Monica Hughes PhD
themariachiyears.substack.com
Warning
Long read: 3317 words
I’m a nostalgic sort of person, so once in a while I get the inkling to look up an old acquaintance with whom I’ve lost touch, to see what’s happened in the intervening years.
“I wonder what Chris Kostoss is doing now?” I said to myself Saturday morning.
Imagine my shock to search for Chris’ name while sitting down for my morning coffee. In the autofill I began to see “Chris Kostoss obituary” and “Chris Kostoss suicide”.
What? It couldn’t be the same Chris Kostoss.
But it was. And he died less than a week ago. I then pulled up some local articles to confirm.
I sat stunned and shed a few tears.
From the obituary:
On Tuesday, May 31, 2022, Captain Christopher Kostoss died by suicide. Chris was born on October 16, 1972. At the time of his death, he had been a New York State Forest Ranger for 23 years. Chris was also a dedicated member of the Wilmington Fire Department for over 10 years. He loved living and working in the Adirondacks. In his spare time, he enjoyed many outdoor pursuits such as gravel bike riding, swimming, hunting, skiing and playing with his dog.
Chris was an introspective minimalist who could often be found shelling and eating peanuts at the kitchen counter. Never fond of grocery shopping, he was known for his creative culinary efforts. His house was decorated with an eclectic mix of objects he found while hiking and his doodles.
He was actively involved in suicide prevention among law enforcement. Chris was a loving father, a loyal and caring friend, a dedicated Ranger and a good person. His manner of death does not change that. He believed in destigmatizing talk about mental health and believed that seeking help for mental health should be a routine part of health care. He will be deeply missed by his family and friends.
I met Chris in 1997. I was 22 and fresh out of college. He was 25 and had just graduated first in his class from the Ranger School in the Adirondacks.
We were going to be the two summer employees at the USFS Forestry Sciences Laboratory in Warren, PA doing botany and forestry technician work. I was more specialized to herbaceous plant identification, and Chris was more suited for the forestry stuff.
At the time, summer “students” lived in a dilapidated shack with little more than a 1950s refrigerator, a cement floor painted grey, too few windows, two bedrooms each with multiple bunks and an assortment of 1950s industrial office furniture and some 1970s couches with bold brown and green flowers, rescued from the local thrift store. This “residence” – if you could call it that – was referred to affectionately by Forest Service employees as “The Hilton”. More like a prior barracks of sort, there weren’t enough students these days to fill it up in summertime.
The acceptance letter was simple: we were given instructions to our living quarters, start date and were notified that there would be two people living in “The Hilton” that summer. The directive was simple: move into “The Hilton” the weekend before, so that we’d be ready for work on Monday morning after the first weekend in May.
I was a relatively innocent kid. OK, I was actually a 22-year-old woman but I was fresh out of a Christian college where we weren’t supposed to dance, drink or have sex. The rules were widely disobeyed, but only quietly, or you’d get thrown out. Students were definitely expelled from the school over these matters.
I’d had a few boyfriends and while not completely sheltered, I was a little nervous. There were no more rules in this post-college world, no one to push me around or tell me what to do.
The idea of living with a man I’d never met, even though it was just a summer work situation, seemed like forbidden territory after a cloistered, carefully groomed environment of same-sex dorms and thrice weekly chapel attendance.
I was a little trepidatious. Sunday at dusk a tan Bronco with brown lines pulled up. This must be my summer housemate.
Just as I peeked out of my bedroom, Chris walked in. He was about 5’10”, well-built and dark-skinned, wearing a white t-shirt and Carhartt pants. He slowly walked around the living room, briefly took in The Hilton’s bleakness and put his fingers through his jet-black hair.
“Hi,” I said quietly.
Chris shifted his gaze from the kitchen to me without saying anything.
“I’m Monica. I took the smaller bedroom,” I offered.
He looked at me blankly. “Okay,” he said seriously.
