 
## 50 Stories in 50 States: Takes inspired by a motorcycle journey across the USA

## Volume 5 - the West

By Kevin B Parsons

Copyright 2014 Kevin B Parsons

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to others. If you would like to share this ebook, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return it to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

## Table of Contents

Introduction

California

Wyoming

Washington

Alaska

Hawaii

Colorado

Oregon

Idaho

Utah

Nevada

Acknowledgments

About the Author

## Introduction

My wife (Quilter Girl) and I embarked on a '50 States in 50 Weeks' motorcycle tour of America, a once-in-a-lifetime dream. We rode across the country on a Honda Gold Wing, towing a pop top tent trailer. During the more mundane sections of the trip (like the rangeland of Wyoming), we talked on the intercoms and came up with short story ideas. Inspired, I wrote a story for every state, which morphed into a five-book series, compiled by regions, with ten states in each volume.

Some of the stories are based on our experiences, some on history, and some probably from indigestion. Warning: these are not necessarily motorcycle stories, nor are they travel stories (although some are), but a look at Americana with each state a background.

We traveled one year straight through, regardless of weather. Washington State gave us an almost continuous barrage of rain, much of Idaho the same. Yet excellent weather in states like California and Utah provided ample opportunity to explore the countryside. Because it rained every day in Hawaii, Quilter Girl passed up myriad rides and stayed in the motel quite a bit. Well, that and burnout, as it was near the end of the adventure.

Enjoy this volume of '50 Stories.'

~Kevin B Parsons

Brian Head, Utah

## California

We rode through Napa—wine country—and Calistoga to the north and noticed quite a few differences, some better—some worse. Want to be a big time vineyard, you better operate in Napa. But do all wine tasters have to be Beemer/sweater-tied-around-their-shoulders/Gucci purse people? What if you're off the beaten track? Big challenge. And who wouldn't want to stomp grapes?

### THE GREAT GRAPE STOMP

"I'm sorry to do this on such short notice." Alexis raised the screen of her laptop. She settled herself in at the table in the foyer of the hotel. "Deadlines and all. Jonathan asked me to start the interview, as he'd be late. He missed his shuttle from the airport."

Too bad. I wanted to meet this Jonathan Fray III, the invisible man who visited my vineyard on numerous occasions. A secret shopper or something. His articles sounded like he knew me.

"Not a problem." I loosened my tie. My winning wine, 'Broken Spoke,' received the Best New Vintage award the night before. The name reflected our redneck wine approach and yet for some reason I wore a tie this morning. I should have worn my leather vest and Harley t-shirt.

Alexis flipped her brunette hair back and started a recorder. "You okay if I record this? I usually record and write my impressions while we talk."

"Sure." I could sit and talk with Alexis all day. She seemed friendly and honest, and easy on the eyes. Thoughts of my wife stopped me short. My buddy Justin warned me to watch for the nice ones. They disarm you with their personality and slash you to pieces in print. No. Not Alexis. She started with the simple things—spell my name (William Martin, just call me Bill), the name of my winery (Rolling Arbor Vineyard), the date and so forth. She pointed to my ring.

"I see you're married."

"Ah... no. I lost my wife three years ago. Cancer." I twisted the ring on my finger. "I just sort of... can't let go. You know?"

She nodded. "Wow. I'm sorry. I'm new at this." She wiped a tear from her eye. "I'm not supposed to be like this. You know?" So much for the heartless journalist.

"Listen, why don't we go to the bar, okay?"

Her blue eyes searched mine. Did I mean it? "Um, sure." She packed up her things and we headed to the bar. We had arrived before noon, the place deserted. I steered us to the curve of the bar. We could sit beside one another, yet be able to see each other. The bartender walked up, the question in his eye. "Diet Pepsi for me. And for the lady?" I looked to her.

"Diet... you own a vineyard. Your wine won first place." She shook her head. "Oh, um, a Bloody Mary please. And a water."

"I got a DUI once. The level is so low that it doesn't take much to fail a Breathalyzer." Oops. "That won't see print, right? Please?"

"No problem." We resumed the interview—how it feels to win, if I expected to, what friends and family think, and some technical questions on the wine.

Then Alexis asked, "How did you get started on this crazy adventure?"

"Crazy adventure. Great words," I said.

~

"I hope this works," I mumbled. Being thirty miles north of Napa, we hoped to be far enough away to attract a different crowd than the crystal wineglass bunch. Honey and I sold our computer engineering business in San Francisco four years earlier, took a huge life turn to the country, and purchased this dying vineyard. Honestly, we couldn't afford anything more. If it were true that real estate is all about 'location, location, location,' we would take this ailing farm from life support right into its grave. The Napa crowd doesn't go north. Still, we figured we'd be different enough to attract an eclectic crowd. We had no idea how different our crowd would be.

After six months of ownership, we'd made enough mistakes to tank the place, but probably were just too stupid to understand the extent of our nosedive. We failed at being different—instead, copying the best vineyards, labeling our bottles with French-looking text and photos, and branding ourselves like any other winery.

A week before we discovered Honey's cancer we sat at the kitchen table and regrouped. That's when the idea of the Grape Stomp took place. Enough of the copycat, bland, snarky, ticky-tacky wines and vineyard. We'd go redneck, lowbrow, and reach real people. I still remember Honey's eyes as the ideas popped that night over numerous bottles of beer (hers) and red wines (mine). Everything cooked that night. We'd call the vineyard 'Rolling Arbor Vineyard.' The festival would be called Stomp. Our signature wine would be 'Toe Crush.' We drew sketches of label designs on our laptops and laughed all night.

Honey conceived of the statue and I got afraid. How much would it cost to carve a statue of stone? Couldn't we make it plastic? She insisted it be made with quality materials, yet humorous.

~

I drove the second little sign into the ground and surveyed my work. 'Grand Opening' and 'Great Grape Stomp.' The symbol of our gamble stood behind me—a large and low wooden tub—and inside it stood a carved statue of a peasant woman. She looked just like Lucy Ricardo, holding up her skirt and stomping grapes. I wished Honey could see it, give me her honest opinion. I spun the ring on my finger. Did I meet her expectations?

I stood before it, the broom at my side. I'd spent a fortune on it. No changing, no turning back, no hesitation, this simply must work. Honey would have been proud... I hoped. I took a picture of it with my phone and texted, 'r new mascot' and sent it to Claire.

~

We met Claire early in the battle, at the cancer institute. The people shared a commonality; a disease bent on killing every patient in the room, while their families held their hands and murmured encouraging words. We sat in the sterile environment and watched the others deteriorate. Was it from the horrible disease that ate the living cells and moved through the organs, or from the poisonous treatment that killed the evil cells and hopefully prevailed over them before destroying the patient? We enjoy tremendous breakthroughs in healthcare and medicine, yet cancer treatment seems the most barbaric method imaginable. Certainly for my Honey, the treatment seemed to just accelerate her condition, as she wasted away and died in four short months. The young girl with eyes lacking any guile walked up to us and stared at Honey.

"Is that your real hair?"

Honey squirmed in the plastic chair. "Yes."

"Mine's a wig. I don't like it. It makes my head hot. But Mom says I should wear it, 'cause it makes people uncomfortable to see me bald."

"Your mom's probably right."

She scratched her head. "It itches, too. Want to see my head without it?"

"If you'd like to do that."

Claire removed the wig to reveal her bald, white head. I gulped as I watched Honey stare at her future in a person thirty years her junior. We continued to meet Claire once a week, and become friends with a purpose; fighting a disease bent on their deaths. Before long they would compare wigs. Once they traded, and we all had a very uncharacteristic laugh.

"I look like a Martian, don't I?"

~

My phone beeped and I peered at Claire's reply. 'shes prety whats her name.'

The statue.

Lucy came to mind. Some Hollywood mogul would probably sue me out of existence.

'u can name her'

I waited and stared at the phone. Somehow I felt I'd put a heavy burden on this kid, who already had plenty on her plate. Yet her simplicity and wisdom continued to surprise me. I wiped the sweat off my palm. The phone chirped for an incoming text.

'shes italian rite? how bout maria'

I looked at the smiling woman, her hands holding up her skirts, a silly smile on her face. Of course.

'maria it is. how r u?'

"Come on, kid." I stared at the screen. No response, just like every time I inquire about her health. "Well, Maria," I said to the statue, "perhaps you could make a Novena for Claire." Have to get her a rosary.

I put the broom over my shoulder and walked up the long gravel driveway. Two hours to go until the Great Grape Stomp. I assembled the team and we went over everyone's jobs. I got Manuel out of the fields to bartend, doling out samples of wine for the discerning customers. His friendly smile won him the job. Tiffany would waitress, and I would introduce myself, the winery and the wines, then I would take groups for the stomp.

"We want everyone to have fun," I told the crew, "not just be wine tasters, but to have a great time together." Good luck on that, with a bartender who could hardly speak English, a book smart college student, and an owner who needed a half a jug of wine to loosen up or he'd develop cramps in his chest.

We'd be fine.

At the appointed time, two cars showed up, each with older couples. They tasted wine but wouldn't stomp grapes if I put a gun to their heads. They weren't buying any wine either. I escorted them to the door and waved goodbye. This looked like a big bust. I sighed and headed for the door.

From the highway came a distant rumble. A motorcycle gang paraded up the drive, all black, chrome, and noise. They turned into the gravel parking lot, engines throbbing. The two couples hustled off to their car, the women taking a tighter rein on their purses. I stepped outside to stop any trouble. The bikers shut off the beasts and removed their helmets, gloves, and gear while they bantered with one another.

"Jeez, that gravel was terrible. I thought I was going down."

"You're such a baby. Just a little wiggling. You go too slow and you might. Keep your speed up a bit."

There must have been a dozen of them, sporting 'do rags, leather, and tattoos. A guy with a heavy goatee held out his hand. "I'm Skid Mark." I shook his hand, using a firm grip and he held on tight for three seconds or so. "These are my friends: Pork Chop, Fuelie, Organ Donor, Bootstrap, Knucklehead Nate, Chappie..." I tried to keep up and remember the rest, but got lost in the unusual names. Did their birth certificates read like that? Fortunately some wore their names on their travel weary vests. I just hoped they wouldn't stab me.

I wished Honey were here. She would have started with "Hello, Skid Mark," like she'd met tons of people named Skid Mark and would work her way through the crowd, welcoming each of them. I missed her so much it left a bruise on me everywhere. We could lean on one another. Now with this strange group of long hair and leather, I felt more alone than ever.

I gave them the grand tour and then we headed into the tasting room where Manuel and Tiffany jumped to it. I explained the wines and some history of how we made it, then said, "Who wants to stomp grapes?"

Crickets. Finally a guy with a long grey beard said, "Sure, why not?" We headed outside and half his posse followed, joking about Fuelie stomping grapes. I provided peasant costumes, so Fuelie went to the changing room and soon merged wearing bright red bloomer-looking boxers and a white shirt with puffy sleeves. The boys let up a hoot and whipped out phones to shoot the event. He stepped over the side and I enlisted a couple of men to help stock the tub with grapes. As Fuelie marched around in the tub, I put Dean Martin on the sound system, singing 'That's Amore.' The boys laughed and howled, and Fuelie got into it, putting his hands on his hips like Lucille Ball and Maria. Soon another wanted in and the men moved about from the tasting room to the stomp and back again.

Tiffany walked through with a tray full of clean glasses and peered at me, her eyes saying, "Is this a good thing?" I shrugged.

Once they loosened up, the group didn't look anything like the bunch that wouldn't get in the tub. As soon as one guy got out, another got in, and Dean Martin sang, 'Volare.' We added grapes, and soon two men got in together. They bumped into one another and it looked like it could escalate.

"Okay, easy now," I admonished, trying to keep a bit of control. As things got more animated, I realized the boys were tipsy.

What was going on here?

I trotted into the tasting room to see Manuel topping off glasses, the men sloshing wine onto the floor and slapping one another on the back. "Great party, bro." One of them patted me heavily on the shoulder. "Great time."

"Manuel," I hissed, "what are you doing? Just a little."

He shrugged. "I geev them a leetle, and they want a leetle more." Big smile.

I envisioned bikers crashing into the fences as they left, policemen doing turbo sobriety checks, men in handcuffs packed into squad cars. "It's Bill Martin's fault," they would slur into the reporter's camera.

I trotted to the kitchen. "Tiffany. I need your help. The gang's getting a bit drunk."

She wiped her hands on a towel and brushed back her hair. "Whatever."

I love that word.

We entered the room and I held up my hands. "Okay, listen up, everyone. We've had a great time, but its fourth quarter now, so we're going to switch to water or soda, okay?" Please don't stab me.

The men groaned. I made sure Manuel understood and headed to the barn to repeat the announcement. I stopped so suddenly in the doorway that Tiffany ran into me. "Oh, no."

I'd seen a mud wrestling competition once, and this looked like it, only purple. Six men knocking each other around; one flopped out like a beached whale, another fell and smacked his head on the side of the tub. Organ Donor, if I recalled his name correctly, videoed the melee. Wonderful. They now possessed documentation for the lawsuit. A dozen non bikers watched in horror.

I wrestled the men out of the tub, slipping on the slick surface myself, the entire thing looking like salmon spawning in half melted Jell-O. Organ Donor kept shooting video. Tiffany proved to be no help at all, as she laughed until she wet her pants.

The gang changed, then retreated to the tasting room and settled down to their sodas and water, reliving the great time, sloshing around in a barrel of juice. At the bar, one of them pointed to the picture at the tip jar. "Who's she?"

"That's Claire," I said, and told them her story.

Fuelie stroked his beard. "What were you doing at the cancer institute?"

I sighed and told them Honey's story. Our story, really, and went back to Claire and her condition. "So everyone agreed that all the tips go to Claire."

Fuelie put his arm around me, his eyes wet. "That is so righteous, bro. Sorry about your girl."

"Thanks." I held back tears; Honey wouldn't want it. What could I say? Get all melancholy about my wife? The men lined up to drop twenties in the jar. Tiffany squirmed, probably thinking of the tips she would miss.

As the crowd dispersed, Fuelie handed me a card. "You ever need anything, any time, and I mean anything, you give me a call." They exited and packed bottles of wine into their saddlebags.

~

"I saw the video of the grape stomping." Alexis stopped typing and smiled. "We play it at our Christmas party every year. It's the first time I've laughed wine out my nose."

"Yes. It went viral on YouTube, too. And our business took off like a rocket."

Claire saw it, too, and I wondered if it was too adult for her. What is too adult for a kid who watches newfound friends and acquaintances die of cancer?

~

The next morning I walked to the mailbox, and noticed Maria wore a black and orange 'do rag, the first of many costumes the bikers affixed onto her as she ascended into icon status both in the city of Calistoga and in wine country. I texted it to Claire and got a quick reply:

'cool'

I got online to check out wine news and found an article about us by Jonathan Fray III. He wrote about the Stomp, the chaos, and the people. It seemed like good press. He put up a photo of Maria with the biker scarf on her head. He hardly mentioned our wine.

~

To their surprise, when the gang arrived the next month, they rode in on nice fresh asphalt. The parking lot stripes favored motorcycle parking. This time they brought the women.

Tiffany breathed a sigh of relief. "It won't be a sophomoric idiot fest with the women here, you watch."

Manuel obeyed our strict instructions to give each patron just a 'leetle,' but even with the women, they stomped, sang 'Everybody Loves Somebody,' 'Hey Mambo,' and of course, 'That's Amore.' A few girls fell out of the tub, too. I'd have to put exercise mats around it or something. Organ Donor filmed it all.

"How could they know the words to such old songs?" Tiffany surveyed the crowd, arms around one another, belting it out.

"Beats me. But I'm going to have to give the fourth quarter speech again." Purple liquid wicked up my khaki pants from helping men and women in and out of the tub.

For months I held court for a small but loyal group, and the bikers acted nothing like they looked. It didn't take long to realize they played dress up with their leather and chains. No one smelled of old sweat, the women were sweet, and they would do anything for you, should you become their friend. And they bought lots of wine.

~

I decided to visit Claire. If she wouldn't tell me her condition, I'd check it myself. I called her mother.

"Hello, Lauren. I wondered if I could stop by and see Claire."

Silence. Did the phone drop the call?

"Hello?"

"Yes, Bill, I'm here. Why don't you come down tomorrow?"

~

I knocked on the back door. Lauren opened it and escorted me into the living room. Claire sat in a recliner, a stick girl, sunken into the cushions. I braced myself from gasping or crying. Her pale blue eyes loomed in her head because of her shrunken cheeks, giving her the look of a frightened, terrified child. I steeled my will and tried my best to sound upbeat. "Hey, kiddo." I patted her knee. Bones covered with paper-thin skin under a thick blanket.

"Hi, Bill."

"I brought you a coloring book." I produced a book and box of crayons.

"Cool. Thanks." I could tell it took energy just to answer.

"And I brought a nice photo of Maria." I held up a framed photograph with Maria holding an American flag in the crook of her arm, someone's latest contribution.

"That's awesome. Thanks." Claire did her best to act enthusiastic and attentive. I stayed for a few minutes until it became apparent she struggled to remain engaged. Excusing myself to get something to drink, I stumbled into the kitchen and hugged her mother. Deep sobs wracked my body. I remembered the damage my Honey endured before succumbing to the evil disease. But a child? It seemed crueler, the ultimate violation. I took a deep shaking breath and faced her mother. Another set of sunken cheeks, eyes looking into an abyss.

"She doesn't have long, does she?"

"Just a couple of weeks."

"I'm so sorry."

"I just appreciate you coming. It's so hard on her. Most people are afraid or something and avoid her."

I wiped my eyes. "I get that." I pulled an envelope out of my pocket. "Something to help you." She opened the envelope and stared at the check, and took her turn weeping.

"Thank you so much."

"It's from our customers. We keep Claire's picture up on a tip jar."

Using great determination, I returned to say goodbye—hopefully not the last—to Claire. She held the photograph. "She looks really pretty."

"Yes. They did a good job, didn't they?"

She nodded and ran her fingers over the image of the statue. "She'll never lose her hair, will she?"

God help me. "No, she won't."

"You'll take care of her, won't you?"

"I will."

"You should put chaps on her. That would look cool." It would be impossible, but I assured her we'd look into it.

I only drove a half a block from her house before stopping to get a grip.

~

Honey used to complain about my tendency to be a workaholic. In a classic case of closing the gate after the horse got out, I made arrangements with Fuelie and we rode to the Harley dealer in Vacaville. It took most of the day, but I rode away on a nice red and white Softail Deluxe with retro looking whitewall tires and a promise (along with a swipe of the credit card) for a safety course. It might be too late for Honey to enjoy the ride, but I was determined to get Claire riding in the wind.

~

When Fuelie and I returned, Maria stood covered in pink ribbons. We weaved through a sea of bikes as people parked them in every conceivable spot, a record-setting crowd. But for what? Most of the bikes bore stuffed animals bungeed to their sissy bars. As we got off our bikes, Chappie emerged from the crowd.

"We decided to do a run for Claire," he said and swept his hand over the crowd. "So we raised some cash and got toys for her."

I stood with my hands on my hips. "You folks are amazing."

