#grizzly creek fire

[mordenheim]

Follow me if you want to live

Will raced through the forest as fast as his legs would carry him. He could hear the bear's heavy footsteps close behind. Branches whipped at his face and dragged at his clothing as a blind panic overtook him.

Suddenly he could hear the sound of rushing water nearby. That would be perfect, he thought to himself. If he could make his way through a creek or small river he would be able to throw the beast off of his scent.

Quickly changing direction, he rushed off to the side. He dodged around trees and ducked under low limbs. He leaped over fallen logs as he shoved his way through patches of bushes and brambles, feeling salvation just around the corner as the sound of the water got closer.

At last he broke into the open, darting from the tree line and slowing to a stop as he contemplated his new situation. This wasn't just a small creek or shallow river. It was dark and wide. The water was rushing past, slamming mercilessly into the rocks to create terrifying rapids. It looked like if he so much as put a foot into that water he would be washed away in an instant.

Off to his right the river widened even more, vanishing from view as it curved back into the darkness of the forest he'd just escaped. He felt his heart drop into the pit of his stomach as he turned back in the opposite direction.

The water was even louder in that direction as it seemed to drop off out of sight. A waterfall of some kind, he could not tell how high it was from his position, filled with smooth, rounded rocks was over there. The water pushed past them, looking as though it was trying to rip the stones out of the earth itself and carry them away.

He dropped to his knees, about to give up hope when he heard a voice.

“Hey! Over here! This way!”

Panting, Will looked back over towards the waterfall and saw a woman in hiking gear waving to him. He heard the heavy steps of the bear again as he pushed himself onto his feet again. His thighs and calves were on fire with exhaustion as he stumbled towards the woman.

“Wh... who.. are you?” He managed to gasp out.

“No time for that!” She shouted, looking over his shoulder, her eyes seeming to widen with fear. “Follow me if you want to live!”

She rushed over towards the smooth stones at the top of the waterfall. Deftly she hopped from stone to stone, as sure-footed as a mountain goat. Within just a few seconds she had reached the other side and was waving for Will to follow.

He glanced back over his shoulder, just in time to see the huge grizzly bear break through the tree line. It glanced off to the left for a moment before turning towards him. As soon as it locked eyes on the poor hiker it let out a blood chilling roar and started barreling in his direction.

Nearly blinded by fear, he hopped onto the first stone, landing with ease. Then the second, third and fourth. This was easier than it looked. A few more hops and there were just two more stones before he would make it.

The bear was pacing along the shore near the waterfall. It snarled and glares hungrily at Will. Meanwhile, Will felt hope soaring in his chest as he made the next jump, the strange woman urging him on.

His booted foot hit the rock and slid out from under him. His chest slammed into the rock, knocking the wind out of him as he held onto the slippery surface as best he could. The woman hopped back out onto the nearest rock, extending her hand towards him.

“Quick, take my hand!”

Choking on the water, Will flailed for her, grabbing onto her arm. Her flesh was chilled to the bone. “How.. did you make it so.. easily?”

“I didn't. I fell in this exact spot.”

She slowly lowered her face towards his as she rapidly began to decompose. Her flesh turned blue, then blackened as it swelled and putrefied. She looked like someone who had drowned and been left in the water for weeks.

Will let out a scream as the flesh of her arm began to slough off of the bone. The degloved flesh and bone of her hand was the last thing he saw before the hungry waters pulled him under.

[malbecmusings]

Juneau, Alaska

July 26 & 27 - A warning that was stressed over and over and over by guides we talked to while planning this trip: DO NOT underestimate the bears. A grizzly has a sense of smell exponentially better than a bloodhound. With the ability of said 1,000lb plus behemoth to hit 40, yes f-o-r-t-y, miles an hour for up to 2 miles nonstop, shit could hit the fan faster than you could imagine. The prep we've done, including for a potential unfriendly wildlife encounter could be a book in itself. We're all carrying bear spray; the boy scout and I are each carrying a different type (potency/volume vs range). Everyone is also carrying chest holsters with big bore handguns, and yes, praying we don't have to use them.

My first thought this morning was one of of gratitude for not having any large, nosey critters come into camp in the middle of the night. My second thought was about how good I felt. We spent for-effin-ever trying out different tens, sleeping bags, and sleeping pads before we found a combo that we liked. Although it was in the 50's we stayed warm and didn't wake up feeling like we had spent the night sleeping on rocks, which is exactly what we had done.

Half our party was already up having coffee around the fire when I unzipped the tent to assess the world. The clouds were pretty low so there wasn't a need to get in a hurry. While everyone primarily responsible for flying is instrument rated, meaning we could get up and call for a clearance to fly into Juneau.... why?

Instead of rushing to get everything packed up, we decided to make a big breakfast and chill while we waited for the weather to lift. There wasn't as much concern about cooking this morning because we'd all be up and *might* be able to see or hear something coming. Our resident chefs went wild and made the biggest, best tasting breakfast burritos and pancakes I've ever had. My contribution to the feast was virgin Bloody Marys which were almost as good as the high test variety.

The ceilings lifted by the time we finished breakfast, got everything cleaned up, and the planes packed. We flew upriver in search of more gravel bars to do touch and go's on. I made two full stop landings in a slight crosswind that even I was proud of. It pays to sleep with know a good CFI.

Juneau holds the distinction of being one of only two state capitols that are wholly inaccessible by an outside road system. In addition to being a government town, it's also tourist central, with a yearly average visitor count of more than a million tourists. That's a lot, especially considering the metro population is barely 36K. But, it is stunning. Turn in any direction and you'll find mountains, the ocean, glaciers, and wildlife within arms reach.

We got lucky and found a VRBO big enough to house all of us rather than staying at a hotel. Bonus points for it being close to the airport. Our host was quick to recommend the Salmon Bake for dinner. Her instructions were to dress warm and go hungry. Imagine a rustic outdoor Cracker Barrel buffet. It was a bit very touristy, but isn't that the point? You can belly up to the bar, chill around a campfire and roast marshmallows, pan for gold, shop for stuff (of course), and enjoy an "Alaskan experience" while feasting on pretty decent food. Two tips: get a table by the creek if you can and get the glazed salmon.

Juneau Part II: We had a chill night and crashed early because we had a fishing charter scheduled this morning. Another cool, beautiful but wet morning. To hopefully minimize the risk of a lung issue flareup, I broke out both the layered cold weather and foul weather gear. It took two boats to haul all of us and the better part of an hour to reach the fishing grounds, which looked an awful lot like ALL the water we passed before reaching that spot. Our guides were amazing though. Between us, we caught a literal boatload of halibut, salmon, and rockfish surrounded by some of the most mind blowing scenery imaginable. The guides are going to process everything except what we saved for dinner and ship it to us when we get home.

We were planning to hike up to Mendenhall Glacier when we got back but pulling all these fish up from the bottom of the damn ocean wore us out. Instead we built a fire in the fire-pit, had a few drinks, and enjoyed a chill night. Tomorrow we head north again for another few nights off the grid. Our first stop will be the town of Cordova where we'll refuel and provision before heading to a Forest Service cabin on Hinchinbrook Island.

[sheltierv]

June 7th and 8th, Destruction Bay and Tok

Left Haines on Friday. Beautiful clear day. Back into Canada had a humorous encounter with the border agent. As usual he asked 7 different ways if we had guns. Then he said "did you leave your guns somewhere?" He didn't like the continued NO answers. So then asked "you are from Florida, you must have guns". I replied "isn't that Texas?" And he said that Texas, Florida, and Arizona are gun states.

The Haines highway was fabulous as usual and in good shape. Made it to Haines Junction for some $8 per gallon Diesel then north on the Alcan. Saw a coyote, porcupine, and bear on the drive today.

Got to Congdon Creek Provencial park and got setup. The park is right on Kluane lake. We let Brooklyn play in the lake. The D decided to take advantage of the free firewood and built a big fire 🔥.

Today, Saturday, we got up early to tackle the worst part if the Alcan. This is where, in addition to frost heaves, and truck damage, you have permanent frost which turns soil to soup when it melts.

Saw a small Grizzly sitting on the side of the road in the weeds. Several cars had passed by without seeing it. We stopped and he decided that he was no longer invisible and walked back into the forest.

We were supposed to stop 30 miles south of Beaver Creek but when we got there before 11am, we decided to push on to Beaver Creek and swallow another 30 miles of bad road.

Got to Beaver creek and it was full of smoke. The area was getting warm northern winds and pulling smoke from northern Yukon wildfires. We decided to have lunch at Buckshot Betty's to regroup.

We decided to push on another 100 miles to Tok. Road was a bit better over the border but still large sections of gravel or pot holed road. But slow and steady made it! Got to Tok around 3pm and checked in to Sourdough Campground.

Tonight we went to the famous Sourdough pancake toss. D tossed a pancake into the bucket and got a free breakfast (I hit the side of the bucket and will have to pay for mine).

We are tired and taking a day off tomorrow before starting towards Valdez on Monday.

[dcomeaux]

Robert Aaron Jaeger no longer has the emotional fight to outlast his grief. Less than a month ago, his wife and four-year-old daughter were in a terrible accident on the downtown streets of Seattle. The four-year-old came away with scratches. His wife, Christina, succumbed to her injuries. Under the disguise of rafting through Glenwood Canyon, Robert sets out to kill himself, but his plan is thwarted when he stumbles upon a woman standing in freezing water aiming to do the same thing.

Lilly Radford has been riddled with guilt since the day her baby died and there’s not been a day she hasn’t beat herself up about it. She finally snaps, takes her rent money, and uses it to keep her tank filled until the money runs out. With her car running on fumes, she’s forced to exit off I-70 in Glenwood Springs at the Grizzly Creek Rest Stop where she gives up and falls in the river.

After Robert rescues Lilly and later steps off the plane in Seattle, Zachary Butler lurks close to his heels, determined to kill Robert for getting him fired. Zachary is much more than a typical killer on the loose. His disorder causes him to converse with the good side of himself to collaborate on a scheme for revenge. To complicate his chaotic existence, his wife, Ethel, threatens to derail his plan.

As danger looms and a loved one becomes a victim, Robert and Lilly let down their guard and wrestle with their physical attraction to each other. Determined to right past wrongs, their self-centered past haunts them, but if they aren’t careful, they could miss the beauty lying just below the surface of their pain ... if the killer has his way.

Anger. Madness. Darkness. Murder. Obsession. Ambition. How will it all end?

[thatdisasterauthor]

Okay, fam, let’s talk escaping a wildfire/detouring around one in the mountains. Because no one is fucking doing it right.

Step one: don’t blindly trust google maps. Once you get off the highways in the mountains google does not really know what’s up. It WILL send you up jeep/ATV trails like they’re regular old roads. Hell, if you try to google maps directions to my family cabin it sends you over a road that hasn’t been a road in OVER TEN YEARS. You will wreak your car, maybe cause another fire, maybe even get yourself killed.

Step two: Use google maps, but not the default directions. Just use it as a regular old map. Find the smaller highways, the closest towns, etc. AND TURN ON THE TERRAIN MAP, NOT THE COLOR BLOCK MAP. Zoom in on the roads you may be taking, see what they look like. Are they only wide enough for 1/1.5 cars? Do they have deep ruts? Are they overgrown? If yes to any of the above, it is not a road, it is a jeep/ATV trail trail. Find another route.

Step three: Stop and ask the locals. If you can pull over to a gas station, a restaurant, etc. just ask them. They will help you out, especially if you’re nice enough to buy a little something (if there’s time and it is safe, of course).

If you are in a life or death situation, obviously do what you gotta do. But if you’re just impatient because of a road closure, take the time to plan an actual good route.

Anyways, I know there’s a ton of shitty road closures right now and it is frustrating but please, please stop blindly trusting google. You’re just making things worse. My personal advice for getting around the I70 closure? Go to Kremmling--either via Berthoud Pass/Highway 40, or via Silverthorne to Highway 9--and then take Rabbit Ears Pass to Steamboat Springs and head West from there. (Or do it in reverse if you are going East.) It is a longer drive, but a very pretty one! Do note, though, that there is another fire burning in the William’s Fork area that has closed a couple roads, but none of them are the ones I’ve mentioned.

[whollytaciturn]

Pine Gulch Fire - Grand Junction, CO 7% Containment 81.1k acres burned as of 8/16/20 4th largest fire in CO history

Grizzly Creek Fire - Glenwood Springs, CO 0% Containment 25.6k acres burned as of 8/16/20

Cameron Peak Fire - Larimer County, CO 0% Containment 12.1k acres burned as of 8/16/20 Doubled in size overnight

Williams Fork Fire - Grand County, CO 0% Containment 6.3k acres burned as of 8/16/20

[noir-poetography]

Lift off of one of the Helitack choppers dropping water on the Grizzly Creek wildfire outside of Glenwood Springs, CO

This fire is the worst in local history, it has done extensive damage to the canyon walls destroying all vegetation and that is causing rock fall. The fire is on both sides of the canyon, has caused multiple evacuations and potentially destroyed one of our historic ranches. It may have destroyed the vegetation around the famous hanging lake.

