Bob Wire Has a Point (It's Under His Cowboy Hat)

MT to NC, Day One

By Bob Wire, 7-01-08

	They say the scrotum is the toughest part of the buffalo. Judging by this jerky, I think it's the taint!

Where am I? What day is it? Who are these people? Why does everything smell like hot tar and Corn Nuts? Oh yeah…road trip.

With our big ice chest and cook box strapped to our shiny new hitch-mounted cargo carrier, the roof-top box and the back of the 4Runner jammed to the ceiling with gear and supplies, we were off to our first destination: the gas station.

I asked Barb if she’d packed some snacks. “Oh, yeah, I bagged up some baby carrots and apple slices, and there’s a bunch of seedless grapes in the cooler. I also have some sliced cheese and some fresh veggies with dip. Sound good?”

“Yeah, it does. If you want to find yourself stripped naked and tied up on the side of the road somewhere. The kids will revolt. This is vacation, baby! That means vacation from eating right too. Don’t worry, I’ll grab some stuff at the gas station.”

We filled the tank ($4.05/gal.) and hit I-90 at 11:00 Saturday morning. Rusty and Speaker had their Gameboys charged up and settled in for the first day, which I figured would put us near Sheridan, Wyoming. Either that, or on the express train to Bitchandmoania.

“Have we left Montana yet?” asked Speaker from the back seat.

“No, honey,” said Barb, who was driving. “We’re just passing East Missoula.” Jesus, this was gonna be a long day.

Speaker, a little while later: “Are we still in Montana?”

Me: “Yeah, kiddo, we’re going to be in Montana till about dinner time. It’s hundreds of miles away. Hundreds. Of. Miles. Away.”

Forty-five minutes later: “Is this Wyoming? It looks like Wyoming.”

Me, turning to face the back seat: “Look, man, we’re STILL in Montana. We’re driving FURTHER INTO MONTANA. By the time we get to Wyoming you’ll be in junior high, okay?”

Barb calmed me down and encouraged the kids to just enjoy the scenery. I pointed to some black cows grazing on a hillside. “Look! Side-hill Wampus!”

Rusty and Speaker craned their necks to see the animals. “I never heard of that,” said Rusty, with the ever-present skepticism of an 11-year-old.

“Oh, yeah, they’re pretty rare, but sometimes you’ll see them in this part of the state. They’re a special breed of cow that has shorter legs on the left than on the right, so they can graze on hillsides without falling over.”

The kids looked at each other, but said nothing. “The Hoop Snake is another rare animal you can only find in Eastern Montana,” I went on. “They will crawl to the top of a hill, then take the end of their tail in their mouth and roll all the way to the bottom.”

I went on to describe jackalopes and snipes, but the kids can usually tell when I’m lying. Another clue is when their mom says, “Your dad is full of shit.”

Some family friends had presented the kids with a Road Trip Survival Kit, which included big bags of flavored jelly beans. Rusty broke out his bag and began creating “recipes,” little handfuls of interesting flavor combinations. He handed up a mix to Barb, and she popped them in her mouth. “That’s called Tropical Rainbow,” he said. She said mmm, and nodded appreciatively. Rusty had his bare feet propped up on the little drink cooler in front of his seat, and I looked back to see him picking at the crud between his toes.

“Hey, dad, you want a recipe?”

“Um, ah, no thanks, buddy, maybe later.”

After a rest stop west of Billings, we drove through a construction zone. The pylons forced traffic into a single lane, so close to the shoulder that we had to drive on the rumble strip for about ten miles. Our book-on-CD skipped like crazy, and we had to shout to be heard above the maddening drone. I made a mental note to find out where the head of the highway department lives, so I could go there and drop a cinder block on his nuts.

The kids have gotten used to seeing deer everywhere, but as we drove further east, the flavor of the wildlife began to change. “Look there, you guys. Antelope.”

They stared at the pair of tawny pronghorns standing 20 yards off the highway. “Those are deer,” said Speaker.

“No, they’re antelope. They’re all over out here,” said Barb.

“I thought they lived in the desert,” said Speaker. “I’m creeped out.”

We eventually pulled into the Prune Creek campground in the Big Horn Mountains west of Sheridan at 8:00. By 8:40, we’d set up the tent, inflated the mattresses and rolled out the sleeping bags, arranged the camp chairs around the fire pit, and set our campground picnic table for dinner. I’d forgotten to buy propane for the stove, so we decided to cook hot dogs over a fire. I’d also forgotten to bring the saw, so we borrowed one from our camp neighbors, who were astonished at how quickly we’d set up camp. While Rusty and I gathered firewood, he told Barb that it had dropped down to 32 degrees the night before. We were at 8400 feet above sea level, and the heaviest clothing anyone had brought was a hoodie.

We’d also forgotten the kids’ toothbrushes, so Barb told them to just put toothpaste on their fingers and do the best they could.

“Oh, man, I used to do that once in a while before I met your mom. I’d wake up in some chick’s hou…I mean, I’d have a sleepover and forget my toothbrush too, so I’d have to finger brush my teeth and get the hell out of there before her roommate woke up.”

Fortunately, there’s a K-Mart in Sheridan. Our list of Things We Forgot continues to grow.

Yesterday was (I hope) the most asphalt-heavy day we’ll have. Nine hours, five hundred miles. Barb is prone to car sickness, so she did the bulk of the driving. I read my novel, scrutinized the Deluxe Rand McNally Atlas (“Finding New Ways to Represent the Same Roads Since 1964”), and jotted down observations in my little notebook. The kids played video games, read, drew pictures, napped, and watched America unfold out their windows. There was no bickering to speak of, which gives me great hope for some real old-fashioned family travel fun.  I just have to remember to stay away from the toe jam jelly beans.

[Next: Devils Tower, Sleepy Sturgis, and the source of The Haze.]

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