Okay, here goes.
So, at age 8 my son gets diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. The summer camp that he loves won’t let him come back. We’d been out to Montana with the entire family the previous year and he’d fallen in love with the place and clicked with Uncle Mike.
I had an idea— while his sisters went to camp, he and I would head west. I called Schoby and asked if he was planning to be around that week. “I was just about to invite you to my 50th birthday party,” he said. “Come on out and bring the boy.”
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Schoby had to leave town a day or two after his party and he gave us the use of his truck and camper. We fished the Madison, camped out, my son James paddle boarded a couple of alpine lakes—we had an awesome time.
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One day we decided to run down past Ennis to where both Schoby and I own property. There was one wrinkle: I had never actually stepped foot on the land that me and a couple of buddies had purchased. I drove Mike’s beast of a truck up the switchbacks that lead up the mountains that tower over the subdivided section of land down in the flat. I had no clue where I was headed.
At some point, it became obvious that we were on a trail, not a road. Shit got dicey. There was no way to turn around—I had to back up several hundred yards on a windy path that teetered over a cliff. Fun to drive up with “Like a Rock” blaring, not as fun to back out of. “Daddy, can I get out? I think we might die.” We didn’t.
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Hiked up into the backcountry and managed not to get eaten, either.
Awesome trip--- can't thank Uncle Mike enough for the memories...and I'm glad I didn't have to buy him a new truck.
