When Coyotes Howl

People think owning a bar in a ski resort is glamorous, but, truthfully, it's an insane amount of work. Dillon, Colorado, where my bar was located, serves Keystone and Arapahoe Basin ski resorts, and is 20ish minutes to Breckenridge and 30 minutes to Vail. That's a lot of skiers. We also have Lake Dillon and the reservoir (the water supply for Denver), which brings boaters in from June through September, and then September marks the beginning of hunting season, which runs through October, and then in November, we roll back into ski season. It was year-round tourism.

May was our slowest time; the snow was melting, so the skiers were gone, and it was too cold for the boaters to be on the lake. Business owners, especially us bar and restaurant owners, spent a lot of time getting equipment repaired or replaced, sprucing our places up, and planning our annual "Flee the Summit" vacations, which happened from mid to late May.

I hadn't been able to take May off this particular year (1981), so the combination of an exhausting ski season, all the busy work of May, and what turned out to be a particularly busy boating season had left me both physically and emotionally tired.

By the first week of September, things had begun to taper off, and by the middle of the second week, things were uncharacteristically slow. One of my bartenders had called in sick, so I found myself helping out behind the bar. A couple at the bar asked for another round, and as I was pouring their drinks, I heard them discussing the upcoming full moon (which I was unaware of), and them wondering whether they'd be able to see it from Dillon.

Their conversation got me thinking... The out-of-town tourists typically left on Sunday and were replaced by new tourists on Mondays, so the transition caused business to be slow on those days, which also meant the band was off on Sunday and Monday nights, and we ran on a skeleton crew. The full moon was on Monday, September 14th, so it seemed like a great opportunity for a few days away, which meant I had a few days to plan my trip.

The first chance I got, I slipped back to my little office and called my friend Jake to see if I could come out to the ranch for a few nights of camping. I was tired, but I hadn't realized how tired until Jake said, "Son, you're always welcome here."

Friday morning, I began assembling my camping gear; tent, sleeping bag, coffee, a good bottle of Scotch, and a thermos full of Vodka/Cranberry from the bar, plus some food for the few nights I'd be gone.

I left the bar around 10:00 p.m., which was early for me; the staff and my assistant manager knew where I was going, and they had things well in hand. I slept soundly that night and by 9:00 a.m. Saturday, I had eaten and was packing my jeep.

The trip out to Jake's ranch was a hike. There was the first leg west on I-70, a 2.5-hour drive from Dillon to Grand Junction. Once in Grand Junction, it took me about 30 minutes to navigate back to Hwy 141, but that time always included stopping for gas, putting the top down on my jeep, and hitting the feed store for a pound of sweet feed (oats, corn, and molasses) for my favorite horse (God forbid I should show up without that!).

After the errands, I picked up 141 south to Gateway, which was another hour's drive, and then from Gateway, it was still another hour south to Nucla.

I wish I could tell you that it was a miserable drive, but with the top down on my Jeep, and Willie Nelson or John Denver blaring on my 8-track, it was truly a glorious drive. I mean, if you're bored by scrub, mesas, buttes, peaks, canyons, and gorges in one direction, and in the other direction, mountain peaks, more scrub, meses, buttes, peaks and sweeping views of the wide-open plains of the western slope and the occasional herd of elk, then yeah, you'd be bored. For me? No matter how many times I made the drive, I was always struck by its splendor.

Besides the sheer beauty of the western slope, living in Dillon was like living at the bottom of a sugar bowl. No matter which direction you looked, all you saw was the top of the snow-capped mountains, while out in western Colorado, the land was wide open and the views stretched on for miles. It felt liberating.

I'd called Jake just before I'd left that morning, so he knew about when to expect me.

I pulled off the road onto the driveway, which meandered back about 1/2 mile before any signs of human existence appeared, and then, it was a carefully fenced pasture. As I drove along the dirt road and got closer to the barn and main house, my favorite horse, Pinto, appeared and began running along the fence line whinnying and tossing his head. I'm not sure whether he liked me because of all the extra attention I gave him, or if it was our adventures, or it was because he knew I was always packing his beloved sweet feed.

