The Warrior

THE WARRIOR

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There is a warrior in all of us. It is simply our task to set him free.


It was a small article. About two column inches, located just left of center on page three. Thursday, February 12, 1974. Lost somewhere between the "3rd Annual Never To Be Repeated Sale" and a picture of Nelson Larsen's promotion to Territory Manager. Lost somewhere in the Montana winter.

It was not small to me.

It was the story of a warrior. A story of a warrior in the Great Northwest, a place of bitter cold, a place without heart when winter rolls in, a place of unforgiveness for human frailty, a place not to be unprepared in when the temperature reaches 33 below. Now, 25 years later, I gaze on that orderly collection of 10-point type on yellowing paper and recount the story as it was told to me.

It was the cry of a parent, that sound of loss when you call a child's name...and there is no answer; a plaintive sound, a sound that can travel for years without changing, without changing its key. We all know that sound. We all have said, "I'm glad that it is not me."

This day it came from behind a teal-colored van, one of those new ones with a sliding door. It came from a woman about 35. Bobbed hair, thin frame, and about 5'2" of desperation cloaked in one of those nylon jogging suits. To knock down the cold I guess. It's too bad they did not know of the cold. The cold that drills holes in your teeth when you try to smile, to separate your lips and blow into your hands.

The license plate announced they were from North Carolina and had at least one child who was an honor student, so stated the bumper sticker.
The woman was a mom. And right now she was gearing up either to hunt or to gather. Hunt for who or what had her child, or simply gather her into mom's arms.

The sun was playing hide and seek. Making one of its rare appearances in the long, dreary, Montana winter. The snow-filled clouds rolled in, just waiting for someone to unzip their payload.

An overlook. It is called an overlook. A turnout on the highway to gaze at some breathtaking scenery. Normally girded by a stacked rock barrier of some sort and equipped with a pewter-colored 3 x 4 foot plaque with a raised letter explanation of what you are seeing. Sort of like closed captioned TV, but the picture never changes.

A man, about 40, thinning hair, sharp features, and probably a former college football player stared out across the valley. Hooked to his index finger was a young boy, about five, dressed in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt similar to his dad's. The youngster's fist was tightly clenched around that finger, around his dad.

The sound that came from his mom spooked him. The sound that came from his dad unnerved him. The one person he wished to see, his sister, and didn't - that was worst of all.

She was not there. His sister was gone. He squeezed the finger tighter and looked up and moved closer. Mom's eyes were everywhere and her memory had shifted into overdrive. Analyzing and critiquing every decision she had made about her daughter the last nine years. Replaying events that brought them here.

Now.

Dad turned and walked to the van. He assumed the posture we all have at one time in our lives. You remember? Where you place your hands on something, shift your weight, lean in and hang your head. Sometimes you just whisper, and other times you say nothing at all.

Interstate Highway 90 runs west out of Missoula, Montana, crosses into Idaho and keeps on going. For a family going to a new job in Washington State, for a family coming from North Carolina, it is a spectacular trip. Majestic mountain ranges, snow capped and pristine to the far eye, and the valley's evergreen filled basins cut through with mercury silver waters overwhelmed the senses. A picture that no camera could capture even the smallest essence of. But now, at mile marker 237, just 100 feet south of the Bitterroot Overlook, the camera lens was at its fullest F-stop...trying to capture the slow motion reality of unfolding events.

The pupils of the mom's eyes were wide open too. Searching. Looking. "Always know." "Always be aware." "Never look away." Fragmented sentences danced in her mind as she searched, the quest for her child backlit by the gray Montana sky.

Amanda Nicholson was nine years old. Amanda was your typical child. Forced to clean up her room at an early age, as well as finishing all those multi-colored vegetables heaped on her plate. School was a breeze, extremely bright was Amanda. She could write with pen and ink, color with pastel chalk, and on occasion she would even speak.

Amanda was deaf. Not a sound had she ever heard. But Amanda learned to talk with her hands. Amanda had learned to speak.

As her fingers danced and spun, as they spoke and scribed words in the air, her heart would soar. And if she really wanted to say something special to you, she would place her right hand on your cheek and talk very slowly and deliberately with her left hand. She would require you to watch, to pay attention to her, because our world was filled with so much noise, so many distractions, we might miss her finger painted letter to us.

