The Cold Storm

1 THE BEGINNING IF HE’D ONLY KNOWN it would be their last winter together that year. It was mid-December, 1995. Roger was young way back then—too inexperienced to know how cruel life could be at times, particularly for a child who’d hardly begun to relish life. But, he still vividly remembered the scent of pine needles in the air. The bliss of being dozens of miles from the streets where grown-ups didn’t trust you to explore on your own. Out there, in the Montana wilderness, he could be a child, without having to concern himself with the distractions of everyday life. Together, with his best friend, life was complete. Roger would have stayed there all year round if he could. It had become a ritual. Being in the mountains elicited a total peace within him that, to this day, he could never explain. It was a shame that, sometimes, that peace could be shattered through unforeseeable events. Those hills were undeniably beautiful in the wintertime. Their wildlife and succulent mountain streams were the epitome of the outdoor lifestyle. Displaying the perfect backdrop against the broad, Montana plains, it was the ideal setting for a child’s fairy tale. But, fairy tales could be deceiving. A future that no one could have predicted. Stretching his camouflage beanie securely over his head, Roger tip-toed through the middle of the extensive hardwoods, every inch of ground covered in a solid layer of white. He was looking, listening, and waiting for any sign of movement in the trees above him. It was the only life for an active boy from Montana. Seeing the edge of the peaks from his back porch in Bozeman, he had always dreamt, as boys sometimes do, of one-day making life up there. As Roger made his way farther down the slope from the cabin, his ears remained wary to any and every sound around him. Suddenly, a rustle coming from high overhead. Peeping skyward toward the remaining sunlight starting to disappear behind the heavy clouds, he detected a gray flurry scampering up a nearby tree. It’s profile shown correctly against the gloomy sky. Removing the weapon from his back, he held it snuggly against his shoulder. “Hold still, you,” he said to himself, glancing down the sights of the rifle that grandad had given to him for his birthday that year. The flurry began to pick up as he hunted the animal the length of a football field, lifting his knees in the high snow and hearing it crackle with every stride forward. “Come on,” Roger said to himself. “Just give me one second.” The animal sprang from limb to limb, swirling around the massive tree before running down the trunk and coming to a standstill on top of a rotten, hollow log. “Breathe in, exhale, pause,” Roger continued, quietly. “There you go. That’s perfect.” As he squeezed the trigger, the shot blasted through the dense forest canopy, echoing as it sent flocks of birds hurling toward the sky. “Got you!” he said excitedly. The sounds of wildlife reoccurred throughout the mountainside as Roger trampled through the thick brush to retrieve his kill, his .22 rifle hung over his shoulder. “Beautiful,” he said, grinning as he put the animal into his bag. He was proud of himself. He knew that granddaddy would also be proud of what he had learned. Now he was hurrying back to the house before the weather got too heavy, toting his small satchel and tracking the smoke billowing from the top of the chimney as the wind howled. It had been an exceptionally harsh winter up in the Montana mountains. Indeed, heavy winters there was nothing new. But, this one was unusually brutal. Roger was spending Christmas break at his grandpa Buck’s little mountain cabin, a simple wooden house reminiscent of a simpler time and way of life. The place evoked a certain rustic charm that seemed to be straight out of the old, American frontier. Over the fireplace mantle, an old, crisply folded American flag stood erect next to a wooden display case. ‘Staff Sergeant John, “Buck” O’Neil, U.S. Army,’ the tag said, below a set of old military medals that included the Purple Heart and the Bronze Star. Buck was a nickname given to him during the war for being the “young buck” in his Army unit. The name had stuck with him throughout his many years. After closing the front door, Roger tossed his hooded, striped flannel jacket onto the wall hook and knocked the snow off of his beige cargo pants and black winter boots. “Grandpa. Look what I got!” He said, opening the pack and laying his kill out across an old, wooden table. “I did just like you told me to!” “Good job,” replied Buck. “Now, go ahead and skin ‘em how I showed you. Throw the remains out back.” “Yes, sir,” Roger answered, unloading his hunting rifle and setting it atop the cowboy style g*n rack attached to the log wall. He was an outdoorsy kid, skinny with short brown hair and long bony legs. He and his grandfather were all alone up there. But that was the way they liked it. Buck had the appearance of an old military man. He stood tall, at six-foot-three