Wolf Stuff 5

We woke up cold and hungry. The tent was covered in morning dew and the campground was quiet while I gathered all my toiletries from the trunk of the car and trekked to the public restroom and showers. I was on a mission. I wanted to investigate the White Birch, if only for an hour. While L showered and dressed, I'd be out exploring the grounds of the almost mythical motel of my childhood.

There wasn't much to it. The motel was a two story deal with an office and a laundromat and a shed. The signage was large and imposing. I liked it. It seemed confident. I needed to borrow some for the moment.

I fixated on the shed. I remember hearing it so clearly: Roger shot himself in the shed. In the shed. In the shed. I walked over to the shed. I stood in front of it. I felt nothing. For a minute. Then, I started to feel a little silly. I glanced over to make sure the new owners didn't see me staring at the shed. I also didn't want them to see me taking pictures of it. But, I thought if I had a photo, then I could use that, I could stare at the photo until some profound feeling came over me, some moment of clarity where I all my childhood questions about Roger's death were answered.

Even though I didn't really have questions. I just had sorrow. I didn't know Roger well enough for it to make a big impact on me. I knew his daughter. I knew his best friend. I don't know what I thought I'd learn about the man for whom they grieved. I don't know what I thought a shed on a campground in northwestern Montana would tell me.

"Let's go," I said to L after I stomped back to my car. She was packing everything up, giving me time to talk with ghosts. There were no ghosts there. Unless you counted my childhood thoughts. I didn't.

"I'll drive," I said.

We headed further north to drive the narrow road inside Glacier National Park. I'd never even heard of Glacier before plotting my way back home. Maybe I had heard of it and it didn't register. I wasn't really a kid who paid attention to national parks or state parks or that sort of thing. We had a state park back home that my family and I hiked through a lot, but it was just a part of the area. You could cross the street in front of our house and start hiking. And it wasn't a state park. I didn't know what the fuss was about. I didn't know.

I mean, I'd been to the Grand Canyon by that time. I'd seen a few geographical wow-ers. But I wasn't prepared. The bartender didn't tell me. He didn't describe it accurately. He got it wrong. Simply because he didn't get it right. He didn't describe the majesty of the mountains in Glacier National Park, and for that, I was angry.

Or maybe I was angry that I didn't meet the ghost of Roger while I camped at the White Birch Motel and Campground. Maybe I was angry that I couldn't get an answer to whether or not Roger 1.) took his own life or 2.) why he took his own life. I wanted to know why so I could give my father an answer. He'd lived for almost twenty years without his best friend. That made me angry.