Reverse Outlining

The Trapper (original)

            In Montana there is a time-cut gorge of steep cliffs surrounded by a green belt embellished with wildlife. Flowing through the gorge is the Smith River, and on its banks in an old sheep herder’s wagon, lives a trapper. He is a man in his late seventies or early eighties who has picked a life of freedom and hardship that most twentieth-century men would never choose. His is a life chosen as an alternative to a fruitless existence in the city, waiting to die.

I met this trapper a few summers ago while trout fishing with my father. He had just forded the river, down from an ancient Indian camp, and was crossing an open meadow of long grass when we came across him. He was bent over a trashcan that had been ripped apart, picking up the remnants of his winter provision of oatmeal, which he told us a bear had smashed.

His skin was darker than most men’s and wrinkled by time and the elements. A week’s growth of beard covered his face and on his head, over his almost shiny gray hair, he wore a small milky-gray hat. His feet were covered by work boots that were slightly lighter in color at the toes from wear, and his shirt was red and simple with a western cut. An old pair of patched blue jeans were the finale of his daily attire.

            He said he was a trapper, when asked, but I believe Scotty, who is called “the old man of the mountains” by most people, was a naturalist because as I grew to know him better, I learned that Scotty was a man with an abundant love for all things that are wild and free, and that he only trapped because he had to—to survive.

            He lives a life few men will ever know and I admire and envy him because of it.

At first glance his life looks easy; completely filled with endless moments of running free among the trees, flowers, and wildlife. However, that was Eden and man has long since fallen from grace.

            In winter Scotty is the only human being within miles of the Smith River Valley, and if Scotty should ever get hurt there would be no one to help him. Even if he died no one would know until the spring thaw.

The wagon in which he lives is only large enough to accommodate a small stove and bed, and Scotty has to survive year-round without the basic American necessities of life—electricity, running water, or in summer, air conditioning. He even has to walk seven miles through all kinds of weather because some city slicker thought his horse was a deer and shot it.

Few men would want his life, but to Scotty it is heaven because all that awaits him in the city, where admittedly most men would rather be, is a rest home, a place where our society puts those persons it no longer finds useful or productive until their time comes to, as they say, expire.

            However, Scotty is a proud man and he has chosen a different fate.

He does not accept charity or even social security, although he jokes about saving his up to buy a jeep.

His life is much harder than most men’s. Just imagine having to walk seven miles through dense forest and deep snow just to pick up your mail.

Still, for a man in Scotty’s position, I believe it is the best possible life for which one could hope.

I know my own great grandfather was a man who shared Scotty’s convictions, but grew fragile from age and an easy life in the city. Thus he was sentenced to a nursing home where he spent the last few ears of his life caged in a wall-less bed and doomed to an existence without hope of new experiences or even the enjoyment of life. So, what was left eventually expired one night without a whimper.

                                                                                    --Dave

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The Trapper (first revision)

            I know my own great grandfather was a man who shared Scotty’s convictions, but grew fragile from age and an easy life in the city. Thus he was sentenced to a nursing home where he spent the last few ears of his life caged in a wall-less bed and doomed to an existence without hope of new experiences or even the enjoyment of life. So, what was left eventually expired one night without a whimper.

            In Montana there is a time-cut gorge of steep cliffs surrounded by a green belt embellished with wildlife. Flowing through the gorge is the Smith River, and on its banks in an old sheep herder’s wagon, lives a trapper. He is a man in his late seventies or early eighties who has picked a life of freedom and hardship that most twentieth-century men would never choose. His is a life chosen as an alternative to a fruitless existence in the city, waiting to die.

            At first glance his life looks easy; completely filled with endless moments of running free among the trees, flowers, and wildlife. However, that was Eden and man has long since fallen from grace.

            I met this trapper a few summers ago while trout fishing with my father. He had just forded the river, down from an ancient Indian camp, and was crossing an open meadow of long grass when we came across him. He was bent over a trashcan that had been ripped apart, picking up the remnants of his winter provision of oatmeal, which he told us a bear had smashed.

