The Eager, Reluctant Traveler

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            My suitcase perches, mouth open, on my sofa, poised to swallow piles of clothing and jumbles of travel essentials: toiletries, Kindle, laptop, gifts.

            Mine is not a planned trip. The “plan” was for my son, Ben, to visit me, grand-daughter Lexi in hand.  It’s still a plan, delayed by the IRS.  That fearsome entity is auditing my son’s taxes for the year he sent his life veering off the rails. Evidently, they fear he might come to Mexico and never return.  Once the audit is finished to the IRS’s satisfaction, Ben will be free to visit.

            “Mom, it has been four years. I need to see you now that I have you back in my life.” What mother could resist such a plea?  Ben is two and a half years clean and sober, working hard to re-establish a good life, one based on a realistic foundation.

            I’m eager to see my son, my Washington family, my friends of years’ duration. I lived in Poulsbo, Washington, more years than anywhere else in my life. That community grew me in good ways. Mine is a short trip; I’ll pack it full of love and experiences.

            “I’m reluctant to leave,” I confessed to my daughter via phone. “It’s crazy. I’m anxious to spend time with Ben but I wanted him to come here. I’m mentally stomping my foot. Like a spoiled child, I am.”

            “I don’t call that crazy,” she told me. “You’ve made a strong home. You are settled into the community comfortably. Besides, you live in Paradise. Who would want to leave?”

            I gazed out my windows at the hummingbirds sucking honey from the canna lilies, the iguana perched on the ledge, the green lizard scuttling across the patio, my roses which I’ve nourished from babies to full glory.  I sighed. Paradise. It’s easy to forget that this morning, while watering hibiscus along my west wall, I stepped onto a hill of red ants. They are the flesh-eating type. Hurts like fire.

            Lani came by and abducted me to go to San Marcos with her to buy a pottery plant holder she wanted. On our return, we drove previously unexplored streets of Etzatlan. I really do love my little town, cobblestone streets, every doorway begging to be explored. The street fronts may look rugged but hide a sumptuous interior or a chicken yard or a corn field, all side-by-side.

            We stopped at the square, bought ice cream and sat in the plaza, watching people, not talking, at peace with ourselves and our world.

            Back home, I went into a flurry of messaging, letting friends know I’d be leaving. “Jim, please bring me a dozen pint canning jars. Sorry I’ll miss your visit. Our trips coincide. I’ll see you in October.”

            “Kathy and Crin, I’ll be gone the first week of your visit. Back the 15^th. We’ll still have a couple weeks to eat our way through Etzatlan, what we do best!”

            Crin responded, “I’ll come sing to your flowers to keep them happy. What is their favorite music?”

“Nursery rhymes, the ones we both grew up loving.”

“I’ll start with ‘Mistress Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?’”

While I’m gone, Erica will wash down my walls, a job better done with me out of the way. My walls are brick—imagine the dust! Josue will install an electrical outlet on the outside back wall, a small but needful project. Leo will keep my lawn trimmed and potted plants watered.

My world is in order. I’m as ready for my trip as possible, both eager to go and reluctant to leave.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

August 3, 2017

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Won’t You Be . . . My Neighbor

Won’t You Be . . . My Neighbor

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            Chip away the ice, pull on a pair of shorts, tee shirt, flip flops, sun block, a hat and come with me on a mini-tour of my immediate neighborhood. I’m only a block from the beach, so you might like to go sunbathe after our walk. I thought you might enjoy a respite from Montana chill.

            A half block out my door and we are on Cameron Sabala, the main drag in the tourist sector of Mazatlan. Unlike getting a bus out of town, getting a bus in town is easy and costs pennies. There is a bus rumbling by every few moments, well marked across the windshield for destination. And if you are not sure, flag him down and ask. The drivers are all helpful and courteous and most have at least minimal English, sort of like my Spanish. Here comes the Cerritos bus. We could take it to the end of the run to the little fishing village and enjoy freshly grilled mahi mahi or red snapper, dripping sea salt water. 

