Bates Motel

We had a lot of miles to cover so right after breakfast we piled in the van and turned east.  Not wanting a repeat of last night, when our lodging situation had turned somewhat desperate, I started looking for a place as soon as we knew where we would be stopping for the day.  After my now-familiar routine of internet searches, reading customer reviews, checking prices and looking at photos, I found a place near, but not in, Chicago.

The Manor had great reviews.  All except one.  I’ve learned over time that when there is only one negative review and it’s so over-the-top bad, it’s probably just a nasty customer trying to get some payback for an imagined injustice, so I didn’t let it worry me.  The positive reviews said The Manor had been renovated and the state governor had stayed there.  There were even rumors that Van Halen had spent time enjoying the unique and wonderful atmosphere they offered their guests.

I called and spoke to Justin whose phone presence was lovely.  He laughed when I asked if it was true that Van Halen had stayed there.  “How do these rumors start?” he said, his modesty reaching me through the phone.

I said I’d read an article on the renovations.  “That must have been my Dad.” He told me. When I told him I’d read some great reviews he said, “We can’t please everyone but we try.”

We pulled up around 6pm.  The old car by the front with two flat tires should have been the first clue.  Wade and Paul went to the lobby while Barbara and I waited in the van.  Neither of us had noticed the aforementioned dilapidated vehicle.  When the guys got back we unloaded the suitcases and headed to our rooms.

The glass entry doors looked like they had never met a bottle of Windex.  Maybe the multitudes of happy guests who stayed last night left all the prints, I thought feeling a nervous twinge.  Behind those doors a cloud of smells assaulted me.  Stale cigar smoke mixed with ancient and fresh cigarette smoke left an almost visible odor.  Justin had assured me the upstairs where our rooms were located were non-smoking so I knew all would be well when we were through the lobby and up the stairs.

Looking at the gold, olive, and yellow striped wall-paper that was most certainly put up in the 70s, and ugly when it was new, I decided the downstairs was not only smoking territory but had been bypassed in the Great Renovation I’d read about.  We trundled our luggage up the steps, trying to ignore the hideous and worn carpet.  The doors looked like shiny wood-grain Formica.  I didn’t know anything like Formica-covered entry doors exist but I’m here to bear witness, they do.  At least the lock was fairly modern, opening with a key-card.

We walked into more green, gold, and olive décor.  Well, décor is too positive an implication to describe what we saw.  Bedspreads in night-mare prints of blues and browns (clashing with all the other colors in the room) covered two slightly sagging beds.  I tentatively lifted the bedding to inspect the mattress per my daughter’s instructions before we began our journey.  (She has educated herself on bed bug detection methods to be used during her own travels.) Both mattress and box springs were firmly encased in zippered plastic sheaths.  To cover what, I shuddered to contemplate.

Our room had a door leading to an adjoining room. . . all the edges of which were firmly sealed with grey duct tape.  I. Kid. You. Not.  An unpleasant smell permeated the air. I turned on the wall lights between the beds but nothing happened.  After trying wall switches to no avail I jiggled the cord leading into the wall outlet.   With a disturbing electrical-static-popping sound, the lights came on.

The imitation brass fixtures were covered with grime.  Kind of like a greasy kitchen hood that hasn’t been cleaned in too long.  The sofa would remain un-sat-upon, at least by me.

“Let’s check the bathroom,” Paul, the stout of heart, said.

My first impression was that it was much better than the bedroom.  Bright blue and white, none of that nasty brownish gold and olive.  Paul opened one of the slivers of hotel soap which crumbled in his hand.  He opened the second one.  Same thing.  The sink  was unremarkable but the cabinet that housed it was fronted with with, yes, Formica, and had swollen at its top, waterlogged and most assuredly teaming with the bacteria of a host of former guests.  Probably the governor and Van Halen's too.

“I’m so sorry!” I told the others.  “It sounded so good on-line!”

“It’s okay,” they all tried to reassure me.  “We’ll be fine!”

