Two Wheels on my Wagon by Paul Howard

comply.
    Refuelled, I continued south on another grid of interlocking roads, some metalled, some gravel, all as straight as a die. The scenery became steadily more agricultural, even if the broad, flat valley was still hemmed in on the east by lofty peaks in their coats of green. To the west lay Flathead Lake, the largest freshwater lake this side of the Mississippi. Each road provided access to a small handful of farms, interspersed with the occasional stalled housing development – a sign of straitened times. A signpost designating the residence of the Snell family caught my eye, but there the similarity with the BBC’s fictitious caricature of rural English life, portrayed daily in the radio soap opera The Archers , ended.
    The fields in between were predominantly given over to grazing – lots of horses, some cattle – or simply grass to produce winter feed. The short growing season precluded anything more exotic. Exoticism came instead from what appeared to be rudimentary trebuchets dotted here and there. I wondered if this indicated an unexpected popularity for mediaeval re-enactment societies, perhaps compensating for the relative youth of the region in the eyes of its non-native inhabitants.
    In the end there was a more prosaic but equally charming explanation. These strange objects were in fact known as beaverslides and were a traditional Montana means of stacking hay for winter storage. They consisted of a large, rectangular timber frame, supported halfway up its length as if part of a seesaw. The lower two thirds of each frame was filled with slats, while the upper third was open. At the bottom of this frame was a slatted timber lip, onto which the hay was massed before being hauled up the slide and deposited through the open upper third into a pile below. The resulting stack was fenced off from inquisitive cattle and elk until winter, when it was used as forage.
    Further on, the proportion of cows grew while that of horses reduced. Given the lack of variety it was a surprise to discover that gardening was something of a busman’s holiday. Far from creating a bulwark against the vastness surrounding them, most front gardens, some the size of football pitches, were simple continuations of the prairie. Some even had cows grazing on them among the pick-ups and 4×4s. The only variation was provided by those who grew Christmas trees, the distance of a few miles to nature’s own abundant supply clearly being too great. It was the gardening equivalent of Stockholm syndrome – people showing an unlikely affinity to the landscape in which they appeared hostage.
    After three more hours I stopped for something to eat in Ferndale, which I mistakenly thought had a full range of services. Instead, it consisted of little more than half a dozen houses and a crossroads. A mile out of my way I found a gas station and began picking my way morosely round the store, looking for anything that might sate my now voracious appetite. Gradually, I became aware of the aroma of cooked food, even though its source remained so obscure that I had to ask for help in finding it. Such was my ignorance of gas station etiquette that I also needed help serving myself.
    â€˜Just use one of the boxes to take what you want,’ I was instructed kindly as I stared blankly at an array of chicken wings and samosas.
    The problem was that I was incapable of choice.
    â€˜But how can I get one of those?’ I asked, pointing at the sign for ready meals.
    â€˜Oh, they’re in the boxes at the bottom. Roast chicken, roast potatoes and green beans. You can also help yourself to an apple dumpling with cream, and a large drink.’
    â€˜And that’s $5?’
    â€˜Yep, we had to put the price up a bit not long ago.’
    I sat on the bench on the veranda in very heaven.
    The sunshine that had massaged my muscles at the gas station soon turned from friend to foe. The valley floor was only 3,000 feet above sea level