            The Ocean side of Cameron Sabala is lined with resorts, hotels, and restaurants. You can access the beach through any hotel or restaurant or through one of the open lots between the buildings.  All the beaches are public beaches and cannot be blocked.

            Usually I walk down the inland side of this street. Perhaps I’m lugging a bag of laundry to the lavendaria where I drop my clothing and linen to be washed and dried and folded neatly for me to pick up the next day.  Maria slings my bag onto a large hanging scale and charges me by the kilo.  Considering the volume of laundry dropped off every day, I am amazed that Maria already knows me by name, and no doubt, by my laundry.

This long block has three or four Tiendas. The signs read “Super Market”. Translate that “convenience store”. Each six or seven meter wide space is jam-packed floor to ceiling with the usual soda, chips and beer, along with flip flops, sun screen and inflatable beach toys.  

“Sondra.” I hear my name called. Elias from across the street is waving at me. He crosses over to give me a hug and ask how I’m doing. I met Elias ten years ago and, like magnets, we meet, usually on the beach, several times every year.

I want to take you into this little mall because it is brightly painted and cheerful, neatly ordered and has a central courtyard with benches where we may sit a few minutes. You’ll want to browse through the colorful stalls, see tee shirts and traditional blouses and dresses, look at dishes and souvenirs. Then we’ll go in and I’ll introduce you to Bertha. I met her when I needed my first hair cut last fall. Her salon takes up the back area of the mall. Bertha is a single mom, has a lovely young daughter, cuts hair, beautifies nails and does massage. We have just enough languages between us to understand one another. Everybody in this neighborhood goes to Bertha.

When we leave the mall let’s go through this well-stocked frutera. I don’t need much, a couple tomatoes, a cucumber, a handful of cilantro, an avocado, some fresh strawberries, oh, smell, and these baby bananas. All this for twenty pesos, about a dollar seventy-five to us. We’ll have a salad and fresh fruit for dinner tonight with limonada from limes grown in my back patio.

I’m starting to feel hungry for lunch. We could eat at the restaurant in front but I want to introduce you to Rueben. So we’ll go around this hotel, a hangout for ex-pats and snowbirds and back down the street where I live. We’ll walk back through a residential area with beautifully painted and trimmed homes, built much like row houses, most of them sharing a common wall. Almost all the homes are fronted with elaborate wrought iron gates. The street is lined with box trees, trimmed and shaped, some to resemble exotic animals from ostrich to elephant.

It is a long block but in moments we are back to my door. Just put your souvenirs inside and we’ll walk ten more steps to the corner to Rueben’s sidewalk café for lunch.  Today’s special is carne adobado, which is pork marinated and barbequed with adobo sauce for just forty five pesos, about three dollars, fifty cents. “Buenas tardes, Rueben.”

Oh, look who’s here at the back table. I met Berta and Blanca, sisters who make and sell beaded jewelry on the beach, the first year I came to Mazatlan. I talk with them several times each year and have met their families and hugged the bambinos. “May we join you?  The special is really good.”

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

January 16, 2014

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From Fish to Furniture--The Three Day Rule

From Fish to Furniture--The Three Day Rule

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I try to be cognizant of the three day rule when I am a guest, whether I'm visiting with friends or family. After three days, fish or guest, one stinks. One notices the speculative eyeball, "When do you think she'll leave?"

There is a slight difference when one is a paying guest, such as I am at the hotel in Hot Springs where I spend hours each day soaking in steaming pools, sleeping, reading, and healing.  Just this morning when I was warming a chair in front of the fireplace, a young man who works here, Willy, I believe his name is, asked, "You still here?"

The day I arrived I committed to three days. One or two would not be enough so surely three would be perfect. However, the second day I found myself thinking about leaving and a mild state of panic set in. Not real panic but pseudo-panic, which feels the same. So I added another day. Then I asked for yet another day, or maybe two--no, let me see the calendar. So will my room be available for another week? Aw, let's just run my stay through a full two weeks. 

So the first three days I am indeed a guest, rather pampered with my needs catered to by the cheerful staff.