Jake and I chatted while I saddled Pinto, strapped on the saddle pack bags, and transferred my tent, sleeping bag, and food from my Jeep onto Pinto's hindquarters. As I was completing the transfer, Mercy came out of the house carrying a paper bag. As she walked toward us, I couldn't help but smile.

She handed me the bag, and I accepted it before asking what was in it. She said, "I baked an Apple pie." She then asked if I wanted company. This wasn't entirely unusual, as we'd been trail riding together many times, but always as part of a group and never just the two of us. I told her, "Not now, I need some alone time." Locking eyes with me, she nodded... before breaking her gaze, she said, "Alright, I'll ride out tomorrow." She turned to walk away, giving me one look over her shoulder before going back in the house.

Mercy was a rare woman. She was 10 years older than I was, an easy 5'8 with jet black hair down to her shoulders and soft green eyes. While she was stunning by any measure, getting lost in her looks would mean missing the quality within. There wasn't anything on the ranch that Mercy couldn't do. She could mend a fence or spend a day branding cattle. I’d seen her cut a mean steer out from the herd and two hours later deliver a calf with all the care of a saint. She was curious about all things and incredibly well read. She was calm, patient, and carried a gentleness about her that belied the quiet strength she held within. She was the kind of woman who was good for a man's soul.

I turned back towards Pinto and met Jake's steely stare. He said, "You know she likes you." It wasn't so much a question as a statement. I nodded and said, "She's a fine woman." I wanted to say more, but, honestly, I didn't know what to say or where to start. Jake could see me struggling, so he nodded in understanding.

I pulled a drawstring pouch from my jeep, placed the paper bag with the pie in it, and hung it over the saddle horn. I handed Jake the keys to the jeep, knowing he'd probably move it somewhere (he usually did). As I pulled myself up into the saddle, Pinto let out a half-sigh, half-groan. I patted his neck as he shifted to accommodate my weight. 

Pinto was an old guy and a little slower than most, but he was gentle, big, sturdy, and he loved our adventures. On a typical trip, it would take us about 90 minutes to ride the 5 or so miles back to the area where we camped.

The campsite was well-established and had been used for several generations. The fire pit had stones stacked around it; there was a grate across the top and firewood stacked nearby. About 20' away was a freshwater spring with a small springhouse that held a couple of coolers.

For the horses, there was a small corral which Pinto wasn't fond of, and closer to where we set up the tents, there was a 50' long highline (a rope about 7' off the ground) strung between some trees so we could tie off the horses. Off a bit from those two things was a wooden lean-to that always had a few bales of hay tucked in there, along with other stuff that wasn't worth hauling back and forth, including a well-used cast-iron skillet, a coffee pot, metal plates, a big heavy cooler, and some saddle racks bolted to the walls. The whole campsite was well thought out and used often during the summer months.

I took the bridle off Pinto and slipped the halter on and tied him to the highline, and then sat about unpacking my camping gear. With each bundle I removed, Pinto shifted a little and seemed to perk up as his load lightened. Finally, I was able to remove the saddle packs and saddle and store them in the lean-to. When I emerged with a brush, I got a little snort and some head tosses. I spent about 20 minutes brushing Pinto. There's an old saying, "The outside of a horse is good for the inside of man." Over the years, others having watched me brush a horse have commented that "with each brush stroke, another piece of stress melts away from you." This was certainly the case when I brushed Pinto.

Once the tent was up, my sleeping bag stowed, and the food stored in one of the old coolers, I retrieved a metal bucket from the lean-to and fetched some water for Pinto, and gave him some hay, and then laughed as he stood staring at me. I walked over to the canvas satchel containing his bag of sweet feed and scooped out a few handfuls and carried it to him. As he ate from my hands, I thought about the apple pie and chuckled.

By now, it was about 5:00 p.m., and I generally liked having camp set up by 6:00 because it started getting dark by around 7:00, and the sun was fully set by around 8:30.

This time of year, daytime temps usually hit around 75 and get down to about 50 at night. Perfect sleeping bag weather, but also cool enough to want a campfire to sit around. Speaking of which, I still had firewood to cart over, a cast-iron skillet to scrub, and a few other small but time-consuming chores to knock out before I could fix dinner and investigate that apple pie.

