Howdy, everyone. As I post this Chapter Two 'sneak peek' from my new novel, Bell-Bottom Gypsy, the February weather is still howling and drifting white out there. A perfect time to work on all of this.

The new novel should be coming very soon. I am all finished, but am waiting to see an actual paperback proof copy before releasing the book. Very exciting! Baby boomers and wanna-be baby boomers are going to love this one! OK, here's your chapter:


Chapter 2
 
Jess ladled steaming Kentucky Burgoo into Hank’s large mug. It smelled good and her stomach growled as she put the mug on the counter. Hank was her favorite regular at the concession stand. The older man came by every day, friendly and smiling. His coarse red hair stuck out underneath a traditional Kentucky driver’s cap. A horse trainer whose weathered face testified to a life lived outdoors, he wore a plaid flannel shirt, which was apparently the uniform of folks who worked in the horse sheds behind Keeneland Race Track.
Jessie’s stand was in the thick of the Keeneland action, across from the betting windows. People stopped for burgoo after picking up their winnings. Now and then a winner dropped a fifty-dollar bill and told her to keep the change.
She could get used to that.
“Gotta run,” Hank said, crumbling crackers into his stew. “I wanna talk to you, though.”
“OK.” What on earth did he want to talk about?
“Tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here.”
“Great. Have a good one.”
“You too, Hank.”
Jess dished burgoo for two women in wide-brimmed, colorful hats.
“Do y’all have hot sauce?” one asked.
“Yep, here you go.” Jess put it on the counter.
“Thanks, darlin’…” The woman helped herself, stirred her stew, and tasted it. “Mmm.”
They gave her a generous tip.
The lunch rush was over, so Jess fixed herself a bowl of stew and perched on the stool to enjoy it. Burgoo – made with hickory-smoked meat, beans, corn, okra, tomatoes, cabbage, and potatoes – was part of the Kentucky horse race tradition, although no one seemed to know how it had begun. Her boss said burgoo was as important to the Kentucky Derby as singing "My Old Kentucky Home" and parading sleek Thoroughbreds.
At first Jessie had said “bur-GOO,” but the horse people corrected her. It was pronounced “BUR-goo,” they said, emphasizing the first syllable. She said it that way now, and had already picked up the gentle Kentucky “y’all.”
Arriving in Lexington in time for Keeneland’s October race meet, she’d landed this short-term job that put her smack in the middle of Kentucky’s horse culture. Keeneland figured prominently in Lexington’s being the "Horse Capital of the World." The park-like grounds around the track were gorgeous and open to the public. On the edge of town, the famous old track had ivy-covered stone walls, graceful trees aflame with fall foliage, and neatly trimmed Japanese yews in the infield that spelled out “Keeneland.” Founded in 1936, Keeneland prided itself on being what horse racing was meant to be. The sprawling stone clubhouse and grandstand were quarried from native limestone. This was a place where horse lovers could savor the favorite sport of the Bluegrass.
Jessie loved it.
Her brother’s friend Steve had rented her the attic room in his university neighborhood house. She liked Steve’s easygoing ways. Jess hadn’t seen much of her brother, but that was OK. They’d never been close. They often had trouble communicating. Still, it was nice knowing that James was close by.
Jess liked driving through the countryside and gazing at the elegant thoroughbred farms with their lush, rolling pastures and old trees. Horses, cattle, and sheep grazed under blazing fall foliage. The paved backroads were flanked for miles with mossy stone walls and white fences. Stately homes were set back from the roads, in groves of massive oaks. The stables, painted to match the main houses, were fancy barn mansions with steeples.
Three thin women in enormous hats approached the burgoo stand.
Jess got up, wiped her mouth, and went over to wait on them.
~
It turned out Hank wanted to hire her as a hot walker. That meant walking his race horses about twenty minutes each after their early morning workouts. That was when the horses were exercised and trained, he explained. The Thoroughbreds had to be walked until they were cooled down, to prevent the sweating animals from getting colic, which could be deadly for them. Hank said that hot walking also helped the young horses calm down before they were returned to their stalls.
So here she was, driving out to Keeneland before dawn. It was a different world out here this time of day. Hushed layers of mist enveloped the trees as the trainers and exercise riders put the Thoroughbreds through their paces on the workout track. It was separate from the racing track. The horses’ hooves pounded the dirt, their snorting breath sending steam clouds into the air.
