Me too.
I slide out of Lil’s Explorer and start running across the field toward the bozo in flip-flops.
The woman gets mad when she sees me coming. “Get outta here! You’re gonna ruin my selfies!” she cries.
The people up on the road think I’ve lost my mind. They’re shouting at me, too, and even in the clamor I can make out Summer’s voice.
But I keep on running, closer and closer, until I feel the cold stare of buffalo eyeballs. The animal pivots from the clueless tourist to confront a new rude intruder—me.
By the time I stop, I’m near enough to smell the bison’s nappy coat and feel its steamy heat. Gnats and flies are buzzing around its somber face.
“What are you doing?” shrieks the woman in flip-flops.
“Saving your life,” I say.
“Leave me alone!”
The buffalo bobs its head and snorts. You don’t need a zoology degree to know what’s coming next.
I grab the angry numbskull around the waist and start pulling her away. She accidentally drops her phone, and now she’s trying to wriggle free, so she can dash back and get it. No matter how fiercely she struggles, I hang on.
Over my shoulder I watch the buffalo unhappily watching us. It’s pawing the ground again, deciding what to do. The woman continues squawking, squirming, calling me names, but I’m stronger than she is. I don’t let go until we’re safely back on the road.
Instead of thanking me, she threatens to have me arrested. I point across the open plain to where the bull buffalo is now stomping her precious phone to pieces. “Lady, that’s what was going to happen to you,” I say. “Maybe worse.”
Her red-faced husband leads her to their RV, and off they go. I get back in the Explorer expecting a lecture, but all Lil says is: “Well done.”
Summer is grinning. “Billy, has anyone ever told you that you’re different?”
* * *
—
We don’t see any bears, moose, or wolves, but it’s still an excellent road trip. Lil and Summer take me to some mind-bending waterfalls in the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone. We follow a zigzag walkway to a viewing platform, where I stand half-hypnotized by the roar and rumble in the gorge below. The mist from the crashing waters feels cool on my cheeks.
Signs warn visitors not to climb over the rails, which seems obvious because you could easily slip from the rocks and fall hundreds of feet into the raging currents. Summer says it’s happened before. Some people forget to pack their brains when they go on vacation.
There’s also a sign saying no drones are allowed in the park. I can’t help wondering if my father’s so-called surveillance job ever takes him this far up the river.
On the ride back to Livingston I pretend to nap until we’re past the Tom Miner Basin. Once we reach town, Lil makes a late-lunch/early-dinner stop at Mark’s In & Out, where I destroy two cheeseburgers and a small mountain of fries. Mom would not approve. I didn’t call her last night because I didn’t want to talk about what had happened with my father.
“Can we reach him on the satellite phone?” I ask Lil.
“He leaves it off because he doesn’t want to drain the battery.”
“But I could still leave a message, right?”
“If you want to, Billy.”
Summer says, “Leave him a message. Definitely.”
Back at the house, Lil gives me the number of my dad’s satellite phone, which has so many numerals it would be hard to remember. I go into the bedroom to make the call, which doesn’t take long. There’s no answer on the other end. When the voice prompt beeps, I say what I have to say. It’s a brief message.
The next number I dial is Mom’s.
“Nice of you to check in,” she says sarcastically. “Please tell me you’ve heard from your father.”
“Sort of.”
I describe the odd encounter with Dad’s quadcopter, omitting the part about the note he dropped by remote control. Still, she’s ticked off.
“He didn’t even walk out of the woods to see you?”
“Lil and Summer couldn’t believe it, either.”
“I’m gonna call that jackass and give him a piece of my mind!”
“It’s all good, Mom. I got to see a grizzly bear with two cubs.”
“From way far away, I hope.”
“Oh, at least a mile,” I lie, because I don’t want her to worry.
“Any eagles?” she asks.
“Not today. But I’ll text you video of some epic waterfalls.”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine, Mom, just fine.”
“I’m sorry about what happened with your dad. I don’t know what’s going on in his head. Maybe I never did.”
Afterward, I slip out the back door alone. Satan the dog trails me down to the river. A dark wedge of cloud looms over town. The wind is kicking and the temperature is chilly. It doesn’t look, or feel, much like summer.
I sit on a big flat rock. The Labrador half of the dog wants to leap in the water, but the greyhound half is nervous about the weather. A coal train whistles, and I close my eyes. Satan pokes his soft nose against my hands. Cold raindrops pepper my arms.
The storm is charging down the Yellowstone through Paradise Valley. The worst of it is nine miles away—I calculate the distance by counting the seconds between the lightning flashes and thunderclaps. If my father is still holed up in the Tom Miner Basin, he’s soaked to the skin. I hope he’s got a waterproof case for that drone.
At Lil’s house I found a program for last year’s Livingston rodeo, listing all the cowboys. Their names were absolutely perfect—Shane, Wyatt, Josh, Heath, Logan, Morgan, Garrett, Thor, Tooter, Pistol, two Coles, and three Codys. From the day they were born, these guys were destined to grow up and wrestle steers or ride wild bulls. It was a done deal.
