Category: Adventures with family

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The rolling hills of Eastern Montana were laden with sage brush and prickly pear. The summer grasses were just as dry as the parched cracked ground in which it grew sporadically. Rocks sprouted up randomly in unlikely places. You could top a hill and have an unobstructed view for miles and miles. A clump of the trees marked where a spring bubbled out of the ground or the home place of a neighbor. A line of trees was indication of a creek or irrigation ditch. Fields in the distance looked like patchwork quilts. The sky was deep blue with occasional clouds casting long dark shadows on the barren hills below. A stand of weathered windblown willows stood close to a house barely protected by the wind on one side. A small wire fence separated the yard and house from the rest of the world. That is where Uncle Buster lived.

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Uncle Buster said, “You girls want to go on a sheep drive?” My sister and I were ready and out the door in a flash. We headed to the barn to saddle up the horses. Uncle Buster followed us out and said, “We’re not taking the horses.” He grinned and pointed to the old beat up car, “We’re taking the car.” I couldn’t believe nor imagine driving sheep with a car, unless he was going to stuff them in the car with us. My imagination formed a picture of caricatures of sheep hanging out of the trunk, windows and hood of the car.

With Uncle Buster around, there was always an adventure. We jumped in the car, drove through the open gate and headed across the pasture. It was a scene from an animated cartoon. Uncle Buster was behind the wheel. There was no steering needed. He merely grabbed the wheel to keep it from jerking suddenly to the right or left when we hit a prairie dog hole or big rock. We girls hung out the windows whooping and hollering and slapping our knees just as if we were riding bucking broncs, sheep flying everywhere.

Uncle Buster had one speed – fast. We flew through the pasture leaving sage brush, dirt and rocks flying all around us. We’d hit a bump and were airborne until the car took a nosedive into the brush. It was obvious from the knocks, clanking and scraping sounds that the mud on the underside of the car was getting cleaned off. The sagebrush and prickly pear seemed to suffer no ill effects other than tire tracks. I knew then why that car was so dented and beaten up.

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At first, the sheep kept their heads to the ground pulling dry prairie grass with their teeth. They were oblivious to the approaching one car circus on wheels. The sheep scattered and ran toward safety. If some strayed during their flight from the flying maniacal car, Uncle Buster would move in that direction to get them back with the flock. I can’t say if they were in their right mind, but all the sheep made it to their destination unscathed. 

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When we finally skidded to a stop, a trail of dust still lingered in the air. Uncle Buster got out, straightened his hat and walked off dragging his bad leg behind him. We girls got out, adrenaline still rushing, and managed to stay upright after the drunkening ride. We walked away, bowed legs and all. What an adventure! 

A lot of folks collect mementos of their trips and adventures. Some people take home t-shirts, magnets, stickers, shot glasses, post cards, seashells, spoons, and thimbles, among other things. I have even carried back a bag of dirt. When I was a kid, I always managed to stash a favorite rock or even a bag of rocks. I’ve expanded my horizons and now collect pottery made in the areas I visit.

Each piece is more than just a trinket. It is a memory. The platter and bowl I picked up in New Smyrna Beach, Florida during my sister trip are reminders of lighthouses, beaches, seafood, sunsets, kayaking, an island rookery, laughter, manatees, Spanish moss, lots of good food and fun. A bowl from the Art Walk in Sequim, Washington holds memories of cousins, rain forests, hikes, mountains, lakes, scenic photos, cliffs, sounds of ocean echoes in caves, and ferries. The bowl from North Carolina tells of a surprise trip with “the girls.” It brings to mind waterfalls, the Biltmore Estate, ghost hunting, cold rain, friends, little towns, Madison’s Restaurant, winding mountain roads, and a wintery Segway ride.

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Unique bowls from Alaska remind me of the fulfillment of a childhood dream come true to visit there with my dad. My husband and I were able to take that trip with my dad, aunt and cousins on an Alaskan Cruise plus a four-day inland tour to Denali. 

Two pieces from the Brad Walker Pottery Shop in Dahlonega, Georgia, brings the sound of laughter. “The girls” and I have passed through there many times on our “Destination Unknown” trips. We’ve hiked, explored, gone off road to climb mountains and stick our feet in mountain streams. We have eaten at many delicious places, stayed in lodges and cabins, zip-lined through the trees, shopped in quaint little towns, rode horses, slept in a tack room, visited fudge shops, and many other things.

While traveling through Montana, we have gone through little towns and followed roadside signs that say, “Pottery Shop.” We came across Basin Creek Pottery in Basin, Montana, one of those towns that can easily be missed if you blink twice. The artist gathers his own clay and makes his own paints with natural minerals found in the mountains. The pottery I got from there is a long, narrow and shallow dish that is perfect for crackers. It holds memories of Ghost Towns, a bumpy ride through the wilderness and chasing elusive outlaws. Firehole Pottery is another great little pottery shop off the beaten path between Belgrade and Bozeman. I have several pieces from there that all remind me of the mountains and visits with Maud and my grandson.