When Wade saw the look on my face he suggested we check ourselves out and find another place.  “It’s our last night in a hotel for this trip,” he said.  “We don’t want you to have a bad experience at the end of our trip.  Let’s go downtown and splurge on a really nice place.”  I looked past him down the hall and wondered how easy it would be to score some crack in the middle of the night.  Probably be pretty easy in broad daylight, actually, I decided. 

“We can’t,” I groaned.  Everything else is booked by now. 

“Then we can drive down the road until we find something.”

I felt like a spoiled baby.  I mean people are starving to death in other countries.  People are actually suffering, for real, and I can’t stay in a motel with ugly bedspreads?!! 

“I’ll be fine.” I insisted.  So the guys left to wash the van.

I pulled out my laptop and put it on the Formica desktop.  Formica plays a big part in this place.  I have nothing against Formica but this stuff was shiny, faded, brown, old, and altogether the ugliest stuff that ever covered a surface.  Dirt and grime were everywhere and I brushed it away with my hand.  The gold table lamp beside my laptop was covered with fingerprints.  My eyes caught the microwave in my side vision.  Layers of dust extended out the sides, kind of like under a refrigerator that hasn’t been moved in months.

I snapped. That little microwave was the last straw.  Even missionaries in the foreign field didn’t have to face crud under the microwave.  I called Paul and told him I just can’t do it.  I told him to come back after they wash the van and I’ll work on finding another place to stay.  And I tried but the promised high speed internet wouldn’t connect.  BIG SURPRISE.

Paul and Wade were back in less than five minutes, van unwashed.  The man behind the counter gave them their money back without argument or surprise.  All three of my travel companions expressed their own relief to be away from that place post-haste.

My only regret is that I took no pictures.  There is no way to prove the truth of my saga, other than my word.  And the word of my fellow-travelers.

Back on the road again, and feeling like I had been given a new lease on life, I was back on the phone.  It seemed all of Chicago was filled to the brim.  A dragster racing event had drawn visitors to the area from parts abroad.  As we drove further from the city and without any success in our search we learned a concert involving a rapper I’d never heard of was bringing in people by the score.  An hour further I was told there was no vacancy due to a “big reunion.”  This hit my funny bone for some reason.

“Help me Jesus!” I half pled, half whined.  I opened yet another search for yet another town along our route, further into Indiana whose line we had recently crossed.  The first hotel that showed up was a Best Western.  I thought why not? And hit enter.  They had two king-bed rooms left.  I took them both.

That hotel was the nicest Best Western I’d ever been in.  It was right up there with the Hilton Garden Inn in Denver. A courtyard surrounded by four floors of rooms overlooked the indoor putt-putt course, corn hole, shuffle board, swimming pool, tables for two and more. Unique in its décor, a killer restaurant with amazing prime rib, friendly and helpful staff, odor free rooms, down pillows, and yes, beautiful white fluffy bedspreads.  I was up until after 1am, reveling in the Amazing Escape I’d just experienced.

Thank-you Jesus!  Do I hear an AMEN.

Wall Drug and Whittler's Lady

We slept in today.  Or I should say I slept in.  Paul was up hours before one should be up during one's vacation.  He had his breakfast, unimpressive, according to his report, and was sitting in our room trying to be patient with me. 

I finally made it to the breakfast room of the hotel at 9:07 only to learn that when they say breakfast is over at 9:00 they are dead serious.  Everything, even the oatmeal packets, had been whisked away to an undisclosed location.  There was a box of factory-made chocolate muffins, semi-hidden in a box, that someone had forgotten to put away but my stomach flopped over at the thought of forcing one of those unappetizing creations into my mouth before so much as a cup of coffee. My lifetime in Amish Country has spoiled me. Paul assured me I hadn’t missed much, even when the hotel's version of "full breakfast" was laid out.

Keystone is a demonstration of American tourism run amok.  Trying to replicate an old western town, its two blocks are filled with one souvenir shop after another, all proclaiming themselves the best place to buy t-shirts, local jewelry made in China, and rocks from the carvings at Rushmore.  I found it all somewhat repulsive as I rushed to join the throngs of travelers, contributing a sizable sum for my own bag of memories.  

