By Frosty Wooldridge
Exclusive to Rense
6-24-25

The Spirit of Adventure - Part 1

If the roar of a wave crashes beyond your campsite, you might call that adventure. When coyotes howl outside your tent--that may be adventure. While you’re sweating like a horse in a climb over a 12,000-foot pass, that’s adventure. When a howling headwind presses your lips against your teeth, you’re facing a mighty challenge. If you’re pushing through a howling rainstorm, you’re soaked in adventure. But that’s not what makes an adventure.

It’s your willingness to struggle through it, to present yourself at the doorstep of Nature. That decision creates the experience. No greater joy can come from life than to live inside the ‘moment’ of an adventure. It may be a momentary ‘high’, a stranger that changes your life, an animal that delights you or frightens you, a struggle where you triumphed, or even failed, yet you braved the challenge. Those moments present you uncommon experiences that give your life eternal expectation.

That’s adventure!” - Frosty Wooldridge

Part 2

The Kickstand Chronicles - The Miraculous, Funny,
Sublime, and Downright Terrifying—Inevitable Moments
of the Journey, Bicycling Across Six Continents, 45 years,
...And 150,000 Miles...

While traveling one summer, I met two guys on touring bicycles at the Arctic Circle on the Dalton Highway in Alaska. They sounded reverently enthusiastic about bike adventuring. They said, “We live on the edge of wonder every day.” Voila! A smooth mesh of spokes and gray matter clicked in my brain.

In the summer of 1975, I set out to cross the United States coast-to-coast. On a bike, my days on the road exceeded my wildest dreams. I felt a treble-hook latch onto my soul. Life flowed into simple, peaceful rhythms. While I pedaled up steep mountain grades or through barren deserts—big events meant nothing, and the little things became important. Food, water and a campsite turned into my daily concerns. Something new might happen around every bend in the road and “anticipation” made each day exciting. Constant aerobic activity released body drugs called “endorphins.” That MUST be why I’ve enjoyed a love affair with bicycle touring over the years.

Along with the “happy high” of bicycle adventuring, I’ve discovered that life is not a solitary journey. Cycling teaches lessons. Animals, plants and insects share their wisdom. I am thankful for their taking the time to teach me. In this book, you will meet them. One other creature teaches, too, and has delighted me through the years. It’s the human being on his or her path. For that journey, no guidebooks exist, except for the rising sun. It lights whichever chosen path.

This book shares a few of the most profound experiences of my past 45 years on the road—sometimes three months and at other times, a full year. Happily, each of us carries panniers full of dreams. It’s up to us to fill them with each stroke of the pedals. Out on the road, it is as much a spiritual journey as it is physical. Hopefully, you too become addicted to the art of bicycle adventuring. As the Hobbit said, “There’s a whole lot of adventure outside your front door.”

You might enjoy another quote by an intrepid traveler named Jean Luc Picard of the Starship Enterprise. He and Commander Riker sifted through a broken ship that had crashed before its time. They talked about “time” passing.

Captain Picard said, “Someone once said that “time” is a predator that stalks us all our lives. But I rather believe that time is a companion that goes with us on a journey. It reminds us to cherish each moment, because it will never come again. What we leave behind is not as important as how we have lived.”

Part 3

The Nastiness Of Life - Raw Adventure
Takes Guts, Gumption and True Grit

Raw adventure takes guts, gumption and true grit. You choose to get off the couch and power your way into the sheer nastiness of life! Yeah, it might be nice one day, and it could be okay another day—but life might throw you a tornado or a howling rainstorm to test your resolve. You must bring your courage to life. You must dig your feet into the day. You must bring your club to the game of life and intend to take charge. As for a reality check, you carry your body and mind into unknown danger. You could get killed at any moment with thousands of automobiles racing past you at 60 miles per hour. Especially if they are “texting” on their smart phone! At the same time, you marshal all your senses to discover your finest qualities of spirit.