© 2020, James Blatter

Watermark a feature of the compression service

[shittybundaskenyer]

Are you still writing an Arthur Morgan werewolf fic? 👀

Yes!! I'm just a very slow writer and uni eats up all my free time so I only write like 2 sentences in a week :'))) But here's a little something for you from that fic:

Arthur runs away, up into the Grizzlies, up into Colter where the snow falls hard and unforgiving during the already short late-november days. He’s hungry.

He doesn’t know for what, not yet.

He makes a bed in front of the fireplace in the main house where the two chairs still stand just like how Hosea and Dutch placed them when the gang was up here in May. Frozen in time, like the ice could preserve memories, too. He can almost see their ghosts—one with the golden aura of an angel and one with the Devil’s darkness oozing from its eyes. He misses Hosea.

So damn much he cries that night.

The next couple of days are a blur. He hunts, with a bow Charles taught him how to make. He tracks a stag, through steep mountainsides and steaming creeks and when he finally catches up to him, he hesitates.

The arrow is pointed at the buck who stands tall and proud among fat, white-speckled does. The snow is falling, just in a gentle sway, but still strong enough to build into a small patchwork-blanket on his hat and shoulders.

Arthur can sense the world around him in a way he never did: every last snowflake on his coat, every breath the animals take, every steady heartbeat of the stag, the soft grinding of its teeth on some yellowed, dead grass.

But the arrow is released and there’s a scream. Arthur doesn’t know if it’s his or the animal’s.

Blood paints the stark white ground, pools in a hoofprint where the buck collapses, just a few steps away.

Arthur’s heart jumps. He can smell the coppery stench from where he stands, he can almost feel it dribbling down his skin like it does on the deer’s dust-brown fur. He coughs from it, wipes at the corner of his mouth, expecting the same crimson patch on his glove but there’s no sickness, not anymore.

His mouth hurts and there’s blood pearling on his lower lip now, filling in the cracks where the skin broke from the cold. His teeth are digging in—like fangs on a dog—no, a wolf. Pointed, dull-looking yet sharp enough to tear flesh.

The hunger is back. He tastes his own blood and fire cracks in his belly.

[queenxxxsupreme]

Hi! Could you write an Arthur Morgan x reader where one of the gang gets lost in a snowstorm and the reader knows how to deal with this weather so she offers to go look? ☺️

A/N: I am so sorry this sort of strayed away from the prompt! Reader and Arthur are the ones who actually ended up getting lost and this takes place just before Colter.... If you don’t like this babe, I have no problem doing another! Also, I’m sorry this took quite a bit! My weekend did not go to plan. I hope you like it! And I’m sorry my hand slipped.... It’s 3.4k words...

***

Arthur cast a glance over his shoulder at you, wanting to make sure you weren’t lagging behind. 

Your horse, a golden palomino you promptly named Butternut, was having some difficulty traversing the deep snow, but with your little words of encouragement and pats on the shoulder and neck, she seemed to be pushing through. 

“You alright back there?” He called over his shoulder.

“Just dandy.” You looked up at him, taking your eyes off of Butternut’s mane. Her hair was frozen and collecting snow but you were trying to wipe it away in an attempt to keep her as warm as possible. 

“Hopefully we’ll find somethin’ soon.”

“That map Hosea gave us said we should’ve found something nearly thirty minutes ago.” You tucked your hands into the pockets of your coat. “You sure you’re reading it right, Morgan?”

“I know how to read a map.” He grumbled, pulling the map out of his bag to take another look at it. 

The two of you had been traveling for well over two hours through the snow in a desperate attempt to find shelter for the gang. They were holed up somewhere just east of Lake Isabella, but you were traveling north along the Spider Gorge. 

“This wind is getting too cold, Mr. Morgan. Put your mask up to cover your face.” You pulled the black and white plaid bandana from around your neck up over your nose. You almost sighed in relief at the warmth provided by the thick material. 

“M’fine.” He grumbled, his deep baritone almost drowned out by the heavy wind. 

“I don’t care if you’re fine right now, Arthur. Within the hour, your nose and lips will suffer from frostbite.”

He said nothing in response to you, blue eyes flickering over the map as his horse continued along the trail. 

“Mr. Morgan, don’t make me ask you again. I won’t be so kind.”

“This cold weather sure does make you mean, Ms. Y/L/N.” Arthur pulled his mask up over his nose, glancing over to you as you moved your horse up beside his.

“I’ve seen what this cold weather can do to stubborn fools.”

“I’ve heard that one before.” He muttered, passing you the map. You brought your horse to a stop, so he did the same. “Think we got side tracked from that little establishment Hosea mentioned. If my thoughts and judgement are correct, I’d say we’re about here.” He pointed to the area between the home of a poor woman the gang had just taken in named Sadie Adler and Colter, the abandoned settlement the gang was aiming to lay low in for a short time. 

“You think we passed Colter?” You looked over to Arthur.

“Had to have. There ain’t no way we didn’t. We should’ve found it by now.”

“I don’t think it’s that easy to miss a whole town, Arthur.” You looked back at the map, your eyes following Spider Gorge. You’d followed that very creek nearly the entire way north. There was no way you’d missed Colter. 

“Hard to tell with these mountains and all this damned snow. Can’t see shit with the wind blowin’ in our faces either.” He grumbled, carefully snapping the reins to make his horse move. 

You folded the map up and followed alongside him. 

“That’s ‘cause ole Arthur Morgan is used to warm weather. He isn’t used to the beauty of the Grizzlies.”

“And you are?” He cocked a brow at you.

Beneath your mask, you wore a small but proud smile. 

“I grew up around Tempest Rim. This weather ain’t new to me, cowboy.”

Your romantic relationship with Arthur was fairly new, so he had yet to learn every detail about your past. He took mentally took note of this detail, reminding himself that he’d have to jot it down in his journal at a later time. 

You let out a sigh, pulling him from his thoughts. Your eyes were focused on the mountains to the west where the sun was setting. 

“Sun’s goin’ down. We’re loosing daylight. Means it’ll only get colder from here.”

“Can’t turn around now.” Arthur shook his head. “Too long of a trip back to the gang. It would take most of the night.”

“I wasn’t suggesting we give up. But we need shelter of some sort. Somewhere a little warm to rest. And the horses need a break.”

“Well if we keep goin’ this way, all we’re gonna find is Mrs. Adler’s burned down house.” Arthur gestured in the direction you had been going. 

“Burned down? What happened to it? I thought you said O’Driscolls just got a hold of her.”

“Micah happened.”

You sighed. 

“She did have a barn or two on her property.” Arthur thought out loud. “They shouldn’t have gotten burnt down with the house.”

“You think it’s worth a look?”

“We can go see about that, or we can go back and try to find Colter.”

You didn’t think that you had passed Colter just yet, but you didn’t want to argue with him. Arguing and fighting in such extreme conditions wasn’t ideal, nor did it seem necessary. 

“Let’s try Mrs. Adler’s place.”

Arthur nodded, clicking his tongue twice to get his horse moving.

***

The sun had gone down and snow began to fall from the sky. 

Arthur was sure that you should’ve reached Sadie Adler’s ranch by now, but he wasn’t sure why it was taking so long. 

“Arthur, maybe we should stop and make camp.” Your voice was quiet and uneasy. You didn’t like the idea of making camp out in the open. It was dangerous. Not only were you open to the bitter elements, but to the chance O’Driscolls finding you too. 

“We can’t stop yet, pumpkin.” He turned his head to look at you. 

You were visibly shivering but you were trying your best to remain strong for him. He needed you to be strong. 

“What happened to you bein’ my strong mountain woman?” He teased, slowing his horse down a bit so he could move alongside you. “Don’t tell me this Grizzly weather is gettin’ to you.”

A little smile tugged at your slightly chapped lips. 

“Course not. Just-Just worried about Butternut. She ain’t used to this. Blackwater is so much nicer and warmer than up here, and that’s all she’s used to.”

Arthur let go of the reins to his horse with one hand, reaching over to pat your thigh. 

“We’ll find somewhere warm for Butternut to stay.”

Your eyes were focused ahead of you so instead of watching Arthur, you were focused on what was waiting for you on the path ahead. The faint outline of what looked like a building made you jolt. 

“Arthur, look!”

He looked in the direction you point.

“That don’t look like Mrs. Adler’s barn.”

“It has to be Colter.” You nudged your horse to make her move faster. You were all too eager to get her out of the elements.

“Y/N, hold on a second!” Arthur called after you, but you were already gone. “Damn it, woman.”

You made it into the abandoned town first, eyes flickering around to make sure you were alone. At first glance, you were alone. The place was vacant. 

A sudden burst of wind made your horses uneasy and made you grasp the hood on your head, fearing it would fall off. 

Arthur came up beside you, carefully inspecting the main street of Colter. He pulled the mask down from his nose. 

“I’m gonna put the horses in this old barn.” He gestured to your right. “Just hope it don’t cave in on them in the middle of the night.”

“Arthur.” You scolded him. He grinned, knowing he was only teasing you. 

“After that, I’ll make sure we’re the only ones here. You wanna get what we need and go into that building right behind you?”

You nodded and got down from your horse. You got as much as you could from your horse and from Arthur’s, taking what you needed as far as bedding and food, and made your way to the building Arthur talked about. 

Unsurprisingly, the house was empty. It consisted of one main room with a large fireplace in the center and three rooms off of the main room. 

You put the things in your hands down on the floor near the fireplace. Slipping the knife out of its holster on your hip, you moved to the room to your right. 

The floorboards creaked beneath your boots. It was evident no one had been there in a long time. There were cobwebs everywhere. The glass to the windows were broken, but they were boarded up too so that stopped some of the bitter cold air from coming inside. 

The room to your right contained a grinding wheel and a workbench. Seeing that nothing would be useful there, you continued to the next room. This room seemed to be a living space of some sort. There was a bed, a dresser, and an end table inside the room.

After searching the dresser and the end table, you went to the final room. It was set up similarly to the other bedroom, except this one had a large bed that was clearly meant for two people. 

In the corner of the room closest to the doorway was a small stack of firewood. You immediately became excited over the sight of the wood. Maybe you could start a fire in the fireplace. The very idea of heat almost brought tears to your eyes. 

***

Arthur slipped into the house, closing the door behind himself. He looked around, surveying the room. 

You were knelt down by the fireplace, trying to start a fire with a matchbook. 

“What’re you doin’?” He asked.

“Trying to get us some sorta heat.” You struck the match and put it into the fireplace. “We need some sorta kindling. The wood ain’t gonna light by itself.”

“Where’d you find that wood?”

“In one of the back rooms.” You stood up, passing him the matchbook. “I have a few newspaper articles from a few weeks ago when we were in New Austin. They’re in one of my saddle bags.”

“But ain’t those for your collection?” Arthur watched you as you started for the door.

“Yeah.”

“Pumpkin, you don’t gotta use those newspapers.”

You stopped at the door, your hand on the knob. 

“We need the heat, Arthur.”

“I got paper in my journal.” He started to pull his journal out but you were quick to stop him. 

“No!” You rushed to his side, stopping him from pulling the journal out of his satchel. “Don’t you dare ruin that new journal, Arthur Morgan. I just bought it for you.”

“I know, but I don’t want you to destroy your newspapers. I know you like to collect all the ones with strange news reportings and those ones from New Austin talk about a bunch of weird things.”

“I’m sure I can find more later on, Arthur.” You kept your hand on his that rested on his satchel. “Do not ruin that journal. Do not tear any papers out. I am using my newspapers so we can have a fire tonight.”

Arthur frowned, shaking his head softly. 

“Pumpkin-,”

“Don’t pumpkin me, cowboy.” You cut him off, leaning up on your toes to give his slightly chapped lips a gentle kiss. “If you so much as rip one paper from that journal, you’ll be relying on only the fire’s warmth tonight.”

He sighed, watching you move across the room and slip out of the house.

***

A few minutes later, you return with the newspapers. They’re folded neatly under your arm. In one hand, you hold a bottle of gin and in the other is a bottle of whiskey. 

“I figured we could do with a little to drink tonight.” You explained as you set the two bottles of liquor down on the mantle above the fireplace. 

“That’s a bit more than a little to drink.” Arthur commented. 

“I didn’t know which one you’d want.”

He nodded, standing up from the chair he had been sitting in. He picked the chair up and moved towards the front door. He propped the chair beneath the doorknob and wedged it there so that no one would be able to come in. 

You watched him and when he turned around to face you, your eyes met.

“Just wanna make sure we’re safe tonight.”

You nodded.

You knelt down in front of the fire, placing the small stack of newspapers in front of you on the floor. 

“If we rip the paper in half and twist it up, it’ll burn better.” You explained, taking the top piece of paper and ripping it in half. It hurt to see the newspaper go, but you knew it wasn’t as important as your life or as Arthur’s. The temperatures were too low to go without a fire through the night. 