As dawn broke, Jess watched the sleek animals galloping full speed, stretching out. With their flying manes and powerful muscles, they were magnificent. She had to pinch herself, wondering if she was really here.
Hank taught Jess to hold each horse while the groom washed him and threw a “cooler” blanket on him. Then she was to lead the animal around the shed row until he had cooled down thoroughly. Hot walkers usually traveled with trainers to tracks and training centers to help care for the Thoroughbreds. Hank had fired his main walker recently, but didn’t say why.
Managing high-strung horses was part of the job. “Gentle but confident, that’s how you want to be,” the trainer told her. “They’ll know if you’re afraid.”
Jessie was inexperienced but tall and strong enough to handle it, Hank said. If a Thoroughbred got frightened and reared up, the thing to do was back away and give the horse plenty of slack in the lead rope. The horse would calm down right away, Hank told her.
She sure hoped he was right.
Jessie learned the hard way to put plenty of space between herself and the shed. The way they walked put her between the massive animal and the shed. One horse had tried to smash her into a corner of the building. She’d pushed back, as hard as she could. The huge horse had just grunted and given her a sideways glance.
Other than that, things had gone smoothly as Jess walked the tall Thoroughbreds. Now she came around a corner and saw Hank waiting for her with a horse named Flash. “Good morning,” she said.
“’Mornin’…here ya go, he’s already washed.” The trainer handed her the lead rope.
Flash, a stunning dark stallion, was probably Hank’s most nervous horse.
“Come on, boy,” Jess crooned, slowly leading him around the shed.
He pushed his muzzle into her hand, looking for a treat.
“No, no,” she told him.
All was peaceful until a tiny kitten sneezed in the corner about twenty feet away. Flash snorted and reared up, pawing the air like a maniac. Her heart in her throat, Jess backed up and gave him lots of slack. It took her breath away, how enormous and powerful these horses were. Hank was right: Flash settled down immediately. Thank God. Whew! These Thoroughbreds were beautiful, but they sure were crazy.
“All right, boy, let’s go,” she murmured as they resumed their walk. Jessie watched the rising sun drench the lovely, gnarled trees in golden light. The fall colors were at their peak. “Look at that, Flash,” she whispered.
He swished his long black tail.
She patted his neck. “You big ole scaredy-cat.”
Jessie liked talking to the Thoroughbreds as they walked. She’d always been fascinated by horses, but had never gotten to be around them. Most of the time it was calming, strolling with these tall animals around the shed row.
They rounded another corner, and there was Hank talking to a young man. “You finished with Flash?”
“Just about. Once more around and we’ll be good.”
“OK. This is Tommy Trisdale, my new groom. Tommy, this is Jessie Morgan.”
They nodded to each other as Jess walked Flash past them.
When she was finished, Tommy walked up. “Hank wants me to put him away,” he said.
“OK.” She handed him the rope and patted Flash’s warm neck again.
“Wanna get some breakfast when we’re done?”
“Sure.” He seemed nice enough, and she was curious about the track cafeteria.
                                                                        * * *
“Everyone calls me Twisty.”
“OK.” Interesting nickname. Jess sipped black coffee and studied the sharp angles of his dark face, waiting for her biscuits and gravy to cool off.
“You work at that burgoo stand, right?”
“Sure do.” She had an hour to relax before she had to go to work there.
“Love me some burgoo,” he drawled in a soft southern accent.
“Me, too. Where are you from?” Jess liked the way he talked. The way he looked wasn’t bad, either. He was maybe five years older than her.
“Asheville, North Carolina. You?”
“Detroit.”
“Motown.” He smiled.
“Right.” She smiled back, looking around the noisy cafeteria. Most of the shiny tables were full of horse people eating, laughing, and hollering across the room to each other. Jockeys, trainers, exercise riders, and everyone else who worked at Keeneland rubbed elbows here.
“What are you doing way down here, Jessie?”
She noticed that his smile reached into his dark brown eyes. “Just seeing the country. My brother lives here…”
“Ah.”
“How about you?” She dug into her breakfast.
“I’m following the race horse circuit,” he replied in his soft-spoken way. “I’m late cuz I had to go home for a bit.”
“Mmm.” Jessie’s mouth was full.
“I’m hoping to stay on with Hank, to New Orleans.”
“New Orleans, huh?”
“Yep.”
“Neat.” It was on her list of cities to experience.
“You didn’t know that’s where they’re headed next?”
“Nope. I’m new to this. Hank fired his hot walker, so he hired me even though I’ve never worked with horses before.”
“Cool.”
“I love horses.”
“Me too.”
Twisty seemed nice, but something about him made her nervous. She couldn’t put her finger on what it was.

