I plan my strategy

*** continued from previous post  ***

We arrive at the store, "Buckshot - If it's alive we'll help you kill it!", and I instantly become distracted by the "Buckets of Bargains" lining the parking lot by the entrance to the store. You never know what treasure you'll find at a drastically reduced price. I once found an Electric Smoker designed specifically for Elk meat, with utensils, digital readouts, and a recipe book for $10. I brought it home and realized (with some strenuous prodding from your Mother), that not only do I not like smoked Elk meat, but I've never hunted Elk in my life and barring the apocalypse, more than likely never would. I tried to explain to her that that wasn't the point. The smoker was $10 marked down from $800! I had just saved her $790 and all she could do is criticize. (Later, we would get 50 cents for the while kit-and-kaboodle at a yard sale - but that's a different story entirely.) So I suppose her irritation as I rummaged through each bucket was understandable. Still, the exercise satisfied the 'hunter/gatherer' instinct, that pervasive and primitive genetic memory in my soul.

"Look Suz! We could use one of these!"

"What is it?"

I pick a treasure from a bucket and hold it up for her to see. "It's a device for making potable water from just about any source! Isn't that amazing? And the best part is its only $39.99."

"And why would we need potable water? We're not backpacking are we?"

"Well," I said as my brain scrambled, "no, but what if we were stranded in the desert? You'd thank me then."

"I'm not trying to be a wet-blanket here, but are there any deserts in the Canadian Rockies?"

Gah! I hate it when she gets all reasonable like that. However, that would not deter me. "Most of Eastern Washington is semi-arid."

"And," she said, "we will be through that part in about three or four hours. We will not die of thirst in that time."

Ouch. A right hook. "Fine. But when you're passed out from dehydration don't come running to me."

"Okay. That's a deal. If, on this trip, I'm comatose from lack of water I won't look to you for help."

I didn't much care for her tone, but I let it go. Evidently, this little shopping spree was going to be much more confrontational than I had imagined. So be it. I was up to the challenge.

"Come on, let's go find a bag," she said, grabbing my hand and dragging me through the sliding double doors into the store.

You ever notice how different stores have different smells? I mean of course there are the obvious ones like a candle store, or a Florist, or a mortuary, but I'm talking more about regular stores - office stores, hardware, you know. This store definitely had an odor. I couldn't quite place it but it smelled very . . . redneck-y. Kind of like chew and beer and bad cologne. Much like your Uncle Scott before a date. Or maybe it was latex and bug spray and gunpowder. Or, just stale air freshener. I would have wandered around, trying to quantify the odor, seeking out the source, but Mom, having learned her lesson, refused to let go of my hand and before you know it we are in the aisle for all things packy.

There were backpacks and daypacks and rucksacks. There were stuff bags and canteen holders and tackle boxes. There were camel packs and quivers and, what I thought at the time was a holder for unruly children but in actuality was a portable toilet. (Guess it's a good thing you're not little anymore, huh? Mistakes like that can require extensive therapy later in life. Just ask your sister.) Unfortunately, nary a motorcycle bag to be seen. This however did nothing to daunt your Mother.

"This will do just fine," Mom said, picking up a duffel bag made of heavy canvas and approximately 92 feet long. You could have stored a torpedo in there. And the crew to fire it. Maybe the boat as well.
*** continued from previous post  ***


"Ummmmm. . . .", I say, as if I'm actually contemplating her selection of luggage but was in reality biding time so that I could point out the absurdity of her choice without getting smacked. Physically or mentally. "I think, and I'm going out on a limb here, that it may be a bit big for the bike."

"Hmmmmm. . .", Mom paused, and sat the bag on the floor. "You may be right. But it would certainly hold all of our stuff." She surveyed the length of the duffel. "I don't think it's that big."

I had a momentary vision of us going down the road with either the bag draped over the trunk and dragging on both sides, or your Mom balancing it on her head along the axis of the motorcycle's length, like a canoe on a car-top. Neither was going to work. Yet, experience has taught me that I could not quell this idea without offering a suggestion of my own. Luckily I had something in mind, something for which I had been dreaming of for quite a while. I tried to contain my excitement. If I were to be successful it would have to be a slow and gentle journey to get your Mom to come around and agree to what I was thinking. Would my ploy work? Only time would tell.

*** the journey continues tomorrow