Page 51 of Grown-Up Second Chance

The little girl screamed and buried her head in her father’s shoulder. “I don’t wanna. I don’t wanna,” she repeated.

The man soothed the girl and took another look at the bison.

His chin dropped a little from its position of bravado. “It’s okay. We’ll go back to the car. Wave bye-bye.”

“No,” she said, her face pressing closer against his shoulder.

As he walked down the hill, his wife turned and mouthed, “Thank you.”

“That was close,” I said.

“I agree.” Joe nodded at the mom. “And we need to leave too so she can settle down and care for her calf.”

In their car, the small family zipped past us, the man’s shoulders rigid as he drove.

“I hope they can stay out of trouble,” Joe said.

“You were great,” I told him.

Joe shook his head. “If that little girl hadn’t balked, I’m not sure what would have happened.”

He was right about that.

~ ~ ~

The hike had been a blissful reminder of times when we were kids. We reminisced about some of the places we’d gone together, caught up on a few more things, and dissected the current state of American politics.

By six, we had snagged a good spot at the edge of the road where small RVs and big pickups were already starting to gather. Scopes were set up and handshakes exchanged. This was obviously a group of people who’d spent time together.

“This is how a lot of them spend their summers. A few do it year round. A couple of fairly famous photographers show up now and then.”

I stared at the mass of equipment stretching along the side of the road.

“When are you going to break down and get a camera?” Joe asked. “You’re looking at those lenses like some women look at shoes.”

I laughed.

“You certainly have a way of looking at things,” I said.

“Don’t avoid the question,” he said. “What’s stopping you?”

I hesitated.

“You can tell me,” he said as he unrolled and set up a small table, waving away my efforts to help.

I sat in one of the folding chairs we’d already set up.

Beyond the bristling tripod-mounted scopes and camera lenses, the prairie stretched beyond us, similar to many other areas in surrounding Montana and Wyoming. But there weren’t fences here, or Black Angus being fattened for market. Nature still had the upper hand … to an extent.

The sun was warm, but it wasn’t the blistering heat of late July and August.

Joe handed me a glass of wine.

“Wow,” I said. “A proper dinner.”

“It’s still a picnic,” he said, pulling containers from a cooler and laying them on the tablecloth he’d already placed over the table. “But it’s a picnic with class. Only the best for you.”

“What’s stopping you from getting a camera,” he asked again. “You were always taking pictures in high school. I’d half imagined you’d be one of the professionals by now.”

---