Whip me, Strip me, Tease me, Fly me.

That was the name of the bass boat that drove past us from the ramp.  The old men in the truck waved goodbye.

“Montana sure is beautiful,” I said sitting on a rock with my feet in the ice cold river, “Think you could live here?”  I asked.

“It’s beautiful,” Larry agreed, he too was cooling his feet in the water.   However, like Idaho we had just left, this state was also a bit backwards. 

“God, I miss home.”  I muttered.  

“Me too.”  He said.

At the blueberry farm the day prior, we met more beautiful people.  

Daniel, a college bound youth and bike building enthusiast, spent a few hours in our campers shade, sitting forward in rapt attention speaking to Larry about something they both love, bikes.

Our RV neighbors from Arizona, Paul and Paula, we’re so open and friendly.   Viewing the goats, I learned that Paula, her ninety plus parents, siblings and husband had gotten Covid, yet she was the only family member hospitalized.  Jen too had had Covid, she oversaw the farm with all its intricate details; her passions were the goats and helping LGBTQ youth have a safe place.  Idaho/Washington area where she lived, recently had a horrific murder of a gay teen, then a cover up; the story never made the news.

Leaving the blueberry farm, and the beautiful people we’d met, we changed our travel plans, by skipping the Sandpoint stop to cover more miles.  The truck computer screen went haywire.  “Good thing that didn’t happen when I was driving solo.  I would have freaked out.”  I said.  Temporary loosing my phone was bad enough, imagine the truck GPS and screen out of order, no thanks.  Where were those paper maps of old?  Where had I stashed them?

Larry pulled over, and shut the truck down.  “And it’s a good thing every thing is under warranty,” he replied.

The restart worked as a reboot, all systems were go.

The road shoulder was skimpy to non-existent at times.  Larry would mumble, “Glad I’m not riding that today,” or some version to express his bewilderment at the route Adventure Cycling had recommended.  I purposely choose not to answer or engage him, I only looked out the side window.  I’m not sure why I was annoyed, but I was.

“Look here, this shoulder is good,” I said after we passed the town of Redneck, Idaho, “You can stop anytime and ride.  I really mean it.  If you want to ride some, I’ll pick you up somewhere.”

“No, that’s ok.”  He said.  

We passed a USFS campground at the base of a mountain, north of Troy, Montana.  Six miles down the road, past trashed out trailers and yard garbage aplenty, we were able to turn around and check out the campground.  With plenty of open sites, we backed into number 22. Technically Larry backed up and I stood behind and waved my arms around like windmills.

Camp site

We chit chatted with Randy, another Escape trailer owner in the park, he told us about a ‘secret beach’ his wife and granddaughters were at.  At 95 degrees, the beach sounded like heaven, plus I would tease Natalie, my ‘beach bitch partner in crime’ with a photo.

Path to the secret beach

Montana’s tropical beach

The beach

We found Montana’s Tropical Paradise over a little ridge, complete with a white capped turquoise river, sandy beach, and green shade.  This is were we sat on rocks with our feet in the water and discussed where we were and what we wanted.

I want to go home.  Larry wants to see Glacier.  Elliott wants to be in my lap.  And Summer wants to eat more food, she thinks it’ll make her feel better.

Betty stepped out from behind her campground host rig and asked how the beach was.  “We recommend it to campers, but we’ve never been there ourselves,” she laughed, you know the laugh, it’s high spirited and contagious.

The two ‘B’s, Becky & Betty.

I showed her the pictures I took, “It looks tropical,” she exclaimed.

“I know, right!”  I answered.

Toilet Cribbage

There was something magnetic about Betty, and when she mentioned the Camino de Santiago, I invited myself to her camp for the all familiar ‘get to know each other.’  

Rex, the campground host; he’s writing his memoirs about the experience.

This fall Betty and her husband host another campground near Bryce Canyon, and she gave me her contact information.

I went to say goodbye to Betty in the morning and ended up parking my butt at their site past lunchtime.  Larry and Scott joined us.  I wish we could have stayed a week, and played marathon cribbage.  Maybe a trip to Bryce Canyon is in the cards?

“I feel like Im a pawn in a great big chess board.”

GPS chess board

I read Larry my draft and he asked, “Why were you mad in the truck?”

I had to sit and think about it.

I had felt so left out.  Why hadn’t I been invited to ride alongside?  Why hadn’t I got my fat ass in shape over the ten months he planned the trip?  I wanted to be a joint partner, not George.

“Because the bike trip is over.  It’s the past, we’re in the present.  I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“Ok, let’s make it happen,” Larry pitched in.

Natalie had given me nutritional advice, and Larry said he’d support me in the kitchen.

“Will you be my trainer too?”  I asked, knowing full well he had avoided that role for twenty years.

“Yeah, I can help you.”

Picking blueberries, in case you were wondering.