Arthur knelt down beside you, assisting you with the process of ripping the newspaper up and twisting it. Then the twisted pieces were placed into the fire below and around the pieces of firewood. 

You picked up the matchbook from the floor and struck a match. You watched the flame for a few moments, then threw it into the fireplace. The paper caught on fire almost immediately. This would give the wood a chance to heat up and catch flame too. 

Arthur’s eyes flickered to you. You were staring into the heat, a little smile adorning your lips. He could see the sadness in your eyes. You really did like collecting newspapers. It was the one thing you enjoyed doing. Everyone at camp knew you liked it too, and sometimes they’d bring you back clippings and papers if they thought you’d enjoy the piece on it. 

Arthur took off one of his gloves and slipped his hand around the back of your neck, drawing you in to him. He pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

“Your hands are freezin’, Morgan.” You giggled.

He chuckled, letting you go and putting his hands closer to the fire.

“Sorry, pumpkin.”

“I’ll start gettin’ our beds set up.”

“Beds?” He repeated, emphasizing on the s. Arthur looked over his shoulder to watch you go to the bedrolls that were not to far away from him. “We ain’t sharin’?”

“I never said that.”

“You said beds. Our beds.”

“My apologies, Mr. Morgan.” You grinned, looking over to him. “I’ll get our bed set up.”

“Much better, pumpkin. Apology accepted.” He winked at you. 

You stood up straight, placing your hands on your hips. Arthur stood up and stepped back from the fire, putting himself a foot or so away from you.

“If we’re gonna share a sleeping area, how should we go about this? One bedroom ain’t gonna fit us both.”

“It will if you squeeze. I’ll suck it in.”

“Suck what in?” 

“My gut.” He patted his stomach, a grin playing on his lips. You giggled, rolling your eyes. 

“That ain’t the problem. The problem is no matter how much suckin’ in either of us do, we’re too much for one of the bed rolls.”

Arthur looked at the bedrolls then to the fire. 

“Well, we can make it work. You get in both ours and I’ll lay on the floor by you holdin’ you. We’ll be by the fire. I don’t need nothin’ but you.”

“Arthur, I’m not doin’ that.” You shook your head.

“What if I want you to?” He tilted his head to the side. “You know how overheated I get sometimes when I’m sleepin. I don’t need a blanket with all these layers I have on right now plus sleepin’ so close to the fire. But you, Miss Y/L/N, I can’t have you gettin’ cold tonight.”

“Oh, I know you wouldn’t let me get cold, Mr. Morgan.” You smiled. “But I can’t take both bedrolls.”

“I beg to differ, pumpkin.” He picked up his bed roll and put it down far enough from the fire that it wasn’t a safety hazard but close enough that you could still feel the heat. Arthur took your bedroll and tucked it into his own, giving you double the bedding. 

“Arthur, I don’t like it.”

“Well tough shit. I already told you how I’m sleepin’ tonight. I wanna be able to wrap my arms around you and hold you close.”

You frowned as you looked down at the bedrolls. This would mean that not only would you be the only one with a blanket of some sort tonight, but you’d also be the only one not sleeping directly on the hard and freezing cold floor. 

“Arthur, can’t we just try somethin’ else? M’not gonna sleep good knowin’ you’re on the hard floor. And these floorboards are far too creaky and drafty for you to be sleepin’ on them without anything.”

He let out a sigh, glancing around the room. 

“Well, we got another option.” His eyes landed on one of the bedrooms. “We could pull a mattress out here and throw the bedrolls over it. That way we ain’t sleepin’ directly on the floor or the old mattress.”

You thought about the idea for a few moments, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. 

Any other day, you’d pass and sleep on the floor. But it was too cold and you could feel a draft coming from between the floorboards. A mattress could stop that. 

“Okay.”

As Arthur left the main room to retrieve a mattress, you moved the bedrolls out of the way. He came back in a few moments later with the smaller of the two mattresses in the house. 

He placed it in front of the fire and allowed you to fix the makeshift bed to your liking. 

You laid out both bedrolls to cover the mattress and provide protection between you and the old mattress. Then you shed your thick coat knowing you could use it better as a blanket. 

“You think we can both squeeze on to that mattress?” Arthur asked, gesturing to the mattress on the floor.

“We’ll find out in the mornin’ when we see if one of us have fallen off.” You grinned a little, settling down on the mattress. It wasn’t luxurious by any means, but it beat riding on horseback all night in the snow. “Make sure you grab those drinks before you get down here, Mr. Morgan.”

He retrieved the gin and whiskey from the mantle, placing them down on the floor by the mattress, then he got down on the mattress behind you. You were sitting facing the fire. This put your back to Arthur, but he didn’t mind. 

You took the gin, opened it up, and took a swig. The piney liquor was exactly what you needed. It seemed to fit in well with the atmosphere as you looked at the fire. 

“How do you reckon we got lost?” You looked over your shoulder to him, offering him the gin. He took it and drunk from it before answering. 

“Think we must’ve gotten off the road at some point. Made it feel like we’d traveled longer or something like that.”

You nodded, looking back to the fire. 

“What happened at Blackwater, Arthur?” Your voice lowered and a solemn tone took over. 

Arthur didn’t answer you immediately as he leaned back on his elbow. His eyes studied the side of your face, brows drawn together just slightly. 

“I don’t know, pumpkin. Wish I did know, but I didn’t have time to ask Dutch or anyone who was there.” He tapped the gin bottle against the side of your arm. You looked down and took it from him. 

“You think they’ll be okay when we get back to them?”

“Course they’ll be okay, Y/N.”

“Well, we were gone longer than we were supposed to be. The weather was bad down there by Lake Isabella. Just hope they were able to stay warm.”

Arthur sat up and moved a little closer to you, kissing the side of your cheek once he could reach you. 

“They’ll be just fine, pumpkin. They got Dutch and Hosea lookin’ after them. And Javier and Charles are plenty able to make sure everyone’s okay too.”

“What about John?”

“Well…. John’s a different story.” Arthur sighed. “But m’sure John’s okay too. He’s got dumb luck.”

You nodded, knowing Arthur was right. 

“We need to sleep.” He reminded you, laying down on the mattress. 

You put the bottle of gin down and shifted down to lay next to Arthur. 

“You got any more space over there, pumpkin? M’nearly rollin’ off the edge.” He grunted a little, moving around a bit. The springs squeak under his weight. “I can only suck it in so much, Miss Y/L/N.”

You giggled, thankful that he had the ability to lighten the mood. 

“Good night, Arthur.”

“Good night, pumpkin.”

Taglist:  @doggone-cowgirl @winterwolf @lauramb7 @caraqas @bluscryn @krenee1drful @zodiacaldust @nonodino @gabstaroc @cal-lifornication @thefirelordm​ @sargeantsea

if your name is in italics, it wouldn’t let me tag you :(

[xtruss]

A mule at the historic Nine Mile ranger station, carrying the equipment to clear trails in the Bob Marshall Wilderness. Photograph: Jessica Reed/The Guardian

Keeping It Wild: How Mules Help Preserve the Last Untamed Places in the US

If it’s got gears, it’s not allowed in Montana’s Bob Marshall Wilderness. But a humble creature helps clear the trails

— Jessica Reed | Wednesday 17 August 2022

Here’s a partial list of things you cannot, under any circumstances, take into the Bob Marshall Wilderness, in Montana: chainsaws, mountain bikes, ATVs, tractors, wheelbarrows. If it has gears, it stays home. If it’s mechanical in any way, it’s a no-go.

Those are the rules deemed necessary to protect the United States’ 803 federally designated wilderness areas. The Bob Marshall Wilderness Complex, with its 1,849 miles of trails, happens to be one of the biggest.

The Bob, as it is affectionately called by Montanans, is home to wolves, grizzlies, elk, moose and mountain lions. The pristine territory is more than 1.5m acres, roughly eight times the size of New York City.

And thanks to the 1964 Wilderness Act, it is not crossed by a single road. Drones and bush planes are also, today, strictly forbidden.

But here’s what you can take along for the ride instead: the humble mule.

Left: Towards Lena lake. Right: The Shaw cabin, built in 1928. Photography: Aaron Agosto

The law – a visionary act of environmental legislation for its time – banned modern transportation, including bikes, but made an exception for animals with hooves.

It’s easy for the general public – weekend warriors and summer hikers alike – to forget that those wilderness areas need serious upkeep. Trails need to be kept clear of fallen trees. Bridges and ranger cabins must be built and taken care of. This is where mules’ ability to carry loads really shine.

The backcountry is not a universe of convenience or comfort. But there’s freedom to be found there. Wanting to witness it myself, I contacted the Bob Marshall Wilderness Foundation, a non-profit that coordinates volunteer groups of public land stewards. Veteran mule packers sign up to train the next generation so traditional skills can be passed on.

I called their program director, and asked if I could tag along.

“Do you know how to ride a horse?”

“Not really,” I answered, sheepishly.

“Well,” she said, “you better take lessons then.”

So I did.

‘Stubborn’

Mules have a long list of superpowers – it’s no wonder their nickname is “the four-legged Jeep”.

Because they’re the progeny of a male donkey and a female horse, they benefit from what is known as hybrid vigor, which makes them hardy and disease resistant. They’re sure-footed on uneven terrain, have exceptional peripheral vision and a gait that allows them to carry loads better than other stock animals. They are steady, covering on average three miles an hour. Those attributes make them uniquely suited to long hikes – or “hitches”, in the packing parlance – in the Rockies.

They also tolerate heat exceptionally well – for decades, mules were put to work in the Borax mines of California’s Death Valley, where temperatures climb as high as 125F (51C) in the summer months. And they have a storied history of being first in line to help put forest fires down.

As I listened to their joyful clunking and stared at the line of long fuzzy ears ahead of me, I couldn’t help but think that mules are also quite endearing.

A packer leads a string of mules to Cabin Creek station. The mules carry a week’s worth of supplies for trail volunteers. Photograph: Mackenzie Reiss

For Frank Vitale, the 70-year-old veteran packer who lets me tag along, mules are the perfect pack animals. He particularly respects their intelligence, memory, and instinct: when faced with danger, they usually stop and think, while horses tend to spook or bolt.

He’s keen to highlight the fact that, contrary to stereotype, mules are not stubborn; they just have a strong sense of self preservation. A joyfully biased book called The Natural Superiority of Mules explains it: “A horse can usually be intimidated and forced to do things that he perceives to be senseless or potentially harmful. However, a mule may become ‘stubborn’ when asked to exceed her capacity to perform.” (This is why the Oregon trail was littered with the bodies of horses who were pushed past their limits, yet the same did not apply to mules.)

Frank moved to Montana from New Hampshire 45 years ago because he wanted to see the west. While rugged and more capable than most of us – he wears leather chaps made from an elk he killed himself – there’s an undeniable hippy vibe to him. He often laments how disconnected we are from the natural world. Without a connection to something bigger than us, he believes, we will end up losing ourselves.

Preserving the west’s packing heritage, then, acts as a vaccine protecting the wilderness, with traditional skills as gatekeeper against modern forces (helicopters, heavy machinery) that knock the door open for more destruction.

Frank is keen to pass down his knowledge to the next generation – and the clock is ticking.

This is where Demi Sullivan comes in. At 29, she is one of two apprentice packers this year. A former rafting instructor, she’s used to standing her ground in a world that tends towards the masculine, navigating big muscles and bigger egos. She radiates competency and none of the backbreaking work seems to phase her.

She wakes up at 5.30am and doesn’t stop until the check list is complete. She lifts 70lb hay bales without batting an eyelid, and doesn’t expect you to be surprised at her strength either. As I watch her wrestle with a stubborn mule, I decide I wouldn’t want to take my chances against her in a bar fight.

A mule is loaded with gear at Cabin Creek station in preparation for a 14-mile journey. Photograph: Mackenzie Reiss

She and Frank make a strong team: he’s firm but attentive, and never patronizing. He lets her take risks so she can learn, trusting her to lead the entire mule string.

If the next generation of mule-packers face one hurdle, it’s financial.

First, you need land. This might have been easier decades ago, but decent acreage is now out of reach for most young people. A single working mule costs thousands of dollars. A decent saddle goes for $1,500. A farrier needs to re-shoe the animal every eight to 10 weeks, which will set you back around $120 each time. And of course you need hay, and a lot of it. With the west being in a constant state of drought, feed prices are becoming unaffordable.

Those who keep their eyes on the prize will find a way to make it happen, with a bit of luck. They will continue to apprentice for free; trade or barter; put every single penny they have aside to provide a good life for their animals. All this, for the privilege of crossing a terrain rarely seen by most Americans. For a taste of freedom and self determination, and the comfort that comes with the belief that you are capable of handling yourself and your stock come hell or high water.

An Exercise in Trust

You do need to have a lot of grit to work in the backcountry. Packing, I learn quickly, is not a job for impostors.