Day four segues into an interesting blend of being a guest and being family.  Definitely, I am family the rest of the first week.  I help myself to coffee.  I know where the pot sits on the burner beneath the coffee maker. When I need fresh towels, I know which staff is doing house-keeping this day. Silverware is wrapped comfy in a roomy napkin in the basket on the table around the corner.  I helped a guest get some this morning at breakfast.

Now and then, someone checks to see if I need anything. But mostly we have short conversations. They know my name. I am getting to know them.

And like with any blended family, tasks are shared. The woman taking reservations might also be waiting tables in the dining room, two phones stuffed inside her apron pockets. The maintenance man doubles as the breakfast chef. Job descriptions at the hotel must be either a nightmare of paperwork or everyone simply signs up to do whatever task needs doing. See what I mean--family.

After the first week I feel like furniture, quite comfortable perched in my corner, ignored by everyone. Any day now I expect to be dusted as 'house-keeping' makes the rounds, especially if I've already been to the hot pool and am sitting immobile in my favorite chair before the fire, seemingly comatose but actually in perfect imitation of a Zen meditative state.

I will leave eventually, honestly, I will. Saturday I will be on my way to Washington, happy to have use of my phone once more. Oh, dear, the maintenance man is coming my way with two light bulbs and a lampshade. Oh, dear, do you suppose . . .

            Sondra Ashton

            HDN: Looking out my back door

            October 17, 2013

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The Road Least Traveled—In the Footsteps of Least Heat-Moon

The Road Least Traveled—In the Footsteps of Least Heat-Moon ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
So many decisions! So many choices! After spending hours on the phone with my daughter, under the assumption that two heads are better than one, a cliché not necessarily true but I needed someone to hold my hand, we concluded that there is no wrong road.

I am now homeless. My auction sale is Saturday out at the Havre Fairgrounds, so come, say good-by to me. Early next week I will head out. All the right roads beckon. Being me, I want to drive every road. What way to take? Which way to go? I have two, no, three criteria. I want to visit my son and granddaughter and friends in Seattle. I wish to explore hot springs, so my route will necessarily zig and zag. And I intend to be at the border November 5, to be met by my friend who will help me drive south on foreign roads.

That leaves me a month to travel north border to south border. In the last week I have entertained routes and changed my mind no less than two dozen times. I could zoom over to Seattle, hugs and kisses, and race to the Border. Google map, which does not have my best interests in mind, assures me I could make the border from Harlem in 23 hours. Not my style—no, not my style at all.

Google does not know that I despise Interstate Highways. Interstates homogenize and pasteurize travel. One tends to head up the on-ramp, grip the wheel and proceed as if Death is on one’s heels, as indeed, it may be. Interstates cross through the most beautiful parts of the country and assure that you, the traveler, see none of it. You don’t dare slow down and look. You tend to eat franchise food and stay in franchise motels, all within sight of the ramps.

Like William Least Heat-Moon, I prefer to travel the "Blue Highways", the by-ways and back roads. I want to be able to stop for a power nap when tired, eat in mom-and-pop cafes, walk in the nice little city park along the river, and admire the architecture of the old buildings in the center of downtown. One of my favorite off-the-map motels features a pyramid of homemade huckleberry jellies for sale at the counter. You won’t find that at a Holiday Inn Express.

A couple days ago, I heard from Tara, one of my "girls" from when she and my daughter were in college. Tara lives in Las Vegas. She told me Vegas sits in the middle of geo-thermal heaven with more than three-hundred hot springs. Immediately my mind changed once more. I’m feeling like my neck is on a swivel.

As of today, my loosely held plan is to spend a week or ten days getting out of Montana/Idaho, soaking in hot water at some of my favorite north-country hot springs. I’ll take Highway 2 to Seattle to spend a week or ten days with family and friends, then head south. But I have not defaced my maps with markers. No route is permanent in my mind. Nothing is cast in concrete.