I have a compulsive need to bring back things for the grandkids.  I can’t seem to stop myself.  What three-year-old doesn’t need an artificial coonskin cap and a fake Stetson?  When you have a grandson who loves hats and you’re a granny who loves seeing him wear them, well, pull out the wallet and plunk down the money.  And that’s just one; there are six more grandchildren who dissolve my powers of reasoning beyond Paul’s ability to control.  His face turned pale as he followed me around the store and I silently wished he’d go wait in the car. 

We finally hit the road after the others managed to get me out of the shops and into the van.  I was just finished rearranging all the goods and storing them away when someone said, “Hey, let’s go to Wall Drugs; we’re going right past!”

I groaned inwardly, knowing what fresh temptations were about to present themselves.  Wall Drug is 76,000 square feet of tourism delight, of much better quality than the store I’d just left in Keystone.  In 1931 in a struggling South Dakota town of only 326 people the store was purchased by Ted and Dorothy Hustead using a $3,000.00 legacy and a newly acquired pharmacy license. I was doing a little research and found www.walldrug,com with a very interesting article by the owners.  Check it out if you want some inspiration on following your dreams and doing what you think God has called you to do.

What started out as a tiny drugstore in the middle of the prairies is now a major attraction off of I 90. Along with a spray park area, jack-a-lope photo spot, stuffed buffalo, and numerous life-size cowboy sculptures, there are countless other unique things to see and do for adults, kids and adult kids.

We ate lunch there (I highly recommend the hot roast beef sandwich with mashed potatoes, all of it smothered in gravy).  The coffee is still only five cents a cup and very good.  By the time we finally decided to drive east toward our next goal of Elkhart, Indiana, the sun was well past its zenith and my wallet was a little lighter still.

Toward evening, in what has become a daily routine, Wade suggested we get on our phones and find a hotel.  Sioux Falls and all surrounding areas seemed to be fully booked in any place we could afford even when we exceeded our budget quite generously.  I asked at several places what was going on and always got the same answers.  “No idea” or “We’re usually pretty busy this time of year.”  The number of required stars in my search engine continued to decrease along with the slimming possibility of sleeping somewhere other than the van.  With four adults well past the age of finding a night in a vehicle a fine adventure, our standards were lowering themselves with each passing mile.

Now, with no intent to slander the people of eastern South Dakota or western Minnesota, there doesn’t seem to be any attraction around to draw the number of overnight visitors required to fill every hotel and motel to capacity. I expanded my search area as we crept across the map. 

Wade spotted a few Bed and Breakfasts on his GPS.  I felt an internal dread at the thought of sleeping in the house of total strangers but after the last hotel we’d pulled into (and right back out of without ever getting out of the vehicle), I started making more phone calls.  The first B & B was full.  The second didn’t answer.  The third said she only had one room left.  Since it was already 9:30 pm she thought it possible some of her people might not show up and she offered to track them down and let me know if they were no-shows.  

A few minutes later my phone rang.  “We’re both in luck!” she said.  “They aren’t coming so I have two rooms.” Yvonne, the very nice proprietor, directed us to a Minnesota speck of a town called Truman, out in the middle of flat nothingness and ten miles from the interstate.

Her pleasant voice on the phone along with glowing reviews online reassured me we weren’t headed for the Bates Motel.  It turned out to be a thoroughly enjoyable experience.  Whittler’s Lady B & B – who wouldn't want to check out something with that name?  Yvonne and her husband Lowell greeted us at the door with warmth and smiles, even though it was approaching 10:00 pm by the time we drove up.  We didn't see until morning that the charming house's exterior was a delightful dark shade of purple that worked perfectly.  A baby grand piano graced the sitting room and an antique barber’s chair bore the distinction of being “the most comfortable seat in the house.”  The dining room table was already set for our breakfast, minus the food of course.