We rode to Claire's house and loaded her down with stuffed animals. Chappie gave Lauren a check and her eyes bugged out before dissolving into tears of gratitude. "Thank you so much."

Chappie took me aside with an idea. Sometimes men come up with good ideas, and sometimes they come up with... ideas. No idea how this one would play out. It sounded like good to me, but I decided to run it by Lauren.

"We'd like to give Claire a ride today." Her eyes bulged. "Just a short one... a few blocks." As the words emerged, I realized it sounded idiotic. She could barely hold herself up; what were we thinking?

"Okay."

Did I hear her right? "You sure?"

"It sounds really dangerous." She crossed her arms over her chest. "But what have we got to lose? She falls off and gets killed having fun for the first time in... I don't know how long. Or she can waste away here..."

I backpedalled. "Maybe it's a bad idea. I couldn't live with myself if... if..."

"Do it." Lauren's eyes bored into mine. "Just stop thinking about it and do it."

I approached Claire and knelt beside her. "How'd you like to ride a motorcycle?"

"Serious? For sure?"

"For sure."

She smiled clear to her eyes. "Cool."

Logistics proved to be challenging. "Anybody have a kid's helmet?" Everyone looked to each other. Nope.

Lauren said, "Just do it. Get her on the bike. Go a few blocks. If a cop pulls you over, tell him her story. There. The legal side's taken care of. The safety? Be careful."

Claire tottered out to the driveway, determined to get there on her own. We decided that Chappie and his bike worked best to give her a ride, because of his experience and his sissy bar. I lifted her onto the machine, a bundle of twigs. We debated whether to tie her onto the sissy bar and decided against it. No good solution.

We all took off, Claire in the front with Chappie. Organ Donor volunteered to ride alongside with his wife running the video camera. I rode behind and prayed I wouldn't be the first to see the carnage. Claire seemed fine, and after a few blocks she leaned over the side, turned back, and gave me a thumbs up. Her wig blew off. Nobody stopped to pick it up.

~

Alexis blew her hard-hearted journalist's nose on a napkin and set it on the bar with the others.

"That was the day I learned about my business. I always thought it was about the wine. But I learned it was about the people."

"That is so sweet."

A man stepped between our barstools. "Am I interrupting anything?" He wore black framed glasses, a polo shirt, slacks and goatee, looking like a college professor.

"Jonathan," Alexis said, "you know Bill, right?"

I peered at him. Seen in a different environment, he seemed out of context.

He said, "Hey, Bill," and I knew.

"Knucklehead Nate."

"That's me," he smiled and Alexis said, "Who?"

I shook his hand. "You're Jonathan Fray the third? Wine critic? Knucklehead Nate on weekends."

"Right." He sat beside me. "My grandpa was John, Dad was Jonathan, so they called me Nathan. Nate. But for the snooty wine crowd, it's Jonathan Fray the Third. My real name is more of a pseudonym, really."

"So that's why you sounded like you knew me. You did. You tricked me, secret shopper."

"Actually, the question never came up. We bikers talk about bikes, riding, touring, and wrenching, but seldom talk about work. You never asked, so I never broached the subject. I assure you, I would have. It would have wrecked some unadulterated looks at you and your winery, though. But I'll tell you something, Bill. And you need to pay attention, Alexis. When people know I'm a critic, they change. Can't help it. Almost impossible to get them to be honest. But Bill here... " he patted me on the shoulder, "he's the real deal. And you know what? He's all about the people. Something amazing happened on the way to being a good person. He made some great wine. Prize-winning wine."

We continued the interview with Nate adding his own twist to my stories. As we finished up and stood, I shook Nate's hand. "If you're not doing anything next weekend, I could use a hand at the vineyard."

"Yeah?"

"I need to take a pair of chaps and get them on Maria somehow."

His eyes searched mine. Was this a trick? "Is this about Claire?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll be there."

## Wyoming

Riding through Wyoming, Quilter Girl noted that Yellowstone National Park sat both in Wyoming and Montana. What would happen if someone kidnapped a kid, and without knowing it, crossed over into another state, making it a federal offense?

This is the story that started it all.

### THE KIDNAPPING

Mindy held up the paper. "It'll work, I tell you."

Eight-year-old Connor peered at the form. "I don't know." His big sister always came up with crazy ideas, most that didn't work.

"Listen." She held the paper and read it.

Dear Steve,

I've decided that the kids could use some time with their father, so I give you permission to take them to Yellowstone Park during their summer vacation. You can take them for a week.

Angie

"How you gonna sign it?"

She held up a paper with signatures all over it. "I've been practicing."

Much as he wanted to reject it, he admitted it looked pretty good. Mindy carefully wrote her mom's name at the bottom. Nope, too rigid. Luckily she printed ten copies to practice. Nope, too squiggly. Too blocky.

"We're going to run out of paper."

"I'll get it." She tried again and by the seventh attempt, declared it adequate. She set the paper down and picked up her cell phone.

"Dad... You know you been trying to get Mom to let us go to Yellowstone with you?... She said okay... yeah, she left a note, you know a permission thingy like the judge said... She had to go to work. Yeah... she said any time. Connor and me want to go right now. School's out, so... can you?" She winked at her brother.

~

Steve Lindstrom clicked off his phone and let out a whoop. Finally, Angie relented! Better strike while the iron is hot. He called his boss and told him the truth for a change and asked for the week off. Starting now? Please. Yes!

He strode around the tiny kitchen. No car, not much cash. Need to be clever. Looking at the bike calendar on his refrigerator, the light clicked on in his head. Billy owed him a big favor. He found his number in his contacts.

"Billy? Steve here... yeah, good... say I need a huge favor... Mindy gave me a 'get out of jail free' card... yeah, the kids for a week, can you believe it? Anyway, I need your help..."

~

Connor dropped his bag on the drive and pointed. "What is that?"

Steve patted him on the back. "That's our ride. Part of the adventure."

Mindy ran up to it. "Cool! Look, it's camo colored. It's a World War Two bike, huh, Dad?"

"That's right." The old Harley sported the OD green paint with dents, rust, and an oil leak or two.

Mindy tugged on Steve's shirt. "Can I ride in the sidecar? Please, oh please please please?"

"Uh, sure."

Steve helped the kids put together a week's worth of clothes and toiletries. He looked over the house—a mansion really—neat as a pin with the faint smell of Angie. He decided to leave her a note. Finding the pen and paper in a familiar spot, he stopped, the pen poised. What to write? 'Thanks for letting me have the kids.' No. Too much like groveling. Perhaps a long letter to rebuild the bridges. Impossible. He wrote:

'I have the kids. See you.'

That's it? My, aren't you the writer. He replaced the pen and pad and left the page on the island.

They loaded the kids' things in the sidecar and Mindy wriggled inside it, rearranging bags to find legroom. "Smile, Dad." She held up her iPad and took a picture of him.

Geez, they're eight and ten and they've got cell phones and iPads. Steve kicked the bike eight or nine times before it sputtered to life, then roared.

"Come on, Connor."

The boy looked back at the house, now empty. No choice. He climbed on behind his dad and clutched both sides of his leather jacket. The bike roared off, the three helmets nodding like bobble head dolls, the exhaust backfiring with flames shooting out the pipes.

~

Angie stalked into the house, her spike heels echoing a staccato off the floor tiles. Dropping her purse on the island, a paper fluttered to the floor.

"Oh, crap." With her tight skirt, bending to the floor proved to be next to impossible. She picked up the note and read it.

What? You have the kids? Crushing the note she muttered, "Steve Lindstrom, I will kill you." The nerve of that man! He did not have custody. None. Stopping at the island, she opened her purse and lit a cigarette. She reopened the note and smoothed it on the counter. Read it again.

Then she smiled.

She picked up her phone and dialed with one hand as she took a deep drag of her smoke. "Yes, I'd like to report a kidnapping."

~

Connor stood by the bike next to his dad. A tractor trailer roared by, the wind whipping their hair. "I'm scared."

Steve knelt in front of him and put both hands on his shoulders. "Hey, buddy, you better get off the pavement and onto the grass."

"Shall I, too, Dad?"

He assented and Mindy crawled out of the sidecar to join her brother. "What's wrong with it?" She clicked a photo with her iPad.

Steve peered under the gas tank. "Vapor lock, I think." The gas line ran close to the engine, so the gas probably boiled and wouldn't flow to the engine. He rummaged through the sidecar and emerged with a gas line and tools. "I think I can fix it."

A few minutes later the old beast struggled to life and they climbed back into their respective places and roared off, the Grand Tetons towering into the sky on their left.

~

"Ma'am, where do you think he would take them?"

She dabbed at her eyes. "I don't know, Detective. I'm just so afraid. Try his house. He lives in Pinedale. I'll get his address. He doesn't have any money so he couldn't have gone far." She handed him the address. "You should know he's been convicted of two DUIs, so he could be at any bar between here and his place. He drives a 1972 brown Chevy Nova. I think he still has it, unless it's been repossessed. I can get the plate for you."

"Appreciate that."

She punched a number on her phone. "Grace? Get the license plate number for Steve's car... I don't know, just make it happen; that's why I pay you so well. Text me." She tossed the phone onto the counter. "Hard to find good help."

"Yes, ma'am."

Angie paced, her arms crossed under her ample, enhanced chest. She stopped. "You don't think?"

"Ma'am?"

Careful. "Perhaps he took them to Yellowstone Park."

"Camping? That doesn't sound like a kidnapping."

"No. To hide. He just... he's talked about going there."

"So... check the campgrounds?"

"Certainly not. He's never camped. He'll be in a hotel."

"We can check that out."

~

Connor looked at the mess that was supposed to be a tent. "I don't think this is right."

The tent sat eight inches off the ground and canted toward the back. Two yellow poles stuck out the door. Steve emerged and looked it over. "No, you're right."

"Dad, look at those loops." Mindy pointed. "Maybe the poles go outside and it hangs from them."

"Do you think?"

"Couldn't hurt to try." She clicked a picture with her notebook.

Steve returned to the tent and removed the poles, the nylon collapsing around him. Some camping dad you turned out to be. Chock this up to another screw-up for Steve-the-loser dad.

Mindy pulled Connor out of earshot. "Whatever you do, if Mom calls your cell phone, don't answer it."

"Why not?"

"Because we'll be busted and have to go home. You don't want to go home, do you?"

Connor looked at the green shape undulating with Dad struggling under the tent. "I don't know."

~

Five hours later, Angie paced and smoked. This should have been over by now. She turned on a half dozen lights. Where had he gone with those kids? She picked up her phone and called her attorney.

"Phil? Angie here... Of course it's late. My ex kidnapped the kids. Yes. Tomorrow I want you to press charges against him. Do you know a detective? The police aren't getting anywhere. Get him going. Yes, now." She smacked the phone on the counter.

~

Steve handed the Styrofoam cup to his son.

"Spaghetti-Os"

"That's right."

"Cool. Then we're going to do s'mores, right?"

No graham crackers, no marshmallows, no chocolate. "Uh, maybe tomorrow night?"

"Cool."

Don't know how. Budget is super tight.

~

Ten hours later, Angie sat in the tub, bubbles to her neck. She took a drink of her martini, then clicked her nails on the sides of the tub. This was taking way too long. She picked up her phone. "Bruce, Angie Lindstrom here. I have a story for you. My kids have been... hold on a second." She held the phone away from her ear and made a sobbing sound. "They've been kidnapped... By my ex... Do you think you could run a story on it or something?... Amber alert? Yes, that would be good. I'll talk to the police. Okay, whatever you can do... thanks."

~

The third storm roared, the thunder almost continuous, like demons celebrating another soul in hell. Flashes lit up the sides of the tent. This time the wind shook and rattled the nylon sides, snapping with each gust.

"Dad, I'm scared." Connor's eyes shone huge in the flashes.

"Me, too." Mindy hugged herself.

If Mindy's afraid, we have a problem. Connor will feed off that and he'll be terrified.

"Tell you what. We'll zip two of the sleeping bags together and we'll bundle up good with Dad, okay?"

They both assented, and the three of them set about assembling the bedding. Mindy clicked off a shot with her iPad. Wish she would stop. Be quiet... nice dad.

He slid in next to Connor, the boy the filling of the sandwich. Connor slid his head under his dad's chin. The boy shivered.

"Dad?"

"Yes, son."

"How come you left us?"

"That's a hard question to answer."

"Mom threw him out."

Thanks, Mindy. Leave it to a kid to deliver the hard cold facts. "It's more complicated than that."

"I sure miss you."

"I miss you, too, son." He wiped his eye.

In a matter of minutes the two kids drifted off to sleep. Steve watched, amazed as they slept through the storm.

The lightning faded, the thunder rumbled away to the East. Peace eased in to the little tent.

The fourth storm featured thunder and lightning again, but this time the roof of the tent cracked and banged with the sound of hailstones pelleting it. Steve could hear the stones clanking off the metal on the motorcycle. At least the kids are sleeping, and the tent didn't blow over. For the first time in decades, Steve prayed and asked God to keep them safe.

~

Angie wiped at her eyes with a handkerchief. "I'm just so afraid. Whatever you can do, I ask the public to please watch for my kids and that man. And be careful. He may be dangerous."

The interviewer spoke to the camera. "If any of you have information about this case, please call the number on the screen."

The cameras stopped and Bruce approached. "That should work."

"Thank you so much."

"Now you owe me."

~

Steve sat at the picnic table and watched the creek flow by the campsite, the water white over the larger rocks. Fuzzy grey seeds from the cottonwood trees floated in lazy circles on the placid sections of water. Leaves twirled in the current as they slid by. Connor and Mindy ran up wearing swimsuits.

"Can we swim in the river?" Mindy asked.

What do I say? Don't want to be the bad dad and say no. "I don't know. You can wade in it."

She handed her iPad to him. "Take our picture?"

Steve clicked the shot and set the notebook on the picnic table. Connor ran to the creek and as he got to the edge, stumbled and fell face forward into the water. Mindy stooped to help Connor and fell over, too. Connor floated out, face down. Steve splashed into the water and scooped him up, sputtering, blood flowing down his forehead. He carried the boy to the table and sat him down. Stripping off his shirt he daubed the cut on his forehead.

Connor sat quietly until Steve pulled the cloth away and he saw the blood. He let out a wail.

"Easy, son." He patted the cut with his shirt. No first aid kit, not even a bandage. The cut looked shallow. Not more than an inch across, either. He remembered that heads tended to bleed a lot, and coupled with the water on his skin, it looked much worse than it probably was.

Mindy hovered. "Is he going to be okay?"

Steve daubed again. "Yeah, I think so."

"Excuse me," a woman said. Steve recognized her from the next campsite. "I saw your... dilemma and thought you might need a hand." She held a first aid kit.

Yep, and I'm shirtless, pasty white, and could lose twenty pounds. "That'll work. Thank you so much."

~

Angie laid on the bed and punched the remote. Nothing on. Steve's going to have to pay for this.

The note!

She stood, tossed the remote on the bed, and padded into the kitchen. Smoothed out the note. Punched a number on her phone.

"Phil. Angie here. Do you have access to a fingerprint expert?... Yeah, I have the ransom note. You need to check it for Steve's prints. I want this thing airtight. Can you get one?... Yeah, I know it's midnight, but my kids have been kidnapped. Right... Tomorrow? Can't you get him tonight?... Okay, first thing." She clicked off and smacked the phone on the granite.

I'll get through this and then he's fired.

~

"Dad, what are these bumps? They itch."

Mindy grabbed his arm and peered at them. "Skeeter bites. I got a bunch of them, too."

"No bug repellant," he muttered. "Come on. Down to the river. We'll smear some mud on them."

Connor stopped. "Will that work?"

Big smile, Dad. "Sure."

"Can we go for a hike?" Mindy pointed to the trailhead they noticed earlier.

"Uh, sure. There must be a trail nearby."

"It's right over there," Mindy said. "It goes to a hot springs." She pointed. "It said it was a mile."

"Perfect."

"It said to be 'Bear Aware.' Do we have any bear spray?"

"Uh, that would be a no."

Connor took off running, saying over his shoulder, "I bet the lady next door has some."

~

Steve sat at the picnic table. Somehow, they successfully hiked. No injuries, no bear attack, and the bike couldn't break down. There may be hope for this weekend yet. A man strode up to him and stopped.

"Are you Steve Lindstrom?"

"Yes, sir."

Another man grabbed him from behind, stood him up, and slapped handcuffs on as the first man said, "Steve Lindstrom you are under arrest for kidnapping. You have the right..."

Mindy screamed. Connor ran away.

~

Judge Beeson took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Lindstrom again. What this time?"

T. Bartholomew Masterson slid the paperwork in front of the judge. "The ex kidnapped the kids. And he took them to West Yellowstone, Montana, so it's a federal offense. My client wants him removed from any custody and all visitation rights cancelled."

Beeson flipped papers over, skipping the garbage and focused on the details. He sighed, put the papers down and muttered, "Let's get this mess sorted out."

"Your honor, it's a kidnapping, federal offense, and we... "

"Did you not hear me? Get them here."

~

Fortunately, the powers that be let Steve lose the orange jumpsuit. He sat at the table with the Public Defender, who offered to help, even though it was a domestic case—so far. Probably his big case of the week. Or month.

Angie's attorney blathered on, telling the court how awful Steve was, the two DUIs, skipping of course the two years of sobriety and his stellar behavior in the ensuing months, then years. Then he went through the kidnapping, Angie's suffering, and the note.

The judge asked Steve. "Did you write that note?"

Mindy told him that she'd forged it.

Steve stood. He could feel all the eyes on him, the kids behind him. He imagined Mindy wringing her hands. He should take the fall, cover for her.

The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

"No, I didn't write it."

Angie shouted, "What?" and stood. Her lawyer ran over to her, spoke soothing words, and eased her back into the seat, both of them performing Oscar-winning drama.

"Then who wrote the note?"

"I didn't."

You really screwed up this time, Stevie boy. The grandstanding and posturing continued, Angie's attorney piling on the evidence.

He answered the questions monotone, a dead man. It appeared that Angie's lawyer enjoyed this game, Steve and Angie just pawns he moved around the board while collecting huge fees. After painting Steve as the Antichrist, the guy got tired and sat down.

The judge looked over his glasses. "We've heard all the evidence. Now I'd like to hear the kids."

Angie stood to protest and her lawyer patted her arm and addressed the judge.

"Your honor, it would traumatize the children too mu—"

"Nonsense. Bring them up."

Mindy held Connor's hand and they tottered to the bench.

The judge asked them a dozen questions. Steve stared at the floor. His head shot up when he heard, "Let's see those pictures."

No! Mindy's iPad. It bore the real evidence, the injury to Connor, the junk motorcycle, the disastrous tent building, the documentation of a man who had failed his kids.

Mindy trotted back, retrieved the notebook, and showed the judge how to scroll through the photos.

"What kind of motorcycle is that?"

People looked at each other like someone would know, then turned to Steve.

"Uh, it's a '42 Harley."

"And you took the kids to Yellowstone Park with it?"

"Yes, sir."

"It broke down, too," Angie said, "but my dad fixed it."

She narrated as she flipped the screen to each new photo. "This is where the bike broke down on the freeway... this is Dad trying to build the tent... this is the river we played in... here's Connor... his bandage... this is the bear warning sign..."

