Interlude in Island Park
«I’m your blueberry.»
– Doc Holliday (Val Kilmer), Tombstone
YesSome gas stations are just pit stops. Others become temporary homelands, with cooks who have seen war, hikers turned local guides, and touring bands passing as modern troubadours.
Island Park Texaco truly feels like an island. There’s not much else around. Even the natural splendor of the region diminishes. The land is flattened, the distant mountains are reduced to hills. Houses and buildings lay scattered across the landscape, whether they wanted it or not: nothing spectacular, normal. But the gas station was a gem as far as gas stations go. It had a food truck and fruit stand outside, a deli counter, clean bathrooms, and even a small outdoor section; I was able to replace a lost tent stake. Better yet, outside on the porch were a few picnic tables shaded by umbrellas and a nearby electrical outlet. We were as comfortable as cats in cardboard boxes as we enjoyed our snacks and soft drinks. But we weren’t in Rexburg yet and we had a ways to go, so we got back on the road and stuck out our thumbs. An old beat-up black van pulled up and a short, hip-looking Asian guy in a flat-brimmed baseball cap and a trout t-shirt jumped out and started walking toward it.
“Are you hikers?”
«Yeah.»
“Why are you going that way?”
I explained to him. He nodded gravely and said, «I should let you know that hitchhiking is illegal in Idaho, and the Rexburg cops don’t exactly like homeless-looking guys.»
I shrugged. «I guess I’ll have to get rid of my weed then. Either way, I still have to get there in the next few days.»
The guy thought for a moment and then said, «A few days? I can take you. How about I drop you off at a campground and take you when your medications are ready?»
I looked at Ice Cream and then back at the guy. «That would be awesome. We’d be grateful and I’d pay for your gas. Rexburg must be what time or more away?»
«Something like that,» the guy said. «Let me make room in the back of the truck for your stuff. Then I’ll take you to a campsite.»
***
The camp was just a mile or two from the Texaco, a small patch of primitive tents on a bluff overlooking the Snake River. We spent an hour with the guy, smoking, chatting and getting to know the area. The guy’s name was Rope and he had done a LASH at AT in 2018. He was now a manager at a nearby business. He lived half trash, like many did, in a converted cargo trailer that he moved across BLM lands.
In the end, Rope had to go back to work, so he left us alone. Our devices were to set up the tent and take a nap, as well as walk along the cliffs to the river for a dip. The water was quite warm and the sun felt good. From time to time fishermen in boats or teenagers in tubes floated by. And that was life along the Snake River. We would spend the next few nights in the same way. However, I would spend my days at Texaco Heaven, passing the hours people watching, eating, and writing a few articles. One of the cooks went out to smoke several times a day. He was an old, gray-haired fellow; Imagine the type of sergeants you would see in a war movie and you have that type. Deep voice, a high, tight silver bob that needed trimming, boots that looked like they could take a hit from a landmine. We just called him Cook and he was fine with it. It turns out that both he and Rope were ex-jarheads, along with several of the other locals, and had a certain kind of tribal friendship that only jarheads can share. They had all searched for this place independently. None of them told their stories openly, but the stories filtered out anyway: in silences and crooked smiles, in the way they pursued fishing and blueberries and hunting and hiking. Anything far removed from Fallujah, from war, from the darkness that lay both at the margins and at the center of human nature.
Later, as she sat writing and Ice Cream cut up The Lord of the Rings on her Kindle, a large passenger van pulling a cargo trailer pulled up. The half dozen people came out and they all seemed too smart and a little quirky to be normal hikers. They took a look. Meticulously chosen outfits and jewelry. Most entered, but one leaned against a nearby post and lit a cigarette.
«Are you a band?» I asked.
He smiled. “What gave him away?”
«You’ve got the look. What’s the name of the band?»
“Fruit,” he said. «What are you going to?»
«Hikers.»
It turned on. «Very cool.»
We exchanged questions about each other’s lives, admiring a part of life that we each appreciated, but would probably never experience. Life on stage versus life on the track. In closing I asked, «If I were going to start listening to your band, where would I start?»
