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textales · 7 years ago

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“Cut Bank Cop”

“Oh god, we’re not stopping?!” This can’t be happening. I shook off and zipped up, slammed the restroom door open, grabbed my bag and ran toward the nearest exit. Trying not to whack into the other passengers, I shrieked “I have to get off here!” as the train known as the Empire Builder moved slowly east toward Chicago. What the hell?

I’m supposed to get off in Essex, a teeny town of less than 50 people, smack dab in the middle of the Rocky Mountains on the west side of the Continental Divide. I made the trek from California to surprise my father on his 80th birthday. The party would be at my step-sister’s cabin, just down the hill from the train station, perched on banks of the middle fork of the Flathead, directly across the river from Glacier Park in Montana.

My step-brother Mark and his wife drove over from Bend, Oregon. The three of us were going to be surprise guests at the party - they’d pick me up from the train and we’d show up at Jane’s place for the big reveal around noon. I couldn’t wait to see the look on my father’s face when we piled out of the car, since for weeks I’d been apologizing for how I couldn’t be there. Truth is, I wouldn’t miss this for the world – I mean really, it’s not every day a dad turns 80, right?

Our clandestine plan was working perfectly until that moment. Just an hour earlier, I called Mark from Whitefish to let him know the train was on schedule. “Grab a cup of coffee and hang out on the front deck….we’ll be there soon,” he said.

As I ran through the dining car I watched the pine trees slowly moving by. “Oh shit,” I thought to myself. “Where is the next stop? Is it Shelby? Holy fuck…this can’t be happening. I am a fucking idiot.” I pictured Mark and Andrea waiting at the train station as I’m nowhere to be found, with no way to communicate since cellphone service is nonexistent in this part of the planet.

Trains, Planes and Automobiles

I was so proud of myself for making this happen, finally. This was Take Two - just one year prior I’d planned the same trip with a nearly identical itinerary, but then to surprise my step-mother on her 80th birthday. On that trip my sister was the co-conspirator and the only one who knew I was coming – oh, besides my friend Tom who drove from Helena (a four hour trip each way!) to shuttle me around. But that plan never got off the ground – literally – since the plane never left Oakland. There was something wrong with the front landing gear, and without parts to fix it or a replacement plane to send (and after making us wait for hours while they tried to sort it out), the airline canceled the flight and refunded our money.

Since I couldn’t find another flight to get me there in time for the surprise (short of hiring a private jet), I canceled the trip entirely. It’s not like I was going to Los Angeles – trying to get from the Bay Area to the Glacier Park International Airport is never easy, let alone on the last minute of a Fourth of July weekend. Fast forward to a year later and here I am thinking to myself: “Not again!”

Do the gods just not want me to be here? It’s one thing to miss a trip due to a mechanical problem completely beyond my control. But missing the party because I decided to use the bathroom on the train (especially since I knew we were so near the stop) would be downright idiotic. I’d made my way from Oakland to Kalispell by plane, and then caught the train from Whitefish to Essex, and now I’m going to miss my dad’s birthday party because I was listening to “Do You Know the Way to San Jose?” while standing there with my dick in my hand?!

It’s not like I’ve never been on a train. To the contrary, I take trains all the time and figured I had plenty of time to pee. But it didn’t stop at the station. What gives?

“I have to get off the train!” I screamed, passing by the Forest Ranger tour guide with a headset who just minutes ago was touting the rugged splendor of the American West to attentive tourists in the Sightseer Lounge car.

Now we’ve stopped…whew…the tour guide guy must have called the driver dude. Seeing desperation in my eyes, one of the uniformed attendants said “Go to the last car and they will let you out.” His reaction suggested this wasn’t the first time this had happened.

I could hear mutterings of other passengers who were understandably annoyed. “Why have they stopped?” “They stopped twice.” Blah blah blah. I don’t care if they’re pissed – I am NOT going to miss my dad’s 80th birthday.

