Colorado State Highway 149

What do I remember about Frank Doyle’s death? Well obviously that I killed him. But before I say anything I feel like I should start by prefacing that I’m a photographer, or was a photographer rather as I don’t think I’m gonna be taking pictures for a while now. But anyways I thought I was gonna be the Ansel Adams of the 70s, taking pictures of all these breathtaking landscapes of the American West before they were gone. I would show you some of them if I still had them. 

I’m fairly confident that anyone who has seen my pictures can say that I sure get a lot of good shots, and I sure do go through a lot to get them, like this one time at the Grand Canyon. I was hanging over this tree-shrub-thing, and I mean like full on hanging over the canyon. Scraped my knees good and all shimming up this branch all while lugging this big clunky Polaroid which I always carry around my neck at all times, but I was persistent on getting the shot. Now while Paul Simon might prefer Kodachromes and while sure they do come out sharper, I feel the aesthetic of the Polaroid produces a much smoother art. 

Anyways I got the shot of this beautiful sunrise almost looking like it was rising straight up from the Colorado River out of the canyon, it was a perfect shot. Then I start to hear this cracking and the weight shift underneath me on this branch that I was clinging to. Next thing you know I got nothing underneath me and I would have continued to have kept falling if my foot didn’t get snagged on a root jutting from the ledge. Some impressive core strength and one quick check to see if I soiled my pants later, I managed to pull myself out of the canyon. At this point I made it back to my Camaro and I’m just sitting there thinking “Maybe now would be a good time to call this whole nature photography thing quits. Is it really worth my life?,” but when I got that photo developed, it gave a really convincing argument to continue. Surely wasn’t the first time I had that argument with myself though, I could easily apply that to that battle I had with that bison in the Black Hills or almost slipping off that mountain in Glacier. Anyways, the whole drive away from the Grand Canyon I had Carole King’s I Feel the Earth Move playing in my head to just really help me remember.

Actually, maybe that’s where I should start. I kind of have a really hard time remembering things if I don’t associate music with what I am trying to remember. So back home in San Francisco my old man ran a record store and of course, as his son I would help out in his shop because he couldn’t afford any actual employees. And I must have not done the exact best because if I missed a spot while sweeping or gave a customer the wrong amount of change back, my dad would beat me. Which I don’t blame him for, he fought the Japanese in the Pacific during the war and beating your sons is just what vets do, I guess. Sure knocked my noggin around over the years, but it wasn’t all that bad, I had The Beach Boys saying Don’t Worry, Baby or The Beatles just telling me We Can Work It Out from the record player in the corner of the store. 

Plus on the off times my dad was feeling generous, he would take me out on trips to Yosemite or Lake Tahoe or Monterey Bay. I think that’s really where I came into love with nature. I think it might have been the only times my dad wouldn’t beat me. I just wish I had a camera back then to keep the memory ‘cause there wasn’t any music playing. 

Again, in case you didn’t catch that, make sure you put that on the record that I struggle to remember without music.

But anyways, I guess it was really when they tried to send me to Vietnam following my high school graduation in ‘68 that I decided to pick up a camera and run off in my Camaro to explore the wild and get away. I mean after all it has been what Phil Ochs and Arlo Guthrie have been telling me to do, dodge the draft and all that, but I think I really just didn’t want to become another vet who beats his sons afterwards. I’m one who prefers to stay away from violence anywhere I can. I suppose you boys can probably add draft evasion to the charges if that’s not already on there.

Sorry if I ramble on a bit by the way and I don’t really care what you add to the transcript. I mean you two are the first fellas I have spoken to in what at least twenty years since Frank? Well you two besides that park ranger in Alberta that spotted where I was hiding out in Jasper and the mountie he alerted. So please excuse me if I have a lot on my mind to share. You know, it’s just this is perhaps my first time actually saying out loud a lot of the thoughts I have been having during those said past twenty years. Closest thing I’ve had for conversations is I’d just sing some songs out loud back to back to sound like conversations taking place. Can’t say I’m too worried about what comes after this either, like what? I’ve already been in a prison of my own mind for the past twenty years. Although a very pretty one, some nice mountains and valleys and lakes to keep me company.

But yes, Frank, that’s what we are here about. I’m pretty sure it was sometime in mid June back in ‘74. I was driving my Camaro out of this little town called Creede, Colorado where I just had a great time at this quaint little bar, singing my lungs out with everyone to John Denver’s Rocky Mountain High. I think I said that that was going to be my last night before I returned to San Francisco, but I wanted to get some pictures of Black Canyon of the Gunnison first at the crack of dawn, so I left early. Anyways it must have been some time shortly after midnight and I think I was about fifteen miles out from Lake City in the Rio Grande National Forest, and I remember Big Star’s In the Street was playing when Frank was, well, in the street. Now I should mention I have never met Frank Doyle before, but before I noticed him I became very acquainted with him when he made that dent in my Camaro while I was going maybe about eighty miles an hour in the dark on this isolated Colorado road.