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The bowl with the indented swirl in the middle is from Penn Cove Pottery shop in Coupeville, Washington on Whidbey Island. Various artists display their works of art, each unique. It was hard to make my choice. I ended up with two bowls. They remind me of island life, tall bridges over glacial waters, coastal towns, boats, seashores lined with rocks, green rivers and lakes, massive chains from sunken ships and other items washed up on the beach, squawks of sea birds and the deep sad tones of foghorns in the distance.

Another shop, Fat Elk Trading Company, in Packwood, WA, was small, but it had lots of pottery as well as other items. The pieces I selected were different than any I have seen elsewhere. They bring an old memory from a trip long ago to Mt. Rainier National Park as well as more recent memories of traveling in the shadow of Mt. Rainier and of sharing a meal of burgers at Cliff Topper just down the street.

Every piece of pottery I have collected holds a special place in my remembrances. Not only do I use them to serve up Sunday Dinner, but I also use them to serve up memories.

“Please return to your cars for boarding.” At that announcement, folks hurried back to their cars. A dad guided a little girl with one hand as he precariously juggled newly purchased items in his other hand. A mom followed with two little ones, guiding them through the maze of vehicles. Families, shoppers, and sightseers wove in and out of the string of cars. It wasn’t long before the line began to move except for the cars devoid of their passengers who would soon be rushing to make the 8:40 AM crossing. One by one, foot passengers, bicycles and motorized vehicles filled the bowels of the open-ended ferry. A lady ran down the ramp just as it was preparing to lift from the deck. “Can I get on?” A worker unlatched the gate for which the lady was grateful.

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Car doors slammed like dominos, one after the other, sending a resounding hollow echo through the belly of the ferry. Many of the cars were abandoned again, and passengers made their way to the upper decks. I was no exception. Instead of sitting, I headed out on the open deck at one end of the ferry so I could see the fascinating scenes around me. Looking across the open water, I felt the wind and salty mist on my face. The strong smell of the ocean filled my nostrils. Sea birds ducked their heads under water in search of their next meal. Seagulls squawked and flew closer to the shore. The wake from the ferry rocked small boats as we passed. The mainland grew larger as the island we had left behind got smaller and smaller. I felt as if I had stepped into a different and timeless world. The hands of the clock stood still for just a few moments in time.

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Island life is foreign to me. Some people make the commute to and from the mainland every day. If they make the trip twice daily, the short distance across the water can take three to four hours out of their day.  As I considered their daily trek, I thought, “Hmmmm. Maybe that’s not so bad.” If they want to get to the other side, they have little choice but to take that daily reprieve just to be still or read or take a stroll as the rest of the world passes them by. 

As the ferry neared the mainland, people scrambled to get back to their vehicles. Soon the sound of engines coming to life was heard. Passengers hurried off the ramp going about their business as that moment in time passed, and the clock started ticking once again.

The desert has a beauty all its own. Hidden beneath the parched earth with wind teasing the dry grasses are seeds of new life just waiting to burst forth. The Southwest desert regions are absolutely fascinating.

One of my favorite places I have visited is the White Mountains in eastern California. There is a jewel hidden in that high desert mountain range. The Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest is a protected area high in the White Mountains in Inyo County. Having traveled through that area a few years ago, I can say if you’re planning a trip to that vicinity, it would be well worth a side trip to visit the ancient forest. The Ancient Bristlecone Scenic Byway winds through narrow canyons with gorgeous outcroppings of rocks. Climbing out of the valley, the reward is a view of rolling vistas and desert mountains dotted with gnarly trees that have survived the harsh conditions for years.

Many of the Bristlecone Pines are ancient trees. It is said the oldest known tree in the United States is a Bristlecone Pine. For years a tree named Methuselah, at about 4800 years old, was said to be the oldest but since then another tree in the same forest has been dated at over 5000 years old.

I sensed an air of sacred reverence there. Walking through the forest, it seemed that wisdom and history whispered from the trees. I was humbled just to stand there among those ancient sentries. Just think of all the changes that have occurred in their lifetime. They are survivors. How many people have sat at their roots? How many have wandered in those mountains among the pines? How many birds have nested in their branches? How many natives of this country have called it home? The Ancient Ones certainly deserve our protection and respect.

When you travel with me, the rule is we eat with the locals and avoid chain restaurants if at all possible. Of course, many of the places I travel have no chain restaurants. My girls laugh and say when they travel with me, “We’re off the chain.” Through the years I’ve had good meals, best meals and an occasional worst meal. When I think of the best meals I’ve had while traveling, many come to mind.