Finally she finished, the nails driven into his coffin.

The judge asked Connor a few questions and he assented, confirming Mindy's testimony.

Then Connor said, "It was the best weekend of my life."

Angie cried out like she was in real agony, like she broke a nail or something. Her lawyer shut her up again.

"Seriously, son?" The judge asked.

"Oh, yeah. We never do anything fun at our house. Everything has to be perfect."

"Really."

"Yeah. And we got to play in the river, cook spaghetti-o's on the fire, and sleep in the tent and when it stormed we zipped the sleeping bags together and all got in it togeth... "

Angie's lawyer stood. "This is despicable. Now he's sleeping with—"

"That's enough." The judge held up his hand. "Go on, son."

"Anyway, we had more fun than ever. We were a family. I mean we didn't have Mom, but she would have been all mad all weekend anyway, especially when it rained, but we had so much fun. And we wouldn't have gotten to go if Mindy didn't write that permiss... oops."

The lawyer reeled back like he'd been slapped. Angie rubbed her temples with her fingers, and the judge laughed.

Connor turned to his sister. "I wasn't supposed to say that. Sorry, Mindy."

"I'm going to review this case, and see if we can grant some custody to Mr. Lindstrom here, and I'm going to send a recommendation to the federal judge that all charges be dropped. Mr. Lindstrom, could you please approach the bench after we adjourn?"

The courtroom emptied, and Angie dragged the kids away. Steve stood before the judge.

"Tell me about that Harley."

## Washington

Somewhere on our tour of San Juan Island, we learned that bears did not inhabit the area. The story of Scar Bear came to mind. Nothing more fun than scaring the liver out of little kids. What a beautiful backdrop to a story, San Juan Island. If you ever get a chance, take a tour. Be sure to head to the south side of the island and learn about the Pig War.

### SCAR BEAR

He opened the door as he knocked. "You hoo! Grandpa and Grandma are here!"

Lindsay and Ryan ran to the door and hugged their legs.

"You kids ready to go camping?"

"Yes, yes, yes," said Lindsay.

Wearing a cowboy hat, Ryan ran in circles around them, then ran to his dad. "Can we go now, can we go, can we go?"

Lindsay flitted from one to another saying, "I'll go get our stuff."

"Hello, son... Tracy." Grandma hugged everyone.

Jeff reminded them about removing their shoes (for the white carpet) and ushered them inside to the living room, with black leather couches in front of glass coffee tables. Tracy took drink orders (beer for Grandpa and Jeff, iced tea for Grandma, bottled water for Tracy) and everyone sat on the couches. Tracy passed around drinks and coasters while Jeff sent the kids upstairs. Their shoulders drooped and they trudged up the steps. Jeff took a sip and sat forward. "Mom, Dad, we thought we should talk a bit about the trip before you go."

"Oh?" Grandma looked at the two of them and then to her husband.

Tracy cleared her throat, produced four lists, and handed them out. "We've compiled a list of things that are quite important. This is the first outing you've done with them, so... "

"And it's about time, too." Grandpa said as he looked at the paper. White, printed with numbered lines. Subheadings under those.

"First is nutrition. The children need lots of vegetables. Too much red meat, fried food, or snacks and they get off kilter."

Grandpa frowned at the paper. "Wouldn't want that. I see number 9-C. It says one piece of candy a day."

"Small one." Tracy held her fingers an inch apart, looking to Jeff for confirmation, who nodded. "Wash it down with plenty of water."

"Bottled water only," Jeff interjected. That campground stuff... who knows what's in it?"

"Oh, yes," Grandpa frowned, "cooties or maggots or something. And 11-B, 'They shall brush their teeth with bottled water.'"

Grandma swatted his leg. "Easy, tiger."

"Let's start at the top, shall we?" Tracy looked to the others.

Grandpa shrugged. "Why not?"

So they did.

~

When they finished the list, Grandpa stood and folded it.

"Oh, no no no," Tracy said. "I have manila folders. One for each of you. And we have something for you, too. Jeff." He got up and returned with two cases of bottled water. "Save you some shopping."

Jeff called the kids down and they descended the stairs like a thundering herd, backpacks and roller luggage at hand, then ran up for another set of luggage.

"Whoa, whoa," Grandpa held up a hand. "We're going for four days; we're not moving. What have you brought?"

Tracy stepped up. "I helped them pack. Didn't want to miss anything."

Grandpa grabbed Lindsay's suitcase. "You mind?" Lindsay shook her head. He unzipped it and produced a pair of red high heels, his eyebrows asking the question.

Tracy crossed her arms. "You may go to town for dinner."

"It's okay," Grandma put her hand on his arm. "We'll just bring it all. It's no problem."

Lindsay tapped at her phone.

"Whoa, hold it," Grandpa held up his hand. "No electronics this trip."

"What?" Lindsay stopped, her finger in the air. "For four whole days?"

"That's right. You probably won't get a signal anyway out in the woods."

Ryan laughed. "No phone for you, sis."

"No game player for you either, Ryan."

His face fell. "No way. I can't..."

"Sure you can," Tracy dug in the pocket of his backpack and removed it. "It'll do you good."

"No fair."

~

Grandpa drove with Grandma beside him in the front, the kids sulking in the back.

"This trip is going to suck," Ryan crossed his arms.

"Nonsense," said Grandma. "Do either of you know any songs?" They shook their heads. "We'll teach you some. Right, Grandpa?"

"We don't wanna sing no songs. Right, Lindsay?"

She stared out the window at the world flashing by. "Nope."

"Oh boy," Grandpa muttered. I hope we can pull this off. The first time the kids let us take the grandkids. Ten years. We just need to return them in one piece. A bonus would be if they enjoyed themselves.

They drove from Lynnwood to Anacortes and the ferry dock, the kids in sullen silence, except for the occasional question.

"There won't be any spiders, will there?" Lindsay asked.

"Last time a dozen carried off a little kid," Grandpa said. Grandma swatted his arm.

Silence.

Ryan: "What if there's bears?"

Grandpa smiled. "We'll see about that."

Silence.

Grandpa slid the little Ranger pickup and pop top tent trailer into its spot, no trouble.

~

They say you can't beat the Pacific Northwest if you visit it during the long hot summer... and hopefully it occurred on a weekend. The water looked steel gray against the clear blue sky. Grandpa inhaled the salty cool air. Lindsay stood at the rail of the ferry, her hair blowing straight behind her. Grandma patted her on the back as Ryan ran from the bow to the stern.

Grandpa shook his head at Ryan. "Whew, that kid can run."

"Grandpa?" Lindsay turned and her hair blew over her face. "Do these ferries sink often?"

"Sink? No. I've never heard of one sinking." He couldn't recall a Washington ferry mishap, but thought he remembered one sinking in Turkey or England, perhaps another in Canada. Best to leave it alone. "They're made of steel."

"Steel? Then how can they float? Preston Keeler rode his bike into Lake Stickney and it sank right to the bottom."

"Well... the steel is in a hull shape that displaces the water... it keeps it afloat."

"But the bike had tires with air in them. The ship doesn't."

Grandpa looked to Grandma for help. She smiled. "You're doing great."

The city of San Juan grew larger on the shoreline and the captain announced drivers needed to return to their cars. Grandma and Lindsay stepped away from the rail, but Grandpa stayed, watching the dock loom from shore. Ryan dithered.

"Grandpa?" Lindsay said, "We're supposed to go to the truck."

"I like to watch the boat docking."

Grandma turned her. "Let's go. There's no talking to him."

Ryan watched them leave. "Shouldn't we go?"

"We've got plenty of time. Our truck is near the rear of the line. Watch the ship dock. It's really cool."

The salt air grew thicker as the ferry eased past fishing boats, pleasure boats, and sailboats, their naked masts pointing to the sky. Friday Harbor, with its period houses, loomed larger. The round nose of the ferry's deck disappeared under the steel dock ramp, the pilings pushing the boat to center from either side.

"Cool," Ryan said.

"Okay, now we have to run down to the truck." Grandpa took off at a sprint, then double timed it down the stairs. Great plan. Now the kid tumbles down the stairs, and I'm the bad guy. He looked back. Ryan hustled down the steps, doing fine. The list didn't include walking placidly down stairways anyway. They got into the truck just as the car before them took off.

Grandma shook her head. "Boys."

~

They arrived and set up camp, Grandma and Grandpa doing most of the heavy lifting, the kids begrudgingly doing small tasks. Grandpa stood with his hands on his hips and surveyed the erected tent trailer. "Perfect."

"Can I see in it?" Lindsay asked.

"Sure."

She peered inside. "It's really little."

"We sleep in the front while you and your brother have the rear."

"Where's the bathroom?"

"Come here." Grandpa walked outside to the back of the trailer, Lindsay in tow. He pointed over the hill to a square wooden building in the grass, a hundred yards away. "Right there."

"We have to walk there?"

"Yes. With your feet. It'll be horrible."

"What if it's night time?"

"Then you put on a sweat shirt over your jammies and hike down there. You might want to wear shoes. Perhaps your red high heels."

She elbowed him in the ribs. "Oh, Grandpa. Okay, that's where the bathroom is. Okay."

~

Grandpa swept the flashlight around the woods. "Snipes hide behind trees. They stick to the ground, so keep looking low." He searched for and picked up numerous sticks and handed them to the kids. "Take these and follow me." Of course they would; they probably couldn't find Grandma and the campsite on their own. He found a clearing and gathered the children.

"Snipes hear only high voices. Mine won't work. So you two need to venture out on... "

"Alone?" Lindsay shivered.

"It's better."

Ryan said, "No way I'm going alone."

"Okay, okay. Just both of you stay really close together. Pound the sticks together and yell, "Here snipe, here snipe."

"What if we get one?" Ryan tapped the sticks together.

"It'll follow you. Just bring him back to me and whack!" Grandpa smacked the stick into his palm. The kids jumped. "I'll whack him and we'll be eating tasty snipe tomorrow night."

"What's snipe taste like?" Lindsay hugged herself.

"Like chicken. Okay, now off with you two."

The kids walked away at a snail's pace, clacking the sticks and calling, "Here snipe, here snipe."

Perfect.

Soon a scream pieced the darkness and the two ran back, their flashlights zigzagging like lightning. They burst into the clearing and ran behind Grandpa.

"We saw one," Ryan panted. "Really big. With huge red eyes."

"I didn't see it, but I wasn't waiting around. What if it caught us?"

"Let's just wait here and see," Grandpa said.

Ryan wrapped his arms around his legs. "Why don't we go back to the tent?"

~

They slid the kayaks to shore. Ryan jumped into the water and helped drag the boys' boat to shore. "That was so cool." Lindsay sat in the stern and waited for Grandma to drag the little boat to dry ground. She scratched her arms. "What are these bumps? They itch."

Grandma groaned. "Mosquito bites. Grandpa, we missed item 6-B."

"Oops. Well, at least we remembered 3-A—sunscreen." We'll never get more than one trip. "That's something."

~

"There was a dog that had a farmer, Ognib was his name," they sang. "O, G, NIB... O, G, NIB... O, G, NIB... Ognib was his name." Lindsay and Ryan laughed and hooted. They all sang it three times. Afterward, Lindsay talked about girls who treated her badly and Ryan talked about getting in trouble at school for fighting. The conversation waned as the fire grew larger, the night darker.

Lindsay stared at the fire, the flames licking along the logs as it hissed and spat. She rotated her marshmallow as Grandma directed. Grandpa threw another log onto the inferno and the sparks flew upward, the evergreen trees above encircling it like a chimney. The scent of fir trees hung thick in the air.

"Grandpa, Ryan says you know the story of Scar Bear. Do you really?"

He stirred the embers at the edge with a long stick, shoving some toward the center. "I do."

"Can you tell it to us?"

"Naw, you're not old enough." He patted her on the shoulder. "Both of you'd be up all night."

"I'm eight," Ryan said. His marshmallow erupted into flames once again. "Dangit." He flicked it into the fire, the creamy mess shriveling into nothing.

Grandma patted his arm. "You need to keep it moving, and farther from the flames." She fitted on another marshmallow.

"And I'm ten. We're old enough." Lindsay crossed her arms over her chest like that settled it.

He looked at her body language. "Okay. I'll tell you about Scar Bear."

"Please ,Grandpa, no," Grandma warned. "They won't sleep."

Ryan said, "Why not?"

Lindsay tugged on his arm. "Tell us the Scar Bear story. It's scary, right?"

"Oh, a little," Grandpa chuckled.

"Oh, please please."

Ryan assembled his s'more, almost pure white this time, and snuggled into Grandma. "You'll protect me, right?"

Grandma patted his knee. "Sure. Oh, go ahead, Grandpa."

He got another log and tossed it on the inferno and the flames grew, the glow lighting up the trees surrounding them. Standing with his back to the fire, the light illuminated him, but his face looked dark, foreboding. He lowered his voice.

"Not far from here on San Juan Island, a family of four made a nice big campfire at their site."

"Sort of like this one?" Ryan asked.

"Yes."

"Don't interrupt him," Lindsay said.

Grandpa held up a finger. "But it was a mom and dad and two girls. So it was different, really. Outside the camp, just beyond the fire's light, sat a bear."

"Was it Scar Bear? Was he scary?" Ryan asked.

Lindsay hit him with her elbow. "Don't interrupt. Was he scary, Grandpa?"

"Oh, no no." He leaned back and clasped his knee with his hands. "And he wasn't Scar Bear. He was... "

"Was he another bear?" Ryan asked.

"Stop interrupting. Was he?" Lindsay removed her marshmallow, a nice suntan brown. She slid it between the graham crackers and a slab of chocolate.

"He was just a bear. A nice bear. He ate berries and stayed clear of people. Oh, sometimes he'd knock over a garbage can and grab some old pizza boxes or something. That's why we have those special garbage cans. It keeps the bears away from the campers."

Lindsay peered into the darkness toward a single yellow light, emanating from the restrooms. "That looks like a regular garbage can."

Grandpa looked where she pointed. "Well, I'll be. I guess it is. Anyway, the bear stayed clear of people, but he liked to hang around in the shadows and just watch them."

Ryan swung his gaze to the darkness behind them. "Like out there."

"Yeah. Kind of. Pretty much like here."

"Grandpa," Grandma warned.

"Okay, sorry." He stood with his hands behind his back. "He watched the family as they laughed, ate s'mores, talked, and fed the fire. After a few hours they went to bed and didn't put the fire out. It had burned down pretty good so they didn't worry about it. But the wind picked up and some embers from the fire blew over into the woods. The bear saw the embers ignite the bushes and become a fire. Then the tree caught fire. Soon lots of trees caught fire and it became a forest fire. The wind blew toward the bear. He ran for his life but the fire caught him. The bear burrowed down behind a fallen tree and lived, but he lost some of his front claws, lost the hair on his back, and got a huge scar from a burning branch that fell on him. It ran from his snout to the middle of his back. He ended up with just two claws on one front paw." He held up two fingers, looking curled and misshapen.

"What happened to the family?" Lindsay asked.

Grandpa sat down and poked the fire with a stick. "The ranger got them out of there. Anyway, Scar Bear survived. He wandered the woods of San Juan Island and lived his life like a normal bear. But he remembered that fire." Grandpa tapped his temple. "Most of the time he avoided people.

"Later some people went camping but no one heard from them for a while. The rangers went looking for them and when they found the campsite, all they found were some arms and legs... some shredded clothes. The fire pit had been torn up, the tent all ripped to pieces, and there were scratch marks on their car and in the trees. The marks were like bear claws, but some were missing." He held up his two fingers, hooked and claw shaped. "Lot of blood."

Grandma patted his knee. "Easy, Grandpa."

Ryan shivered. Grandma pulled him tighter.

"Well, they searched the island for the bear and couldn't find anything. Like he just disappeared or something.

"Things got back to normal until one night some campers stayed in a campground and nearby another group sat around a fire. Big bunch, about eight people. The first group went to bed and late that night, they heard screaming and roaring. They were so scared they hunkered down in their tent, afraid to even look out. Next day, same thing. All tore up, scratch marks, and the fire pit wrecked."

"Scar Bear," Lindsay whispered, her eyes huge, the fire reflected in them. She held up two fingers.

"That's right." Grandpa threw another log on the pyre and sparks flew up into the black darkness. "The rangers figured out that Scar Bear watched campsites and if people didn't put out their fires, he would remember the wildfire and go crazy. They say he's still out there somewhere, watching to make sure campers smother their flames." Grandpa sat down and crossed his feet and hands. Lindsay shivered. The fire licked at the logs and an occasional spark erupted from the embers.

"Well," Grandpa patted Lindsay's knee, "you kids better go potty and then off to bed."

Grandpa held Ryan's hand and the flashlight and Grandma and Lindsay held hands as they all walked to the restroom. Inside, the girls talked and prepped. Lindsay finished brushing her hair and set the brush on the counter.

Grandma picked it up. "Do you ever clean the hair out of your brush?"

"Ew. I hate it. It's so disgusting."

"What? It's your hair. It was in your head a few minutes ago."

"I know, but it's so gross."

"Now getting hair out of the drain, that's pretty disgusting."

"Yuck, I would never do that."

Grandma pulled the hair out and dropped it in the trash.

"Grandma, you are so brave."

~

Grandma ushered the kids toward the tent as the old man settled beside the fire. Ryan ran to him and hugged him.

"Good night."

"'Night, Ryan."

He stood and faced the fire. "Can we put it out now?"

"Not yet. Grandma and I are going to stay up awhile."

Grandma settled the two into their sleeping bags, kissed them goodnight, and zipped the tent shut. A moment later, Lindsay let out a scream that would wake every animal in a hundred yard radius.

Grandpa chuckled. "What's that? Spider number...?"

"Counting last night? Four." She stood and marched toward the tent. "And that's enough." She unzipped the tent. "What is it?"

Lindsay stood in the center and pointed at her sleeping bag. "Spider."

"Oh, for the love of... Here." Grandma took one of Lindsay's shoes and handed it to her.

She shook her head. "I can't."

"You have two choices, young lady. Kill it or sleep with it."

Lindsay fiddled with the shoe. She closed her eyes and swung. Missed. The spider scuttled under her sleeping bag. "Now what do we do?"

Grandma swept the bag away. "Hit it! Now!"

Lindsay smacked, missed, hit again and smashed it. She held up the shoe like the Statue of Liberty. "I got him."

Grandma handed her a Kleenex. Now wipe it up."

"Seriously?"

"You can do it."

She held the tissue at arm's length and wiped it up, then held it out. "Could you...?"

Grandma smiled. "No problem." She got her tucked in and returned to the fire and threw the tissue into it.

"Did she do it?" Grandpa stirred the embers.

"She did."

"Isn't spiders number 7-A? 'Lindsay is afraid of spiders, so please take care of them for her.'"

"By my count, we've broken twelve of their rules."

"We'll just have to live with the guilt."

~

Driving back, Grandma said, "Who wants to learn some songs?"

"Yes!" The kids said in unison.

"We'll start with 'Old MacDonald'."

They sang songs, played I Spy, the Alphabet Game, and even a bit of Truth or Dare, a little difficult in a pickup truck.

