There was much ado and conversation among fans, the media and TV viewers after a young male student decided to "streak" during a recent U of M Grizzly football game. Most believed the stadium officials were much too slow in rounding up this exhibitionist. He was out there in the south end zone for considerable time before being removed to allow resumption of a more organized game.

Somehow the incident reminded me of the musician who left his instruments lying on the top of the television set until his wife asked him to remove them. She said, "There is just too much sax and violins on TV." Sorry!

Actually reminded me of a wild streaking incident that was absolutely necessary. It happened deep in Idaho's Salmon River country along a dead-end wilderness road in the remote Dixie Ranger District. Four of us had parachuted into a potentially dangerous lighting fire in mountains five miles east of that road. We had to stay four days and ran out of rations the last day. We were black with accumulated soot and dirt from our hot strenuous battle. It is difficult to describe that awful crust with sweat mixed in, and how filthy and uncomfortable we were.

Joy was rampant when we stumbled out of the woods onto that road to view a crystal stream running just beyond. It was 30 feet wide with pebble bottom and only knee deep. In less that a minute, four young men threw their clothes in the brush and splashed in. Alas! Alas! Just when we had all gotten soaped up and ready to rinse, a car motor was heard. Nothing to do but dive into brush on the far side and squat low out of sight.

The car had five people in it, and they didn't see us hiding, but a hundred feet further the road made a right-angle turn to cross a bridge, and the vehicle stopped on the bridge. Father got out and put together his fly-fishing rod, pre-teen son and daughter went to the creek bank, mother stayed in the car, and grandma got out to stand on the bridge gazing at nature's murmuring stream, right towards where we four were concealed.

A human can only stay crouched so long, naked, in the thick brush with sticks poking sensitive anatomy, drying soap itch on bare skin, and cramps developing. Something had to give. Max Allen wore a huge Viva-Zapata mustache and had a high-crowned Mexican sombrero. He whispered to me, "I've got a good plan." Still crouching, he put on the hat and leaped up, dashed across the creek loudly emitting high-pitched cackles of a mad man, only to crouch silently in the opposite bank's bushes.

Down on the bridge, grandma went into trauma-induced shock, kids ran back to the car, mother screeched, "What was that?" Father, casting for trout down stream, came rushing back with great haste. There was chaos at the car with everyone yelling. That's when Max made an even wilder return trip across the stream. Now there was bedlam on the bridge as father frantically shoved everybody into the car, slammed the door on his fishing pole, and burned rubber with the engine at full throttle.

I don't know the aftermath of this adventure. A Forest Service pickup from Dixie Ranger Station picked us four up soon after for the long ride out to McCall and a Ford Tri-Motor flight back to Missoula. Whether or not the traumatized family reported the incident to the Ranger Station, we never heard. If they told friends about it, were they believed? They had to go back past the spot of "the mad man sighting" to get home, so did they drive fast with all the windows rolled up? Did father ever go fishing in the wilds again? Did anyone in the family have to seek counseling?

It has been fun over all these years to imagine after-the fact scenarios, but I've never had to imagine Max running across the stream. The picture is as clear today as it was 60 years ago. I've probably told the story here sometime years ago, but we all know, "Great yarns, like fine wine, improve with age."

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