Venerable Lapdog

Jade Cove    By Jay Bates

I fairly flew down the lightly traveled road, through the mist and scattered rain, among the resident literary ghosts imagined, going down Big Sur.

Visions of Jeffers, Kerouac, and Miller  swirled; over the Bixby Bridge, beneath the forever circling giant condors; an interlude at Pitkins Curve Bridge and the massive construction of Rain Rocks rock shed.

“And here the heavy future hangs like a cloud; the enormous scene; the enormous games preparing. Weigh on the water and strain the rock; the stage is here, the play is conceived; the players are not found.” visions of Jeffers unbound

The fog bore down on the pendent cliffs, as if whispering follow me, follow me into the breaking surf, but the mountains stood firm with their aerie crests, but for an occasional rolling rock; and I drove on.

Rounding a curve, I passed a plain sign, “Jade Cove”  I had arrived. Slowly circling I found my assigned camping spot and backed in, found my friends and headed for the cliffs.

So here I was at Jade Cove and soon clambering down the cliffs on a juted frayed rope, tempting the jostling waves, fearing a rogue wave; digging and moving rock in the tidal zone.

Tiny bits of apple green jade glistened among the sand fleas, and lots of pretender serpentine and jasper among the flotsam and jetsam. Is this jade, Harry? No way, keep looking Jay.

Soon storm clouds moved in and we beat a hasty retreat up the slippery sliding cliff face and back to our vehicles and prepared for the long oncoming stormy night.

Around midnight, I awoke to the heavy tattooing of hard-driven rain on the rooftop of my battered Jeep. I tried the earplugs, without much success. I laid there in the total darkness remembering;

Boy he must of gone crazy out there. Ah but they’ve never seen the northern lights, they have never seen a wild grizzly, They’ve never seen a giant condor on  wing, They’ve never seen the sights atop Mount Rainier.

Slowly the dawn burned bright and the mountain tops glistened with fresh fallen snow. Is this not a special place with snowy peaks and thundering breakers on towering cliffs? I must be crazy to keep going outback. I hope it doesn’t show.

We drove beneath one of the numerous bridges on Route One built when men dared to gouge a road from the mountainside above the surf. Now they work painfully slow, to keep the sea and mountain at bay so we mortals can fly down the wild coast.

Out into the tidal zone, ever vigilant for rogue waves, we walked among the boulder stack looking for diopside with streaks of jade, I found some jade. My eyes were calibrated at last. A few precious pieces to remember another trip outback.

Back in camp I met a local jade diver who showed us some beautiful blue jade and some outlaw gold dredgers who had their dredge destroyed by a jade diver from Carmel. Yes, the play conceived, the actors found, and conflict unbound.

The breakers bore in, the mountains continue their slow rise and crumbling into the sea inordinately on conflicting tectonic plates, oblivious to the puny plays and conflicts of man.

Sand fleas in an enormous game. Another momentous trip into the outback, and some jade at last

This is a copy of my Grandfather’s poem I copied word for word as he had written it on a piece of stationary from the Queally Land and Livestock Company. One of my cousins have previously had it published in Laramie Wyoming by a local company.

Queally Land and Live Stock Company
Stock Raising

The Tale The Bottle Told
By Jay L. Johnson

A drink. No thank you pard
Though to refuse comes pretty hard
For I have been in the toils of Demon Rum
And to answer no bothers me some

I will tell you a story, this a tale a bottle told
Of an old range pal, who has passed into the fold
We were riders, and he and I
Were punching cows for the lazy Y

The boys all called him Sunny Jim
I go by the name of Rawhide Slim
When we all got peeved, sore and riled
He took things cool and I joked and smiled

Out on the round-up when it rained a spell
And we all rolled out at the daylight yell
Grumbling and cussing a puncher’s life
Jim would be cheerful mid all the strife

But Jim must have his periodical
And that no doubt made him a prodigal
For all of us boys could tell by his ways
That in his past he had seen better days

After the fall round-up and the beef were in
Winter settled down and it snowed like sin
Out to the line camp at Teepee Ring
Went Jim and I to ride fence till spring

