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No, I'm serious. I lost them. They spent all last night lost in the middle of the Bob Marshall Wilderness. I stared at Ed. So that's why their bedraggled look that's why Jim and Al were brusque.
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Not knowing how to frame their plastic to provide proper shelter, they merely draped it over bushes and crawled beneath, wrapped in blankets. Then the rain fell harder and the blankets became soaked from run-off groundwater. At last daylight came for those miserable red-eyed kids. And they lost no time climbing aboard their bikes to furiously pedal home.
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Connaught stepped from his porch as the ranch house door slammed behind. He paused and slapped his mittened hands together against the cold, glancing up a pale, clear sky. He thought of their son and his wife and their kids coming out from town for dinner and a smile broke the angular face.
Have you ever had a boot eat your sock? That is, have you ever had on a pair of socks that seemed determined to work down to your toes while hiking? Of course you have. If not, you've done little hiking. But did you know stocking-creep can be prevented by tying a knot in your bootstring right at the peak of the arch?
The humorous side of all of the above is many of us men still don't get it. We understand it's desirable for our own interest that our ladies engage in the kinds of outdoor pursuits that benefit us. So we begin projects that teach them to hunt and fish. We're the stars, they're the humble petitioners. Maybe the ladies should start a Men In the Outdoors program and teach us how to identify prairie primroses or watch meadowlarks at daybreak.
We Montanans have distinct cultural advantages over folks elsewhere unfortunates who have to make more ado about much less. Take transport, for instance:
I like hunting and fishing better than golf, golf better than bowling, bowling better than television, and soap operas only marginally better than a root canal. I leave what we eat to Janie, when we eat to Janie, and where we eat to Janie. The flower beds are hers and the lawn belonged to the four riding lawnmowers we sometimes saddled and rode up mountain trails (until they and we grew too long in the tooth). Then Jane bought me a riding mower with a push button starter.
One need not be a hunter to thrill to bugling bull elk. It's my idea of the greatest sound in nature (excepting no sound at all, of course). Period.
I've thought of Aunt Lemma over the years how she was appalled at the un-sensible way we Montanans keep horses for pleasure instead of profit. Times change, of course, and in the last few decades even Texans may have discovered methods to waste money over and above bare necessities.
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