The Dirtbag Database

IV. The Chief 

Fin and I settled into a rhythm as summer unfolded in the Cascades. The work was simple but steady, rotating through positions on the alpine coaster: checking wristbands, walking guests through the controls, watching the track from the summit. Pride came in sending folks flying down that hill with a grin.

It was the first real taste of seasonal freedom, good pay, good coworkers, and best of all, every off day began with new mountains and trails unknown.

Compared to Santa Barbara, life in the Cascades moved at a different pace. Slower. Quieter. More intentional. Late-night parties were traded for sunrise hikes, solo wanders to icy alpine lakes, afternoons spent hammocking beneath giant trees. The noise faded, replaced by listening again, to the wind, the water, my gut.

The summer passed like that, quick but full. By the time it came to a close, the itch was back. The call of the road. A new chapter tugging at the hem of my shirt.

———————————————

August 31, 2024 – Leavenworth, WA

Three nights before departure, Fin and I drove up to a mountain peak that overlooked the edge of town. The plan was simple: catch the view, take a moment, one last memory before it all changed again.

The road started as pavement, then turned to dirt. We climbed slowly, headlights bouncing through tight brush and shadows.

After what felt like twenty minutes, I glanced over.

“Are we still on the right road?”

Fin pulled up the gps, the glow lighting his face. “Yeah,” he said, tapping the screen. “Only five miles.”

“Feels like we’ve gone that far already,” I muttered, dropping the parking brake so we could crawl forward again.

The higher we got, the worse the road became, potholes, deep ruts, brush clawing at the sides of the truck like fingers in the dark. Rocks clanged against the undercarriage. Clunk. Scrape. Rattle. My hands tightened on the wheel, breathing steady, inching forward.

We rounded a bend into a clearing just as the last light drained from the sky. I hesitated, maybe stop here? Watch the horizon fade?

But something inside said keep going. No reason why, just the certainty of it.

Another stretch of climbing, more ruts, more grinding rock, and then the truck lurched up and over a final crest.

We’d made it.

Moonlight lit a small clearing at the summit. I stopped the truck at the edge, and cut the engine. Dust hung in the air like smoke. Stepping out onto dry ground brought a long stretch and a laugh.

“That was a mission,” I said.

Fin came around the truck. “Yeah, hey, check this out.”

He pointed to a fire ring built from heavy rocks. Embers still glowed faint orange inside it.

Just then, bam. A pair of headlights burst from the tree line. High beams. Blinding.

We froze.

The lights clicked off. Silence.

Then, slam. A car door. Footsteps. A silhouette approached, backlit by moonlight.

A man, tall and weathered, long hair swaying with each step. His voice came deep, sharp, but calm, like a river running cold.

“Evening, gentlemen,” he said.

“I’m Chief Red Hawk of the Cherokee Nation.”

“I’ve walked this earth laying down the law for the native peoples of this land.”

We stood still.

“What are your names?”

I swallowed. “Matt” 

“Fin,” my friend added.

The Chief nodded, eyes gleaming in the dark. Then he gestured to the fire ring. “These glowing embers are from a sage ceremony I performed tonight. The smoke dispels negative energy. It forms a bridge to the world of our ancestors.”

Beneath a blanket of stars, we listened as he spoke about how this quiet beauty was the only place he felt at home. Out here, he could carry out his purpose: to protect native people and native land.

Then his gaze fixed on me. “So what brings you to me tonight?”

I took a deep breath. The truth. Three days from now, I’d leave town, leave behind everyone and everything known. The destination unclear, the reason undeniable. Scared, yes, but something bigger was pulling me forward.

“It feels like destiny,” I said. “Like I don’t really have a choice.”

He nodded quietly.

“Do you have any advice?”

A long look. Then: “When you feel alone, build a fire. Don’t burn a forest down. Just find a good spot, gather kindling, medium sticks, and logs. Build it right. Then stay with it. Burn every last piece of wood.”

The words landed deep, not just heard, but felt.

