When You're At War With the Sky

    There is an old adage:  Be careful what you wish for. 

    Though he’d never heard it before, George Hildebrand was becoming all too familiar with its meaning as he stood on his front porch.  The cold mist of the rain licked his face.  Five days ago the sensation was pleasant.  Five days ago the torrent was a blessing.

    Prior to the showers, it had been months since the last rainfall.  Wyoming was known for its dry seasons, but even his hardy crop of sugar beets was struggling.  Even the irrigation ditches had dried up.  That was before.  Now his beets were drowning and he could do nothing but watch. 

    “You ready, boy?” he spoke gruffly, unmoving.

    “Yeah, Pops.  I’m ready.”  His son, Douglas, had just turned fifteen a few weeks before.  It wasn’t much of a celebration, only a loaf of his mother’s sweet corn bread with a single candle in the middle.  That was as special as things got out here.  There was always work to be done on a dying ranch.  He understood.  Harsh times make a boy grow up fast.

    George adjusted his hat, lifted an axe, and stepped out into the downpour.  His son followed with a shovel.  The thirsty soil had taken in all it could and it was rejecting the rest.  Water gathered in growing puddles.  The nearly ankle deep mud threatened to keep their boots as they treaded out to the truck.

    It was a 1939 Ford, beaten half to hell but it still worked like an ox.  Doug couldn’t even remember what color it was when his father purchased it before the war.  Now it was mostly a rusted out hunk of metal with an engine that roared like a lion with a hairball.

    Without a single word, they dropped their tools into the back and climbed into the cab.  The drive was slow.  Deep muck provided little traction but the old truck powered through, smelling of gasoline and cigarettes the whole way.  The heavy rain was too much for the windshield wipers to sweep away with any great success, but George could tour his property blindfolded and never once be lost.  They stopped a few miles away from their small, wooden homestead that sat at the base of Heart Mountain.

    George sighed, stepping out of the truck.  His leather duster lost its ability to hold back the rain a long time ago and he was soaked to the bone.  He stopped and simply stared at the empty field, an empty field that should have contained his other livelihood, cattle.

    “Where’d they go?” Doug wondered naively, stepping out next to his father.

    A quarter mile farther up the road, the herd had simply knocked over the fence.  With the soil growing more and more inundated with water, it had little strength to support anything.  The trampled mud had mostly been washed away, but the hoof tracks that remained lead up a gentle incline that curved back towards the house and up into the mountains. 

    “To higher ground,” George replied simply with water running off the brim of his hat.  “They won’t get far.  The ridge drops off a mile or so back.  We’ll get ‘em later.  Let’s get to work, son.”

    Building a fence is a relatively simple task under normal conditions, but in a ceaseless deluge it’s nearly impossible.  The soil was giving way and the fence posts were losing their support faster than they could repair the damage from the fleeing herd.  Digging in the sludge was almost as futile as trying to get a post to stand upright in it.  With every shovel full, the muck seemed to resist more and more. 

    Their muscles burned.  The cold rain poured.  Slowly, post by post, the fence was rebuilt.  It took several hours, but they piled up enough mud to support the posts for the moment.  George looked up to the sky.  Not a hint of blue as far as the eye could see, only swirling grey clouds and rain.

    The wind carried the faint chime of the dinner bell, barely audible over the raucous downpour.  Caked in deep brown earth the consistency of over watered cement, the two Hildebrand men returned to the truck and headed for home.  George didn’t thank his son for the work he did.  He didn’t pat him on the back for a job well done.  He didn’t say a word.  A half smile spoke volumes.  It was more than enough for Douglas.

    Home was beginning to become less of a sanctuary as the water seeped in through cracks in the ceiling.  Scattered throughout the old wooden dwelling were various buckets, drinking glasses, and stew pots to contain the never ending flow.  The men stripped off their muddy clothes before entering.  George’s wife, Rose, didn’t have much to work with, but she still knew the importance of keeping a tidy house.  After a change of clothes, the whole family was gathered around the dinner table.

