The Time I Had a Knife To My Throat

The Time I Had a Knife To My Throat

Picture this: It's the mid-90s, and I'm living the dream in Yellowstone National Park, flipping flapjacks and slinging hash as a breakfast and lunch cook. My humble abode? The North End of the park, so close to Montana you could practically smell the Big Sky Country.

Now, we park dwellers had a little secret. Just across the border in Montana, we'd stumble upon these abandoned mine camps that had been transformed into free campgrounds. It was like hitting the jackpot for broke twenty-somethings with a thirst for adventure (and cheap beer).

The Great Montana Escape

On weekends, we'd gather a motley crew of park employees – picture a ragtag bunch of nature-loving misfits – and head to these campgrounds. We're talking 40 or 50 people, all ready to party like it was 1899 (because, let's face it, these camps probably hadn't been updated since then).

One fateful night, I found myself perched by the campfire, surrounded by my fellow revelers. The fire crackled, the stars twinkled, and the beer flowed freely. It was a scene of pure backcountry bliss.

Enter: The Four-Wheeled Menace

Suddenly, our tranquil gathering was interrupted by the arrival of a massive Case International pickup truck. This behemoth had more doors than a haunted house and a bed long enough to land a small plane. The driver, clearly auditioning for "America's Worst Parker," proceeded to attempt a 47-point turn in our campsite.

As this automotive ballet unfolded before us, I, in my infinite wisdom (and infinite inebriation), decided to provide some colorful commentary. Let's just say my words were about as kind as a grizzly bear with a toothache.

Chief Crazy Blade Makes His Debut

Before I could say "You're doing great, sweetie," a man materialized out of the darkness. In one swift motion, he grabbed my forehead and pressed a blade to my throat. Now, I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure this isn't the standard campground welcome wagon.

Squinting through my beer goggles, I noticed the man appeared to be of Native American descent. My alcohol-soaked brain decided this was the perfect moment for some ill-advised nicknaming. "What's up, Chief Crazy Blade?" I slurred, giggling like a hyena at a comedy club.

Chief Crazy Blade, not appreciating my attempt at levity, threatened to redecorate the campsite with my blood. Undeterred, I doubled down on my new moniker, repeating "Chief Crazy Blade" like it was the punchline to the world's funniest joke.

The Great Escape

Eventually, my would-be assassin seemed to realize he was dealing with a lost cause. He released me, probably questioning his life choices, and made a hasty retreat to the truck. As they drove away, I couldn't help but feel like I'd just survived an episode of "Yellowstone: The Drunk and Delirious."

The Morning After

The next day, I dragged myself to work, feeling like I'd been trampled by a herd of buffalo. As I contemplated the poor life choices that led me to this moment, my coworker came bursting into the kitchen, screaming, "Jason! Chief Crazy Blade is here! Jason! Chief Crazy Blade is here!"

I peeked around the corner, half-expecting to see my nocturnal nemesis wielding a spatula instead of a knife. Lo and behold, there he was, picking up our kitchen's laundry as casual as can be.

Our kitchen manager, a woman who'd clearly seen it all, took one look at me, one look at Chief Crazy Blade, shook her head, and retreated to her office. I'm pretty sure I heard her mutter, "I don't get paid enough for this."

And that, my friends, was the last I ever saw of Chief Crazy Blade. But the legend lives on, a cautionary tale of why you should never mix alcohol, campfires, and impromptu nicknaming. Remember, what happens in the Montana wilderness doesn't always stay in the Montana wilderness – sometimes it shows up to do your laundry.