When I attend a mule packing class at the historic Nine Mile Ranger station near Missoula earlier this spring, I hear plenty of intimidating stories. A person was bitten on the shoulder so hard that it tore open their muscle. Another got kicked in the face and had to be helicoptered out of the backcountry. A ranger referred to his many kicking scars and bruises as his “mule tattoos”.

A mule’s head alone weighs more than 200lb. If you’re unlucky enough to stand in its way, you can kiss your front teeth goodbye. One second is all it takes for a mule to knock someone flat; a single kick to your leg can break bones.

The only way to avoid a worst-case scenario, explains lead packer Robin Connell, is to always keep safety in mind and build a relationship with your animals. Packing is a conversation, an exercise in trust.

Left: A volunteer holds a crosscut saw. Right: Freshly sawn fir logs. Photography: Aaron Agosto

This point is brought home to me very quickly on my first hitch. As Demi leads the string of mules and cajoles the pack into crossing a waterfall on a sharp trail turn, one of the mules trips. I hold my breath as I watch the animal struggle to find its feet, wondering if it is going to tumble down the cliffside to its death.

The mules behind do an immediate U-turn and start running towards Frank and me, who were at the back of the pack. Mayhem ensues, and the only reason no mule or human was injured isthat the animals came to their senses and trusted the team to calm down and keep going.

We eventually manage to complete our mission: to pack material and food for a group of five trail volunteers.

The trail volunteer is composed of a ragtag group of fresh-faced 19-year-olds, all of whom can talk about climate change with more passion and clarity than most politicians.

One of them, Issac Slevin, explains their week so far: they widened and evened out 525 yards of trail by carving into the mountainside with pulaskis and picks (remember, no mechanical tools allowed), starting at 6am each day. They also used handsaws and crosscut saws to clear fallen trees. On a good day, they can clear 70 small trees; on a difficult day, they stand in front of an imposing 2ft-wide one, which guarantees a very sweaty morning of hard labor.

An Escape From the Modern World

There’s another benefit to packing up your life for a few days in the backcountry on top of mules: perspective.

At 88 years old, after spending an estimated 22 years of his life sleeping outdoors, Smoke Elser, the uncontested titan of the packing world, is now begrudgingly retired. During his career, he taught Navy Seals and FBI agents how to work efficiently with mules to track fugitives in remote landscapes, or in war zones. (Mules were widely used by the Allied forces during the first and second world wars, and some were sent to Afghanistan by the US in the war against the Soviet troops in the 1970s and 1980s.)

Still, Smoke worries packing will soon become a lost art – and for this reason, cannot seem to stop teaching. He helps host a wilderness and packing class led by Eva-Maria Maggi at the University of Montana.

Call of the wild: the Mission Mountains. Photograph: Aaron Agosto

Frank says that to be able to break away from technology for days at a time is critical to his sanity. “When I get too old to put my foot in the stirrup and swing into the saddle,” he once said, “I’m going to make one request: just wheel me up to the edge of the wilderness so I can look in one more time to a place and a time where I found true freedom.”

Likewise, Smoke argues that traversing the wild country “helps us escape from the fast pace of our modern world, with its mania for efficiency”. When asked once what advice he would give young people to live a good life, his answer was simple:

“Pack up a sleep bag, and get with somebody who’s been [in the backcountry] lots of time, man or woman. Go on a trip with them with a horse, and listen to their life story,” he said.

“Then take another trip by yourself, and have a vision. Go sit by a big ol’ ponderosa pine, a stream or on top of a rocky mountain, and just think: what am I gonna do with the rest of my life? This is just the first day of the rest of my life. No better place to do with nobody around, no beep beep beep of the telephone … Just you.”

Perhaps going slow is all the medicine the world needs right now.

— The Bob Marshall Wilderness Complex is located on the ancestral lands of the Amskapi Piikani (the Blackfeet Nation of Montana), the Niitsítapi (the Blackfoot Confederacy), the Séliš (Salish), Ql̓ispé (Pend d’Oreille or Kalispel), and Ktunaxa (Kootenai) tribes.

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from EcoWatch:

In recent days, now-houseless survivors of Oregon's Bootleg Fire surveyed their incinerated communities, dozens huddled in a Colorado tunnel seeking shelter from a mudslide, and across the Eastern Hemisphere fires and landslides forced evacuations and took lives.

These, and other, impacts of human-caused climate change come as the U.S. Senate considers an infrastructure package largely stripped of its initial ambitions to combat climate change.

"West of the Mississippi we have droughts, fires and smoke, and east of the Mississippi there's flooding," Anne Golden, whose home was destroyed by the Bootleg Fire, told The New York Times. "It's biblical. It just feels like the plague and everything else."

In Colorado, mudslides set off by three days of heavy rainfall cascaded down a mountainside burned by the Grizzly Creek wildfire last year. The compound disaster blocked portions of I-70 with boulders and stranded motorists, including more than 100 forced to remain in their cars overnight.

Wildfires, fueled by dry heat linked to climate change, are also raging around the Mediterranean including on the Italian peninsula and in Sicily. In Turkey, "The animals are on fire," Kacarlar resident Muzeyyan Kacar told CNN; at least eight people have died in the more than 100 fires across the country. Wildfires and extreme heat also prompted closures and evacuations across Greece.

"Welcome to global warming!" George Papabeis, a Greek-American tourist in Athens told Reuters. Farther East, at least seven people were killed in a landslide in northern India set off by heavy monsoon rains. "I am 58-years-old and I have never seen such a severe flood in my life," Ved Prakash, a resident of Rajouri, told Reuters.

[tahitianmangoes]

The Beast in Me - Chapter One

Pairing(s): GN!Reader/Arthur Morgan  (Minor: John/Abigail, Kieran/Mary-Beth)

Summary: You never thought you'd be heading home to the ranch but after your father passed away and leaves the ranch to you, that's exactly where you find yourself. Nothing much has changed about Strawberry or the surrounding areas since you left... Apart from the rumours that there's something lurking in the woods. Something that isn't an animal at all...

Tags/triggers: Werewolf AU, Not canon compliant, gender neutral reader, mild gore, mild horror

Notes: All 3 parts available on AO3 

The beast in me Is caged by frail and fragile bars Restless by day And by night rants and rages at the stars

 ****

 You had never cared for scary stories, ghosts, ghouls and the like. You weren’t scared of things that go bump in the night and didn’t believe in the local gossip of creatures that would snatch up children who played too far from the town or strange sounds from the mountains. Ghosts and ghouls didn’t exist. People do.

**** 

Daddy had never really been the same since mama passed. He took it hard, real hard. You visited him twice a year if you could find the time but he wasn’t the same man who had raised you.

Maybe a part of him died when your mama had. And now the rest of him had died too.

Consumption, the doctor had said over the telephone; he’d hidden it pretty well from you, just telling you that it was the cold getting to his chest and you’d believed him or maybe you had wanted to. You knew he hadn’t wanted to worry you. The doctor said he had passed in his sleep. The ranch hand had found him the next day. It had been peaceful, apparently. You sure hoped so.

So you quit your job in Saint Denis and took the long train ride back home. Autumn in Lemoyne was very different to that of West Elizabeth. The days were still hot, the sun seemed merciless sometimes but as the train rattled into Riggs Station, it felt like you were in a different country. Night was drawing in already; it always seemed to draw in faster out west. You could feel the chill of wind that swirled around your feet and the few leaves left on the trees rustled melancholically.

There was no one else left on the train by now, most people had gotten off at Valentine so only you headed into the wood cabin that was the station, a far cry from the bustling Saint Denis station.

The clerk was busy lighting lanterns as you had walked in but he greeted you all the same. “Good evenin’. Can I help you?” “Yeah,” you replied, “do you know when the stagecoach will arrive?” “Arrive?” The clerk repeated, sounding confused as he went back behind the counter. “Well it just left not fifteen minutes ago.” You sighed before asking when the next one would come. “Not til tomorrow mornin’ I’m afraid. Where do you need to go?” “You know White Bison Ranch?” “Sure, I know it - out by Little Creek River... Wait! Are you takin’ the place over?” You nodded. You’d hoped to get there before it got too late but it looked like that wouldn’t be happening now, the sky was already bleeding black, like ink onto parchment. “Well I’m sorry, there won’t be nothin’ til the mornin’.”

“I could take ya.”

The new voice made you turn, startled. There was a man sitting inside the cabin that you hadn’t noticed. He stood as he spoke to you. “I can take you as far as Strawberry if that helps?” “It’s certainly better than sleeping here tonight.” You replied and he smiled. The man was tall and slender, his hair dark and down past his collar, his eyes a glittering hazel and kind. The left side of his face was scarred, as if he had been in an animal attack but it didn't make him any less handsome. He held out his hand to you. “John Marston.” You shook his hand and reciprocated his greeting with your name. “I’m waitin’ on a delivery from Blackwater, shouldn’t take too long now then we can get you to Strawberry.” He told you. Just as he said that, a wagon pulled up and a man hopped down, “Mr Marston? I have the medicines you ordered.” “Thanks,” John said gruffly, taking the parcel from the man almost furtively. You followed John Marston around the side of the cabin to where his buggy was. He put the parcel in the back then helped you with your luggage and then you got up on the buggy with him.

You made your way to Strawberry, the buggy trundled along the uneven road that you hadn’t been down in such a long time. “I’m sorry to hear about your father.” John said, “he was a kind man. Me and my boy, Jack helped him out with the lambing just this spring gone by.”

“Thank you... “ you replied. You felt guilty that you hadn’t been there to help; once upon a time it would have been you to help with the lambing though you remembered being squeamish at the sight when you were younger. You weren't no rancher, at least you thought you weren't. As soon as you had reached eighteen, you had left home in search of a better life and more money than what a dairy could get you. You’d headed for the bright lights if Saint Denis, not only was it as far away from the ranch you’d grown up on physically but in every other sense. The people of Saint Denis were nothing like those of Strawberry or the surrounding areas and you liked that.

You never thought you'd be going back like this but of course you had known your daddy couldn't keep on at it forever. You were the sole benefactor of the ranch and everything he had worked for his entire life… Which wasn’t a lot but it was enough for you to be able to leave your job in Saint Denis and come back home.

Home.

It felt alien. Yet as you neared Strawberry, nothing had changed that you could see. All the buildings and the people… Everything looked the way it had the day you had left.

When you reached the Strawberry hotel, Mr Marston stopped the buggy. “Here we are. I wish I could extend my hospitality to you more but I have to get home. I got my boy and my wife and my brother… He ain’t a well man and I need to help take care of him... We own the stables just outside o’ Strawberry, maybe when you’re settled in you could stop by?” “I’d like that very much. You’ve been very kind, thank you Mr Marston.” You got down from the buggy and so did he, he helped you with your luggage again before tipping his hat to you, bidding you good night and riding away.

The hotel was warm, walls were deep burgundy and a large fire was cracking in the main room, casting large, looming shadows. You weren’t keen on the taxidermied animals that were displayed everywhere, a buck, a mountain lion and most prominently a large grizzly bear that stood behind the main doors, staged reared on its hind legs with a mean look on its face.

The clerk was friendly enough and luckily there was a room available for you. “You came from Saint Denis, you say?” The clerk asked as he helped you upstairs with your luggage and showed you to your room. “That must have been one hell of a journey. Why don’t I get a bath ready for you?” “Sounds good,” you smiled.

The bath was hot and just what you needed after a long day’s travel. Once cleaned and dressed, you headed back downstairs to see if the hotel offered food. The clerk told you they did and you ordered and waited towards the back of the main room which now had candles on every table.

Towards the front of the room were two well dressed women sitting across from each other on plush sofas smoking and talking. “You tell me then, Willamina - What did Mr Jones see when he was out night fishin’ at Owanjila Lake?” One said a little hotly to the other. The one called Willamina laughed, “Mr Jones was three sheets to the wind, Francesca. He probably saw a wild boar or a buck and tried to save face when he came tearin’ back into town, scared like a little kid to his momma! What was it he said? Eight feet tall? Red eyes? Claws as long as butcher knives?!” Francesca bristled, “well, you won’t catch me going into the woods on my own, that’s for sure!”

“And rightly so, Miss Alehart,” came a man's drawling voice.

You’d been looking away, staring at the front of a newspaper that had been left on the table pretending to read it but really, listening in on their conversation but now you looked up. A man you couldn’t say you’d noticed had joined them, hovering by the sofas. He was tall, dressed in black aside from his hat which was cream, maybe in his early forties and had scraggly blond hair.

“You shouldn't go into them woods without precautions.” He told Francesca and Willamina, speaking each syllable of the word precautions quite deliberately as he reached down to his gun belt and drew his revolver quickly, aiming at the taxidermied bear in the foyer and mimed shooting it, “ya never know what's a-lurkin' out there… waitin’ for you…”

“Oh Mr Bell!” Willamina exclaimed, “don’t be so dramatic.” “Oh I ain’t being dramatic,” Mr Bell replied, his voice low and almost taking on a sultry tone. “The things I’ve seen out there,” he said gesturing to the door of the hotel, “why... It would make your blood run cold. O’ course, I could always help keep you safe… if you ever needed protection’.”