He reached into his coat, pulling out a bundle of sage. With a match, he lit it and let it smolder. “Hold your arms out,” he said.

Standing there, arms wide, he circled slowly, tracing the outline of my body in smoke. Wisps curled into the night.

When he finished, he hugged me firmly. “Good luck,” he said.

A handshake, a thank-you, and we were back in the truck.

We drove down slow, tires crunching over rock and dirt. Silence held until Fin finally said, “You know, I had a feeling we had to make it to the top.”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “Felt it too.”

The moment stayed. Still does. Something about the Chief felt like fate, his advice I didn’t just remember, but carried.

Three nights later, the sun had just dipped below the mountains. The truck was packed, tank full. A long hug for Fin.

“Till next time.”

“Take care of yourself, brother.”

Engine on. Marlboro Reds opened, a tradition for new chapters. One cigarette turned over and tucked back in the pack, my lucky cigarette. Another lit. A long drag.

I took out my journal, the one given to me on my last night in Santa Barbara, pages scattered with quotes from friends. Somehow, they always found me when needed most. Flipping to a blank page, ready to mark the end of one chapter and the first pen strokes of the next, staring back at me, a stanza in Kenneth’s cursive:

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light. —Thomas

I chuckled, noted the date, closed the journal, shifted into drive, and rolled east into the dark, toward whatever came next.

V. “DRAW THREE” 

September 3rd, 2024 – Missoula, MT

Missoula came into view on a hot afternoon, smoke drifting in the air and a thunderstorm brewing on the horizon. Thick clouds loomed over the valley, sunlight filtering through in a burning haze.

A narrow street in the old railroad district led to the address Frizzy had sent. Across the way stood an old wooden house with flaking white paint and an elm tree hanging low.

Before there was a chance to knock, the front door flew open slam! and out burst Frizzy, arms wide and wild-eyed as ever.

“Oh hey there, partner!” he shouted, pulling me into a bear hug.

“It’s been too long,” I said, clapping his back.

“We’ve got a lot to catch up on,” he grinned. “And I’m sure you’re beat from those miles. Come on in.”

The last time we’d seen each other was back in Santa Barbara, when the days were drenched in sun and the nights in tequila and noise. Back then, he had no plans to leave. But after a heartbreak of his own, he too was set in motion, he’d traded the beach for the mountains, forestry courses, clean air, and a slower pace.

There was a steadiness to him now. Still wild, sure, but grounded. It gave me hope.

“You know,” I told him as we stepped off the concrete porch, “back in Santa Barbara we met as boys, but here in Montana… we meet again as men.”

Frizzy laughed. “I’d have to agree, partner.”

We walked toward downtown. He had a class to catch, so the rest of the evening was spent wandering the streets alone while dusk settled over town. The sky was a painted mess of gold and deep pink, storm clouds rolling over the mountains like smoke signals from another world. Rain came soft, then heavy, but warm. Shirt soaked, I strolled the quiet sidewalks laughing to myself, dancing through the empty streets like a fool with no place to be.

Up ahead, golden light spilled from a window, reflecting in puddles. Inside, a café glowed like a lantern, refuge from the downpour. At a small table draped in purple velvet, an older woman shuffled a worn deck of tarot cards. Her eyes were kind and knowing.

“Mind if I join you?” I asked.

“Not at all,” she said, offering a handshake.

The cards whispered together as she shuffled, laying them out in a fan.

“Draw three,” she said.

Seven of Wands. Eight of Cups. VI — The Lovers.

She tapped the first. “Choosing your truth, listening only to yourself when it’s time to decide.”

The second: “Reward, abundance, but only if you have the courage to leave behind what no longer serves you.”

The last she hesitated for a moment. “The Lovers. Love will find you soon, sudden and certain. You’ll see a future with this person, clear and bright. But just when you’ve settled into that vision, another will appear, someone who feels fated. Then you’ll stand at a crossroads: one path certain, the other like destiny. You’ll have to choose.”

Her words sank like slow rain into dry soil, sparking a feeling in my gut. 

