Letter From America: Dam Attack
Writing with great compassion, Ronnie Bray tells the extraordinary story of Karl, and an all-too-vivid dream of explosives being attached to local dams.
Karl arrived in Troy about ten months ago with everything he owned stuffed in the back of a battered pickup truck with what I can only describe as a hut built on the back of it. He was not heading anywhere; he was running from. His life had turned downhill about five years ago with the break-up of his marriage and the depression that brought in its train took its toll on him. He had hit a patch of trouble and sought solace in a bottle, the one place it can never be found. His supply of anti-depressants had run out, and he could not afford to buy any more.
He had stopped his truck at the weigh station and considered his options. He narrowed them down to four. Go back where he had come from - unthinkable; head south, but that didn’t appeal to him; head on west to Idaho, maybe as far as Washington State – he was almost out of petrol, so he felt impressed that he should stay in Troy.
He found a trailer to rent about the same time as an old warrant caught up with him and took away his driving license until he could come up with the $1500.00 fine and get it back again. What little money he had ran out in a couple of months and he was threatened with eviction.
Then, he heard from his sisters that his father had died. They sent him money so he could drive – illegally - back to east Montana to attend his funeral. His father had left a small amount of money to each of his children, and that paid the rent for Karl, and put food on his table again, but the loss saddened his heart even more.
His efforts to find work were fruitless because there is so little employment available in Troy, and what work there was, was in the next town, or the next state, and he had no transport. He hung a "For Sale" sign on his truck but it was still in his driveway a couple of days ago.
Local people who wanted some work done on their homes or in their gardens gave Karl some work, and all who set him on praised his work, but full time work continued to elude him. And just when it seemed that things could not get any worse for Karl, they did!
I had called to invite him home for a meal. He came out to the veranda and sat with his head in his hands, full of woe. I asked him the question and he hesitated before he told me what had happened. A few nights before, he had had a dream: a very vivid dream. He had seen clearly a small group of men attach explosive charges to Libby Dam, and then do the same at the Wild Horse, and Crazy Head dams. The vivid reality of his nocturnal visions woke him in a sweat.
Anxiously he dressed and walked through town to the grocery store where the town’s only public telephone was mounted on its outside wall. With trembling fingers, he called the Police Station. He was told to wait where he was. He did, and one of the town’s three police officers came and arrested him for making false charges.
He said that he had to go to court the next day, but he was going to ask for a continuance so that he could find a ‘pro bono’ solicitor to plead his case. In spite of the fatuous nature of the charge, Karl was clearly very worried.
I advised him to plead guilty but insane, tell them that he was a depressive, that he had not had medication for several months, that he had recently lost his father, and that he had reported his dream because of their realism, the anxiety they had generated, and because of his love for his country and countrymen, and his care and concern for his fellow townsfolk because if the dams were breached, Troy would be lost under a vast wall of water as the ninety three mile long Lake Koocanusa flooded the Kootenai River, on whose banks the old railway town of Troy had been built.
Troy would have been swept into Idaho, and then up into Canada as the river turned back northwards after describing its bow-like course, from which feature the ancient Flathead Indians had named it.
For a while, Karl’s dream was the local buzz. However, like all buzzes, it was soon superseded by newer tittle-tattle and Karl’s brief notoriety was gone and forgotten. We bumped into each other in the grocery shop a few days ago. I asked him what had happened in the case. He broke into a big grin and told me that the case had been dropped. I said it should never have been charged. He said that small town police forces need to find something to do to stop themselves dying of boredom.
I know that one of our police officers catches drunks coming out of the bars and escorts drunken drivers to their homes. I don’t know what he writes on his activity reports!
When we parted, I gave him a piece of advice that I hope he takes. I said that the next time he has a disaster dream and he just has to tell someone, he must call me! It was good to see Karl smile.
Copyright © Ronnie Bray 2004
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