You could feel the atmosphere turning very awkward very quickly. You glanced over again. The two women had gotten to their feet “We’ll let you know if we ever need a man of your specimen to protect us, Mr Bell. Good evening.” Willamina said coldly. With that, they left the hotel.

Mr Bell didn’t seem too concerned and chuckled to himself. You were aware of his icy blue eyes on you from under the brim of his hat but you ignored him. At that moment, the clerk appeared with your dinner and you made small talk with him to keep Mr Bell at bay.

 ****

 The next morning you took the stagecoach to the ranch where you were due to meet Kieran Duffy, the ranch hand who had been helping your daddy out over the last few years. It felt strange coming back to the ranch after all this time. You remembered the trail as if it were only last week that you had ridden it, even some of the trees seemed the same and the way the trail dipped here and there had a comforting familiarity about it.

The stagecoach pulled up to the mouth of the ranch and Kieran almost ran out to greet you. He was a skinny man, with wide, light eyes peering out beneath the wide brim of his hat. He shook your hand enthusiastically, “your daddy was always talkin’ bout you. It’s a shame you didn’t get to be with him in the end… proud man your daddy, didn’t even want to accept my help even when he couldn’t walk but three steps without needin’ to rest!”

Maybe Kieran could see that he’d been a little insensitive because his eyes widened further still. “I… I uh… He was peaceful at the end.” The doctor had told you that much. You smiled weakly at Kieran, aware that it may come off as more of a grimace. He did his best to smile back. “Why don’t I show you round? Must have changed a bit since you was last here.”

It hadn’t, it really hadn’t. The house and barn still looked the same, even down to the same white paint peeling from the exterior. Kieran showed you the animals, sheep and a few dairy cows and around the back were chickens. "Mr Watson Jr from the general store comes by on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays to collect eggs and milk,” Kieran explained.

By the side of the house was a small stable with a couple of horses inside, a palomino morgan named Cash and a black and white appaloosa called Domino. “They’re both fine horses. Cash is better for shorter distances but Domino is better for longer hauls and doesn't scare so easily,” Kieran said, patting them both fondly on the muzzle before giving each a sugar cube.

Sat on the porch was a fawn coloured chesapeake bay retriever who perked up when it saw Kieran approach. “This is Bran, he’s real good at keepin’ foxes and greedy coyotes away from the chickens.” Bran barked playfully at this, as if he understood what Kieran was saying. Kieran leaned down to scratch the dog behind the ear before looking back up at you and swallowing, “uh… I... Maybe you’d wanna take a look in the house by yourself?” You nodded at him. “Thank you, Mr Duffy.”

That smell. The scent of home knocked all the air out of your lungs and filled you from top to bottom and edge to edge. Autumn leaves, wood shavings, something warm that you couldn’t quite place. Home. Your home. The home you had grown up in and then eventually left.

It was silent inside. Still. You could hear the clock ticking in the kitchen. Outside Bran barked again. You felt comforted yet also like you shouldn’t be there, like a trespasser. Your fingertips glided along the wooden bannister as you ascended the stairs and looked in your old bedroom. A knot formed in your chest when you saw that it had been left exactly the way it had been when you left for Saint Denis almost six year ago. Your bed was freshly made, as if it had been expecting you to come back some day. And now you had.

You swallowed as you crept back down the corridor and towards your parents room; the room the doctor had informed you that daddy had passed in and the same room mama had passed in eleven years prior to that. For one fleeting second, you thought, maybe you would die in here too. You shook the thought away. Silly.

The windows of the bedroom were open and the cold breeze ripped through the room so much so that you shivered. Folding your arms across your chest, you went back downstairs and outside to Kieran who offered to help you unpack.

You soon discovered that Kieran Duffy was a kind and sweet man. He lived just outside of Strawberry with his wife. He talked about her a lot, real proud of her, said her name was Mary-Beth and that she wrote novels. You were glad of his chatter, the noise filled the house and it felt less empty. Soon enough however, the night was drawing in again and he told you he had to head home.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said, an element of a question in the statement, “that is if you still need me to help out with the animals and such?” “Mr Duffy, what I know about caring for these animals can be written on a cigarette box. Of course I want you to come back tomorrow!” Kieran’s boyish face lit up and he smiled, “then I’ll be here bright and early. Good night.”

Kieran mounted his own horse, a flaxen Tennessee Walker and trotted down the path of the ranch and into the woods out of sight.

You managed to get a fire going in hearth in the living room, the crackling was comforting and reminded you of when you were little; you’d sit on daddy’s knee while mama embroidered and he would read to you - all sorts of stories about princesses and princes, about magical fairies or witches and people who lived on the other side of the world who spoke completely different languages. When you settled yourself in front of the fire, Bran padded over and lay down. He gave a big sigh and fell asleep. You smiled, “me too, boy, ” you said to him quietly, “me too.” **** Maybe you’d become too accustomed to the city. The wheels of wagons and horses hooves clattering on stone paths, people shouting and calling to each other and the whistle departing trains was something you could, and regularly did, sleep through but the silence of the woods was too loud. Eerie and almost frightening. You tossed and turned in your old bed, unable to drift off into a sleep that lasted more than fifteen minutes. Outside you could hear elks crying and the creaking of the trees that swayed in the wind. Animals chirped and screamed and you were reminded of those times that you were afraid as a child. You used to go into your parents room and whimper, “I’m scared..!” Your mama would laugh, “don’t be silly, sweet thing. You’re safe in here with mama and daddy.” She’d send you back to your room and you’d curl up under your blanket with your eyes squeezed tight shut, somehow the sounds from outside were louder than before. But you knew your mother must be right, she always was. You were safe inside.

It was around three o’clock in the morning when you awoke to a sound. This time it was different. It wasn’t just the scurrying of an opossum or a racoon, not even a coyote. You found yourself compelled to swing your legs out of bed, bare feet found the cold wooden floor and you walked across the room to look out of the window so you could see the rest of the ranch.

The animals were in the barn so the fields were empty. You could see the fence and the opening of the ranch, you could just make out the trail past that but the looming trees beyond that made it impossible for you to make out anything else. Maybe a flicker between the branches but maybe that was your eyes. You were tired.

You couldn’t hear the noise now, wasn’t even sure what you had thought you might see. Maybe a fox or even a wolf. You remembered there being all sorts of animals when you were younger, you’d even seen a bear running across one of the fields early one morning after daddy forgot to take in some honey mama had ordered from the general store.

Maybe you’d dreamed it. It had been a long few days. You lay back down but didn’t sleep until the sun began to filter its way through the window.

 ****

 Kieran was a great help. You had milked the cows before but even then it was something your daddy and the ranch hands dealt with more than you. You collected the eggs and fed the chickens while Kieran milked the cows and mucked out the barn. You felt bad but he said he didn’t mind, it’s good honest work and the barn wouldn’t muck itself. You supposed he was right.

“Say, Mr Duffy,” you said to him once he was done and the pair of you sat on the porch together drinking lemonade that you had made that morning for lack of being able to sleep, “you said Bran took care of the foxes, right?” “He sure does,” Kieran replied. “Just foxes?” Kieran half shrugged, half nodded, “sometimes coyotes. He had a cougar once but I think that was a fluke… He’s good with pests, too. Rats and the like.” “Ever anything… bigger?” You asked cautiously. Kieran thought for a moment, “I can’t say so.” His large eyes met yours, “you worried about the animals at night?” He asked, “'cause that barn is secure, I swear it. Mr Marston from the stables and his brother came and did a fine job with it. It was half fallen down before then!” You nodded. “Well it's comin’ into winter soon,” Kieran said thoughtfully, “so yer won’t have to worry so much ‘bout the likes of bears - not that you see ‘em that often no more down this way. All these new ranches and houses goin’ up... The bears have gone further into the mountains. They’s more scared of us than we is o’ them.”

You nodded. You supposed that much was probably true. You also supposed that you had just been tired the night before.

Even so, it didn’t stop you from taking daddy’s old rifle down from above the fireplace. It was rusted and looked a little worse for wear. You’d never shot a gun before, never really had to but maybe it would give you peace of mind to have a gun ready. Just in case.

The next day, you rode Cash into Strawberry, your daddy’s rifle stowed on the side of Cash’s saddle. You'd forgotten how pretty of a town Strawberry was, like something drawn on a postcard. You hitched Cash outside the general store, you remembered coming here with your mama when you were younger and buying the groceries. The store had been run by an old man named Mr Watson and sure enough when you entered the store he was standing behind the counter, like he had never left. To say you were surprised to see him was an understatement; he had seemed impossibly old when you still lived in Strawberry and now he seemed even older.

He was speaking to another man who stood at the counter, “here’s everythin’ you ordered Mr Morgan. It’s good to see you out and about again, you feelin’ better now?” My Morgan, who still had his back to you, shifted awkwardly; he was a tall man, his back and shoulders broad, you could see that he wore his sandy coloured hair long. “Yeah,” he replied gruffly. “And how’s the rest of the family? Mr and Mrs Marston? And little Jack?” Mr Watson asked, smiling kindly at Mr Morgan. “Fine.” Mr Morgan replied rather bluntly. “Well you take care now,” Mr Watson said as he handed Mr Morgan his items, “come back soon, I do enjoy our chats.”

Mr Morgan permitted himself a laugh at this, short and more of a bark. The effort made him cough, though. He turned from Mr Watson, covering his mouth as he coughed. It sounded bad and you found yourself wincing as a visceral reaction. His eyes met yours, brightest blue, like the skies of your childhood summers. He was handsome enough, his features angular yet not unapproachable.

“‘Scuse me,” he apologised to you, not making eye contact and moved away from the counter. Mr Watson greeted you then his eyes widened, “my my! Is that who I think it is? Last time I saw you… Well it’s been years!” He beamed at you, “you back to take over the ranch?” He asked and you nodded. “I am so sorry ‘bout your daddy. Fine man, he was. He’ll be sorely missed.” “Thank you, Mr Watson.” “What can I do for you?” “I was hoping you could help me with this…” You put the rifle on the counter. “It belonged to daddy, I think it’s pretty old but I just need it to shoot.” Mr Watson’s white eyebrows shot up to his hairline, “my word,” he chuckled, “I don’t think I’ve seen one of these since the war. Sure don’t make ‘em like they used to! You’re right, it certainly is an old rifle indeed… I don’t think I stock the cartridges for this particular model any more, I’m afraid.” You sighed. “You could always try the gunsmith over in Valentine,” Mr Watson suggested. Valentine was at least the best part of a day’s ride away. It seemed like an awfully long way to go in the hope that the gunsmith there might have the right cartridges for daddy’s old rifle���

“Sorry, I couldn’t help overhearin’...” It was Mr Morgan, he had been checking through the parcel Mr Watson had handed him. You turned to look at him, able to search his face now. His complexion was ashen and while his eyes were certainly striking, they were also bleary. He looked exhausted. “Can I see the rifle? I might have what you need. You passed the rifle to Mr Morgan who inspected it. “Could do with some cleanin’,” he muttered to himself, “but it ain’t in too bad condition…” His voice was low and rough but has a strange kind of softness to it.

He looked up at you, eyes an arresting contrast to his pallid skin. “I reckon I might have some cartridges lyin’ ‘round if you want ‘em?” “Really? That’d be mighty helpful of you.” “I’d be glad to help you out. Your daddy was a good man. I’m Arthur Morgan by the way.” He extended his hand and you shook it, introducing yourself. “I got a few errands to run but I could always stop by the ranch this afternoon if that’s ok with you?” Arthur suggested. “I’d really appreciate that, thank you Mr Morgan.” He smiled at you now and his face changed, he looked lighter, younger, eyes crinkled at the corners. You smiled back. “Then I’ll see you this afternoon.”

You picked up a few things from the store before leaving. Once outside you packed Cash’s saddle bags and fed him a carrot in preparation for the ride back to the ranch.

“Didn't I see you in the hotel the other night?” The voice made you start and you couldn’t help but gasp and recoil away at the man who stood behind you; he had blood slicked all over his hands, down his jacket and even some flecks on his face. You recognised the face, the ice blue eyes and the straw-like blond hair.

“Didn’t mean t’ startle ya. The name’s Micah Bell, I was in the hotel the other night and remember seein’ ya. You takin’ over the White Bison ranch?” You nodded hesitantly. “I’m sorry.” Micah Bell said though he didn’t sound the least bit apologetic, “I’ve been out huntin’ y’see," gesturing to the blood all over him. “That’s the game, huntin’. You saw the bear in the hotel foyer? I killed that one. Supply almost all the meat here in Strawberry, too.” You nodded again, not sure what to say to him. You unhitched Cash and began to walk him away from the store, towards the north exit of Strawberry. Micah followed.