    “The radio says there’ve been mudslides reported all over the mountain.”  His wife commented, serving Douglas some boiled potatoes.  Rose was a strong woman.  Being the wife of a rancher, she needed to be.  Despite her rougher hands and lean features, she still remained very beautiful.  “They’re advising everyone to leave.”

    “We’re not going anywhere,” George replied curtly, taking in a piece of beef.  “It can’t rain much longer.”  Douglas knew better than to speak against his father and wisely held his tongue.  He focused on his meal instead, still shivering from the cold rain.

    “It’s been almost a week, George.  It hasn’t let up for more than two hours that whole time.”

    “I’m not leaving, Rosie.”  His eyes were strong.  He’d always been determined, but she’d noticed a change in him since he returned from the war.  There was a part of him that never came back from Europe.  Nothing more was said for the rest of their dinner.

    An hour passed.  George rested silently in his usual chair with a distant stare peering into the lit fireplace, puffing away at his cigarette.  Rose could only guess at what terrible memories were surfacing in his mind.  He was a warrior with no war.  Despite the love of his family, that left him the loneliest man on Earth.

    “Douglas,” he called, suddenly pulling himself to his feet.

    “Yes, Pop?”

    “Grab your coat.  We’re collecting the cattle.”  Douglas did as he was told.

    “You’re going now?” Rose wondered, incredulous.  “You both have barely dried off.  Can’t it wait until the morning?  The rain may have stopped by then.”

    “The herd will be farther away by morning.  We can catch them at the top of the ridge if we go now.”  He grabbed the keys and tossed them to his boy.  “Start the truck, son.”

    Douglas kissed his mother on the cheek.  “Don’t worry.  We’ll be back in a few hours, Ma.”  He stepped out the door, pausing only a moment to fasten the top button on his coat and pull down his hat.

    “Why are you doing this?” she asked her husband before he stepped out into the weather again.

    “This is our home, Rosie.  A man’s not worth much if he doesn’t do all he can to protect it.”  He slipped on his coat, still heavy from all the water it had absorbed.

    She held onto his hat.  He reached for it but she refused to release it until he came close enough for a kiss.  The tension in his whole body relaxed for a second, lost in the moment.  The distant boom of thunder brought him back.  He brushed her golden hair out of her face, attempted to force the corner of his mouth into a smile, and then turned to leave.

    If George had held onto any hope that the situation would soon get better, it began to slip away as soon as the lightning started.  The rain only seemed to fall harder.  It seemed that all of heaven was against him.  The old truck’s engine roared as he kept the accelerator pinned to the floor panel.  In the deep muck on the trail up the mountain, he wasn’t getting any traction.  Still, ever the soldier, he powered forward. 

    About three quarters of a mile up, the soggy road leveled off and the tired truck had an easier time traversing the mountain.  Though the sky seemed to erupting in a fiery tantrum, the two Hildebrand men were silent.  George was more comfortable with the quiet than his son, who hadn’t yet discovered that there was little comfort in words.

    It became easier to see through the windshield as they entered the forest farther up.  The trees did a decent job of deflecting the rain, but were still struggling with the sheer volume of it all.  The earth was crumbling under the weight.

    “Look at that!” Douglas pointed ahead of them as the truck sloshed through the mountain pass.

    “My word,” George gasped, his gaze drifting slowly upward.  It was still difficult to see through the fogging glass, but he knew his eyes weren’t deceiving him.  The trees were moving.  Like an army marching downhill, their roots were losing their hold in the weakening soil and many of them began to slowly slide down the mountain.  Almost miraculously, none of them toppled over, but George knew that wouldn’t be for very long.  They were running out of time.