I made my way through the aisles carrying the only piece of luggage I had. It was a messenger bag I borrowed from my big gay husband. It had “Gladiator” embroidered on the side and was a souvenir from a trade show he’d worked. It didn’t matter what I’d done or how far I’d travelled or if I missed the train or even if I ended up in jail: if I lost that bag I might as well not come home. As instructed I ran to the end car. It was the sleeper car, all dark and quiet with a sign on the door that that said you can’t be here unless you have a ticket. At first the woman running the sleeper car was about to shoo me away. “I’m not sure I can let you out here.” Then her radio crackled, she mumbled something, grabbed a key and pulled a lever. “Watch yourself” she said as I stepped outside onto the gravel. It was a maybe three feet off the ground but it wasn’t like I was jumping out of an airplane. Whew….I was out of there and on solid ground.

Panting and out of breath, I noticed the conductor guy I spoke to in Whitefish. Now he is standing on the cement platform maybe three cars from the sleeper car where I’d just jumped out.

“Didn’t you hear? We called twice,” he said as he pushed a button on a hand-held scanner thing that I assume registered some sort of passenger count.

“I’m sorry, I thought I had a minute” I said apologetically.

As it turns out, while I was taking a pee and listening to Dionne Warwick on my iPod, the train had slowed to a crawl as we passed the Izaak Walton Inn, moved another few hundred yards and landed, as planned, at the official platform where it was going to stop anyway. Had I paid attention and been at the intended exit door when they called I could have gotten off the train sensibly and without all the panic and drama.

I later learned that Essex is a “flag stop”, meaning the train stops there only if someone has pre-arranged to get on or off at that station. The conductor did have me marked to get off there which is why, thankfully, they stopped as scheduled. All of my freaking out was so unnecessary.

I thanked the conductor guy for managing the situation and apologized for causing a commotion.

Then just like magic, out of nowhere appeared a young dark-haired girl in a red Ford van.

“Do you need a ride?”

Oh, duh, I completely forgot…I’d pre-arranged the hotel shuttle from the Izaak Walton Inn to pick me up.

Good lord…what just happened? My head was spinning. But I had that Gladiator bag on my shoulder so I knew all was okay. Whew.

Meet Me in Montana

The Izaak Walton Inn is a charming, rustic Tudor-style 33-room hotel built in the late 1930s as lodging for railroad workers. Looking a lot like a gingerbread house plucked from Switzerland, it’s listed on the National Register of Historic Places and is situated in what could be some of the most remote wilderness in the continental United States. Cell phone service is non-existent and there are no phones or TVs in the rooms (although there is a payphone in the lobby and limited Wi-Fi for hotel guests). For years I’ve wanted to stay in the main lodge or in one of the nearby cabooses which have been converted into mini cabins – and part of the appeal being the freedom from being reachable by cellphone. There’s a cute little bar with a pool table and seating for maybe a dozen or so, and there’s a phenomenal restaurant serving surprisingly sophisticated food for such an outpost. Not that I’d eat it, but the menu had Trout Almondine with cranberry wild rice and littleneck clams steamed in white wine with garlic.

With just two Amtrak stops daily (the morning train heading east from Seattle to Chicago, evening going west,) you’re hundreds of miles away from any “real” city and you could almost forget about civilization, except for when the freight trains rumble by. Everything from cows to cars ride on those rails, and the freight trains run almost constantly, even in the dead of winter.

Mark and Andrea met me ten minutes or so after I checked in….a woman named Marta (imported from one of those northern European white places where people ski) helped me get settled.

I squished into the back of Andrea’s two-seater and seven minutes later we arrive at the cabin where my dad and stepmother greeted us with the anticipated amount of surprise. Red even cried a little. Bingo! Now that’s the reaction I was hoping for!

Finally, after all the chaos, I’m here at my destination and I can spend time with my dad and parts of the family I’ve not seen in decades. Of course I’m still amped up on adrenaline from thinking I’d missed the train stop, so when Mark invited me on a hike to check out the old swimming hole I happily said yes. Besides, there will be plenty of time to relax when the sun goes down. I’m so looking forward to telling stories around the camp fire.

