Terry Tales

Memories of Marty

I don’t remember the details of meeting Marty Rinke, but he was a constant presence during my childhood. I know it was in the summer of 1963 because that was when my dad moved us from Redmond, Washington to Round Butte, Montana. He took over my grandparent's ranch after they moved into town. I had just turned six, Marty was nine, and his brother Virgil was ten.

I was a small kid, new to Montana and new to ranch life. I didn’t know much of anything, and I wasn’t big enough to do much of anything, but Virgil and Marty didn’t mind. They treated me like a little brother, letting me hang out and tag along, sharing comic books, riding bikes, swimming in irrigation ditches, and playing army. They helped me learn about cows and horses and doing chores. It was only a quarter mile from the Fisher house to the Rinke’s and an energetic kid could make the trip in 2 minutes. I must have done it a thousand times over the next ten years.

As I got older, I became the nerd with the black rimmed glasses who always had his nose in a book. I didn’t fit in so well with the other kids in Round Butte, but that didn’t matter to Marty and Virgil. They always treated me like a little brother. Sure, I got teased a bit (ok, maybe a lot), but only in fun, there was never any meanness in it. I suppose Marty must have had the typical childish snits and tantrums, but I don’t remember any. What I remember is a kid with a cheerful attitude. Life was fun for him and there were always things to do, places to go, and people to see.

Marty always kept his head up, even when he fell under a tractor wheel and had to spend all summer in a body cast with a broken hip. I remember many afternoons keeping him company and reading comics together as he healed. When complications set in and he had to spend more long months using arm crutches, Marty just kept going. He got so good on them that he could outrun me, taking strides that must have been eight feet long.

As growing boys, one of our favorite pastimes was eating. Our moms were both good cooks. It was a toss-up as to which house had better food, so why not choose both? One summer, Marty and I realized that our families didn’t eat at the same time and that we could exploit the difference. “Is it OK if Terry has supper here?” “Can Marty eat with us tonight?” As I remember it, we had double dinner several times a week, ate just as much at each house, and our mothers never caught on. The truth was probably more like we pulled the trick a few times, ate far less at the second serving, and didn’t fool our mothers at all.

We grew apart once Marty got to high school and discovered cars, keggers, and girls. There was no falling out, just the natural progression of life. We turned out to be different kinds of people who enjoyed some time together and then moved on. Marty was always about the outdoors, and me not so much. He went to Alaska, and I went to college. I regret that we lost touch. Montana was really our only connection and it seemed that we never visited our folks at the same time. I wish Marty could have shared some of the July 4th celebrations when we all camped in the apple orchard at our place. It would have been good to see him and catch up. I know he would have enjoyed the fireworks and trading stories around the bonfire.

Marty passed away in 2017 when his kayak overturned. I couldn’t make it to his memorial, so I’ve written down some memories of our childhood to share with his family. Some of these stories may be familiar to them. If so, then here’s a different perspective. If not, then I hope they enjoy reading them as much as I’ve enjoyed writing them.


Chicken It seemed like everybody had a big garden in those days but the Montana growing season doesn't always allow for a big harvest. One year there was an early freeze that killed the tomato plants while they were still full of green fruit. I'm not sure if we got sent to pull up the dead plants, or maybe just overheard mom saying that the tomatoes were a lost cause. Marty, Virgil, and I soon decided that it was more fun to throw the tomatoes than to clear the plants. And if throwing tomatoes was funny, then throwing them at each other was hilarious! A general free-for-all ensued. There were a lot of tomatoes, and it took quite a while to burst them all. Some of them were soft enough to splatter wetly across your shirt and some were hard enough to leave a bruise. Some had to be mashed and rubbed in by hand. When we finally called it quits, everyone was covered with green tomato pulp, juice, and seeds. It was all over our clothes, in our hair, and even in the pockets of our jeans. I'm sure I saw a couple of tomato seeds in Marty's hair the next day on the school bus.

Tomatoes were great fun, but we’d throw almost anything at pretty much everything. Cornstalks were cut on an angle to create a sharp tip to become spears for playing Cowboys and Indians. It was cool to throw a knife or an axe to see if we could stick it in a tree. Rocks, however, were the best. They were plentiful and had a nice heft for throwing. The target could be just about anything - tin cans, bottles, junked cars, windows in old buildings, or even each other. Anything in range was considered fair game and we were all pretty accurate.

