moving through montana

a point of purpose: discovering effect

Soaring out of Wyoming on Sunday afternoon with a gallon left of fuel, we followed the first sign for gas off the freeway and into a Crow Reservation outpost. A sprawl of self-service islands surrounding a cedar shingled store advertising beer, dried meat, cigarettes, and hunting licenses. No gas, read the white paper signs taped over every pump handle. Computer’s down.
Small ironies buzzed among the images, but we ignored them in favor of a speculative survey of the map. Guessing from the size of the dots and the distances between them, we figured on three chances for fuel in the next forty miles. Thirty-six miles to the gallon, an idiot-proof reserve tank, and the confidence of safety in togetherness brightened us.
Another traveler, a woman alone in a silver Rav-4 with Ohio plates, was parked at the edge of the asphalt. She approached us, wondering if we knew where the next gas was. Frustrated, running below empty, she told us about Parkman, Wyoming, where the station was locked up on Sundays and the market clerk had sent her on here, to Wyola. We nodded: been there; saw what you saw.
She looked at the map with us: thirteen miles to Lodge Grass, and another sixteen to Garyowen. Do they have fuel there? Mine’s been almost gone since Gillette—should’a stopped there. I ‘magine. Don’t know for certain. As I told her what I didn’t know, I felt the fear in her rise. She was alone in a part of the country that felt foreign and diminished. At least John and I had each other.
We’ll follow you, he offered. If you run dry and have to stop on the road, we’ll stop with you and figure something out. Okay, see you in Lodge Grass! She was off like a pile of cliches, and we followed, smiling about being strangers of kindness and dissipating fear. Lodge Grass offered treasures: fuel, coffee, and a bag of snacks. Our Ohio friend was topping off as we pulled in, and she smiled and waved her thanks and a priceless grin.
We made it to Billings that day, trading the quiet otherness of the res for the smokestacks of refineries. And in the morning, we drove into Bozeman for a coffee and scone, feeling civilized again as we spooned milk froth onto our tongues and read passages from the alternative press to each other in the streaming sunshine. The plan was to make it to the end of I-90 and sleep in our own bed, next time we slept. Eight hundred miles away.
A hand on each of our shoulders brought our thoughts off the long road. It’s you! The familiar woman crouched to hug us where we sat. You’re the ones who saved my life yesterday. Full of vibrant chatter, she called us angels and told us a story about the need to start fresh in Seattle: a new job in a new city. She told us she’d doubted her resolve, felt isolated and near disaster until we came along and offered to shadow her to safety.
After she left us, we finished our coffee and returned to the road, milky with cappuccino and the sweet residue of simple kindness.

back to the front
silent reading
words too many
exact retelling