A Tiny Patch of Blue

My Grandpa Boyd was divorced from my Grandma Mabel long before I came along.
My Dad had a hard time reconciling everything that had happened, but he tried to see that we had opportunities to know our Grandpa.

Grandpa Boyd was a rough character. He had been a game warden and spent most of his life out in the "wide lonesome". He had been in on the search party when Earl Durrand killed some of the law sent to arrest him for poaching, and had stopped the car Earl was in, sticking his pistol into the window and ordering the driver, in pretty colorful language, to stop or get his head blown off. Durrand escaped the car and later was killed in during a bank robbery in Powell, Wyoming.

Grandpa was known for his legendary feats of driving skill, like the time he took a tank truck full of trout fingerlings across a swamp by chaining an aspen log to the rear wheels over and over again, or the time that he rode the ridge line for miles because it was swept free of snow by the howling Wyoming winds, when the highway between Meeteetse and Salt Lake was closed by a blizzard. He led countless pack trains into the back country and was a resourceful and skilled hunting guide.

That's what he was doing, one summer in the early sixties, when he invited Dad to bring my brother Dave and I up to the camp for a weekend. We were thrilled. The days between the invitation and the trip went by so slowly, and the anticipation was almost unbearable. Dad had even found Dave and me, suede vests and matching chaps so that we would "look the part".

The Friday afternoon before we were to leave, an unusual low pressure system descended on the Big Horn Basin. Usually, this time of year, the only moisture consisted of passing afternoon thunderstorms, but this looked more like a winter storm, with deep dark low overcast and a cold, heavy, sustained rain. The weather report said that it would continue all weekend long with no break. Dad broke the news to us as gently as he could that we might not be able to get up the Northfork to where Grandpa was, and even if we did, Grandpa might not be able to ride the miles from the back country to come and get us. Two disappointed little boys got ready for bed that evening.

Later that night I went to my Dad and said, "Daddy, I just prayed and asked Heavenly Father to let it not rain so bad so we can go see Grandpa, and He said O.K. Can we at least try to go up tomorrow? I know it will be all right." What does a Dad say to that? To his credit my Dad said, "We'll give it a try. Now go to Bed. we have to get an early start."

So early on Saturday morning we loaded up the Chevy and headed up the Canyon toward Pahaska Teepee. The further we went the worse the weather got. The clouds were so low that they became fog and the rain drummed steadily on the windshield. Dad kept saying, "Boys we should probably turn around," Each time we would beg him to go just a little further. Two hours later found us at the trail head to Camp Monaco, just a few miles from Yellowstone Park.

Dad pulled the car into the soggy gravel of the turnout and stopped. Just then the rain, which had not stopped since Friday night, petered out, but he clouds were still just as heavy and all the trees hung low with moisture. It looked like the rain would begin again any time. Dad said, "Boys, I don't think the trail is dry enough for Grandpa to make it down from the camp, maybe we should just go home."

"Dad, could we just get out of the car for a minute?" I asked. Dad sighed and opened the door. As we stepped out into the mud we looked up into the sky. Just above us was one tiny patch of blue sky in the otherwise gloomy mass of clouds. "Could we just walk up the trail a little ways?" We pleaded. Dad got out our backpacks and with some misgivings headed up the trail.

The tiny patch of blue seemed to be our friend. It followed us up the trail. It was raining all around us, but our little part of the trail was not getting any rain at all. We stopped about a half mile up the trail and sat down on a log. Dad was just getting up the nerve to tell us that we had to go back, when we heard a noise. We looked up and saw Grandpa, in his poncho, leading a string of horses down the trail. "Hello Bruce, let's get these kids on the horses and get them back to camp." He said.

All the way back to camp, that little patch of blue sky followed us, like a lonely puppy. Nary a drop of rain fell on us on the trail. But when we got to camp and were safe in the tent, the little blue patch disappeared and the rain came down in buckets. The rest of the week was beautiful, though, and we had the time of our lives. That was the only trip that we ever had with Grandpa. I will never forget and always be grateful for God's answer to my trusting little boy prayer, that let a tiny patch of blue guide us safely to camp.