I thanked her and stepped back out in the rain, where the streets shimmered under lamplight. Hair dripping, shirt clinging, the feeling settled in: something was coming.

VI. The Timber Rattlers

September 4th, 2024 – Missoula, MT

The next night, an old barn had come alive. The air smelled of aged wood and spilled booze, floors trembling under stomping boots, steel toes, Doc Martens, worn-out cowboy boots. Spiked tea sloshed from red cups onto the planks. Men in denim and Carhartt swung girls in long white skirts, spinning to the wildfire rhythm of The Timber Rattlers.

Banjo. Upright bass. Two weathered guitars. They didn’t just play, they lit the damn floor on fire. Nobody could sit still.

In the current of it, a short blonde with fire in her eyes grabbed my hand. Without a word, she spun me across the floor like we’d known each other for years. We danced until the lights came on and the crowd spilled outside. Then, hand in hand, we slipped into the quiet street.

“What’s your name?”

“Autumn,” she grinned.

“Pleasure to meet you. Where to next?”

“There’s a party across the river. You in?”

“Gladly.”

We piled into the back of a minivan with strangers, rolled across town. The party was packed with familiar faces from the barn, still riding the high of the music. We drank deep and smoked slow, when the beer ran dry and the haze cleared, the noise thinned and it was just Autumn and I, sharing the stories that brought us to that porch.

Sleep wasn’t calling, so we walked to a nearby park. Even at midnight, the September air was warm. Sprinklers cast mist in the moonlight. She took my hand and we ran through them like kids.

Soaked, we collapsed in the grass. The kiss that followed was sharp, electric, the kind that signals a new chapter.

—————————————

The weeks in Missoula blurred, riverbanks and golden leaves, moonlit backroads, peaceful kitchen mornings. Autumn and I moved through it all with grace and wholeness, careful not to name it too soon for fear it might vanish.

Days along the Blackfoot River, sun on our shoulders, water sweeping away whatever weight we carried. Afternoons in Idaho’s hidden hot springs, steam curling into pine boughs. Nights on backroads, chasing the darkest skies, her hair whipping wild in the wind, my hand resting lightly on her knee as she hummed along to the radio. In town, we wandered beneath auburn maples dropping their colors at our feet like a slow confession.

It was the in-between moments that hit hardest.

Mornings in her kitchen, quiet, golden. The smell of Coffee drifting through the air, sunlight spilling through stained glass, catching the steam off pancakes stacked on the table. Barefoot in a wool sweater, she moved with an ease that made something settle in my chest.

Nights were softer still; she’d brew a pot of tea, I’d crack a beer, stories circling the kitchen table. Hours stretched long. This type of stillness was rare, and I never wanted it to end.

There was never a question of staying forever. That uncertainty made every moment shimmer, borrowed time we both knew would run out. Being with Autumn felt like the opposite of running: peace, warmth, clarity.

Frizzy and I still found time, hikes in the hills, cold swims in tucked-away holes, dinners that stretched late with laughter. One night over beers, he leaned back and said, “Man, I gotta get back to California.”

It made sense. California was chaos, and Frizzy had always danced best in the storm.

“Well, partner,” holding up my can like some dirtbag toast, “you better get back to California then.”

”Cheers to that partner” Frizzy said meeting my can with his; in that moment, I knew Missoula wouldn’t hold him for long.

In those drifting weeks, I’d been casting job applications across the country. Eventually, one tugged back, an offer in the red canyons of Zion National Park.

Telling Autumn didn’t need drama. She was never mine to keep, and I was never meant to stay. Leaving wasn’t easy, she made loving easy, but the road was calling.

That evening, the journal came out again, dog-eared, sun-bleached, filled with sketches, stains, and quiet thoughts. On the back page, among many signatures from my friends in Santa Barbara, a line stared back: Glad to have met you on your road to Zion.

Written before I ever left California.

I let my fingers trace the ink, and closed the book with a smile. Some stories write themselves before you even get out the pen.