[stylist] Back to writing - why I write

[Chris Kuell]

Some of you may have seen this before, but most haven't. It answers the
question-why write?

Enjoy.

 

  *   *   *   *

 

One Writer's Tale

 

By Chris Kuell

 

 

My quest to become a professional writer began late in the summer of 1996. I
was in Lowell, Massachusetts, visiting the grave of Jack Kerouac. I bummed a
cigarette off this other homage-payer, Keith, who turned out to be the
drummer for the moderately well known band Phish. We got to talking, and it
turns out Keith had recently been released from a rehab center in Boston and
was making his way out to visit his uncle in Montana. Lacking direction in
life, and having little else to do, I asked if I could accompany him on his
trip. Surprisingly, he agreed. During the long drive, we stopped to visit
many of Keith's acquaintances, a generally wild, all-night bunch. It was
through these informal interactions that I acquired a taste for a drink
called the Kamikaze and ladies that didn't shave their legs very often. 

 

Along the way, I learned that the uncle was a Native American living in a
trailer on a reservation. Apparently, he had recently won the lottery, and
wanted to share his earnings with all his extended family members. When we
finally pulled into the dirt driveway about 45 miles outside Missoula, I was
beat from the long road trip and ready for a beer. I had come to the right
place. What greeted us there in Big Sky country was truly breathtaking.
Above me, the blue heavens seemed to cascade infinitely upward. Before me
was a giant mountain, snow capped and so surrealistically beautiful it could
have been an Ansel Adams postcard. At ground level was a rusted old trailer,
a mountain of empty beer cans the size of a two car detached garage, an
eighteen wheeler refrigerated truck with a thirty foot red, white and blue
Budweiser label on the side, and a dozen or so drunken Indians sitting in
disarray on half-broken plastic lawn chairs.

 

Keith's uncle, or Big Trout as he instructed me to call him, had spent
115,000 of his 125,000 dollars of lottery money on the truck full of beer.
His plan was to drink all the beer with his friends and family, then cash in
on the deposit on the cans, sell the truck and buy a bigger trailer. With
about two thirds of the truck empty, it seemed things were on schedule.

 

One evening, I was walking with Big Trout, Budweiser in hand, when we heard
the howling of a pack of coyotes in the distance. He scared the hell out of
me by howling back, in perfect pitch to match the animals. They seemed to
carry on a conversation for several minutes while I listened peacefully and
sipped my beer. As we walked on, Big Trout informed me that the coyote was
his spirit guide, and it had told him it was time I found mine. When I asked
how I was to do this, he handed me a package wrapped tightly in old
newspaper. The package held special herbs, he said, that I should eat when I
reached the peak of the tall White Mountain to the north. There, he informed
me, I would meet my spirit guide, and finally gain direction in my life.

 

A few days later I hitched a ride north with a couple of tie-dyed Dead Heads
in a 1967 VW Microbus. They had stopped by Big Trout's for beer and their
own newspaper bound packages, so perhaps they were looking for direction as
well, I can't really say. I drove with them to Mount Ranier, listening to
bootleg tapes of Grateful Dead shows the whole way. I don't think these guys
knew that Gerry Garcia was deceased. Not wanting to rain on their long,
strange trip, I didn't mention it.

 

They left me off at a camping supply store, where, using my old girlfriend's
credit card, I loaded up on stuff I thought I   might need. After studying
my new trail map, I was on my way. 

 

The hike was harrowing, cold and treacherous, a narration I will save for
another time. It suffices to say that, in less than 48 hours after base camp
departure, I found myself entrenched in a crevice some 8 feet below snow
level, starving, dehydrated and quickly entering delirium.

Only then did I remember the package Big Trout had given me. Since my body
temperature was dropping and death was becoming swiftly probable, I used my
one free hand to retrieve the bundle from my jacket pocket. Inside the
bundle was a baggie containing a half dozen dried mushrooms. As instructed,
I ate the mushrooms, licking the ice surrounding me occasionally to dilute
the horrible taste. I think I must have drifted off to sleep for a while,
because I remember awakening suddenly to the snorting of an animal. Looking
up, I saw the majestic head of a large mountain goat, menacing ivory horns
coiling outwards. We stared at each other in a timeless void, neither of us
speaking, yet communicating.

 

"Are you my spirit guide?" I asked the goat.

"'Fraid so," it answered.

"Why do you say it that way?" I asked.

"Cause your ass is stuck in a crevice, and I'm only a goddamned goat, that's
why. I don't even have opposable thumbs, how the hell am I supposed to get
you outta there so you can start on what is going to be an incredibly
difficult quest?"

I just looked up pleadingly at the goat. Perhaps it was something in that
glacier water, but things didn't seem right in my head.

"Here," the goat said, then turned to show me it's backside. As it started
to squat, my initial thought was-Oh my God, my spirit guide is going to take
a dump on me! But I quickly realized that he was actually just offering me
his tail. I grabbed it with my free hand, and with surprising ease, my
spirit goat pulled me from the clutches of the ice vice. 

 

We sat together on the snow, looking over the vast extravaganza of life
glistening before us. I asked the goat, "So, how did you get to be a spirit
guide?"

"Oh, I used to be a writer in a previous life. Ever read any Jack Kerouac?
On the Road. That was me. After I died, damn defective liver, I floated
around in purgatory until the goat gig came up." 

 

I reflected on this for a few minutes before I asked, "So, spirit guide,
what am I supposed to do with my life?"

"W-W-W-write R-r-r-r-omance," he brayed, then, I swear, he began to laugh.
It was really bizarre, this mountain goat bucking and snorting like he was
having a seizure. Once he regained control, he continued, "Naw, I'm just
kidding. Write anything you like, as long as you enjoy it."

Writing? I had never really given any thought to becoming a writer. Seems
like a reasonable occupation though. Make your own hours, show up to work in
your underwear if you want.

"But, I don't know how to write. I don't know what to write." I objected.

"Don't worry," he said, " just make it up. The New York Times might even
give you a job. Ya never know."

With that, he bowed his shaggy head and butted me solidly with his horns. My
coat and gortex pants offered very little resistance as I slid swiftly and
violently down the face of the mountain.

 

Three weeks later, I came out of the coma in Saint Francis Hospital and they
agreed to let me write in a small notepad. I penned an article about the
kind folks I partied with at Big Trout's place, and the local paper bought
it. Eventually, I drifted back east, and now I am struggling to make a buck
at stringing words together. Hell, at this point I'd be happy to make enough
to buy a six pack. That's my story, and I'm sticking with it.