 

Greetings! I am coming down the final home stretch, editing and revising my new novel, Bell-Bottom Gypsy (A Jessie Morgan Novel). Here is a sneak peek for you: the novel's Prologue and Chapter One. Enjoy! Please feel free to leave comments. Thanks!

Prologue
 
Jessie carefully folded her favorite bell-bottom jeans – the raggedy ones that dragged in the dirt around her bare feet. They were worn out enough to be soft and comfortable. She’d sewn a peace symbol patch on one threadbare knee; a flower patch on the other.
She was packing all her bell-bottoms, even though space in her Bug convertible was limited. Among them were second hand store treasures and flea market masterpieces: denim jeans hand-embroidered with flowers; fitted hip huggers with pleated bell-bottom inserts and a colorful, fringed scarf belt; and a psychedelic, wide-legged swirl of lavender and lime paisley. Jess picked up the folded pants and stuffed them into a pillowcase. There. That would fit in the car’s miniscule front trunk.
It would have been more sensible to get a hippie bus she could sleep in, since the plan was to drive all over the United States and maybe Canada, too. But Jessie had to have a Beetle convertible. Nothing else would do. She had this thing about being able to take the top down. It was about sun, fresh air, smells, and feeling the places she drove through. She’d found her 1965 Bug convertible in Chicago that summer, plunked down five hundred bucks for it, and was on her way.
The bell-bottoms, the car – none of this was practical.
She didn’t care.
That was Jessie for you.
 

