THE HOSTILE
LOCAL
by MacCreek
Live here long enough to become a “local”, on the Salmon River that is, and "long enough" is relative after all... and you find the words, “damn flatlanders!” just slipping off your tongue as natural as can be. And with some force and vehemence behind it, too!
You see, most Salmon River “locals” have reason to doubt the sanity of “flatlanders”, based solely on their readily observable driving habits. It seems that when faced with the absence of a yellow line in the middle of the river road, the average “flatlander” will assume that the road has suddenly become one-way, in their chosen direction and assume a position in the middle of their personal one-way scenic thoroughfare.
Back in the old days when the only paved sections were in front of some of the houses along the river, clouds of dust would sometimes give warning of oncoming traffic... that helped.
Driving at night has always been good, sort of. You can often see oncoming traffic several turns ahead because of the headlights. “Locals” will slide into a handy turnout and turn off their headlights and wait, so they won’t blind the oncoming driver. “Flatlanders” will by necessity sear the night vision right out of you, before they'd ever turn off their lights at night.! Whaddaya, Crazy! A mountain lion might sneak up on them in the ensuing dark and... well, at least you’re only blind for little while.
CB’s usta be the rule, especially when the log truck traffic was at it’s peak. Course then ya’d get the guys who “drove with their mouths” relying on CB signals to keep ‘em safe... alligators, Bobo usta call them, all mouth, no ears.
We’ve seen a fella make it back into hinterlands of the Salmon River on three wheels, “... is the car here to serve me, or am I here to serve the car...? He made it.
Then there’re the guys who sight-in their deer rifles at objects across the road and river and then drive the roads in old open jeeps, dressed in camo’s and weapons bristling.
Or take the new kid on the block, the river runner. They can be encountered running the Down river with their eyes, while their car continues driving Up river. They tend to run their client shuttles as if the river hadn’t provided enough hair raising thrills. I’m not sure “locals” appreciate these adrenaline sharing experiences.
Even saw a Greyhound bus on the North Fork of the Salmon once... just once.
For a couple of years there was this college geology professor from C.O.S., I think, who gave his students a tour of the river rock by putting a CB in the students car and lecture over the CB as they made their way Down river.
Watched Dave George drive his helicopter out on a lowboy. Saw Art Frazier drive his airplane in behind his car.
Fer instance, any one of the following examples can elicit that previously mentioned epithet.
Milk-toast or aggressive,
“flatlanders”
will do a number of interesting things when
suddenly faced with an oncoming vehicle: swerve violently;
stare determinedly straight
ahead as
if the oncoming obstacle didn’t really exist, maintain their present
course,
speed and place in the road, usually
the middle.
But they will not usually apply the brakes. You can almost watch them sort through the options that will deliver them to safety, that is any option short of taking their foot off the accelerator. Look in “flatlanders” demented eyes, they’re almost begging to be delivered to safety, “just don’t make me slow down,” they seem to say. They’ll stare straight at you in horror as they drive past the turnout. Pry them off your hood and they’ll still claim hitting you was better than driving “over there”! “Over there” being the side of the road nearest the precipitous drop to the river. “Over there” being their side of the road.
In the lucky instance that braking is an option for hapless “flatlander”, it’s usually in a narrow spot in the road, just past a pullout they could have used and about a quarter mile from the last turnout on your side, and they wait... “damned if I’m backing up on this road!” their usual rejoinder to the suggestion that they back up the fifty feet, rather than you the quarter mile. I knew a school bus driver who when faced with this dilemma of backing a school bus full of kids or having the “flatlander” back up, got in the “flatlanders” car and backed it up for them. They were grateful.
There are a couple of stereotypical “flatlander” types:
There’s the guy/gal who suddenly sees the road as their private race course and tries to see how much time they can save on their trip by getting into that old race car rhythm.
... Or the guy/gal who tries to see how straight they can make the road by cutting all the corners, blind or otherwise.
Or at the other end of the spectrum, the guy/gal who drives slowly down the center of the road, cutting corners, but being sure to honk his horn on all blind curves, enveloped in the safety of the braying horn. You can be sure the log truck driver or shuttle driver with a van full of clients is sure to hear that.
Well, I’m glad I got that out of my system... but I still think I’ll ride my bike as often as possible, narrower profile and all that.
Of the “flatlander” I make one last request, for the benefit of everyone... What ever you do, Please, Don’t Drive Like a “Local”.