Every summer for a number of years, I have driven to Montana. I have taken various routes.  They are all beautiful.  The Columbia River Gorge is breath-taking.  Eastern Idaho is spectacular  as is the Idaho Panhandle. This time, I drove up through western Washington into Montana at the Mulllan Pass.  Not even close to Paradise Valley yet.  Montana is a big state, but I grew up in West Texas, so I know about big.  And fast.  

I have typically hauled a dog or two and a kayak or two.  I learned the hard way one recent year not to blow past a “mandatory water vessel check point.”  

Driving into into Montana, when the officer asked me where I had put my boat in last, I loved saying “The North Santiam.”  And returning to Oregon,”The Yellowstone River.” The officers always seem a little jealous.

I hate to mention how problem-free all my trips have been for fear of tempting evil, but everything went very smoothly  — until the last 150 miles.  And then, all kinds of interesting things began to happen.  For some reason, one of the straps on the kayak came loose and the metal buckle began to fly around and whack the car.  I was in a construction zone, so it was a few minutes before I could find a safe shoulder to get out and put the strap back on.  I am a few inches shorter than I was when I was in my prime, is I now carry a small step ladder to reach up there.  It would have made a cute picture:  Old woman on roadside on step ladder tying down kayak. 

Back on the road, a dash warning light I had never seen before came on “INOIL.”  I had no idea what that meant, so I found another safe shoulder and took out the owner’s manual.  As much as I love my Subaru, my affection does not extend to the manual.  I found that it means that the transmission fluid is hot and I should let the car cool off for a bit.  I had  been idling in construction traffic for a while. Solved that.  I should have just asked Siri!

I thought I could get on to Pray with out gassing up, but I decided to get some in Belgrade.  I’m glad I did!  Once again, traffic was stopped for an hour. I did turn off the ignition so I wouldn’t arouse that warning light again.

Then my Waze app said there was an object blocking my lane up ahead.  There was.  It was a gigantic wishing well that had fallen off a big truck transporting carnival rides.  Crazy!  Eight-hundred miles of no problems.  And then  .  .  .

Nevertheless, I sllid into home base in plenty of time  to greet my two Montana grand-dogs.

And in time for Boo to make a big salad from her garden for our supper and watch the sunset in the Big Sky.

Next day we enjoyed Boo’s beautiful garden.  The growing season there is very short and labor intensive.  Lots of hand watering required but so worth it.

That night, we went to Livingston for the Friday night art and music walk.  Heard some good music and ate at the Mint Bar.  My test meal is always  cheeseburger and fries.  The Mint burger did not disappoint.

On my travels, hunger does not play a part.

We bought a couple of pieces of tres leches cake at our favorite bakery to take home.  I had mine for breakfast the next morning before we headed out to kayak a really fun stretch of the beautiful Yellowstone River. 

That night, I drove the few miles to the Emigrant General Store where you can buy absolutely everything. I bought some ice cream and introduced Boo to moose tracks.

That was dinner while we watched the JD Vance autobiographical movie “Hillbilly Elegy.”  Ick!  We were sad to think that Ron Howard had put his name on what was essentially a creepy grownups’ Hallmark movie.  And that Glenn Close was in it.  She was actually very good.

Sunday I wanted to see Boo’s workplace as the new manager of Yellowstone Park’s native plant nurseries. 

This is her “on-site office”: 

Her actual office is in this building.

This is the part of the park that is actually in Montana, a little closer to her home in Pray.  Still, she puts in ling days, leaving her house at 6 a.m. and getting back home to water the garden and feed her menagerie after 6 p.m. 

We have a thing.  The women in my family love to explore old cemeteries.  So much history there. This one is near Elizabeth’s new workplace. There is a veterans’ section where there is a special place to burn flags respectfully. 

And then  it was my last my last day. I took it easy and shuttled Elizabeth so she and Gypsy could kayak.  We had BBQ, a tradition of ours in Emigrant.

Then it was home again, home again. Jiggity jig.  

There were three times in my life when I held new babies. At that time, I believed they were straight from the hand of God. Holding them was holy, magic, sacred. Today, I went to Vespers and sat between two very old, precious friends. I know they will not be here much longer, Again, I felt that magic, that holiness, even though I no longer have that simple faith like I used to. From the beginning to the end, I know life is divine.

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Who knew? I’ve lived around here for nearly 28 years and I’d never heard of it.  It’s a magical place.  Elizabeth found it and we stayed in a tiny cottage with three dogs and everything we needed.  

I told Elizabeth, the inside of this tiny cottage, c. 1939, reminded me so much of the tiny house I first remember living in in 1949.  

Outside my bedroom window:

Rhododendrons were blooming everywhere. 

Every place you looked was something magical.

Short walk to the beach:

Or you could drive right down:

Amazingly, we had bright blue skies every day. Sunsets were amazing.

Juno, the Alaskan Malamute, loved the cold water.

Sweet Gypsy is a Maui girl and had to warm up.

Of course, good food played a part. I brought Italian meatball soup, crusty bread from Trader Joe’s, and cake from Konditorei.

Apparently, the north end of the peninsula is the “Oyster Capital of the World.”  I can believe that from this pile of shells:

Had to enjoy some as well as some clam chowder.

Leaving was made easier by our decision to come back and perhaps try out every cottage there.  I kept that in mind as I drove back into Oregon across the Astoria-Megler  Bridge and into rain, rain, and more rain.

Of course, the rainy Oregon Coast is magical in its own way too. In fact, I think if you just look carefully, you will find magic wherever you look.

I sometimes read the obituaries in my local newspaper and I am amused by the era-appropriate names parents chose for their children about ninety hears ago. Vern Leroy and Iris Ethel this morning.

Last week, my children gave their father three amazing send-offs. One in his retirement community. One at the local Catholic Church. And one at the veterans’ cemetery.

For some reason, his mother gave him the timeless, classic name of James Stuart Urbanski. I have no idea how she happened to choose that name. For many years I loved being referred to as Mrs. James Stuart Urbanski. That was era-appropriate for women in my age group.

Mary-Margaret composed this perfect obituary for him. Appropriately, she touched on all the positive points of his life and none of the less-fortunate points. Most appropriate.