Too Beautiful

Too Beautiful

A thing of beauty is a joy forever;

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness.

 ~John Keats

         I first crossed paths with the concept of being humbled by nature, it seems, through my grandfather, Louis Dufresne. His outdoor stories could fill the night air of a thousand campfires.  He tromped about the woods before high tech gear, before guided trips, and before getting out became the in thing to do.  He hunted and fished as a means of survival and a means to quench his passionate thirst for the outdoors.  Grandpa embodied a gentle toughness the likes of which I have never seen. Up to his final day, he embodied this gentle toughness that must have been born on countless trips into the woods. And when looking beyond his final day, he and my grandmother, Lorraine, share the final wish to have their ashes spread near Thompson Falls, up Bushy Gulch, their favorite hunting ground.

Grandpa Louis, Uncle Leo, and Aunt Dora enjoying a Montana creek in the early 1900’s 

Louis spent his life in the woods. They shaped his character, and etched into a man a toughness that can is embodied in an ax handle. This toughness is most defined by an experience he endured far from the friendly confines of the forests and the trees. 

In 1991, Grandpa was diagnosed with intestinal cancer and given by local doctors a maximum of 6 months to live.  That didn’t sit well with him or my father, Dale, so they traveled from Stevensville, Montana to the Mayo Clinic in Minneapolis, Minnesota for a second opinion.  The sole purpose of the trip was to seek hope that Grandpa might live more than six months.  It must have been an unimaginable drive- father, mother, and son, spending time together through states and time zones- potentially for the last time.  I can’t imagine what they were thinking when times were silent or what they discussed when conversation flowed.

At Mayo, Grandpa was told there was indeed hope, a radical invasive surgery removing his colon, his bladder and much of his intestine.  The surgery itself had risks, of course, including the fact that the doctor had only performed it once before, but they were risks Louis was willing to face with grit and determination.  Before he went under the knife, a surgery that took more than 14 hours, a surgery that, according to the doctor, led to a sleeplessness night before he performed it, Grandpa said to my father, “I’ll be ready for Jeff’s track meet.”  You see, my brother was running for the state championship in the mile back in Montana.  My grandfather, minus much of his insides but none of his guts, kept his word and was there to watch my brother cross the finish line.

Grandpa Louis rests on the bumper of his car in 1933

         A long-time friend of the family, John Parker, who is an outdoor and hunting fanatic, speaks my grandfather’s name with glowing admiration.  He once said that Louis had forgotten more about hunting than he’d ever learn.  If you knew Parker, you’d realize the breadth and depth of this statement.  To me, Parker is the outdoor guru.  It seems every backcountry or wilderness I’ve traveled or dreamed of traveling, he has explored five times over.  He’s an ex-biology teacher who retired to clear trail in some of the most amazing country in Western Montana.  He then became a pilot and now flies in a matter of hours over the same country that took him half a lifetime to cover walking and riding horseback.  He also builds his own rafts to float some of the most aggressive rivers in the country.  Parker’s ratio of time spent in the woods versus time spent in civilization would make Thoreau blush.  It isn’t to be taken lightly that this man holds my grandpa in the highest regard.  

When I told Parker I was writing about Grandpa, his mad-with-life eyes lit up.  One statement he made that can begin to classify how much my grandfather got out and lived in the outdoors, meaning it becomes part of one’s life versus a fragment of time away from it, is that it never ceased to amaze John that every time he would hunt with my grandfather, Grandpa would teach him something new about hunting or the outdoors.

Great Grandpa Armand, Dad, and Grandpa Louis enjoying the spoils of an antelope hunt.

         Over a decade after the surgery,  Grandpa would still join the boys on their annual hunting trip.  He often rode in on a horse named Bucky, whose name should give you some indication about his demeanor.  When Louis became weak with old age, he began to have trouble getting on the horse.  Grandpa would place his foot in the stirrup and his body would tremble as he battled to muster the strength to climb atop the horse’s back for one more trip into the wild.  At one point, on one of Grandpa’s last trips, Bucky went down onto his front knees to allow my grandfather to climb aboard.  Bucky has shown this gesture to only one person in his life.

         Another story John tells about Grandpa again involves Bucky.  They were hunting on horseback and came to a steep, snow-covered Bitterroot ridge at the back of a canyon.  The horses were up to their stomachs in the snow.  Parker knew my grandfather was weak and would be unable to make the slow climb on the horse to the top, so he told Louis he’d head up, tether his horse, and come back down to lead Bucky and Grandpa up the ridge.  Parker and horse made a slow, tiring climb, switch-backing to the top, where he tethered the horse to a tree.  He turned around, not at all looking forward to the walk down, and especially not looking forward to the climb back up in waist deep snow, when a noise caught his attention.  He peered over the ridge and there was Grandpa riding Bucky, ears pinned back in determination, at a gallop.  They charged straight up the hillside, which was so steep Parker swears had either Grandpa fallen or the horse lost its footing they would have tumbled a half mile before coming to a stop.  Grandpa crested the ridge and said with a smirk, “I figured you didn’t really want to have to come and get me.” 

         You see, the outdoors served as my grandfather’s back yard, maybe more accurately, his place of residence.  He knew them as well as you come to know a house you’ve lived in for countless years.  My uncle Duff once told me a wonderful story about just how well Grandpa knew the hills and forests around Thompson Falls. 