Leaving Seattle is where my fun really begins. This morning I lean toward I-90 to I-82 to I-84 to Pendleton, gratefully exit the interstate for 395 to Reno, a lovely and relatively empty route. From Reno perhaps I’ll head east on 50 to Ely. South on 93 to Vegas to explore and soak and visit with Tara and Tim. Or maybe Seattle to Sacramento to Reno to Vegas. Or Seattle to Ellensburg to Pocotello to Salt Lake to Vegas. See what I mean?

Leaving Vegas, I can stay on 93 into Phoenix. Somewhere along the way, I will need to turn south on 85 which will take me through Why and into Lukeville and to my border crossing. My map is rather vague about how to do this. Tele-transportation, perhaps.

If you look at the US map in the front of your travel atlas, you can see my quandary. In the western United States, there are a lot of ways to get from here to there on relatively isolated roads. Roads where one can dream; where one can imagine what life is like in this town, in that little ranch house way off over there with the yard light shining. Roads where the waitress pouring coffee stops to ask you where you’re going. She’ll tell you about the bridge out up the way and the best place to stop for lunch. Roads with towns that make one want to turn in and stay a while.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

September 26, 2013_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

How I Beat the Odds and Flew the Cheap Flight

How I Beat the Odds and Flew the Cheap Flight ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

My friends Richard and Marcia told me about a new airline with really cheap flights if you happened to want to go to one of their destination cities. Richard said that for the cheapest seats, they strapped you to the wings. That Richard is such a tease. But I understood that this would be a no-frills flight. Not even a tiny bag of free peanuts!

Once I figured out how to unlock the information for "flight only" on the website, bypassing all the marvelous vacation deals with hotel, rental limo and gourmet meals, I discovered that I was indeed in luck. I wanted to go to one of the Sun Cities for a short visit with a friend. Cheap-Seats-R-Us listed my city as one of their few destinations. I could make the entire round trip for less than I usually pay for gas to get out of Montana.

Living in Montana is like being stuck on fly paper. It is hard to lift off! When I lived in Seattle it cost me a fortune to fly into Great Falls, the closest airport to home. It was cheaper to fly to London. On the other hand I could fly to Las Vegas, should I want to go there, for $69.00. For the same price, and with a strong tail wind, I can fly from, say, Harlem to Turner.

But that is neither here nor there. On Cheap-Flights-R-Us, I found I could fly round trip from Great Falls to my destination city for a mere $86.30. A hot-diggity-dog deal.

But wait—what about those add-on fees, such as the Federal Excise Tax. And what is this "segment fee"? Bugs have segments. But I’m a human being. Did I count as one segment or more than one segment? Are arms and legs each a segment? What in tarnation is a PFC? And a September 11 Security Fee? I kept my booking receipt just to prove it to you. See, says so right here. To all of this, add on a Carrier Usage Charge. I guess that means I was allowed to actually board the plane and stay on it from Point A to Point B. If I wanted to choose my seat, I had to add another $30.00. If I let them choose for me, I paid nothing. That was a tough one. I like to sit with my damaged leg on the aisle so I can get out of my seat at the end of the flight. But, hey, thirty dollars is thirty dollars. I’m now up to $133.98 and at the mercy of computer-pick seating, which is like a poor-man lottery.

Now we come to the fine print—baggage fees. One is allowed to carry on a purse or wallet for no charge. However, on Cheap-Seats-R-Us, a carry-on bag costs $30.00 if you pre-pay. More if you wait until you check in. The first checked bag costs $50.00 and the next one costs $80.00, pre-paid, more at check in. This brought my $86.30 ticket to a grand total of $235.96; that is for myself and one bag, pre-paid. Get the picture?

Ha! I created the perfect solution. I was headed to sunny shores for a short couple weeks. I had to smile at how clever I was. First I put on an adequate number of sets of undergarments. Then I squeezed into my bathing suit. Over that I pulled on two pair of shorts, two short pants, one long trousers, one loose wide-legged dressy pants. With five or six blouses and shirts, I was set. I strung several necklaces around my neck and jammed a ring on each finger. I didn’t say I looked stylish but I certainly did look cheerful. I could tell because everybody grinned at me. I wore my best sandals. In my oversize purse I tucked my toothbrush and several "beach read" type books and a folded large plastic trash bag. I could hardly move my arms or legs.

