The wagers of sin

Gambling is seductive lure to all human beings. Most of us can control it. A few cannot.

Personally, I enjoy a friendly little wager now and then. Last Sunday, the Yankees were playing the Mets, and after three innings, the Mets were leading 3 to 1. When veteran announcers revealed the Yankees were having trouble getting runs lately, I decided to call my brother-in-law, Bud Wilhelm.

For unexplainable reasons, Iris' brother has been a wild-eyed Yankee fan since birth, almost a tradition. On many occasions over the years, I've called him and made a two-dollar bet. Although he has turned me down a few times when Yank opponents had a large lead, he is so cocky he takes the bet if the lead isn't big and it is not the last inning. Regardless, I don't remember ever winning.

So last Sunday, during the seventh inning, with the score still 3 to 1, I decided "this is my day." Oh, darn, our phone was busy. By the time I could have called, the Yankees scored eight runs and I saved two dollars.

This little escapade reminded me of a dandy story my dad used to tell. In 1922, at age 17, he worked as a summer cowboy for the vast Dahl Ranch at Pleasant Valley. One day, the owner, Dahl, came out to the bunkhouse and told Dad and another young fella that he had sold two purebred bulls to a man in the Midwest and needed to get them to the railroad at Kalispell.

Dahl told them to leave at 5 a.m. on saddle horses and drive the bulls up the pass near the Great Northern railroad tunnel above Bitterroot Lake, down through Marion to Kila, and into the county seat. That's a far piece and took all day, but they got to Kalispell that evening, turned the bulls over to a shipping agent, and put the horses up at a stable where the ranch had a credit line.

Dahl had given them money to buy meals and a hotel room, but "the big city lights" got to these young cowpokes. They had a beer and lost the eatin' and sleepin' money in a poker game. Slept that night in hay at the stable and set out for the long ride back to the ranch at sunrise, broke, wiser and very hungry.

In those days, the state of Montana operated a rainbow trout hatchery at the head of Bitterroot Lake, where the main feeder stream runs in. Arriving there around noon, our high-rolling heroes stopped and talked to the man in charge. They must have looked pretty wretched because he gave them two fair-sized trout and a couple slices of bread. As Dad remembered, they were so famished they didn't let the fish get completely cooked on green sticks held over a hastily built camp fire, but it kept them alive until they got back to the ranch.

While I was still single and earned a living leaping from airplanes, I'll admit to a bit more gambling than two-dollar baseball bets. One fall, I met up with a long-time parachuting friend, Jack Wall, at a lounge in Missoula. He had just returned from one of those CIA adventures in the Far East, and I had wound up the summer as jump instructor-firefighter with the Forest Service. We ended the evening by loading our worldly belongings into my old Ford sedan and setting off to spend winter in Florida.

Next evening, we hit Reno and both did well. Jack won $300 playing poker, and I hit two nice jackpots on the slots. Arrived in Las Vegas next night feeling lucky and lost all but a few bucks. Couldn't gas up, eat, then pay for our motel. We both had considerable back pay coming from the government, but not for several weeks.

Jack got on the phone to a mutual friend in Missoula who owed him 200 dollars from a poker game the week before. Our friend wired the money, and we "got outta Dodge." Arrived in Fort Lauderdale with enough money for a beer and one hamburger each, thus ending a tough lesson about gambling.

Maybe I'll quit calling my brother-in-law.

G. George Ostrom is a national award-winning Hungry Horse News columnist. He lives in Kalispell.