Chapter 1
 
“Toledo, next exit.” Jessie Morgan steered the convertible onto the southbound exit ramp. In the thick of Detroit’s dreary Tuesday morning rush hour, hers was the lone car on the exit – a sunny, mustard-yellow speck arcing up and away from the gray river of V-8 sedans streaming along the Edsel Ford Expressway toward the city’s grimy factories.
The Stampeders’ “Sweet City Woman” came on the radio, filling the Beetle with banjo strumming. Jess turned it up and sang along, elated. A perfect soundtrack, she thought, drumming on the steering wheel in time to the banjo.
Robert Frost called this the road less traveled.
A butterfly breaking out of its cocoon and taking wing, twenty-year-old Jessie was headed for Lexington, Kentucky. It was September and too chilly to drive with the top down. Later for that. Excited to be leaving the washed-out factory metropolis where she’d grown up, she bounced along in her scruffy bell-bottom jeans. Detroit was an ashen brute where grim motorists drove alone in oversized land barges to mind-numbing assembly line jobs. It was the “Murder City.” Since the 1967 riot, Motown had been caught in a downward spiral of rage, frustration, and drugs.
For Jessie, Detroit had always been a foul mess. Better things were happening elsewhere and she couldn’t wait to experience them. It was fall 1971, a time of sex, drugs, rock and roll, hippies, birth control pills, students protesting the Vietnam War, back-to-the-earth ecology, and anti-capitalism. National Guardsmen had shot anti-war demonstrators at universities. Anti-establishment songs filled the air waves and young people were reading about spiritual enlightenment. Jess had packed Siddhartha and The Little Prince in one of her suitcases. Some called the hippie movement an intellectual renaissance. Others felt it was the end of the world.
As she drove toward Ohio, Jess had to admit that under her excitement she felt strange and scared. This was the first September in fifteen years she wasn’t going back to school.
She was finally breaking free.
In their dorm rooms, Jess and her college girlfriends had come up with the idea of traveling around the country working seasonal jobs. They would hit the road and have a blast, they said. During her boring sophomore year, Jess had decided to drop out. She had no idea what to major in and was sick of the pressure. She agreed with Timothy Leary: It was time to drop out, tune in, and turn on.
But Jessie’s friends had backed out. One couldn’t go because of her boyfriend. Another said her father would disown her if she went.
It was disappointing, embittering, to embark on this adventure alone. It wouldn’t be the same, travelling by herself. Thinking about her flaky girlfriends made her itch. She rubbed her olive green eyes with one fist and flipped her dark hair behind her shoulder.
Jess had decided that she’d rather hit the road alone than sit around wishing she’d gone. Determined to live life on her own terms, she was hell-bent on getting out there and experiencing things. Even scary things. She would push through her damned fears, take risks.
Maybe that was the definition of courage.
Honestly, she felt there was no choice. Jessie needed to find out who the hell she was. She would strip away everything familiar and see what was left.
She’d be free, the opposite of her inhibited mother and verbally abusive father. Of course her folks weren’t all bad. Dad was a good provider. An avid booklover, sometimes the thick, heavy volumes he loved fell on his face when he tried to read in bed at night. Mom was always there with good, homemade food. It must have been exhausting, cooking and keeping house for a big family.
Jess glanced at her rearview mirror. The leaden Detroit skyline behind her was punctuated with factory smokestacks spewing columns of curly steam into the gray air. Soon she’d be far away from all of it: her Irish Catholic family; her way-too-strict dad; her straight life.
Jessie knew she had a lot to learn, a long way to go. She tended toward blinding anger – free-floating wrath. It was as if she’d been born pissed off. Sometimes she suffered from Classical Migraine Syndrome attacks that made her horribly sick. When she was nine she’d had the crippling migraines once a week. No one had taken her to a doctor.
These days she was often caught up in irritable bitchiness. In short, she was too much like Dad. Dad! The last person she wanted to be like.
But there it was.
Jess flipped her hair back again and reached for a cigarette. She would change, or die trying. Actually, she’d already made changes: At Western Michigan University, she’d quit wearing makeup or shaving her legs or wearing a bra. It took a while to get used to looking at her own jade, almond-shaped eyes – like Mom’s – in the mirror without the heavy black eyeliner she’d become addicted to in high school. All in all, she felt good about her looks, except for her nose. Jess had her dad’s Irish pug nose.
It was inner change she craved. Jess wanted to re-create herself, getting rid of the parts she didn’t like – the angry, unkind, uptight parts. Out from under the pressures of school and home and church, she hoped to grow into her whole self. She’d expand her mind and learn things only life could teach, peeling away the layers of crap. Jess would become a better person – more open-minded, loving, and calm.
Oh, to be calm.
She’d tried living at home for the summer, resuming the same job as last year – as a Good Humor ice cream girl. As summer jobs went, it was a good one that paid well. But when she got out on her route, she’d felt as if she’d been driving around that suburban neighborhood all year. Meanwhile, Dad had driven her nuts at home.
So she’d run away.
Mom was ironing as Jess explained why she was leaving. Hell, Mom understood better than anyone how difficult it was to live with Dad. Then Jess had caught a Greyhound back to her college town, Kalamazoo, where she had a few connections. Her former boss from the dorm cafeteria had introduced her to the nearby Lake Michigan shore and a cool resort town called Saugatuck. He’d helped her get her first waitressing job there. Jessie had rented a room from a family and gone to work.
Saugatuck. An old-fashioned village on the Kalamazoo River, it sat amidst the rolling sand dunes along Lake Michigan. Some called it the “Art Coast of Michigan” because of the many galleries and studios. The hand-cranked Saugatuck Chain Ferry took people across the river, where they could walk to Oval Beach or climb Mount Baldhead.
Jessie loved Oval Beach. It was rated one of America's Top Ten great beaches. When Jessie’s sisters Jen and Janet had visited, she’d proudly shown it off. They’d ridden horses down the beach, swam and floated in Lake Michigan, and taken in the view from Mount Baldhead.
Most of her Saugatuck summer, though, Jess had worked. On breakfast shift at the Coral Gables, she’d learned that her customers were happy if she kept the coffee coming. Trying to save money for her first car, she’d picked up odd jobs in addition to holding down her full time one. She’d had her heart set on a Bug convertible. When Jessie had saved enough, she took a bus to Chicago and found her Bug convertible at a suburban car lot. Crazily, she’d never driven a stick shift before. The salesman taught her how, right there in the car lot.
Then she was on her own, in the middle of rush hour – on Chicago’s infamous Dan Ryan Expressway. Not only was Jess unfamiliar with driving a stick shift, she didn’t have the convertible top down correctly. It sat too high, blocking her view of anything behind her. Then she’d had to figure out which lane to get in for the toll booths.
Jessie was so freaked out, the toll booth guy had asked her if she was OK.
“Not really,” she’d replied.
He’d encouraged her to pull over and wait by the booth until the traffic eased up. What a nice guy. She’d rested there, sipping on some coffee he’d given her.
Later, enjoying the sunset as she drove through spacious countryside, Jess had gotten into the car’s rhythm. Watching a round, amber moon come up over misty fields, inhaling the wet-dirt scents of farms and woods, she’d fallen in love with the little convertible. She’d left the top down, feeling cool pockets of night air on her skin as she made her way back to Saugatuck.
Jess had gotten attached to the beach town. Maybe someday she’d live permanently near the Lake Michigan beaches with their soft sand that squeaked when you walked on it. She could see herself eventually settling down close to the towering, wind-whipped dunes and clear water.
Her favorite way to relax in Saugatuck was bobbing in Lake Michigan on an inner tube, riding the waves as she gazed at the honey-colored dunes. Then she’d stretched out on the silky, hot sand. A grove of birch trees appeared to grow out of the sand on the sheltered side of the tallest dune. That was the dune she and her sister Jen had perched on, drinking wine and watching an ominous thunderstorm march across Lake Michigan toward them. Then they’d run for the shelter of the car.
She glanced in the rearview mirror again. Now the flat terrain was the same behind her as it was in front. Trees and bushes dotted the area alongside the expressway. It took a while to get out of Detroit’s downriver suburbs. Exit signs listed Romulus, Wyandotte, Flat Rock. She’d take the expressway through Toledo and then find a smaller highway south from there. The traffic was thinning as the day warmed.
Jess hoped she’d find a decent temporary job in Kentucky. James, her oldest brother, was in graduate school at the University of Kentucky in Lexington. Having him near would give her a safety net of sorts. She saw Kentucky as a stepping stone, plus autumn in Bluegrass Country was bound to be interesting.
From there, she’d figure out where to go next. Most likely it would be south, for a warm winter. That sounded good.