The county road that runs by the two ranches is paved now, but back then it was graded and graveled every spring to repair the winter frost damage. The three of us would spend much of the summer throwing that county gravel into the slough that pools along the road below the Rinke's house. We also had our own variation on the game of ‘chicken’ We'd scrape two circles into the gravel about twenty feet apart. Each circle was a couple of feet across - big enough to take a solid stance but not big enough to take a step. The contestants would each gather a handful of nice sized rocks and choose a circle. Then it was time to trade off taking shots at each other. You could duck, twist, or turn to avoid getting hit, but the first one to leave their circle was the chicken. It was like a real-life video game where you actually touched things instead of just using a controller. I got ‘touched’ more than once while playing that game and I still have a small scar on my chin to prove I'm not the chicken.

Hillside Ice Ride The Round Butte irrigation system collects runoff from the western foothills of the Mission Mountains and distributes the water over many thousands of acres. The water runs generally east to west where it eventually drains into the Flathead River. The big canals and small ditches follow the contour of the land as much as possible, but there are some places where the change of elevation is more abrupt. If you look east from Marty's yard toward the mountains and shift your gaze down to the hillside in the middle distance, you'll see the big drop slightly left of center. It's an artificial concrete waterfall that brings irrigation water from the top of the hill down to the pastures a hundred feet below.

The big drop was a frequent destination in summertime, only a half mile hike from the house. Most of the drop is merely a steep concrete channel, but the final 20 feet is near vertical. The current flows just a bit faster than a twelve-year old can sprint downhill. The rushing water has carved a deep pool below the drop that makes a good swimming hole, but that final rush of water can also be dangerous if a swimmer is pulled in and forced under. Marty, Virgil, and I spent many hours dragging sticks, boards, dry cow patties, or whatever else we could find to the top and then sending them down. If we could rescue the item from the pool below, then we'd carry it back up and do it again. It was great fun to race whatever object was in the current to the bottom of the hill.

The irrigation water is usually shut off in the fall, but one winter there was water in the ditch that runs along the crest of the hill to supply the big drop. I don't know if it was purely accidental or ‘accidentally on purpose’ that the water appeared, but the head gates at the big drop were closed. The unexpected water overflowed the ditch banks and oozed down the hillside in freezing winter temperatures. The result was an icy slope that was perfect for a sled. Perfect, that is, except for the barbed wire fence at the bottom of the run. On the other hand, what's life without a little risk?

We scouted around for old fence posts or other scraps of lumber and managed to prop up the bottom strand of wire to create clearance for the sleds. I recall having several inches to spare as we whizzed under the barbs - if we kept our heads down. That ice sheet looms large in memory, maybe thirty yards wide and a hundred yards down the slope. Our target in the fence line, however, was only about ten feet wide

We felt exhilarated by our the speed on the ice, followed by terror when we realized that steering a Flexible Flyer sled was iffy at best. There was no chance for second thoughts however, the slope was too steep, and the ice was too slick. Once started, you had to hit the gap or be slashed to ribbons on the barbed wire! Well, you could also bail off and abandon the sled. If you pressed yourself flat against the ice it was possible to make it under the bottom strand with little chance of being snagged. Still, it was deliciously scary to think about the barbs as you slid under the wire and there was still a chance of smacking into a fence post.

Corn Hike One day I tagged along with Virgil and Marty on a hike to the Flathead River. It was a hot day and a long trip so Virgil brought a big knapsack with water and a few other supplies. The route was a little south of west, across Les Maughan’s cow pasture, and then into a canyon that runs down toward the river. A small creek runs along the bottom of the canyon, fed mostly by irrigation runoff. There’s a sandy stretch of low bank where the creek runs into the river that makes for a good swimming spot. It’s about a two-mile trip as the crow flies, but we probably traveled at least three by the time we detoured through Maughan’s corn patch and then followed the cow paths that meander along the side of the canyon. The corn was the main reason that Virgil had the knapsack.