When they arrived back home, the kids jumped out and ran up the driveway almost before the truck made a complete stop. Tracy and Jeff opened the door to the two kids talking over one another.

"We rode bikes all over the place. I almost ran over a squirrel."

"I chopped wood with an axe."

"I got to start the fire."

"We went fishing. I caught a twelve pound silver."

"I touched fish guts."

"No, you didn't. You touched his scales."

"Same thing; it was slimy."

"I cut off his head with a really sharp knife."

"I found a starfish and threw it back in the water."

"We went snipe hunting."

"I saw one."

"No you didn't."

"We ate a lot of s'mores."

"A lot."

"We learned about the Pig War."

"We kayaked all over the lake. Ryan almost fell in."

"Did not."

"Did so."

~

They walked into the house and fell into the double recliner. "Great job, Grandpa." Grandma held her hand up for a high five.

He slapped it and laughed. "We pulled it off. And got the kids back in one piece. A few skeeter bites, a couple of cuts and bruises, no big deal."

"I thought Tracy would choke when you returned the two cases of bottled water. 'Saved you some money.' It was all I could do not to laugh out loud."

~

Grandpa's phone rang. "Hello."

"You had to tell them the Scar Bear story?"

"Yep. So?"

"They both spent the night in our bed."

"That's awesome."

"Not funny."

"Just tell them there's no bears in Lynnwood, and no bears on San Juan Island. Also, son, I checked the list, and Scar Bear wasn't on it."

Jeff sighed into the phone. "Dad, you're killing me."

~

The four girls sat inside the tent in Lindsay's back yard, their eyes fixed on her, with a flashlight pointed under her chin, her face looking macabre and surreal. She held up two fingers and hooked them. "They say he's still out there somewhere, watching to make sure people put out their fires."

## Alaska

Coldfoot, Alaska, earned its name because during the gold rush, hordes of people turned back from there, suffering from cold feet, both figuratively and literally. On the 50 States tour, I flew up and rented a dual sport bike, Quilter Girl content to stay behind at her folks' place in Seattle.

The ride to Prudhoe Bay is what you'll see on Ice Road Truckers, a remote and dangerous place. It's much better in the summertime, and riding a dual sport bike (BMW GS800) proved to be a great idea.

The story is taken from a real trucker, told to me some time before the trip. Crazy.

I turned back at Coldfoot, too. Not because of cold feet, but the trip to Prudhoe Bay would take two days of riding through desolate countryside, and I thought I could tour better elsewhere. No regrets.

### COLD FEET

"Jimmy, this trip you cut across Galbraith Lake. Takes off about twenty miles." Darren, the truck boss, pointed to the map. Old school.

"Is it safe?"

"Yeah. Bradley's boys been running it all week."

What could I say, particularly being the rookie? If they declared it safe, it must be okay.

The dry ice of winter stung my face and burned in my throat as I stepped out of the place. I headed out through the snow to a '99 Peterbilt. The truck started after considerable cranking. It didn't like the cold either. Yesterday I had picked up a trailer of food to take to Prudhoe Bay. Today I'd finish the last leg of the trip, 240 miles of snow and ice. And back, of course.

Television has glorified Ice Road Truckers, making the job seem glamorous. Nothing could be further from the truth. Getting out in subfreezing weather and moving forty tons of killing machine through frozen backwoods is no picnic.

I've trucked all over the United States, and a friend assured me I'd make bank in Alaska, particularly in the winter. How bad could it be, driving with the heater on, steady work, and low cost of living, since we would bunk in the Coldfoot Motel, with nothing around to waste money on.

I should have figured it out at the 'motel.' The building, a throwback to the pipeline project in the 70s, was just crude dorms with particle board bathrooms stuck in them. No cell service. No Internet. One television in the common room, playing something in a screen of snow. Snow everywhere.

And the low cost of living? Right. Two hundred bucks a night for the room, and spendy meals at the only restaurant for over two hundred miles either way. All that would have been okay, but we drove day and night through horrible conditions—make that night and night. It's almost never daylight.

Yet I persevered. Then the big shots came up with a shortcut. Driving across the lake made sense, as the ice must be two feet thick and the road smooth and fast. Cuts an hour off the haul. Everyone loves that.

I made it northbound with the trailer fully loaded and dropped off the food at Prudhoe. Driving back the trailer swayed behind me, loose without a load to keep it stable. I turned off the road right where Darren indicated and cut across the lake. The run across the lake must have been thirty miles. Ten miles into it the pale sun set and it got black right away. Another ten and we had problems.

The headlights shone on the ice and made for a white glare that could hypnotize the driver. A solid sheet of white. Then I saw something different, all right.

Water.

I don't know when it started or how far back, but I saw water over the ice. My blood ran as cold as the liquid beneath the truck. Stopping, I opened the door and checked the depth. The water lapped against the bottom step; must be a foot deep. How does water get on top of ice? A frozen river could break through and cover it, or the ice could have been broken, perhaps by another truck. But water on ice makes it weaker, both because it softens it and it adds weight to the load of the truck on the ice. I tried the CB.

"Anybody out on Galbraith Lake?"

Nothing but static.

Well, I couldn't sit there until the truck fell through. I jammed it in gear and headed south, my mind whirling. Soon the water splashed ahead of the truck, meaning the bumper sloshed through it. Must have been eighteen inches deep. It splattered up on the windshield and I turned on the wipers. They pushed some away, but most of it froze to the glass, and I watched my twenty inch window to the world shrinking. I jacked up the defrost to stave off the oncoming ice.

Since the water sprayed so much off the bumper, there was no choice but to slow down. The speedometer showed twenty. So much for the shortcut.

Then it got worse. I could tell when the water rose over the headlights. I gripped the wheel and thought of the awful options. The truck just drives into the lake through the hole and I'm dead. The water refreezes, the truck gets stuck, and I die cold and slower. Would another truck cross? Had they told each other of the hazard? What if the engine sucked in water and quit? I couldn't wade out in this stuff; it was forty below and I'd die in ten minutes. Not to mention walking through ice water up to my knees. Five minutes. Suppose I broke an air line? I have a spare and tools to fix it, but the exposure to the cold would kill me.

The engine labored and made a funny noise. I figured it out. The fan blades spun through the water. That would be ironic. Break the fan blades off, the engine overheats and quits and I freeze out here. Frozen from an overheated engine. I unclenched each hand from the wheel and shook them, one at a time. Got to get a grip, but not like that with my hands.

The view through the windshield shrank further from ice buildup outside and fog inside. I felt the air from the defrost. Lukewarm. If I didn't get this truck out of the water soon I was dead.

I tried the CB again, with the same dismal results. The lights illuminated two pie shapes, only fifty feet through the water. As slow as I went, twenty miles an hour, I almost overdrove the headlights. My breath came out in clouds, adding moisture to the inside of the windows.

The wind blew ice crystals and snow from right to left. Between the ice on the window, the snow and the underwater lights, my vision shrunk to a few feet. I checked the GPS on the dash. Thank God for it, we ran on track. Looked like a couple miles to go. Might as well have been a thousand.

I wiped the sweat from my eyes and used a rag to clean the fog off the windshield. The gauges looked normal... no. I groaned. The water temperature stood at 290 degrees. Dear God no, please don't melt down on me.

The GPS blue line of our journey crawled along the lake. I seesawed from staring out the windshield to peering at the temperature gauge to glancing at the GPS and willing it to the lakeshore. Even a quarter mile would mean certain death, no chance of getting to help. Actually, even fifty feet from shore I would swim in, then succumb to the elements. This became an all-or-nothing deal. Make it to the shore and live. Don't and don't.

The gauge crept up to 300, moving entirely too quickly while the blue line on the GPS crawled to the lake edge. Glancing to the side, I realized that all the windows were frozen inside and out. The two circles of vision in the front shrank to the size of coffee cups.

Next the gauges fogged over from my breath and the cold. I started making deals with God, promising church every Sunday and no cussing around my wife and kids.

Finally, at last, the truck rolled up onto terra firma and I felt the tension ease in my shoulders. I accelerated and upshifted, not too fast as I didn't need the slick tires sliding on the snow. I pulled the truck over at a flat spot so I would be able to start again and got out to survey the damage. The wind shrieked, ice crystals stinging my face. Who cared? Way better than swimming.

Ice shrouded the body like an old man's beard. As the tires stopped and cooled, they turned white. I popped the latches and tried to raise the hood, but it stuck fast, frozen. The engine sounded okay, however. I climbed into the cab. The gauge already dropped to 275. I slipped it into gear and headed to Coldfoot.

Every mile, the truck improved. The fan blades must have shed heavy ice and the engine sounded smooth. The water returned to operating temperature, and the heater blew warm air, melting two bigger circles in the windshield.

When I arrived at Coldfoot, I parked in the truck area and left it running. I walked into the motel and greeted Tanya at the front desk. I set my gas card on the counter.

"Tell Darren I quit."

Tanya didn't even look up from her romance novel. She'd seen it a hundred times before. "Okay, Jimmy."

I walked to my Toyota pickup and fired it up. Went to the dorm and packed up my stuff, which took only a few minutes. Threw the stuff in the back seat. Popped the truck in gear and eased out of Coldfoot. Headed south. I'll keep going until I can't see snow. Anywhere.

## Hawaii

We met a couple who lived in Hawaii during dinner at an outdoor patio. They left the mainland ten years before and hadn't looked back. They built a house in Ocean View (what a nice sounding place) and touted its advantages; it was off the beaten track, land prices were much cheaper there, and if you owned a house for less than a hundred thousand dollars, you paid no property taxes. It sounded idyllic, an affordable place to live in paradise.

A few days later we rode to Ocean View. Surprise! We somehow missed the part about it being a lava bed, with people living in old busses, yurts, and inside lava tubes. Dumpy houses and trailers sat on black lava fields with huge swimming pools in their back yards. Not swimming pools, the pools stored rain water. Most had no electricity, using generators when necessary.

Every wealthy city—or state—has cheap places to live. And while it lacked so many amenities, one could live on the Big Island cheaply.

### LAVA TUBE

"Hey, son, you look great." Chris Bateman held him by his shoulders after the hug.

Seth grimaced as he took in his father's surprising look. He wore a faded Hawaiian shirt, dirty white shorts, and cheap flip flops. His gray hair hung down over his ears from under the straw hat. And the beard? It looked like he hadn't cut or trimmed it in two years, which was true.

"Dad, you look... it's good to see you."

"Go ahead, say it. I look like crap." He gestured for him to sit and did the same. "No more thousand dollar suits."

"I guess." Seth looked out at Kona Bay, where a tender shuttled cruise ship guests and dropped them ashore. A couple struggled to stand on their paddle boards while swimmers wearing caps followed buoys out from shore. Dad pointed. "That's where the Ironman Triathlon starts. I'm thinking about entering next year."

"Really? Could you do that?"

"I've lost fifty pounds." He pulled his shirt tight against his belly. "I've been training. I could probably do the swim and the biking, but the running? I don't know. Probably not. Why not try?"

Seth knew if the man wanted to do something, then by golly, he would do it. He imagined his old man crossing the finish line with arms extended, then losing consciousness.

A waitress appeared.

"Nancy, this is my son, Seth."

She shook his hand. "Nice to meet you. We all love your father."

"Right," he mumbled into his menu. Love? Feared, yes. Respected, for sure. But he'd never heard love, even from Mom, God rest her soul.

The woman took their order and returned with two orange juices. Seth sipped it. Fresh, cold, and tangy. "Oh, this is good. No wonder you're here."

"Way more reasons than that, son. This lifestyle, the people, relaxed... aloha."

Apparently aloha explained everything. Why Dad, the president and founder of Bateman Shipping, changed from CEO to Chairman of the Board, moved to Hawaii, and almost disappeared.

"How's Cassandra?"

"She's worried about you, Dad."

"Worried?"

"We all are, really. I mean, you Skype for the Board meetings and all, but... really?" He looked around at the shops, people in swimsuits and shorts milling about, the restaurant with no walls. "We're just concerned. You've checked out."

"I've checked in, son. I'll show you later. Nancy, can we get those mahi mahi tacos?"

She nodded and wrote it down.

"Thanks, darling."

Darling?

"She's as sweet as they get." To Seth she looked like any other waitress. "You'll love these tacos. They aren't on the menu, but Steve—he's the chef—he makes them for me. Great guy. How was your flight?"

"Okay. Took the Gulfstream and slept. No problem." He pulled out his phone and touched the screen.

"What are you doing?"

"Texting Cassandra. Letting her know you're okay." He held it up and clicked. "Sending her a photo, too." He frowned at the screen, then tapped at the face.

"What's up?"

"Oh, just a few little problems. Denver. No big deal. One more here." He tapped the phone.

Chris pushed his son's hand down. "Come on, son. Let it go for a bit. Enjoy the scenery. What a beautiful day, right?"

"Yeah, it's great. So Dad, Cassandra and I are worried about you. I mean, you're the big tycoon, making deals, getting things done, and what? Suddenly you take a vacation to Hawaii and don't come back? That's messed up."

"Son, believe me when I tell you I've checked in. I'll give you the tour."

"Okay." Was this the same man? Mr. Seventy Hours a Week?

The tacos arrived and the men commenced eating. Seth texted a couple of times. Chris patted his hand. "Son, please. Can't we just enjoy this meal together?"

"Just... you know... Dad, business. Just this one left. Remember you used to say, 'Leave it alone and it comes back with interest.'"

He nodded. "I did, didn't I?"

"Okay." He slid the phone away. "You have my undivided attention."

"Wait 'til you see my place. I've been working on it since I got the property. Just about finished. Very different." His eyes twinkled at the memory.

~

They finished lunch and Seth insisted on paying. "So. Let's see your house."

"You got a car?"

"Yeah. Land Rover. Across the street." He pointed to a gleaming gray SUV. "Behind that junky bike." Ahead of Seth's rental sat an old red Honda motorcycle, with a plastic milk bin on the back fender. And rust.

"That's mine."

"That's yours?"

"Yep. Just follow me."

They drove South on Highway 11 for the better part of an hour until the beat-up Honda turned up a steep paved road that bisected a lava field. Houses sat on the black rock, some on stilts, others looked like mobile homes or prefab things. Rusted cars and trucks rested in peace alongside the houses. Other lanes turned right and left, and the road narrowed until it became one lane with borders of heavy black rocks. It veered left and entered a clearing. Seth parked next to an old Isuzu pickup and stepped out, avoiding the mud on his freshly shined shoes.

"Over this way." His father strode off across a rock path. Seth followed until they came to a yawning hole into darkness.

"You live in a cave?"

"A lava tube." He walked to a wrought iron fence and gate. Opening it, he stepped in and held the gate for Seth. He flicked on a light switch. "I've got a solar array and a windmill for power. I've got a great catchment system for showers and dishes and such and use bottled water for drinking. Come on."

Dad led him deeper into the tube, the small lights struggling to dispel the darkness from the black walls. The floor shone smooth with stained concrete, and rattan furniture graced the 'rooms.' Seth clicked photos as they went. A white shed stood to the right.

"I got this at Lowe's. It's a shed, but I fixed it up. It's my secure room." He opened the door and held out his hand like a car salesman showing off a new Bentley.

Seth entered and clicked off another shot. He punched 'Dad's place' and texted it to his sister. The room held a double bed, neatly made with a small nightstand and a lamp. A dresser stood against the wall off the foot of the bed. Shelves lined with books covered the walls. Two bulbs illuminated the room. Dad led the way into the kitchen, with an old fridge and wooden chairs.

"This is it?" Seth asked. Thank God Cassandra hadn't come.

Dad held his chin up, a challenge. "Yep. I love it here."

"You're kidding, right? You could buy any villa in Hawaii, and you chose this?"

"Sit down." Dad indicated a wicker chair. "You want a drink?"

"Scotch."

As Dad prepared the drinks, Seth scanned the tube and grimaced. His phone chirped and he checked it. Cassandra texted, 'Has he lost his mind?'

'Looks like it.'

Dad brought the drinks and sat. An uncomfortable silence permeated the lava walls. He cleared his throat. "Let me try to explain something."

Seth took a deep drink. "Can't wait."

"Have you asked yourself the question yet?"

"What would that be?"

Dad set down his drink, leaned in, his elbows on his knees. His eyes bored into Seth's. "How much crap do I need?"

"No, Dad, I haven't asked that question." He stood and paced. "I've asked, 'What would Dad do? How can I squeeze another dime out of fuel economy? How can I keep those trucks rolling? How can I defer taxes this year? How can I keep loaded trucks moving product across the country? How can I maximize market share?' Those are the questions I ask myself, questions you taught me to ask. Remember, we're building a dynasty, 'The Bateman Project'; that's what you called it and that's what we still call it.

"We—Cassandra and I—get up and go. Every day. And every day those trucks, those rail cars, those planes, they go. Every day. So we're on it, building building, building. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, we move stuff. It never stops. It better not stop. Because you said, and I quote, 'You're either growing or shrinking. Which way do you want it?' And every single day, I want it to grow. It's what I was taught, how I was wired, what you poured into my brain, my DNA every day. I get it. And I'm on it." He stopped pacing and looked around the austere interior. "But where's Dad? Off to Hawaii, checked out. And I come here to see what you're up to, and you're living in a cave."

"A lava tube."

"Whatever. If the Board or the shareholders saw this, the Bateman Shipping stock would tank."

Dad chuckled. "Sit down and finish your drink. I'd like to take you for a drive."

Seth checked the time on his phone. "I can do that. Then I need to go. Three meetings tomorrow."

They finished the drinks and Chris led his son to the parking area. "We'll take my truck." They climbed into the beat-up cream and rust-colored truck. Seth shoved some food wrappers aside with his foot and frowned. His phone chirped and he peered at the screen, then tapped a reply.

"Never run out of things to do, huh?" Chris backed the truck around and headed up the hill. He pointed to what looked like an above ground swimming pool with a cover. "Catchment system. All my water's in there."

"Right. Wonderful."

Dad turned the truck around and Seth answered another text.

"You're married to that thing. Never ends, does it?"

"No." Seth scrolled through emails. "If we did, we'd be in trouble, right?"

They wound down through the moonscape, Dad pointing out neighbors places. "Harvey Jameson lives there. Great guy. That's Marv's place. He's been here ten years. Jerry just got his driveway graded. That's his converted bus. Just a super human being."

Seth grunted replies and focused on the screen.

They rolled into Kialua-Kona and Chris drove into the industrial area. They pulled into a parking lot of a run-down commercial office space and he shut off the truck. "Come on, I want you to meet some people."

Seth pocketed his phone and they walked to an office with dirty windows and a battered door. An empty whiskey bottle leaned against the wall. Inside, at a cluttered desk sat an obese Hawaiian woman. "Chris!" she yelled and jumped up to hug him. Seth gaped. He'd never seen anyone hug his dad before. "How are you?" She patted his cheek. "You look great."

"I am. Alani, I'd like you to meet my son, Seth."

Seth held out a hand. She pushed it away and hugged him. "You are so blessed with a daddy like this." Releasing him, she turned to Dad. "You working today?"

"No, I just wanted to show Seth around."

