(From We Went Westward . . . Ho Ho Ho)
When a few weatherbeaten houses came into view, we drove up and saw one had a sign that said, HOTEL. A man was sitting on the steps, and we asked him what the name of the place was. We still laugh about it. He looked puzzled for a bit, then said, “Gosh, I don’t know. I’ll go in and find out.”
When he came back, he told us it was Alzada, and it was in Montana. “Well,” I said, “It can’t be much farther now.” But it was. The road became narrow, muddy and more rutty. It became necessary for me to brace myself with my feet to keep from “hitting the top.” As mile after mile passed, I was sure the ruts would lead nowhere, just end out there in the mud somewhere. I was so tired that I didn’t care much if they did.
The sun went down, and it was on a down grade that we high centered, but for good. Then we had a lucky break. A carload of teenagers, out for a drive, found us. They were just bursting to help. They told us that Broadus was the next town. They knew a man who had a truck and would pull us out, and there was a hotel and a dairy where we could buy milk for the baby. One girl sat on her boyfriend’s lap so Barney could go back with them. Waiting in the car in the dark, it seemed the quietest place in the world. I thank God that I didn’t hear a coyote howl that night. I would have been sure that we would end up eaten by wolves.
The trucker got us out and refused pay, and it was a good thing as we were not very flush. As long as I remember anything, I will never forget the mud in the hall at the hotel. It was inches deep, and men in cowboy boots and big hats walked back and forth in it. I bet the one who had to do the cleaning had to shovel it out every day. We bought a quart of milk in a blue fruit jar, a loaf of bread, and a little something to make sandwiches, had a lunch in our room and turned in.
At six o’clock in the morning it was a noisy place as others started to stir around, so we ate what was left from the night before and went to the desk and asked directions to the homestead. “Go ten miles north to the Olive Post Office, ” we were told.
“Then turn west through ranch land. Go through three wire gates, turn south and follow the trail, and when you see a large barn, it will be a short way from it.”
We almost missed Olive. It was a small brown building, and I saw the post office sign just in time. So we turned and drove over range land. Every so often there would be a small log building, and I asked Barney what they were. He answered right off: “Houses.” I waited for him to finish the joke, then realized it was the truth.
“You mean people live in those things?” I wailed. It was quite a shock.
P. 2 – Copyright Esther Barnhart
