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I had to get to the east coast from my home in Oregon. It was a no hurry trip. An estate needed to be settled, an aunt I barely remembered had passed in some nursing home, and the lawyer's letter gave a date and place near Boston. And I had to show to claim my share. I had no great expectations. Nobody on that side of the family had ever amounted to a hill of shit, so I doubted Aunt Myrtle had much left over when she kicked off. And I was sure the vultures that devolved from my dad's side of the family would be there, and they would provide the kind of entertainment I really didn't need. But I had vacation time saved up that the hospital said I had to use or lose, so off I went. With any luck I'd inherit enough to cover the cost of diesel and I'd at least break even.

I had ten days to get there, and I got the notion to drive, rather than fly. So much country to see, and maybe I could drop by my old stomping grounds for a little memory renewal. So I loaded my camping gear and an ice chest into the truck and I aimed east. The Three Sisters faded in my mirror and I headed across the center of the state, the empty part that I liked best. I camped near John Day that first night and tried to sleep to the sound of the lumber mill saw that ran all night.

Crossing into Idaho, I angled north and then up the Lochsa River road into the mountains. I slept next to the river in that little forest service campground near the Montana border. And then I followed the interstate all the way across Montana, with only the Yellowstone River ...

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