    It took them nearly twenty minutes to drive a route that usually took no more than five or six.  As they rounded the last curve, George’s mood lifted the moment he saw the ghostly figures of his cattle in the meadow ahead.  His levity was short lived as he and his boy sprung from the truck to find that the herd was bogged down in deep mud and unable to move.  Their panicking cries were nearly loud enough to drown out the roar of the rain.

    “No,” George spoke silently.  He was almost in pure disbelief that this could be happening.  He’d come all this way to watch his livelihood swallowed up by the earth.

    “What do we do now, Pa?” Douglas asked the question that was on George’s mind.  He knew as well as his father that there was no way they would be able to get the herd to move in that sludge.  There really was only one way to survive this endless storm.

    “Let’s…” his voice trailed as he tried to gather his thoughts.  Lost.  All was lost.  “Let’s try to rope a few of ‘em.  Pull on ‘em a little with the truck.  Maybe we can free some of them.”

    “The mud’s too deep.  They’ll never budge.  All we’d end up doing is breaking their necks.”

    “You have any better ideas, boy?” George snapped at his son.  He could detect the sound of defeat in Douglas’ voice.  The rain had beaten his son.  He wouldn’t let it defeat him.

    “I think we should do what Ma wanted,” he raised his voice to his father.  He was a respectful son, but enough was enough.  “You saw the trees moving!  I think we should pack up what we can and get outta here before the mountain comes down on us!”

    “I’m not leaving!” he shouted, striking his son across the face.  Douglas spun around, falling into the mud.  “This is my home!”  His voice, though angry, was laced with sad realization that his son was correct, but his pride couldn’t let him admit it.  “I took three bullets defending it from the Nazis!  I’m not gonna let some damned rain take it away from me!”

    Douglas scornfully looked up at his father, massaging his sore jaw.  Though the deluge concealed it almost perfectly, he could tell his father was crying.  Everything he’d built his life upon was being washed away.  Then, Douglas noticed movement.  At first he thought it was a trick of the light through the ceaseless shower, but a mound of earth seemed to be creeping up slowly behind his father.

    “Pa, look out!” Douglas shouted, once he saw the familiar tail.  He tried to rise, but it was too late.  The mud-caked cougar leaped as if it had been spat out by the earth, but didn’t account for its extra weight.  It fell short and struck George in the back, knocking him to the soggy ground.  Digging its claws into his thighs, it let out a roar.

    George cried out in pain as the hungry cat pulled itself closer to his throat.  He struck at it wherever he could, but the mountain lion was a born predator.  It was used to prey fighting back and dug its claws in deeper.

    “Doug!” he managed to shout as he fought to keep the cat’s teeth away from his jugular.  It was difficult.  The feline was coated in thick, slippery mud.  “Get my rifle!”  His son was off in a flash, nearly tripping over himself in his haste.

    Despite the searing pain, George managed to wonder why the cat decided to strike in the first place.  It was drawn here by the cattle’s dying pleas, no doubt.  Steer are tough to take down, even when they can’t run away, but a defenseless human was always an easy kill for a desperate cougar.

    George spat in the cat’s face as it drove its claws into his ribs.  The rain he couldn’t beat, but this feline would get a run for its money before he let it take him.  He let out a roar of his own as his fierce gaze met that of the hungry mountain lion. 

    Then, with a distant explosion and a brief flash of light, the fight was over.  The limp cat fell onto him, its skull blown wide open on one side.  George looked up at his son, who stood, unmoving, in the same stance he took just before he pulled the trigger.  He’d gone hunting with his father before, but he’d never killed to save a life before.  It was an interesting sensation, like winning and losing at the same time.

    George heaved the carcass aside and went to his son, holding his hand over the bleeding cuts on his chest.  “Thank you, boy,” he said, gently taking the rifle.  No father could have ever been prouder of his son than he was at that moment.  With a mournful glance back at his doomed herd, he added, “Let’s go home.”



    Going down the mountain was only slightly easier than going up it.  Gravity was on their side, but the mountain wasn’t letting them go so easily.  The deep mud grasped at the tires, desperate to claim more victims of the deluge.