Amanda's constant companion was Ripley who was a collection of Husky, German Shepherd and another miscellaneous breed, but he was hers.
Ripley came home with her dad one day, almost two years old, when Amanda was nearly three. He had been a K-9 dog but had nearly died when he and his human partner had gone into that warehouse. A plea to stop, several loud barks, and then gunshots filled the air.

Four men, stolen merchandise, one dog and one police officer met that late afternoon. One died, two were wounded, including the officer, but hurt most of all was Ripley. Shot three times at close range. One pierced his chest and screamed by his heart. Another broke his front right leg and continued on into his human partner. The last bullet punched a hole in the side his throat and stole his bark, stole his speech.

Jesse, his officer handler, himself seriously hit, held Ripley across his lap and covered the holes in his best friend with his hands...all the while shouting into the microphone, "Officers down, officers down!"

Eight days later Jesse went home.

Two months later Ripley went home. Home to Amanda.

His courage had never been in doubt, but crippled now by that bullet that broke his leg, and the other that stole his bark.

Amanda who couldn't hear, and Ripley who couldn't bark. Was that a great match or what?

Ripley was Amanda's ears and she was his voice. Used to sit for hours in front of that dog and practice bending and shaping her fingers so she could talk to the world. He never looked away, never made fun, but the most important thing of all, he never gave up on her.

Amanda had taken Ripley for a short walk on that February afternoon. Ripley's black and white coat looked like he was made to walk in the snow. Two coal black ears, huge brown eyes that missed nothing, and a huge arching tail that was in a perpetual wag. Ripley knew about life.

He knew about pain.

He knew about loss.

He knew about gain.

Ripley still had a small hitch in his gait, caused by the pin the vet had to insert into his leg. Ripley weighed in about 100 pounds, almost 30 more than Amanda, and he was always careful around her. She let him belong. Belong in her life. No strings, no tricks. There was a bond. Something only a warrior could see.

Ripley's coat was fluffed out this particular day. He had never felt cold like this before. Looked like a bad hair day to anyone else.

It felt good to both of them to be out of that van. To stretch. To roam free.
A small path with a weathered arrow shaped sign beckoned to Amanda this day. It looked so pretty. Small blue winter flowers sprinkled the landscape near the path. Like lights at Christmas time. Snow was stacked on the top, almost four inches high, and ice had formed across the face of the sign. Ice that covered the words, words that would have been seen in the spring. Words that should have been seen today.
Amanda turned up her coat collar and stuck her red mittened hands in the big pockets on each side. Carefully looped through her crooked arm was the leash that held Ripley. She was quite a picture. Bright blue jacket, red mittens, yellow sweatshirt from church, and dark green corduroy jeans from Sears. Bright white tennis shoes with big silver bells were the final touch. The bells were for Ripley. So he would always know where she was, maybe even where she had been. She tugged on her Tar Heels baseball hat, a gift from her dad. Her brown hair was braided and stuck out the space in the back. Just above that plastic band you adjust, that you can never get exactly the right size.
She and Ripley headed down that path, headed down that trail.

At 4:30 that Thursday afternoon, the first patrol car pulled in to the overlook. One hour and forty-five minutes after the first parental cry of Amanda's and Ripley's name.

Officer Robert Big Springs, one of Montana's best, and one of the Indian Nation's finest, nosed his brown and white patrol car into that scenic overlook.
At 5:12 this Thursday afternoon, the sun withdrew its warmth and settled behind the mountains.

At 5:17, it started to snow.

At 5:22, the remaining three members of Amanda's family sat in that teal-colored van, the one with the sliding door. They sat and talked with Officer Big Springs. They sat and huddled inside their loss. No one dared ask the question. No one really wanted to know. Just how cold it would be this night.

A sign sits some hundred miles away. Sits alongside the interstate where it crosses the continental divide. A tribute to the miners who survived. The coldest temperature in the continental U.S was recorded here. Seventy degrees below zero, some ninety years ago at Roger's Pass.

Officer Big Springs stepped from the van and quietly closed the door. The officer pulled an iron black flashlight from his belt, and snapping the button, he brought it to life. The blue white light walked across the scenic overlook at mile marker 237. He shined it out across the valley, but the blackness ate it up, consumed his light.

