Road to Bountiful by Smurthwaite Donald S

Author:Smurthwaite, Donald S. [Smurthwaite, Donald S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ride, retirement home, cross country, North Dakota, family, car, road trip, bountiful, Utah, assisted living, graduate, Coming of age, heritage, loyal, retirement, uncle, adventure, money, nephew, trip, kinship
Publisher: Covenant Communications Inc.
Published: 2013-05-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

Fish. We Are Fish. They Are Fish. We All Are Fish

That Jason, he was awesome. We connected. We bonded. He even gave us a tip on where we could stay: a cabin, away from the highway and the tourists and the summer rush of old people with bad legs in loud shorts and young parents looking stressed and little kids running everywhere out of control. Then he said he’d call ahead—the guy who owned it was a friend of his, someone named Marty—and that he’d make sure we had a place to stay, even if it was in Marty’s house.

Marty was ready for us. He was a silver-haired man, trim as a triathlete, with blue eyes and a nice way with words. He greeted us as if we were long-lost buddies, showed us to one of the clean little cabins and told us to enjoy ourselves. He asked how long we planned to stay, and Uncle Loyal piped right up and said, “Oh, two days, most likely, but more if the fishing is sound.” Marty smiled at that, and I could tell he was digging Uncle Loyal.

The sun was dipping behind those tall, rugged mountains, and my favorite time of the day in my favorite time of the year is at hand. The shadows are long, the air crisp and fresh smelling. The wind shuffles through the trees, and the best feeling of all, that wisp of chilly air, whirls down the canyon. It causes me to shiver. I know I will sleep well tonight.

I also know I’m hungry. Lunch seemed like a long time ago.

“Where would you go to grab dinner, Marty?”

“What are you in the mood for, amigo?”

It was the easiest question I’d been asked in a long time. “Meat. Red meat. I need meat. Thick, drippy red meat.”

Of course, I hadn’t talked over the subject of dinner with Uncle Loyal. I didn’t know what he had in mind. But a big old beefsteak with a gob of mashed potatoes sounded perfect to me. Filling. Very western. Fitting. Very manly.

“Well, there’s a place not far from here, my friend. Howie’s, not much to look at, not much for atmosphere, but they have the best steaks between here and Denver. Only the locals really know about it. Incomparable T-bones. Heavenly prime rib. If meat is what you want, Howie’s is where you need to be. As I said, a little rough hewn, but an unforgettable stop for a steak lover.”

“Perfect.”

Marty gives me directions, and a half hour later, after a ten-mile drive, we pull into the dusty parking lot of a roadside grill with a red neon light blinking, “Howie’s for Steak.”

I see a bunch of big motorcycles in the parking lot, all in a line. A couple of men, huge guys with bandannas, stare at us when we pull in. That should have been a clue. We were not in for a Relief Society kind of dinner at Howie’s. Blue smoke curls up from a small chimney.

Uncle Loyal raises an eyebrow.

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