with a gray military buzz cut, the tales of his past seemingly etched into the wrinkles on his face. His slight limp was a permanent reminder of a war that ended long ago. An avid outdoorsman his entire life, Buck taught Roger to survive in the wilderness. “All a man needs is a g*n and his two hands,” he would often say. He likewise emphasized the importance of respecting nature—Never kill something you aren’t going to eat. Unless, of course, it’s shooting back at you. The temperature that day was hovering around five degrees—the type of cold that can cut right through a person’s skin. When Roger had gone out to fetch some firewood earlier in the day, his breath appeared to freeze in mid-air. That evening, grandpa cooked them up some squirrel stew, perfect for capping off a cold, winter day. After the snow set in, Roger and Buck played chess and discussed the meaning of life. They were very close, closer than Roger was to his father. When he was with Buck, it was as if everything wrong, including his home life, had just faded. The man was his idol. Roger stood for a minute to make them both some hot cocoa. He peeked through the window and saw that the breeze had picked up drastically. Trees were swaying in the wind as the snowfall swept in sideways. “Grandpa, come here,” Roger said. As the man shuffled toward him, he switched on the battery-powered radio that had been lying on the counter. “Guess we won’t be going anywhere for a while,” Buck said as they monitored reports of the incoming storm. That was no concern—they had plenty of food and water and no other place that they needed to be. Roger didn’t want to go home—the best thing about his disciplinarian of a father was how rarely he was ever around. Roger had long suspected that his father was jealous of his relationship with Buck. The two loved to hunt and fish together and shared a love for the outdoors. His grandfather loved to tell old war stories about his stint as an infantryman during World War Two and fighting the NAZI’s. The guy had undoubtedly lived an extraordinary life. While many children looked up to television stars or comic book superheroes, Roger adored his grandad. In his eyes, the man could do no wrong. Buck, for the most part, was ashamed of the distance between himself and his son and wanted to do better with Roger. They’d had a blast over the past few weeks, building memories that would last for Roger’s entire existence. That’s why Buck didn’t want the boy to know about his illness. He’d hidden it for some time, even from his children. But, he knew that it would destroy his grandson. When the New Year began, Roger went back to school. He would run to his grandfather’s house each day after completing his homework and doing his chores. But, those days ended on a sunny spring afternoon in April when he came home from school to see his dad waiting for him in the driveway, gazing down at the ground. Realizing that something was wrong, he got off of the bus and approached him, nervous as to what he might say. “Dad,” Roger stated. “What is it?” “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, son,” his father said, a tear running down his cheek. “But, your grandfather has just been diagnosed with lung cancer.” “What?” He asked. “What does that mean?” His father paused before answering him, not able to look his son in the eye. “He has only weeks to live,” he responded. “No!” Roger cried hysterically, pounding his fist against his father’s chest. “It can’t be!” But, there was absolutely no way he would be comforted. Roger ran to his bedroom, sobbing. For weeks afterward, he barely ate and only spoke when he had to. Superheroes aren’t supposed to die. Three weeks later, on a Monday morning that seemed both sudden and lingering in the future for so much longer than it had to, Buck passed away in the Veterans Affairs hospice unit. When memories are all a person has left, they tend to replay over and over in their head. His mother came over from Washington state to be with her son during that time. Roger, who was in school at the time of Buck’s death, didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye. He took it extremely hard. A few days later, after the funeral, his parents told him that his grandfather had left him a hefty sum of money, his old war pictures, and the cabin that they had spent so much time together in. None of that would bring his grandfather and best friend back, so it didn’t matter much to him at the time. Roger didn’t want to be anywhere near that cabin without his grandpa. It was just too painful for him. It was like a horrifying nightmare for the kid, and he didn’t want to believe that Buck was actually gone. Everywhere he went, there appeared to be things that were a permanent reminder to Roger of what he had lost. But, as he began to reach maturity, he would soon come to recognize that the lessons that his grandfather had taught him would prove to be remarkably beneficial, not only in living life but, eventually, saving it as well.