Road to Bountiful by Donald S. Smurthwaite

of you, Levi. My thanks,” Uncle Loyal said. “Glenn doesn’t have much of an appetite these days. I doubt he’ll be hungry. I really should tell you something more of him. The truth of the matter is that Glenn is . . .”
    “ Forget about it! I told you I’d get you there. I keep my promises, remember? Now just where is it that Glenn lives?”
    “A little beyond the town of Glasgow. Maybe a hundred miles past the Montana border. A little wide spot in the road. That’s where we’ll find him.”
    My mood and feelings soar. I want to meet Glenn, listen to him talk with Uncle Loyal, swap stories, tell each other how great they looked, recount their war stories and their double dates with the amazing Hecht sisters. For the briefest of moments, I wonder about Glenn, what he will be like. Probably a lot like Loyal. And that was good.
    The sun rises higher in the August sky. First it was warm outside; then it turned hot. I switch on the air conditioning. Uncle Loyal looks content as we zoom down the North Dakota blacktop, moving ever closer to Montana. I dream of what Montana must look like—mountains, of course, snow still at the tops of their peaks that were shaking and dancing in the heat against the bright blue sky. Lakes and rivers filled with fish, steep roads that crawled up the sides of black jagged mountains. Cool air, fresh with pine. It is too good a vision to keep to myself.
    “Have you ever spent much time in Montana?”
    Uncle Loyal looks over at me. “Very little. Mostly I’ve passed through. I never really stopped to see the sights.”
    “We’ve got the time. We should take a look around the place. We’re in no hurry, remember? All the time in the world.”
    “Yes. All the time in the world.”
    “Big mountains, big fish. Have you ever been fishing, Uncle Loyal?”
    “Some. Not much, Levi. A little fishing for bass and sunfish in ponds. Nothing more than that.”
    “Whoa! Are you kidding me? You’ve never been creek fishing? Never snagged a rainbow trout? Never stood in water that reaches up to your hips, knocks you off balance, and jerked in a fat fish? Never?”
    “Never, Levi.”
    “Never?”
    “Never.”
    “Then it’s time you did. You have missed one of life’s biggies.”
    I could hardly believe what I was thinking, and before I knew it, the words came tumbling out of my mouth.
    “Well, we’re headed to Montana, and there is no way you and I are going to leave that state without standing in a cold stream catching some fish. Trout fish. No mamby-pamby sunfish from a Dakota pond.”
    “We have no gear, Levi. And I know you are in a hurry to get home.”
    “Gear, schmear, who cares. We’ll buy some. Utah has fish too. We’ll get you to Utah and head up Provo Canyon or hike in the High Uintas. It’s time you learned how to fish, Loyal Wing. An important part of your education is lacking. You are among the unwashed, the uncouth, the uncultured. You are a Luddite, a Hittite, a babe not-in-the-woods. Remember, feed a man a fish, and he has eaten a fish. Teach a man how to fish and he can eat more fish, right up to when he limits out. You need to learn how to fish.”
    “Perhaps so. I’ve often thought that fly fishing would be enjoyable. It seems peaceful and amiable, other than it might not be such a pleasant experience for the fish. Eh?”
    “There’s nothing like it.”
    “I look forward to it. If you think we can fit it in.”
    “We can. We will. What else do you want to do? Levi and Loyal, the road warriors, turned fearless fisherman, in charge of our own destinies, all the time we need to do whatever we want.”
    His eyes roll upward, and I see the slightest of grins cross his features. I’d never quite believed that eyes could really twinkle. And then I saw Loyal’s eyes do just that. Twinkle, sparkle, set off a little fire. He is thinking of something else.
    “Tell me, Uncle Loyal. You can’t hide it. I can tell by looking at you that you’re thinking of