The establishment’s name came from the Lowell's whittling hobby.  He showed us several pieces, both interesting, and well-done.  His sense of humor showed through.  The “chainsaw” was a carved handle like that of any common chainsaw but without the metal blade.  Instead it wooden chain dangled from its center. The “quarter-pounder” was an apparatus approximately eight inches long with a tiny carved mallet fixed to it.  When tapping the far end with a finger the mallet rose and fell, hitting a twenty-five cent piece, glued to the wooden base.

A stairway led to our cozy rooms; an antique dress form decked out in beautiful ivory lace greeted us silently from the landing midway.  Every room was inviting and filled with unique furnishings, Victorian mostly, fitting well with the woodwork and style of the house.  After we freshened up a bit from our road weary day, our hosts offered us wine and popcorn in “the breezeway” and we all spent a little time swapping our stories before turning in.


The next morning we met for breakfast at the lovely dining room table.  Another guest, a young lady, eight weeks pregnant and needing a break from her toddler, joined us.  Pastry puffs stuffed with scrambled eggs, bacon, and cheese sauce appeared on our plates and disappeared rather quickly from thereon. Fresh fruit, hot coffee and cold juice completed the best breakfast I'd had since leaving home.

I might have to try this Bed and Breakfast thing again sometime.

Crazy Horse and Rushmore

There are places every American should see at least once.  We paid two of them a visit today. 

Crazy Horse is a work in progress.  Started in 1948 by the late Polish sculpture Korczak Ziolkowski, (I dare you to try to say that ten times really fast), the project continues with several of his ten children leading the way.  The monument was commissioned by Henry Standing Bear, a Lakota elder, on land considered sacred by some Oglala Lakota. Privately held, the project uses no government money but relies on contributions and sales from the gift shop, on-site restaurant and tours.

Ambitious plans for a Native American university are in place and accredited college courses were offered with the first students graduating in 2010.  We toured the log cabin built by Ziolkowski decades ago.  His ten children were born and raised there and educated in a school house he brought in, along with a teacher.  The place even had its own tiny post office back in the day.

In the cultural center, reading accounts of the Indians native to the area, their heroism, suffering, and loss are remembered; I was moved.  A quote by Nez Perce Chief Joseph in 1881, his people virtually exterminated by the US government, haunted me:

“They will teach us to quarrel about God, as Catholics and Protestants do.  We do not want to do that.  We may quarrel with men about the things on earth but we never quarrel about the Great Spirit. We do not want to learn that.”  

The native peoples of this country have seen many an injustice; our United States have been procured at great price.  Too great, I sometimes think.  Sheltered in our modern and comfortable cocoons, it is vital we learn accurate history.  To honor the warriors of all races who have given us the freedoms we enjoy as our due, with little thought for what it cost.  In researching the project I came across one commentator, stunning in his stupidity, who labeled Crazy Horse an "insurgent" and undeserving of honor because he was "not an American."  Wow.  I would explain why I think those comments are idiotic but I do not believe any of my acquaintances (to which the readership of this blog is most likely limited) are asinine enough to need an explanation.

Supper in the restaurant while looking out massive windows at the face of Chief Crazy Horse memorialized on the mountain, was, appropriately, buffalo stew with fried bread.  Delicious.

We left for Mt. Rushmore hoping to take in the evening festivities there.  Only seventeen miles away we had time to check-in at our hotel in Keystone, SD before continuing another mile and a half to Rushmore.  As dusk fell two thousand people gathered to hear and see a presentation on the men whose faces are carved into the massive granite face of the mountain, high above the outdoor amphitheater. 

Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, and Roosevelt (Theodore), their contributions to the “great experiment” that is our country, were remembered using their own speeches and writings.  Quotes uttered two hundred years ago were chillingly prophetic in their concern for our liberty and the potential loss there-of.  They warned of future leaders they feared would try to profit from the people or remove their freedoms.  The Constitution, the Declaration of Independence, and the Bill of Rights were all carefully crafted in an attempt to insure our continuing freedoms, gained through great sacrifice.  Yet all of them knew the grave risks that would threaten those freedoms in the future, risks that would result from the insatiable need of a few to control the many.