The nights were long, the days passed slow
And Jim began to talk of the Bow
I could tell by that and other sign
That he was hearing the call of the wine

We rolled out one morning, twas cold and bright
And Jim allowed he would go to town and stay oer night
He saddled up his black horse Joe
And hit the trail for Medicine Bow

Along in the night it began to blow
And soon the air was filled with drifting snow
Blast after blast came swooping along
And the wind kept howling its dismal song

The second morning dawned calm and clear
And I kept watching the trail for Jim to appear
And when by noon he did not show
I saddled up and pulled for the Bow

Twas mighty hard going the drifts belly deep
No sign of a trail for the horse to keep
And where the trail joins the road for the stage
I found Jim’s horse, reins caught on a sage

And as my gaze swept oer the broad field of white
I knew that Jim had become lost in the night
Then I rode round in circles and covered the ground
Until at last poor Jim’s body I found

As I sadly looked on his cold white face
I fancied I could see of his old smile a trace
An empty bottle he held in an icy clutch
Lying there dead still in youth it was too much

And as I turned away my heart filled with pain
I swore to never touch liquor again
For an empty bottle, stranger told the tale
Of a true friend and pal lost on the trail

It was just another tragedy of this life we live
Just another case of weakness and the price we give
And as I live through the years and grow old
I will never forget the tale that empty bottle told

Jay L. Johnson

Down the Dusty Road   by jay bates

It is always said,
Behind the mountains are more
Mountains and mountains

Beyond the Escalante
Into the Waterpocket Fold
Mountains and  ghostly shore

Down the dusty road
From the Henry’s
Into Jurassic time not told

There lies petrified wood and coprolites
And now a whole tree protrudes
From the days of dinosaurs and trilobites

Down the dusty road
We are awed by thee
We beings of unjustified vanity

THE Z    By Jay E. Bates

It was a tractor of  simplicity itself.

A magneto, gravity flow fuel and a crank

Mostly used as a cultivator

It started easy enough when cold

You did not want to stall it hot

For it would not start how much you cussed and sweated

A long day in the Colorado high plains sun

With a straw hat donned

The noise and vibration continued after shutdown and remained for awhile

Long rows or pinto beans, beets, and corn

Blue skies and unrelenting sun

The canvas water bag caked with damp dust

Thirsty and hot is the boy

Longing to take a dip in the nearby irrigation ditch

But, he sighs, and settles for a long drink on cool slightly dust tasting water

Somewhere some boys are swimming, fishing and having fun

Not today for the farmer’s son is resigned to the monotonous rows and bright sun

He knows tomorrow will bring more of the same and the Z will continue into his soul to run

FIRE ON A MONTANA MOUNTAIN     Jay Bates

The call came in while we were out marking timber
Fire on the mountain, near Wolf Creek . A night to remember

We loaded in the Jeep with pulaskis and shovels
Not a minute to spare, we sped on like avenging angels

Out of the dark loomed an entire mountain glowing red with burning trees
We started up the mountain, a ragtag crew of twenty three

Halfway up we stopped to rest in the eerie red glow
And old Rodger told his tale of a young man, long ago

He had been on a smoke jumping crew in 1949 out of Mizzo
Fire, at the Gates of the Mountains, not far  from where we were, we knew

At the last minute he was called back to pack chutes and off flew the plane carrying the rest of the crew
That night they jumped into history and legend  as ten died the next day when the fire built and roared anew

At the end of the summer Rodger quit smoke jumping as he had known young men that died
And although he continued to battle fire, he didn’t like it, and knew the bravado of young men, he must abide

As a nearby tree torched with a roar, we were brought back to reality and knew we were in  for a hot time
We callow young men of  varying degrees and old Rodger were there to build and hold the line

To hold back the greedy flames and save Montana, one more time.
Oh you young men and women now sent out on fire, please heed the words of old Rodger

For no number of trees is worth another funeral pyre
Of callow young fellows  on a monstrous Montana fire