I was 17 - Fresh from a Boulder, Colorado school for dropouts - I'd barely finished the ninth grade. I'd read about Sylvan Hart, The Last of the Mountain Men, and set out with a boy-scout backpack to find him.
Eschewing maps, I wandered the Salmon River Wilderness -- as it was known in them days. At the end of the road, before it turned up French Creek and wound up the mountain to Burgdorf, lived a tall, ninety-year-old string bean who started his day with a shot of whiskey.
I met him when I followed the road past the turnoff to see what there was. I walked in those days and, as now, was something of an anomoly -- just like everybody else in that part of the world.
On Friday and Saturday nights around 10pm or so, I'd see his truck go by. The road was a narrow lane cut into the steep mountainside. There were sheer dropoffs into the river where folks dumped their unwanted cars and a few who missed the turn came to their end.
Accordion, Cup o' Wine & Boiled 'Taters
I start the day, after breakfast, with a bite of coffee. Wine in the evening causes reflux so I decided to copy the old man. And it facilitates accordion practice and cooking. 50+ years later, I toast his memory with a couple of sips -- on a fine day somewhat like then, for wandering.
It's 1:30 or later by the time I'm ready to roll. The wine,
incompatible with the heart meds, has LONG since worn off.
