Who knew about the monster

My husband, Steve, lifted his bony hand like a traffic cop, feeling for wind. He shaded his eyes and tilted his head toward the treetops, assessing sway. Then he pulled the trigger and trotted 50 yards to our still-unpacked gear, satisfied with this test-firing of a forearm-sized canister of bear spray.

The kids gagged first. Airborne molecules of grizzly-strength pepper slipped up their noses and down their throats. They deep-coughed and whined. The gulps of water I tried to force down them spewed onto my boots. For hours, we felt the sting of the triggerman’s bearanoia.

Our disillusionment with the perfect campsite, it turned out, was past due.

The engorged Gros Ventre River dips and curves around a dirt lot where you can park and fly-fish. For three Julys running, we had marveled at our solitude.

“Can you believe it?” Steve had called as he high-stepped through wet morning grass on his first reconnaissance. “Empty!”

“Good,” I had said. “Don’t you wonder, though, why we’re alone here?”

Outside the tent flap, a broad meadow sloped to the river’s edge, and beyond the swift water we saw mountain goats skittering up the red-rock walls. River otters flip-turned off submerged logs and popped up within feet of our two young boys, who spent days damming a channel and collecting the sun-bleached bones of fallen cattle from the adjacent ranch. Trout poached in the coals.

Year after year our luck held. Then came the day of retching. Soon after sunset, exhausted by Steve’s apologies, we squirmed into our bags and slept hard until a jet squadron buzzed our tent. Except the engine roar did not fade. What we soon identified as the rancher’s monster generator droned all night, F-16 loud, pumping river water through irrigation pipes onto a parched pasture and inflicting on our psyches pain as severe as our eyes had already endured.

Who knew that it’s a rare summer night when the monster fails to roar?

Everyone but us.

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-- Pamm Higgins