I was encouraged to see the seats filled with fellow Americans wanting to learn how our nation came to be.  At the end of the program all veterans or those with family members who are, or have, served were asked to come to the front to assist with lowering the flag for the night. Ceremoniously folded, the Stars and Stripes were carefully stored away by several of the many servicemen and women who had gone forward. The complete silence throughout the amphitheater was broken as those stretching across the stage told their name, time served, and their branch of the military.  Even though this took some time, most of the 2000 people filling the bleachers remained in place.  After all introductions were complete a heartfelt standing ovation followed without any prompting by those in charge.

It's pretty easy to look back, hindsight being what it is, and recognize the brilliance of the country's founding fathers.  What is often forgotten is their courage and bravery in the face of incredibly poor odds.  Had their endeavors failed they would all have been tried for treason and executed.  And our flag would not have fifty stars on it.  This country would have, most likely, been severed into numerous territories held by various other nations to whom we would be paying homage and taxes. It would require complicated border crossings making our coast to coast travels much more difficult, less enjoyable, and maybe impossible altogether.  Commerce would be stifled, headaches would abound.  Even though the USA is increasingly less than perfect, it's still the greatest experiment in liberty and individual potential that has ever existed on this planet.  In my humble opinion, at least.

Banff and Glacier, July 7, 2015

We left Calgary late this morning after sleeping in, for once.  Both Paul and Wade are early risers.  Barbara and I, not so much.  But even the husbands slept in after the very awesome and very late show at the Stampede last night. 

After breakfast we meandered our way toward Banff.  For anyone not sure what meandering means, well, imagine yourself a dandelion seed drifting whichever way the breeze blows.  We drove through the park trying to soak up all the snow-capped mountains, streams, waterfalls, and beauty our senses could absorb. Originally the plan was to cross back into the states around noon. One cannot "do" Banff before lunch.  At least not if one wants to pause now and then in appreciation of the Creator's handiwork.  And we saw a bear!  A grizzly moseying its way across an open field.  It's the black dot in the photo.  I promise.

It was after 8:30 pm before we finally made it to the states, entering at the Roosville border crossing into Montana.  Our re-entry took about thirty seconds and did not involve the loss of any food supplies.  We were almost out of gas but it meant a great deal to the menfolk to save a few dimes on fuel. I think it’s the modern day equivalent to the caveman’s need to kill the biggest musk ox.  By the time we found a town with an open gas station, even Paul was getting nervous.

We were all pretty tired so decided to stay in the first sign of civilization after the border, a small collection of buildings, two hotels of suspect quality, the aforementioned gas station with an adjoining Subway and a diner purported to have “the best breakfast around.”  The hotel was older than I am and had a big sign that said to check-in at the Subway.  There were no hairdryers or coffeemakers, but it was clean and that’s the one essential.  Second to cleanliness by the merest fraction is the bedding. Those nasty old bedspreads that are shiny on one side and snag your fingers on the other make me shiver. 

The husbands have taken to mocking my obsession with nice bedding.  At one hotel Paul walked into our room and with deep emotion announced, “These are the nicest bedspreads I’ve ever seen.”

“You making fun of me?”  I asked.

“Yes,” he said without hesitation or apology.

After unloading suitcases we pulled our tiny tables onto the deserted upper balcony fronting our rooms and ate Subway sandwiches and chips.  Fortunately we pulled in just before closing or we would have had to make do with snacks from the van.  Sitting there at dusk in Big Sky Country, mountains barely visible in the distance I was happy to be back in the USA and content with my lot. 

Breakfast at the little restaurant the next morning was everything we’d been told it would be.  Our waitress had probably been there since the beginning.  She was like Flo without the beehive. The menu was entertaining as well.  The Dolly Parton special: two slices English muffin with an over-easy egg on each. What’s not to love?

