May, 2024
My eldest cousin Tom McDill and I drove together about 3000 miles for the Celebration of Life of Craig Witte, one of my youngest cousins. Herman and Augusta Witte had seven children. My father was the oldest. Tom McDill’s mother was the fourth. Craig Witte’s father was the seventh.
We joined in Chadron, Nebraska, the Witte Family winter home, the home where dad and his siblings could go to high school. And to college.
The summer home, Augusta’s favorite home was on Cuny Table.
Tom is by far the better story-teller. He can spin a tale with the best of them, a remarkable feat for an engineer. Tom spent much of his childhood in Cheyenne, Wyoming, near the air base where his father was stationed after the war. Tom spent most of his high school summers in the 1950’s and ‘60’s working on the Witte ranch, first under the guidance of one uncle, and then, in turn, with the other uncles. His recollection of events and escapades on the ranch seem similar to many of mine on the same ranch. Tom and I explored Cuny Table. We found the old branding corral. We even found evidence of the mythical Slide where stacks of hay could be delivered by gravity and slippery boards to the cattle far below in the shadow of the high mesa. We never did find Grandma’s house. It had been moved, according to the neighbors. In any event, we relived many ancient memories.
Soon we departed for Kalispell, 900 more miles, 14 hours on the road. I drove and generally listened. Tom’s fund of memories seemed bottomless. I reveled in his recollections. Breaking young horses to the saddle. Racing for home in a hailstorm. Horse dying in a dead run ahead of the storm. Canned beans and bacon three meals a day. While his report of the facts varied from my recollections, I could see no good reason to argue. The dispute might disrupt the gentle stream of consciousness with which I was being blessed.
Tom’s father owned a horse ranch near Custer, South Dakota, very near where a statue of Crazy Horse is being carved into the side of a mountain, like nearby Mount Rushmore. Tom inherited a part and purchased part of that ranch. The land is worth more now for residential development than it ever was for its grass. Tom, as his stories continued, has purchased tracts and sold tracts, some with great returns, and some he still owns.
Tom hunted the mountains of Wyoming. Deer and elk. He claims he never shot a moose but might have seen one.
The road to Kalispell provides a panoramic view of some of the mightiest mountains in the US. South Dakota’s Black Hills are but the seed. Climbing north and west from Custer, SD, (named after the famous George Armstrong Custer and the Battle of Litle Bighorn (or, Battle of Greasy Grass per native Sitting Bull lore) the smooth, well-maintained highway introduces the traveler to the Big Horn Mountains, a long line of peaks and snow-caps that make the Black Hills look like foothills. Sheridan, Wyoming introduces the traveler to Montana, the state that runs from the beginning roots of the Missouri River to the Great Divide where the rivers run west rather than east. (By the way, we found a road sign of interest to enthusiasts of TV’s Sheriff Longmire, the chief law enforcement officer of Absaroka County, a fictional locality. We spotted a sign pointing to the west to identify the road to the real Absarokee village, nestled in the Absaroka-Beartooth ranges.)
The turnoff for Yellowstone Park catches our eye as we cruise past at 80 miles per hour on I-90. Glacier Park and its windy highway protects the entrance to Kalispell and divides the waters from east to west. Another few miles and Idaho’s panhandle smiles upon the awe-struck traveler. We did not venture beyond Kalispell, our primary destination and home of Craig’s surviving wife Susan and their three children.
We arrived late afternoon in Kalispell and by invitation landed at Susan’s house, to be offered hotdogs and potato salad served to a front-yard, standing-room-only crowd at the blazing bonfire. The north wind was chilly. I found that sweet spot between frozen nose and singed hip pockets. The beer flowed freely and so did the conversation, lively and warm. Cousins and friends and children and grandchild remembered Craig. His roots, of course, were in the bleak and arid badlands of South Dakota, just below Cuny Table. But he earned a great reputation as a high school wrestler, winning state championship matches. Other family members had some experience on the mats (me too) and knew how hard he had to work and how smart he had to be to best the elites. Susan gave each of us a hug and thanked us for coming and offered more food and drink. Friends came from hundreds of miles away. Her sister and her brother and their spouses arrived and blended right in with the Witte side of the family.
Tom had brought beer from Texas, beer brewed and sold only in Texas. His favorite. Like an evangelist, he brought plenty to share but ended the evening with more beer in hand than when he came. His wonderful ability to make everyone feel important and his smooth conversational talents made him the center of the discussions. Engineers sometimes seem like robots, like a train on one track with no switches. But Tom was conversant in a multitude of topics and quite sensitive to the political and moral leanings of his fellow commentators. Never did I see anyone who felt compelled to get him or anyone else “straightened out” or to dispute an “obviously wrong assertion” about a politician. I got the impression he found politics and political polemics rather amusing and perhaps beneath his dignity. A refreshing demeanor, I thought.
