West. Day 35.

July 13, 2016

Ovando to Potomac, Montana

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The road from Ovando out to SR 200 presented a brief, but steep climb. I granny-geared to the turn, my mind drifting back to the beautiful ride along the Blackfoot River. It seemed as if, every time I found myself smiling at the magnificent view, a white cross appeared.

The Montana Highway Department stationed white crosses where people died in car wrecks--a caution to be careful and not distracted. I counted at least seven pay-attention reminders in the twenty-eight miles between Lincoln and Ovando.

Sobering.

Yet the crosses confirmed in me the rightness of doing this ride, my gratefulness for the love of a husband who made it so, for the patience of a mother who once again waited to hear I was safe, for the resilience of a sixty-year-old body still pounding out the miles, and for the determination to pursue a dream and not let it go.

Drifting with the Blackfoot River.

A Facebook friend suggested I teach a class on how to be a strong woman. Ha! She said my "Postcards from the Road" were inspiring. Her comment was an inspiration for me to keep on keeping on. And if my crazy memoir inspires just one person, then, well, I will consider it a success.

Touring the night's camp at Sundog Permastaed with greeter-dogs Camus and Earl was inspiring in its own way...

Eager greeters, Camus (right) and Earl (left), offer me a tour.

Signs point the way.

A gathering place.

A unique composting outhouse, with a view!

Happy Camus.

Earl guards the gate of the owner's house.

A lovely reading spot.

Julie, co-owner with her son Hunter of this distinctive Air B&B (a new term for me), walked past my site with two young men chatting in a heavy (German?) accent. They were staying in one of the cabins. They waved but didn't seem interested in visiting. Fine with me. Stegner's book Angle of Repose had me hooked.

On her way back to the house, Julie asked if I saw Earl.

"I took a little walk around the place with them earlier," I said. "The last I saw of Earl he trotted down that two-track over there." I pointed to a faint trail leading off to a neighboring property.

"He's somewhere," she said. "He goes off like this and eventually comes back. But he has seizures, so we worry about him."

Daylight lingered longer than I wished to stay up. When I retired, the inner tent zipper separated. Ugh. I got it back on track but worried how it would hold up. I had miles to go and many nights to sleep.

I eased down, relieved the wind died. The wood chips beneath me were comfortable, but they would not hold the tent stakes.