"It's not much, but we help many people. Come, I'll show you." Alani gave them the grand tour of the offices, warehouse, and receiving room. Dirty homeless people sat in plastic chairs and talked with one another. Seth tried to hold his breath against the stench of old sweat and booze. The workers greeted him and each fussed about what a wonderful man Dad was, how he worked there twice a week, and helped all he could.

As they exited, Seth shook his head. "I don't get it."

"What, son?"

"You could put money into that place... new offices, showers, or even put those bums in hotels... get them new clothes."

"I give them plenty of money. I try to be careful where and how I give. But what I give here is time. It helps to see people like Haloa."

"Who?"

"Haloa. I introduced him to you. Skinny kid, he wore an old army fatigue jacket."

"Oh. Right."

"He's an alcoholic. He'll probably die on the streets. But meanwhile I help him get through." Dad started the truck and exited the parking lot. "Let's get some lunch."

He stopped at a light. "I sent Haloa to a treatment center. Really nice place. Got him cleaned up. His eyes got clear, his mind, too. So excited. A day after he got out, back drunk again."

"So it's hopeless."

Dad glanced over. "Sort of. But I give him some comfort while he's here, anyway." They parked and walked to the Fishing Hole Restaurant, outdoor again with a table right above the water.

Seth tapped his screen and set the phone down. "Dad, Cassandra and I are concerned."

"Son, I—"

"Hang on. Let me speak my peace." Taking a deep breath he spoke. "You've abandoned the company, gone off to this island, left the family, and now you're living in a cave."

"Lava tube."

"Right. What we've decided is to vote you out as Chairman of the Board, in fact off the Board altogether, and terminate your employment at the company."

Dad sat back and peered at his son. "And the reason for that?"

"Well, as I said, you've left everything."

"Let me ask you some questions. Who started this company?"

"Dad, please don't make this any harder than it is. It's not about the past, it's about the present and future."

"Have I missed a single Board meeting?"

"You've missed them all. Since you left."

"No, I've Skyped every one. Has any crime been committed?"

"No, sir."

"Has all my input been in the best interest of the company?"

"You're making this difficult."

"Yes, I am. I started this company with five thousand dollars I borrowed from your grandmother."

"Dad, I know." His cell chirped. He picked it up, glared at the screen, tapped a reply, and set it on the table.

His dad picked up the phone and threw it in the water. Seth stood and ran to the wall and looked over at the water. "You—you threw my phone in the ocean?"

"Sit down, son." You can get another one when we're finished." He sat back and rubbed his chin. "Here's what I propose. You and your sister take a four-day weekend. You come over to the island, stay with me. We'll have a retreat and you can both learn about what's important in life."

Seth frowned. This wasn't turning out anything like Cassandra and he imagined. "This is our option?"

He nodded. "That's the deal. And I figure it's about a billion dollar deal. So if you want to do it, call your sister, and we'll set it up."

"I can't. You threw my phone in the water."

"Oh, that's right. I have a cell phone at the house. Or you can call her after you've bought another. You've probably had that one for six weeks anyway, so it was obsolete."

~

Cassandra and Seth met Dad at the airport and even though Seth warned her, she shrieked with revulsion at the sight of her father. "God help you, what's happened? Are you starving?"

"What?" Dad looked at his faded shirt. "Of course not. I'm training for the Ironman Triathlon."

Cassandra turned to Seth, questioning. "I forgot to tell you about that. Yeah. He's going to enter."

"Are you mental? What if you get eaten by a shark?"

"What? No, of course not. I'll be so far back the shark would have to have passed up a thousand people."

She groaned. "Let's get through this."

Dad took them all over the island, meeting people at the homeless shelter, the food bank, and a women's shelter. On Sunday he got up early, fixed them breakfast in the lava tube, and informed them they were going to church.

"What?" Seth stood with hands on his hips. "What happened to 'Church is for weak people'?"

Dad pointed at him and smiled. "That's right. You remember. I still believe that."

Solid Rock Church met in an old pole barn type building, perched along the water. Once again Dad introduced them to all his friends who fussed about what a wonderful man their father was, how much he'd helped the church and its causes. After the service, they stood outside Dad's truck. The truth dawned on Seth. "No one knows you're wealthy, do they?"

"What? Oh no. You know how that works. It complicates things. People expect things from you. They think you're smarter than you are. And they all want something. If the pastor knew what I was worth, he'd be taking me to lunch and talking about vision, and the new roof, a cool baptistery or something."

"So you lead a double life." Cassandra tapped the rusty cab of the truck.

"Not really. I lead this life. I just don't share the money part. But if you think about it, no one else does either. Like Nohokai."

"Who?"

"The guitar player. I introduced him. I have no idea what he makes, what he spends, or anything."

"It's a little different," Cassandra said, "It isn't like he's a seven figure guy."

"It's nobody's business. Jump in. Let's get some lunch."

They crowded into the truck and rode to the Fishing Hole. Seth stopped. "Promise you won't throw our phones in the sea." Cassandra's mouth dropped open. "Oh yeah, he tossed mine in the drink last time."

"Only if you manage them. That is, leave them off."

Cassandra sat facing the water. "Dad, it's a twenty-four hour business."

"I know that, but you should have learned to delegate by now, so you can get away once in a while. Do either of you have hobbies?" They shook their heads. "Opposite sex attractions?"

Cassandra shrugged. "Maybe."

Seth shook his head no.

"Taken any good vacations lately?" He looked from one to the other. "Oh, come on. Okay, Cassandra, have you thought about the chase?"

She looked confused. "The chase."

"Yes. How much money would it take to be satisfied?"

Pursing her lips, she said, "Well, I used to think a million dollars. Then five. Twenty maybe?"

"And when you hit twenty, what would it be?"

"I see where this is going. Probably fifty."

"Right. The BMW becomes the Mercedes, which becomes the Ferrari, which becomes the Bentley. And you have to keep cranking it to keep up. You're a super big shot and your time is so valuable that you buy the Gulfstream to save time, but before long it's too small and too slow and you need a better, faster jet. Gardeners, housekeepers, personal assistants, and it's more more more. When is it enough? Seth?"

"When we have twice the market share of our number two competitor."

"Wow. You learned that from the old man, huh?"

"That's right."

Dad took a bite of his fish taco and chewed. "Somehow you need a balanced life. Vocation, leisure, health, spiritual—"

"Hey, what about spiritual, Dad?" Cassandra asked. "What's with this church thing?"

He set the taco down. "You know, I don't think either of you are ready for that talk."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Seth said.

"Maybe the next time you come over." Dad finished the second taco and wiped his mouth with the paper napkin. "So delicious. Now, old business. Last time you visited Seth, you spoke of firing me."

"Releasing you from the board."

"That's a nice way to sugar coat it. Helps you sleep at night, does it?"

"Dad," Cassandra patted his arm, "please don't make this any harder than it already is."

He looked from Seth to Cassandra. "Okay. I've thought about this, and here's my counter offer. You and your sister can vote me off the board; you have that right. But I will sell all my shares immediately. That will send the stock price into a free fall. Then I'll give away all my money, your inheritance. And believe me, I'm getting pretty good at giving away money. I'll also go public, get the press here to see the place and all my friends. Close your mouth, Seth."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Or we can do this. I'll stay on the board, Skype in, never miss a meeting, and use my vast wisdom and experience to keep the ship pointing in the right direction. No big changes, no funny business. That's my offer."

Seth tossed his napkin on his plate. "Not much of an option."

"Of course it is. If you fire me—or buy me out, however you want to sugar coat it—the company will take a huge hit and you'll lose that inheritance, but you both can rebuild. However, if you take my deal, we'll have much more comfortable Thanksgiving dinners."

Cassandra laughed. "Good point."

"We'll have to run it by the Board," Seth said.

"You do that."

They ate in silence, Cassandra glancing at her father and brother, Seth keeping his eyes on his empty plate. They finished and Dad said, "Well, then. I suppose this weekend is over. I want to thank both of you for coming over."

"Sure, Dad," Cassandra smiled.

"Right." Seth reached for the check.

They piled into the pickup and headed to the airport. Dad pulled up to the Gulfstream where the pilot waited. The steward grabbed their bags and Cassandra held out her hand to shake her father's. "Thanks for showing us around."

He swatted it aside and gave her a big hug. "I love you, Cassandra."

"Um... me, too."

Seth cleared his throat and shook his dad's hand. "Very enlightening."

"Right. I get the feeling you still consider me off the reservation."

"Completely. Yes I do."

"Cassandra?"

"I think you're finding something, and perhaps I need to find it, too. Someday."

He held her hands. "Don't wait too long. You could lose your soul."

"But you didn't."

"It could have ended differently. I don't want you to get hard."

"Okay." She nodded. "I get it."

"I hope you get it. I hope you both do."

~

The plane taxied and took off, rocketing into the sky and reaching cruising altitude in a matter of minutes. The steward presented the siblings with drinks. Facing each other in the soft leather seats, they took sips and set the drinks down. Seth wiped the condensation off the side of the glass with his finger, wiped it on the napkin and sighed. "Our father lives in a cave."

"A lava tube."

## Colorado

I stood at the edge of the viewpoint at Black Rock National Park and my sick mind came up with this scenario. It looked like a perfect spot for some guy to throw the wife over the edge. What a perfect crime. Toss in a little kid (bad choice of words) and he screws the whole thing up.

### EYEWITNESS

Tom Gibbs walked down the rock steps toward the overlook.

"Stop there, Tom. Help me. Why aren't you more caring?"

Elizabeth stood at the top of the rock steps, her lips tight. Elizabeth. Not Liz, not Beth. Certainly not sweetheart. He sighed and turned. Just a few more minutes. Put on his best smile.

"Okay, dear."

Ten years. You don't just kill someone without good planning. He held her hand as she walked down the stairs like a queen with her entourage. That's how people screw it up. All these years, and it's come to this.

He remembered the tipping point, the day she lashed out at him and he... snapped. One hot day he brought her a glass of ice water.

"You know I like the smaller glasses, dear." Emphasis on 'dear.' Smarmy. Condescending.

He stopped trying that day. Ten years ago. And he was done. But rather than go off on emotion, he planned the event and acted like the loving husband, part of the alibi, the excuse, the reason he wouldn't be suspected. Oh sure, they always suspect the spouse at first, but he planned this carefully. Three years ago he let her insurance policy lapse. That would deflect suspicion. They wouldn't know it wasn't about the money.

"Slow down."

Brother! She's on me for every little thing. His chest ached from his pounding heart. He glanced around the park, the path behind, the lodge above. He knew the place, considered every detail, so they would be just out of sight of the building. Even memorized the landscape below, so his chances of getting her to fall all the way to the bottom were maximized. No more than three seconds, watch and make sure she'd die, then run up the hill, crying and screaming for help. He even acted that out on a few solo camping trips.

He looked at her face from the side—her mouth in a permanent frown, her thin lips always tight. I want to see the shock in your eyes. May not get to see that, but it would be better.

Twenty-two years of marriage... of prison, really. It turned early from loving bliss to tolerance to... well... to this. He scanned the area. Still no one around, being off season. Perfect. Before them yawed Black Canyon, its sides plummeting a thousand feet to a river below. Trees clung to the sides like limpets, growing in impossible places. Elizabeth walked toward the fence and Tom steered her toward the right.

"What are you doing?"

"Better view from over here."

He glanced back. The lodge hid behind a tree, not a soul around. He could hear the river below, a bird in a tree nearby.

"Tom, stop pushing me—"

He picked her up and heaved her over the side. She turned and fell, rotating onto her back in the sky. I will see her face! The shock, the surprise.

She let out an alarmed cry. Instead of falling into the abyss, she hit a rock bench on her back, with a loud crack. Her eyes met his. Instead of shock and surprise he saw... what? A question. Why?

She's going to stay there, her back broken, the authorities will come and arrest me.

It seemed like an eternity as she paused on the lip, but for only a fraction of a second as the impact rolled her over the edge and she fell below and out of sight. Tom leaned over the rail and peered down. She flew into view once more—her body probably having bounced off a rock—her legs apart and one arm dangling, most likely broken. Then she flew out of view.

In spite of her light weight and the ease that he threw her over, he panted. Get a grip. She fell and you're frightened and shocked. Do this!

He spun and headed for the steps when he heard a cry and saw movement in the brush. A boy.

~

Micah Blake loved spy games, and made it a habit of hiding and tracking and watching people. Yet this time a man threw a lady off the cliff! As soon as he saw it he let out a cry and headed to the path to find his parents. He bounded up the stairs, tears streaking down his cheeks. He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder as the man grabbed him and spun him around. The guy got low and looked him in the eye. His blue eyes pierced his soul.

"Son, you didn't see anything. You got that? What's your name?" His breath smelled like coffee.

"Micah Blake." He pulled to slip the man's grasp and run away, but the man held his arms in a vise.

"Micah Blake. Where do you live?"

"M-Montrose."

"What's your address?"

He told him.

"Okay. Now I know your name and where you live and if you tell anyone, I will kill you. You know I could now, don't you?"

He nodded, a short, shaking move of his head.

"Okay, Micah." He removed one hand and patted him on the shoulder. "This is our secret. No problem. I'm going up the hill. You stay here and compose yourself, okay? Then go find your mom and dad, right?"

He nodded again, unable to speak.

He stood and ruffled his hair. "Good boy." The man walked away.

~

Tom walked toward the stairs, his footsteps heavy. Good grief! Ten years of planning and tripped up by a boy. He stopped and leaned over, his hands on his sides, panting like a runner after ten miles. Get a grip, man! Time for the shocked, frightened, grieving disbelief. Actually, the panting is okay. He took off up the stairs two at a time and ran to the lodge.

~

Micah wiped his nose on his sleeve and shivered. Looking around, he saw no one. He trudged up the steps. Must not tell. Like a secret agent, it's my secret. Our secret. He spotted his dad in the parking lot, ran up and hugged his leg.

"Hey, Micah, we missed you. You at the overlook?" He nodded into his leg. "Okay, buddy. We're going to head out." He peeled him off his leg. "Hey, you all right?"

Micah wiped his nose. "Yeah."

They walked to the car and Micah held his dad's hand. Mom caught up with them and they piled into the car. Micah looked for the man through the back window before fastening his seat belt. No one.

"Dad? Mom?"

"Yes, son."

"I need to tell you something."

Dad turned as he started backing up. "What is it, son?"

"I saw something really bad." Tears trickled down his cheeks and he wiped them with his fists.

Mom reached around and patted his knee. "What's wrong, Micah?"

"Out... outside, at the... the canyon. A man threw his wife over the edge."

Dad shook his head. "Micah. Really."

The tears cut loose now. "Honest, Dad, I was hiding in the bushes. She wore brown pants and a red jacket and he just picked her up and threw he over like she was nothing. Then he watched... I mean he looked over the edge and then he heard me." He stopped to sob and Dad shut off the car and looked at Mom. She shook her head.

"It sounds real to me. Look at him."

Micah wiped his nose on his sleeve. "He asked me my name and I told him and he asked where I live and I told him and he said he'd find me and kill me if I told anyone and now I told you and what if he finds me and kills me?"

Dad unhooked his seat belt. "We better go see the ranger." He got out of the car.

"No! I ain't going. He'll kill me; I know it." Micah crushed back into the seat.

Mom said, "I'll wait here with him. You go talk to the ranger." Mom swiveled. "You want to sit up here?"

"I'm not getting out of the car. Lock the doors."

Mom got out of the car and Micah screamed "Noooo." She opened the back door, got in and hugged him. "It'll be okay."

"Lock the doors."

~

Gary Blake walked into the visitor center to chaos. Three rangers surrounded a man, weeping and crying. One ranger keyed a radio and asked for support. Gary walked up to the group and tapped one ranger on the arm. "Excuse me?"

She turned. "Yes?"

"I... um—could we speak in private somewhere?"

"We're in the middle of an emergency."

"I know that. It's about that. Very important. There's three of you. Certainly one can break free?"

She must have caught the urgency in his voice or his mannerisms, because she excused herself. The man in the middle glanced at Gary for a second and he saw... what? A warning?

"Is this okay?" She stood off to the side of the huge window overlooking the canyon.

"Yes. Listen, my son claims he saw what happened, and that the man threw his wife over the cliff."

She looked dubious. "What?"

He nodded. "He said she wore brown pants and a red jacket and he just picked her up and tossed her over the fence, then looked over to see... I suppose, to watch her fall, then he turned and caught my son watching."

"Where was your son?"

"In the bushes. He plays secret agent. He hides and watches people."

"Stay here." She moved to the group as two more rangers came through the main entrance and joined the group. She asked a few questions and the man answered. Nodding, she returned to Gary.

"Well, the clothes check out. And no one knows about the incident... yet. So perhaps the boy did see it."

"To be honest, I wasn't sure, but he is really traumatized. It's worth looking into."

"Why don't you bring him in?"

"He won't leave the car. Says the guy grabbed him and threatened to kill him if he told. Now he's terrified."

"Come on. Let's go to your car."

They walked past the group and the guy made eye contact again, just a flash. Gary saw fear in his eyes this time.

"I'm Laura Morton," she offered her hand, thin and cold.

"Gary Blake."

They arrived at the car and Gary tried the door. Locked. "Unlock the door."

"Nooo." Micah screamed.

"Uh, roll down the window." Ashley rolled it down and Gary made the introductions. With much cajoling, they got Micah to tell the story to the ranger—through the window.

At last Laura stood and glanced sideways at Gary. "Let's go." She nodded toward the visitor center. Gary headed that way and she fell into step beside him.

"So what do we do?"

"Let's talk to the bigwigs and tell them what's going on."

They approached the group. Gary felt cynical, but after hearing Micah's story, watching the guy cry and dab at his eyes looked contrived. At a pause Laura asked a few rangers to come aside to talk to Gary. They moved to the same spot as before.

"Mr. Blake here has a different side to the story. Let him tell you." Gary obliged.

The rangers' looks changed from doubt to incredulity to anger.

The biggest ranger hiked up his belt. "Those fences are low, but they aren't that low. It's pretty hard for a person to fall over them. I'm thinking this guy offed his wife, then came here crying. It's always the spouse, they say."

~

"You want to stay back there, honey?"

Ashley held Micah and stroked his hair. "Yes."

Gary started to back up, then changed his mind. He pulled forward and shut off the car. "Hang on a minute. I need to talk to the ranger again." He shut the door and stalked to the visitor center. Walking through the lobby, Gary walked straight to the crowd, bulled past two people and swung a roundhouse punch into the man's face, then followed through by pushing him down and landing on him. He held his mouth to his ear.

"That's for my son, you cowardly creep, threatening him. You ever get out and you'll hear from me."

The rangers shouted and wrestled him to his feet, dragging him from the scene. Gary peered at the man, making sure he understood the message. Two men escorted him outside.

"Now what?" The big guy spoke. Another ranger, Laura, trotted up, looked around for anyone who might overhear and whispered, "Off the record? I appreciate what you did." In a louder voice she said, "Mr. Blake, that was inexcusable."

"I apologize. Wait. No, I don't. I'm sorry if it caused you people more grief, but I'm glad I did it."

The big guy wiped his brow. "Well, I don't think the guy will be pressing charges. And there certainly were mitigating circumstances. Let's just drop it. It may come back to bite you later."