    “Pa, watch out!” Douglas pointed to a tree silhouetted in the rain, but it was approaching the road.

    “Aw, shit!” George slammed on the brakes and the rusty Ford slid to a stop after a few yards.

    The earth next to the road was giving way, pulling the tree along with it.  It wasn’t the only spot.  The trees were seemingly walking to surround them.  The tree slid down the incline, riding the fluid dirt until it hit the embankment.  Slowly at first, the massive cottonwood tilted and tumbled to the ground just in front of the vehicle, sinking in the mud.  Carried by its momentum, it slid for a foot or two more before coming to rest, effectively blocking their path.

    The Hildebrand men sat in stunned silence for a moment.  Only the sound of the tired engine and the ceaseless beating of rain against metal let them know they’d narrowly avoided tragedy.  Thunder boomed in the distance and echoed through the mountain.  George stepped to the back of the truck and grabbed his axe.

    “Unpack the chains, Doug.  We’ve got to haul this outta our way.”  His axe striking wood punctuated his request.

    George hacked at the tree for forty five minutes before the top broke away and slid a dozen more yards down the mountain.  Every tree it struck along the way shuddered a little.  The earth was nearing its breaking point.  Exhausted, he heavily trudged over to help his son fasten the chain to the largest branch they could find.

    “Do you think it’ll be strong enough?” Douglas asked of the limb his father had selected.  It was sturdy in appearance, but the tree had subsided deeper into the mud and clay.

    “It’ll be strong enough to get it out of our way.”  He squinted to find a link in the chain to place the towing hook for a tight fit.  What little light that was available though the dense cloud cover was growing fainter as the evening approached.  Even if they were able to tow the rest of the fallen tree out of there way, there wouldn’t be much light left to find their way home.  Even with the truck’s headlights, the rain was too dense to see very far.

    The truth was beginning to eat its way into his head.  They were running out of time.  The sky had declared war and he was a lone soldier in enemy territory.  Then he thought of Normandy.  If a rain of Nazi bullets couldn’t stop him, he sure as hell wasn’t going to let a little water get the best of him.  He found a link and tugged on it for good measure. 

    “Stand on the other side of the tree,” he told his Douglas.  “When I start pullin’, you push on this end.”  He pointed to where he’d split off most of it with the axe.  “We’ll try to guide it to the side of the road.  Do you think you can handle that, son?”

    “Sure thing, Pop.”  Rain poured in sheets off the back of his hat like a miniature waterfall.  He climbed through the branches that had survived the fall to the far side.

    George smiled.  “Good man.”  Pulling himself into the old Ford, he shifted into reverse and pressed the accelerator.  Before the war, he would have prayed to God for this to work.  Now, he wasn’t so sure anyone was even paying attention.

    Globs of muck tumbled though the air as the spinning tires fought to find any traction.  Douglas tried to help by pushing on the submerging log, but his feet kept slipping out from beneath him.  The truck slid from side to side, reacting to the slightest movements of the wheel.  George shifted gears and revved the engine harder.  Now it was raining mud as well.

    Finding something to grab onto, the truck suddenly pulled backwards.  The chain went taut.  Wet earth was stubborn, however.  It didn’t want to give up its new prize.  The old Ford roared, threatening to start a mudslide itself.  The mountain seemed to shudder at the sound.

    “Come on!” George muttered to himself, shifting gears again.  The truck only moved from side to side like a horizontal pendulum.  “Damn it, come on!”  Another shifting of gears and he pressed the pedal to the floor.  Rain turned to steam as it struck the hood of the truck.  The thick sludge finally gave way.

    Douglas did as he was told as best he could.  As the truck pulled, he guided the log to the side of the road, slipping and stumbling as he worked.  George smiled.  It was working.  They were getting through.