“So you’re up at White Bison Ranch, huh?” He asked you, speeding up to match your pace. You nodded a third time. “How you findin’ it out there on your own?” Your brows knitted together slightly into a frown, “just fine.” You replied a little bluntly. “I’m only askin’ because there’s been a few people round these parts sayin’ that there’s something livin’ in the woods. Something that ain’t no animal.” Your frown grew deeper. “Not an animal..?” You repeated almost to yourself rather than Micah. “O’ course, I don’t believe that,” Micah chuckled, “you gotta be insane if you think there’s some beast runnin’ around in these woods. Probably a grizzly or a big cat and I’m gonna be there to get it.”

You stopped a little past the sheriff’s office and looked back at Micah. His eyes were piercing and you couldn’t maintain eye contact with him, feeling like he was looking right through you.

“So what’s the fuss about a bear or a big cat?” You asked, raising an eyebrow at Micah. “There’s been predators out in the woods ever since I was a kid and even since before then… What’s so different now?”

Micah’s lips twisted into a smirk, as if he had been waiting for you to ask that. “Real weird things been happenin’.” He said, a tinge of excitement to his tone now, “first it was animals that started goin’ missin’ a few years back - a chicken here and there or maybe a family dog and everyone just assumed it was coyotes. Then some little housewife over past Diablo Ridge said she saw something a-sneakin’ into the barn one night, took her husband’s shotgun and went to see what it was… She swore it was a monster, at least eight feet tall and covered in thick black hair with glowing red eyes.” Micah laughed at the expression on your face. “Horse shit, of course! But since then, everyone wants to see this creature. Plenty of people claimin’ they have but I’ll believe it when I see it stuffed and mounted on my wall.”

“Well it’s been nice talking to you, Mr Bell.” You lied as you pulled yourself up into Cash’s saddle. “I have to be heading back now.” Micah’s smirk hadn’t faltered throughout your entire conversation. “If you ever get lonely up there, you can always come and find me.” He said, “or if you just want someone who knows how to handle a gun.” You hesitated before answering. “I’ll bear that in mind, Mr Bell.”

You rode Cash at a leisurely pace, not wanting to rush back because you wanted to think about what Micah Bell had said to you. You were familiar with people in town gossiping, wild stories spinning out of control like Chinese whispers, usually cautionary tales to stop children wandering too far from their mothers or going into the woods alone. You felt better knowing that Mr Morgan would be coming along later with the rifle cartridges.

Kieran was taking a break when you got back. He stood up when he saw you coming up to the house where he was sitting on the steps eating a sandwich Mary-Beth had no doubt made for him. He waved enthusiastically at you. “How was town?” He asked you, helping you unload Cash. “It was… Interesting.” Kieran laughed, “Strawberry? Interestin’?” You laughed too and carried the groceries into the house with Kieran behind you. He helped you put things away. “Oh!” You started as you remembered, “Mr Morgan will be coming later on today.” “Arthur Morgan?” “Yeah.” “Kinda… Surly lookin’ feller?” “Yeah.” “Hmm.”

You turned to look at Kieran who was looking thoughtfully at the can of beans in his hand. “Is… Is Mr Morgan… Bad?” You asked, feeling a bit silly to ask such a childish question but you didn’t know how else to ask it. Kieran chuckled. “No. I don’t think so. He’s just… Not a sociable person, is all.”

You were certain that this was true but it wasn’t always fair to judge a book by it’s cover.

Kieran was busying himself with the horses in the stables while you were going through some of daddy’s things in the house. You had asked Kieran if there was anything you could do to help him but he seemed capable enough of doing it all on his own and if anything, you were more of a hindrance.

It was around three o’clock when a silver dapple pinto Missouri foxtrotter made its way up the trail towards the house with Arthur Morgan astride it. You hadn’t forgotten about the handsome stranger who was coming to visit you and went out onto the porch to greet him.

The afternoon had turned colder than the morning despite the sun being high in the sky and Arthur was now wearing a longline olive coloured woollen coat and around his neck, he wore a black neckerchief. As he greeted you, you could see his breath in front of him. “Mr Morgan, thank you for coming!” “Of course,” he said to you, he looked a little better than earlier. “Why don’t you show me that rifle again?” You guided Arthur back into the house, the rifle was lying on the kitchen table. Arthur set a heavy leather satchel down on the table with a clunk and took out a few things - some boxes of cartridges and gun oil.

“It needs a decent clean before you load it up and go shootin’ at muskrats,” Arthur joked and you smiled. He showed you how to take the gun apart and how to clean it. “It needs regular care, think of it like brushin’ your horse.” Arthur pushed the rifle towards you. “Why don’t you try.” You cleaned the gun carefully and Arthur watched you. “Heard you met my brother John the other day,” Arthur said. You hadn’t been sure from the conversation you overheard in the general store whether John was Arthur’s brother or not but this confirmed it. They didn’t look alike at all, John was much leaner compared to Arthur, even their faces were completely different - John had sharp features and suspicious eyes. Arthur, while not the conversationalist had a certain warmth about him that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“He really helped me out when I got here,” you replied, “took me to the hotel in Strawberry, otherwise I’d have been stuck at the station all night.” A smirk tugged at Arthur’s lips, “that sounds like John.”

Once the gun was cleaned, Arthur showed you how to put it back together. “You know how to shoot this thing?” You felt a faint blush play across your face and you shook your head in response. Arthur laughed softly, “I got some time before I gotta get back… I could show you, if you wanted?” “Only if you’re sure.” There was that smile again. “I’m sure.”

The pair of you walked out to the fields in front of the house.

“You gotta stand straight and hold steady.” Arthur told you, “you gotta focus, breath slow and always pull the trigger on empty lungs.” “You sound like a seasoned gunman, Mr Morgan.” You said, you felt your heart flutter a little. Were you flirting with him? “Somethin’ like that,” Arthur murmured. “Here, let me show you how to hold it properly.”

 You spent the next hour or so shooting at a few empty bottles that you had found lying around as target practice. You took it in turns, Arthur demonstrating then your turn. By the end of it, you had hit maybe two bottles celebrating each time by hopping around with joy while Arthur chuckled.

The sky had turned a pumpkin orange and the sun had started to dip below the treeline, casting large ominous shadows across the field. Kieran had rounded up the remaining animals into the barn.

Arthur turned to you, blond hair looking golden now in the dwindling sunlight, “I really must be going now.” “Why- why don’t you stay for dinner?” You found yourself asking and you had no idea why. You had no plans for dinner but you were sure you could rustle something up. “That’s mighty kind of you but I don’t wanna intrude on your hospitality any longer.” “You wouldn’t be intruding at all, Mr Morgan. I insist.” “My brother will be expectin’ me back. I should go but thank you all the same.” Arthur said, his voice soft but also firm.

You suddenly felt very silly very quickly, a hot wave of embarrassment washed over you and you wished you could evaporate. “Well... Thank you for today. You’ve been very kind and I appreciate it.”

He tipped his hat to you and went to his horse. You watched him mount it, swiftly kick his heels into its side and trot away towards the trail.

You didn’t know how long Kieran had been watching but he smiled weakly at you as you walked dejectedly back towards the house with the gun slung under your arm. “He ain’t the most sociable,” Kieran said with a hint of ’I told you so’, “but he ain’t a bad man. You sighed. “Yeah, I guess.” Soon enough Kieran was telling you that it was time for him to get home, too and you were left to spend another sleepless night in the ranch house. Completed fic on AO3

[shirtlesssammy]

1x02: Wendigo

Then:

No Chick Flick Moments

Now:

In Blackwater Ridge, Colorado, three dudes enjoy the wilderness by gaming inside their tent. Something stalks their campsite from the shadows but the unattended fire that’s dangerously close to their flammable homes must be keeping it at bay, right? Erm, well, one dude heads out to the little boy’s room (a nearby tree) and gets snatched. 

Another one pops his head out the tent door and gets snatched as well. The third dude kills his light and watches the shadow of a very fast creature circle his tent until it slashes the side and snatches him as well. 

Palo Alto, California

Sam’s visiting Jessica’s grave. It really didn’t affect me the first time I watched this. It’s devastating to watch now though. Knowing Sam now --knowing how he doesn’t let people in, knowing how he didn’t even really let Jess in but loved her and wanted this world he could never have with her. Knowing that it’s fifteen years later and he’s had no one to really be with (Amelia was a construct of his damaged brain when forced to face the supernatural without Dean or Cas. I will not be taking questions at this time.) (But I guess he gets a blurry wife so ALLS GOOD FOR SAMMY.) He tells Jessica, “I should have protected you. I should have told you the truth.” Gah. Nothing could have saved her, and he has to go another fifteen years before he realizes this for good. 

Psych! He was actually dreaming, but I hold firm with my thoughts on the dream scene. 

Dean asks if Sam is okay. 

Sam says yes and clears his throat. Classic! Then Dean asks if Sam wants to drive for a while. GAH. Like, Dean’s looking out for his little bro in the only way he knows right now --letting him drive. 

They discuss leaving Palo Alto, and Dean points out that if they’re going to find the thing that killed Jess, they have to find their dad. He’s sending them to Colorado. Specifically to a National Forest in Lost Creek, Colorado. 

They get to the warden’s station and introduce themselves as Environmental Study majors from UC-Boulder. “Recycle, man.” Bbys. The ranger sees right through their bullshit though. He asks if they’re friends with “that Hailey girl.” Dean sees his chance to learn more and leans into it. Hayley apparently has a brother that’s on Blackwater Ridge. He isn’t technically missing but she knows something is up. 

Dean gets the brother’s camping permit. And now I need to process the next couple of lines. Sam asks if Dean wants a hook up with Hailey. Like, fuck you Sam for not knowing your brother at all, but also I guess you’re forgiven because your brother does do everything in his power to project that kind of energy. However, Dean is working the case and wants to know what they’re dealing with on this mountain. 

Dean and Sam head over to Hailey’s to ask her about her brother, Tommy. They say they’re rangers.

Hailey gets on Dean’s good side by complementing his car. Hailey tells the brothers that she feels something is wrong because Tommy checks in every day via his cell and satellite phone. Hailey’s heading out first thing in the morning to try and find him. 

Later at a bar, Sam “NERD” Winchester pulls out his extensive research on the area. People disappear on the ridge every 23 years. There was one survivor in 1959. They go to interview him. He tries to stick to the grizzly bear story, but eventually admits that they won’t believe him since no one else ever did. He said it moved fast and came into their cabin. It took his parents and left him with a horrible scar. 

The next morning, Sam and Dean meet up with Hayley, her brother Ben, and the guide, Roy. The guide is skeptical but Dean just wants to help find her brother. 

Cut to Tommy tied up in a cave. He wakes just in time to watch one of his friends get chomped to pieces by the monster. 

Dean and Roy try to out alpha each other. Roy finds a bear trap and saves Dean from a nasty injury. I’m over here wondering wtf that’s doing in the middle of a national forest. 

Hayley calls Dean out on their lack of provisions and wants to know who they are. He comes clean and tells her that they’re brothers looking for their father. But also, uh, Dean wearing jeans and boots is way more practical than SHORTS when hiking. Who wants to fuck around with ticks and poison ivy? All these years we thought Dean was just posturing about shorts when he was actually being a practical son of a bitch. 

They reach the ridge and hear absolutely nothing. Roy decides he’s going to wander off alone. Solid choice, dude. The rest stick together. Soon they hear Roy call for Hailey. They run to him. They find her brother’s destroyed campsite. They find tracks of where the bodies were dragged and Tommy’s destroyed phone.

They explore the campsite, which is torn to absolute bits. Dean tracks the struggle to just outside of the campsite, where the trail quickly grows cold. Everyone gets lured further into the woods by desperate cries for help but it gets them nowhere. When they return to the destroyed camp, Sam pulls out their dad’s journal and they use it to pinpoint the monster: it’s a wendigo. 

They hunker down for the night at the camp, and Dean protects them with Anasazi symbols drawn in the dirt. Soooooooooo in one breath you’re telling me that wendigo are found around the upper midwest / Canada, and in the next you’re telling me that the Anasazi (Southwestern/Western US) created widely-established protections against the wendigo? STARES DIRECTLY INTO THE CAMERA. The timelines! The geographic areas! Sigh...Supernatural ain’t ever had that good of a track record.

Dean tries to unpack Sam’s gourd. Sam doesn’t want to waste time hunting a wendigo when he can find their dad and hunt for what killed Jess instead. Dean holds out John Winchester’s journal like it’s a friggin’ (gags a little) bible and delivers the now-iconic line: “I think he wants us to pick up where he left off. You know, saving people, hunting things. The family business.”

Sam wants to know why John doesn’t just call his boys and give them an update - “It makes no sense.” OMG RIGHT, SAM? #JohnWinchester’sA+Parenting 

Dean tells Sam that helping other people and other families is what helps him make it through each day. We cry in Dean’s face a little, even when he immediately attempts to mask his empathy in his very next (also iconic) line: “Let me tell you what else helps. Killing as many evil sons of bitches as I possibly can.”

Pleas for help start to echo through the woods again. Roy fires indiscriminately into the trees and races after his prey, sight unseen. Hands grab him by the head and haul him up into the trees. Everyone else makes it through the night safely and Roy’s demise reminds us that toxic masculinity KILLS.