"I'm just mad. First he kills his wife, then he traumatizes my kid. Not sitting still for that."

"I understand." They escorted him to the car, probably to make sure he didn't return for another round. Gary got in the car and fastened his seat belt.

"What did you forget, dear?" Ashley remained in the back and held Micah's hand.

"Just wanted to fill in a few details." He massaged his hand. It hurt. A lot. "Got a loose end taken care of."

## Oregon

Every year, the town of Sisters hosts an annual quilt show, and we've been there, Quilter Girl more than me. The quilts they display are real works of art. We visited Sisters on the Adventure, but not during the big event. It looked like a good place for a quiltknapping. I decided to put the boys in Redmond, thirty miles away, as the prices for real estate in Sisters are stupid high. And everybody knows a TJ, right?

### THE QUILTNAPPING

Mr. Grimshaw folded his hands on the desk. "Okay, boys, the punishment for smoking in Redmond Middle School is forty hours of community service."

"Yes, sir," TJ Mitchell replied, "and we'll do it at Nana's Quilt Shop."

"That's not community service."

"Yes, sir. Just like last time. They'll raffle the quilt for the homeless shelter."

"You're getting pretty good at this, Mitchell."

TJ bowed his head. "We're sorry about this sir. Ain't we, Brad?"

Brad nodded, anxious to get out of there. "Yes sir, we're sorry."

"My grandma will make sure we work, too." TJ gave him his best 'Oh, yes, that's the truth' look.

"Yes, she will. I will see to it. Now get out of here and I don't want to see either of you here again."

"Yes, sir. Come on, Brad." They slung their backpacks, hung their heads, and walked out of Grimshaw's office.

"My mom and dad are going to kill me," Brad sniffed. "I am so busted."

"Nah, you'll be fine. You'll be grounded all right, but before you know it, we'll be smoking behind the building again."

"No I won't. I'm done. It's terrible anyway, I keep gagging and coughing. And I stink."

"I was just kidding. It is pretty disgusting. We do stink."

"So what's with volunteering us to work at your grandma's quilt shop?"

TJ punched Brad in the arm. "You want to pick weeds for forty hours on the school grounds when Katie MacGregor walks by? Or Dawn Bellows? And what if it rains, huh? I've done time at Grandma's. You just fold fabric and stack it in air-conditioned comfort. Sweep and stuff. And she gives you, like, unlimited cookies. The ladies'll pretty much ignore us. After they tell her how cute we are and stuff. Then they get talking about their fabric and it's over, we're invisible. Then we can smoke out back."

"I ain't smoking anymore."

"Just kidding. You need to chill a little more, pal."

~

"So you can work every other Saturday, five days, eight hours each day. In ten weeks you'll have paid your dues to society," Grandma patted TJ on the head. He tried not to grimace. Maybe by next summer he'd be taller than her. "So go on and empty all the trash at the register, in the sewing center, and in back." She shooed them off and returned to a customer, who said, "such cute boys." TJ and Brad frowned at one another.

"Eight hours," Brad exclaimed, "are you kidding me?"

"Relax. By eleven she gives us lunch, and by one she'll be so pleased with our work that she'll let us go early. Trust me, I've been here before."

"How many times?"

TJ picked up a wastebasket. "Too many to count. I can spot a fat quarter from a mile away. Pretty soon you'll be able to spot cotton fabric from across the room."

Brad groaned.

They swept the shop and sidewalk (which took much longer without anyone watching over them), picked up fabric bolts, and tried as best as they could to look busy without doing much of anything.

It went pretty well until Mrs. Buchanan entered the store, with, "Hello? Oh, hello boys."

TJ groaned. "Should have disappeared."

"Huh?"

She trotted up to TJ smelling like she'd bathed in lilac perfume and squeezed his cheek.

"TJ, my special little boy. How are you? And who's your friend?" She put her arm around TJ's shoulder and turned to gather Brad and hug him. TJ looked at his fellow inmate and rolled his eyes. "I see you're here. Working again?" Brad nodded and she put her arms around their shoulders. "Come on, let's go into the sewing area. Hello, Linda, I've got your boys here."

Grandma waved and returned her attention to a customer.

"We'll learn about geometry while we work on the raffle quilt. It's going to be a lot of fun."

They trooped to the sewing area where old ladies sat at machines and gabbed. Mrs. Buchanan stood at a cutting table and slid fabric over, talking incessantly about right triangles, cutting on the bias, rectangles, and squares. TJ and Brad stood on each side and nodded at the appropriate times. She gabbed on until TJ realized she'd asked him a question.

"Uh, I'm not sure."

"Oh, come on TJ, surely you know. How about you, Bradley?"

"Six."

"Right." She nodded and put two pieces together. "A four inch square and the short side of a two inch by four inch rectangle is six." Brad stole a look at TJ as she prattled on, with forty-five degree angles, three squares times six equals what—and TJ was ready this time with the answer of eighteen—which earned him a squeeze on the cheek. "I'm just getting started with this quilt and in August it will be on display at the Sisters Quilt Show." She bent and whispered to them like co-conspirators. "And then it will be worth a lot of money." And gave each one a wink.

After an interminable time, they broke away for lunch.

"But it's only ten-fifteen," she frowned at her watch.

"We started pretty early," TJ explained.

"Well, as soon as you're done, we'll resume. I'll sew these squares together and see you soon."

They walked to the back and out the door where Brad gasped like he'd been starving for air. "What was that?"

TJ smacked his forehead. "I forgot Mrs. Buchanan. I think she's God's punishment. I can deal with Principal Grimshaw, my folks, Grandma and all, but this woman's going to kill me. Last time Grandma made the quilt."

"I sure would like to be pulling weeds at the school today," Brad sighed. "Hey, it's Saturday. If we worked at the school, Katie MacGregor or Dawn Bellows wouldn't be walking by, would they?"

"Jeez. I never thought of that."

The Saturdays, every other week, became predictable. Sweep the store, empty the trash, tuck bolts of fabric along the shelves like soldiers; Mrs. Buchanan and her two gallons of lilac perfume would show up on the minute, and the time slowed like a fly crawling through peanut butter. Grandma, of course, thought it was the cutest thing, taking those nice boys under her wing. The quilt took shape, rectangles and squares assembling together into a pattern, a riot of colors. To the boys it represented a springtime of suffering.

When school ended, they spent their days fishing and riding their bikes, exploring creeks and meadows, chasing birds, and carving their initials into trees. But every other Saturday through the summer, the punishment continued. Brad reminded TJ that Katie and Dawn wouldn't see them weeding in the summer either. And wouldn't it be nice to be outside? Instead, the quilt took shape, representing the oppression of their punishment, a symbol of indenture and grief.

One afternoon halfway through summer, TJ and Brad laid on the edge of a small channel on one elbow. In June they had dropped grass twigs in the water and followed their course as they bounced off rocks and spun in eddies. But today a layer of black mud lay at the bottom of the trench. TJ stripped off the seeds and stuck a twig of grass in his mouth.

"Tomorrow it's back to the prison and Mrs. Buchanan."

"You suppose she puts on her perfume with a bucket and brush?"

"I dunno." TJ spun the twig between his finger and thumb and wiped the perspiration off his forehead. "Man, I hate that quilt."

"It's okay."

TJ sat upright. "I got an idea."

Brad didn't move. "I got a bad feeling."

"No, listen. We kidnap her quilt from the quilt show. She keeps yapping about how much it'll be worth. We could take it, hold it for ransom, and get a lot of money."

"Dude, first that's stealing; second, we'll probably get caught and end up working at the quilt shop until we're dead; third, Sisters is thirty miles away."

"Okay. First, it wouldn't really be stealing because we'll give it back. Second, we're not going to get caught because we'll plan it real good. And third, we'll ride our bikes there, and since we're thirty miles away, no one will suspect us."

"Course they will. You and me at the Sisters Quilt Show? We'll stick out like loggers at a sushi bar."

"Nah, lots of kids are stuck there with their parents."

~

They strolled out of the Stitchin' Post quilt store.

"Did you see it?" TJ turned the corner and stopped.

"How could I miss it? I've seen that quilt a thousand times. Blue sky, mountains, trees, a creek. But I'll tell you one thing, she cured me of smoking. Or anything else."

"It's right in reach. Okay. Just go inside and snatch it."

"What?" Brad smacked his arm. "Are you crazy? The place is full of old women. What do I do? 'Excuse me ladies, while I steal this quilt.' Huh?"

"We need a distraction." TJ paced, then stopped, his finger in the air. "I got an idea."

~

"TJ, I've heard some bad ideas, but this is terrible." Brad pointed to the white plastic bag, the creature inside thrashing about, the sides poking out as it wriggled. "If that thing bites us, we're done."

"It's not a poisonous snake."

"And how do you know that?"

"Poisonous ones are green. And rattlesnakes are... you know, diamondbacks."

"There's other kinds." The snake's head pierced through the plastic.

"Don't worry about it. Just be ready." TJ snuck into the side door of the quilt shop, holding the snake in the bag at arm's length.

Brad shook his head and headed for the front door. He stepped inside and eased over to the far corner.

He didn't have to wait long before a couple dozen screaming women ran through the store and out the front door, hollering, "Snake!" He kept glancing at his feet as he took down the quilt and stuffed it into a bag, thinking about the possibility of running into the snake. Fortunately, no snake. He headed toward the side door and spotted TJ putting the snake back in the bag. Brad nodded and ducked out, got on his bike and rode to the east end of town, the screams of women fading into the distance.

~

"Can you believe it?" An old lady clucked her tongue to Mrs. Buchanan. "Stealing a quilt and holding it for ransom."

Brad moved closer to listen to their conversation as Grandma cut and folded their fabric.

Mrs. Buchanan laughed. "They demanded ten thousand dollars. I say, let's pay the money, the quilt will be famous, and perhaps I can get twice that for it."

"What is it worth?"

"Not more than two hundred fifty."

Brad held his hand over his face to squelch the gasp.

"Not very smart thieves."

Brad jerked back at the word. What? TJ said it wasn't stealing. Now he couldn't shake a vision of handcuffs and orange coveralls, both of them chained to each other, pulling weeds along the side of the highway while Katie MacGregor and Dawn Bellows rode by, their sixteen-year-old boyfriends honking their horns. He ran to the back of the store, got TJ's attention and they slunk out to the back lot. Brad told him what he overheard. "We're thieves, man, and they aren't going to pay anything."

TJ flipped his hand. "A minor setback. We'll send another ransom note for two-fifty. You watch. We'll get the cash."

"My bad feeling is having a bad feeling."

~

TJ could hardly keep still. "Did you see it?"

"I was too busy looking for someone to nab us. Was it there?"

"Yep. We're going to be rich." They had walked into the men's room and on the cork bulletin board a hand written sign read, 'We accept your terms.' That meant the next day under the green park bench by the big fir tree someone would tape an envelope containing two hundred fifty dollars. "All we have to do is grab it."

Brad shook his head. "Not too bright, my friend. They'll have someone watching the bench. We grab the envelope and they grab us and we're toast."

TJ paced, then stopped, his finger in the air. "I got an idea."

~

Jim Monroe slowed his pickup as he approached two bicycles on the side of the road. Two Amish women on children's bikes. They looked short. Were they girls? No, they had grey hair. He shook his head. Must be something to do with the Sisters Quilt Show.

"This is the stupidest thing," Brad complained as the pickup passed, headed toward the huge Sisters mountains, a back-drop to the town. "What possessed you to think of these get-ups?"

"First, we couldn't wear our moms' clothes, they don't fit; second, the bonnets keep our faces from being seen, and third, Mom had them from the Spring Fling musical. And fourth, they fit perfect." Brad pedaled on and the hem of his dress caught in his chain, twisting his foot off the pedal. He veered off the road and tipped over into the ditch, another one without water, but plenty of mud. He got up and wiped off the goo, then wiped his hands on the dress.

"This is great. Just great. Why didn't we wear our clothes, change at Sisters, do the deal, then change back before we leave for home? Then we won't get our dresses caught in the chain. Or look like fools. We've got our clothes in our backpacks."

"Good idea."

They stopped and climbed a fence and walked toward a thicket of trees. Halfway there, Joe Robinson's bull let them know he didn't appreciate Amish women in his territory. They ran for their lives and leaped over the fence.

"Wow, that was close," TJ gasped.

"I could feel his breath on my butt as I jumped the fence." Brad leaned over, hands on his knees and caught his breath. "Wow, you tore your dress pretty good. And where's your bonnet?"

They looked into the field and spotted a lump of white halfway to the tree. "I'll flip a coin to see who gets it," TJ offered.

"It's your bonnet. You get it."

~

Three hours later they arrived at Sisters soaked in sweat, their costumes tucked away in their backpacks. They stood in front of the restrooms, hands on their hips.

"Here's the problem, the way I see it," TJ said. "We go in the men's room as boys and come out as women. Not going to work. But if we go into the women... "

"I ain't going in the ladies room no matter what," Brad stated. "I don't care if I am an Amish woman."

"We'll just ride out of town a little bit, change and come back."

~

"Linda, take a look at that," Mrs. Buchanan pointed. Two Amish women set their bikes down, one with dried mud on her skirt and blouse, the other with a big section ripped and hanging open along her knee. "I don't remember seeing any Amish women like that here before."

Grandma Mitchell patted her arm. "Everyone is welcome."

"I don't want to stereotype, but they seem to walk like men."

"Let's not be judgmental."

~

TJ and Brad walked through town and eased over to the bench. They sat on it and crossed their legs. TJ smacked Brad's knee. "At the ankle. Come on, man."

"Sorry."

TJ slid his hand under the bench and felt an envelope. He pulled it loose and stuffed it inside his blouse. "I told you this would be easy," he whispered.

Six women surrounded them, hands on their hips.

"I think you spoke too soon."

They tied the boys' hands behind their backs with strips of fabric and marched them to the back of The Stitchin' Post and sat them on metal folding chairs. Mrs. Buchanan paced in front of them, then stopped. "Where's my quilt?"

"I'm so sorry," Brad blubbered, "we didn't mean to hurt anybody. Please don't arrest us please—"

"It's in the backpack on my bike," TJ said. "Jeez, dude, stop crying."

Mrs. Buchanan turned to another lady. "Janice, could you check on it?" She turned to TJ. "Where's the bike?"

"You can see it from the bench. Red one. And could you untie our wrists? It hurts."

She crossed her arms in front of them. "Don't be silly. It's fabric strips. Now, ladies, what can we do to these young men?" A discussion ensued, with ideas ranging from calling the police to monetary restitution to punishment. Janice interrupted the debate with Mrs. Buchanan's quilt, which they found to be in good condition.

Then Carol Atherton came up with an idea.

~

"Hey, dude, watch it. Your stitches are getting a little far apart." TJ stuck the needle through the quilt and poked it back up though the fabric.

"Oh, three weeks now and you're the quilting expert."

"I know my way around a quilt, you must admit."

Brad tightened up his stitches, but didn't admit TJ was right. "This is one terrible punishment."

"Oh, I don't know. We're outside Grandma's quilt shop, it's a beautiful day, and we're not picking weeds out on the sidewalk at the school. And think of our creativity."

Brad looked around. "Shh, man. If anybody finds out, we are toast. We'll be quilting until we're old men."

"They'll never notice."

"Never notice! They're quilters, man. They look at every detail."

"That's right. But they don't look at the big picture."

"I hope you're right." Brad poked the needle through the fabric. He heard a car door slam, looked up, and groaned. "My worst nightmare has just come true. Look. Better yet, keep your head down."

TJ looked anyway. Katie MacGregor and Dawn Bellows hooked their purses over their shoulders and headed for the quilt shop with their mothers.

"Hello, boys," Katie said. "Pretty quilting. And I love the sign."

Dawn read the sign over their heads. "'Quiltnappers.' Nice." They sauntered into the store.

"I want to die, right now, right here," Brad stared at the quilt and shook his head.

"Nonsense," TJ replied, "They said it looked pretty."

"They can put that on my gravestone. 'He made a pretty quilt.' Perfect."

"Just keep at it. I promise you, we'll get the last laugh."

"I got a bad feeling."

~

"Can you believe this?" Brad stood and marveled at Grandma's quilt, with a first prize blue ribbon pinned to it.

TJ laughed. "And no one's seen what we added."

Brad shushed him. "Quiet, man. Someone gets wind of it and we are in trouble once again."

They had endured to the end and finished the quilt. To their surprise, Grandma entered it in the county fair. It became the belle of the ball, famous for the fact that two boys quilted it as punishment for their kidnapping attempt. Furthermore, the masses gushed about how the boys had quilted it by hand. Whether it won for its reputation or notoriety, the boys didn't care. Their chests swelled as they surveyed their work.

"Good job, dude." TJ slapped him on the back. "You're quite the quilter." He peered closer at their handiwork. "Although sometimes your stitches get a bit wide."

"Shut up."

"Want me to read what we wrote?"

Brad looked around. "Sure. But be careful."

TJ put his arm around Brad and pointed to the cursive stitching. "TJ and Brad. BFF."

## Idaho

I noticed scrap metal in every state—tons of it—whether broken-down cars, abandoned farm equipment, or unrecognizable junk. Why don't people pick this stuff up and recycle it for money? Then as we rode through Stanley, it seemed like a beautiful place for someone to disappear.

### SCRAP MAN

Jerry stopped in the entrance to the driveway, the diesel engine of his truck rattling. Looking at the sign that read, 'No trespassing, I will shoot,' he put it in gear. "I hope this works."

He eased up the winding drive, splashing through puddles of freshly melted slush, the evergreen trees brushing both sides of the truck. June, but it snowed last night. Two more turns and the house appeared, a run-down log place littered with broken appliances, farm equipment, and tools.

As he shut the truck off and stepped out, a man with wild scraggly gray hair kicked the door open and pointed a shotgun at him. He racked a shell into the gun and said, "Can't you read?"

Holding up his hands, he gave the guy his widest smile. "Just picking up scrap steel. Been working up the mountain. Did Lowman last week, and now working Stanley."

The gun didn't move. But the guy's eyes lost that killing look.

"Got me a shears on a little excavator," he pointed back to the trailer. "Cut it up, take it to the recycler. I do all the work and split the money with you. You get half the cash, the yard cleaned up, I sell the steel, and we both win." He spat a brown streak onto the ground. "Win-win situation."

The gun wavered. The guy lowered it. "How much money?"

He shrugged. "How much stuff?"

Looking left and right he said, "Lots."

"Can I put my hands down?"

"Oh. Sure." He lowered the gun, stepped off the wooden deck, and held out his hand. "Mike. Mike Lyme. Like lime but with a y. I heard about you at the store the other day."

"Jerry Sanders. Nice to meet you." The man's hand felt wiry and calloused, with a crushing grip. Jerry smashed back.

"Sorry about the gun. I like my privacy."

"I understand."

"I'll show you around."

They wandered around the area as Mike pointed out relics and told the stories. "Tractor. Broke the transmission." It lay rusting under a pine tree. "Broke that snowplow. Hit a rock. 'Bout put me through the windshield." An oven, the door askew. "Crapped out. Picked one up in Boise."

"I can cut it down with that shears into manageable pieces and haul it away. Goes to China and they melt it for recycled steel."

