R and J in the USA

We took to Larry right away.

As Ryan was backing the van into our site at the Vigilante Campground in Bannack State Park, the gentleman from two sites down was standing outside of his rig watching the action as we were backing up remarkably slowly. There really wasn’t much action. We were deep into dusk and, with the sunlight fading, our backup camera is just a bunch of fuzzy images resembling useful information. The one thing Ryan knew for sure was that, somewhere back there, there was a sudden two foot drop into the small, but flowing little river just beside our site. So he was cautious. Really cautious. 

Larry was standing next to the van smiling watching us back up inch by inch with about 12 feet of actual available room behind us. He was trying to signal us that we had plenty of room when Ryan put the van in park, not yet being able to hear Larry and content to be where we were and not push any luck.

We got out of the van and, right away, Larry greeted us and started chatting.

Before long, we learned a lot about Larry. He seemed eager to share. He was here to hunt antelope, but hadn’t seen hardly any wildlife in a while, unlike usual. Though he and his wife Dorothy were only here as campers to camp for a few weeks this time around, they had spent a couple summers here as the campground host for 5 month stints. This was one of his favorite spots in the world and we could see why. It was beautiful and peaceful. He pointed to the large hill just behind us and told us the story of when someone had directed him to head up it in his pickup and take the road down, only for him to find out, there was no road down, so he ended up just driving down the mountain in its raw state right into someone’s backyard. 

Larry had two daughters, one of which, he informed us, thought she was his mother and took to looking out for him, maybe more than Larry felt was necessary. He loved Montana and being a Montanan. 

At one point, Larry slipped into the conversation that he didn’t hear so well out of his left ear. 

Then, he offered up, “There was an explosion next to my ear and, ever since then, I can’t hear much.”

It was clear that Larry was interested to share and we were very interested to listen. At the same time, when someone says they were, at one point, next to an explosion, you realize you are in delicate territory – whatever was the source of the explosion – this was clearly a very intense and traumatic experience and one doesn’t want to pry or to bring up something that someone doesn’t particularly want to talk about.

We sensed we were getting clues from Larry that he did want to talk about it, so we tried to show interest in a respectful way.

”Oh wow. An explosion? My goodness.” We both responded with overlapping comments of surprise.

”If you don’t mind me asking,” Julie said with a mix of interest and reticence to be too personal, “what happened?”

Larry definitely didn’t mind talking about it.

”I was in Vietnam. Explosion went off right next to me. Lost hearing in my ear and blew the bottom of my leg right off. It was only holding on by a small flap of skin. They were going to throw my leg out and I said, ‘don’t you dare! Even if you have to cut it off, give it to me, cause I’m keeping it.’” he said the last part with a smile of pride.

”Well, that’s good you did!” Julie replied looking at his fully intact leg.

His leg had been able to be reattached and he was standing there as strong as can be.

There were a lot of things we were surprised and impressed by standing there chatting with Larry. First of all, he didn’t look old enough, at all, to have been in Vietnam. Second of all, he had a certain innocent joy and glow to him that just impressed us, veteran or not, just something about the guy. Thirdly, well, all the rest he was about to tell us.

”Yea, the doctors don’t want me walking around too much.”

We were now finding out that he was supposed to be having trouble standing and walking. We had probably been standing there for a solid 20 minutes now and you would not have been able to tell there was a single thing ailing this man. We made sure to comment on all of this to Larry. He seemed happy to hear it.

”You don’t seem old enough to have been in Vietnam.” We commented after making sure to thank him for his service.

”And, gosh, you look like one of the healthiest people we’ve ever seen.” We said.

”Well, I used to be an alcoholic. Then, one day, I woke up and just stopped drinking.”

”Wow!” We said, finding even more to be in awe of Larry.

”You just woke up and stopped?”

”Yup.”

”I guess there was something inside of you that just knew it was time.” Julie offered.

”Yea, I guess.”

Larry went on to mention that he was originally from Oregon. Julie mentioned that she used to live there.

”Oh, I’m just from a little town there, called Sisters.”

”Oh, I love Sisters!” Julie said, recalling the time she went for a hike there and having loved that little mountain town. 

Larry seemed to want to get off his chest why he had left Sisters.

”Well, when I came back from Vietnam, they tell me I had PTSD, I guess.”

“I would imagine you would, after all you’d been through.” Julie said.

We were starting to feel a mix of super lucky that Larry was willing and seemingly interested to open up to us, and wanting to be good listeners, encouraging and supportive, without stepping over any lines and talking about anything that Larry didn’t want to talk about. We were fairly rapt. We could tell Larry was in a similarly delicate place, now starting to evaluate whether he thought he was sharing too much – though we couldn’t’ tell if he was concerned about sharing too much on our behalf or on his – but, anytime things would get a little too personal, he would get a slightly awkward look on his face and turn the conversation back to us. He asked us about life in a camper van and how we liked it. We talked about things like van clearance and the set up inside the van. Throughout the conversation, we tried to show interest in Larry’s life and stories without pressure. It was a fine line to walk, but we were hooked the whole time.

Larry continued.

“Yea, well, now I can talk about it all I want and I’m fine.”

We couldn’t tell if this was a solid and long-tested truth, or if Larry was daring himself to see if it was true. There was both a strength and a tentativeness to his tone, at the same time. We were trying to walk that line of showing enough empathy and interest to make sure Larry felt good sharing, and not so much for Larry to feel like we were intruding or opening him up more than he wanted to be.

When it got too close to home, he’d ask us some about our trip and then the conversation would circle back when he seemed to be feeling a little bit more comfortable.

”Yea, when I came back, I had it bad, and those folks in Sisters had to deal with a real SOB” he said, referring to himself.

”I did it all, booze, women, just causing trouble. Then, one day, I woke up and I was just done with it all.”

We had a feeling, listening, that Larry was thinking of Sisters and the people in the town that maybe were glad that he was gone. Maybe that is not what he was thinking, it just would have matched the look on his face. 

Whoever that man had been living in Sisters, it was a different version than the Larry we were standing in front of now, that is for sure.

”Well, Larry, whatever you are doing, you are doing something right, cause you look great.” We encouraged. 

Larry smiled.

Dusk had made lots of progress towards full on nighttime by this point. 

We couldn’t tell if it was for his sake or for ours, but he said, “Well, I’ve kept you long enough. You folks have a good night.”

”You too, Larry. Nice chatting with you!”

Pleasantries exchanged, we returned to the van for the night.

We learned a lot from Larry, the veteran camper next door.