It’s almost criminal how little I know about my home state. Even though I was born, raised and lived in the Treasure State until I was 22, I’d been to the Flathead area less than a handful of times. When asked about Yellowstone and Glacier National Parks I’d reluctantly have to admit I don’t really have much experience in those places. When I was a kid I avoided those tourist traps. Oh sure, I knew about moose and grizzly bears and mountain lions and other potentially life-threatening critters that could eat you, but my Montana was less hunting and fishing and more neon and parties. The only other time I drove on Highway 2 was maybe 15 years ago, so it’s not exactly familiar territory. Now I’m curious – there is still a sense of mystery about this land and so much of it I haven’t yet seen. I’m not expecting to see a grizzly bear, but it wouldn’t kill me to put my feet in the water.

The river was higher than usual because there had been an abnormally high amount of snow over the winter. Even though it was July and the sun was gleaming and it was in the 80s, the water was maybe 33 degrees. There were groups of people floating on rafts and although it looked fun I thought they were crazy…just a minute or two in that almost freezing water would put anyone into shock. Call me a pansy if you must, but I think I’ll stay on dry land.

As we rounded the curve near the old swimming hole we noticed a yellow kayak on the rocks of the river bank. Who would go kayaking in this water? Are they nuts? And where did that come from?

There was no paddle to be found. And Mark noticed there was no skirt (something I wouldn’t know to look for but he knows what he’s talking about). We yelled to see if the owner was nearby, maybe taking a pee. “Is anyone out there? Yo, is this your yellow kayak?” Silence. Nothing.

The kayak looked newish. There was no license sticker like you need with a boat, nor was there anything to suggest this thing was owned by a guide or a place that does organized rafting trips. I figured we should just leave it there. We could come back in an hour. But Mark was insistent that because there was no paddle and no skirt there had been a situation.

He peeled the cover off and tipped the kayak upside down to drain the water. It was full - clearly it had been completely submerged. “What’s that?” I asked as he pulled out a bundle that looked like a rolled up raincoat. “It’s a dry bag” said Mark as he ripped open the Velcro to look inside.

I noticed a cocoon attached to the outside of the dry bag. Clearly, this cocoon or spiders nest or whatever it was - this was proof this kayak and its contents had been here for a while. Mark opened the thing which clearly hadn’t done its duty as a “dry” bag, since the contents inside were all soaking wet. Inside was a wallet, a set of car keys, and a cell phone.

Mark checked…the last time the phone had been turned-on was six days ago. The wallet had a Driver’s License and credit cards. Oh shit…now this is serious. We yelled out again, “Hey….is anyone here?” Again, silence, except for the sounds of the gentle rapids of this river that was barely above freezing since it’s technically runoff from a glacier.

Mark and I returned to the cabin with the dry bag and its stuff. We’d go back later to retrieve the kayak. Peggy and Jane were prepping for Red’s big birthday party as Mark explained what we’d found on our short hike.

“Don’t touch anything, that is evidence” Peggy stated calmly.

Jane picked up the landline to call Flathead Search and Rescue. She wondered who might be on duty this weekend (everyone knows everyone in these parts) and kept her cool while making the call.

“No, call 9-1-1. This is an emergency” screeched Peggy.

“Oh Mom. It’s not that big of a deal,” said Jane.

“It is if there’s a dead body,” uttered Peggy with all the wisdom of an 80-year-old grandmother.

As I stood there envisioning divers in scuba gear dredging the river bottom, I couldn’t help but think that if there’d been a report of a missing kayaker from six days ago it would have been all over the news by now. Wouldn’t there have been search parties and helicopters? I vaguely recall a report of a guy lost in the Bob Marshall Wilderness….it was on the TV news in Kalispell and in the Daily Interlake newspaper and I knew about it through Facebook. But that was months ago…this guy’s phone was hot just six days ago.

Mark paid no attention to his mother’s warning and was still digging through the wallet. Behind the driver’s license was another ID: this guy was a police officer for the small town of Cut Bank, about 75 miles east of where we were.

A Cop? Oh my…the plot thickens.

While Jane talked to the dispatcher at Search and Rescue, Mark and I took the Rhino (a 4 wheeler ATV) up river to get the kayak - they’ll certainly want it as evidence. And now that I know missing guy is a cop my mind starts to run amok with all kinds of conspiracy theories and potential plots and outcomes. This is thrilling. And I thought almost missing my stop on the train was a rush.

