Loco Pete’s Leap
by David Rudd
Lewis and Clark Caverns are up in the London Hills of Montana. Though they are named for those famous explorers, the two never made it up here to discover this cave system. It’s been over three years since I was last here. But here I am again, in the Visitors’ Center, waiting for the next tour to begin. And, in preparation, I’m composing my suicide note.
Yep, you heard me right. It’s come to that.
Three years back, things were very different. Me and two friends, Bob Unger and Carl Stobart — all three of us postgrad alumni from Montana State Uni — had met up for a reunion, hoping to revisit old haunts, including our alma mater, and to discover some new ones. In our student days in Montana, we’d often gone hiking and climbing together. A year on from our MBA, my two buddies had good jobs, unlike me, who’d taken a year out to travel or “drift,” as my parents described it. I’d fallen out of love with Business Studies, as my less than promising performance showed, and I wanted to do something different.
We’d just spent a day visiting Nevada City and Virginia City — now mere ghost towns, but once the richest gold spots in the old West — and were on our way to the Lewis and Clark Caverns. These expeditions were taking us to new territory.
The Caverns themselves are a great example of American ingenuity and enterprise. Rather than leave the cave system in its natural state, someone had blasted a whole new trail through the mountain, creating a gentle decline from top to bottom, complete with built-in steps, making it easy on the legs. The tour we’d signed up for, those years ago, was a solid hour underground but, thanks chiefly to me, it took far longer.
Including our guide, Rusty, there were about fifteen of us on that tour. Rusty, as I recall, was an old-timer who’d lived in Montana most of his life and, like some nineteenth-century prospector with his pannings of gold, had hoarded every single anecdote he’d ever heard, just so’s he could recycle them for our benefit. He particularly enjoyed regaling us with tales of Loco Pete, who’d become successful prospecting for gold in Nevada City. In those days, the prospector was known as “Goldy” Pete, having had his first nuggets fashioned into a gleaming set of dentures. The nickname “Loco” only came later, after the ravages of drink and syphilis addled his brain.
Loco had come up to the caverns shortly after their discovery in the 1890s, hoping to discover more of the yellow stuff. He never did, even though his last words were, reputedly, “the motherload,” uttered, so Rusty informed us, as he plunged to his death in the cave’s bowels.
And, sure enough, there’s a column of rock on “Loco Pete’s Leap” — as it’s known — that looks quite like a stooped old man with a long beard, about to topple. According to our trusty guide, Loco landed with a clang: “RIP!” said Rusty. “For you good folks, that’s ‘Rest in Pieces’ — gold pieces, of course!”
The way the tour worked, Rusty would light our path through a particular section, turning on the electrics, then switching them off as we moved to the next cavern. There were, then, several times when we were plunged into complete darkness, often for dramatic effect. When this happened, the abrupt loss of light would create after-images where clots of shadow seemed to move across our field of vision. It was something and nothing, but disarming nonetheless.
Coupled with this, the interconnected caverns amplified and distorted our everyday sounds: of people clearing their throats, breathing heavily, shuffling their feet, and so on. It was all too easy to imagine something uninvited lurking amongst us, especially as we regularly swapped positions on our way through the caverns. You were never quite sure where anyone in the group was. Was the check-shirted man ahead or behind you? Had the Japanese couple stopped to take a picture? Had one of the old hiking guys bent to tie his lace?
As we approached a particularly narrow opening, I’d thought I was the one bringing up the rear. But, as I moved under that archway, something seemed to thump me on the back and I could sense a whispering at my ear. When we came to a wider section, I turned to see who was there, but could find no one. Just my shadow looming behind me. Beyond that, it was pitch black.
We were now in Sample Cavern where, so Rusty informed us, an older generation of tourists had been encouraged to take souvenirs of their visit, breaking off pieces of stalactite and hacking out bits of crystal. The damage was still there to see — as it would be for thousands of years to come.
I’d only been half-listening, though, preoccupied by what had thumped onto my back. I must have been batting my hands around and reaching behind me, for the next thing I knew, there was Carl, imitating my actions, performing grotesque orangutan impressions for the amusement of others.