The next morning, Sam’s moodily staring at their dad’s journal while Dean chats with Haley about the hunt. 

For LOOK AT THIS BEAN Science:

We get info-dumped a truly mixed bag of lore, attributing wendigo tales to the Cree people (right region, at least!) and saying that wendigo are created by cannibalistic acts gone into overdrive. The implication here is that cannibalism equals power but alas, it also turns one into a monster. Wendigo like to squirrel away humans like nuts, so Haley’s brother might be alive and trapped for later snacking. And they can kill it! Kill it with fire. 

Cut to Dean striding through the woods with a molotov cocktail in hand. THAT’S MY BOY. They follow an easy trail of bloody claw marks along the trees. Too late, Sam realizes it was TOO EASY.  Roy’s body drops from the canopy and the group splinters as they flee. Dean and Haley get nabbed, leaving Sam and Ben to find their missing siblings. Ben finally gets some lines, alerting Sam to Dean’s breadcrumb trail of peanut M&Ms.

They head into a defunct mine. (Speak friend and enter?) Growls echo through the darkened tunnels, but Sam and Ben discover the body storage by accident when they fall through floor boards into a lower level. They discover Haley and Dean trussed up and free them. Tommy’s there too! And still alive! 

Dean finds some flare guns and they make their way out of the tunnels. Dean tries to lure the wendigo away from the siblings and Sam. All his attempts are for naught, because the wendigo tries to attack Sam, and the three siblings. It’s okay, though! Dean fires a flare gun right into its gut and it burns into embers.

Later at the ranger’s station, they spin tales to the cops about a grizzly. 

Haley thanks Dean with a gentle kiss, and Dean watches the siblings leave with a fond and wistful expression. JENSEN ACKLES YOUR FACE IS A MENACE!

The Winchesters hit the road, Sam behind the wheel of the Impala. Time to hunt some evil sons of bitches and play some classic rock!

Oh sweetheart, I don’t do quotes:

Recycle, man

Nobody likes a skeptic

I think he wants us to pick up where he left off. You know, saving people, hunting things. The family business

Man, I hate camping

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive! 

[thatdisasterauthor]

The fact that Hanging Lake escaped the fire is fucking astonishing. Completely surrounded and yet it is unscathed. (Photo taken during a flyover on August 19th 2020.)

[fieldsofplay]

Favorite Albums of 2020

25. Dehd – Flower of Devotion

Rather than look back on the shit year that was 2020, lets keep our eye on the hope of the horizon.  Speaking of which, Dehd herald much of what’s to come on this here list.  While as previously mentioned a shit year for most everything besides presidential politics, 2020 proved to be a great year for good old fashioned guitar music.  Could I be accused of curling up with my version of musical comfort food? Perhaps.  But starting off with Dehd, we have a type of band that used to be everywhere and now seems to be almost nowhere.  Jangly lo-fi guitars, perky drums, and straightforward unadorned singing.  About five years ago you couldn’t throw a rock in Brooklyn without hitting a band like this, but now that that fad is long gone.  I’m glad that Chicago’s Dehd are still carrying the torch.  

24. Perfume Genius – Set My Heart on Fire Immediately

I’ve always liked Perfume Genius, but for whatever reason Set My Heart on Fire Immediately is the album that took him out of the realm of casual background musical encounter to something I sought out.  Chamber pop has never really been my thing (except for those couple summers where Grizzly Bear was totally my jam), but here the torch songs catch fire by the compressed force of Michael Hadreas’ longing.  This record also pulls off the impressive feat of each song gradually morphing just a bit from what proceeds it, so that the whole record sounds similar and yet each song carves out its own little generic niche, the whole thing united by the quivering power of that pleading voice.  

23. 2nd Grade – Hit to Hit

If you ever found yourself wondering what Guided by Voices would sound like if they wanted to be Big Star instead of punk rock Kinks, we now have the answer, and it’s Phily’s 2nd Grade.  In the noble tradition of Bee Thousand and Alien Lanes, Hit to Hit’s 24 tracks breeze by in a mere 41 minutes and 8 seconds.  An earworm sunny melody, a quick guitar hook, a second verse (maybe), and poof, each song is gone before you could ever miss it.  You would think variation would be difficult working within such tight musical corners, but while each song clearly shares common DNA, there is actually a lot of variance here, from weepy country ditties (“Bye Bye Texas”) to overdriven stompers (“Baby’s First Word”) though they all tend to orbit the same (big) star.  

22. Tame Impala – The Slow Rush

I’ll be the first to admit that The Slow Rush isn’t my favorite Tame Impala record, not by a long shot.  Having said that, this album still feels like it got short shrift this year (not that anyone can really complain about that in these here times).  If we never knew that Lonerism or Innerspeaker or Currents existed, I wonder how much people would be head over heels for this album.  “One More Year” “Is It True” and “Posthumous Forgiveness” are all top notch Impala jams.  Seems like this album is the soundtrack for the chilled out summer hangs that we never got to have, and thus it’s fitting that it seems condemned for the ash-heap of history rather than the late-night come downs we never got up to.

21. Against All Logic – 2017 – 2019

Ah, speaking of complicated musical relationships, I can never seem to chart a clear course with Nicolas Jaar.  The music he puts out under his own name never seems to do much for me, but I dug his collaboration with Dave Harrington as Darkside, and I really love most everything he’s put out as Against All Logic.  While admittedly not a great year for house music—normally a liberating genre of communal interconnectivity, now a cruel reminder that we all live in Footloose—a banger remains a banger, and 2017-2019 is full to the brim with them.  While I honestly can’t remember the last time I went dancing, I’ll still crank up “Fantasy” and bop around my living room, literally dancing by myself (lets be honest, something I would have done pandemic or no).  

20. Fiona Apple – Fetch the Bolt Cutters

Fetch the Bolt Cutters has had a lot of great things said about it this year, so I don’t really have to add that much.  What I will say is this is perhaps the most interesting percussion I’ve ever heard on a record.  There is percussion all over the place, but almost none of it in the form of full-kit drumming.  Fiona always used the left hand on the piano as the rhythmic center of her songs, but here there is drilling, tapping, rapping, patting.  The phrase DIY gets tossed around all the time (and almost never applied to big money, big label Fiona) but to me the most impressive thing about this record is how it always sounds like she is sitting at a rickety upright piano in the corner of a living room, while everyone congregating around keeps the beat by tapping on pots and pans, the walls, whatever is at hand.  I’ve truly never heard anything like it.  

19. Advertisement – American Advertisement

Godbless Seattle’s Advertisement. So long as there is cheap beer, old shitty cars driving with the windows down, and the U-SofA, there’ll be bands like Advertisement.  Straight out of the vein of Cheap Trick and the more recent White Reaper, Advertisement play power pop with the emphasis on the power.  Sometimes this type of music gets called sleazy, but honestly I don’t get it.  I think its probably because you can imagine it playing while Wooderson drives around Austin looking for redheads. While we rightfully cancelled the song of summer this year, “Upstream Boogie” would have gotten my vote, perfect for backyard bbqs and cannonballing into creeks.  

18. Nation of Language – Introduction, Presence

I didn’t set it up this way, but if Advertisement has a diametric opposite, its probably Nation of Language.  Where Advertisement is all frayed edges and foam, Nation of Language is as buttoned up as those terrible sports jackets people wore in the early ‘90s.  While its not as good as my beloved Black Marble, those bands share enough DNA to make me a big fan of this synth pop gem.  It’s not as dark as the cold-wave Black Marble, but it does share that bands fondness for stark baselines and crisp arpeggios.  If you’ve ever envisioned your life as a scene from a John Hughes movie, Nation of Language could easily be playing in the background.

17. The Soft Pink Truth – Shall we Go on Sinning so that Grace May Increase?

Indulge me in a moment of naval gazing.  Every year as I put these things together I reach a point where I’m lack “damn, this album is this low on the list?” And the point at which that thought enters my head is usually indicative of how good a year for music it was.  Now 2020 wasn’t a good year for anything, and I probably spent the least time of any year listening to music, new, old, whatever.  For the most part I just listened to the Grateful Dead and ambient albums.  However, for my idiosyncratic tastes, 2020 was actually a pretty fucking incredible year for new music, as evinced by the fact that this album is all the way down at 17.  

Earlier on in 2020 as I was bombarding my poor local music text thread with yet more of my inane musings, I think I declared this a top 3 album of the year.  And I wasn’t lying!  “Pretty” is often a dirty word in aesthetic appreciation, but this is certainly the “prettiest” album of the year in the best sense of the word.  From the Drew Daniel half of Matmos comes Shall we Go on Sinning so that Grace May Increase?  A record that is somehow simultaneously deep house and feather light, so much so that it needs its own dumb internet music writing moniker—shallow house? wide house? vacation house? (actually kinda like that last one).  With vocals from Jana Hunter, Angel Deradoorian, and Colin Self (with whom I wasn’t previously familiar) this thing will simultaneously make you want to tap your foot and drift off into the clouds.  This is album is like the prayer Madonna sang about all those years ago.  

16. Kurt Vile – Speed, Sound, Lonely KV

It’s not at all surprising that if Kurt Vile decided he wanted to go country western he’d be really fucking good at it.  First of all, he’s an exceptional acoustic guitar picker.  Secondly, his voice, while always befitting his hazed out urban rockers, has just enough twang to it that in retrospect it always sounded a little bit country.  This record also gives me room to offer up an homage to the late great John Prine, for whom the EP is essentially a tribute.  Vile covers two Prine songs, dueting with the man himself on “How Lucky.” Saying goodbye is never easy, but on Speed, Sound, Lonely (both the album, and the song more or less by that name) Vile manages a fitting tribute to a lost legend.  

15. Lomelda – Hannah

The reviews of Hannah really did Lomelda a disservice.  Sure, they were glowing, but they made it sound like this was some weepy milquetoast singer songwriter affair, when it’s actually a knotty album full off elliptical piano and fuzzed out electric guitar.  Its 14 tracks hurtle by, largely due to the fact that almost all of them are under 3 and a ½ minutes.  Things really get going with the second track, “Hannah Sun” with is squiggly synth effects and driving acoustic strums carrying on Hannah Read’s musings.  It’s an album of relentless forward musical movement even if the vibe feels like it’s always looking back over its shoulder.  Basically this album is what emo would sound like if it wasn’t made by the worst people in the universe.  

14. Shabaka and the Ancestors – We are Sent here by History

Jazz! Another great year for jazz (Asher Gamedze’s Dialectic Soul and Keefe Jackson, Jim Baker, & Julian Kirshner’s So Glossy and So Thin are with a strong group that just missed the cut).  In the midst of an excellent jazz renaissance (you gotta use super annoying words like “renaissance” when talking about jazz) Shebaka Hutchins remains my absolute fave of the bunch, and We are Sent here by History is probably my favorite thing he has put out so far.

13. Waxahatchee – Saint Cloud

While I really liked Waxahatchee’s low-fi emoish debut—American Weekend—I’ll readily admit I wasn’t much about the popier albums that followed, frequently jesting, honestly, that Allison was my preferred musical Crutchfield sister.  All that changed for me with Saint Cloud.  I’ve certainly drifted far off into country and Americana as I’ve aged, and it appears the same came be said for Katie Crutchfield.  These songs have a giddyup to them but they never break out into a gallop, allowing the strength of the melodies to carry them along across the plains, with just the right hint of twilight.  Saint Cloud is the sound of Patsy Cline if she played to roadside inns rather than the Grand Ol’ Opry.  

12. Neil Young – Homegrown

This was the hardest album to place on the list this year.  For starters, should it even count? Clearly I say yes.  While some of these songs have been available for over 30 years, as an album, Homegrown was a “new” release here in 2020, even though it was originally slated to come out in ’75 between On the Beach (my personal fave Neil record) and Zuma.  As a pure piece of music, is it better than most, if not all, of the records that follow? Of course yes.  But what does a new Neil Young record mean in 2020? As a thought experiment its fascinating.  Do we value this album within the musical context of 2020 or 1975? Fortunately, it’s an even more enjoyable listen than it is a thought experiment.  From the first strums of “Separate Ways” you’re like “oh shit, this is the vintage stuff.” Gentle amber acoustic numbers (“Try”) share space with electric stompers (“Vacancy”).  The best thing you can say about Homegrown is that if Neil had originally decided to release this instead of Tonight’s The Night, it would have fit right in amongst his unimpeachable run from Everybody Knows This is Nowhere up through Zuma.  A classic is still a classic, no matter what year it finally sees the light of day.  