While the rest of humanity lives from day to day, you relish physical, mental, emotional and spiritual challenges. What is life all about? Will you read a book by some philosopher to find out? The heck with that! Get your butt out there into the wind, the rain, the storm, the tempest! Imprint a living book of your experiences into your own mind-body. Take your sheer guts and face the grit of life speeding toward you. Spit into the wind. Take a dare with life!

What’s normal? One wealthy friend of mine said, “Normal isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

Part 4

“I want to see the world. Follow a map to its edges and keep going. Forego the plans. Trust my instincts. Let curiosity be my guide. I want to change hemispheres. Sleep with unfamiliar stars. And let the journey unfold before me.” - Iohan Gueorguiev displayed his handwritten manifesto on his handlebars

SECTION I - TOURING THE UNITED STATES

Chapter 1 - Teeth, Claws and Antlers

“The hard life that never knows harness,
The wilds where the caribou call.
The freshness, the freedom, the farness—
Oh God! How I'm stuck on it all."
Robert Service “Spell of the Yukon”

Ramshackle buildings with wooden boardwalks lined the streets as we pedaled into Dawson City, Yukon on a hot July day. Stooped shouldered, craggy-faced prospectors shuffled along in the dirt without giving us a nod. Bowie knives hung from their belts and they gripped rifles in their hands as easily as a Chicago businessman carries a briefcase. Their faces reflected the rough life that hadn't changed since the days of Jack London.
Ever an optimist, I didn't know how anyone could live in that place where the winter winds bit like driven nails.
My brother Rex purchased a gold pan and caught up with me at the Klondike Grocery Store. I crammed apples into my panniers.
"Ready to camp?" Rex asked. "I'm itchin' to hit the stream for some gold panning."
"The storekeeper said we could find a place a mile from here on a tributary of the Yukon,” I said.
"This buckeroo is gonna’ make the big strike," Rex said, joking.
We pedaled our fully loaded mountain bikes out of town to an abandoned path overgrown with bushes. The rutted trail led through deep woods and several times, we got off the bikes to hoist them over fallen trees. We followed the path down a ravine until it stopped at a wide, shallow stream. A sandbar stood in the middle of the slowly gliding current. It was one of those places where tranquility kept a vigil and only the whisper of the wind broke the silence.
"This is the perfect place to start the next Klondike gold rush," Rex said, slapping his pan. "You want first chance?"
"Go ahead," I said. "I'll set up the tents."
Rex took off his shoes and waded into the water. I pulled the panniers from our bikes, pitched the tents and had camp set up in 30 minutes. After starting a fire with deadwood, I boiled some water for tea.
With a steaming cup in one hand, I grabbed my journal and walked down to the river's edge. Sitting against a rock with my socks off, I wasn't paying much attention to my gold panning brother. Overhead, white clouds skidded across the sky and a cool wind whispered through the pine trees. We camped in a serene setting—the dark soil, the rocks, and a pine-scented forest—and beyond, a river that crawled between sandy banks like escaped quicksilver.
"You rich yet?" I yelled at Rex as he dumped another pan-full of muddy water.
"Any minute now," he said, standing up to rub his back. "This gold panning hurts my back."
Rex continued his task while I wrote a few lines in my notebook. That journal had been a part of my bicycling travels for many years, but every time I began scribbling, I still wondered what to write. That shatteringly beautiful waterfall we had seen last night, turned to molten gold by the sun? The slow dark glide of that bald eagle on his dinner patrol. The salmon lashing upstream toward birth and death?
So absorbed was I in my thoughts, I only partially heard the harsh crackling of nearby brush and breaking limbs from across the stream. But what happened next brought me leaping to my feet and turned my blood to ice. The journal fell from my hands.
Terrifying roars and bellows filled the air, and sounds of snapping limbs echoed across the river. Whatever it was, it was BIG—and the battle was being joined.
"What the hell was that?" Rex shouted, dropping his pan and scrambling out of the water.
"I'm not sure," I said, as he stopped beside me, breathing hard.