Mine isn’t a bad name for a cowboy, although the rodeo announcer would probably call me Billy the Kid.
If I lived here, I’d pick something different. Trace would be a good one. Or maybe Dusty—that’s even better.
“Now riding Spleen Crusher, the baddest bull between here and the Dakotas, is Dangerous Dusty Dickens! Let’s give him a big ole Montana welcome!”
It’s pouring so hard that I’m shivering. I feel sorry for the dog. There’s another white burst of lightning, and this time I only reach the count of two before thunder rocks the hills. That’s way too close.
Even a cowboy called Dangerous would scramble to get out of a storm like this, but for some reason I stay where I am, sitting on the flat rock by the river. My arms are wrapped around the drenched dog. When I whisper to him, I call him Sparky, his original name, instead of Satan the shoe-eater.
Another lightning bolt makes both of us flinch, and the thunder breaks instantly. Glancing at the sky, I see an enormous brown bird tracing graceful circles over the winding river. It’s twice as big as an osprey, bigger than a buzzard, maybe even bigger than a baldy. From the tip of one wing to the other must be seven feet.
Raindrops are stinging my face, but I can’t take my eyes off the bird. The next time it sails over me, I notice bushy feathers on its legs, all the way down to the talons. That leg plumage is the clincher, the key clue—and another piece of information most normal kids wouldn’t know.
The huge bird that’s riding the gusts of the river storm is a golden eagle.
Maybe that’s why I didn’t move from the rock. Part of me must have sensed that I’d miss something magical if I ran for cover.
Suddenly a zigzag bolt zaps a cottonwood tree on the bank across the water. The crash of the thunderclap is ear-splitting. I flatten myself, shielding the miserable dog. The surface of the rock is wet and slick.
When I raise my head to peek at the sky, the eagle is gone.
Soon the thunder fades, the rain
quits, and the clouds roll on. The dog rises and shakes hard, trying to dry off. I stand, too, craning my neck to see where the golden went.
It’s hard to believe it was really up there, soaring between the lightning bolts, but it was.
I’m almost positive.
* * *
—
Here’s the message I left on my father’s satellite phone: “Hey, it’s Billy. Your son? I came a really long way to see you. What’s the problem?”
He still hasn’t called back. After so long without contact, I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s dodging me.
“We used to have thousands of horses,” Summer is saying. “Not us personally, but the Crow as a tribe. We were famous for our horses.”
“Still are,” says Lil.
Summer grabs a cookie from a jar. “There’s a cool rodeo show at the Crow Fair, but it’s not the same as running herds of wild mustangs across the plains.”
I’ve been so fixated on finding my father that I haven’t spent much time asking his new family about their lives, their stories. How often do you get a chance to hang with people named Little Thunder-Sky and Summer Chasing-Hawks?
Lil says, “Leave the past upriver. That’s what my great-grandfather used to say. But it’s hard to do.”
Summer looks over at me. “Some of the family wasn’t too happy when Mom hooked up with your dad. They let us know, too—”
“Dennis is solid.” Lil cuts in. “A good man.”
I keep my mouth shut, but what I want to say is: Good guys don’t hide from their kids.
Summer tells Lil about the golden eagle I saw down by the river. Lil smiles and says, “Oh, I know that bird.”
“Why was he flying around in that terrible weather?” I ask.
“Because it’s smarter than sitting up in a tall tree during an electric storm.”
She asks how I want to spend tomorrow, my last day in Montana. I tell her I want to go back to the Tom Miner Basin. She shakes her head and says that’s not a great idea.
“I wouldn’t know where to start looking,” she says. “He could be anywhere.”
Later, when I’m lying in bed, listening to my playlist, Summer enters the room, followed by the dog and the crusty old tabby.
“Mom and I came up with a name for you,” she says.
I pull out my earbuds. “A Crow name?”
“Well, it’s not official or anything. More like honorary.”
“All right, let’s hear it.”
“ ‘Big Stick.’ ”
I’m wondering if the name means what it sounds like it means. My face must be turning red, because Summer laughs and says:
“Relax, it’s a river thing. When a fishing guide takes out a new sport who turns out to be super-good with a fly rod, the real deal, they call him a Big Stick.”
“But I’m just learning how—”
“It’s not all about the fishing. The name is about who you are as a person.”
“So it’s a compliment?” I say.
“Uh, yeah?”
“Then thanks.”
“You’re welcome, Billy Big Stick.”
I guess it’s better than Snake Boy.
“I’ve got a question,” I say to Summer, “and don’t get mad. But do you really sign those checks my mother gets every month?”
“I wouldn’t make up something like that!”
I still can’t get my head around it. “So you forge Dad’s signature?”
“He’s the one that taught me how,” she says. “It’s not really forgery, if it’s his idea.”
“But why?”
“Because somebody’s got to pay the bills when he’s not here, and Mom’s busy most of the time. So he put me in charge of the checkbook. Dennis isn’t exactly a math whiz, and he’s also kind of scattered. He doesn’t always remember when the tenth of the month rolls around, but I do. He knows I’ll never forget to send that money to Florida—and that’s the only check he ever asks about. He is a good person, Billy.”