His light bounced with his footsteps, turning, searching, looking for a sign. The sign he found was one he wished he hadn't. He walked up the arrow shaped sign, tapped it on top, and the ice and snow hat fell off. Robert Big Springs took two steps back and read these words, "Scenic path to Bitterroot Falls. Very steep and poor footing in the spring. Do not attempt to travel in winter. Falls: 3/4 mile."

Officer Big Springs shined his light down the trail. There was no sign of the girl or the dog, only a black wall. The officer stepped back and returned to his patrol car, picked up the microphone and spoke a few words.

Twenty-two minutes later, a Bell Ranger helicopter landed amidst the purple-red flares he placed near the overlook.

Five minutes after that, a government green U.S. Forest Service bus arrived, followed by two other patrol cars. One minute after that, Amanda's parents began to weep uncontrollably inside their van.

Amanda's brother lay under the white wool blanket in the far back seat. His eyes wide with unknown things from this cold and starless night.

One minute Ripley was walking beside Amanda, and the next she was gone. And seconds later, his legs were pulled from under him and all he could hear were bell sounds fading away. He rolled and tumbled and felt too many pains to count. He opened his mouth to yelp, but not a sound came out. Ripley knew something terrible had happened.

Four uniformed officers huddled over the warm hood of a patrol car. An acetate coated map was spread, unfolded to a four foot size. A red grease pencil circle encamped around the overlook at mile marker 237.

Height on a map like this is indicated by brown lines flowing along the contour of the earth. The greater the change in height or steepness of the drop, the closer the lines are together. They all stared at the black line of the trail as it traveled into the almost solid brown color.

The total drop from start to end was almost 300 feet.

Officer Big Springs turned away from the map and walked to the rear of his car.

Almost 6'3'' tall and weighing over 230 pounds, Robert Big Springs felt very small this night. He was dwarfed by Mother Nature, dwarfed by the rugged countryside.

Unhooking his keys from the D ring on his belt, he inserted the round key into his trunk lock, gave it a slight turn and the trunk popped up.

He gazed down inside. The single 12v trunk light was trying to glow intensely on this moonless night. He took an inventory, choosing the tools of his trade for this particular time. He chose from four wool blankets, two Remington pump shotguns with canvas belts holding 20 shells each, 10 flares, 100 feet of nylon-polymer rope, two medium green Coleman lanterns with spare mantels, two sets of cable chains for stranded motorists, one box of Honey Nut Cheerios carefully sealed in a two-gallon freezer bag (for energy needed to recover from adrenaline exhaustion), one set of ice cleats to strap on his mountain boots, six pair of rag wool socks, standard issue first aid kit; and finally nestled in the corner was an olive green duffel bag.

He pulled up the bag and untied the square knot. Black, bold letters announced the owner of the bag: William Big Springs Sr., SFC, United States Marine Corp. The bag was frayed and worn, but not the memories of his dad. His only legacy from his father, a legacy from a far away place called Korea. A legacy from the Chosin Reservoir, the Marine Corps version of Custer's Last Stand. Where Robert 's father stood. Where Robert's father fought. Where he died a warrior.

A small blue rectangular bar with a field of stars was pinned to this duffel bag. Officer Big Springs took it wherever he went. The Medal of Honor was all he had. It wasn't much for the life of his dad. It wasn't much for the life of any man.

It was all there. All his warmest winter survival gear. It had been his dad's. He unbuckled his patrol belt and shed 20 pounds of gun and radio gear. Removed his tan nylon jacket, then proceeded to take off his standard issue black leather shoes.

In their place, he put on his best set of climbing boots with oversize rag wool socks. The straps of the ice cleats were buckled on next. A red wool shirt replaced his uniform one, and a goose down parka was slung over his shoulder.
He returned to the map, took one last look. Took a Motorola two-way and hooked it on his belt. Pulled on a black wool hat with a patrol badge emblazoned on the edge. Robert knew it may not be enough, but it was so much more that Amanda and Ripley had.

The radio popped and crackled inside the Forest Service bus. The temperature has just dropped to three below.

At 10:54 p.m., Officer Big Springs started down the trail.

At 11:06 p.m., the blizzard hit, and the winds blew more darkness into the night. The stars huddled in bunches, trying to keep warm, praying for the sun to rise.