"I don't think we should wait around," Rex said—and at that moment a bull moose stumbled into view, head erect and blood blackening on his torn shoulder. He lowered his rack, as an enormous grizzly rushed at him and swatted the antlers aside. The grizzly charged with his thick neck lowered and extended, and his jaws opened wide as he lunged for the moose's throat. Somehow, the moose avoided the grizzly's teeth, and dug in his haunches so that the muscles in his legs were cable-tight. He countered with a lunge at the bear's chest. Horn ripped through his brown hide, hit bone—and the grizzly roared, but the killing lust was on him.
In he charged again, half-rearing on his hind legs, both paws swatting at the moose like a boxer, staggering the animal. The moose bellowed, gave ground, came back again—and suddenly both animals reared, hooves to fangs, one desperate to live, the other intent on killing.
"Let's get out of here," I whispered. "Leave the gear. We'll get it later. This is not the time to worry about the small stuff."
Rex needed no urging, and although every nerve in my body—and probably Rex's—screamed at me to run like hell, I forced myself to walk my bike into the tree-line. There, back in the shadows, we watched the brutal drama unfolding on nature's stage.
The moose suffered the worst of things, yet he battled gallantly, keeping his antlered head low and catching the grizzly each time it charged. But the bear was the size of a VW Beetle, almost as heavy and as solid as the moose. He towered higher when he stood—so that he could strike downward with his razor sharp claws, ripping his prey's shoulders like a toreador lancing the forequarters of a bull to weaken it—and make it lower its head for the matador's sword thrust.
A bull moose weighs 1,200 pounds and a grizzly can reach 1,100 pounds. These two seemed evenly matched in size—which meant that the bear, with his four-inch claws and two-inch teeth, enjoyed an advantage. Barring some stupid move, like allowing his jugular to be pierced by an antler, the grizzly's victory was a certainty.
From our hidden vantage point, looking out between the limbs of trees, we saw bright rivulets of blood running down the bear's chest. The moose was now a pitiful sight, staggering with weariness, backed into the shallows where the water was turning reddish brown, and a large piece of antler was broken off by one mighty blow from the grizzly's paw. In came the bear again, roaring so fiercely it was almost a scream, and the exhausted moose grunted back its defiance.
Now, however, the battle's balance had shifted. The bear's sharp claws ripped into the moose's ribs, laying them bare. Then the bear's teeth sank into the neck, and only by a supreme effort was the moose able to shake him off again.
I didn't want to watch any more, yet my fascinated eyes were ready for the final drama. After five minutes that seemed like hours, the bear made one last head down charge—and sent the moose sprawling into the river. The moose made a final bellow, a last exhausted attempt to rise, but it was hopeless. The grizzly had him by the throat, and the moose thrashed erratically for a minute, then died.
"Oh, my God," Rex whispered, gripping my arm.
The bear held his grip until the moose stopped quivering. Then, raising his massive anvil-shaped head, he let out a roar that shivered the forest air, and began feeding.
I felt as Rex did, as any human being would—it had been a frightening scene. Savage violence unleashed beside a beautiful stream in the wilderness. Yet no one had committed a crime. Life sustains life.
The grizzly, blood mixed with froth lathering his jaw, raised his head and looked right at us. Whether the wind had shifted or not, we were leaving.
"Come on," I whispered. "Let's get back to town, not that anyone there is going to believe what we saw."
In the morning, we rode back to find our gear still intact, but on the sandbar a partly devoured moose carcass was the only indication of the battle.
In silence, we folded the tents and packed our gear.
"I guess you're out of a gold pan," I said.
"I don't care," Rex said. "Money can't buy what we saw yesterday."
We pedaled our way out of the woods. The gravel road wound through the mountains like a lazy serpent, bending and slithering its way along the Yukon River. We pedaled our bikes up a long grade to the “Top of the World Highway.” No telling what lay ahead. That's the way it's been for my bicycle and me—always the promise of a new adventure around the next bend in the road….

Robert Service known as the “Poet of the Yukon” said it this way:

The summer no sweeter than ever,
The sunshiny woods all athrill.
The grayling aleap in the river,
The bighorn asleep on the hill.

It’s that great big, broad land way up yonder,
It’s the forests where silence has lease.
It’s the beauty that thrills me with wonder,
It’s the stillness that fills me with peace.

