I drove west on Route 200. It was another Big Sky day, sunny with clear, deep blue extending from one horizon to the opposite. I loved the view of dramatic and distant horizon that came with much of the west. It was much more appealing than the claustrophobic nearness of buildings and stacked freeway ramps that cluttered most urban areas. That included my hometown of Cincinnati. That past life now seemed so foreign. I was beginning to feel like I belonged here instead.
When I eventually arrived at the campus area, there was a sign announcing The University of Montana, Missoula Campus, founded 1893. I parked in a visitor’s lot, plugged some quarters in the meter, and set out on foot. I found a campus directory on a large signboard planted at the edge of the parking lot. There were two destinations I had in mind. One was the language department to check on that writing on the brown paper litter. The other was the botany department. I set out on foot in that direction first.
The campus was fairly quiet, probably not unusual for late summer, before the new school year starts. The few people on campus were likely students taking summer classes, incoming freshmen learning their new turf, and probably fall sport squads getting a jump on training for the upcoming season. But soon the campus would be swarming with activity for the start of the new academic year.
The botany building was a couple minutes walk away, taking me to the edge of the campus. When I got there, rather than enter the front of the building, I walked around to the back. That was where I found what I hoped would be there: a greenhouse. Through the glass and metal frame I saw a profusion of plants. That seemed like a good place to start. A door on the end facing me stood open, so I entered.
Inside, the air was warm and steamy, like stepping into the tropics. Fortunately, it was early in the day. The sun had not yet climbed high in the sky. All that radiant energy pouring through the glass might turn the place into a stifling environment. There were rows of tables on which sat neat lines of potted plants. The pots were labeled with some type of code. Probably experiments in progress. An older man was transferring plants from small pots into larger ones, presumably since they seemed to have outgrown their old homes.
“Good morning,” I said with a grin. “I’m Nathan.”
He looked up, but did not offer his hand to shake mine. His were covered in black dirt, the potting soil. Occupational hazard. “Mornin’,” he said cheerily enough. “I’m George. Are you looking for someone?”
“Well, I’m not looking for anyone in particular. But I am trying to identify some plants.” I opened my backpack, removed the plastic bag, and pushed the bottom upward to expose its contents. They looked pathetic, all dry and crispy, jumbled together in the bag. At least they no longer smelled bad. They had dried out since I dumped them from the pack, the noxious odor going away as they desiccated. “Is there someone who might be able to help me?”
“I’m not so good at the identification part.” But he peered in the bag anyway. He seemed to consider them for several seconds, and then said, “Nope. I mostly just help out here in my spare time. Everyone needs volunteers these days with the bad economy, you know.” He turned his back, and I thought he was finished with me. But then he hollered down the greenhouse, “Rose?”
Branches rustled in a cluster of taller plants further down, and a response came back. “Yes, George?”
“Someone here maybe you can help.”
“Thank you, George,” I said, walking toward the voice in the bushes. When I got there, no one was visible.
“What can I do for you?” The words came from behind me, and I jumped a bit.
I turned to face a woman probably in her sixties. She wore a wide-brimmed hat, gloves, and coveralls. She was bright-eyed, and her cheeks had a pink blush. Rose, I presumed.
“Hi, I’m Nathan.”
“I’m Rose Barker, manager of plant collections.”
Rose did not extend her hand to shake mine, though I noted her gloves were dirt-covered from working in potting soil, just as George’s had been. “What can I do for you?” she said, repeating her question with a touch of impatience.
“I was hoping you might be able to tell me what these plants are.” I extended the plastic bag, and again pushed the bottom upward to expose its contents.
She was hesitant at first. Certainly my request probably seemed unusual, bringing a bag of random parts and asking for identification of such a motley lot. But she conceded. Looking into the bag, she fingered the specimens with a gloved hand, pushing them around, stirring the pile to see the ones underneath. I could tell from her expression that she was not puzzled by any of them. She recognized them.
Then her eyes opened wide. It was just for a moment, but I had seen it. I didn’t know if a single item in the bag had caused that response or if it was the collective lot. She looked up from the bag, squinting her eyes and tightly pursing her lips. “Where did you get this?”