After breakfast the meandering continued.  Glacier Park is irresistible whenever we are within a hundred miles of it.  We convinced Wade and Barbara to drive the Going To The Sun Road and, as always, it was breathtaking.  Especially when an oncoming dually (or something equivalent) with over-sized side mirrors tries to crowd you off the road. With majestic peaks on every side, sheer cliffs around every corner, weeping rocks with no visible sign of their water source, and cascading waterfalls of snow melt, the drive is worth the risk.  And I'm not aware that any motorists have actually gone over the side but then I'm not certain they haven't.  Probably better not to know.

We drove all the way through the park, exiting in St. Mary, the invisible town.  Route 89 was the curviest road we'd encountered thus far.  Besides concentrating on keeping lunch down one also has to watch for cows.  Yes, cows.  There are even signs warning motorists, with pictures and everything.  Hitting a deer is no fun; I’ve done it. Several times.  Hitting a cow is much worse I’ve been told.  Comparable to hitting a brick wall.  Fortunately there was no grass growing in the road so the cows we saw were grazing out of our path.

After the worst of the curves, which seemed to go on for a very long time, we came to what looked like the literal end of the road in the middle of nowhere.  A highway worker was holding up a stop sign.  Closer inspection revealed a dirt path and when we were waved through we bumped along for quite some time, a long line of cars, trucks and one poor biker in our wake.  Eventually we hit pavement again.  We repeated this scenario later, further down the road.  And out here when you’re stopped for road construction it’s not uncommon to wait for twenty minutes before the flagger gives you permission to move forward.  At one place we pulled bags out of the back, found our stash of wine, cheese and crackers, and had ourselves a little picnic while we waited.

Eventually we found our way back to roads that allowed for speeds higher than 35 and we rode them into Bozeman for the night.  It was the first hotel with a “Motorcycle Wash” provided sign.  Great idea, I thought.

It was high time to do some laundry and I was up until 1AM waiting for our clothes to dry.  One poor lady was still a long way from done when I stumbled off bed.  I believe I will be intentionally thankful for my own washer and dryer when I’m back home; things I take for granted until I am toting around bags of dirty underthings wishing for a river and a washboard.

Calgary

July 5, 2015

Today we reluctantly left Bonner’s Ferry and headed for Alberta.  Our border crossing was interesting.  I can think of few less-likely criminals than the four of us but we were told to pull over and our luggage was removed and inspected while we waited inside the building.  Our four innocent and beautiful apples were confiscated.  My cousin Lydia and her husband had crossed a few hours earlier and lost their apples as well.  Maybe there’s an applesauce cannery behind the grey walls of the cold customs building.  The officers, while polite, were lacking in any displays of good humor.

Relieved to finally be waved on through we spent another day traveling majestic landscapes that defy description, pulling into Calgary by late afternoon.  We met up with Lydia and John and the six of us went downtown which we’d heard was the place to be for dinner.  We ate at James Joyce Irish Pub.  It was unique and museum quality in its memorabilia, much of it Guinness related.  

We learned about the Guinness family from John who has spent some time in Ireland.  It seems there was a woman whose husband was in a duel in which both men died.  Left a widow with two children and disowned by her husband’s family she was contemplating suicide.  She was ready to leap from a bridge to her death when a poor ploughboy passed by cheerfully whistling as he went.  Ploughboys were at the very bottom of the social ladder and the woman was amazed that someone so disadvantaged could be so happy.  “If a man in that lowly state can be happy, how can I be so distraught and ready to give up?”  she thought. She decided to live.

Eventually the woman married a man from the wealthy Guinness beer family.  One day she was visiting a church when the congregation sang the song that the poor ploughboy had whistled.  It changed her and she became a woman of kindness and prayer.  The great potato famine had hit Ireland and the woman persuaded the Guinness family to use their wealth to feed thousands.  In her line of descendants, through her influence and prayers there came numerous men of God who changed the lives of future generations.  Many Irish lives were saved through the Guinness family’s generosity and compassion during the famine.  All because a young man living in poverty was filled with joy in the midst of his meager circumstances, whistling while totally unaware anyone was listening.  It made us all reflect a bit, it did.  I should add that I wrote the story as best my questionable memory can recall and cannot vouch for its accuracy.  For anyone interested see A Guinness with a Difference: The Story of the Whistling Ploughboy of Ecclefechan by Derick Bingham

The next day we met for breakfast and made our plans.  Some of us went to the Calgary Stampede bull-riding events and some of us (Barbara and I) hung out at the hotel until late afternoon. 