We ‘borrowed’ several ears and took them with us to the river. Marty and I gathered some dry wood while Virgil dug a shallow hole in the wet sand near the water. The corn, still in the husk, was arranged in the hole under a couple of inches of damp sand. I watched as they built a small fire above the corn and then we went swimming for a couple of hours. Hiking and swimming give a boy a good appetite and that steamed corn tasted great. I’m sure Virgil brought some salt for seasoning and probably some butter too, but it didn’t really matter. The corn would’ve been great anyway. There’s just something about ‘catching your own’ that makes it really stand out.

Racing the Bus I was in 7th grade when the Round Butte School closed and Marty was a sophomore. Instead of walking a mile to our little country school, we had to ride the school bus into town. We lived near the end of the route, and it got boring riding along the same old road day after day. Marty thought it would be more fun to take a shortcut across the fields than to ride the long way around. So, he talked the bus driver into letting us off at the corner near the Helvik's house.

The roads in the area are laid out along section lines. That meant the bus would go south for a mile, then west for two miles to drop off the many Maughan kids before doubling back and turning north toward our houses. Meanwhile, Marty and I could cut across on the lane between the Fisher and Rinke ranches. The lane had been a county road, years before, but was abandoned after a bridge collapsed. So, the bus would travel about five miles, making three or four stops, while we had to cover only one mile to reach the same destination.

We soon realized that it was as quick on foot as on the bus, and it became a game to race the bus home. We didn’t race every day, especially not in the rain, but we did it a couple of times a week for much of the school year. We’d trot along to the top of the hill and then down to the remains of the old bridge at the irrigation canal. It was a bit dicey to jump onto the timbers of the fallen bridge, scramble over, and then jump off again without getting muddy and wet. Not that we cared much if we did.

A wild sprint down the big hill would follow, because it was too steep to remain fully in control. We’d be winded at the bottom and walk for a while to recover. Then we’d do a quick time march for the final quarter mile and beat the bus home. Although another sprint might be required if we saw the school bus making good time in the distance.

It was an epic contest between man and machine. We felt the thrill of victory if we made it inside before the bus arrived and the agony of defeat if we were still in view of the other kids as they rolled on by.

Rollover When Marty was a little older, he got a vintage 1950’s sedan. Of course, it wasn’t considered vintage at the time, it was just an old beater back then. The car may have been the iconic ‘57 Chevy or maybe just something with similar lines. I think he intended to fix it up, restore the interior, repaint, etc. Instead, he somehow managed a low-speed rollover. As I remember, he made just one rotation and then stuck the landing with the car back on its wheels.

I also remember that there was a problem with the steering wheel splines at one point, so he’d steer with a pair of vise grips clamped on the steering column. I don’t remember now if the vise grips came after the accident, or if they contributed to it. Either way, the engine and chassis weren’t really damaged much, but the roof was very noticeably bent to the right. The car would still run and Marty wouldn’t let a little thing like a rollover stop him. I still have a very clear memory of meeting that car on the Round Butte Road with Marty hunched over and leaning to the right so his head would fit under the crumpled roof.

Pigweed Alarm One year, when Virgil and Marty were in high school, the Rinkes kept their steers over the winter, hoping for better prices in the spring. They used a small, fenced pasture just beyond their barn as the feedlot. The steers devoured hay all winter and did what cattle do, leaving the pasture too ‘hot’ for grass to grow. Instead, there was a tremendous crop of pigweed, thicker and higher than anything I’d ever seen. No one paid much attention to it until haying season, when the pigweed crop was finally cut and piled off to one side.

Later that fall, a group of kids gathered at Virgil and Marty’s place for a kegger. No parents at home, of course, and the keg was set up just beyond the barn, out of sight of the road. Some old scrap lumber became a small bonfire and hilarity ensued.

The clear afternoon warmth gave way to a cold evening, and the evening darkened into a frigid night. ‘Someone’ got the idea of setting fire to the pigweed to warm things up. The pile was well dried by then and the woody stalks went up as though fueled by gasoline. I could see the blazing column of fire shooting sparks up into the darkness from our house. It looked as though it might be coming from the Rinke’s barn!

I’d already put on my coat and boots when the siren of the volunteer fire department truck wailed past our house. I followed on foot as it turned into the driveway and drove on past the barn. The sight of two dozen high school kids, most of them drunk, scrambling to flee the scene was comical.

Fortunately, the fire wasn’t that close to the barn and the firemen simply watched it die down. The weeds burned hot, but not for very long. Just long enough to put the finger on two kids who had a lot of explaining to do the next day.