"To An Old Friend" - Keith R. Bridgman - 2002:...He was one of the few people I know who could tell the same story a dozen times and it would still be funny...
Attempting to pass through the Choteau Lock and Dam on the Vertegris River leg of the Arkansas River Navigation System was ordinarily routine but, securing the line to the floating buoy was essential if the tug and barge were to safely lock through. Even so, as hard as I tried, my lassoing ability failed with each attempt. The skipper continually shouted at me via the intercom from the bridge,
“Hurry up and get that line secured…”
which only served to rattle me even more and each attempt at lassoing the buoy ended with the end of the line slipping off and adding to the color of my sailor’s vocabulary.
From the visitor’s overlook high above us, a single older man stood watching, obviously being entertained by my feeble attempts to secure that line. I grumbled half aloud at him, but could not take time to make an issue out it; the skipper wanted that line secured before the strong Oklahoma wind blew us out of line. Somewhere around the ninth or tenth throw, I lost count, the loop finally connected and I took three quick turns around the cleat on the bow of the barge, held the open end of the line taut, raised my arm and fist shouting so the skipper could hear me on the bridge,
“Hooked up…”
The powerful diesel engines reversed thrust and the line I so recently struggled with stretched and popped under the strain, but held firm. Near the stern of the tug, another crewman secured a second line with one toss and we were ready to lock through.
I shot a defiant look toward the stranger while holding my hand on my hip with a smirk on my face like the indignant soul who jumped to his feet after tripping, and muttered to myself,
“…I really do know how to do this…”
Strangely enough, he seemed less amused and more relieved that nothing was broken or damaged.
It is odd how random chance meetings have a way of developing into something more lasting and how those events can over time become an important part of your life. That stranger’s name was Ralph Baston, and little did I know at the time, but he and I would become life long hunting and fishing partners and more importantly, life long friends.
I was close to twenty-five years old at the time, serving out the last few months of my service in the United States Coast Guard on the river buoy tender Forsythia out of Sallisaw, Oklahoma. (Don’t ask what an Okie was doing in the Coast Guard and in the landlocked state of Oklahoma. Just trust me on this one) That last of four years had me performing some of the dirtiest, nastiest, hottest, grubbiest work I’ve ever had the misfortune of doing, but I would not trade that experience for anything. The previous three years I had been stationed along the Oregon coast at a lifeboat station. Truly a life’s adventure, but a career in the military was not in my future.
Ralph was about the same age I am now when I first met him, maybe a little older in his mid-fifties. I didn’t know it, but he turned out to be the father of the young lady I was to start dating shortly there after. The relationship with the young lady faded after a year or so, but by then Ralph and I had hunted and fished together enough to be quite comfortable with each other. Neither of us saw any reason for that to end, so we continued to do so. By then Ralph, my friend Rocky, Curt who worked with Ralph, my brother Ken, and Ralph’s old time friend Newman, and myself had formed a comradeship which evolved into our own hunting and fishing fraternity. We formed a unique cross section of personalities which for the most part complimented each others whims and provided enough contrasts to create some truly memorable moments and a lot of great laughs.
Ralph was one of those guys who had a subtle, but strong sense of humor and whose patience was legendary. He couldn’t hear a thing without his hearing aid, yet in spite of his infirmary, he accomplished many things in life. He was a great musician and appreciated all talents he discovered in others. Like many of his generation, he rarely spoke of his service during World War II thinking of it simply as his patriotic duty, prefering instead to concentrate on other things like hunting and fishing and working in the yard.
Through Ralph I learned more about the ethics of sportsmanship and that being an outdoorsman requires a deep commitment and understanding, and demands a greater responsibility than most people realize. He truly was the anchor of our group in more ways than one. Ralph wasn’t in a hurry to do anything and time after time we would chomp at the bit waiting for him to finish tying on a lure or pull on his waders or light his pipe. Sometimes he seemed like a real anchor holding us back with his lack of hurriedness. But, when the opportunity presented itself, everyone of us would arm wrestle each other for that coveted position to sit in front of Ralph’s canoe.
His old Grumman aluminum canoe was a classic and reflected much of his personality. It was beat up, and banged up and long ago lost it’s new charm, yet it kept on going and doing things every bit as well as the newer boats. When the rest of us were talking about the new high-tech canoes available or how nice it would be to have one of those fancy overpowered bass boats, he would nod favorably, then go about his business of catching fish in his old trusted Grumman.
Ralph was wealthy only in character and goodness of heart. He’d bend over backwards to help someone out, but was wise enough to know when to back off or step away. I can’t count the number of times he would take his day off and help me repair my broken down rig. All you had to do is say I need some help, and he’d be there, yet he rarely asked for the favor in return.
Our younger bodies had a hard time keeping up with him. There wasn’t much he couldn’t do physically. He joked about his ‘ wide bottom ‘ but we all knew those strong shoulders and back could out perform all of us when they had to. Not until he reached his upper 70’s did he start to slow down and we caught up with his capabilities.
His way with words belied his vocabulary skills. ‘Blast!’ or ‘No kidding!’ or ‘Come on!’ or ’Boy….Boy!’ were repeated so often, I find myself using them now.
I’ll never forget the day I caught two 4 to 5 pound bass out of Old Beggs lake in mid-March the first year or so I knew Ralph. He was the first person I showed them to. ‘No Kidding… Boy…Boy…‘ he repeated over and over as we gawked at them. The next Saturday we were all down there frothing the water eagerly anticipating with each cast to tie into a wall hanger. We actually caught a few goods ones out of that lake over the years, but not on that trip. Fishing reports were an expected thing with Ralph. If he knew you went some place and he didn’t get to go, he’d act all indignant, then want to know how we did, and use his favorite ‘No kidding…’ to compliment you on the results.