“Loco Pete rides again,” declared Bob.
Rusty, picking up on my twitchiness, took this as his cue to launch into his trove of travelers’ tales: anecdotes of explorers trapped underground and haunting the place; tales of the lingering spirits of Native American Indians. He must have realized that I was slowing up the party with my twitchy behavior, so was doing his best to keep everyone entertained. Soon he was talking about troglodytes, Bigfoot, and the rest.
“Extraterrestrials coming soon,” predicted Carl.
I won’t prolong this account of my spelunking venture, but from that moment on, I don’t think I heard any more of Rusty’s commentary. I was too preoccupied with what was clinging to my back. It seemed to be alive, breathing with a raspy, almost tinkling wheeze. It was getting heavier, too. It felt as though I had a rucksack on my back into which the rest of the party were lobbing stones, slowing my progress. I fell further and further behind. Rusty was a patient man, but I was obviously exhausting his store of anecdotes, let alone disrupting the tour schedule.
By the time we’d emerged from the cave system, I was on my knees, and I’d worn out everyone else, too. I could see that they were glad to be shut of me and my strange behavior.
That, as I said, was three years ago. I’d like to tell you it was just a crazy day and I soon got over it. But that wasn’t the case. That day, my life changed.
Bob and Carl left me to recuperate in the Visitors’ Center while they sat outside in the truck, swigging beer. In the Center, I’d discovered a copy of the Financial Times, left by some other visitor, I guess. I hadn’t seen a copy since my MBA, and I’d not opened it much then, as my tutors were always complaining.
God knows why, but I picked it up and started reading about gold trading. I became so absorbed that I didn’t even notice my buddies’ return. It was only when Carl said, “He must be ill. Look what he’s reading,” that I registered their giggling presence.
What was especially weird was that I suddenly felt energized. No wheezing, no heavy limbs or bowed back. I felt better than I had for a long time, fired with a sense of purpose. I joined my friends in the truck and, uncharacteristically for me, refused the proffered beer. I wanted to hold onto my positive mindset, to keep a clear head, though “clear” is perhaps the wrong word, for clanking around in my skull, like a mantra, was the phrase, “Buy gold.” In fact, I had to work hard at not proclaiming it aloud.
As I said before, this was all three years back, though today the Visitors’ Center looks largely unchanged. I, on the other hand, am a very different man, as any of my friends — or former friends, I guess — would tell you.
On that distant day, I renounced travelling. At Bozeman Yellowstone International Airport, I saw off Bob and Carl before returning to Montana State Uni and seeking out Professor Garstang, one of my old tutors. I wanted his advice on... well, investing in gold, of course.
He couldn’t believe it was me, one of his most disappointing students. However, I also knew that he’d had a soft spot for me, always believing I could do better. So, without any disapproving finger-wagging, he ran with my enthusiasm, giving me a few tips and contacts.
Returning to New Jersey, I promptly invested what little savings I had in gold bullion. “Bullion,” such a lovely-sounding word, isn’t it? Connected to the French “bouillon,” you know, ’cos, when you heat it, it melts into a gold sauce. Then you pour it into molds to make those gold bars — so much tastier than them chocolate ones! Buy gold, buy gold, buy gold!
There I go again! Not my words, although it’s in my mouth that they shape themselves, leaving an acrid, metallic taste, too. Credit for such outbursts should go to my nemesis, Loco Pete, who has tainted me with his obsession.
All my hunches, gut reactions — call them what you will — come from him, with his clacking dentures nibbling at my ears: “Buy more gold-old-old! Buy bullion-ion-ion!” he proclaims. Or, sometimes, “Sell quick. Lighten your load-ode-ode!” There’s always that clanky echo, as though we’re still in those caves, underground.
In material terms, I can’t complain. I’m a success, someone to whom people look with newfound respect. My old professir was particularly impressed, even though I’d quite spectacularly ignored his recent cautionary words. How did I always know, he’d asked, exactly when the market would peak and dip? And why did I not diversify into other commodities — platinum, tin, or silver? But, as I tried to explain, none of it had the appeal of the yellow stuff. With gold — that word just rings round your mouth, don’t it? — sorry; as I was saying, with gold, I could do no wrong.