“Help meeeeee!”

In bed on the cabin’s screened-in sleeping porch, Jessie jerked awake. Jarred and half asleep, she searched the inky-black darkness with wide eyes. Nothing but black Montana night.

“HELP MEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” came the spooky wail again, its mournful tones echoing off the island cliffs across the Narrows. It sounded like two children calling from somewhere out on the lake.  

Jess lay there in the pitch-black dark, her eyes popping out of her head, her heart pounding. She lay on her back in her warm sleeping bag, stiff as a board with fright. She was alone in the cabin, her uncle having gone home. It was plenty isolated out here, especially in May. There was no phone, and none of the neighboring cabins she knew of were occupied this time of year. She cursed herself for not thinking to have a good flashlight handy. This was her first time staying by herself in the woods, and she had everything to learn. Maybe living out here was a bad idea. She--

“HELP MEEEEEEEEEEEeeeee!” the eerie wail sounded again, its haunting notes slowly fading into the Flathead Lake silence.  

The hair on the back of Jessie’s neck stood straight up. She couldn’t move. Not even an inch! She wondered if she was hearing a ghost. It was that kind of spine-chilling, unnerving sound. What should she do? What if someone needed her to help? She felt paralyzed, but her mind was racing. The only thing she could do was drive into town, she figured, since no one was staying out here this early in the season.

Again she tried to see something in the moonless night, anything. The lake was quiet. Through the screen, she finally could make out a patch of starry night sky and the dim silhouettes of the fat old ponderosa pines that stood just outside the sleeping porch. After a few more seconds she could see the lofty tamaracks, too.

Once more the call pierced the night. “HELP MEEEEEE!”

This time it was strangely dissonant. What if she lay here doing nothing, and whoever was out there drowned? What if they were children needing her help? Sometimes boaters out here needed rescuing. She waited, listening hard and barely breathing. Maybe someone had broken a boat propeller, or couldn’t get their boat motor started. She had to get up and try to find the flashlight in the kitchen.

But she still could not get her legs to move.   

Then a weird yodeling punctured the silence. It was long, rising, and crazy-sounding. Now what the heck was it? This was not children, for sure. Relieved, Jess took a deep breath. Just then another shrill yodel reverberated across the water.

Crazy.

Loony.

Loons!

She’d heard about loons yodeling like this. That must be it. It was May, probably their mating season or something. The loons were having a spring fever party on the lake.

Jess took some more deep breaths and finally relaxed enough to turn onto her side facing the trees outside the porch. A gentle breeze rustled the pine needles.

All was quiet on the lake once again.

But it took hours for Jess to fall back asleep.
 

It's high time I wrote another blog. It's been too long. Sorry about that.

Like the title says, you just haven't lived until... you've traveled down the amazing, precipitous, wild Going To the Sun Road in Glacier National Park, Montana -- in a tow truck pulling your 30-year-old RV, in the dark, at about 10 miles per hour.

The earlier part of the day had gone well: a nice group of readers at a book club in West Glacier welcomed me graciously. They listened, talked, laughed, bought some books, and had me sign their books.

I'd figured, if I'm going up to West Glacier, why not go into the park and do a little camping in the RV?

We chugalug-lugged up and up and up Going To the Sun, and on the top -- Logan Pass -- I decided it was time for a potty break. When I began driving out of the parking lot up there, Dusty Rose the Gypsy Wagon stalled. Then she stalled again. And again.

Then she wouldn't start at all.

There we were, near a curb but partially blocking a main bottom area of the Logan Pass parking lot, where people drive (often way too fast) to the exit. What to do? What to do? I turned on the hazard lights, tried to stay calm, and just hung out for a while thinking a ranger would come by.

No rangers.

It was after 5 p.m. I guess that means the rangers have gone home. Most of them, anyway.

I flagged down a couple of helpful shuttle bus drivers, who radio'ed my situation to their dispatch people. They did the best they could. They were very nice, and helpful.

The sun was sinking and I got worried about having those hazard lights on. I was trying to be calm, but I was worried about EVERYTHING and felt like crying. I turned them off and hoped for the best. By then there were far fewer people driving around up there.

Ranger Nancy came by because she was keeping an eye on a bunch of tourists getting awfully close to the six bighorn sheep who frequent the Logan Pass parking lot area. She sat on the rock wall and radio'ed in my dilemma, relaying a request for AAA emergency road assistance. She suggested opening the hood to see what we could see, and also to signal to drivers that the rig was disabled.