The strong life that never knows harness,
The wilds where the caribou call.
The freshness, the freedom, the farness—
Oh God! How I’m stuck on it all.

Part 5

Chapter 4—Talons from the Sky - Coiled Scales on the Ground

“The mystique of bicycle travel fascinates modern Americans. Why would anyone endure the pains of providing their own locomotion via pedaling rather than the comfort and speed of a car, boat, plane or train? The answer lies in the antiquity of “pedaling bliss.” It thrives in the meshing of your energy with the energy of the universe. It rushes into the secret corners of your mind to explore the world on your own terms. Too much comfort leads to tedium or the indolence of life. Once you swing your leg over the saddle of a bicycle, a whole new mental, physical and spiritual dimension opens to every cell in your body. You “fly” at the “perfect speed” with a comet’s tail of memories following you into eternity.” Frosty and Sandi Wooldridge

Heading eastbound across southern California, the sun set low in the sky. We looked for a campsite in the rocky terrain east of Joshua Tree National Monument.

“We better find a spot soon,” Sandi said.
“I’m looking, dear,” I said.

Up ahead, we noticed a fluttering hawk, holding his position as the sky effervesced into pink-white thunderheads in the twilight. Very still! Very quiet!
We pedaled the bikes toward the hawk on that lonely highway. The bird continued its fluttering like a helicopter holding position in order to land. We pedaled closer, closer—until we rode up to the perfect camp spot 100 feet off the highway behind some big rocks.

“I’m going to check out that hawk,” I told Sandi.
“I’ll get the tent set up,” she said. “You want pasta for dinner?”
“Sounds great,” I said. “I’ve got Pesto in my pack.”

Quietly excited, I crept over several 20-ton boulders on my way to get under the hawk. He kept flutter until, suddenly, he dove straight down.
I hurried over boulders and dirt until I crept up to where I figured he landed. Before me, not 20 feet away, in a dirt arena surrounded by rocks, the hawk stood in front of a transfixed rattlesnake. The hawk hopped into the air as it dared the rattler to strike. And yes, the rattler complied by lunging at the bird. The hawk hopped backwards. Quickly, the snake recoiled into striking position.

The hawk, using his wings and talons, jumped back into the sky toward the head of the snake, toying with him, daring him to strike. The rattler struck again, but the hawk danced out of the way. For the next 10 minutes the hawk danced into the air toward the rattler, but avoided the snake’s deadly fangs.
They pirouetted the dance of life and death. One looked for dinner while the other looked for life. One dared death while the other lunged for its life.

I crouched in the rocks transfixed with wonder. Sometimes, I cannot help but thank the Bicycle Gods for their gifts to me as I travel around this planet on Condor, my iron steed. Who could serve up a moment like this? Who could dream it? Who could imagine it? Each time, I feel tremendous gratitude for this sublime journey on a bicycle.
Before me, the snake struck, and then recoiled. The hawk hopped up to dare the reptile to strike. Each time, the snake grew wearier and more fatigued. Until, as the last rays of the sun slipped below the horizon, the snake made one last strike for its life, but the hawk seized it by the head with his talons. Seconds later, he pecked it on the head until it died in his clutches.
Moments later, the great hawk flapped his mighty wings with the snake securely gripped in his talons. The hawk took to the sky with dinner for his family. One life lost to give life to another. I watched the mighty hawk fly into the sunset for a memory that sticks with me through the years.

This enchanting moment visits me often when I move into Nature. Without a doubt, Condor carries me into exquisite life-moments that render poetic beauty, life and death struggles, mountain heroics and storms that fulfill my spirit.
Such moments cause me to write this about the Power of Adventure:

Adventure offers every human being the ability to live ‘the’ moment of his or her most passionate idea, fantasy or pursuit. It may take form in the arts, acting, sports, travel or other creative endeavors. Once engaged, a person enjoys ‘satori’ or the perfect moment. That instant may last seconds or a lifetime. The key to adventure whether it involves painting, dancing, sports or travel: throw yourself into it with rambunctious enthusiasm and zealous energy—which leads toward uncommon passion for living. By following that path, you will attract an amazing life that will imbue your spirit and fulfill your destiny as defined by you alone. In the end, you will savor the sweet taste of life pursuing goals that make you happy, rewarded and complete. As a bonus, you may share your life experiences with other bold and uncommon human beings that laugh at life, compare themselves with no one and enjoy a whale of a ride! Frosty Wooldridge

(Sandi and Frosty on tour across America.)

