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THE N.C. ESSAY
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“Angry Bear” and Me, Coni, - -
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on an empty highway outside of
Dubois. It was cool, as daybreak
in Wyoming is all year long; and
the sun was moving steadily into
a cloudless sky. An old Ford
clunked to a stop beside me and
the driver waved me inside. I
threw my pack into the bed and
fatefully climbed into the cab.
The driver, a gaunt Indian,
smUed and told me he could drive
nne only about 15 miles but was
glad to do so anyway.
We got to tall^g as hitchers
and their benevolent drivers
always do. I told him where I was
from, what I’d been doing and so
on, the usual talk. He asked me
my name after a long discourse
on my part, then said, “I am John
Lewis,” I live over on the
reservation.” The way he
prounced his name and where he
lived struck me- it was abnost
like a declaration - a pronoun
cement to this stranger from the
East.
He didn’t say much as we
drove, nodding his head and
shifting the cowboy hat ever so
often to shade his eyes from the
bright sun. He offered me a job
wiOi the lumber outfit he worked
for and said I could sleep at his
place. I thanked him and happily
accepted, ready to give a few
weeks to the lumberman’s life
and this quiet Indian named John
Lewis.
We rattled up a dirt road
packed with huge holes and
bumps, John broke out with
several smiles and deep laughs
as he watched me smack my
head on the roof. Bouncing
violently I desperately held
tightly onto the seat.
After mUes of this we came to
the foothills of the Whiskey
Mountains and saw the lumber
crew. The lumbermen were
milling about, joking with each
other and pul^g on thick gloves.
John introduced me to the
foreman, a feisty white man who
was pleasant but kept telling me
what hard work it was. “'fiiink
you can handle it boy? It’s hard
work, hard as-busting work.” I
assured him that I could handle it
and told him I’d done lots of bust-
ass work before.
John gave me an old pair of
^oves and we headed on down
the hill to where some others
were already cranking up their
whining chain saws and sinking
them into tall lodgepole pines.
Tliere were several lodgepoles
felled at the bottom of the hiU, so
John and I headed there. Our job
was to hook the toick chain
which ran down them onto the
timber then signal the boys up top
to hoist away with their grinding
winch. I remembered seeing a
movie where the characters were
doing the same things I was but it
was my real live movie now. All
morning we wrapped the chains
around fresh trees, pushing and
sweating to get it secure, then
stepped out of the way as it slowly
made its move upward to the
flatbed trucks. “Keep out of its
way and always listen behind
you”, said John. “I’ve seen a
man kiUed when the leg broke
loose.”
By noon the sun was hot but the
air, as always, was *y. Hie
pungent smeU of sage swirled
about as we tramped trough the
brush to get to &e big timber.
John shared his lunch with me; I
was ravenous. We sat atop a log
facing the mountain ridges
looming ahead and I couldn’t help
thinking what a beautiful place it
was to work. I was also thankful
I’d been out West for a while and
that my body had adjusted to the
altitude. I never would have
made it through that day if I
hadn’t. It was Friday, end of the
week and payday. I got a day’s
wages and almost felt like I
^ould be paj^g them for such a
fantastic job in a beautiful place.
We stopped by a tavern along
with most of the other guys to
“The second weekend I put some of my theatre carpentry skill into
rebuilding their dilapidated woodshed, hoping it would remind them
of me whenever they came for wood during the long cold winter ahead.’
cash our checks and drink some
cold Coors beer, nothing better
after a day’s work. Half the guys
on the crew were Indian; the rest
were white, part time cowboys
and lumberman. Tliere was no
racial hatred here as there was in
other parts of the country. The
people here are friendly, hard
working folk, bred more by
nature than a lot of stupid hatred.
We talked, joked and drank. I
was accepted as one of the hard
working boys; nobody cared
whre I was from or my reason for
being here; I was here and that
was enough.
We all got drunk and teased the
old woman who ran the place. She
was a hardy- pioneer -type
woman, carefree and happy even
though she made sure I was 21
before she slapped a beer in front
of me. We grabbed up a couple of
beers to go before we left as there
was none to be had on the
reservation.
It was still light when we en
tered the Wind River Indian
Reservation, a huge stretch of
land that housed Kiowas,
Shoshones, Crees, Blackfeet,
Crows and Araphahoes. John
Lewis was a full blooded
Arapahoe and very proud.
Modernization hadn’t destroyed
lis pride and beliefs as it had so
many other Indians that became
begging alcoholics and petty
thieves.
The stars were just beginning
to show and the air was cool when
we pulled in front of a large log
cabin. Two children rushed out of
the cabin, looking at me curiously
but running to their father,
dinging to his legs as he lauded
and walked toward the house.
Before I even got inside I could
sniell tangy chUi. A small clear
skinned woman met us; she was
John’s wife, a Ute &i(Uan from
the Colorado, New Mexican
reservation. John was proud of
her. When he talked that day,
most of the conversation was of
his wife Anita and his two
children, John Jr. and Lynda.
At the table was an old woman
of about 70, John’s motiier, whom
he simply introduced as grand
mother. The old woman smiled,
nodded and went back to dicing
aisles with bony but nimble
fingers. We ate a big delicious
meal and I was grateful for
Anita’s exposure to Mexicans as I
ate spicy chili and huge slices of
bread to slop it up with. The cabin
was spacious and clean. Bare of a
great deal of furniture, they were
proud to emphasize their
bathroom and electric stove.