    Weakened by all their work and the ceaseless deluge, the side of the dirt road crumbled apart.  The log tumbled over the edge.  Douglas, his sleeve caught on a splintered branch, followed.

    “No!” George cried, leaping out into the cold rain.  Lightning and thunder drowned his cries in a sea of noise.  Without even considering his own safety, as any father would, he slid down the embankment to reach his son.

    “Doug!  Douglas can you hear me?!” George called out. 

    He found his boy, and the sight of him knotted his insides.  There was blood.  Douglas had been dragged about fifteen feet down the muddy slope.  Pressed into the dirt, the log had rolled over him at least once.  It came to rest a dozen yards farther down the mountainside.  His arm was twisted and mangled.  His nose was broken.  Scratches covered him from head to toe.  How severe the total injuries were, no one could say. 

    “Son, can you hear me?” George gently pushed the hair out of his boy’s eyes.

    Douglas didn’t speak.  He was in shock.  His eyes darted to his father and he mustered a smile, thankful that the rain hid his tears.  He would hate for his father to see him cry.

    “Don’t worry.  I’ll get you home,” George gently cleaned the mud away from Douglas’ face, thankful the rain concealed his tears.  No boy should ever see his father cry.

    Ever so carefully, George slid his arms beneath his son and freed him from the earth.  Trudging up the soggy embankment was harder than sliding down.  Every step threatened to give way and send them both tumbling back down.  George, ever the soldier, moved ever forward.



    Rose cried out in horror as George carried their broken son into the house.  With a quick brush of her arm, she cleared off the dining room table.  Drinking glasses, her few luxurious possessions, shattered as they hit the wooden floor.  George gently laid Douglas onto the table.

    “What happened?” she asked, almost frantic as she began to clean the mud from her son’s face with her apron.

    “I was a fool,” George admitted regretfully, caressing Douglas’ forehead.  If he had listened to his son earlier, none of this would've happened.

    “George, he needs a doctor,” she spoke with urgency, feeling at least one broken rib.

    “Pack up whatever you think we’ll need.  We’re leaving as soon as I get the truck ready.”  Without another word, George stepped outside.  Thunder boomed like bombs being dropped in the distance.  This was war, only he’d been fighting for the wrong trophy.  His home was doomed.  It had been from the moment the sky opened up.  Sadly, it had taken his son’s accident to show him what he should have been fighting for from the beginning.

    George threw a tarp over the truck bed and positioned it like a tent.  Once he was sure it was secure, he lined the bed with as many blankets as he could find, careful to keep them from getting too wet in the rain.  Once that was complete, Rose passed him the supplies they’d need for their trip all hastily wrapped up in tablecloths. 

    Then came their most precious cargo.  To keep him as still as possible, George and his wife carried him out on the kitchen table before sliding him into the truck.  Rose climbed in alongside her son as George tossed the table aside.

    A rumbling noise suddenly drowned out the roar of the rain.  It wasn’t thunder.  The mountain had had its fill.  It wasn’t thirsty any more.  Looking up the mountain, George saw that the trees were beginning their assault, charging en masse, as the earth beneath their roots finally succumbed to the sky’s will. 

    Through the side mirror of his truck, George watched as the mudslide enveloped his home as they drove away.  The house buckled under the immense weight.  Everything he’d worked for his entire life was swallowed up in an instant. 

    “How’s he doing?” George asked his wife through the open window at the back of the cab.

    “I don’t know,” she answered, working to clean the wounds as best she could.  “But if we can get him to a doctor, I think he’ll be fine.”

    The sky had declared war.  When you’re at war with the sky, it helps to know what you’re fighting for.  George almost lost everything he cherished fighting for the wrong prize.  He wouldn’t make that mistake again.  This time, the sky was going to understand what it’s truly like to be at war with George Hildebrand.  He’d survived Nazi bullets.  He’d be damned if he let a little rain stop him.

    “I’ll get him there, Rosie.  I promise.”