Duff and a bunch of his buddies had come home to Thompson Falls to hunt.  Grandpa decided not to join them, allowing his son and his crew freedom to roam the woods and pursue the youthful pleasure a group of good friends in the wild offers.   They had walkie-talkies and left one back at the house so Grandpa could occasionally check in on the expedition. 

After a few hours, Grandpa decided he would do so, so he radioed the gang and asked how things were going.  One of Duff’s buddies was the first to respond. “All right,” he replied, “but I’m thirsty as all hell!”  Grandpa asked him to describe his location.  Duff’s buddy gave a brief description, detailing the road, the lay of the land and the direction he walked from the truck.  Grandpa gave him a few simple instructions to follow, directions combining the compass-rose, the lay of the land and a nearby feeder stream.  Duff’s buddy followed these instructions and was flabbergasted to find a beer can hanging on a pine tree next to a crystal clear stream.  “Enjoy,” Grandpa said, no doubt not trying to conceal his smile.

Grandpa was a master hunter, nearly always bagging more and bigger game than anyone he hunted with; however, the spoils of victory never overcame his love for the animals that graced his presence.  He was humbled by and thankful for them. He refused to shoot any animal that was extremely big, the type of critters that would have most hunters drooling over a possible mount or dreaming of seeing their name listed in the Boone and Crockett Club.  Louis believed the biggest, healthiest, and strongest animals should be left to serve as the breeding stock to preserve future hunting for years to come. He simply loved hunting and the outdoors too much to diminish them through his actions.

One of my favorite stories, mostly because of the smile that lit my grandfather’s face and the light that shone in his eyes every time he told it to me, involved a day hike into a mountain lake in the mountains around Thompson Falls.  With my grandma in tow, the aim of the trip was to get out and catch golden trout for a meal.  After a casual hike in, Grandpa fished.  He and Grandma could see the goldens by the dozens on their spawning beds, but no matter what he threw at them, they wouldn’t bite.  Grandpa finally put on a snagging hook, dropped it down on the redds and yanked up a couple fish.   He had, after all, gone to the woods counting on returning with a meal.  With a grin, Grandpa informed me that the golden trout were mighty tasty. 

Grandma Lorraine “Grambo” and Grandpa Louis camping at Georgetown Lake

At the end of the hike, Grandpa said he reached the car a little before Grandma Lorraine. As she slowly ambled down the trail toward him, he grinned up at her. When she reached the road, he nodded behind her and said, “Looks like you found a friend.” Grandma looked over her shoulder and shrieked at black bear that was casually walking the trail around 20 yards behind her. She bolted for the car, dove in, and locked the doors while Grandpa  chuckled and admired the bear.

In my 20s, after each backpacking trip I went on, I made a point to visit Grandpa, and recount my adventures. In response, Grandpa told me the golden trout / bear story a handful of times over his last few years when we’d share adventures..  He obviously had forgotten that he’d told it to me before- but that makes the story all the more valuable, not less.  Grandpa’s mind held this memory above millions of others it had discarded or lost over the years, and every time the memory came back, an aura shone around him and age fell off him like water off a Merganser.   The memory was magical for my grandfather, so too is the story to me, for in its telling and retelling, it became part of our connection.

My relationship with my grandfather grew as time passed thanks to our common joy, nature.   The outdoors created for us a remarkable bridge between generations.   

 My Grandfather passed away in 2005, knowing I was writing a chapter about him but never getting the chance to read it.  He took with him more Humbled by Nature stories than I can ever hope to experience.  With Grandpa, I believe the outdoors defined the man, and the man belonged in the outdoors.  

Uncle Leo and Grandpa Louis at Burnt Fork Lake

My father told me perhaps the most poignant of stories about Grandpa as he’d heard it told by Grandma years before.

My dad, grandma and grandpa were out hunting the hills around Thompson Falls.  Dad was wandering the woods with youthful fervor. Grandpa stayed near the truck with Grandma.  He was sitting against a tree, his hunter’s orange covering a red flannel, hunting hat on. His rifle leaned against the tree. Grandma was reading a book.

Eventually, they heard a stick snap and hoof clomp that could only mean an elk.  Grandpa silently and slowly reached over, grabbed his rifle and waited.  After a moment, a huge bull came ambling into view.  The elk strolled into a clearing, a stone’s throw from my grandparents. It stopped, broadside.  I imagine Charlie Russell’s Exalted Ruler, the sun shining on the animal’s back, eyes fierce, its massive rack held regally high- wapiti in full splendor. 

Grandma closed her eyes and plugged her ears in anticipation of the gunshot. 

She waited. 

No shot sounded.  

When she opened her eyes, Grandpa had already put the rifle down and was sitting calmly against the tree again.  The clearing was empty.   

Grandma asked, confused, “Why didn’t you shoot it?”

“Too beautiful,” Grandpa replied simply.

My father recounted that story to me over dinner one evening not long before Grandpa passed away. Tears formed at the edge of his eyes, and he got up from the table to walk off the emotion.  

Recalling the story now moves me in ways I can not explain. 

The truth of my grandfather’s words resonate in my mind.  They carve a fitting epitaph for my grandpa: too beautiful.  And in their utterance, Grandpa unknowingly became a poet, for those two words remain the most succinct and precise description I have heard describing how the natural world interacts with my soul. 

Too beautiful.