Mike cursed. "Miserable Chinese. What can you do?"

"They're takin' over this country, all right."

"Takin' over the world, you mean."

He watched the wheels turn in the man's head, probably calculating the money. "I bet you got a thousand bucks worth of steel here. Maybe more." He scanned the yard and peered at a dilapidated barn. "Got anything in there? More steel, more cash."

Jerry watched the guy shift from foot to foot while rubbing his three-day-old beard. These guys always seem to have a three-day growth of beards. So when do they shave?

"Naw. Just out here."

"Tell you what I'll do. I'll unload and cut up that washer over there. Show you how it works. You like it, we'll keep going. Otherwise I'll just load my machine up and be on my way."

Mike spat. "Okay."

Jerry walked to the machine and removed the chains. He started the little trackhoe, lifted the boom, and tracked it off the trailer. The tracks squealed. He approached the washing machine and extended the shears, then squeezed the pincers around the control panel with the delicacy of a jeweler. "They don't like the plastic stuff," he yelled as he pulled the panel away. Next he cut the sides with the claw, slicing each corner to the bottom, then picked them and stacked them atop one another. He moved the claw away, set it down, and jumped out of the machine.

Mike crossed his arms. "Well, I'll be. That's a fine piece of work." He looked around the yard. "How about that rake?" He pointed at a tractor attachment.

"I can cut it up, too," Jerry said, "but we gotta have a deal or else I'll just load up and go." He held out his hand. "Deal?"

Mike took it and squeezed it, hard. "Deal. Let's get this done."

Jerry worked the rest of the day slicing and dicing hulks from the past. Mike found sections of cars behind the barn, a hot water heater inside some heavy brush, and a dilapidated welder deep in the woods. By quitting time the truck held neat piles of scrap and the yard looked three times bigger. Jerry jumped out of the machine. "That's about all I can take. I'll run this to the recyclers and get you your money."

Mike looked at him sideways. "How do I know you won't just run off with it?"

"Well, you can ask anyone in Lowman. Or I can estimate it and pay you now, but I figure low, you know."

He kicked at a clod of dirt. "Naw, I'd rather have more. But you better not screw with me."

"No problem."

"Okay then."

Jerry loaded the machine, fired up the truck and put it in gear. "I knew Daddy teaching me all about scrap would come in handy." He eased the truck and trailer out of the yard.

~

Two weeks later Jerry returned with the machine in tow. He pulled into the yard. Mike opened the door with the shotgun in his hand. Seeing Jerry, he set it in the rocking chair.

Very good. "I've got your money."

Mike rubbed his hands together. "Good. How much?"

"Eight fifty."

Mike stopped. The place grew quiet. "I thought you said a thousand."

"I got the weight ticket here." He handed it to him.

"How do I know you didn't dump some of it and take it later?"

"Well, I suppose you could have rode the seven-hour round trip to Boise with me then."

"Okay, okay."

"I can get you more money if you got more stuff." Jerry surveyed the yard, lacy green weeds cropping up from the dirt already. He noticed the barn and pointed "You got anything in there?"

Mike rubbed his three-day-old whiskers. Finally he said. "I might."

"Well, do you or don't you?"

After a pause he nodded. "I do. Need you to cut it up, though, small. It's a car."

"No problem. You got a title?"

"No."

Jerry poked at a shovel with his toe. "Well, then we have to cut it up real small. Mix it with some other stuff. Cost us more to cut it."

"Okay." He wheeled, led him to the barn and slid the door aside with a screech. Jerry followed him in, the darkness yielding to light from the doorway and cracks in the siding. Mike pulled a tarp off a red car.

Jerry whistled. "Whoa. That's a... what?"

"Ninety-one."

"Yeah. A Dodge Stealth." Jerry whistled again.

Mike stood back and held his arm as if presenting the car, like Vanna White. The machine sat low on its haunches and looked ready to launch. The body looked pristine, the red hood reflecting the light like fresh fingernail polish.

Jerry whistled. "Nice car. You want to cut it up?"

"No questions," he warned. "Cut it small."

"Cost you more."

"You pushing me?"

Jerry remembered the shotgun, the remote area, the warning in the man's eyes.

"No, no. I do this a lot. Had a pickup in Lowman, a truck outside of Baker City. No problem."

The guy nodded. "Okay, then. What's it all worth?"

Jerry scanned the area, jammed with compressors, steel tables, tractor and car parts. "So... the rest of this stuff, too?"

"Yeah."

"Probably seven hundred. It's a guesstimate, but I'll give you the weight tickets and we'll settle up at the end. Just like last time."

"Don't screw me."

"Don't worry." He held out his hand, big smile. "Deal?"

Mike shook it. "Deal. When do you start?"

"Right now. Tell you what. I'll go unload the shears. Why don't you clean out the inside of the car? Be sure to check the trunk; never know what you'll find. And take those plates off it."

"Okay."

Jerry strode away.

~

Mike hurried to the passenger side of the shiny red car, opened the door and grabbed paperwork out of the glove box. Excellent! He always feared this car would be his undoing. Someday, someone would come here and identify the notorious bank robber's car. Now this guy's going to cut it up. Floyd Granstrom will be gone and Mike Lyme lives on! Perfect.

He threw the papers in a barrel. I'll burn this when he's gone... I better wipe this car down... prints... can't be too careful. He snatched a rag off the workbench and wiped the dust off the door, then moved to the driver's seat.

~

Jerry rounded the corner and out of sight, then ran to the front of the house. He picked up the shotgun from the porch and tossed it in the front seat of his truck and locked it. He peered at the time on his cell phone—2:03—and punched in a text message:

delta team subject in barn go at 14:06.

He opened his toolbox on the side of the truck and donned a flak jacket and helmet. He checked the breech in his rifle and headed for the barn. "After seventeen years, Floyd Granstrom... I got you."

He stopped at the corner of the house and waited for the team. They appeared from every corner. Woody, Thomsen, Miller, and Calhoun. He held up two fingers to his eyes and then to the barn, and they moved in. Miller broke the door, Calhoun yelled, "Police! Put your hands up!" while Jerry and Thomsen got behind him. Granstrom stepped out of the car and Calhoun said, "Get on the floor. Now!" Jerry cuffed him.

~

The team cleaned up the area, taking prints, guns, knives, and searched for evidence. Sitting on the step of his truck, Jerry was filling out a report when Miller opened the front door and yelled, "Bingo! We found the cash." He brought a scuffed briefcase, set it on the trailer deck, and opened it. Dollar bills sat in neat piles.

"Doesn't look like two million," Jerry took a bundle and flicked through it.

"There's plenty more. Another briefcase and two suitcases. Smells like mildew, under the floorboards all this time."

"It would buy stuff, all the same." Jerry returned the cash. "Funny, isn't it?"

"What?"

"The guy got away with two million dollars, and we tripped him up with the promise of a couple thousand."

Miller clipped the briefcase shut. "Just goes to show you."

"What?"

"Doesn't matter how much money a crook has. Always wants more."

## Utah

We rode through Panguitch on our '50 States' adventure, where they celebrate Quilt Walk, remembering nineteenth century Mormon pioneers who got caught in a fierce winter of snowstorms and almost perished. They knelt and prayed, found an unusual answer to their prayers, and the rest, as they say, is history. I took artistic license here, so please, don't sue me. Note: No quilts were injured in the writing of this story.

### THE BRIDGE

March 17, 1864

Forty days of snow and now the wind howls around our cabin like a wolf, waiting for us to come out so it can kill us. Or we stay inside and he has to wait just a little longer. With food supplies getting low, last night the men held a meeting to decide what to do. Most thought it best to pray and wait it out, but Dad, Alex, and Jens argued we must get to Parowan for supplies or we'd die waiting. It got pretty heated.

My brothers and sisters pretended to be asleep but of course we aren't, being we were in the same room, both girls huddled in one bed and we three boys in another, buried under a warm pancake stack of blankets. I remembered the scripture in Ecclesiastes: "If two lie together they can be warm, but how can one be warm alone?" We were pretty warm, but my stomach ached for food. I hoped they would go and get some. They were men. Of course they could go, would get there, get food and get back.

Aunt Marcy didn't say much, but kept the fire going while she quilted another blanket. She said she pieces in the warmer months and quilts in winter, as the blanket keeps her warm while she works. Not a piece of cloth got by her, as old breeches, shirts, and flour sacks fell victim to her scissors and needle, resurrected as a warm blanket.

If only the crops hadn't frozen. Then the snow. The wolf means to beat us, his cold breath hammering us day after day. He is right outside the door, his breath of ice seeping between the door and wall, around the windows. And every crack.

After much discussion, the men decided to send a team to Parowan and I heard my name... Thomas. Being fifteen, sometimes I'm one of the men and other times I'm just a boy. Now I'm being called to do a man thing yet I feel like a boy. But if we go, I'll go. Another day inside this cabin and I may lose my mind.

March 18

More snow last night, the wolf desperate to beat us. The windows are frozen inside and out, the snow making it impossible to see outside.

We assembled the team, seven men. That is, six men and me. We packed the lightest wagon, Jebediah's, and would haul as little as possible to avoid getting bogged down in the powder. Alex supplied his ox, a dependable and stalwart beast. The trips to each cabin were a challenge through the snow, but the more we trampled it the better the path became. I looked to the mountains to the west and wondered how we'd get through the snow, untouched and unpacked, like walking through flour up to our ribs. Only cold. So cold.

Mom got what little food together we can spare. She claims we'll need more as we'll be working so hard, but I feel guilty taking food from her and my siblings. Tomorrow we head out. As we huddled under the covers, Joseph snuggled close to my chest.

"Thomas, are you scared?"

"Naw." I'm terrified, but I couldn't let on to him. He needed propping up.

"I'm scared."

I rubbed his dark hair. "We'll all be fine."

The wolf howls at the door, his breath shrieking in gusts.

March 19

We let the sun come up, but then took off as early as possible. The men think we need ten days to get there, five up and five back. That's ten miles a day. That doesn't sound like much, but in this snow?

Jebediah and Dad walked in front, while Sean, Jens, and I followed. The idea was to pack the snow so the ox could get through it. We took off and did okay until we reached virgin snow.

It looked beautiful, glistening in the sun, but each step we sunk to our hips, and we walked like we were stepping into stovepipes. When we fell, which was often, we thrashed attempting to get upright. The ox and wagon did no better; since they were heavier they sunk into the cursed ice-flour as well. The cold had climbed from my toes to above my knees, my shoes packed with ice.

We'd made so little progress that I looked back and could still see our cabin, the peak of the roof visible in the snow, a trail of smoke from the chimney. The snow drifted to the roof on the back so the cabin looked like it was being overcome by snow, the white powder overcoming the little log building. An island in a sea of snow, the tide rising.

The wolf hides in the trees, his steel blue eyes watching.

After a few hundred yards of this, Dad stopped us and wiped the sweat from his face.

And we were worried about cold.

"I know it seems cowardly, but I think we should go back and let the snow pack for another day."

The men discussed it and finally agreed. After a horrible time getting the wagon turned about, we made much better progress back.

By the time we got back it was dinner time. We ate a bit, but the stores are dwindling. I feel ashamed for letting my family down, then eating the food. The struggle made me ravenous.

"If we get no more snowfall, we'll set out tomorrow."

I don't know if it was because I was getting older, or it was the first time I'd seen it, but I saw fear in my father's eyes.

He's seen the wolf.

March 20

I believe in miracles.

The night was calm, the woods quiet as a tomb. Not a breath of wind. We assembled at dawn and got started earlier. The first portion of the journey went rather well, since we were plowing through the snow we packed down the day before. Then we hit fresh snow.

It was like we ran into a wall.

We trudged on, packing the snow, our breath heavy and damp. Determined not to fail this time, we made decent progress, but we were climbing, and the snow got deeper. We packed the snow numerous times and still the ox and wagon struggled. Dad called for us to stop. We gathered up.

"Men, this isn't working. The ox and wagon will never get through this snow. We need to leave them and keep going on our own."

This became an argument. Jebediah wanted to keep going with the ox, Alex talked about turning back, making the road better every day and making progress that way. Finally they relented; we unloaded everything we could and set out.

We made better progress, but the load was heavy and we sank deeper into the snow. Ice creeped in from my fingers and toes, the wolf chewing away at my flesh. At least we were not struggling with the ox. After perhaps a half mile, we stopped. Dad called us together.

"Men, we're in a bad way." He wiped the sweat from his face. "We must go onward or our families will die. Yet we may die on the way in this snow." He looked ahead at the vast wasteland of white snow ahead. "I think it's time we pray."

We gathered in a circle and tried to kneel in the snow. When I first knelt, my knees sank deeper than my feet and I fell face down in the snow. I would have felt foolish if the men hadn't done it, too.

Alex, out of nowhere, said, "Let's get the quilts out and kneel on them."

Good thinking.

We unloaded the blankets and arranged them in a circle and knelt on them. Dad prayed something like this:

"Almighty God, we are at our darkest hour, and we implore Thee for Thy help. We know Thou art all good and we implore Thee to help us, to be able to get to Parowan, acquire the needed supplies, and return safely to our families. We pray for a miracle, dear Lord, and ask that none of these and those at home, be lost. In Jesus' name."

We all said amen and stood. We picked up the quilts and the snow reflected our imprints, with dimples where our feet and knees punched down.

Sean looked at the snow as we loaded the blankets back in our packs.

"Wait a minute. Look at that." He pointed. "We didn't sink down."

The men looked and nodded. We unloaded a blanket and laid it on the ground. Sean stood on it and scratched his head. "Do you suppose?" he said.

We got more and walked on them. It worked. Without another word, the men got all the blankets and laid them end to end and walked on them. Then the last man, Jebediah, picked up the end quilt and passed it ahead. We moved at a glacial pace to say the least, but steady, a train with a rail bed that floated over snow.

Hope leaped in our chests. We just might make it.

After an hour the monotony sunk in. Walk on a quilt. Wait. Pass one from behind to the person in front. Step onto the next quilt. We wound through the woods, the snow a bit tighter, out into meadows, the snow vacillating from blown to a shallow depth with fast progress, to deep, light snow. Even with the quilt, we sank in and sometimes had to stop and put another one on the sunken one. I felt like a man on a push car, pumping up and down endlessly to keep the car moving. I picked a quilt, passed it up, walked one quilt length, passed again.

Dad called us to stop. "We need to make a place to sleep tonight."

I looked around at the wolf's lair, white snow as far as I could see. Once in a while a pile slid off a tree branch. Otherwise, I could detect no movement. Even the animals hunkered down and tried to hide from the wolf.

We stomped down a camping spot and Dad sent me for wood. I broke dead branches off of trees and returned, my arms full. He sent me out six more times. By the time I finished, my stomach ached.

The fire burned hot but quickly, the sticks just too small. In minutes it waned, the cold seeping in and overcoming our pathetic heat once more. I ate a bit of jerky and coffee, then went out once again for thicker branches before the sun disappeared and cold set in.

We used the quilts to bed down, everyone huddled together under the blankets, our feeble attempt to stave off the wolf. One good snow and the wolf would dine on our carcasses, not much reward for his wait, as our emaciated bodies would provide little meat.

March 23

I lost my balance and fell sideways into the snow. Everyone had done it, numerous times. This time, however, I flailed and flung snow, cursed the winter and kicked white clouds into the air. Enough! Let the wolf come. I couldn't take any more. I threw myself face down into the snow.

I felt my dad's grip on the back of my jacket as he pulled me to my feet. I thrashed and bucked. He turned me and slapped me. "What got into you, boy?"

"Leave me here. I want to die. Let the wolf eat me." I tried to break his grip, only managing to windmill my arms and fall, Dad pulling me up again. He turned me and shook me, then peered into my eyes.

"What wolf?" He surveyed the white landscape. "You talking crazy, boy. Now stop wasting your energy, boy. You'll starve, you keep this up."

"Then let me die."

"We didn't come this far to die. Son. We're going to make it. Look ahead. See? The plateau is over, we're going to go downhill. Now get a hold of yourself. Nobody's dying here."

I stopped fighting and got my breathing back under control. Sure enough, the trees tapered away, following the slope. We were going downhill to Parowan. Maybe we could make it.

"Okay."

March 24

I saw the wolf. We trudged on, walked, passed the quilt, waited, walked. Stopped. I glanced to the right and saw him in the woods. He wanted me to come to him. He didn't say anything, but I could see it in his cold blue eyes. Come here. I've been waiting for you. It's time now. Come. I stepped off the quilt and fell into the snow, got up and struggled through it. It was up to my elbows. I washed my face with it, ate it, stuffed it down my shirt. The wolf liked it. Liked me. He disappeared, then came up behind me. Shook me.

"Thomas. Thomas."

"I'm coming."

"What you talkin' about, boy?" The wolf sounded like Alex. I turned my head. Alex swam into view.

"The wolf. He wants me to go. I need to go." I stepped aside and he grabbed me.

"Thomas. Boy. Listen to me. Here." He handed me his water bag and I sipped it. My vision cleared and the wolf retreated into the woods.

"Oh, man. Sorry, Alex."

"You want some hard tack?"

March 25

Jed led the way today, and he let out a whoop. He stood on compact snow, the road beaten down by horses, wagons, and people. Parowan! We made it. We formed a circle, hugging and crying. We could get food, and a warm and dry place to sleep. We would stock up and head back to Panguitch as soon as possible, both to beat any more snow and to get back to the women and children.

Dad found some people and talked to them. I stared at the big city, candles burning in windows, smoke coming out of chimneys. I heard my name.

"Thomas." He put his arm around me. "He left Panguitch a boy and got here a man." He seemed to have missed my attempt to succumb to the wolf and my crazy fit.

March 31

We arrived back at the cabin today. Mother wept, as she thought we'd died, we'd been gone so long. Her cheeks were sunken and her skin chalk white. The kids looked bad, too. But we came back with flour and oil and salt and butter and lye.

And blankets.

We made the trip, every step, on those blankets.

That night, as we huddled under those same blankets, I marveled at their lifesaving abilities. Not only did they save our lives that night, they keep us warm every night.

Aunt Marcie sat at the chair by the fire, quilting.

I never appreciated what she did before. Sometimes I felt ashamed as she cut up flour sacks and even old hankies for a patchwork quilt. At night, back East, we kids would sneak a candle into our room and play 'I spy' with the pictures on the quilt fabric.

"I spy something blue."

The others would search and little Patrick would point to the 'l' from 'flour.' Sometimes I would trace a line on the quilting, imagining it as a trail on a map. I couldn't wait for our adventure, heading west. Some adventure, cheating death, the wolf scurrying back into the woods and waiting for another chance to make his kill.

Who would have thought a bunch of quilts would send him away?

We men knelt in the snow and prayed for a miracle, a helping hand from God.

And the answer lay right below our knees.

## Nevada

Since we're from Nevada, it became our last state on the tour; this story became personal. Everybody speculates about Area 51, and my son had a friend whose father worked there. He drove to McCarran Airport every morning and flew off to Area 51 in a 737. Weird. But why not have aliens in Nevada?

I stole the landscape descriptions of bomb damage from a real tour of the Nevada Test Site, where they tested nukes in the sixties. I highly recommend the tour, fascinating.