I didn’t know what the this specifically referred to or if it meant the collective this. But at least something in the lot seemed worthy of her attention. So she would be able to help me. Good, I came to the right place. I hadn’t expected her question about where the stuff came from and didn’t see how that was relevant. But what the heck. The truth seemed as good as any explanation.
“This may sound crazy, but I was hiking and picked up some litter on the trail. These,” I rattled the bag to indicate what the these meant, “were mixed in.” I paused for a moment. “I don’t know my plants and was curious what they are.”
“Did you pick this?” she asked a bit accusingly.
Which one is the this she keeps referring to? And didn’t I just tell her? Anyway, I responded, “Yes, I picked them up.” Then I realized she probably meant did I pick them, as in kill a live plant to pick or collect these.
I started to add that I did not kill a live plant and drive it all the way here, but she was peering at me with a weird look in her eyes. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“Why do you ask that?” I replied.
“Your accent. Doesn’t sound local.”
Accent? What accent? “I just moved out here, from out east.” I left my response vague, a spur of the moment decision. I was getting a bad feeling about where this conversation was going. I continued, hoping to still get the answer I sought. “I was just hiking, and I found these. Can you tell me what they are?”
She seemed inclined to tell me what I wanted to know. Then suddenly she changed her mind. “Excuse me a moment.” She turned and abruptly walked away. She went into a small office and closed the door.
Why the mystery about identifying some plants? I walked closer to the office, but couldn’t see her in there through the tangle of leaves obscuring the window. I could hear her talking, though the words were too muffled by the closed door to be understood. Then there was silence. Then she was talking again. She was on the phone.
Something didn’t feel right. If she were calling a colleague to get an opinion on the identification, she would have simply said so and probably invited me into the office while she made the call. That would have been normal behavior. There was something else happening here. A warning bell in my head clanged, and I knew it was time to leave Rose and her world of botany. I turned around and marched down between two rows of plants.
“George, stop him! Lock the door!” Rose called to her colleague from the office doorway.
George turned toward the greenhouse door. He looked puzzled, but started to obey her command. He was only a few steps away from the door. No time for a discrete exit. I ran. He had his hand on the knob and began to swing the door shut. There was no doubt in my mind that, if necessary, I could overpower George and leave this place. But there was no call for physical violence. He’s just a volunteer, doing what he’s told.
My left hand still clutched the bag of plants, so I stuck out my left arm and caught the edge of the metal and glass door with elbow, jangling my funny bone.
The force of George closing that door pushed me a bit to the right so that when I stuck out my right hand, my forearm jammed hard against the doorframe. As awkward as that was, I used my forward momentum and these two tenuous pivot points to propel myself through the narrowing gap.
I immediately turned in a direction away from where I parked the car. Then I walked quickly halfway around the botany building to get back on the right tract toward the parking lot. I heard a vehicle approaching somewhere behind me and ducked behind a large tree. I peered back toward the building to see a campus security car, with lights flashing, as it neared the greenhouse. She had called the university police.
I was tempted to sprint to the parking lot to get away from here as fast as possible. But I knew that would only draw attention to me. With part of my brain urging me to run and another part putting on the brakes, I walked at a pace that might be noticed, but not raise a red flag of suspicion. As a precaution, I slipped out of the blue button-down short-sleeve shirt I had on and loosely folded it into my hand. This exposed the white tee shirt underneath.
As I fast walked across campus, I replayed the scene in my head, wondering if I had left anything behind that could tie my visit to me. The door was opened when I arrived, so I left no fingerprints on it. I had left nothing in the building. And I had blocked the closing door with my arms, not my hands. And I saw no security cameras in there. So, to the best of my recollection, I left no important trace behind.
But what was my transgression that warranted a visit by the campus cops? I was too busy leaving to be concerned with that detail for the moment.
At the parking lot, I hopped in my car and left hurriedly. Since it was a metered parking lot, there was no gate to go through, no parking attendant, and no parking ticket that might leave a trail.
I felt relief at getting away. It wasn’t as if it was The Great Escape, yet the relief was still uplifting. But getting away from what? I brought some plants to a greenhouse for identification. What kind of plant would evoke this reaction? Two things came to mind. I would soon be searching those at a safe haven: the library in Willow Run.
I was disappointed that I didn’t get to the language department to check on that writing on the brown paper litter. But staying on campus any longer for that was not wise. Wiser is what I was doing, which was leaving.