After dinner, I poured myself a glass of Scotch and leaned back against "chair rock," which was a boulder about three feet tall and about that wide, and that had a flat, 30-degree slope, which was perfect to lean against. I looked to the west and caught the last of a magnificent sunset, the sky remaining orange for a while after the sun had disappeared. The fire was crackling, the fall field crickets were chirping, and Pinto was snoozing.

I turned my thoughts to the couple who had again offered to buy my bar. On one hand, their offer was insanely good; on the other, I questioned whether I was ready to sell and move on to another stage of my life. I was torn between hanging on to the bar and keeping the roots I had established or doing something more suited to my soul. I wasn't sure if the bar was what I wanted to do, but I didn't yet know what my soul needed. I thought about other jobs I'd enjoyed that were far less demanding than running a bar with 40 full-time employees, but they were just jobs while the bar was mine.

When I turned in, I didn't seem any closer to an answer than I'd been when I arrived, but I was at peace.

I awoke as the sunlight started filling the tent. My old Seiko said it was about 7:30, and the first order of business was… Okay, the second order of business was to get the fire started and get some coffee on. While I waited for the coffee to perk, I refreshed Pinto's water, gave him some more hay (and sweet feed), unhooked his lead from the highline, and walked him around a bit so he didn't get too stiff. I tried leading him to the coral, but, once again, he wanted nothing to do with it. Jake had once said, "I've never seen anything like it, but that horse sure don't like being too far away from you." He didn't. As I relented and walked Pinto over towards the campfire and the coffee, he nudged me a few times with his head as if to say "Thanks."

I wasn't sure what my day would hold. I was sure I'd take some sort of adventurous ride out to somewhere, maybe the creek or up the mountain, where the views to the west would be spectacular. I'd have to think about it.

About 9:00 a.m. Pinto started whinnying, and when I looked over, he was tossing his head about. Someone was approaching, but I hadn't heard anything. A few minutes later, I heard the clopping of hooves along the trail and was a bit surprised to find Mercy coming into camp. She had to have gotten up early to do all her morning chores and make it out to the campsite at this hour.

As I walked toward the highline, I watched as she slid out of the saddle. Her movements, both compact and graceful, showed a dismount perfected over many years. She smiled, tossed her hair, and asked if I'd had breakfast yet. I hadn't. She'd brought pancakes to warm up and sandwiches for lunch.

I got busy untacking her horse, and stowing her gear in the lean-to, and she went straight to heating up the pancakes. It didn't occur to me that she hadn't brought a sleeping bag, mostly because I never expected her to stay much past 4:00 p.m.

We'd been on many trail rides together and had quite a few picnics where we'd shared a blanket, but I think this was the first time we'd ever eaten breakfast together, and it was certainly the first time we'd ever been alone together.

After breakfast, we talked about which ride we were gonna take. She had some fencing she needed to check out, but it was on the way to where I'd wanted to go for the great views, so that became our plan.

We cleaned up the dishes (metal plates, old ceramic coffee mugs), put the food away in the coolers, and set about saddling our horses. By 10:30 a.m., we were well on our way.

We spent hours talking, as always, she asked questions about all the places I'd been… Germany, France, Italy, Japan. I think she had a wanderlust that she'd never been able to explore, and the books and movies just weren't filling the void. We cracked jokes about movies depicting certain places and tossed in funny lines from Shakespeare to mock some weird thing I'd seen.

After a nice picnic and looking out over the vast western landscape, well into Utah, we decided it was time to make the trek back down to camp. We figured the ride back would only take about two hours because we weren't inspecting the fence line.

We arrived back in camp around 5:00 p.m., and I commented about it being a bit too late to head back, and she laughed and said, "Well then, what's for dinner?" I headed to the cooler to pull out my other steak and the potato that was already wrapped in foil. I started to walk off and remembered the thermos I had brought with her vodka/cranberry cocktail. I chuckled at my having forgotten to take it with us for the picnic, but that was probably just as well, as the bridle and the bottle seldom mix well together.

We shared the steak and potato, and she had some cookies her mom had made, and we had those too. I poured us a couple of drinks, and when she saw the vodka cranberry, she laughed and called me thoughtful. I knew from our picnics that it was her favorite drink, and I had a flash thought wondering why I'd brought it.

