Sad Turns

Yesterday, on a drive to Billings, I opted to route myself around what we call the “backside” of Canyon Ferry Reservoir and then up through Deep Creek Canyon.

A weird thing happened as I drew near the reservoir.  I became wholly pensive.  Soon enough, I found myself suffering from a penetrating sadness.

For some reason, nearly every hill and corner brought forth a memory.  Memories from years before.  Thoughts of a previous time I had been on that very hill or corner.  Each of these memories found me with either a deceased loved one or deceased friend.

At the top of Canyon Ferry Hill, I thought of the day my sister, Connie, and I browsed through rocks and related crafts under awnings and tents in an open field there.  An event sponsored by the Helena Mineral Society.

At the bottom of the hill, I thought about all those days my Aunt Jo cranked the steering wheel of her green Willys Jeep Wagon there, turning us onto West Shore Drive for the last leg of the drive to her cabin.  I spent weeks at the lake with Aunt Jo.

As I crossed the dam, I thought about the day my late wife and I stood near the edge of water not far off the dam just on the other side.  We had stopped to watch several big, purple-backed fish swimming in the deep waters held by the massive concrete structure.

For the next two corners, I sleeved tears from my eyes.

Then, I dipped down right alongside the lake near Penny Island—the place where Billy Barber drown when we were all kids.

On the backside, the highway proved straight and empty.  The dolphin-backs of the Big Belt Mountains, held steady to my left.  The lake to my right.

At Hellgate, I thought about deer hunting with my Father and my Uncle Stack.  Me picking up rocks I liked along the way.

At Avalanche, I recalled the time, during my sophomore year of high school, I hunted with my grandfather there.

Down the empty road I drove.  I drove until my memories faded into fenced pastures and open wheat fields.

—Mitchell Hegman