I knew I’d be in trouble if I had to take off my clothes to clear Security. What a relief when I was directed through the full-body scanner. The person monitoring the scanner made me stand on the mat with my arms up while he called over several co-workers to take a look. Finally he waved me through with a friendly smile. When I boarded the airplane, all I had to do was squeeze into the seat, extend the seatbelt to the longest length and tug it to fasten it.

When I got off the plane I waddled down the concourse to the nearest bathroom. I quickly stripped down to one set of clothing and stowed the rest of my garments in the plastic garbage bag. Voila. I walked out of the terminal carrying my plastic luggage and a savings of $102.00.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

June 13, 2013_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

On the Road Again

Here I go again....
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On the Road Again


I received an invitation to read my poetry in Seattle . It was a giant boost to my ego. I drove a thousand miles to be a featured reader in front of a group of friends and fellow poets in a Seattle area coffee house. I miss my poet friends. Having an audience is vital to my creative process. When I read my poetry aloud, I hear things on a visceral level that I otherwise miss.

In three weeks I jammed and crammed a lot of visiting. More precious than gold are my friends, my relatives, and my grandchildren. It is good for me to occasionally get away from my everyday world.

When some people drive long distances, they listen to music or books. When I am on the road, I think.

I was on the road a mere thirty five miles from home, between Chinook and Havre, when I realized that my shirts were still stacked neatly on my bed, waiting to be loaded into my van. I pulled off the highway and checked. I was right. I had left my shirts. Now I had a choice. I could return to my house and get them, or I could buy new shirts along my route. A no-brainer, right? In Kalispell I told my friend Sharon that I wanted to go to the Salvation Army store, near her house. “My favorite store,” she replied. I replenished my shirt supply. Sharon bought even more than I did.

While driving in bumper to bumper traffic on Interstate 90, it occurred to me that we were much like the Blue Angels, the Navy’s exhibition flight team. We were driving in earthbound formation while the Blue Angels soared through the air. I had the nose of my van sticking to the tail of the truck in front of me, the SUV behind me was sucking up my fumes, a sleek Corvette convertible held the place to my left while on my right a decrepit rusty Nova chugged along, spewing black clouds.

In the sky, the Blue Angels stay in beautiful precision formation, breaking apart only to create another pattern. On the Interstate, our auto formation was constantly shifting with vehicles randomly changing lanes, speeding up or slowing down. Why is that, I wondered. Training, I answered. The Blue Angels are specially chosen for intelligence and skill. They are highly trained and tested.

We, however, need only pass a rudimentary test at sixteen, then climb into a car and go. We drive while hungry, sleepy, stressed, angry, or late for work. We apply make-up, shave, read, talk and text, eat, drink and threaten other drivers. Where would you rather be? In the cockpit with the Blue Angels or behind the wheel on the freeway?

Jaguars are the only truly beautiful car on the road. In my travels I have seen many, many varieties of automobiles, and none but the Jag has truly distinctive style that catches my lustful eye.

Every town I passed through had empty store fronts. My favorite grocery store in Bonners Ferry, where I stopped every trip for coffee and the best buttermilk donuts, had closed. My heart was broken. I felt momentary depression, then hope, that someone with dreams and elbow grease would come along to open new businesses in the old spaces.

While I was in Seattle , a friend invited me to ride the “Duck,” a left-over WWII amphibious car/boat which tours the city streets and then paddles around Lake Union . In all the years I had lived there, I had never done this. It was great. Be sure to buy a quacker and leave dignity behind. Be silly and have fun.

A surfeit of seafood is not possible.

On Whidbey Island , Washington , there is a pottery shop at Juan de Fuca, a hamlet slightly bigger than Savoy . For years I have said, “Someday I am going to stop there.” I stopped. At this minute I am drinking tea from a cup hand-crafted by an artist.

Several days later I exited into the town of Sprague , Washington , another “I wonder what is there” place. What is there, along the lake, is a grand collection of vintage farm trucks and a lovely former railroad depot which a craftsman has restored into a unique residence.

