My Father's Rock

My Father’s Rock An Essay by James E. Israelsen

Directly west of the Israelsen/Crookston cabin in Franklin Basin lie 2 large, open clearings known to our family as “the flats”. The result of ancient glacial activity, each is treeless, but covered with rounded boulders, sagebrush, mule’s ear, and native grasses. A strip of pine trees and aspen divides the two clearings, hiding each from the other.

In the spring and summer, they are green- covered in yellow glory with mule’s ear flowers, and accented with tall, white sprays of yarrow. In the fall, they are dry, dusty, and hot, with brown papery mule’s ear leaves crackling underfoot with each step. In winter they are white sparkling wonderlands; an expanse so smooth it belies the rocky terrain hidden underneath.

In the northwest corner of the westernmost of these two flats sits a large boulder. It is by far the most sizeable rock on the flat, and is composed of the same grey, pink, and deep red-mottled rock as its surrounding brethren.

The clearing slopes to the east, so the east side of the rock juts up some 4 ½ feet, while the west side protrudes only 24 inches from the ground. It is covered in multicolored lichens, and is similar in shape to a Volkswagen Beetle. This then, is my father’s rock. When I see or think of this rock, it is nearly always with memories of my father.

I hiked to this rock tonight on a cool, cloudless, breezy September evening. The mule’s ear crackled underfoot, the smell of sage caressed my memory, and a myriad of stars kept watch overhead, changeless and silent. A small flashlight served to light my way, but by-and-large I was guided by memories.

Some of my strongest childhood memories are tied to that rock- memories of cool, crisp, dark October mornings riding up the bumpy “road” (just a track now, used only by cattle, horses, and ATV’s) in Dad’s blue Chevrolet truck. I remember stopping the truck at the edge of the trees and beginning the long hike to “Dad’s rock”. My short legs taking 3 steps for every one of my father’s, I would look eagerly for our goal. In the early morning darkness, it was often just a black shape at the top of the gentle hill. Tonight, the trip from the edge of the trees took maybe 3 minutes. Then, it seemed like 30.

Once we arrived, we’d settle onto the rock, looking south and east for any signs of movement. Often after 15 or 20 minutes, my patience would wear thin and I’d start to fidget. Dad would gently “shush” me, reminding me that we’d see no deer if they heard us first. We’d sit and wait, sometimes eating a “sweetroll” for breakfast. When youthful energy could no longer be contained, I’d climb off the rock and explore the surrounding area, pretending to be the first white man ever to set foot there, and wondering what humans the rock had seen before.

Our stated purpose was to watch for deer, but I have no actual memories of ever shooting at one from that rock, even though we went there every year for numerous visits. What I do remember is growing sleepy in the warm October sun, and of Dad helping me shelter from the wind at the base of the steep eastern face of the rock. I recall curling up in both his coat and mine while he stood ever-vigilant watch. I have memories of peanut M&Ms shared, and more importantly, of shared conversations.

While no single conversation stands out clearly, I know that most avenues were thoroughly explored, from the best ways to spot a deer, to how to build a campfire, to God’s wishes for us. The topics melded easily one into another, and Dad’s rock felt like the safest place on earth.

If one looks south from the rock, the long ridge of White Pine canyon dominates the horizon. More memories center there- memories of my father. I remember another, colder October hunt on horseback with cousins, uncles, Dad, and my younger sister Bonnie. The ride started well before dark and well below freezing. In the hour it took to reach the canyon by first light, we learned the uselessness of our trendy foam “moon boots” at keeping feet warm while on horseback. I remember Bonnie’s tears, remember Dad tying the horses up, gathering wood, clearing snow, building a large fire, and gently rubbing Bonnie’s feet while she calmed down. I’m sure no deer were seen that day, but two young hearts learned the depth of their father’s love.

Another memory, a much earlier one, springs to mind when gazing at White Pine canyon from the rock. It is a distant, spotty memory, comprised mainly of images in rapid succession, like a slide show. They are images of a trip to White Pine canyon to camp as a family. There is an image of baby Bonnie, probably no more than two years old riding in a baby carrier on Dad’s back and sobbing miserably. There are images of mother and siblings trying to calm her, images of the huge army green center-pole canvas tent, the blue truck. Neither the cause nor the outcome of Bonnie’s unhappiness is remembered, but Dad’s quiet patience while carrying her is indelibly etched. There is an idyllic quality to all these images, as if the sun slanting through the pines can never be so golden again, and the air itself seems infused with light. These are, almost certainly, my first memories of family camping.

On this night, as I lie on my back on “Dad’s rock” and gaze up at the amazing palette of stars I see the Milky Way running bright and true across the heavens. I feel the cool breeze, and somewhere to the west an elk bugles, perhaps practicing his show for the rut to come. Another answers from across the mountain. A coyote sings, then decrescendos into a chorus of yips and barks. The wind rustles the mule’s ear, a shooting star slices across the sky. The rock is solid beneath me, and my heart is free to ponder. These mountains are little-changed in my lifetime, and likewise the rock. There are a few flecks of charcoal on the lee side of the rock, likely from some kid-warming fire long ago. The rock stands watch over the wilderness, but it is also deep in my heart. Like my father, the rock is always there. The memories that one man took time to create for a small boy have softened a little, but, like the rock, remain forever.

Now I, as a father myself, think of my rock. In the left-hand pocket of my jacket is a folded sheet of paper. It is an image of a pig, carefully colored completely blue for me by a beautiful little girl with her mother’s blonde hair and her grandfather’s light blue eyes. “Daddy, I want you to have this”, she said as she gravely handed it to me. “I made it for you.”

The chain of life continues. I have already brought her and her brother to this rock, and we have sat in the sun and shared stories of their grandfather. Will this memory remain for them, or will we have another rock of our own?

It has always been this way for me, that thoughts are clearest and feelings the deepest in this place. As my life goes on, and so many things are transient, I know that my father’s rock will remain. Through my lifetime and that of my children, the rock will stand, a silent testament to the love of a father. Thank you Father, from the bottom of my heart. - James