Little Bitterroot Lake

by Colby Farris

Everyone needs refuge from normal day to day life. For as long as I can remember my family has owned a cabin on Little Bitterroot Lake, and it has been my mine. Some of my first memories, both good and bad, include the lake.

For my ninth birthday, I received a pair of goggles with a snorkel and some fins. The goggles leaked some, but when you are having fun, you don't really notice. With my goggles I discovered many interesting objects on the bottom of the lake. There were railroad tracks embedded twenty feet out from the shore resting undisturbed in some fine sand. After my underwater exploration I took out my gramma's golf clubs and hit balls into the lake by the tracks. Soon there were many golf balls in the water, so I decided to take out the paddle boat. Once again I was back in the water. Using the boat as a platform, I could dive off and hang onto when I was tired. Getting the golf balls was long, hard work. Since the paddle boat was unresponsive, I spent extra time maneuvering over the golf balls. Darkness spread fast and eventually I was forced to retire from my task in favor of some hamburgers and sleep.

With all the time I spend in the water, I didn't usually leave Little Bitterroot Lake without a sunburn. I remember taking two weeks off from school, at the beginning of second grade, to go on a vacation to the lake. I spent my time swimming in the hot afternoon sun and playing with my cousins. At the end of the vacation, my back and shoulders were dark red and extremely sensitive to touch. I soon peeled like an orange. For a week afterward, I couldn't wear a shirt. Although I was writhing in pain, I still had a good time staying home from school and watching T.V. Somehow, my sunburn didn't hurt as much when I was lying on it while watching cartoons and consuming junk food.

And the lake witnessed worse tragedy than my sunburn. On one occasion after overhearing my gramma and dad talk about a plane crash, I immediately set out to find answers. My neighbors were kind and told me what they knew, but people are people, and people will gossip, so I received a bunch of dubious stories. Soon, I began to separate the stories into rumor and fact. The airplane supposedly contained an eloping couple from Canada, and the fisherman blamed the loud noise of the crash for their empty fishing baskets for the next weeks. As I learned the true story, I found out that these statements were rumors and tall tales. Because of time constraints, I never discovered the whole story, but I did learn a few facts. The plane was from Canada, and it crashed into the deepest part of the lake, over 400 feet. Three people lost their lives, the pilot and two passengers.

The story of the plane crash isn't the only negative story associated with the lake. One day, I decided to go to the store in Marion, is a little town located to the west of Little Bitterroot Lake. My dad said I was too young to ride my bike or walk to the store because I might be kidnaped. He then told me the story of the rapist. The crime occurred on a stretch of road between our cabin and Marion, called "the curve." "The curve" curved between a pond and marshlands. In 1973, two girls rode their bikes to the store from their houses. My Aunt Lynn, my dad, and a few of my cousins also rode their bikes to the store, but started earlier than the two girls. They rode by the curve and saw nothing, but on the return trip, they saw two bikes. They got off and went looking for the girls, wanting someone to play with. That night the forest was full of voices crying out the names of the little girls, whom almost everyone in Marion knew. The girls were never found and years later a man was tried for the rape and murder of the girls after he confessed to the heinous crime. He supposedly saw the girls at "the curve" and offered to give them a ride. They declined and the man jumped out of his truck and grabbed the girls. They were raped and finally killed. The convicted rapist and murderer is serving two life sentences. This doesn't bring back the two girls, but it does serve as some form of solace to the people who can still remember the night they left.

It may be because of events like the rape that Vigilantes are common around Marion, Montana. If there is a problem, people don't wait around for the proper authorities to act. Some problems, especially if they put someone in danger, need immediate action. When a female mountain lion was seen close to the Marion schoolhouse after recess, no one was about to wait for some "animal-before-the-people-tranquilizer-carrying-fool." Sometimes, the animals need to be relocated, but, when there isn't enough time to neutralize the threat before the threat eats some little third grader, the intruder is shot. The parents of the children got pretty upset when they found out that the Fish and Game Department was going to trap and release the animal. There's something wrong with the Fish and Game's proposed plan. It doesn't stop the mountain lion from making carrion scraps out of ignorant kids. A concerned parent saw the lion less than 500 yards from the school and shot it with a 30-06. Because of circumstances surrounding the incident, the parent cannot be blamed for his heroic, yet illegal act.

While some people, like this parent, may be sure shots from 400 yards away, I am not. So, one day I went to the dump for target practice before going hunting with my Grampa Red and my dad. Since I don't believe in littering, even in a dump, I went to throw my pop can away. Looking in the dumpster, I saw a dead black bear. The next day, I heard my neighbor say there had been a bear snooping around the campground on the other side of the lake. It had disappeared a day or so ago and had not been seen since, which is unusual for a bear dependent on campground food. With this new revelation, I told him where I found the dead black bear. Unlike the mountain loin, that bear did not need to be eliminated. It didn't do anything irrevocably wrong.

In addition to hunting, the lake is also a great place to fish. One sunny Saturday morning when I was five years old my Grampa Red and my dad were going out fishing in my Grampa's boat. I had never before caught a fish, but thought I'd tag along. They entrusted me with a small pole linked to a worm. My Grampa Red thought it was a good idea because I couldn't cause too much trouble with a small pole and one worm. Feeling a gigantic pull on the pole, I started to reel in what I hoped was the biggest fish ever caught by man. The fish eventually found itself into the boat. The 239.65 pounds of pure mayhem was surprisingly only eight inches long. Nevertheless, I sat proud and triumphant at the end of the day, entertaining my grama with stories about the monster-sized fish I caught.

The dam was one of my favorite places to fish while I was at Little Bitterroot Lake. There must have been thousands of fish around the dam. The biggest crawdads in the whole lake could be found there on the rocks near the shore. Since the rocks were bigger than most places on the lake and some fisherman left dead fish on them, the crawdads could easily find a hiding place and food. The fish liked crawdads to eat, and so did I, especially with butter.

My brother and I once went to the dam to find crawdads. Mookie, my dog, tagged along. Like many curious animals, dogs have a knack for getting themselves in and out of trouble. On the way around the lake to the dam, there is a little inlet. Being the destructive, swimming, bird-dog he is, Mookie jumped into the stagnant water. Either he saw snake before we did and was going after it or he scared it when he jumped into the water. Either way, Mookie was determined to catch it. Rapidly, he swam the fifteen yards to the snake, plucked it out of the water, and swam back to my brother and I, carrying the still squirming snake. As Mookie emerged from the water, he dropped the snake at our feet. It started to slither away, but remained under Mookie's unwavering eyes. Mookie glanced up. Seeing that we weren't going to do anything with the snake, he ripped it to pieces. By the time my brother and I got to the dam, Mookie was a reddish blotch in the scorching afternoon sun. Tired from our exertions, we left for our cabin without Mookie. Calling out his name until we reached the cabin didn't do much except make us hoarse. To our relief, Mookie was back at the cabin when we arrived.

Many things have happened by the Little Bitterroot Lake to alter my perception of reality. It started early on with some of the first things I can remember and has continued throughout my life. Some were great, some were horrible, and some were neither one nor the other, but I learned a valuable lesson from each. For all that it has done for me, Little Bitterroot Lake has found a place in my heart, forever.

Essay of Place Issue
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