The project went much better without Deb. Everything was far less pressurized, a lot quicker, and in better spirits minus our fearless leader dominating us (plus now I could sneak along my fly rod). Any fuck-ups we had, we generally covered up without involving any bureaucratic paperwork. When we did manage to screw up enough where we had to alert Deb or another supervisor, Mike came to the rescue. He knew all our superiors, as well as all their baggage. That cushion came in handy whenever we had to break bad news.

Looking back, I realized at that point of the summer we had finally adjusted enough where life in Salmon had become almost routine. Nevertheless, Gina still got vexing looks/mumblings from a few of the closed-minded (usually at the Safe-Way Supermarket) cretins. I don't think they could make out where she was from, but they knew she wasn't the coveted Aryan type. This was another circumstance where Mike stepped in and made us feel better/wanted. He understood the backward town and the Forest Service protocol. He used his notoriety to smooth over these numerous awkward moments. With all the people we met and worked with, we connected best with Mike, probably because he could see beyond the minuscule town.

When I snapped out of my nostalgia in the midst of our frantic packing binge, I realized that I forgot our camera and all the film from the season at MikeÕs trailer. It was now 3:23 AM, a scant hour and 22 minutes till our ride showed up to drive us to the airport. Mike lived five miles away on a dirt road and the only method of transportation available was Gina's beat-to-shit, homemade mountain bike (with a slow air leak in the back tire). There was a good possibility that if I didn't go now, it might be lost in the shuffle and we'd never develop the pictures or use the camera again. Gina said she would figure out something with regards to packing/cleaning and I was off.

It was a typically freaking cold early November night, snowing lightly, dangerous wind chill factor, pitch black and I forgot my gloves and hat. I don't ever remember riding a bike through this kind of darkness. There were absolutely no street lights, or even any passing headlights. As often happened throughout our time here, I realized that I was the middle of freaking nowhere. I methodically pushed on, half-hoping I could sweat off the impending migraine.

This ride showcased the biggest problem we faced during our tenure in Salmon; we didn't have a car to get around in. We were always bumming lifts with people up to mountain lakes, hot springs and the grocery store. Lots of times we would end up riding our shitty/embarrassing bikes all through town then way into the woods, so we could go hiking, swimming, tubing or fishing. Most of the time, one of our crappy bikes was busted, so I had to ride Gina double, thus causing body odor as well as more embarrassment. So it was fitting that the last thing I'd do in Salmon was ride Gina's homemade junker to Mike's house during the deepest, coldest, darkest part of the night. My hands and ears became totally numb and it was hard to see/pedal through the engulfing murkiness. I was absolutely spooked with every sound/crackle but at the same time too tired/sick/frozen to care. Then something happened that jerked my spleen right up the esophagus and out my throat. With my head throbbing and my lungs burning as I made one of the last turns nearing Mike's home, I sensed some kind of ruckus just ahead of me. Since my motor skills weren't exactly up to par because of all the drinking/sleep deprivation, I didn't do anything to avoid it. Seconds later, I hit what I thought was a pothole (in Idaho?). It actually turned out to be a ticked-off Bobcat. Instantly, I jumped/fell off my bike and used it as a shield. The poor cat hissed, growled and grimaced then sauntered off, crossing three feet in front of me and into the bush (probably with a sprained paw). Poor feline bastard was hit and run-ed by a drunk rider (no other animals were hurt during the writing of this story).

Feeling more stupid than normal, I figured I'd tell Mike about it and the rest of our dumb-ass night. Tell him he's a lifesaver, slap him on the back, then hit him up for one last ride. But when I finally got there, his trademark white Toyota truck wasn't around. Where could he be this early or late and what the heckfire was I gonna do now? Even though I could almost smell the camera on the sofa, I couldn't figure out any non-property damaging entrance into his house. Not wanting Mike's final memory of me involving a busted window, I hobbled back on Gina's green, kiddie-sticker clad, goofy-ass bike and started pedaling. Defeated and extremely winded, I pushed on back home, this time much more weary of frolicking wild animals. It was now after 4 am, if I was home, packed, already dressed for the trip and asleep at this exact second, I would get 38 minutes of quality REM, but I wasn't. On top of that I didn't even get the mother-scratching camera! This thought made me rabid enough to forget the frostbite/slick road and push hard all the way home through the increasing falling flakes.

When I made it to the front door, I saw the camera bag hanging around the knob. A smiley face with "DOUCHE-BAG" was spelled out in the fresh snow beneath. Just then I remembered why we didn't go out with Mike last night: it was the first day of Elk hunting season which is kind of like the Super Bowl to bloodthirsty westerners. He was going to bed early, planning on a 4:00 am start.

I made it inside in time to see a glimpse of Gina scurrying towards warmer confines after her last Salmon, Idaho shower. I figured if I had enough strength to tell her about my recent idiocy, we'd get negative rest. So with Gina clean/sparkling and me head-ached/sweating, we hopped into bed one last time in Salmon, Idaho. As our resting heads faced each on the collective pillow, I flashed to a favorite "Simpson's" episode. Homer was working at the nuclear plant during the day and then going to the 7-11 and working all night because he promised to buy Lisa a pony for her birthday. The climactic scene showed Homer finally getting home from working the graveyard shift, putting on his pajamas, lying down next to Marge just in time to get up, swat the alarm clock off, get dressed and go back to work at the power plant. It was the classic case of life imitating art. Around 11 seconds later I heard the familiar sound of the eight cylinder Federal engine chugging into the driveway.

--Rod Murphy, Jr.