We eventually walked to the train station and met the others at the Calgary Tower for dinner at the revolving restaurant high above the city.  Fun.  Pricey, but fun.  And the food was good too. 

After dinner we all took the train to the Stampede where we had tickets for the evening show.  Chuck wagon races started things off.  After two hours of watching horses and wagons careening around a half-mile track at speeds reaching forty mph a big John Deere tractor pulled a huge stage across the track and in fifteen minutes it was ready for the performers.  What followed left us all amazed. Another two hours, this time filled with singing, dancing, acrobatics, and stunts, and ending with an incredible fireworks display.  The tickets that had seemed so expensive before we arrived seemed much less so by the time the show was over.  A chilly rain fell throughout the evening but the show went on without a hitch.  Fortunately our section of seats were under the overhang and we stayed cozy and dry.  

To say we were impressed was an understatement.  I saw a side of Canada I had never seen before and a people proud of their country and their heritage.

Idaho, Bonner's Ferry

It takes a long time to get from town to town out here.  But it’s never boring; the scenery is almost beyond our ability to appreciate.

We reached Bonner’s Ferry shortly before 6pm on June 30th.  That’s 9pm Ohio time.  I’m still not quite acclimated so it feels like Ohio to my not-so-young body.  We’re staying at The Log Inn, same place as last time we were here.  The Pine trees surrounding the property are mature trees now, not the saplings we left behind a decade ago.  A beautiful place, I was glad to see the charming little tables on the porch that stretched from one end of the building to the other.  When we were here eleven years ago one of my favorite things was sitting on that porch to read.

The day after we arrived I got a text from one of my sisters, on her way from West Virginia by train with three of my other siblings along with an assortment of spouses and adult children.  They had debarked in Libby, Montana, she told me, and there was only one available rental car in the whole town.  A car too small to hold the nine people in their party.  They had reserved it before their arrival and, as is still the way in some small towns, it was left at the station for them, with the keys hidden inside the gas tank access.  I was thinking if anyone tried to steal fuel they would find a bonus vehicle theirs for the taking, but then what do I know. 

Since there was no way they could all pack in for an hour-long trip to Bonner’s Ferry, five of the travelers stayed in a small hotel in Libby for the night.   When they went to check out the next day no one was around to take their money except the maid.  After repeated and unsuccessful attempts to figure out the credit card machine she said, “I’d go wake up the owner but he’s probably still sleeping.”  It was approaching noon. Taking pity on her and not wanting to wait until “the owner” decided to rise and shine they paid cash. Wade and Paul had agreed to drive over with the van and deliver them to Bonner’s Ferry and so they did.

It’s been more than a week since we arrived in Bonner’s Ferry and time really does fly when you’re having fun.  In spite of the unusually hot weather with temps in the high 90s our time with family at the Byler Reunion was filled with the making of many new memories.  Family gathered from the northern-most point of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, from southern Florida, and from many points in between.  They came by plane, train, automobile, and motor home.  The Arizona crew came on motorcycles.  The Shaw Islanders hitched a ride by ferry. Since we seldom see each other save at these once-every-three-years reunions there was plenty of catching-up to do.

Idaho is one of my favorite places. Our cousins who live there own a secluded campground set deep into the woods with a backdrop of Canadian mountains.  Rustic cabins and a clean shower-house were available for those of us okay with primitive lodging.  Camper sites and a large pavilion with giant fire pit and kitchen were nestled among the trees.  Hidden in the woods a zip-line reached across a ravine so filled with giant pines I never did see how far I would have fallen had something let loose.  I only slammed my foot into a tree once so it was well worth the ride.  Also hidden to the casual observer was an amphitheater, set into a natural hillside and surrounded by more pines. A covered stage at the bottom was a perfect setting for nightly gatherings filled with music and family stories. 

