So, we bypassed Gold Bar and skirted around Cashmere and ended up in Plain. Plain, Washington.
And this was the first human we encountered.
He plodded up to our window. He stood and stared at us, pushing sunflower seeds around his mouth with his tongue, evaluating, I imagined, our worth. Our right to be out there in our shiny Toyota hybrid.
Dueling banjos played in my head.
Eventually, he let us through his traffic stop. He turned out to be quite friendly, if a little succinct and grunty.
We found our way to the darling cabinny A-frame we rented where I could've curled up for twenty-five days straight with a book and a cat and a cup of tea.
But instead we hiked to a lake, which was nice too.
We had forgotten to buy a park pass ahead of time, so we left a long, friendly note on our windshield explaining to the rangers that we had lots of kids with us who had to pee and how going back into town to get a pass would surely cause a meltdown of epic proportions and could they please just accept the five dollar bill tucked under our wiper (along with my red thong and a six pack of beer) and let us enjoy the park without writing us a spensy ticket, thank you.
And then we found the fee envelopes and paid and I had to crumple up my masterful note.
We made s'mores and watched ospreys and, at night, gazed at the velvet sky thick with stars.
If only there were a Target up in Plain, I might want to make it my home.
You know, minus the banjos.