11. Destroyer – Have we Met

Ah Dan Bejar, boy was I wrong about you.  I kinda got into Destroyer’s Rubies, I loved his contributions to Swan Lake and The New Pornographers, but yet when Chinatown started really making waves, I just couldn’t do it.  It was soft rock! I hate soft rock! I hate everything about it!  This preconceived notion wasn’t helped by the fact that I saw him open for the War on Drugs in Pontiac once and he was so drunk he could barely stand up and had to read his own lyrics from a sheet.  And yet, for some reason I never really gave up on it. I can’t tell you why exactly, but two summers ago Chinatown just slowly became my go-to for early morning / late afternoon strolls. I found comfort in giving myself over to its pillowy soft embrace / cheating on my own aesthetic judgments.  Now that I’m card-carrying Bejarhead, I greeted Have we Met with open arms, and I was not disappointed.  The synths glimmer, the guitars add just enough punch, and his lyrics remain sharp as ever.  Its fitting that this was the last concert I saw before the iron curtain fell.  The one thing I had always turned my back on ended up being the last memory of dionysian group enthrallment I had to carry with me out into the desert of social isolation.  Come back soon Destroyer, come back soon, everyone.

10. Deeper – Auto-Pain

Ladies and gentlemen, get ready, because post punk is back! I always say my favorite genre is ‘sad songs you can dance to’ but post punk is a close second.  When I was in college post punk underwent a bit of a renaissance in the form of Interpol (back when they were still good), Bloc Party (ditto), Franz Ferdinand, and a whole slew of British one hit wonders (Maximo Park, Futureheads, Art Brut, the Bravery).  Fortunately, as is always the case, what’s old is new again, and stark melodic bass lines, angular guitars, and moody introspective speak-singing are back in full force.  Of the three post punk bands gracing this here top ten (Deeper, Fontaines DC, and Crack Cloud) each has its own little slice of the generic pie.  Fontaines have the deep gloom of Interpol/Joy Division, Crack Cloud ripple with the staccato energy of Gang of Four, and Deeper have the wiry dancieness of, well, Wire. So long as leather jackets and black and white photography remain cool, there’ll always be bands like this, and thank god for that.  In a true sign o’ the times, I learned about this band from some random girl’s Tik Tok in my for-you feed.  She repped five bands, two of which are in my top three, so I was like, sure I’ll give this band Deeper a go.  God bless the internet.  Finally, Deeper get bonus points for naming a song “This Heat,” who I’ve been spending a lot of time revisiting this year, and whose spikey guitars are all over this record.  

9. The Flaming Lips – American Head

There are few things as satisfying in art as being genuinely surprised by a beloved artist you had given up as culturally dead.  Since putting out their last masterpiece (2009’s Embryonic) the Lips have put out a string of good, if inconsequential, albums that befitting the ethos of the band could best be described as half baked (The Terror, Oczy Moldy, and a series of collaborative experiments).  Basically, they had reached that dreaded nadir where I was no longer interested in listening to their new output (cough The National, cough cough Arcade Fire).  So what made me give American Head a chance? That reader, is the point of art criticism! I can’t remember how the blurb on pitchfork read exactly, but I knew it referenced Tom Petty and a return to a preoccupation with more Earthly concerns—namely ‘70s heartland rock.  Well, this sounded intriguing, and boy was I not disappointed.  Sure, the Flaming Lips have already reached their sell-by date twice over (first in 1992, immediately followed by their MTV reinvention on 1993’s Transmissions from the Satellite Heart; and then again in the late ‘90s with the departure of guitarist Ronald Jones, followed by their creative pinnacle, ‘99’s symphonic masterpiece The Soft Bulletin), so it shouldn’t be all that surprising that this band could rise from the dead a third time.  Only, for the most part, they didn’t.  I guess I’m not surprised that American Head failed to reach a broader audience. Most people probably aren’t even aware that they are still a going concern, and after the failures of the last decade it makes sense that most weren’t interested in more tunes from the Oklahoma freaknicks.  But for those willing to give the band another chance, American Head easily delivers their best album since Embryonic, if not all the way back to Yoshimi.  Mixing ‘70s Americana with the star gazing of Soft Bulletin’s “Sleeping on the Roof,” the Lips deliver their best album in decades by foregoing the parlor tricks and returning to what they do best, taking trips to distant galaxies while keeping their feet firmly planted in the soil and songcraft of Oklahoma.

8. Cut Worms – Nobody Lives Here Anymore

This one is pretty easy.  Do you like George Harrison’s All Things Must Pass? If yes, listen to Nobody Lives Here Anymore and revel in this double album’s upbeat acoustic rock mediations.  If no, well there’s plenty of other good stuff out there.  Not quite as metaphysical or orchestral as All Things Must Pass, Nobody Lives Here Anymore still manages to hit that rockabiliy-pop sweet spot that Harrison used to mine.  I’m not quite sure what the definition of “troubadour” is, but it feels safe to call Cut Worms a troubadour, which is certainly better than his terrible stage name.  

7. Cigarettes for Breakfast – Aphantasia

Similar to Cut Worms, Cigarettes for Breakfast also involves a simple influence equation.  Do you pray at the altar of Loveless? If so, Aphantasia is just the record for you.  Sure, it’s a bit of My Bloody Valentine paint by numbers (“Breathe” even features the same squally guitar noise [it’s really hard to try and describe My Bloody Valentine effects ha] as “Soft as Snow (But Warm Inside)”) but when you’re as into shoegaze as I am, that’s never really a bad thing.  Plus, I’m being a bit unfair.  Everyone with textured tremolo heavy wall-of-sound guitars and cooed vocals is going to inevitably be compared to MBV, and Cigarettes for Breakfast do enough to chart their own course.  Perhaps most interesting is the musical journey this record charts.  Its loudest moment is its opening, where pummeling guitars more reminiscent of Sonic Youth with a touch of Dinosaur Jr. rip across hardcore style drumming. From there each song becomes a little more ambient, until closer “If Someone Could Help Me, Please” more or less floats away on its shimmering sheets of beautiful noise clouds.  In this sense, it bears a resemblance in structure, if not in sound, to Deerhunter’s Cryptograms, another album I spent a lot of time revisiting this year.  A shutout here is owed to the fine folks at Radio K, who had me diving for my shazam as this thing ripped across their airwaves.  So long as there is college radio, there’ll be a new crop of kids discovering via Kevin Shields that the electric guitar contains endless sonic possibilities.  

6. Fontaines D.C. – A Hero’s Death

The second entry in our top-ten post punk trio is A Hero’s Death by Fontaines D.C.  I’ll admit, on first blush it’s kind of a dumb band name (I just assumed they were some hardcore band from Washington DC chasing those Dischord Records glory days), but when you learn that the “DC” stands for Dublin City, it all clicks, as this band is sorta inescapably Irish in the way that James Joyce is.  Now this fact at first was also off-putting—if I went the rest of my life without ever hearing the Dropkick Murphy’s again I’d be quite content—but eventually it becomes integral to their sound, and not just because of the brogue in Garin Chatten’s vocals.  “Love is the Main Thing” is an incredible song in many ways, most notably because of the hypnotic quality of the drumming with its counterpoint between riding cymbal and staccato toms, but perhaps in the main (*wink*) for the way it manages to connote the weariness of a grey urban environment without ever being explicitly about it.  Just as Turn on the Bright Lights managed to perfectly capture New York in 2001, A Hero’s Death to me is the aural equivalent of a dense urban center like Dublin, especially after nightfall.  

5. Imaginary Softwoods – Annual Flowers in Color

It should come as no surprise that I listened to A LOT of ambient this year, and to me there was no better electronic record to chill the fuck out to during this insane year than Annual Flowers in Color.  I absolutely loved Emeralds’ Does it Look Like I’m Here? and was devastated they never followed that gem (*wink*) up.  In the immediate aftermath of the demise of Emeralds Mark McGuire’s solo albums got a lot of attention, but apparently the person I really loved in Emeralds was Imaginary Softwoods’ John Elliot.  Annual Flowers in Color is like if Dead City’s, Red Seas, Lost Ghosts were waiting in the departure’s lounge of Eno’s airport.  At the heart of the album lies the 10 plus minutes of “Another First/Sea Machine.” I could listen to this song forever, and on some particularly WTF 2020 lakewalks I more or less have.  Chunky synths, arpeggios that drift off to infinity, ‘80s soundtrack nostalgia.  I could live in these Softwoods for the rest of my sonic days.  

4. Pottery – Welcome to Bobby’s Motel

In another moment of nostalgia for my college years, Pottery are a welcome return to weird ass experimental Canadian bands.  They don’t sound anything like the Unicorns, but in spirit Pottery kind of remind me of them.  I’ve spilled a lot of digital ink here and elsewhere bemoaning the fact that Pitchfork (or perhaps, me) isn’t cool anymore, and to me no band embodies this more than Pottery.  They take a bunch of fun disparate elements—Talking Heads dance art rock, periodic weird pitch shifted vocal effects, hazy deep purple style guitars, and Queen style machismo disco—throw them into a witch’s cauldron, and come up with something off the wall that sounds like nothing else but is also instantly familiar.  This is the type of thing Pitchfork would have been all over in 2007, but instead now they’re too busy chasing conde nast clout clicks.  Oh well, nothing gold can last. But enough negativity, this here is a celebration of the joy of new music, and no new band embodies that unbridled joy like Pottery.  Along with Fontaines DC, this is the band I wish I most could have bopped around to with a bunch of sweaty strangers in the 7th St. Entry or Turf Club.  You can just imagine the call and response vocals and funky grooves getting the people moving.  Oh well, hopefully we’ll soon all be rocking the vaccine, they can breeze through town, and I’ll be the first person on the dance floor embarrassingly pumping my fist a half beat behind the rhythm.  

3. Pure X – Pure X

To paraphrase Same Elliott in the Big Lebowski, sometimes there’s a band, and well, sometimes there’s a band.  For me this year, that band was Pure X.  I absolutely loved their debut Pleasure way back in 2011, when lo-fi reverb heavy slow guitar music (ie, Galaxie 500) was all the rage. Their follow up Crawling up the Stairs was so bad I didn’t even bother listening to Angel, though perhaps that also owed a decent amount to just how terrible the art on that record is.  (I’ve since remedied this mistake; turns out that record rules).  Being that as it may, I can’t particularly tell you what drew me in to this year’s self-titled album, a full nine years after Pleasure first graced the stage.  In one sense it’s probably because Pleasure is one those albums that just never went out of my rotation.  Whenever the fahrenheit tips past 90 and the walk to the bodega is a few blocks longer than you’d like, that record always hits the spot.  Maybe I just knew this was the record I needed this year.  Either way, from the first bars of “Middle America” I was hooked.  The guitars crash over you, but never in a threatening way. Rather, they envelop you like a weighted blanket, comforting you in their sonic embrace.  Nowhere is this more true than on “Fantasy,” easily my favorite song of 2020 (especially since this was a year entirely devoid of dance floor bangers).  If this album came out in 1999 rather than 2020 I would have hit the repeat button on my discman and listened to this song forever.  

2. Crack Cloud – Pain Olympics

Pain Olympics is the answer to the question that no one asked: what if Arcade Fire’s (back when they were good) communal uplift was paired with Gang of Four’s stark anthem’s of industrialism’s collapse?  While on first blush this might sound like your standard album of punkish fist pumping angst, from when the female vocals (sorry there are too many people in this band for me to be able to figure out whose who) come in on opener “Post Truth (Birth of a Nation)” Pain Olympics reveals itself to be a very strange animal (likely a unicorn of some sort), especially as little orchestral swirls creep into the mix, giving it an almost Judy Garland (in hell) quality.  This subtle genre pastiche is given its best effect on stunner “The Next Fix.” That song starts out as an elastic spoken-word call and response addiction rumination, at the minute mark it starts to segue into a vocoded chill raver, then some horns crop up out of nowhere, then a spoken word passage, then at the two minute mark a chorus of voices come in, doing their best Broken Social Scene in the truest sense of the phrase.  This is perhaps one of the strangest records I’ve ever heard, but what is strangest of all is just how beautiful it is.  Crack Cloud are not for everyone, but if you really give it a chance, the returns are limitless.  

1. SAULT – Untitled (Rise) / Untitled (Black Is)

You cannot tell the story of 2020 without SAULT, which is why this pair of records is here at the top, even if under the influence of sodium pentothal (lets be honest, veritaserum) I might lean more towards Pain Olympics.  In June, the “anonymous” London project put out Untitled (Black Is), and then quickly followed that gem up with September’s Untitled (Rise).  Perhaps more amazing still is that these two albums, released so close together, have unique personalities.  Black Is is more pop/R&B whereas Rise has a dancy, electr(on)ic feel.  I lean more towards the latter, but honestly, both albums are so overstuffed with amazing moments that it’s borderline unbelievable that one outfit could put out so much amazing music in such a short span.  While these records would chart high even if sung in Hopelandic, there’s no escaping the social import of the lyrics.  One need look no further than Black Is’s “Don’t Shoot Guns Down” for the 2020 dance party at the end of the world.  As if that weren’t more than enough, it finds its analogue on Rise’s “Street Fighter,” and that’s SAULT in a nutshell: two albums in constant communication with one another, and more importantly, with the state of the world.  Guns down.  Don’t Shoot.  Let’s dance.  

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Grizzly Creek fire looking East. An odd start to our yearly roadtrip but smokeless skies do lie ahead.