Amanda awoke first, moving only her eyes. She had no idea where she was, nor why there wasn't any sky. She knew she was cold, but she did not know how cold. One mitten was gone as well as most of her left sleeve. Her left leg was just tingling, like it was waking up from being asleep. She tried to sit up, and she opened her mouth from the pain. All she got was frozen air sucked inside. So cold it almost numbed her brain. She reached out and tugged on the leash still held in her right hand. All that came to her was a broken and shredded collar. She raised her mittened hand and spelled his name...R...I...P...L...E...Y!

She promised herself that she would never cry. A promise made years ago to prevent her parents from ever knowing what was inside. Inside her quiet world. Inside her soundless fight, her fight to overcome the fear. The fear that she would never be enough, be enough for her parents to love. She remembered her brother always turning to look at things, sounds that she would never hear. She remembered other kids mouthing soundless shapes with their lips, then pointing, turning away and walking off.

She was not going to cry. The tears burned like forest fires trapped inside her eyes.

She raised her hand one more time and spelled her best friend's name.

Robert Big Springs sat down beside the trail. He never used the word hopeless, not even in his thoughts. But tonight, this word might prevail. His cleated boots were barely holding a grip. Almost thirty minutes to go another 100 feet. He shined his light, but nothing moved. The monster of darkness just gobbled it up.

He stood one more time, determined not look behind at his foolish trek down this trail. Robert Big Springs took three more steps and then he too fell.

Ripley felt a tremendous pressure on his side. He looked outside at the dark. He couldn't move. He couldn't see. The howling winds blew through his fur and tilted his ears. Searching with his heart, he was listening for his friend. He knew he was hurt. It felt like the warehouse again, light and dark and pain. The wind pushed and pulled and further numbed his eyes. He listened with his ears and willed his body to start. The wind blew and briefly parted the clouds, and a ray of moonlight danced across this gray and black dog resting against the fallen tree. Gray and black and snow now stained with red, red that covered him from shoulder to tail.

Ripley braced his feet against the frozen earth, pushed and moved till felt his strength subside. He tried to stand one more time. He couldn't see blood begin to flow, begin to run down his leg and puddle at his feet.

The wind piled and heaped the snow on Amanda Nicholson. Like a statue in the park, Amanda was slowly being buried in the dark. She tried to brush away the snow, to brush away the cold. She dreamed of pillows, and hot chocolate. Dreamed of covers filled with goose down. And then she awoke. Awoke to lying on this frozen ground. She was so very tired. Amanda was so very cold, but most of all she did not understand, understand where she was at all.

To move filled her with pain, but she had to call to him one more time. Her red mittened hand stretched into the air, one more time she spelled his name. R...I...P...L...E...Y.

Robert Big Springs stared into the white sheets of snow that blew and swirled and hid everything he tried to see. Wherever he walked, a door appeared in the storm, a life-size cutout of this Indian officer wandering into the night. He remembered the tales, tales of his great-grandfather living in these mountains, of his ancestors trapped in the snow, of death and dying, of hunting with the bow. He remembered why he was here, remembered the dog and the girl. So very, very, far from home. And for sure, darkly alone.

Robert tucked his head and headed back into the storm.

Ripley pushed and tugged and wrestled himself from beneath the fallen tree. Backed up, and looked around. There was little to see, and nothing to hear but the wind. He was tired, tired of the fight. He had to find his friend. He could not remember this dark a night. He stood up on his back feet and stuck his muzzle into the air, searching for his friend. A smell, a sound, a beacon to follow. The wind pushed and pulled at this dog, but it would not knock him down this night. His side was soaked in red, but he stood and listened and did not move his head.

Amanda awoke one more time. Everything was shaking all inside. She liked her dream. "Maybe I'll just sleep a while 'til someone comes and takes me back inside." She moved her hand and tried to touch her cheek, to see why it was not there, but it was no use.

Amanda dropped her hand into the snow and felt the bell from her shoe. It had let go, but not gone far. Rolled to a stop by her side, a voice for her tonight. She closed the lace that held the bell inside her fist and shook it with all she had, but the sound just blew away. The sound just went to hide.

Amanda knew it was time to go, time to leave, but she decided to rest one more minute, to dream one more dream. One minute later, Amanda was asleep.