On the first day of the reunion the festivities got off to a good start with a home-cooked supper followed by two days of music in the amphitheater, thrills on the zip-line, carriage rides around the grounds (my cousin James brought a matched team of snow-white horses hitched to a carriage,) food, food and more food, and general gaiety all around.

But the most fun of all was catching up with my cousins from all over the continent.  Well, technically, even beyond.  One of them lives on an island off the coast of British Columbia.  And someone was there from Chile as well.  With over seventy first-cousins, just on my mother’s side, it’s not uncommon to need introductions to the descendants that continue to expand the genealogical tree. I think I could name all the actual first cousins.  Maybe. But not all the spouses and children, grand-children, and yes, great-grandchildren.  I remember back in the day when I was a kid, when all my aunts and uncles were there.  Reminding me of my mortality, one by one, each of them has passed on with only three spouses still remaining.  Only one was there this year, the other two not able to travel the great distances required.

After the reunion was officially over, several of us stayed a few days more.  One of my cousin’s sons, Jevon, rounded up four-wheelers for a trek up one of the local mountains.  I opted to stay behind since the 100 degree heat wasn’t as appealing as my air-conditioned hotel room. Paul, Wade, John, Jevon and Jevon’s wife Priscilla left after breakfast on Saturday.  They said they’d be back by noon but it was well after 2pm.

As they told it, Wade lost his glasses on the way up when a branch slapped them off his face.  Not stopping to look for them they made their way to the top where an old gold mine yielded up a small nugget for Paul, fool’s gold as it turned out.  On the way back down Wade stopped to search for the missing eye-glasses and miracle of miracles, found them.  “I had a little talk with the Lord,” Wade told me, “and I tried to remember how I reacted when the branch hit me.”  Reliving his movements and retracing his steps he looked down and there they were, by the side of the trail waiting to be picked up. God is good.

Further along down the trail, Wade passed a stick jutting into his path and heard a sudden “whoosh” of air.  His front left tire was flat.  It appeared undamaged except for the now missing valve stem. Jevon and John had sped off long ago, leaving Paul and Wade in the dust. Paul soon noticed that Wade was no longer behind him so he turned back (as is the rule for activities of this sort – riders are responsible for the person behind them).  He found Wade with his deflated tire parked along the trail.

After waiting for the others to come back but with no signs of anyone coming up the trail, Paul set out to look for them. With turn-offs along the trail and concerned he would lose his way he finally turned back, before he was hopelessly lost.  Jevon did come back to search for them and rode the crippled four-wheeler down, standing to one side and taking the weight off the flat tire.  He delivered Paul, John, and Wade back to the hotel, dirty and tired but glad they did it.  For my part, I was okay with just hearing about it.

Our Arizona cousins had rented a house at Twin Rivers campground about seven miles out of Bonner’s Ferry.  How anyone managed to get their campers down that narrow gravel road covered with dust and loose gravel, numerous switchbacks and sheer drop-offs is beyond my understanding.  It was hair-raising enough in the van.  Sheer cliffs surrounded the camp, which was invisible from the main road.  Once at the bottom we found the only house, a lovely place at the far edge of the camp, situated along a lake and surrounded by mountain ranges.  A train meandered past on the far side of the water and a bear appeared for a moment below the tree line before disappearing into the woods again; we sat on the deck and tried to soak it all in.

These particular cousins had owned a restaurant near Phoenix for years and it showed.  A picnic table was spread with appetizers.  Mouthwatering ribs were barbecuing on the grill.  There was corn on the cob, garlic mashed potatoes, and salad.  We had brought pies from a local grocery store.  We ate, we talked, we told stories, we ate, we watched videos taken while zip lining, and we ate some more.  Even though it was Independence Day we opted out of fireworks in town.  Eventually we forced ourselves to say our goodbyes and left.