Our cousin Dick, a criminal defense attorney from Oklahoma City, was forced to at least murmur when another cousin, Kelli, a Council member of the City of Assaria, Kansas, laughingly suggested that all those who rail against government should be thrown in jail. But they all are just beautiful people and very easy to converse with. Our cousin Rick, City Administrator for McPherson, KS, assumed the role of caretaker and herded us all to the right place at the right time and even brought us home to the hotel when it was obvious we would have never made it on our own. His son and daughter Jamie and Kelli were recruited to supply addresses and conveyances.
Saturday, a horde of family and friends flooded the Eagles Club meeting room for the Celebration of Life. Tables sagged with the burdens of potato salad, lettuce salad, cold meats, and cool drinks. Tom supplemented the larder with trays of shrimp. Apparently, several other lovely people generously contributed the same fare.
The family (or was it Craig’s son Gus?) assembled a wonderful video displaying vignettes of Craig’s life. I did not know, but Craig had been elected to Montana’s state legislature. The story (perhaps apocryphal) was that he lost the first election by 8 votes. The second time, he won by eight votes. A friend asked Craig if he had to bribe those eight to vote for him? Craig said, “No. I had to bribe ten.”
Gus and Andrew and Alexis and Susan were great hosts. Gus invited comments and stories from the crowd. Susan personally thanked everyone who spoke and even everyone who did not.
My cousins and I departed the gathering for a beer and a sandwich. By then the triple glasses of double shot Woodward Reserve, as ‘forced upon me” by the congenial generosity of my cousin Dick had started to take effect. Rick herded us to his son’s 4-dour Chevy 3/4 ton with its velvet ride and prevented us from trying to drive my car. Rick’s daughter Kelli had arrived by plane a few minutes before the ceremony and performed those motherly tasks that a man could not do as well. Like understand the mumblings of the fast talking waitress at the noisy bar taking our orders.
After a couple more drinks we decided we needed food. Jamie drove us to a nice fast-food place for steaks (and a less caloric hamburger in my case). Tom, after his multiple doses of local beer, decided it was time to get some sleep, even though the sun had barely set a few minutes ago. Jamie drove us back to the hotel by an unnecessarily circuitous route, I am sure, so that no one would be able to report where we were or know for sure where we ended up.
All in all, Craig’s Celebration of Life was fabulous!
Tom and I faced a 12 hour drive back to Chadron. Then I had another 8 hours minimum to get to Lincoln before Tuesday morning. Tom had an even longer 20 hour drive from Chadron to Austin, but with no deadline. We departed at sunrise, or our awakening time about 9:00 a.m., whichever arrived later. Neither of us felt hungry. We found our car after walking only about half way around the block-long hotel. Luckily, the highway was only two lanes and limited to 75 MPH so it was an easy drive. Much less demanding of concentration.
We marveled at the scenery again, reveled in the cool mountain air, and silently communed with nature as we pierced the remnants of the morning fogs. Tom often offered to drive, but I was awake and I am easily bored when I am not driving. He assured me he was not worried about my weaving across the centerline or my glazed eyes. Just willing to share the load.
We were both quiet, for a long time. Still recovering perhaps. This was contrary to Tom’s steady stream of commentary, discussion and discourse on the events of his life and conquests. I enjoyed the quiet but missed the discourses.
While I felt driven to keep moving, Tom seemed merely relaxed and resting. Tom seemed willing to let the stories of the outward trip lay as they fell. Today was a day for long stretches of silence. I, in my usual manner, left the conversational patter for others. Tom did not berate me or offer any admonishment for my failure to uphold my side of the conversation. He occasionally commented on the scenery or reported the name of a mountain peak as we passed in its shadow. His knowledge of Wyoming and southeastern Montana is outstanding. Big Horn Mountains are a hunter’s or fisherman’s paradise. Across the Big Horns the Tetons continue the geological march toward the west. In their valley lies Jackson, WY, the ski resort and very attractive high end tourist resort. Its name has been shortened from its former moniker, Jackson Hole, a much less glamorous sounding name. (Its airport still uses the old name, but it is not advertised as the airline destination.)