Whether it was wetting a line from a canoe, wading Flint Creek or the Baron Fork, quail hunting inside some tangled draw, or standing waste deep in freezing water waiting for that elusive flight of ducks, Ralph always had a story to tell. I think the story telling was the highlight of his outings and he relished those moments when the sun climbed higher, and the hunting or fishing slowed down. Heaven forbid if he started one and you were in a hurry. What would take an ordinary person three or four minutes to tell, he could drag out for half an hour. Twenty minutes into the story, if you paused to look at your watch, he’d wrinkle his brow and growl,
’What cha looking at your watch for…you aint got nothing better to do…’
and he’d be right, then extend the story for another fifteen minutes because he would have to back track to get the story straight because you interrupted him. He was one of the few people I know who could tell the same story a dozen times and it would still be funny. Many of his stories, and many of our outing's, took on the flavor of the outdoor adventures chronicled by Patrick McManus, a brilliant and hillarious writer of outdoor wit. I suppose it was because we could relate to many of those adventures is why we enjoyed them so much and some of our greatest laughs were spawned while discussing Patrick's most current book. We'd run into some real life character who would remind us of one of the McManus clan like Rancid Crabtree or Retch Sweeney and even Eddie Muldoon. We laughed so hard recalling those stories and those characters, tears would roll down our cheeks.
As Ralph grew older, as we all did, we became less adventuresome and more in tune with the greater pleasures of simply getting away. A morning of fishing became less an attempt to catch a fish and more an attempt to unwind and shake off the grime and stains of modern society. I didn’t realize this so much the first few years I knew Ralph, but he was already a master of that concept when I first met him. Over the years some of his ways were subtly adopted by all of us. They were the kinds of lessons one learns from experience and observation. Ralph had a way of demonstrating his laid back approach to life and because of his unobtrusive mentoring, we all grew not only in outdoor wisdom, but learned a lot about life in general.
The last few years of his life we noticed Ralph slowing down. There was a noticeable shaking of the hand and a tiredness in his eyes. When we were informed by his wife Pink that a diagnosis of Multiple Myloma, a type of blood cancer, was cast into his life, we felt time was finally catching up with him and that his hunting and fishing days were for the most part over. His humor and wit never left him and as far as I could tell, he never complained about his condition, only about the orderlies, doctors, and nurses. At times it looked like he would beat it and occasionally he found enough strength to make an outing, even finding the ability to sit in front of Curt’s canoe on one of his last fishing trips to Old Beggs Lake. Now that I think about it, Old Beggs was the first and last place I ever fished with Ralph. That is fitting for it was there I learned about the joys of fishing from a canoe and how that kind of simple pleasure is what fishing is all about. It was where I first learned what being an outdoorsman really meant.
Rocky called me at work one day in the middle of the week and said I better get over to Tulsa and see Ralph because he had taken a turn for the worse. I couldn’t go until that Friday, but by then it was too late. His youngest daughter called me at work the day after Rocky called. Her voice was shakey and her tone somber and somehow I knew before she said anything, a friend, a father, and a mentor had passed on. I didn’t get much work done that day.
There is no way I can explore all of Ralph’s life or even the twenty-five or so years I knew him. I’m not sure what my favorite moment could be. There are so many memorable ones, like the time Rocky pulled the canoe out from under him after he stood up in the back and he did a double back flip off the stern and took a swim. Or maybe the time he and I found this ailing Red-Tailed hawk while we were out quail hunting. He took it home to see if he could find someone to nurse it back to health, much to his oldest daughter’s chagrin. It kept staring at her. Or the time he met me up at Canton Lake for some late season goose hunting and we witnessed one the most awesome displays of nature I’ve ever seen when thousands of ducks and geese moved to and fro across the lake to the backdrop of a spectacular sunrise ['When Nature Wins']. Or I suppose it could be all those times when on every outing we stopped hunting or fishing and sat down in a shade and listened to one of his never ending supply of stories. But, I think my favorite times were after the sun had gone down and the fire was casting its glow across our fishing or hunting camp. It was then time worn stories for the hundreth time, were told and retold and the images of hilarious misadvendtures and triumphant moments were reflected by the warmth of the flames. We'd talk about how we ought to go frog gigging, or make that dream trip to the Boundary Waters Wilderness area. We never did make those trips. What ever mansion Ralph has earned up in Heaven, I can rest assured there is a campfire somewhere near by. I actually believe old Ralph has cornered the Good Lord up there, offered him a warm cup of camp coffee and whatever camp grub that may be simmering, and I can hear him start in "...why in your name did you put so may blow downs on the Baron Fork...speaking of blow downs...remember that time when...." Twenty minutes later the good Lord will look at his watch and Ralph will wrinkle his brow and growl, "What cha looking at your watch for…you ain’t got nothing better to do…" and in the end they will laugh so hard they will both wipe a tear from their right cheek. Once they have laughed themselves out, both of them will look down here and they will see his family and friends and remember about all the good times of our lives, and another tear, one of happiness, will roll down his other cheek, and join the ones we have shed, some in saddness knowing he is gone from us, but most in joy, knowing he has a good friend up there who will forever share in, and will never tire of, listening to his stories. Keith R. Bridgman 