It took him only a couple of trips to move his things in from his vehicle. Chris was a man of few belongings and even fewer words. We both retired to our respective bedrooms because we had to be to work at 7am.
I didn’t discuss the bathroom, which was a distinct source of disquiet for me. The two bedrooms were linked by a shared bathroom. I aimed to shower very early in order to give him plenty of time to get ready afterward.
In the morning, I tiptoed over to his closed door and quietly locked it from the bathroom side, unlocking it when I was finished.
As we sat across from each other at the tiny kitchen table eating breakfast, he crunched his cereal slowly, staring at me. Dark and brooding, I was getting the sense that he disliked me.
When he was done with his breakfast, he stood up without saying a word, placed his bowl into the sink, went and started up his Bronco, and drove 1/2 mile away to the forest station. I drove separately.
He definitely didn’t like me. This was beginning to feel very weird. The entire situation was unnerving. It was only a summer assignment, but the joint living/working situation was awkward. I was used to friendlier boys. Chris didn’t smile at all, even in the presence of the “bubs”.
“The bubs”, as we came to affectionately call the work crew, consisted of three permanent forest rangers. Then there was Chris, and one “bub-ette” (me).
The most awkward part of the workday consisted of wasting time and bullshitting around the coffee pot at the forest station from 7-8am until our bosses got their asses in gear, another hour or two driving to work sites in a large Suburban, eating our homemade lunches from our lunchboxes on-site and then wandering around in the forest working, until we drove home.
It wasn’t exciting or intellectually stimulating work, but the crew was fun. The actual work consisted of surveying various sites in Allegheny National Forest, counting tree seedlings in defined plots, as well as identifying some herbaceous plants. The plant diversity was low, so it was tedious and repetitious, usually without much intellectual stimulation besides the conversation and jokes we would all make walking between forest plots, which often veered to the less PC side. I was a no-nonsense girl who got along with men more easily than I did with women and the “bubs” were nice, so it felt natural.
The vast majority of the plots were in fairly mature, shaded forest where it was nice and cool. But once in awhile it would be a “clearcut day,” and these were the worst. We’d strap on chaps and navigate waist- to armpit-high Allegheny blackberry thickets to make nearly impossible counts of seedlings underneath, usually in the blazing hot sun with not a tree in sight. We’d emerge scratched up and sweaty.
It was miserable and The Hilton was miserable to return to. There was no air conditioning and likewise no trees around the building to provide any shade to keep it more cool during the day. And no close-by place to swim.
To make matters worse, Chris got more sullen and quiet when we got off work. For some reason, it seemed, he didn’t like me in particular, and, in turn, that made me dislike him.
Chris never seemed to eat much. The very first day after work, Chris’ first trip to town was to the liquor store. He brought back a case of Yuengling and filled the fridge up. After work he’d empty bottle after bottle, generally while reading a book and sporting reading glasses that transformed him from logger to scholar.
It was said that man could not live by bread alone, but, if Chris’ habits were any judge, man might be able to live by Yuengling alone.
One day, on a particularly hot afternoon near 100F, we returned from a clearcut day. Chris got into his Bronco and I knew he was off for another beer run. First, there was nothing else to do in the afternoon. (For that matter, there was nothing to do within 200 miles on any day.) Second, his supply had run out.
It was clear that Chris was smart and capable but I was tired of living with a morose mountain man who never said anything. There was always an air of displeasure around him and you could cut the tension with a knife. I hoped he’d stay out for awhile so I could have the place, miserable as it was, to myself.
Mornings were cool at work and most days a t-shirt and jeans were perfect clothing for working in the woods. You didn’t want your legs to be scratched up from the undergrowth on a clearcut day, so shorts were never acceptable. And you were going to get dirty and scratched on the worst days, so you shouldn’t wear your best t-shirts. I relegated the ugliest ones to work outfits. This loose-fitting, frumpy clothing was about all I wore that summer, but now we were nearing June and this was the first unbearably hot day. When I heard Chris pull out of the driveway, I changed into my swimsuit and wrapped a short black sarong around my waist.
