Thirty years ago lightning struck. That charged bolt of light from the Thunder Beings led to one of the absolute greatest blessings and dearest loves of my life.
Cliff saw the lightning strike while logging with two buddies up Smith Creek in the Crazy Mountains; then they saw the smoke rise. Winds had already whipped the fire into a blaze when they got to it but they worked together to saw trees down to protect a batch of cabins. The buffer zone Cliff, Ralph and Mo created during the hours before the Forest Service arrived saved what turned out to be third-generation-owned historical cabins.
Thirty years ago this month when I returned to the Forest Service office in West Yellowstone after a 4-day hitch alone in the backcountry as a wilderness ranger, I was immediately sent along with another fella to the Crazies to help fight what had become a large 5-division fire.
A few days later in a quirky twist of fate, Cliff and I ended up working together as a two-person saw team on the Smith Creek Fire. I’d never seen anyone so skilled with a saw. His biceps were as big around as my thighs. He wielded a 36” bar on his saw with calm coolness and eyes that sparkled like Santa Claus.
The friendship begun in the blackened soot on steep slopes beneath blue skies defies definition and forged much of who I am, where I live and how I show up in this world. I’ve grieved him perhaps more this October than a handful of the last Octobers. Autumn this year has played out much like it did that season, languid and long with lavish foliage, starry nights, exceptionally warm days and a handful of dramatic storms. The past few weeks I’ve shed tears beneath stars, at sunrise and sunset and spaces between. I’ve also reveled in the warm fuzzies and awe of the love we shared for each other and this mountain.
I am lucky. So. Damn. Lucky.
Everyone should have a Cliff in their life. I can’t imagine my life without having had him in it.
Happy Birthday dear Cliff! I miss you beyond words. I love you dearly. Eternally.