Last week I waxed all poetic about “A Boy in the Woods,” and this week I paid for it. On Tuesday, right after I posted that article, my sister, Roni, and I were driving to our grandmother’s house in Richmond, a trip we should be able to make with our eyes closed. However, it turned out we had so many interesting words to share that we overshot the turnoff, and didn’t notice until we were halfway to Pocatello, Idaho. (By “we” I mean “I” because I was the driver and really should have been paying better attention.)

No problem, we’ll turn here, and the GPS can get us back on track. That was our first mistake, I mean fully one third of all horror movies start with some version of that very decision.

We found ourselves on a road-ish, which would have been perfectly fine, had not some city slicker computer programmer convinced the GPS it was a two-lane highway with two-lane highway speeds, even though accommodating two cars would require at least one to keep the passenger-side wheels solidly in the sagebrush. Also, we were soooo late!

The Wasatch Mountains are pretty much not straight or flat, so I was hurrying as fast as I could, holding my breath at the crest of every blind hill, and vision impaired curve. I don’t mean to imply I was driving recklessly, because I’m not that stupid, no matter how late I am. But the road itself was so narrow and fast, and clearly laid out by a guy who spent a couple of weeks following a mountain goat. Most of the time I just hoped nobody was coming. I really believe that if the surveyor and the computer programmer got together to go bowling, they’d make strikes in everyone’s lane but their own.

Eventually, we passed through an open snow gate bearing the sign, “Road not maintained, proceed at your own risk,” which is very similar to what I’d already been doing. However, the next road sign gave me pause as it was riddled with buckshot. We did pass the occasional cow, and for the rest of the drive I hoped the owner of the shotgun wasn’t hiding behind a nice Angus, ready to jump out and take a potshot at stupid people in black SUVs who get talking and leave the safety of the smoggy freeway for a lovely stint in the wild.

We did finally make it to grandma’s house, late, but without accident, or a single bullet hole in the car. That evening I was joking about my little story when my son, Porter, announced he was going camping with his friends. I was surprised, but kept it to myself, and on Thursday morning took him to acquire a little tent, helped him gather what he needed, and texted him when I noticed the pile of essential items he’d forgotten in his haste, though it was too late to return. Read More