I had the Midas touch, as Prof. Garstang put it, though it had its downside. Treating everyone as a commodity, I’d become a pariah. People shunned me. Friends first — even Bob and Carl amongst them — then family members and, finally, my wife, Christine. Yes, about two years ago, I’d got married.
I could, of course, have got hitched many times over, for women were forever flinging themselves at me, disgustingly rich and eligible as I was. Most, though, became quickly disillusioned. Not Christine. She was different, and tried in so many ways to help me, but eventually Loco Pete saw her off, too. She used to complain that I no longer kissed her. I chewed on her lips, she said, as though assaying a coin. She too had become a commodity in my ceaseless hunt to “Buy gold!”
She might have put up with the nibbling, but not the obsessive pursuit of gold and the hard drinking that went with it. I’d like to say it was a way of escaping Loco Pete, but the more I indulged, the more like him I became — a bestial troglodyte, fit only to wander those Montana caverns. I’d even developed a stoop, as though to accommodate him, sitting up there between my shoulders, riding me like I was a pack animal.
I tried everything to escape his clutches, even moving houses. We relocated several times to different states before going abroad, initially to Europe then the Far East. Business colleagues thought I was diversifying, getting into the property market, but it was nothing so mercenary. I was simply trying to free myself from the clanking dentures and metallic voice of that crazy prospector. Looking back, it was a ridiculous idea. As if I could escape the very thing that was riding me like a succubus, sucking the life out of me.
I’d seen doctors, of course, but it’s hard to be taken seriously — however rich you are — when you start explaining that you have this parasite, a loony old prospector called Loco Pete, who sits up between your shoulder blades and rides you like a mule! Mostly they advised me to lay off the booze and prescribed tranquilizers, though one specialist, taking my hunched posture seriously, did design a harness for me to wear. Loco Pete thought it a hoot. Just the thing to keep his pet burro in line!
Bit by bit, he was taking over, I knew it. My thoughts, my posture, my obsessions — they were becoming his. I knew my mouth was not to be trusted, forever singing the praises of gold, apart from when it was being plain abusive. I’d even had my only gold filling removed, fed up with him forever probing it with his tongue — my tongue! Only my eyes, peaking out of their sockets like timid mice, felt like they were still my own.
So, perhaps you’ll understand why I’d decided to make my exit before Loco Pete could possess me completely. And, laying aside my own selfishness, it seemed a duty to rid the world of his avaricious presence. A quick hop over the railings at Loco Pete’s Leap, and he can re-enact his famous swan song.
I just need to deposit this note at the Center. My lawyers already have a copy of my new will. Christine will be surprised, I think, to learn that most of my fortune is going to her, regardless of our formal separation. I’ve also tried to make my peace with other family members and old friends like Bob and Carl, all of whom will receive copies of the material you’ve just heard.
* * *
Well, the above was to have been final but, as you can see, it turns out not to have been. It’s now almost a year since I returned to the Lewis and Clark Caverns to end it all.
I did go on that tour, as planned. But, before I reached Loco Pete’s Leap, I experienced a sudden sense of well-being, as though a great weight had been lifted from me. To be more explicit, I felt that lump on my back detach itself and disappear. Even in the restricted space of the caverns, I was suddenly walking taller.
And I’ve been a new man ever since. Even Christine and I are communicating again. As long as I don’t mention one, particular precious metal, everything’s fine. Not that I have any wish to do so...
Apart, that is, from telling you about an interesting news item I saw the other day, about some whiz kid making a killing trading... well, you know, the yellow stuff. I’ve often wondered whether he, too, might have been on that last cavern trip. Should I get in touch? Should I warn him? Then I think of encountering Loco Pete again and decide not to. I couldn’t bear to hear that clanking voice again.
I also wonder whether there might have been someone on my own, first trip to the Lewis and Clark Caverns. Someone who’d also been intent on getting rid of Loco Pete. Someone who also, perhaps, came out a lighter, bouncier man.
I could probably look into that, too. But I doubt I will.
Copyright © 2022 by David Rudd