As the wheels on the van go round and round the wheels of my mind go weird. Why in the world would I break into loudly singing the childhood jingle for “Beefaroni” while driving through Spokane ? (Hooray for Beefaroni, it’s made from macaroni.) It was a warm day and I had rolled the window down. At a stop light I saw that I had attracted an audience. I rolled the window up.

On I-90 I saw innumerable dead tire treads. Back in Montana , on roads the writer William Least Heat Moon called “Blue Highways,” I spotted two big horn sheep, two elk, a wolf, and hundreds of deer and antelope. I also drove through a cloud of eau-de-skunk.

I drove a thousand miles back. Brown is more beautiful than green. Hooray, Montana .

Sondra Ashton
Havre Daily News: Looking out my back door
April 29, 2010
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My Life With Ruth

My Life With Ruth
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I have a new body part, a brand new knee, latest model. When my knee and I were not yet thoroughly acquainted, we often did a polite dance around one another. For example, my knee might have said, “Are you ready to move?”
“Sure, but why?”
“We need to stand up.”
“Oh. Okay. But just a minute, please.”

Let me tell you the story. Forty years ago I was in a car wreck which shattered my knee. It was never fixed right, and over the years the pain increased exponentially. Something had to be done. I investigated. I am self employed and uninsured. Because of the extent of the damage the costs for my knee replacement would have been astronomical, much more than the average surgery. Friends suggested I look into getting the operation done abroad. I researched surgeons and hospitals in several countries. India sounded best. I talked with a woman in Havre who had been there. She added to my information and calmed my fears. I made my decision.

So late last summer I flew to Bangalore , India , for a three week vacation in a hospital suite. After a difficult surgery, loving care by my doctor and the entire hospital staff, and filled with delicious Indian food, I returned home with a state-of-the-art titanium knee. Because of the work I do, I consider myself the queen of saws. Technically I figure I could have done it in my own shop except that I vomit whenever I think about the procedure. They saw your bone off above the knee. Then they saw your bone off below the knee. They hammer posts into your leg bones. Then they glue the movable parts to the posts. It’s sort of like carpentry. My stomach still lurches whenever I think about it. It is not pretty. But after forty years of pain I did not want pretty. I wanted freedom from pain, whatever that took. So that is how Ruth entered my life.

We were acquainted, attached one might say, a few days before we actually introduced ourselves. “So what is your name?” I asked my new knee.

“Really, it is quite obvious, I’m Ruth,” she replied. “Remember the story of Naomi and her daughter-in-law? ‘. . . whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge . . . I will leave the land of my nativity and follow you home’.”

“But my name is not Naomi.”

“No matter.” she said cryptically. “I wouldn’t follow you across the seas and over the mountains and plains unless I knew you would always love me and take care of me.”

“Whoa. That is a tall order,” I replied.

“It’s a mutual agreement,” Ruth responded. So we set out to get to know one another. Love at first sight it was not. It was hard. It involved physical therapy and pain and strength training and more pain. I had to get used to how Ruth felt inside me. We are culturally different. Our physical properties are different. For a long time I did not trust her. I did not trust me. Despite the glue that holds us together, it was not an easy bonding. For a long time I wondered if I would ever walk again. Really walk. There were times I didn’t like Ruth. One day I told her, “You are ruthless.”

“Sure, and where would you be if you were Ruth-less?” she replied. “Listen, I’ve grown to like Montana and I want you to be able to show me more. Let’s get on with it. Lift those weights. Walk your foot down the wall. Twenty minutes on the stationary bike. And we’ll finish with half an hour on the treadmill.”

We now have been intimate nearly a year. It took months of hard work before we got comfortable with one another. She and I went through the usual relationship-building processes. You know, trust, communication, learning one another’s habits, making room for our differences. That sort of thing. Recently we had this conversation. “Are you glad you adopted me?” Ruth asked.

“Certainly. I’ve been free from pain for weeks. I can do things I have not done in years. My strength is returning. I feel great. You are the best thing to come into my life in a long time. But how about you? Are you happy with me?”

