Big Bad Bart

Yeah, you heard right -- Big Bad Bart. Triple B for short. Since you're my homeys, you can call me Bart. I decided on the name change after returning from the western range. On the plane ride home, I read stories of bad guys, desperadoes, soiled doves (prostitutes), cigar smoking ladies, gunslingers, and lawmen. I also read Native American stories -- tales from the First People. All those stories got me to reminiscing. For several weeks in my last year of medical school I lived on an Indian Reservation and worked in an Indian hospital. The generous spirit of the people was obvious, and I was fortunate they invited me into their lives.

I tried to learn some of the Assiniboine and Gros Ventre language. Many Indians didn't know their native language, but I found an elderly Gros Ventre woman who did. She agreed to talk to me. She was in her eighties and shared some of her early childhood experiences. When very young, she was taken from her parents and forced to stay at a missionary boarding school to learn English; she wasn't allowed to speak her native tongue. She also had to wear hook and button shoes, adopt the White way of life, and take a "Christian" name. Normally, an Indian child was given a single, descriptive name, but not a first and last name.

Names like Lame Bull and Cut the Rope I still remember. George Lame Bull and Donna Cut the Rope would have been the Anglicized versions (I made up the first names). This elderly woman was proud, but probably unrecognized, for her golden stories from a time gone past. I don't know what came of her, or if she mattered to anyone else, or if she had surviving family, but I do remember some of the Indian words she taught me -- so her story lives on. Sadly, many of the young people didn't know their native language, or show interest in Indian ways. Hopefully, they've since rediscovered their roots.

Years ago I looked into my own roots, trampling around cemeteries to find old gravestone inscriptions, and checking out census records. I discovered my surname is Celtic in origin, likely Irish or Scot. Three hundred years ago my ancestors probably changed their last name to an English sounding one so they wouldn't be persecuted. Name picking took some serious thinking. Did you know Doc Holliday was a dentist? I guess that explains the Doc part. Anyhow, back to my new name. I've decided to pick a mean and ornery one like Big Bad Bart so I won't be persecuted. Wonder what will happen at work when I show up wearing my chaps and spurs?

Billy's Blog

Dear Readin' folk:

Hi. M' name's Billy. Some call me The Kid. I know what yer thinkin' -- How'd a sheep get himself tacked to a goat's name? Welp, that's a long story, and one best suited fer tellin' at 'nother time. Thang is, it ain't always proper to call a feller by his birth name. In my case, I was raised by a pack of goats, so I think my name fits me fine. (I know what yer thinkin' again -- goats don't run in packs, they run in flocks; but that don't do justice to a goat's dignity, making it kin to flocks that ain't even related, like geese.) 'Nough said. M' daddy's a Billy, and my posse runs in packs, which makes us square even. I'll butt heads with anyone who sees different.

Anyhoo, I'm writing fer a specific reason. Folks tell fancy tales these days, but none makes fer as good a butt slappin' as the one I'm 'bout to tell you. It's 'bout that feller Doctor Rick. Somethin's strange 'bout him. He's not right in the head, if you know what I mean. The other day, I was minding my own business, chewing bear grass on Logan Pass, when I seed this feller climbing toward me. He looked like one of them city slicker types. You know, the ones who carry their cell on a belt clip and think they're somethin' cool. He was hollering for help, coz he got himself stuck. I guess he twarnt sure-footed enough to keep himself from fallin' off the side of the mountain.

Welp, I didn't take kindly to some greenhorn botherin' me on my break, but the wife said to help him, so's I did. From the looks of that Doctor Rick feller, you'd had thought he'd been drinking too much huckleberry squeez'ns, staggerin' like he did. He was some sight -- screamin' and hollerin' like a polecat steppin' on a cactus. Seems curiosity got the best of him, so'd he took to walkin' till the trail got smaller and smaller, and higher and higher -- then he seed how high he got and turned scared. Losin' his grip and crazy thinkin's what got him in this fix in the first place. I shook my head, disqusted with the sight, but made toward him straightaway. When he saw me comin', he grabbed his britches and stared at me like he was sunstroke. I moseyed past him to show him the way, and he followed after me -- didn't hear him speak one word the whole time.