The heat and humidity were oppressive and the dirty floor in The Hilton was getting to me. After I changed into my swimsuit, I stood at the deep kitchen sink and splashed some cool water over my arms, then filled up a bucket with cool, soapy water. There was no mop. I decided that I would hand mop the floor. Then I’d take a cool shower.
I didn’t hear Chris until I was almost done and the screen door slammed right behind me. I heard him plunk down another case of beer on the long wooden table. He was nothing if not predictable. I rolled my eyes.
I was turned away from him, my derriere in the air, cleaning the floor on my hands and knees. There was no point in saying hello because he never responded.
“Well, well, well,” he said.
I stood up and turned around with a furrowed brow.
There he was, beaming a big, broad smile I had not seen before, his mouth half open in a leer. The steely expressionless gaze I had grown accustomed to over the prior weeks had changed. There was an unmistakeable look of desire on his face.
Well, what?” I snapped, before I had fully had a chance to take in what was going on.
“That’s a nice little thing you got there.”
He had now uttered more words than he in the first two weeks. He walked closer and brushed the knot of my sarong tie ever so lightly with his fingers. There was barely a molecule of space between his fingers and my clothing.
“I like that little thing.”
My eyes narrowed. It was like Victor Krum had decided to ask Hermione Granger to the Yule Ball but had skipped past both the written invitation and the ball itself.
Inwardly, I recoiled in horror. I remember hoping that my face was already beet red from the heat so that he would not see it turning so from embarrassment.
It wasn’t that I thought Chris was repulsive.
On the contrary, the only thing hotter than The Hilton that summer was Chris, with his disarming, swarthy good looks.
It was a moment of pure polarity. He was dark, swarthy, naughty and masculine. I was feminine, fair and fairly undefiled. I felt woozy, like I suddenly needed a fainting couch.
But I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I thought that. I considered him smug, self-satisfied and arrogant. How dare he come onto me so brazenly? This guy definitely needed to be taken down a peg.
I was also still very shy at that age and there was a subconscious modesty on my part, driven by the dual forces of 1) a religious upbringing where we heard sermons on how we shouldn’t tempt men with revealing clothing, makeup and perfume and 2) the vague sense that it was probably not appropriate to get involved with a coworker, even if it was a temporary assignment.
My surprise or shock must have registered on my face: he shifted his gaze to make me more comfortable.
“I’m going swimming. You wanna come?”
It was uttered more as a statement than a question.
“Uh. Yeah, ok,” I sputtered.
He had learned about a local swimming hole at Kinzua Reservoir. We drove in silence for 45 minutes. He parked and then I followed him down a fairly steep trail through the woods, descending a few hundred feet in elevation. At its base, the trail opened onto a large rocky outcropping which hung over the lake.
The evening light was casting pastel pink and blue light on the water, which lay milky and undisturbed below us. There wasn’t a boat or a person in sight. It was still oppressively muggy, but the only thing marring the evening were a few mosquitoes that had followed us out from the woods.
The cliff had to be at least 30 feet up from the water. He surveyed the scene, went to the edge and looked over, then came back, dropped his towel and took a running jump.
SPLASH!
“How is it?” I yelled down.
Chis didn’t answer my question.
“Jump in,” he said, shaking the water from his dark hair in a single bold move.
I stood there looking out at the horizon for awhile, just enjoying the evening.
“Well?” he said, a hint of annoyance in his voice.
I needed to work up the nerve. I was an excellent swimmer, but I wasn’t into daring theatrics and I definitely wasn’t confident about jumping off this ledge.
There was also the awkward issue that my clothes would have to be removed to reveal more of my body and my swimsuit underneath.
“I don’t know about this,” I said, stalling.
“Monica.”
“Yeah?”
“Just come on.”
“I don’t know.”
“Just jump.”
I could hear the irritation and impatience in his voice.