Part 7

Chapter 7 - High Speed Chase

"I pity the man in his car who drives
across the great southwestern desert,
and thinks it's boring."
- Pamela Gilbert

On Route 72, near Parker, Arizona, I headed east into the twilight. It had been a blistering hot day and my body felt like a dishrag that had cleaned out a pot of greasy spaghetti and hung over the top tube to dry. My chances of finding a stream for a bath equaled zero!
Nonetheless, it had been a good day. Red flowering cacti filled the air with their sweet scent while pink cloud streaks sliced the heavens into sections while lighting up billowing thunderheads that boiled toward the sunlight. Their tails faded into the eastern darkness. Saucer-like clouds skidded across the sky to the south of me.

Nearing Bouse, I stopped at a closed gas station and parked my bike against the side of the cracked, plaster wall of the building.
"Might as well check the spigot to see if I can get a bath," I said, kneeling by the pumps. "I'll be darned! Water!"
I grabbed my soap, razor and towel. The water shot out of the faucet full blast. I soaked myself down—clothes and all. After soaping up my shirt, shorts and socks, I shaved my face. As usual, my neck resembled a bloody dogfight after the razor had done its business. No matter what the ads say about shavers, they can rip a man's neck to ribbons. Nevertheless, my body tingled at the newfound clean feeling on my skin. After rinsing away the soap from my shorts and jersey, I stepped into clean clothes. I hung my wet tights, socks and jersey onto the back of my pack for quick drying and loaded my water bottles.

Bouse featured ramshackle buildings on flat desert sands. I cranked into the cool evening air. A mile out of town, I scanned the road for a campsite. My tires made the only sound as stillness crept over the land. A few crows flew over the sagebrush and the thunderheads had darkened with the fading light.

I don't like being on the road at twilight. Too dangerous!

"Come on, where's a place to camp?" I complained out loud. "I'm out in the middle of nowhere, and need find a place to sleep for heaven sakes."
In the distance, not more than a hundred yards, I saw an old barn.
"Bingo!" I said. "That looks like home tonight."

In minutes, I would have my tent pitched behind the building and be cooking dinner. This deserted highway meant a quiet night's sleep.
Just then, a coyote loped along the highway off to my right 30 yards away. He looked intent on something that had caught his eye. I pressed harder on the pedals. He continued loping along, not noticing me. He ran ghostlike in the twilight shadows. He was as quiet as the air.
As I followed him, he veered toward the high side of the shoulder near a bush. When he approached it, a jackrabbit shot out of the cover and headed straight down the side of the pavement. The coyote changed from loping gear to Warp Factor two. Every muscle in his body coiled. The stillness was broken by a cloud of dust from his feet and the race was on. The rabbit did a three-step hoppity, hoppity, hoppity hop, then ran four strides like a dog, then three more short half steps, and back to running like a dog. At the same time, the coyote, with his nose cutting into the air like an F-16 jet and his tail streaming behind him, edged closer and closer. About the second the coyote was about to open his mouth and grab the rabbit, the speedster turned on a dime and shot left across the highway in front of me. Mr. Coyote pulled his teeth back into his mouth and executed a 90-degree turn. From a dead stop of zero, the coyote accelerated again to high speed. Again, the rabbit raced ten yards along the highway and did another right turn. Mr. Coyote closed quickly.

On the right side of the road again, the rabbit, followed less than a few steps behind by the coyote, leaped across a shallow culvert. Big mistake! As he sailed over the ditch, the dark figure of the coyote leaped faster and higher through the air, like a heat-seeking missile homing in on its prey. In midair, the coyote's teeth reached down and clamped onto the rabbit. When they fell to earth, the rabbit screamed a death cry. Silence.