Somewhere outside Missoula, Montana, somewhere outside the Bitteroot Overlook, a couple listened to their radio. And they were not aware of the drama playing outside. They were glad they were inside, because the temperature had just reached 22 below.

Ripley had heard the sound, heard that bell, and then it was gone. There was no direction to tell.

This is the time we all hate. The time of choice. The time of fate.

He opened his eyes and took in the night, and he pointed his ears and remembered the sound. He let all four feet touch the ground, and turned and walked into the dark. Ripley was going to find that sound.

The trail of red followed Ripley, the trail that was slowly emptying out his life.

Robert Big Springs knew when he was done, knew when it was through. He knew when it was time to go. He begged the storm one more time, but it laughed at him and howled off, ran down the trail, looking for more people to teach a lesson to this February night.

Robert turned and headed up, each step stealing his warm breath. He searched for forgiveness, for absolution for his failure tonight.

Amanda was dreaming again. Dreaming she was warm. And she was. And she was not dreaming. She was awake. And she was with her best friend.

He looked her in the eye and licked the snow and cold from her cheek. He looked at her eyes, and saw what little life was left inside.

Amanda hugged her dog and rubbed his ears and brushed his sides. Her mittened hand touched his nose, a swatch of red in this white wilderness. Then her other hand appeared, and it too was red, but there was no glove.

Ripley knew it was time to go. Ripley knew it was time to leave. Ripley knew their time was now, or it was not at all. He moved behind Amanda and grasped her jacket hood in his teeth, locked his jaw, and backed into the dark. He heard his friend moan and then he heard her cry, and he knew the fires were loosed inside.

His feet sought for purchase on this frozen ground. He pulled and fought, and tugged and howled inside ...howled for courage and for time...and for his heart to beat. His silent barks and howls cascaded down the trail, and his eyes glowed with fire, the fire of a warrior. One step at a time, he backed up that hill, pulling his friend, the one that so lovingly always spelled his name.

Amanda was lost in the fire of a dream while Ripley was in a battle he might not win. But Ripley was a warrior this night, and he had no quit.

Robert saw something up ahead. A picture he said he will never forget. A huge black and gray dog pulling a girl up the side of the hill onto the trail. He shined the light and saw the dog's eyes. Saw the eyes that glowed with grit...the eyes that had no quit.

And then he saw the blood all over the girl. He sat beside the pair and touched the dog, he stroked his hair. Ripley's eyes were so very tired and breath so very ragged, like a bellows that needed a patch.

Ripley saw the badge, and then he saw the man. He released his jaws, laid down and closed his eyes. Robert looked down at this improbable sight. Of black and red and blue and gray. Of how this animal must have worked this night, worked to save his friend.

Officer Big Springs remembered the story Amanda's parents had told of this dog. Of his will to survive, to save his friend. Then he took off his cap, even though it was 20 below, and reached for his radio and spoke into the mike. Robert spoke with sadness and respect.
"Officer down! Officer down!"

The engine of the helicopter roared into life and its blade spun the snow into twin whirlwinds, one on each side. It chased the cold and wind and made a place for survival tonight, a place for hope.

Robert helped load the stretcher and then stepped inside.

He shut the door and stuck his thumb in the air and they headed for warmth, and life for Amanda on this frozen night. She was buried in blankets and trying to sleep, but awoke one more time and looked directly into Robert Big Springs' eyes.

He knew what she wanted to know. He knew what she wanted to see. So he pointed down, and she saw Ripley stretched out at her feet. A huge bandage was around his side, taped over a knitted policeman's hat with a badge sewn on, a badge that covered his wound.

She sat up as best she could and touched Ripley's face with her right hand. And then very slowly and lovingly she spelled his name with her left. Brown eyes met blue, and for just a moment this night, they chased away all the fear and the pain, and never a word was said.

Officer Robert Big Springs had to look away.

The helicopter buzzed on and Robert Big Springs watched them fall asleep.

He watched over the warrior.

And then he began to weep. To weep for the lifetime of courage he had seen this night, and for the story that he would soon tell to me. For I am Amanda's father. And Ripley brought my daughter home to me.

"Thank You." Thank You is what is inscribed on the stone in our backyard. The place where Ripley now rests. Some five years after that night, he just went to sleep and never woke up.

A small, quiet, place that is always in the sun, for I never want him to be cold or in the dark again.