The open hood attracted several men, one of whom asked me, "Do you ever check the oil?"

That was it. Mind you, I had just checked the damned oil in West Glacier, not that oil had anything to do with the break-down, and not that it was any of this creep's damned business. I was trying not be feel stressed, but I was stressed. I'm just not that good at being calm when my old RV takes a dump on top of the remote Crown of the Continent.

"Hey," I told the guy, "I'm pretty stressed out and if you're going to say rude things to me, I want you to leave."

He left in a huff. Good riddance!

Ranger Nancy sympathized with me, but had things she had to do. I thanked her, and hung out on the rock wall some more.

"You need help?" a slim young man asked.

"Uh, do I ever."

He gestured toward his four-wheel-drive SUV that had a towing winch. "I can pull you into a parking spot."

"That would be great!" I told him. "Then I can relax, more or less, and even sleep up here if I need to."

So this nice young man from Lethbridge, Alberta hooked up to the front of Dusty Rose and pulled us into a spot. Yay! What a nice guy. To thank him, I offered him a cold beer and food, if he wanted some. He thought a beer would be good, but declined the food. He joined me and my dog in the RV and enjoyed a beer and some peanuts. Soon another Logan Pass visitor came by and visited, comparing notes on overnight parking up there and hiking trails. Then Ranger Nancy came back to check on me. What a nice woman! She said there would be a park ranger coming up from the east side to talk to me. I thanked her again and offered her a cold beer now that she was off duty. She declined, but appreciated the gesture.

As we visited in the rig, the bighorn sheep ran around the parking lot in the dimming light of dusk, licking the asphalt. I guess they like antifreeze, and don't get sick from it. A handful of tourists were still up there. Some of them actually pursued the rams, trying to get better pictures (REALLY???). At one point the rams were hanging out right next to Dusty Rose, so the Alberta guy and I got close-up views. A couple of the rams tussled, butting heads. I think they were going into their rut. Feisty! (perhaps not the best time to chase them trying to get a photo?)

Having just had her dinner, my sweet black lab Peaches slept on the bed through the whole thing -- almost. Twice she lifted her head and growled ferociously.

"Impressive," I told her.

Then my Alberta friend had to head for home. Soon after that, the ranger from the east side showed up and said it would be three hours before a tow truck could get up here. OK, I said, thanks. The ranger had to get going. One of the things he had to do, apparently, was chase the bighorn sheep off the parking lot with a special horn on his car.

Meanwhile, storm clouds were gathering south of the pass as the sun set. Lightning flashed and rain filled the valley just east of the pass. The storm swooped around the high country, thunder booming off the mountains. The setting sun lit some of the western clouds from below. It was stunning. A couple of tourists could not resist running around in the hard-driving, large-dropped rain and wild lightning, trying to get pictures of everything (again, REALLY??? on top of a high mountain pass in lightning?).

In the dark I changed into more comfortable clothes and rested on the RV sofa, enjoying the smell of the mountain rain. I love that aroma! I was just about to eat a peach, get out a sleeping bag, and lounge on the bed with my book and flashlight when the tow truck zoomed in.

It was Dirk the Whitefish Tow Truck Guy to the rescue. He was all business, hooking up Dusty Rose. Peaches had to ride in the RV, because Dirk needed to make sure he could see his side-view mirrors on the challenging drive down the cliff-hugging ledges of Going To the Sun Road. He had to make sure he didn't hit the rocks, and also make sure my rig behind us didn't hit any rocks. Mind you, the tow truck with my RV was much longer than what's usually allowed on Going To the Sun.

Off we went, down down down the steep western slope. Thank goodness for light traffic up there, because most of the time we took up the whole road. We saw a porcupine along the way. Dirk even backed up to get a better view of the critter. He carefully, skillfully navigated us down from the pass. We saw a truck blocking one lane. It was stuck because the driver had hit a big rock on the edge with his back wheel, breaking a leaf spring and his rear axle.

"See?" I said to myself, "Things could be much worse."

It's true. Things could be so much worse. Dirk towed Dusty Rose 110 miles to Polson. We exchanged stories and opinions about everything from disgusting baby diapers to snobby rich people. He's a great guy. A million thanks, Dirk!

Home sweet home.

Boo! 

I'm wishing everyone a happy, safe Halloween by giving away the Kindle e-book of DARING PASSAGE: BOOK TWO OF THE SPIRITED AWAY SAGA on Halloween only. 

If you haven't read it yet, I hope you'll take advantage of this offer. DARING PASSAGE is best enjoyed after reading my first historical novel, SPIRITED AWAY - A NOVEL OF THE STOLEN IRISH. On Halloween, you'll be able to get both e-books for a total of $2.99 -- such a deal.