When I pedaled up to the spot, I saw the coyote, with the rabbit in his mouth, become part of the darkness.

Part 8

Chapter 14 - I’m Happy Being Ugly

“You got to be crazy to ride your bicycle across the country,” a man at a convenience store said as we parked the bikes for a rest break. “You’re insane,” said a college coed on an overlook of the Big Sur. “Why don’t you get a horse or something that will carry you?” a cowboy said to me in Montana. “You couldn’t get me to ride a bike across America if you put a Smith and Wesson to my head,” said one Texan in Amarillo. “I’d be too scared to do something that crazy,” an old lady said, on Route 66. FHW

Heading toward Glacier National Park in Montana, I had­ camped out at Flathead Lake on Route 93 the night before. I felt northern latitude ­cool sleeping in late July. The day warmed up as I headed into Kalispell. I spent an hour in town picking up a new tube and­ chain oil. The past two weeks had been terrible flat-tire luck. ­ Every thorn in Montana decided to claim my rear tire as the ­perfect resting-place for its sharp personality. My spare ­tube had so many patches it resembled the suction cups on an octopus' tentacles.

After loading up on bananas, apples and a Persian melon, I prepared myself for the 20-mile climb into Glacier Park. Before getting started, ­I gobbled two bananas. That made me hungry for the melon, so I cut it into sections and ate them. People walking past ­laughed as I hung the banana skins on top of my rear pack under a ­bungee cord. It looked like a fresh kill of bananas. One couple ­with their teenage daughter asked a lot of questions as to how ­much I ate. I told them on a 100-mile day on the flats; I burned ­around 7,000 calories. But my daily distance averaged more like 60 to 70 miles. In the mountains, I averaged 50­ miles per day, but still burned a lot of calories because of the foot pounds exerted in the climbs. The highest mountain I ever­ climbed was a pass in Bolivia at 15,500 feet on a gravel road. ­That burned a lot of calories in the thin air. But the craziest day of my life happened when my friends talked me into an insane 200-mile day in New Mexico and Texas. My friends and I calculated that we ­each burned a total of 14,500 calories in 17 hours of riding.

While I talked, the girl's spirit brightened, and I ­could see a sparkle in her eyes. I may have inspired her to try ­world bicycle touring. As they walked away, she tugged on her mom for permission to go on a tour someday. I heard the mother reply,

"That's for people with wanderlust, not you dear." I ­wanted to catch them and correct the parent by telling her that I ­had met dozens of women bicycle touring in countries around the­ world. I wanted to say that everyone has that "wanderlust" and­ all they have to do is act on their dreams before they are convinced by their friends or parents to do what's normal. ­What's normal usually means settling down and getting a job. I­ was told when I was a teen to "Do it while you're young, ­because once you settle down, you've got to take care of responsibilities." Whoever made that statement was right. I ­wish everyone could reserve their 20's for world travel, to­ give them greater perspective about people and conditions around ­the globe. They would come home richer in spirit and ­understanding. They would have a greater environmental ­appreciation for our fragile planet. Furthermore, anyone can ­ride a bicycle around the world if they choose to do it. ­ However, long ago, I decided the best thing I could do was keep ­quiet and let people make their own choices. I have a secret ­wish for that girl: follow your thoughts and live your dreams.

After gorging myself with melon, I looked three months pregnant. I waddled over to my bicycle. Moments later, sweat ­poured from me as I climbed a hill out of town. I was excited to ­make Glacier by nightfall.

Up ahead, right in the middle of a side road, I saw a man waving his cowboy hat at cars. As I drew closer, his thin ­features were covered in a red plaid shirt, worn jeans, and ­pointed boots topped off with a ten gallon, black Stetson.
"You," he yelled, waving his hat at me. "Come over here."

