Road to Bountiful by Donald S. Smurthwaite Page A

something.”
    “Well, in North Dakota, we don’t have many mountains.”
    “Like none.”
    “If you’re a purist, I suppose you’re correct. Like none.”
    “And so? Eh?” Good grief. I was developing a Dakota twang.
    “I’ve always . . .” And here he stops, and he seems to be selecting his words carefully. “I’ve always wanted to do this. This one thing. Since I was a lad.”
    “And the one thing is?”
    “Climb a mountain. A real mountain. Not just a hill, but a real mountain, something with snow on the top. A place where I could look down and see snow on my shoes. It would be most satisfying.”
    “You’ve never climbed a mountain? Uncle Loyal, we need to get you out more often!”
    “My age.”
    “Age doesn’t count. No worries. We’ll find just the right mountain. Not too steep, but a real mountain. We’ll take pictures of you on top of it. We’ll find a flag, and you can pop it in and pose. We’ll put you on YouTube. We’ll get you your own Facebook page. Loyal Wing. Mountaineer. You’ll be like Sir Edmund Hilltop or whatever that guy’s name is, and I’ll be like your faithful Sherpa guide. We will conquer that mountain.”
    “Do you think we can?”
    “No doubt. We can .”
    “A mountain?”
    “Just the right kind of mountain.”
    “It sounds intriguing.”
    “When we get deeper into Montana, where there are more mountains. Catch some fish, hike a mountain. I will open new horizons to you. You’ve really led a sheltered life, Uncle Loyal. You’ve missed a few things by living on the flatlands.”
    “I would not disagree. Other than the war. Nothing too sheltered about that.”
    He pushes his feet forward and lets his back relax. His head tilts back on the car seat. He looks happy and pleased with himself and a little excited. This is going to be an amazing trip. The car lurches ahead, the air conditioning blowing on our faces. It is crazy and wonderful and exhilarating and fun all at once. Me, a twenty-four-year-old guy without hardly a lick of experience, and I am going to show Loyal something new in life. He’d given me a few things on this trip; now it was my turn to give something back.
    The countryside zips by, more fields of wheat and corn, more prairie potholes shimmering in the hot morning sun. We see some rough country, up and down, red rimrock country, where no crops will grow. We pass through the little towns with their sturdy, agricultural-sounding names—Burlington, Berthold, Stanley, Ross, and Wheelock. We see the high-and-low, duck-like bob of oil well pumps dotting the landscape. We drop down toward the big, lazy Missouri River and then drive up a rise toward Williston, flat and spread out, oozy green trees marking the edges of town. We find a restaurant in Williston, a hole-in-the-wall kind of place, where the people who work there all speak Spanish and fix us an awesome lunch of Mexican food.
    And then we climb back into the car and push our way into Montana.
    “Not far to go now. We should be at Glenn’s in a little more than an hour,” I say cheerily, filled with good food, the cool air blowing on my face, driving fast. “We’re making good time. Really good time.”
    Uncle Loyal shifts his weight and doesn’t say much in response. He is quiet again. It was probably the combination of heavy food and hot weather and a long day of driving.
    “Glenn. You need to know something about him. I hope you’re not disappointed in Glenn,” he says.
    “Can’t be. He’s a friend of yours, ergo a friend of mine. Nothing more to it than that. And think of what we have to look forward to after our visit there. Ergo, the mountains of Montana, fishing, hiking, climbing, cool temperatures, awesome views. Ergo, we’ll be on top of the world, Uncle Loyal. I like the word ergo by the way, even though I don’t know what it means. Ergo, bergo, slergo.”
    We drive on, farther into Montana. Uncle Loyal fidgets a bit. He looks out the window, beyond the grain fields,