Wyoming and Montana are lovely states. Getting there — not so much. I got lost a couple of times while trying to locate the spot where a crime was committed in 1910 and needed help. I resisted asking for directions because often times the conversation begins with “You want to head north seven miles…” Head north?! I would but I left my compass back in, that’s right, the fourth grade. I’d be so much better off if folks would just point. And then there’s air travel. Flying anywhere has become an amazingly arduous process. I’m always stuck behind a guy who takes forever to get situated. He’s clogging the aisle like a piece of human cholesterol jammed in the passengerial artery. He folds his sport jacket like he’s in the color guard at Arlington National Cemetery. There’s a lot of terrorism in the air, but you know when you walk through the airport and see the crack security people manning the perimeter, I think we all sleep the sleep of angels. Can you hear my eyes rolling? In spite of the hassle it was a fruitful research trip. I stood at a section of the Oregon Trail and imagined the brave souls that traveled along the way. A little company of Astorians, fur hunters by trade, were the first to make out the long road down the valley of the Platte which became the primary artery of travel to and from the northern Rockies. I can’t imagine how difficult travel must have been in the early 1800s. I’m guessing they had compasses. That would have made it much easier for sojourners when they stopped for directions and a kind soul told them, “You want to head north seven miles.”
Oregon Trail