“Let’s not take a vote,” I mutter.
Summer gets why I feel the way I do about my dad. She’s not making excuses for him. “He’s got some major explaining to do,” she says.
“Let’s go back to Tom Miner.”
“Billy, it’s like looking for a microscopic needle in a super-giant haystack. A needle that doesn’t want to be found.”
The next morning, we head the opposite direction of where I wanted to go. We get off the interstate at Springdale and put Lil’s boat in the Yellowstone, which seems slower and wider here. There’s a faint drizzle, with low clouds, and the river’s surface is the color of flattened tin.
Lil rows, Summer reads her book, and I sit in the bow casting a fly rod. Once I find the right rhythm, my technique improves. In only a couple hours I land seven rainbow trout and three cutthroats.
Lil is chuckling when she nets the biggest fish. “I’d say Billy Big Stick is living up to his name.”
From the back of the boat comes Summer’s voice: “Ha! Beginner’s luck.”
By noon the sun is shining bright. Lil anchors under the boughs of a big lush cottonwood. Rising on the opposite bank is a rock cliff honeycombed with holes that are filled with swallow nests, the sleek birds swarming like moths.
For lunch Lil brought pasta salad and turkey wraps. Summer baked some oatmeal-raisin cookies, and I eat way more than I should. She and I swap seats so she can fish the next stretch of river, while I zone out in the back of the boat. I’m not surprised to see how well she casts, and it’s a pretty thing to watch. Her first catch is a nineteen-inch brown trout that fights like a pit bull. Once the fish is shining in the net, Summer blows it a kiss before Lil sets it free.
We float beneath a tall craggy tree that has a bald eagle nest at the top. I take like ten pictures, which I text to Mom. I don’t expect a response right away—today’s an Uber day, and she doesn’t check her messages while she’s driving.
Which is good. Mom does okay when she can focus.
“Did you tell her what happened when you went to find your dad?” Lil asks.
“Of course he told her,” Summer cuts in. “I would.”
“She was bummed,” I admit, “and ticked off at him, too. She’d said she didn’t want me to come out here, but I think secretly she did. I think she wanted us to reconnect.”
The eagle nest sits so high that we can’t see over the rim. The babies could be hunkered down low, waiting for their parents to bring them a fish.
“Whatever happens with me and Dad, this has still been a cool trip,” I say.
Lil pulls back on the oars. “It’s not over yet.”
After catching a few more trout, Summer asks to switch seats again. She wants to finish her book, and it’s only two miles until we reach the takeout ramp. I’m happy to be back in the bow, concentrating on making good casts and not thinking about my father. That’s another great thing about fly fishing: doing it right requires your complete, undivided attention.
Lil says lots of her customers are successful big-city business executives who are desperate to escape the grind of their jobs. She mutes their phones before they step into the boat, and she says they always thank her at the end of the float. I believe it.
All day long a warm downstream breeze has nudged us along, but now we turn a bend and the air goes dead still. Here the river is broad and lazy. Something that looks like a shaggy brown coconut pops to the surface—Summer says it’s a beaver. Once he spots us, he whacks his flat tail—pow!—and dives.
I watch for his face to poke up again, but Lil says he’s probably hiding in his den, a mud-packed heap of branches at the mouth of a small creek. Summer explains that the entrance to the den is underwater.
Lil rows closer, and as the current sweeps us past, I snap another picture for M
om. There are definitely no wild beavers in South Florida.
The fish have quit biting, and I don’t mind. There’s nothing boring about being here. It’s nice to be the only humans in sight.
Summer is the first to hear the humming, because I’m tuned in to a bunch of squabbling redwings. She slaps her book shut and says, “I can’t believe this.”
Lil lets go of the oars and stands up, hands planted on her hips. “All this drama,” she murmurs, frowning.
“What are you guys talking about?” I say.
Then I hear it, too.
The drone.
It’s hovering downriver, pointed our way, watching us. This is why the blackbirds are so riled.
Lil shakes a finger at the quadcopter. “Knock it off, Dennis!”
If I were my father, I’d pay attention.
As the drone comes closer, Summer rises from her seat. “Yo, up there, is that really you?”
“Of course it’s him,” snaps Lil.
The little gray quadcopter tilts back and forth, as if nodding.
So I guess it’s my turn. I speak extra slowly, in case he’s lip-reading from the video feed.
“DAD! WHY…ARE…YOU…DOING…THIS?”
The drone glides forward until it’s directly above the boat, so low I can practically poke it with the tip of the fly rod. I’m tempted to try, but I don’t. If I touch just one of the moving propellers, the aircraft will go haywire and fall.
Probably on top of my head.
“Dennis, have you lost your mind!” Lil hollers. Now that the drone is so close, the buzzing of the blades is annoying. Summer plugs her ears with her fingers.
I stare at the unblinking eye of the quadcopter’s camera, imagining my father staring back at me from…where? Depending on the strength of the signal, he could be operating the flight controls from high on a canyon rim, or the middle of a hayfield, or even the back of his truck.
One thing is certain: he’s not far away.