“Are you kidding? How else would I get to travel all around the world. Who else would take me looking for agates and dinosaurs and elk and on train rides to Minot . We have fun together. Although there is something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

“Oh. I know. It’s all the walking I’ve added into our schedule, isn’t it? Am I pushing too hard?”

“No, that’s okay. I let you know when it is too much and time to rest. You listen a lot better than you used to. Here’s the thing, I want to know when we will get to go to the ocean again, walk the beaches with waves lapping over our feet, watch the sun drop behind the horizon. And Fort Peck. You haven’t taken me to Fort Peck yet and you promised. And when are you going to take me on a float trip down the Missouri , huh?”
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Mourning the Death of the Cajun Cafe'

Some dreams never disappear completely.
Mourning the Death of the Cajun Café
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I came across the derelict when I was driving my van crammed with furniture and boxes on my move back home to Montana . The building had obviously been long abandoned. A corner of the roof threatened to collapse. Windows were broken and a door hung loose. A warped and peeling sign across the front announced that this heap of debris had once been the Cajun Café. A homemade “For Sale” sign stood in the yard. Long way from Louisiana , I thought.

I was on that scenic section of US Highway 2, half-way between Bonners Ferry and Troy . Neither place was a major population center. The only residents up here in the north woods appeared to be moose and lodge-pole pine. Who would have opened a Cajun café, definitely a niche restaurant, out in the middle of nowhere?

But the Café was once somebody’s dream. With that thought my imagination took over. I hate to see a dream die. I have a friend long retired from the restaurant business. We often talked about what made an eatery work, in that idle way of people who enjoy good food.

So that evening I phoned him. “Got a business opportunity for you, a little fixer-upper.” I described the place, left out several pertinent details, emphasized ‘potential’, talked fast past ‘location’ and tried to sell a bill of goods around ‘tourist’ and ‘seasonal’.

A few months later my friend drove this route with me. When I spotted the old Cajun Cafe I eased off the road into the driveway. “There she is. A business opportunity waiting to happen.” He laughed. “A fixer-upper, huh?” “Build it, they will come,” I replied. “Are you kidding? Who is here to come?”

That tumble-down structure along the highway entertained us for nearly four years. We imagined a Saturday night at the Cajun Café. The Gumbo Special. Live music. Elbow-to-elbow customers who rode snowmobiles from their cabins off the grid across the trackless wilderness. Plenty of good food and with beer to swill it down. Belches and scratches, music blaring, fights on the dance floor. Good honest fun.

After that, whenever I made the trip, I would report on the condition of the Cajun Café and assure my friend that nobody had slipped in and bought it out from under him, that it was still available.

Until last winter. A fire had severely razed the site. I felt too sad to report this tragic turn of events. But recently my friend drove out to see me and took the northern route. My phone rang, “It’s gone,” he said. “A fire. Still I wonder who the guy was who built a Cajun restaurant way out here.”

I’ll be driving that same route soon. I’ll leave flowers at the site, flowers to commemorate a dream gone, someone’s hopes and aspirations up in flames. But dang, I can still picture the fire roaring in the cast iron wood-stove in the corner, shrimp and catfish sizzling on the grill, my friend pulling nozzles and filling beer mugs, his wife carrying heaping plates of jambalaya to the customers sitting at trestle tables in their mukluks and Carhartts, snowmobiles clustered outside the door, zydeco on the jukebox; in short, a community center where neighbors meet, wild game is bartered for firewood, deals are made, disputes are settled and young folks fall in love. Let the good times roll.

Sondra Ashton
sondrajean@mtintouch.net
Havre Daily News: Home Again
November 12, 2009

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She Who Drives the Broken Road

Every trip is it's own adventure.
She Who Drives the Broken Road
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There is a fine line between solitude and isolation. I cross the line, cuss the line, ride the line, defy the line, deny the line and on occasion, drive the line. I am quite comfortable living in solitude. I appreciate the time and space to see and enjoy the beauty that surrounds me. It is in solitude that I discover the fullness of the Big Empty. To get from place to place I often drive through miles of isolation.

