “Bad beat what happened to poor Steve. Do you know when he’s supposed to get here?”
Mark shook his head, his gaze fixed on the grain of the wooden table, lost in thought for a moment. “No clue, to be honest. Chief and I talked last week. I suggested Steve join me up here for a prolonged stay. Figured it’d be good for him, ya know? A chance to get away from it all. But whether he’ll take me up on it… I don’t know. Have you met Steve?”
“Only in passing. I was retiring from the fire department when he got back from the war. Last time I saw him, he was a new recruit. Back then, he seemed like a good guy. But Mary,” Paul paused, his gaze distant, “I knew her well. Our families went to church together. She was a real sweetheart, from her first steps till… till her dad went off to fight, and shortly after,” Paul stopped and took a long breath. “Well, let’s just say they stopped coming to church after that.” There was another long pause as Paul tried to come to grips with his own feelings towards Mary’s passing. “If Steve doesn’t make it before we head out, would you do me a favor? Tell him Paul Evans offers his deepest condolences.”
Mark looked at the man and swore he saw some tears welling up in his eyes before he departed the kitchen and headed down the hallway towards the bunk rooms. In small towns like Ridge Creek, word travels fast and sudden loss affects everyone. Mark only lived there a few years, so he wasn’t as interconnected as the rest of them, but Mary and Steve were locals here. Everyone seemed to know them and now everyone seemed to know what happened. The thought of the gossip and eavesdropping got under Mark’s skin more than the conversation with Paul. Steve and Mary were the reason he was still alive. They were the ones that rescued him from a dark place after he and Steve returned from the war. Mary’s death not only took a cherished friend from Mark but also irrevocably altered Steve, leaving Mark to mourn the living as much as the lost.
For now, he tried to focus on breakfast. Absorbing the familiar smells of the tower, Mark ate in silence. The familiarity calmed his nerves a bit and set his mind at ease, but he couldn’t get rid of the pit in his stomach. This sucks, he thought. He would need to watch Steve like a hawk. After what he had been through…. the thought crossed his mind, but Mark drove it away. Steve is stronger than that. He wouldn’t be that stupid.
The noise began as a faint murmur, barely perceptible. Each second it grew steadily into a distinct hum that seemed to wrap around the tower. Mark strained to listen, its presence undeniable yet its source unclear. He moved his head from side to side, trying to find the source of the racket. From above, the sound of Ryan’s footsteps resonated, indicating he was also on the hunt for the origin of the noise. Paul re-entered the kitchen, his expression mirroring Mark’s curiosity. “Do you hear that?” he asked, the distant rumble growing to the point he where had to talk louder than usual.
Their focus shifted first to the hallway and then to the first-floor door. The loud mechanical sound became unmistakably clear. The noise was foreign and completely out of place in their mountain surroundings. There were no roads leading up here, and it wasn’t the sound of a helicopter. Paul yelled up the stairs to the second floor. “Ryan, what the hell is that?”
A younger voice called back down, followed by the sound of rapid footsteps toward the stairs. “You’re not going to believe this. Some guy is out there on a motorcycle.”
“Bullshit.” Paul took off towards the door. Mark was right behind him, followed by Ryan.
Paul slammed open the door right as the bike was cresting the ridgeline. The sound was deafening compared to the surrounding area. The yellow and black bike pulled up to the southwest corner of the building while the rider revved the engine to make it over some of the larger rocks. Two large saddle bags swayed with the sharp movements and the rider who was wearing a large backpack almost lost his balance a few times. Ten feet from the building, the rider came to a stop, cut the engine, got off the bike, and walked towards the three men.
Taking off his helmet, Steve looked almost dead. His eyes were sunken in and dark. The beard on his face was growing long and wild. His hair was a mess, and it even looked as though a chunk of it was missing. He was a far cry from his usual well-kept self.
After a moment Mark finally spoke up, “Steve, what the hell is that thing doing up here? You know as well as I do those fucking bikes aren’t allowed in the forest.”
Steve looked back at his dirt bike and shrugged. “Just got it with some of the insurance money,” he said before looking back at Mark. “Figured it beat walking up here. What’s got a stick up your ass?” He continued as he walked towards the three men. He stumbled over the uneven terrain while the smell of cheap whiskey carried by the breeze wafted off him and towards the trio.
“Did you drive that thing up here drunk?” Mark asked.
“I stopped by the bar for a few before taking off. I knew with you around I couldn’t bring any up here with me. Wanted to get a few down before being four months sober.”
“Steve, you could have killed yourself. What the fuck were you thinking?” Mark yelled at Steve as though he was a teen who had just driven home from a party drunk.
“Could have, but didn’t.” He dropped his pack at Paul’s feet and held out his hand, focusing on his face for a moment, trying to recall his name.
A few seconds passed before Paul tried to introduce himself, but he only got out the first syllable before Steve’s mind finally clicked. “Paul!” He shouted. “I knew I remembered that face. How have you been?”
Paul’s face was a mix of disappointment and concern. “Good Steve. How about you?”
Grabbing Paul’s hand, Steve let out a very sarcastic, “Never better.” Steve didn’t even acknowledge Ryan, who was standing sheepishly in the shadow of Paul’s massive figure. The kid knew he would have been out of his depth in any conversation the three men had.
As they dropped their hands, Steve grabbed his bag and Paul stepped slightly to the side to let Steve into the tower. As he passed, Paul put a hand on his shoulder and tried to offer his condolences, but Steve shrugged it off before Paul could finish, quickening his pace through the door and down the hall to the kitchen.
Mark leaned over to Paul. “Please don’t take offense. That’s all he’s heard the last month. “That’s why he’s out here, why he’s staying out here with me. He needs to get away from the pity. He needs time to process the grief and heal a bit."
“I understand. The same thing happened to me when I lost my boy in ‘44. That’s why I started doing this.” He motioned to the tower. “It’s good to get away. Easy to forget out here. Easier even to find peace.” He looked back at Ryan. “Go finish packing,” he said, shooing the boy off with a hand gesture before following him in.
Mark stayed behind for a second. Let the moment and the task ahead of him sink in. He knew Steve needed him now more than ever. Steve had been there for him more times than Mark could remember and now that the roles were reversed, Mark hoped he was strong enough to bear the responsibility. With one last deep breath, he headed into the tower, to the kitchen. To sit with his best friend in silence. As silence is sometimes all that’s needed.