One of the best meals in the mountains backpacking with my dad was rice cakes cooked over a campfire in a skillet of butter and drizzled with honey. The best meal after coming out of the mountains on backpacking trips was anything that Aunt Barbara cooked – usually fresh beef, potatoes, gravy, and fresh bread. The best meal while camping in the high desert was left over Costco rotisserie chicken mixed with boxed Mac ‘n Cheese with fresh Aunt Betty tomatoes on the side. It seems that food just tastes better cooked over a campfire in the mountains! The best cream puffs were a toss-up between Aunt Lois and Aunt Barbara, both made with real butter and topped with fresh whipped cream and wild berries.

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There have been three best Mexican restaurants: a Mexican restaurant on the outskirts of Omak, Washington; a taco bus in Dillon, MT; and El Rodeo bus in Bozeman, MT.

One of my favorite historic places to visit was the Historic Marysville House. Who would think of finding a restaurant serving the best of steaks and seafood in a partially inhabited ghost town off the beaten path? At one time the dining room was the freight & baggage room of the railroad station. They say it’s “worth the ride,” and it is! Two more historic great dining experiences were the old inn at Gold Hill, CA and the Grand Union Hotel in Ft. Benton, MT. Hands down, the best milkshake was and is at Cole Drug in Big Timber, MT. Madison’s Restaurant in the Old Edward Inn situated in the quaint little town of Highlands, NC was one of the best all-around fine dining experiences with good food, beautiful presentation, wonderful atmosphere, and exquisite service. The Woodbridge Inn in Jasper, GA was also a great place to eat with a Dutch twist. The best breakfast was at the Adair Manor B & B in Adairsville, GA. It’s worth a stay in this restored 1895 home full of Southern charm and Country French style. The hosts shower their guests with Southern hospitality. They set the table with the most exquisite breakfast served on their fine china.

The best huckleberry pie was at Park Café at St. Mary, MT. The best cinnamon roll was at Polebridge, MT (unless you get one at cousin Bobbie’s house). The best fish was a toss-up between fresh caught trout cooked over a campfire and fresh salmon Aunt Lois cooked on a wood-burning stove. The best water is from a mountain spring at my grandmother’s old place. One of my very favorite places to eat is at Sweet Grass Ranch. I’ve had the privilege to eat there a few times, and it has been marvelous every time. One reason the food tastes great is because the friendship, history and atmosphere are outstanding.

There have been worst places to eat, too. The VERY WORST of all time was Denny’s, a chain restaurant in Bishop, CA. It was the only place open when we got to town. I ordered spaghetti, and I got spaghetti noodles tossed in ketchup. Yep – it was terrible – the worst ever! I’m sure glad there are more best places on my list!

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My youngest granddaughter is just about too cute. That means she is as cute as can be as well as smart and oozing with life and full of energy. She also has another quality. She is a Daddy Buck Whisperer. That’s quite an accomplishment at just four years old.

She was a surprise, and what a good surprise she was! There is ten years between her and her big sister with a brother stuck in the middle. I know about surprises because I was a surprise, too. There is ten years between me and my big sister. I was a 1 in 1000 chance baby. We were meant to be!

Little Bit came at just the right time. Her great grandfather, Daddy Buck,    needed her. I believe she was sent as a special gift to Daddy Buck. She brought light to his clouded eyes and life to his aging aching bones. She would come into his house at breakfast time, sit in his lap and share his blueberries. When she thought he had been at the table long enough, she’d run over to his recliner, pat the seat and say, “Daddy Buck, I need you.” He would roll his walker over to his chair, sit down and the little girl climbed up there with him. She would sit at his left side tucked up under his arm just like I would sit with my granddad when I was her age. When we went to get Daddy Buck a new chair, he tested it to make sure there was enough room for him and his little sidekick before he made his selection. Those two were like two peas in a pod. There were times when she would climb up on his walker seat, and he’d roll her off to his room or to the table as she sang a funny little tune. Sometimes he sang a funny little tune while she rang his bell and rolled from one room to the next.

The other day my daughter, her kids and I went to visit an elderly friend, Dr. Grace. She thinks all kids are wonderful, but she especially loved watching Little Bit. It wasn’t long before the little bundle of wiggles asked Dr. Grace if she could sit with her. Dr. Grace was ecstatic. She needed a Daddy Buck Whisperer, too. Soon a little girl sat quietly in the lap of this soon-to-be 99 year old lady. They were both smiling and perfectly content talking their secret language.

On Sunday, Little Bit will be about her duties again using her Daddy Buck Whisperer skills when she visits the older ladies Sunday School class. She will twirl to show off her hairdo, dress and moose boots and then curtsy for them as they oooo and ahhh before she buzzes out of the room. You always know the Daddy Buck Whisperer has struck because the room is full of smiles.