"What's the problem?" I asked, not wanting to be hassled.
"Why in tarnation ain't you ridin' a horse, or drivin' a­ car, or anything besides that thar' bicycle?" he drawled, drunk ­as a skunk.
"I like to go slow, and I don't have to feed my bike or put ­gas into it," I said, stopping in front of him.
"Well, I'll be damned," he said, scratching his scruffy black ­beard, peppered with gray. "Ain't nothin' like it used to be. ­Well, I'll tell you what young fella'. I'm gonna' buy you a ­drink."
"I don't drink, sir."
"You don't drink?"
"Nope."

"Well, sir, would you set down at that bar over yonder and­ tell the Ugliest Man in Montana why you ride a bicycle instead of ­a horse?
"Who is the ugliest man in Montana?"

"You're lookin' at 'em and I'll prove it."

Even though he was drunk, he seemed interesting enough, so I­ walked my bike over to the bar he had mentioned. We walked into­ a log cabin that had stuffed animal heads on the walls, including ­grizzly bears, elk, moose, badgers, trout and geese. Traps, ­guns, along with bows and arrows rounded out the artillery that decorated­ the back of the bar. I wanted to sit down in one of the wooden ­booths, but he was intent on leading me to the bar. I quickly understood why. Up over the cash register was a large picture of ­a man with a rifle walking out of the woods dragging a bear. It ­was titled: "The Ugliest Man In Montana." My new­found friend happened to be ugly!
"That's you isn't it?"

He cocked his head as he rubbed the hairs growing off the ­top of his nose, "Shore 'nuff, it's me, that bear was one of the toughest fights of my life."
"You fought a grizzly?"
"It weren't but a few years back when I had to battle the ­meanest and hungriest bear in Montana. He was so big, that my­ ole friend Paul Bunyan wouldn't even come to help me."
"No kidding," I said, realizing that I was about to hear a ­story.
"Yep," he said. "I was cuttin' timber one day, usin' a ten­ pound ax, when this varmint comes into our camp and headed for ­the cook’s tent.
Well sir, them lumberjacks scattered for fear ­of their mangy lives. Not me 'cuz that bear made me mad......by ­the way, do you want to buy me a beer? My mouth is awful dry."

"Bartender, give us a beer and a sarsaparilla," I said, ­ready to pay a couple of bucks to hear this man's story. He appealed to my inner child. Even in his drunken ­state, he showed spunk.
"As I was sayin', that bear had me upset because he ate my­ chicken and dumplins which didn't bother me none, but then that ­critter gulped down my blueberry pie. Now that got me all fired ­mad. Nobody eats my blueberry pie and gits away with it."
"I can't blame you," I said, chuckling to myself as this old­ coot relived his story by swinging his arms and raising the beer ­to his lips for a swallow.
"There he was slurppin' down my pie when I charged into­ camp. Soon as he saw me, he knowed he was in trouble 'cuz he­ ceased slurppin."
"What'd you do?"

"Why, I done what any self respectin' lumberjack woulda' ­done," he said, sweeping the hair out of his face. "I ran over ta­ where he was standin' and grabbed a-hold of his tail and bounced 'em betweenst a couple of trees. I thrashed 'em and I bashed 'em ­and then I thrashed 'em some more."
"What was the bear doing during this bashing?" I asked.

"Whall, he was so ah scared for his life that he crawled out ­of his skin and ran off into the woods and nobody done ever heard­ of him agin."
"You must have been a bit sore after the fight, weren't you?"
"Whall now, I had a few calluses on my hands, but nuthin' to ­speak of....o'course, there was another time when I was face to ­face with this killer...."
"That's okay, Ugly," I said, seeing his empty beer glass, ­ which meant the next round was coming out of my pocket. "I've got ­to be getting down the road."
"I guess yore right sonny."

"By the way, what's your real name?"
"You can call me Ugly," he said. "It don't matter what you ­do in this life, as long as you're happy. I'm happy bein' Ugly."
A mile out of town, I chuckled to myself over ­Ugly. I never could understand what makes an alcoholic, but in ­this case, he had brightened my day with his bravado. In my ­travels, I've seen rich people, poor people, regular people—and­ what Ugly said is true—the bottom line in life is being happy.
It's more important than anything else.

Picture Of The Ugliest Man In Montana

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