I didn’t want his prying eyes undressing me, so I moved away from the edge. I stayed out of his line of sight, removing my shorts and t-shirt and dropping them near our towels.
Then I took a running jump… and a big breath. The force of the water hurt the bottom of my feet as I jumped in. As I rose to the top I wiped the water from my eyes and I laughed. The water was beautiful and cool.
Chris smirked. He swam over.
“NO!” I shouted, laughing. I knew he was up to no good. He put his hand on my head and playfully dunked me under the water.
I emerged, spluttering, laughing more. I was a better swimmer than almost everyone I knew. He might have the advantage on land but we were in the water now. He approached again but before he could grab me, I dove under him until I could see only a brown hole of light above. I was probably eight feet down. I rose like a shark and grabbed one of his ankles quickly, yanking him downward as hard as I could.
I was finally glad he had cast aside his sullen nature of the first few weeks, and I think I had taken him by surprise in the water. It opened the door for more jokes and teasing.
Somehow on the ride home the topic of the soap dish in the shower came up.
“That’s my face soap!” I said.
“Oh. Well, I’ve been washing my ass crack with that,” he lied.
One day we got a fun break from the dreadfully tedious counting of tree seedlings: we got to clear a trail with large, industrial-sized weed whackers.
Afterward we ate lunch and decided to take a picture of ourselves mocking the safety glasses we were forced by regulations to wear.
There were a few brief communications after Chris and I parted ways that summer. He owed me some money for something, the details of which I’ve long since forgotten, and sent me a check. At the end of the written amount was a long line, with a small flower drawn at the end.
What started as a bleak and boring summer was one of the most memorable of my life. It’s hard to believe that Chris is gone. He is as young and as vivid as ever to me in my mind’s eye, standing there as a bronze-skinned Adonis at the top of the rocky outcropping.
And he looks so vibrant and youthful in these pictures below, taken only a few years ago, that it doesn’t seem possible that he is gone.
RIP, Chris. I’m deeply saddened that you left this earth before we a chance to reconnect. Your departure is a bittersweet reminder of how fleeting our lives are and how important it is to live them as fully as we can.
You will live in my memory as long I myself live.
Farewell, my sweet, funny, coming-of-age friend.
She’s a good girl, loves her mama
Loves Jesus and America, too
She’s a good girl, who’s crazy ’bout Elvis
Loves horses, and her boyfriend too
And it’s a long day livin’ in Reseda
There’s a freeway runnin’ through the yard
And I’m a bad boy, ’cause I don’t even miss her
I’m a bad boy for breakin’ her heart
Now I’m free
Free fallin’
Yeah, I’m free
Free fallin’
Now all the vampires walkin’ through the Valley
Move west down Ventura boulevard
And all the bad boys are standing in the shadows
And the good girls are home with broken hearts
Now I’m free
I’m free fallin’
Yeah, I’m free
Free fallin’
(Free fallin’, now I’m free fallin’, now I’m)
(Free fallin’, now I’m free fallin’, now)
I wanna glide down over Mulholland
I wanna write her name in the sky
I’m gonna free fall out into nothin’
Gonna leave this world for awhile
Now I’m free
(Free fallin’, now I’m free fallin’, now I’m)
Free fallin’
(Free fallin’, now I’m free fallin’, now I’m)
Yeah, I’m free
(Free fallin’, now I’m free fallin’, now I’m)
Free fallin’
(Free fallin’, now I’m free fallin’, now I’m)
(Free fallin’, now I’m free fallin’, now I’m)
Now I’m free
Free fallin’
Oh
(Free fallin’, now I’m free fallin’, now I’m)
Free fallin’
(Free fallin’, now I’m free fallin’, now I’m)
And I’m free
(Free fallin’, now I’m free fallin’, now I’m)
Oh, free fallin’
(Free fallin’, now I’m free fallin’, now I’m)
(Free fallin’, now I’m free fallin’, now I’m)