John told them about my day’s
work and made jokes of things I
did that I hardly remembered.
We all watched lV, in which they
became totally engrossed. I spent
more time watching their ex
pressions than I did television.
TTiey would all laugh together
v^iien a funny thing pop]:^ up
and sigh when a bad scene went
by- The kids climbed around on
me and I played witt them
between sips of beer, they
lauded and pulled my face,
delisted that daddy had tx'ouyght
home a new plaything. Both John
and I nodded out before long.
Tliey offered me the living room
floor; grandma slept on the
couch, so I humbly retired out
side, too exhausted to hassle with
the tent. It was a clear night
anyway; I was asleep before I’d
even zipped up my bag in that
beautiful Wyoming night.
The sun woke me early but I
simply curled inside my snug
cocoon until I felt little hands
pulling on me beckoning me to
come inside and eat breakfast. I
jumped out of the bag snarling
like an animal and chased the
kids into the house for the fun of
it.
That day we all went shopping
on the reservation, I think I was
the only white man there. I
slipped some money into Anita’s
hand while we were in the
grocery store, making sure John
didn’t see. He might not approve,
even though they weren’t rich
people; it made me feel better
anyway.
That weekend John told me
how he had gotten his Indian
Name as we walked through the
sage flats behind his home. Years
ago when he was a boy, he had
gone hunting with his father up in
he mountains. They were bad
times as he said, and the family
was in need of fresh meat. High
up on a ridge he stumbled upon a
she- Grizzly and her cubs. Even
then Grizzlys were hard to find in
this part of the country but John
found one anyway. Alarmed, she
attacked young John Lewis,
bellowing madly, knocking him
down and ripping him across the
chest several times with powerful
claws before his father sent a
single bullet into the she-bear’s
head, killing her instantly. It was
lucky for John that his father’s
bullet was well-aimed for
Grizzlys aren’t easily killed. John
wasn’t hurt seriously and the
family had plenty of fresh meat;
it was a good sign and he became
John “Angry Bear” Lewis.
All Indians in the old days were
named through such incidents or
the animals ttiey were Uiought to
resemble. Today those ways are
mostly gone and John’s children
will probably never have such
names as “Burnt Eagle”,
“Kicking Bear”, “Yellow rain”
and “Angry Bear”. Times are
different now; that’s what
they’re told.
We worked all the week,
rotating from the hitching job, to
cutting and loading the heavy
timber. I was fairly strong when I
came there but I grew stronger
physically and mentally. A
strength I had time to feel and
a(^reciate. At night we ate big
meals and split wood for the
fireplace on chilly, late August
nights. I became very close to the
whole family even though they
weren’t naturally takative
people. When they did speak they
took great pains to convey their
feeling and understanding.
On Friday we got paid and
drunk at the tavern. John got
drunk every Friday and the rest
of the week never sipped more
lhan two beers a night. His wife
never complained and in fact
seemed to take some humor in
seeing these two crazy, happy
lumbermen.
The second weekend I put some
of my theatre carpentry skill into
rebuilding their dilapidated
wood-shed, hoping it would
remind them of me whenever
they came for wood during the
tong cold winter ahead. I liked
building it anyway. At one point
during construction I gave an
exaggerated impersonation of a
scene desi^er. I walked about
the shed raising my han^ in joy
and admiring &e rough angles as
if it were a design by Apia. This
sent John rolling with laughter
and the kids laughed too, even
though they didn’t understand. I
doubt if John really understood
either, he just thought it was
absurd.
John would talk a great deal of
the “oldways” of his people at
anytime a feeling came to him.
He blended the “old ways” with
the necessities of the new ones
and managed to come up with a
working lifestyle. He told me his
father dealt strictly in the old
ways and influenced him greatly.
The old man died years ago and
to my shock he was the same man
John had seen crushed to death
by a falling timber. He waited
until my stay was drawing to a
close to tell me this, but I suppose
that was his way.
He was upset that I would not
be around in fall when he would
go to the mountains to bring down
an elk or pronghorn deer. I was
sorry, too, for I would have loved
nothing better than to hunt with
him and taste a sizzling elk steak
cooked by Anita.
On Friday I collected my final
paycheck and told the foreman 1
would be leaving this bust-ass
work regretfully. He told me to
come back and work if I was ever
out this way again. “Could
always use a man like you,” he
said, in the same hearty voice
which had warned me about the
work when I first came.
That night the kids tugged on
me and asked me how far I had to
g3 to get home and if I’d come
back to see them and work with
daddy. I assured them I would
return one day, a promise which I
intend to keep. No one in the
family ever seemed curious
about the East or the cities I’ve
lived in. They had no great desire
to leave the reservation. Their
life was good for them no
matter how hard it was. I think
they were acutely aware of this.
As the night grew late I watched
John take his pretty wife off to
bed and I felt happy for them
both; I shared his life for a little
\^ile and learned to love both of
them.
The next morning after a
hearty breakfast and un
comfortable good-byes which
I’ve always disliked whenever I
leave a place and people that
were good to me, John took me
down to the highway; he seemed
to go slower than the old truck
isually went. The kids also went
along, digging the ride. After
many hearty handshakes and
pats on the back they left me. I
felt alone on the road and wanted
to get moving. Those good people
had taken me into their home
without doing any of the obvious
social graces, made me feel
wanted and gave me everything
they had. It was a long trip but
filled with the memory of my past
weeks all the way back home,
many rides and miles gone by.
Bob Gambrill
Journalism
11-72
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