We returned to the river bank where we left the kayak. Much to our surprise, now it’s gone. What the hell? Mark yelled out, thinking kayak guy might be close. Again, nothing but the sounds of the rapids.

Had Cut Bank Cop busted someone who really wanted him gone? Did he or an accomplice plant this as evidence, hoping someone like us would stumble upon it and call the authorities? After several months or years would someone be collecting the insurance money and he’d surface in Mexico or Belize? If we were to believe the cell phone we found in the dry bag, he had literally been up the creek without a paddle for six days.

With no kayak in tow Mark and I took the Rhino back to the cabin. I was anxious to hear what the Search and Rescue people had to say. Would they be sending a team with scuba divers and cadaver dogs? Why don’t I hear helicopters yet?”

Meanwhile, not to be bothered by any of this commotion, Red was sitting on the front deck, leisurely whittling away at a piece of wood he was carving for one of the grandkids. “Hey look,” he said, calmly glancing toward the river as a guy in a yellow kayak, with a paddle, made his way down the river. Remembering dude’s name from his driver’s license and Cop ID, Mark yelled out “Hey, are you (so and so)?”

“Yes…..oh wow, is that mine? Did you find that floating in the river?” he asked, referring to the dry bag Mark had in his hands. “We found it in the kayak and noticed there wasn’t a paddle or a skirt and were afraid of the worst.”

Cut Bank Cop, so very happy to have his wallet, keys and cell phone back, explained that he and his wife were up river when she lost control of her vessel, flipped over and managed to get herself to the shore. Watching it all happen, almost in slow-motion, he beached his kayak and walked up to meet his wife who was clearly now done with this river ride experiment. Fuck this…she’s going back to the car. She left in a huff, headed to wherever they’d left the car, a place called Payola. Oh, and now, well, she’s technically missing and so is her kayak. But dude wasn’t the least bit worried. “She’s got a gun” he said. “She’ll be fine.”

I can’t help but think about the document I sign every year that says I won’t take money under the table for playing someone’s record – but this is different Payola and not even spelled the same way.

Anyway, he’s cool as a cucumber. Shouldn’t he be at least a little worried? His wife is stumbling through the wilderness in a place where grizzly bears eat people. Just earlier this year some bicyclist ranger dude ran across a bear and met his demise on a trail less than a mile from about right here. Would she make it to Payola? Jesus…this is getting crazy. If he isn’t going to worry about her, well, I will.

After thanking us profusely for fetching his wallet and phone, Cut Bank Cop went with Jane to get his pickup truck a few miles up the road while Mark and I went looking for the wife’s missing red kayak.

As we were bombing down the road in the Rhino we ran across a neighbor who mentioned he found a woman walking around, all soaking wet and pissed off. She wanted a ride to Payola. Whew, okay, she’s not bear food and she’s not dead.

A couple minutes later, after Mark and I observed a red kayak ditched at a neighbor’s private beach, I noticed a pickup truck approaching with # 38 on the license plate. “That’s a 38-Special,” I thought to myself. In Montana a 38 on your license plate means the vehicle is registered in Glacier County – the same county where Cut Bank is located. Sure enough, the driver is Cut Bank Cop, out looking for his wife’s missing red kayak that Mark and I spotted at just that moment.

“As luck would have it, we found your other kayak too!” Mark uttered. He then helped load it in the bed of the “38 Special” as Cut Bank Cop kept thanking us for saving his ship.

“I can get another wife…but the kayak, can’t lose that.”

He was so very grateful and offered us a reward for finding his missing stuff.

“Absolutely not,” said Mark. “We are Montanans, after all, and we look out for each other.�� We said our goodbyes and returned in the Rhino to the cabin.

As I glanced at the Gladiator bag sitting on the deck, next to my dad who was still carving the wood thing for the grandkid, I took stock of the day. No missed trains, no dead bodies, no grizzly bears gnawing on wayward kayakers.

Okay, enough adrenaline rush for the day. Finally, it’s time for that beer and a chat with the old man around the campfire. After all, this is what I came here for in the first place.

#montana riverstories copsarecool

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