We made it best we could down the mountain, and that feller thanked me fer my helpin'. He asked to repay me fer the kindness. It got me to thinkin'. What, with the weather turning cold pretty soon, and vittles running scarce, I thought a small tip would be kindly -- you know, some token of appreciation. My wife needed the money; she's been nagging me for months to buy her some of that newfangled sheep scent (I think it smells like a whorey marmot, but don't tell her I said so). Well, do you think Doctor Rick was ready to offer some token of thanks? Hell no! I even posed for him through his car window, and that no-good, spiny-assed lowlife turned his back on me and sped off -- didn't even drop a dime.

I recken some folks don't take to be'n nice to every feller that passes their way. Why, I'll even admit, I was tempted to let him slip off the slope, fer all I cared, but the wife wouldn't let me. Still, you woulda thought saving his backside counted fer somethin', right? I felt like tellin' him, "Go back to yer rat-invested life in Tenbuckstwo, Doctor Rick," but I figured he twarnt schooled in English well 'nough to possess the necessary understandin', so's I let 'er pass. Still, it torqued my shorts, thinkin' 'bout the injustice of it all. I guess I'll just head back to my bear grass and ferget 'bout it. Thanks fer takin' time to listen. The way I figure, somewheres along the way, every ram gets his just due. While yer at it, teach that lowlander some manners.

Moose Tales

Dear Readers:

Ah, yes. Back to the real world. It's Monday and I'm wearing my work clothes, so my vacation must be over. Two days ago my wife and I were living in the land of moose and honey. We breathed clean air and walked on pristine mountainsides. Today I'm fighting traffic, dirty air, and brain pain. Wouldn't it be great if you could live off the land in a natural environment without going broke, looking like Sasquatch, or having your blood sucked dry by giant mosquitoes? Of course, to survive, you'd need to have adequate provisions.

As for me, I'd only plan on taking the necessary essentials: soap, toothpaste, dried food, and a hot tub. My wife would probably add eyeliner and mascara to the list. We realize it's only a spartan list (oh, yeah -- add a cell phone), but we're trying to be frugal. Wild animals live minimalist lives and don't complain; we could stand to learn from them. Last week I came in contact with one of those fellows in its natural habitat. We were lodging near a lake in the mountains of Western Montana and took a morning stroll to the shore. Our hike stopped abruptly as we neared the open water. A rattling sound, like sticks clattering against each other, alerted me. If I took another step, I'd be ten feet away from a huge set of antlers rising above the rushes. Suddenly, I heard a loud grunt and snort; fear froze me in my tracks. Some giant animal was on the other side of that shrubbery. I didn't believe the beast knew I was there, but if I got any closer, it'd be looking me in the eye. If it charged, I'd be a goner. Just what was on the other side of those bushes? Finally, a flick of the antlers revealed it was a bull moose. I've never seen one before, and he was really huge.

I wasn't able to find a spot to take a good picture; the moose, for sure, would've detected my movements. I knew enough to stay out of his way, so I just stood motionless. Some lucky guy who already positioned his camera nearby was getting perfect head shots of my moose. Still, I was enthralled. I had arrived at this serene lake early in the morning to find myself in spitting distance of a large wild animal. The moose grunted loudly every time it breathed (my wife said like a galloping horse). Finally, he sauntered over to the other side of the lake, so I was free to step out into the open and watch from a safe distance. More drama followed. A doe and her fawn pranced across the shallow waters of the lake in front of the moose, occasionally glancing toward him. He didn't like their approach and snorted loudly at them. Then he charged after the deer, causing them to pick up their pace; water splashed in their wake as they double-timed it to the other side, and the fawn's tail stood up like a white flag as it stared nervously at the moose. My wife managed to snap this picture for you to see. How fortunate to be in such a wild place at this opportune moment. The air smelled of fragrant pine, and the scene was surreal.

Until later.