Now I can’t exactly remember what happened right afterwards or how I felt, cause I think I lost connection with the radio for a moment. But when it came back it was Johnny Nash’s I Can See Clearly Now playing and I was outside the Camaro looking at Frank maybe about ten yards away from the impact lying next to a boulder. I was barely able to see his silhouette in the dark as it was only from one working headlight from my Camaro pointed in his direction.. I think he might have been some young guy hitchhiking around because he had this big travel pack not that far from him with a sign attached asking to take him in the direction of Laramie. If I were to say my opinion, probably not the best idea to hitchhike in the night but I digress. 

Now this might not be verbatim but I think I heard him say “Could you come over” and I walked over to him. Besides his distorted mangled body, I thought he kind of looked like Fred from Scooby-Doo with that he had a white sweater that was pretty noticeably stained with red now. Obviously not a good sign for neither me nor Frank. He might have made a joke as well, something like “Sorry I didn’t see you there” or “Sorry about your car,” I couldn’t quite hear him so I got down on my knees and leaned in. 

Normally I imagine anyone would probably be freaking out in this situation, understandably, but for some reason it might’ve been a combination of shock and the calm deposition of Frank, but I recall feeling pretty nonchalant about the whole thing. You have to understand as well that this road was very isolated, I hadn’t passed a single car all night, I couldn’t see any houses or buildings, and I had no absolutely no clue where the closest payphone was so I couldn’t just call for help. Best I could do was stick by Frank and wait. 

“Name’s Frank. Frank Doyle,” I remember him saying. Obviously as a man of manners, you gotta respect the pleasantries. So of course I told him my name as well.

“Scott,” I said to him. “I would shake your hand, Frank, but I can’t seem to find it. As for your other arm, your elbow is really sticking out through the skin, not sure you would like me shaking that,” I remember telling him. He might’ve given a feeble nod.

“How am I looking, Scott?” I remember him asking. If I were to put it in context, he almost said it as if he was just getting ready in the morning and about to head out for his day, you know, that sort of can-do attitude.

“Have you ever listened to that Jim Croce song, Bad, Bad Leroy Brown? Well to be frank, Frank, you look like Leroy Brown after he lost that bar fight, jigsaw puzzle and all that,” I told him. “And have you ever been to Creede?” I didn’t get his answer to this, but seeing as how we were on the road leaving Creede it probably wouldn’t have been a stretch to assume Frank has seen Creede, but I continued to describe Creede to Frank. “It’s this little quaint town with these cool historic buildings along the main street. Solid bar there too, Frank. You should stop by when you get the chance. Anyways at the end of the town, there’s these jagged rocks just almost abruptly appearing, but yeah the one at the end of the road is kind of what your elbow looks like right now.” 

And I just remember, I started looking at what other broken parts and deformities on his body stood out to me and I just started listing them off to Frank. I would point at his leg and say “Oh! And that split artery that’s spouting blood! That looks just like this geyser in Soda Springs, Idaho, really cool place,” or I’d point to his forehead “Oh, Frank! That massive blood clot next to your eyebrow? Well, that’s gotta be Mount Rainier with a prominence like that,” or when I looked up a bit and noticed the rocks Frank was laying next to, “Oh and right here we have the Painted Hills of Oregon. Not sure if you can turn your head to see, Frank, but your streaks of blood against the boulders from where you were thrown into really just complete the picture.”

I think at that moment something must have just clicked in my mind. Why am I just telling him what these places look like when I’m a photographer and have photos in my Camaro? So I stand up, brush off my knees which I roughed up good from kneeling on the road next to Frank. I quipped a  joke, definitely not my best, before running back towards the Camaro, “Remember what Queen says, Frank, Keep Yourself Alive, I’ll be back in a second.” I crack open the passenger side door, which must have gotten jacked up from hitting Frank as it just falls off completely out of my hands, and I grab the box of Polaroids I had stashed in the glove box. But, when I got back to Frank to show him the pictures, I noticed his eyes were already glossed over like water on the Glass Beach of Fort Bragg. 

I’m sure you would’ve had to been there yourself to see it, but it was in that moment that I really got it. That idea of ever turning back on nature and calling it quits just flushed away. Because what I saw in Frank’s dismangled body was every corner of every national park, it was every wave crashing against the coast, it was every mountain, and it was every desert. It was every ounce of nature. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Frank was the American West. 

I raised my Polaroid and took the shot, he was the sun rising from the Colorado River out of the Grand Canyon, he was the perfect shot. Even if I didn’t take that picture or if I wasn’t thinking about Van Morrison’s Wild Night for the wild night it was, I don’t think I could ever forget it.

That’s what I remember about Frank Doyle. I’m sure you boys would like to call it a hit and run. When in reality I sat there with Frank for hours waiting for someone to come but no one ever did. And as soon as it started to become light enough, I took one of the broken mirrors from the car door, took the Polaroids, and I dragged Frank out into the woods. And I dug a hole deep enough with that broken mirror, laid Frank into it with the Polaroids, as I thought it was fitting because they were all really his- the American West, and I buried them.