We sat watching the sunset, not really talking, just enjoying the beauty of where we were, the sounds of nature, and each other's company.

By about our third drink, we'd shifted our position around to look towards the east and could see the moon beginning to rise. It was a little past 9:00 when we heard the first coyote howl, and she remarked that she'd not heard one in about a month. Now that she mentioned it, I hadn't heard one the night before either.

As we sat there listening, she lay her head on my shoulder and wondered what they were howling about. I thought one was calling for its mate, and she thought the mom was calling the pups in.

Midway through our 4th drink, Mercy looked at me and quietly said, "There's a change coming." I looked into those green eyes for a minute before asking, "What kind of change?" She said she didn't know, but that she had an uneasy feeling about it. I wrapped my arm around her.

She turned her attention back to the moon and the howling. After we finished our drinks, answered nature's call, and cleaned up a bit, we sat near the fire; it was getting chilly. Suddenly, she stood and said, "Put another log on." I did, and when I turned back, she was dragging the sleeping bag out of the tent. I looked inquisitively, and she took me by the hand and pulled me down onto the sleeping bag.

We made love. We made love on an autumn night, underneath a star-filled sky, by the light of a full moon, and serenaded by the howls of coyotes. The warmth of our touch soothing our goosebumps from the chilly night air.

After breakfast, we cleaned up the campsite, saddled up, and rode back to the house. We held hands most of the way, but she pulled away as we got within sight of the house. We unpacked the horses, I helped Mercy carry the tack into the barn, and in turn, she helped me load my gear into the jeep. Jake was gone. We stood holding each other and staring into each other's eyes until we heard the front door open. Mercy asked when I was coming back, and I told her, the first break I could get. She stared at me with those green eyes, nodded, kissed me goodbye, and walked away towards the house. As she climbed the front porch steps, she turned and looked at me, and a wave, quoted Juliet on the morning after she and Romeo had spent their first night together (and as Romeo was trying to leave before he got caught by Juliet's dad), said: 

"Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow,
That I shall say good night till it be morrow."

I laughed all the way back out to Highway 141 and smiled all the way home and for the next few weeks.

As it turns out, that was the last time I saw Mercy. During the '81-'82 ski season, our happy hours were standing-room only from 2:00 until 6:00, and from 6:00 in the evening to 11:00 at night, I had a line of tourists waiting 30-45 minutes to get in. I was working 14 to 18-hour days, 7 days a week. In March '82, I accepted the couple's most recent offer and completed the sale on April 23rd of 1982. I made one more camping trip, a one-nighter with my guy friends, but Mercy wasn't around. While Jake could tell I wanted to ask more, I didn't pry. In May, I moved back to Atlanta, where my family lived.

In 1996, on a family vacation to Colorado, we visited Dillon, and my old bar had become a sports bar. While there, I learned that Mercy's mom had died in the spring of 1986, and Jake passed 6 months later. They'd been married for 58 years. A year after their passing, Mercy sold the ranch and moved away, and no one knew where she'd gone. As I silently listened while my friend told the rest of the story, I hoped she had gone to Paris.

This quote is from "As You Like It" by William Shakespeare. It's about the tranquility found from living in a beautiful place away from the bustle and rush of crowds, and suggests that a thoughtful, secluded life in nature allows us to find wisdom and beauty everywhere:

"And this our life, exempt from public haunt, 
Finds tongues in trees, 
Books in the running brooks, 
Sermons in stones, 
And good in everything. 
I would not change it."

So, Mercy is a very special memory that I have kept tucked away from everyone for fear that speaking her name would somehow cheapen the memory, and it's a memory that deserves to be cherished and protected.

Epilogue:

My daughter has now read this story and has said she has very mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, she wants to hug Mercy because she had obviously fallen in love with me, while on the other hand, she's glad things worked out the way they did because otherwise, I would have never met her mother, and she "wouldn't be here and able to live the amazing life she's living." She added that she still has questions... like "How did I meet Jake?" and "How many times had I been to the ranch?" Because there seemed to be "a familiarity that went much deeper than I was willing to tell."