August

Go-time, the first time we’d be turning right out of the campsite instead of left. The last time I’d be on the Beartooth Highway this season. The last time I’d see Montana.

It took us six hours to get from Cooke City to Billings, a trip that typically takes three or four. But none of us really wanted to go, and we prolonged the trip as long as possible. We stopped at several places in the Beartooths to take photos, and that, coupled with the road construction, extended the trip. We also spent an hour or so in Red Lodge at the brewery there, tasting samples and drinking beer and eating reubens.

We got to Billings and were still hungry, so stopped at a Golden Corral and ate ourselves sick. Jake wound up laying on the pavement in the parking lot, holding his stomach and groaning.

We dropped Cain off at a seedy little motel in downtown Billings, for him to create his own stories. It was then our two cars- mine and Dave’s, headed east on I-90, back to the flatlands.

Back through South Dakota, again in the dark. It was a nervous trip, we were all in and out of consciousness, tired, our brains fried by camping and fishing and sun. I smoked a porcupine doing 85, and all that was left was a red streak on the road and a handful of quills in my new tires. Paul drove for a bit, until the intermittent fifteen miles of orange road cones began screwing with his mind. Even Jake drove some, through Iowa.

But we made it back to Winders’ parents house and split up, Paul and Jake getting into their car, Winders staying, and Dave and I heading back in our respective vehicles. And that was it, three weeks out west, over and done.