This would be a great time to give the e-books as gifts, too. It's easy: go on each book's Kindle edition retail page (links are below), find the "give as a gift" button, and click on it. Voila! These Kindle e-books make great, affordable stocking stuffers. (I know, I know: it's almost the holidays again! Yikes!)

Again, have yourselves a happy, safe Halloween!

Purchase links: 

SPIRITED AWAY: 
http://www.amazon.com/Spirited-Away-Novel-Stolen-Irish-ebook/dp/B0091M6JM6/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

DARING PASSAGE: 
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00QB0PMQK/ref=series_rw_dp_sw

“Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion.” – Truvy Jones, Steel Magnolias
 
On a calm, cloudy September evening, Ross Pendery’s family and a few family friends gathered from near and far at the beloved family house on Flathead Lake to honor him with a private memorial. We raised our glasses, toasting a life cut short too soon.

Ross burned hot and fast, like a Fourth of July sparkler. He was 26 when his heroin addiction took him from us.

We began on the porch, where Ross's mother Angie went over some details about her only child’s late July death at St. Patrick Hospital in Missoula. Angie and Paul, Ross's father, made sure that Ross was an organ donor, so that their son’s death could help others if possible. Ross’s heartbroken family is also vowing to use this tragic loss to educate people about the dangers of using heroin.

It was uncanny: The same week Ross died, the local air waves were full of news about the skyrocketing rates of heroin overdoses. 

Angie led us down the little path to the lakeshore point Ross loved, and we sat around the big fire ring he’d built. Atop a table a lone candle burned next to the solemn purple bag that held the box of Ross’s ashes. We took turns telling stories about Ross: the time he and Angie saw the Flathead Monster; the times he climbed the island cliffs to jump into the lake; his deep love of nature and music; his mischievous ways; and his giving soul.  

We laughed through our tears, navigating straight through the grief with as much grace as we could muster. We did the best we could. What else can you do when the unthinkable happens?  

Ross’s family went down to the water’s edge and took turns gently tossing his ashes into the glassy, silver Flathead waters. The pewter-colored lake and subdued sky were perfect reflections of our mood.

As the charcoal shadows deepened into a bottomless purple twilight, we slowly made our way back up to the house for a great supper and more visiting. 

That living room. That lake house. We’ve seen 43 years’ worth of good times there. John Nelson and Camilla sharing philosophical outlooks; Angie and I tearing off in my VW convertible, top down in a cloud of dust as we race to the fiddlers’ contest at Riverside Park; Camilla arguing with me or Marg, or both of us; Paul on the porch, crooning his original tunes; Paul accompanying Camilla in her unique talking-blues rendition of Dylan’s “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right.”

The wacky characters and their energy ebb and flow around this place. At its heart, still and silent, are the lake, the trees, the sky, the rocks, the cliffs, the mountains.

Through the years we’ve seen sad times there, too. This September evening ranks as one of the saddest times of all.

But just outside, the rippling waters beckon. “Come out and play,” they whisper. “Come. Remember. Enjoy. Savor. Respect. Honor.”

A few days later, many of us who knew and loved Ross honored him with a more public Celebration of Life at Boettcher Park in Polson. We came bearing big bowls, trays, boxes, and pans of delicious food. The long pavilion table overflowed with lemonade, sandwiches, pasta salad, fruit kabobs, baked fish, casseroles, pies, brownies, and much, much more.  

Kelsah described it well. It was “a celebration of all the good things Ross was before the addiction controlled his life,” she wrote on her brother’s Facebook page.  

First up were bagpipes. When Dick Bratton and Sandy Farrell piped “Amazing Grace,” there was not a dry eye in the pavilion. The two pipers finished by playing as they walked away from the gathering. As the strains of bagpipe music faded into the distance, it felt like a gentle reminder about gracefully letting go.

Next up was wonderful, funky live music by the Off in the Woods band. The guys in the band knew Ross. They’d gone to school with him in Polson, and he’d played music with them. They were the perfect accompaniment for the occasion, especially when they played their soulful rendition of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”

Angie took a turn at the microphone, recalling that incredible day when her son was born.

Ross’s family and friends ate, drank, sang, played, listened, drummed on the tables, and caught up with each other. Small children ran through the grass, waded in the water, and romped in the playground. Folks strolled along the lakeshore, then sat or skipped rocks. Cousins, sisters, old friends, and new friends exchanged more stories.

And laughed through their tears.
 
 
 
 

It must be my favorite sound on earth: rolling thunder in the Rocky Mountain high country. Its soulful resonance echoes off the massive mountains. 

Maybe it’s the feeling of being closer to the sky.  

It always makes me feel more alive somehow.  