While traveling with my daughter and her family, we saw a duck. That stirred a memory of when my daughter was small. I told the grandkids that once when their mama and uncle were little, we went to Montana with Daddy Buck & Grandma Buck. We drove down the road, and a duck flew into the windshield. Daddy Buck ducked as the duck hit the window. Then I said, “And that was a true story.”

I told of the time when we were traveling on that same road and chased a jackrabbit down the road for about a mile. I added, “And that was a true story.”

My youngest granddaughter took may hand and said, “Tell us another story.” I tried to think about stories that included their mama. Soon one came to mind. 

This was the story as told to the littlest granddaughter: “When your mama was a little girl we were going to the mountains with Daddy Buck to go camping. So we started off that way. Your mom had curly hair and she had on a flannel shirt and had this great big old backpack. We got up there to the cabin, ready to go into the mountains, and she started crying. ‘I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go.’ So I said, ‘It’s too late now because we don’t have a way to get you back to town.’ We started up the trail, and she had the big backpack on her back and a hat on.”

“We got up close to the lake where there’s an old hay rake. Your mom had her picture made there. She was about to quit crying, but I think her stomach was hurting. We started up the trail and came to Eagle Park. That’s where we camped for the night. I got a picture of your mama and uncle in the river with their underwear on. The water was really cold.”

“The next day we hiked up to the waterfalls. Now, your mama pooted in her pants, and her underwear was dirty. We put a stick in the ground at the top of the cliff, a big stick, and I told your mom, ‘You’ve gotta take your panties off.’ We went down to the creek washed them out and hung them on the stick. We said, ‘This is the flag of freedom.’ Your mom said, ‘But I don’t have any underwear!’ ‘Just pull your pants up, and we’ll get them on the way back.’ So on the way back from our hike that day, we got her underwear, and they were dry. She put them on. Then we went back to Gommie’s cabin and spent the night.”

We continued our drive down the road. A little hand held mine as I told stories. That sweet little girl was mesmerized. Her eyes were intent on watching me. She would occasionally ask a question about the story, and then her sweet little voice said, “Tell me the story about the flag of freedom again.” 

The summer of 1975, my sister and I embarked on a cross country trip. We had many adventures, met lots of interesting people, visited cousins we had never seen and made many memories.  After several weeks of travel, we made it to Big Timber, Montana. We stayed with our grandmother for a few days and then headed up the Boulder to stay with cousin Babs. 

She let us use their one room cabin that was up the road from the ranch.  We parked our beat-up jalopy and waded the creek to our “new home.” There was no electricity. We did have running water right outside the door. We drank right from the creek. Our bathroom with a view was beside a tree. It was perfect!

We hung our kerosene lantern in the middle of the room, set up our Coleman stove, hauled in our cooler and threw our sleeping bags on the cots.  We were there only a couple of nights when our sleep was interrupted by the gnawing teeth of mice – no, rats! The next morning, we went to the ranch and reported the night’s events to Babs. She laughed as I gave a detail description of the huge rats that infested our living quarters. She declared that there were no rats– only mice. Whatever it was, we didn’t like to share our little cabin. We took a maze trap back with us to capture the little beasts.  We weren’t disappointed!  The little critter visited right on time after we blew out the light. Those little fellows always sound larger and beastlier in the dark in the middle of the night.  We heard clawing and pawing and gnawing as the little guy caught in the maze sought a way out.  The cheese wasn’t worth it that night!  

Imagine the scene in the middle of the night.  Us girls slept in the bare essentials.  When the mouse started its shenanigans, up we jumped.  We lit the lantern that was hanging in the middle of the room from the ceiling.  Sis grabbed a broom, jumped back up on her cot and started swinging at the poor little mouse in the maze trap.  She did that with one hand while the other arm crossed her chest trying to hide her exposed self from unwanted eyes.  I could do nothing but laugh.  There were definitely no peeping toms out there!  Only critters would look in that lone window by the creek.  There was nothing else to do but wait until morning.

When dawn came, we got up and decided to dispose of the mouse properly. We’d drown it!  We took the trap to the creek and submerged it in the icy cold water tumbling over the river rocks. That mouse didn’t drown! It floated to the top and started swimming. It got to the bank and crawled out of the water. Now what?  It would come back that night if something wasn’t done! Sis grabbed a boot and started smacking the little gray-haired, long-tailed varmint. Finally, he gave up the ghost.  We picked him up by the tail and sent him to his watery grave.  

We went to the ranch for breakfast, and I recounted the animated tale to Babs.  She laughed.  No, she bellowed, hee-hawed, at our story.  She had a hearty laugh and used every bit of it! We later went to town and got some real traps – those that snap their heads off.