Tom, Part 2- Heart Mountain

We are collectors of stories. We make stories, we’re part of them, and we are given stories by others. Occasionally, we get to meet someone who feels like they’re fictional. This is the story of Tom, the Montana man plucked straight from a tall tale. We hope you enjoy meeting him as much as we did. 

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Tom was a cost-effective man. In the summers, he lived and worked at the Range Rider’s Lodge in Silver Gate, Montana. In the winters, he migrated to Powell, Wyoming where he owned a 400 square-foot cabin. Inside the cabin was a wood stove that served as his heat, his cook stove, and his light source. “I don’t need anything else,” he claimed with some pride in his voice. “I’m not married, I don’t have any kids, I live alone… why get anything more complicated?” 

It was unclear whether he actually had electric in his 400-sq ft cabin in Powell. As he was describing his winter home, he told us a story about a friend who was able to get free electric for years. Allegedly, this friend ran a length of copper wire under a high-voltage power line that stretched across his property. The electric current was strong enough that it transferred to the copper wire, running all the way back to the friend’s cabin. This friend lived like this for years before the electric company finally caught on. Tom chuckled at this, smiling with a “stick it to the big guy” sort of delight. I never could quite tell if the story was actually true. To this day, I’m convinced he was talking about himself. 

“I’ve never spent more than $1000 on a car, ever,” he told us later. He was very proud of this fact. “Well, I take that back. I once spent $5000 on a truck, but that was only because my sister forced me to. She’s always been on me about getting nicer things, nicer cars, all that. She’s the type that’ll have a car for a few years and then turn it in for something newer.”

He shook his head. “I don’t understand that. These new cars, you can’t work on them anymore! You’re forced to take them to a mechanic now. I don’t like that. I’d rather have an old car, something that I can work on myself. I don’t mind the quirks. But this one time, my mother died and left us all an inheritance. My sister kept insisting that I spend some of mine to get a nice car. She nagged and she nagged and she nagged. I finally just did it to make her shut up! Worst car I ever bought. Never did that again.”

He sighed the sigh of a man who knew he spent too much money. He took a swig from his pony Coke, then continued, “Now these cheap cars, they’ve got their issues. This one I’ve got right now doesn’t have a passenger side mirror. I had this one car, a truck, that got the best gas mileage at 52 miles an hour. Now that gave me a lot of issues. You know why?”

He looked at us like a teacher during a pop quiz, expectant. I suddenly felt as though I should know the answer. I wracked my brain. Nothing. 

“That’s the speed drunks drive at,” he said matter-of-factly.

I wasn’t buying it. “Really? 52 miles an hour?”

He seemed offended I didn’t believe him. “I got pulled over every week when I was driving that thing! I got to where I knew the names of all of the cops in the area. I’d be driving along, minding my business, and they’d throw on the lights behind me. I’d pull over, they’d walk up, and they’d ask me, ‘Tom, have you been drinking today?’ 

And I’d tell them, ‘No, I haven’t been drinking! You know I don’t do that.’ But they’d still keep pulling me over! I don’t drink and drive. I don’t do that. But they kept pulling me over anyways, just because I was driving the same speed the drunks drive at.”

In classic Tom fashion, this reminded him of another story. “Say, have you guys been to Heart Mountain? Do you know where Heart Mountain is?” 

We didn’t. This didn’t bother Tom in the slightest.

“Well, there’s this mountain range not far from here. Sometimes on stormy nights, I like to drive out that way because when the lightning is just right, it’ll bounce from peak to peak. I was out one night and it was storming, so I decided to head that way. It’s 2 in the morning, no one’s out, I’ve got a case of ponies in the passenger seat, and I’m just cruising along at 52 miles an hour. I get to the mountains, pull over, pop a pony open, and just sit back to wait for the lightning to bounce off Heart Mountain. Sure enough, it starts going. So I’m sitting there, watching the lightning, when a sheriff car pulls up behind me and turns on the lights. Deputy sheriff gets out, walks up to me, and goes, ‘Tom? What are you doing? Have you been drinking?’ 

And I go, ‘No! Have you?’” A satisfied grin lifted the edges of Tom’s mustache at that. It was clear he was proud of this retort. Still grinning, Tom continued his story.

“Deputy didn’t know what to say to that! So then I say, ‘You know I don’t do that. I’m watching the lighting bounce off Heart Mountain.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I’m watching the lighting bounce off Heart Mountain. Turn around and look!’ So the sheriff turned around and sure enough, the lightning bounced off Heart Mountain. Now the sheriff just thought that was the coolest thing ever, so I said, ‘Here, get in and have a pony with me. Sit here and watch it for a while.’ So we sat there for a while, shooting the breeze and watching the lighting bounce off Heart Mountain. 

“And then a State Highway Patrol car pulls up behind the sheriff car. Now that guy gets nervous, because it’s 2 in the morning, he sees a sheriff car and my truck, but nobody around. So the statie gets out with his gun drawn and his flashlight out. He comes up to the window, shines the flashlight in my face, and then goes ‘Tom, is that you?’ Then he looks in my window and goes, ‘Greg? …What are you doing?’

Then Greg says, ‘We’re watching the lightning bounce off Heart Mountain! Here, have a pony!’

“So the statie crammed in my truck and the three of us just sat there for a while, watching the lightning bounce off Heart Mountain.” 

Tom shrugged. “Eventually they had to go because they said they didn’t want their bosses catching them sitting in the truck instead of doing their work. But anyways, that’s my Heart Mountain story for you.”  

Tom’s Heart Mountain story was a perfect encapsulation of himself. He was independent, self-sufficient, and not politically correct. But he was also generous, welcoming, and loved sharing his time with others. That, and a pony coke. 

At the end of the night, Tom thanked us for listening to his stories. I tried to thank him for the stories he told, but he wasn’t finished. “It makes us old people feel good when young people take the time to listen to us. It makes us feel young, like we’re still important.”

I protested. “Of course you’re important!”

He looked at me with those twinkling blue eyes. “Now you’re just being a suck-up.” His raspy laugh came a second later, infectious as always. 

When I grow up, I want to be more like Tom. To be clear, I’m not sure I want to live in a 400-sq ft cabin in Powell. I like having electric. And a furnace. What I mean is that I want to be welcoming like him. I aspire to have the magnetic storytelling charm that he has mastered over the decades. I want to feel most fulfilled by a simple moment shared with others. I want to appreciate the simple things, like lightning ricocheting off mountain peaks. 

Maybe we’d all be a little happier if we did.