«Great question! Thanks for asking. Definitely start with Labor of Love.»
The rest of Fruition left the station, and my single friend and his band loaded up and left, heading to the next show. I uploaded them to YouTube Music later. Not exactly my vibe, but close enough to enjoy on a sunny porch in the middle of nowhere.
The cook came out. He sat on the railing and lit a cigarette. «I already have four quarts of blueberries frozen. This season is going well.»
“What do you do with them?”
He shrugged. «Just eat them, I guess.»
«That’s what I would do too.»
He snorted thoughtfully. «Maybe a cake. Have you ever made a cake?»
I shook my head, but Ice Cream said he had made a cake and it wasn’t that difficult.
«Maybe I’ll make a blueberry pie. It might be good.» He put out his cigarette and went back inside.
***
My medications arrived and Rope drove us to Rexburg to pick them up, and we got pizza for the trip back from a local joint. New York style. It was ok. Rope agreed to take us back to West Yellowstone the next day. There was an appointment and we all wanted to see it.
The meeting was slower than I expected. In my opinion, it was a bustling event, filled with hundreds of people, many of them dressed in 19th century period costumes and doing things like skinning animals or cooking over campfires. In reality, there were dozens of people, not hundreds, and they were mostly small shops set up under canvas tents selling animal skins and associated trinkets. On a whim, I bought a buffalo skin hat. He looked ridiculous, with a baseball cap-style leather visor and a big, puffy shirt. From a distance it made me look like I had a huge Bob Ross afro. After purchasing the hat, I permanently dyed my new Columbia shirt with some type of oil. One guy didn’t get the memo, and instead of 19th century stuff at his booth, he had medieval ren-fair stuff. Maces, swords, axes and a chain mail. I tried the mail while Rope tried to kill me with a mace. When I took it off, oil. All over my shirt. Forever.
After he had examined all the stalls and killed me with a sledgehammer, Rope had to go back to work. We shared Instas and said goodbye. If you ever read this friend, thanks again and best wishes!
Next was the Indian taco stand. The owner talked about the lineage of his dog, a supposed half-wolf that descended from Balto, the dog who pulled the sled full of medicine to save the children of an Alaskan village from illness. The dog barely looked like a husky, and I would have bet my left arm that he didn’t have wolf blood, but I eagerly agreed with the man’s story and let out all the right whoops and woofs. Then I pet the dog, who was friendly and oblivious to his personal legend. We ordered our Indian tacos and waited. A suburban-looking guy in line behind us started ordering and asked the cook, «What kind of meat is in this?»
“Run over!” the cook joked.
Mr. Suburban didn’t like that. His face contorted with disgust. «I would prefer,» he said pointedly, «if you called him beef.”
I couldn’t help it. «You said it was roadkill? What kind? I prefer a possum.»
Another guy eating at one of the tables chimed in: «I like armadillo! It’s crunchy!» He bit into his taco.
Mr. Suburban said, «I’ll take a beef tacos, please.”
“A taco on the way!” The cook didn’t miss a beat. His dog wagged his unwolfish tail.
Well fed and moderately entertained, Ice Cream and I left the meeting point and headed back to the permit office. There was the same lady who had received us the last time. He looked at us and saw the sun and the road dust we had picked up on our trip to Rexburg and my dirty shirt. «It’ll look like you’ve had a great time since you were last here.»
“Hell of a time,” I agreed.
Now knowing where T. Rombelheimer’s office was, we showed up there and got our permits. Easily dizzy. Then, with a new buffalo hat on my head, a new shirt permanently oiled with medieval grease, bellies full of roadkill, ice cream, I headed out of West Yellowstone along the newly built railroad and into the last little bit of Idaho before entering the park proper.
Unless I am given express permission to use them, all names and path names in my articles have been changed. Any resemblance to real people is a coincidence. If you like my writing, feel free to subscribe or buy me a coffee using the Suggest the Author button.