When I have guests, friends from far places, my road-map mind shifts into first gear. One of my frequent-driver guests is Kathy, who lives happily in urban Victoria with her husband Richard, surrounded by posh culture. Two or three times a year Kathy gets to hankering for the tang of sagebrush, the feel of the wind combing her hair and the whirr of the wheels beneath us as we set out seeking Adventure.

So while sipping morning coffee, I said, “Let’s go to Medicine Hat for lunch.” Kathy jumped up and grabbed her jacket. We crossed the border into Alberta at Wild Horse and meandered through the Cypress Hills. We never rush these trips. Several times we pulled off the road, walked about, looked at the rock formations, took pictures. We don’t drive just to rack up the miles.

We by-passed the strip malls and big-box stores on the outskirts of Medicine Hat and landed down by the river in the historic old town. We were hungry. But we were struck by the beauty of the Saskatchewan River , the walking bridge, the parks, and the restored buildings. Eventually we ate lunch in a Japanese restaurant, browsed some of the boutique stores and searched for our parked van, misplaced on a side street.

We checked the map, computed the miles against the clock, and decided we had just enough time to go to Maple Creek and then re-enter the States at Willow Creek. Maple Creek cast a spell over us. An old-fashioned butcher shop enticed us inside to buy salmon pate. Then a cozy cafe pulled us in for a cup of tea. We asked the owner, “How far to Willow Creek from here?” She looked at her watch, shook her head, and replied, “You might make the crossing before it closes if you leave right this minute.”

But first we had to fill the tank. We asked the attendant, “How many miles to Willow Creek?” He looked at his watch and said, “You’ll never make it.”

Puzzled, we unfolded the map, added up the miles, checked our clock, and wondered what the problem could be. We had plenty of time. And just outside Maple Creek, heading south, a road sign verified our arithmetic. We breathed easy. The first miles rolled beneath our wheels, validating our confidence. Then the paved road segued into mostly-paved, deteriorated into somewhat-paved and finally disintegrated into paved-here-and-there. Great slabs of peeled pavement lay alongside the road. Yawning potholes threatened to swallow the van. And heaven help us if we had a flat.

After several miles of these miserable, isolated, broken section-line roads across the empty prairie, we began to fear that we might not make the port of entry in time. Failure would mean we would be forced to return to Maple Creek for the night, a two hour trip back in the dark. Since I drive a cargo van, not a sports car, it would require all our skills. We looked at each other, nodded and decided to run for the border.

Kathy kept track of the miles-to-go. She shouted out directions and obstructions and words of encouragement. I perched on the edge of my seat, gripped the wheel with white knuckles, mashed the gas pedal to the floor. The van bounced over potholes and we bounced with it. We dodged chunks of broken pavement rearing up to tackle the wheels. “Yee, Haw!” I shouted. Kathy spit instructions like a drill sergeant. “Left turn ahead, large rocks on the right, stay in the center, one hour to go, switch to the other lane, washout, washout, detour, you can do it.” I drove like Andretti. The final miles of road held not even a pretense of asphalt. We were forced to slow down but we didn’t have time for slow. The sun was setting. The border was closing. I urged my van faster. A tornado of dust rolled in our wake. Kathy counted down the minutes. I could see the Port of Entry off on the horizon. “We’ll never make it.” “Yes, we will, go faster.”

Five full minutes past closing time, the van thick with dust, we slammed on the brakes and eased up to the window. The officer had seen us coming and had held the port open for us. His partner closed the barrier behind the van. I was so grateful I thought I was in love. We flirted unmercifully. I think he enjoyed having somebody to chat up. We might have been the only people through that crossing all day. He looked at my passport and asked me my name. “She Who Drives the Broken Road,” I replied with a straight face. He nodded and motioned us through.

Sondra Ashton
http://us.mc841.mail.yahoo.com/mc/compose?to=sondrajean@mtintouch.net
Havre Daily News: Home Again
October 22, 2009

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