This is a work of fiction... I think.

### AREA 51

50 States, Day 386, Last Day

May 30, 2013

Highway 375

Because Quilter Girl and I prefer the offbeat and weird, we decided to return home after our long and wonderful trip by way of Highway 375, the 'Extraterrestrial Highway.' It sounded kooky and exciting, but riding through the desert with vast expanses of land with almost no vegetation made the final leg of the trip a bit of a downer. Don't get me wrong, I love the desert, but the severe, silent, and solitary landscape gave me a sense of letdown.

We stopped at a gas station—one of hundreds on this trip—and this one appeared to be a throwback. While the building looked old enough to have witnessed the Eisenhower administration, the old pumps standing at attention each bore a card reader. The store took advantage of being along this highway with the clever name of 'UFO Gas 'n Go.' Stuffed dolls of aliens hung inside the windows, with green lightbulb-shaped heads, huge black eyes, and long fingers. Why do all aliens look pretty much the same? Oh well, everyone's got a gimmick.

I slid the card, entered my zip code, and fueled. A dusty Ford Taurus pulled in opposite my pump and a fortyish guy got out and began fueling. He glanced our way, and like so many others on this trip, said, "50 States in 50 Weeks. Wow, it's Kevin and Quilter Girl. I've been following you." He stepped through the island to shake our hands. "Great adventure. Great adventure. Joe Johnson."

I smiled and avoided grimacing from the crushing handshake. At last he released my hand. "You guys have had such an adventure. A friend of mine told me about you and I read your blog every day."

"Thanks, it's been a great ride."

Then he regaled his favorite stories—Truckhenge, the Spam Museum, the crash in the snow in Denver, the World's Biggest Ball of Twine, and of course, Hurricane Sandy. "Great stuff. You guys are awesome."

It seemed weird, because the entire trip people chatted us up and we showed the map on the saddlebag and explained our adventure. But the trip was ending tomorrow and we both knew it. What now?

"Listen, I would like to do something for you." He looked around and dropped his voice. "Look, I know you like the eccentric and strange things, and I can help you." Once again he looked around like some secret agents would appear or something. He dropped his voice almost to a whisper. "I have a lot of authority. A lot. I know I don't look like it; I'm not supposed to. I can get you inside and give you—not a full on tour, but a look at—Groom Lake." He stood erect and awaited our excited response.

I looked at the barren expanse around me. A lake? It probably wouldn't even be a lake, but a dry lakebed, if anything. Miles of flat ground. Whoopee. He saw our hesitation.

"Groom Lake," he nodded, like we knew some secret.

Right. I heard that.

"You know, Area 51."

"Wow," I laughed. "You can't be serious. It's top secret. The government didn't even admit it existed until 2003."

"I'm serious. I'm pretty high up the food chain. And I'll show you some crazy things."

I looked to QG, who surveyed the barren landscape.

"Okay then."

"Great." He smiled. "We just go back up 375 around five miles and turn right."

"What about the bike?"

"Just follow me."

We put on our helmets and followed the car. QG said in the intercom, "Is this some kind of trick? Think he'll take us out in the desert and rob and kill us?"

"I don't think so. He knows about our trip. He seemed genuine."

"Right. Serial killers seem genuine, too. Couldn't a serial killer read the blog? What if he planned the entire thing, the chance meeting? What if it's some kind of trap?"

I rode on, but her reasoning bothered me. Yet we'd followed a guy in Connecticut and he coordinated a TV interview, and in Kentucky we ran into another follower. "The guy must be okay, honey."

"If he's so high up, why's he driving such a beat-up car?"

Gulp. "I suppose the Area 51 people like to keep a low profile."

The old car ran ahead at almost seventy miles an hour. The guy must have missed the part in our blog about how we kept it around sixty. The trailer oscillated and wiggled, so I rolled the throttle back to sixty-five and let him get ahead. No way would we miss a turn. There weren't any. Brown desert stretched away to every horizon with mountains rising up at the ends.

At about five miles he slowed and signaled a right turn. We followed to a paved road that cut a black strip through the desert so straight as if someone drew it with a ruler. The guy ran again at seventy, even though the road wasn't much more than one car wide. After four miles he slowed up to a guard shack no bigger than an outhouse in the middle of nowhere, with a Porta Potty behind it. A simple white board gate stopped us. The AK47 and uniform helped, too.

The guy went around to the driver's side and bent to talk to Mr. Johnson. Then he stood abruptly and saluted, almost marched to the shack, and raised the gate.

"Apparently this guy has a lot of pull."

Quilter Girl agreed.

We drove on a mile or so and came to a tee. Joe turned left and we followed. A dirt road. QG groaned and I tensed. With the small contact patch of the tires, gravel roads became arm wrestling affairs with the bike and pop top tent trailer. However, the bike rode smoothly, the surface hard packed. I accelerated. In moments Joe became a dot on the horizon again. His dust blew away to the right. We crested a hill and QG gasped.

"Wow," she said. "Look at that."

The valley below looked like an acne scarred face, littered with holes, some small, some large, and a few giant ones.

"Those are bomb craters, aren't they?"

"I think so." We continued down the hill and gazed in wonder at the strange landscape. Some conical holes looked like an ice cream cone and some were surrounded with mounds of soil. We turned at the bottom and the road shot straight ahead again. I pointed on the right. A school bus sat low, all the tires burned off it. In fact, everything that could burn was scorched or missing; it wasn't yellow but brownish red, covered in rust.

"Look at that." She pointed to a bridge—a wreckage that must have been a bridge—probably two hundred feet long and bent twelve feet in the center.

"What kind of force would bend a bridge like that?" she asked.

"I suppose a nuclear bomb."

We rode on past demolished buildings, crushed automobiles, and burned structures, like a city that had been nuked. Over another hill and we saw another city. A military installation. Three airstrips lined up side by side and angled toward the distant mountains. A white 737 sat on the tarmac with an aluminum ladder against the door. Huge buildings bereft of any adornment dotted the landscape. Joe's Taurus stopped ahead at another guard shack, this one able to stop a tank. Joe took quite a while longer and the soldier spent some time on the phone. Hopefully he won't shoot us. At last he waved Joe and us through. We followed in his dust to a big gray building. I parked beside the Taurus.

He got out of the car and held out his hands. "Welcome to Area 51." Like he owned it. "We like to call it Groom Lake. I advise you to do the same."

With all the weaponry and damage we'd seen I'd call it Mr. Robinson's neighborhood if he told me to.

"Come on inside. I can't show you much, but you'll love this."

We followed him into a stark foyer with linoleum flooring that must have been sixty years old, but shone from a disciplined regimen of polishing. Joe escorted us to a plain wooden desk where a soldier sat in front of a pad of paper.

"Where's Ageon?'

"He's in the lunchroom."

We followed Joe through a door into a room with wooden picnic tables in neat rows, four by three. In the corner, eating what looked to be a peanut butter sandwich, sat an alien.

I could tell it was an alien because of his lightbulb head, green eyes and four arms, each with four long fingers and a thick thumb. Except for the four arms, he looked rather similar to the alien dolls at the gas station. His skin looked like the Gulf water—turquoise blue. No ears. Tiny mouth. Two holes like nostrils. He bit little chunks of the sandwich, like a chipmunk.

"Too weird," I said. "The blog will be interesting today."

"No photography," Joe warned, "or they will seize your camera and lock you up. Really."

"It's in the bike."

"Kevin and Sherri Parsons, I'd like you to meet Ageon."

The creature stood and extended an arm. The second one from the top, I guess. I shook his hand. Warm, thin like a bird's leg with spindly fingers. Sherri stood with her arms crossed as if she was cold.

Just too bizarre.

"Sit down, sit down." Joe motioned us to the table and asked us what we'd like to eat.

"I'd like a turkey sandwich."

"Nothing for me," Sherri said. She looked pretty weirded out. I patted her hand.

"Drinks? I bet you want a Diet Dr. Pepper, Kevin." He did read the blog.

"Greetings, earthlings." Ageon held up all four arms.

"Knock off the alien stuff," Joe smacked him on the back of the head, more of a friendly gesture.

"I'm just kidding around." The being put his arms down and returned to nibbling at his sandwich. The two lower arms tapped on the table. "I read your blog," he said. "Very interesting."

Wow. Now not only do people from all over the world read my blog, aliens from... wherever... do, too. "So where are you from?"

The alien—I guess I should call him Ageon—wiped his little mouth with a napkin. "That's classified. If I told you I'd have to kill you."

Joe returned with the lunches. "Will you knock it off? I apologize. He's watched too much television."

"Ah, television. You beings have managed to develop something that can waste your time and your mind."

I started to agree when Joe answered, "There's good and bad television. Discovery and the History channels, for instance." He turned to us to explain. "Ageon's superiors sent him here to study us. But we intercepted him and are studying him."

"They are holding me against me will. Help me. I'm a prisoner."

"Will you knock it off? I apologize for him... again. He's gotten dramatic lately. Yes, we're holding him against his will. But we are exchanging information, a fair trade, and he gets all the peanut butter sandwiches he likes. Around six a day."

"They are delicious." He continued tapping on the table with his lower hands. I couldn't figure out if he was nervous or perhaps picking up the gamma rays from the wood or something. I watched him nibble away, then glanced at Sherri. She sat with her hands in her lap, eyes wide, taking it all in, but clearly not enjoying herself. Something about talking to a blue alien sets one off.

"Ageon is their anthropologist, and so am I," Joe explained, "and we are learning much from one another."

"Oh, yes. You're learning from me. You're learning that I'm in such a low class that no one is coming to rescue me. Earth is so low on our scale that they send Ageon, and 'Goodbye.'" He saluted with his lower arm while the upper one held the sandwich. If he managed four arms simultaneously, this life form must be much more sophisticated than us. Then I remembered spiders.

"So, Ageon," I set my sandwich down, "what have you concluded from your study of us?"

"You want to know the truth? You can't handle the truth."

Joe shook his head. "I am cutting you off of television. Completely. Just answer the question."

"Or else what? Another session in the torture chamber?"

Sherri sat up straight.

"No. Look you're scaring them."

"Let me finish." He nibbled at the sandwich while the lower fingers tapped on the table. Good manners prevented me from holding down his fingers and telling him to stop. He'd probably hit me with his Death Star or laser beam or something. My sci-fi experience didn't extend past Star Wars.

Ageon wiped his mouth and slid his plate over to Joe. "Serve me, earthling."

"When you get back home, you can do stand up."

"Take my wife. Please."

Joe picked up the plate and threw it in the trash. "Very funny. Okay," he gestured to Ageon, "you have the floor. Go ahead."

"Thank you. My superiors sent me here sixty years ago to study your planet."

"He doesn't look a day over forty, does he?"

"Now who's the comedian? I flew here and landed not too far away and your government people captured me and have held me all this time." He turned his lightbulb head to Joe. "Correct?"

"That's right."

"For sixty years we've studied one another and exchanged information. I send it regularly to my planet. They are sending an envoy to recover me and return me to my planet. They should be here in 140 years."

"143. And three months, by our estimates."

I exercised my will to close my gaping mouth. "How long do you live?"

"A thousand years. Give or take."

Joe looked at his phone. "Listen, we don't have a lot of time. Cut to the chase."

Ageon stopped drumming his fingers and peered—I guess—at Joe. "Very well.

"You are a... how can I say it? A pathetic bunch."

"What?" I said, "You're kidding me. Have you seen the breakthroughs in the sixty years you've been here?"

He clucked his tongue. "You harness electricity, develop nuclear power, manage to get all the way to the moon, Mars, big deal. Why, you can't even fly to commute to work."

Ouch. "You have a point. When I was a kid we thought we'd be flying by now."

"You haven't even cured cancer. Or the common cold."

"We've made great breakthroughs in medicine."

"Then why do you have to fill out sixty forms to get your tonsils removed? And why can't you cure them rather than remove them? Adenoids?"

Resisting the urge to punch this guy, I replied, "You're the superior life form. You tell me why."

He laughed. I think he did. Some kind of mirth. "Because of your technology. You went the wrong way. Between television, the computer, and the Internet, you missed all your opportunities."

"What?" This guy sounded as weird as he looked.

"Yes. You spend your days rebooting your computers, waiting to load videos, staring at screens while they refresh, and searching for viruses. If you hadn't invented the technology, you could use your brains more."

"Here we go," Joe muttered.

"Yes, here we go," he replied. "Think about it. What if a million people focused on a cure for breast cancer? Say they spent two hundred hours a year on it? How long would it take to develop a cure?"

"You got me."

"Around ten years," Sherri said. Where'd she come up with that?

The alien stopped and stared at her. "Yes, that's about correct. But what do your people—millions of them—spend billions of hours on instead?"

I shrugged. "No idea."

"Angry Birds. If you took all the time and energy people spend launching birds at pigs, in around ten years you would have your cure for cancer. A billion hours a year for ten years. Instead, you have 10k runs to throw more money at it. Our data supports my theory that if you stayed with the abacus and slide rules, hadn't gone to the dark side, that is—technology—you would have cured cancers—all of them—by now, found a cure, actually a prevention of the common cold, and eliminated malaria. And you would commute to work by flying. Ten years later you wouldn't fly to work at all. But here you are, with your phones, texting people about inane, worthless things, riveted to your computers, watching a video of a dog dancing with a cat, checking out your friends' status on Facebook, and launching birds at pigs. And that's while you're at work. When you get home you stare at televisions, even more passively, and watch 'reality shows,'" he held up all four hands and put his fingers in quotes, "of pathetic people building custom motorcycles, women gossiping, and people buying houses. So not only are you wasting time, the television is draining your resolve, making you more passive than you are already."

Joe spread his hands. "That's his story. Ageon's perspective on the human race."

"The human crawl," he corrected.

"Could I say something?" Sherri held up her hand.

"Sure," Joe said. "You have the floor."

"I suppose you're right, although it's just your opinion and you're observing our society from a bunker in the middle of the desert by television, but we just rode around the country, and we've made some of our own discoveries.

"People aren't what the media portrays. Most aren't anyway. For instance, the bikers in Oregon. Kevin met them at church. Nicest bunch of people you'd ever want to meet. And when they say, 'If you need anything at all, just call us and we'll help you out,' they mean it. Or the guy in Kentucky who helped us when our trailer hitch broke. Another group in Baton Rouge, Louisiana—good people who would do anything for a fellow biker. And most weekends they are out doing rides to raise money for causes. And sure, they aren't curing cancer, but they can hold peoples' hands who suffer from it. Pray for them. Bring them dinner. Okay, they can't fly to their house, but they can love their fellow human beings. If you're so superior, why did your planet send you alone?"

Ageon had stopped drumming halfway through her monologue, his little mouth open. "I never thought of that."

"Neither did we," Joe shook his head. "And we've been studying him for sixty years."

Ageon folded both sets of hands in front of him. "So you're saying that love is more important than a cure for cancer."

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

I wanted to stand up, give Sherri a high five, point at Ageon and shout, "So there!" but that wouldn't show love very well, so I just smiled and surveyed the group.

Joe cleared his throat. "I'm sorry to stop the fun, but you two need to move. This is top secret, of course, and if you can't account for two hours on Highway 375, we could have a problem. And you are sworn to secrecy."

"You mean I can't blog about this?" I joked.

"Not funny. Not a word." He stood and indicated we should, too.

I shook Ageon's hand, with his skinny fingers. "It's been fascinating."

"You've made me think differently. And I want to leave here, Joe. We need to walk the streets of some cities and meet some of these people Sherri refers to."

"Right. A seven foot tall lightbulb-headed blue alien walking around Las Vegas, studying people. That's not going to happen."

"Have you been on the Strip? He probably wouldn't be noticed," I said.

"Not happening." Joe escorted us out of the room and to the bike. "I thank you for coming out here. So happy I stumbled across you. I've enjoyed your trip and your blog so much."

"Today, the pleasure is all ours." I nodded to Sherri who agreed, too.

Joe shook our hands and returned into the building as we geared up, donning helmets and gloves.

"That was so amazing," Sherri climbed on the back of the bike.

"No kidding."

"Excuse me," Joe returned with two other people. I thought they were others who followed the trip, but looked just like Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones. Will pointed a chrome thing at us and fired it.

~

50 States, Day 386, Last Day

April 18, 2013

Highway 375

Because Quilter Girl and I prefer the offbeat and weird, we decided to return home after our long and wonderful trip by way of Highway 375, the 'Extraterrestrial Highway.' It sounded exciting, but riding through the desert with vast expanses of land with almost no vegetation made the final leg of the trip a bit of a downer. Don't get me wrong, I love the desert, but it is severe, silent, and solitary.

We stopped at a gas station—one of hundreds on this trip—and this one appeared to be a throwback. While the building looked old enough to have witnessed the Eisenhower administration, the pumps standing at attention each bore a card reader. The store took advantage of being along this highway with the clever name of 'UFO Gas 'n Go.' Stuffed dolls of aliens hung inside the windows, with green lightbulb-shaped heads, huge black eyes and long fingers. Why do all aliens look pretty much the same? Oh well, everyone's got a gimmick.

I slid the card, entered my zip code, and fueled.

"I think we made a mistake," Quilter Girl peered at the vast expanse. "Sometimes you take the road less traveled and there's nothing on it."

"You got that right." The gas clicked off. Funny, it didn't need much. Great mileage, this tank.

We mounted up and I fired up the bike. "Too bad this trip ended on such a boring note."

"We should have ridden down 95, I guess."

The End

## Acknowledgments

The pit crew doesn't get the accolades of the racer, but is vital to the team's success. I appreciate my crew, including Miss Tazzie. You first helped me believe I could write. I appreciate you, Terry Burns (Hartline Literary, www.hartlineliterary.com), because more than anything else, you exude integrity. Thank you, Jami Carpenter (www.redpengirl.com); you make me look good without destroying my fragile ego. Suzanne Campbell, graphic artist extraordinaire; thanks for the fine cover art. Thanks to the Henderson Writers Group; you have aided and abetted in a big way, too. Myriad other people contributed to this work as well, and I respect you all.

A special thanks to my wife, Sherri, responsible for much of the inspiration, along with reading and critique. Thanks, honey, for riding along. It's been quite a ride.

## About the Author

Kevin B Parsons has been published in numerous anthologies and magazines, including American Motorcyclist magazine. He's a member of the Henderson Writers Group and American Christian Fiction Writers. He has also been a member of Toastmasters International since 2006.

He blogs twice a week, posts on Author Culture (www.authorculture.blogspot.com) and Geezer Guys and Gals (www.geezerguysandgals.blogspot.com). He's a contributing writer to Choices eMagazine.

Kevin has owned several businesses in the construction, motorcycle, and real estate industries, in Nevada, California, Washington, Oregon, and Arizona. He's ridden and raced motorcycles his entire life and won the 'Best in the Desert' off-road championship in his class in 2003 and 2006. In May of 2013 he finished a '50 States in 50 Weeks Adventure.

If you'd like to "experience" the '50 States' Adventure, visit kevinbparsons.blogspot.com, find the 'archives' button, and hit '50 States.' You'll discover over 400 entries for every day of the Adventure, and almost four thousand photos, too.

He currently lives in Brian Head, Utah, with his patient wife, Sherri.

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