On a recent evening my dog and I rested in the camper as a Bitterroot Mountain thunderstorm sent moody, powerful rumbles cascading down the slopes. Pouring rain pounded the camper van as huge, ancient Ponderosa Pines swished in the wind. Since my black lab is not afraid of thunder and lightning, she dozed through it. To me, the commanding reverberations seemed to say: “Never forget, I am in charge.”  

We slept peacefully at Indian Trees campground, 5,000 feet above sea level on the shoulders of Lost Trail Pass. Montana’s Lost Trail Hot Springs is just down the road. It was a short but sweet birthday camping trip to Idaho’s Lemhi Valley. The next day, it was on to Tendoy, Idaho for a tour of the Lewis and Clark Back Country Byway and Adventure Road. Here:

http://www.blm.gov/style/medialib/blm/id/special_areas/byways___trails/lewis_and_clark_backcounty.Par.84759.File.dat/LCBackCountryByway_web.pdf

 I have been wanting to see the Lemhi Valley for years. The only building in Tendoy is the Tendoy Store, where 96-year-old Viola still helps customers find everything from bolts to clothes to unique postcards. She is a treasure! Give a listen to this:  

https://beta.prx.org/stories/73533   

…here are some great photos of Vi and her eclectic store:  

http://mountainwestvoices.org/?page_id=2410   

Not far up the gravel byway, among the silent sagebrush, is Sharkey Hot Springs.  
http://www.blm.gov/id/st/en/visit_and_play/places_to_see/salmon_field_office/Sharkey_Hot_Springs.html

I spent most of the afternoon there, lounging and soaking and sunning. Aaaaah! This place is wonderful. The BLM has done a great job making Sharkey Hot Springs clean, serene, and relaxing. There are two hot soaking pools, restrooms, changing rooms, picnic tables, a large group fire ring, and a parking area. It’s named for B.F. Sharkey, an early settler of Lemhi County.

After soaking, I drove up and over Lemhi Pass. I couldn’t do the whole Byway loop, since the camper is not a high clearance four-wheel-drive. I thoroughly enjoyed the ribbon-y gravel road as it wound its way up to the pass. This area is not only part of the Lewis and Clark Historic Trail, it’s also the birthplace of Sacajawea. Up on the pass there is a gorgeous memorial to her. I loved it!

Lemhi Pass is a National Historic Landmark. Here, you can trace the footsteps of Lewis and Clark and enjoy the Continental Divide Trail. This is one pass that is still remote and natural, offering travelers a chance to see what the Lewis and Clark Expedition witnessed on foot and horseback those many years ago. The backcountry pass, which marks the boundary between Idaho and Montana, features intriguing signs that help tell the story of the pass. The windswept vistas and historic information are awe-inspiring. There are picnic tables and fantastic hiking. Lemhi Pass, at 7,323 feet above sea level, is a rounded saddle in the Beaverhead Mountains of the Bitterroot Range.

Here, in 1805, the Lewis and Clark Expedition first saw the headwaters of the Columbia River, which flows to the Pacific Ocean, and crossed what was then the western boundary of the United States. It was a point of hopeful anticipation, as Lewis and Clark looked forward to meeting the Shoshone and trading for horses to continue their journey. But the explorers faced crushing disappointment as they realized that a navigable waterway to the Pacific would not be found among these rugged mountains that stretch westward as far as the eye can see.

Crossing Lemhi Pass today, the landscape is very much like it was 200 years ago. The native sagebrush and bunch grasses are edged with patches of douglas-fir and lodge pole pine. Looking west from Lemhi Pass, distant ranges of steep, rocky mountains look like an impenetrable barrier. It can snow any time and wicked thunderstorms are likely in the summer.

http://www.continentaldividetrail.org/about-the-trail/takeatour/montanaidaho/feature-hike-montana-and-idaho/

This is inspiring country, with inspiring thunderstorms.

Just to the south is Bannock Pass, part of the Nez Perce National Historic Trail.

http://www.fs.usda.gov/detail/npnht/home/?cid=stelprdb5245289

Studying the 1877 Flight of the Nez Perce gives me goosebumps. And guess what? The famous Nez Perce Chief, Joseph, was really named Thunder Rolling Down the Mountain. What sort of man must he have been, to have earned that name?

It comes back full circle. There is plenty of inspiration to go around on Lemhi Pass.

Learn more about Chief Joseph here:  http://www.biography.com/people/chief-joseph-9358227

Watch and listen to this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uBo80i3Md-c

Enjoy!

 (Please check out Maggie Plummer's unique historical novels under the "Home" tab or on Amazon.com ... thanks!)

Teaser alert!

I WILL write a new blog very soon about this:


What is it about the sound of rolling thunder in the mountains? Why does that resonant, commanding rumble make my heart race? Why?

On the other hand, why not?

More soon! Please stay tuned.