We piled the whole bunch into the RDX. All five adult-sized humans. Grandpa, Son, Hubby, Nephew and me. I drove. Grandpa got to ride shotgun. And the backseat was filled with Sardine One, Sardine Two and Sardine Three.
Driving east into the Columbia River Gorge the morning sun gave the cliffs on our right a luminous glow. On our left the river's surface twinkled, pushing ever tirelessly to the sea.
We passed the dry farmland of Hermiston with its fruit stands and painted "watermelons" signs. Into the Tri-Cities and across the Snake River. Stopped at Ritzville for gas. Then through Spokane, its skyline dated like a heyday past. We motored into Idaho, hugging the long curve of Lake Coeur d'Alene's verdant shore. Then past the old mining towns of Wallace and Mullan. Finally we scaled the Fourth of July Pass, then Lookout Pass and crossed into Montana.
Where suddenly everything was different. The road less traveled. The folks friendly. The pace unhurried. Montana, a land of sandy fertile soil, bright blue rivers, rolling gentle hills and steep mountains with carved facets and crevices of snow. We followed the Clark Fork, then the Flathead River to Dixon, to Moiese, Charlo and Ronan. Breathed in the smell of hay. The wide pastel sky. Cows. Lots of cows. The flat mirror of Ninepipe with its ornament of birds. The Mission Mountains rising like priests to the east.
We came to rest in Polson across from the wide cerulean expanse of Flathead Lake.
Then to Ronan each day for convention. Communion with God. A settling peace. Messages of hope. Inspiration. And cheer. We scaled the mountain and saw again an uncompromising view.
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