I held Tom in quite high regard. I was impressed with his chosen profession as an engineer. I had wondered on various occasions if I could have aspired for higher goals had anyone ever told me that I was smart. I asked Tom if anyone had ever told him that he was smart.
He said, “No one ever said I was smart. I didn’t think I was smart. I didn’t even plan to go to college. All I planned was to play football in college. I had a great time playing football. When the season was over, I was done for the year.”
He went on to say that he partied his way through the second semester and became well acquainted with the Dean of Students. That summer he got a job working on a drilling rig and seemed to be destined for a management position with the company. He had not signed up for the second year and was ready to move wherever necessary. The boss said that the Dean of Students at the college had lined up the job for Tom, that Tom was destined to have a great career as an engineer, that the summer job was to give Tom some practical experience, that Tom needed to finish college to be successful. Tom responded that he was not going back to college. It was too late to register. His grades were too poor. The boss replied that Tom was going to college, that it was not too late to sign up and that he was Fired! So, Tom went back to college.
Tom said he did not feel particularly smart. Sure, math seemed easy for him, but he barely passed the other classes. That is, until he got married and stayed home at night. Married, he had more time. He read. He studied for classes. It was remarkable, he said, how much easier the tests were if you read the book. Heck, it was easy to get good grades.
So, no, he did not think of himself as outstandingly smart. Humble, would I say? Yes, if the definition of humility is to be honest about one’s abilities. His verbalized description may be something less than a perfect evaluation of his talents. He may be under-reporting. Perhaps he could have excelled even to a greater degree if he had known he had talents that others did not. In any event, he did in fact excel. He spent a year in law school after college. In addition, he combined that year of law school with a business course and obtained a Masters in business administration. That education and his friendly, outgoing personality may have combined to give him confidence in his success and certainty in his abilities so that he could do things that only a few other exceptional individuals would think were possible. I am mightily impressed.
The sunlight ended suddenly. The night was dark and late, very early. Sun dulled eyes and heavy eyelids made those highway markings seem like mirages and ghosts rather than reliable guides for a weary driver. The speed limit demanded a dramatic reduction of speed, like you might find at a construction zone or truck wreck. I was surprised, which made Tom smile, to see that the road dropping precipitously. Like off a cliff. It did drop, into downtown Custer. Like “Me and Earl” at Wolf Creek Pass in CW McCall’s truck driving slide into Pagosa Springs. (We didn’t slide into the post office in Custer.) Suddenly, Custer seemed like the perfect place to stop for the night. We did coast past the best restaurant you could hope to find in the Black Hills about 15 minutes before closing time. We beat it back up the hill about a half mile and Rhonda welcomed us like lost souls knocking on the Pearly Gates. The food came fast and tasted like a feast for angels.
We staggered out too full to waddle. We kicked the tires and lit the fires for the Rocket Motel. Tom asked for the Boss but his wife advised he was not feeling well. Flu, maybe. Maybe something more. We gave up hope of a price break for a local boy and took the room not too far from the office door. Next morning, Tom awakened before me and was ready to roll at 6:30. I rolled out of bed and jumped for the car. Oh. Yeah. I went back for my pants. It was going to be a long drive today. In more ways than one.
Tom narrated a beautiful tourist guide as we coasted down toward Hermosa and Highway 79. We saw wild turkeys, wild mountain sheep, wild buffalo, and maybe even a wild forest ranger. (I think he had been in that lonely fire lookout tower a little too long.)
Tom guided me into the gas station on 79 for a quick fill-up and his tall glass of tea. Tom always drank tea on the road. Never coffee. Never beer. Builds character, I guess.
Tom’s suburban was still where he parked it, patiently awaiting our return, behind the Westerner Hotel in Chadron. Tom transferred all his necessities from my car to the living room of his suburban while I informed the motel owners that we had come, that we appreciated their care of the suburban in our absence and offered my promise to stay there again on my next stay in Chadron. They are kind and helpful people.
I was sad, in a way, to part company. I had come to love Tom’s presence. His sunny disposition. His equanimity in comments on human nature and human proclivities. His easy acceptance of events as they unfurled.
His sentiments apparently mirrored mine on the idea of parting. He didn’t offer his hand shake in departure and instead clasped me close to his chest. I felt honored. Warm, joyful inside. I slapped his back and he slapped mine. He didn’t cry and neither did I, hardly. We promised each other to do this trip again some day. Some day soon, we hoped.
I was anxious to get home. To be clutched in the warm embrace of my wife. To sleep in my own bed. But the drive was, somehow, slower, longer, duller, without Tom. I do look forward to our next meeting. And I am glad we went.
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