            He said he was a trapper, when asked, but I believe Scotty, who is called “the old man of the mountains” by most people, was a naturalist because as I grew to know him better, I learned that Scotty was a man with an abundant love for all things that are wild and free, and that he only trapped because he had to—to survive.

            His skin was darker than most men’s and wrinkled by time and the elements. A week’s growth of beard covered his face and on his head, over his almost shiny gray hair, he wore a small milky-gray hat. His feet were covered by work boots that were slightly lighter in color at the toes from wear, and his shirt was red and simple with a western cut. An old pair of patched blue jeans were the finale of his daily attire.

            He lives a life few men will ever know and I admire and envy him because of it.

            Few men would want his life, but to Scotty it is heaven because all that awaits him in the city, where admittedly most men would rather be, is a rest home, a place where our society puts those persons it no longer finds useful or productive until their time comes to, as they say, expire.

            However, Scotty is a proud man and he has chosen a different fate.

            His life is much harder than most men’s. Just imagine having to walk seven miles through dense forest and deep snow just to pick up your mail.

            In winter Scotty is the only human being within miles of the Smith River Valley, and if Scotty should ever get hurt there would be no one to help him. Even if he died no one would know until the spring thaw.

            The wagon in which he lives is only large enough to accommodate a small stove and bed, and Scotty has to survive year-round without the basic American necessities of life—electricity, running water, or in summer, air conditioning. He even has to walk seven miles through all kinds of weather because some city slicker thought his horse was a deer and shot it.

            He does not accept charity or even social security, although he jokes about saving his up to buy a jeep.

            Still, for a man in Scotty’s position, I believe it is the best possible life for which one could hope.

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The Trapper (second revision)

            My great grandfather was a man who believed in independence, but grew fragile from age and an easy life in the city. Thus he was sentenced to a nursing home where he spent the last few ears of his life caged in a wall-less bed and doomed to an existence without hope of new experiences or even the enjoyment of life. So, what was left eventually expired one night without a whimper.

            In Montana there is a time-cut gorge of steep cliffs surrounded by a green belt embellished with wildlife. Flowing through the gorge is the Smith River, and on its banks in an old sheep herder’s wagon, lives a trapper. He is a man in his late seventies or early eighties who has picked a life of freedom and hardship that most twentieth-century men would never choose. His is a life chosen as an alternative to a fruitless existence in the city, waiting to die. At first glance his life looks easy; completely filled with endless moments of running free among the trees, flowers, and wildlife. However, that was Eden and man has long since fallen from grace.

            I met this trapper a few summers ago while trout fishing with my father. He had just forded the river, down from an ancient Indian camp, and was crossing an open meadow of long grass when we came across him. He was bent over a trashcan that had been ripped apart, picking up the remnants of his winter provision of oatmeal, which he told us a bear had smashed.

            He said he was a trapper, when asked, but I believe Scotty, who is called “the old man of the mountains” by most people, was a naturalist because as I grew to know him better, I learned that Scotty was a man with an abundant love for all things that are wild and free, and that he only trapped because he had to—to survive.

            His skin was darker than most men’s and wrinkled by time and the elements. A week’s growth of beard covered his face and on his head, over his almost shiny gray hair, he wore a small milky-gray hat. His feet were covered by work boots that were slightly lighter in color at the toes from wear, and his shirt was red and simple with a western cut. An old pair of patched blue jeans were the finale of his daily attire.

            He lives a life few men will ever know and I admire and envy him because of it. All that awaits him in the city, where admittedly most men would rather be, is a rest home, a place where our society puts those persons it no longer finds useful or productive until their time comes to, as they say, expire. However, Scotty is a proud man and he has chosen a different fate.

            In winter Scotty is the only human being within miles of the Smith River Valley, and if Scotty should ever get hurt there would be no one to help him. Even if he died no one would know until the spring thaw. The wagon in which he lives is only large enough to accommodate a small stove and bed, and Scotty has to survive year-round without the basic American necessities of life—electricity, running water, or in summer, air conditioning. He even has to walk seven miles through all kinds of weather just to pick up his mail.

            Still, for a man in Scotty’s position, I believe it is the best possible life for which one could hope. Even though it is lonely and difficult by most people’s standards, he is wild, free, and at home in nature.