Marie and I had only been dating a month when I proposed we take a motorcycle trip to Yellowstone by way of the Tetons. We’d hung out longer than that so it was not as if we’d just met, but “dating” needed to be sealed with a kiss, and I was reticent to deliver as I liked what we had and was unwilling to press for more and risk the whole bundle. She’d become impatient, had found her opportunity and had planted one on me while I was being my gentlemanly self, and my road to ruin was sealed, but that’s another story.
In this tale, a woman who had
never ridden on two wheels before I barged into her life agreed to a
4000 mile camping trip without a moment’s hesitation. She was game, I’ll
have to give her that.
By the time we reached central Wyoming,
she was a seasoned rider, as we had already faced off with death, and
she’d found it oddly pleasurable. While attempting to descend from the
crest of Tensleep canyon on a switchback road that was in the process of
being rebuilt, we had been forced to travel too fast by an eighteen
wheeler whose brakes had overheated on our tail, and I’d had to lay the
bike down in the gravel to keep from jetting off a 500 foot cliff. Once
she’d gotten over the initial shock, and found all her limbs intact,
she’d wanted hot sweaty sex as quickly as conditions allowed. I took
note of her response to danger, and quashed my fear that she might find
riding just too scary for her liking.
The town of Dubois lies 85
miles from Jackson Hole, our presumed destination. Though I say
presumed, in reality it was more necessity as there’s nothing between
the two towns but rock, freezing water and Billy goats. It was late
afternoon, but the weather was looking dicey, and even in August in high
elevation there was always the chance of snow. Naturally I’d not
anticipated the possibility so we were lacking the gear we’d need should
an early storm whack us enroute. Luckily, Dubois has a cowboy clothing
store, and we stopped off for long undies and woolen socks.
she developed a case of the munchies and pointed to a small restaurant
up the street, identified by a 30 foot tall blue moose standing in front
of its windows. I was nervous about the sky, but figured we had the 20
minutes it’d take to satisfy her craving, so we sauntered into “the Blue
Moose” and ordered burgers and fries. It was self serve, probably a
converted fast food joint, so we grabbed our little plastic trays and
headed off for the front booth where we might watch the traffic, and the
all important heavens.
Marie took a large bite of her burger,
looked up toward me and snorted, nearly losing the bite in the process. I
said gesundheit as any gentleman would, and she giggled. She struggled
to swallow, and once completing her mission, broke into a grin, then a
smile, then a chuckle and then a belly laugh. I had to wonder what my
face must have been smeared by to cause her such pain. I have to admit
for just one moment I thought she was laughing at me. It wasn’t paranoia
mind you, but we were still feeling each other out so to speak, and
there was a lot of her brain I’d not yet been witness to.
She must have noticed me thinking too hard, as I’m wont to do, because she said “no, no; look behind you!”
turned and looked. The highway was empty, the sky growing brownish, the
parking lot cracked and sprouting grass blades a-plenty. “What the hell
are you seeing that I’m not” I said.
“Look up” said she; “it’s a he”.
“Well of course it’s a he” I answered before I turned my head again, “the antlers…”
I saw them. Blue testicles. Blue testicles the size of navigation
channel buoys. Blue testicles that must have weighed 200 pounds apiece.
“Hole crap” I said, “that’s a healthy moose!”
had to think about the making of a genitally correct moose. When the
store owner decided to create an eye-catching billboard that might draw
people to notice the “good eats” sign on the Blue Moose café frontage,
what was it that made him decide “lets make sure the animal has all its
working parts.” Why? Just in case it came to life one night and ran off?
Like a blue chick moose would wander by and do that moose whistle thing
and maybe his blue moose would get together with Ms. blue moose and
make baby mooses and he could start a traveling circus act with the blue
But then it occurred to me that it might be
something far more insidious. The owner was probably a man, though I’m
only guessing that because in my mind I just can’t see a woman saying “I
think I’ll start a restaurant in the tiniest town in Wyoming in the
middle of nowhere and in front of the store I’ll commission a sculpture
of a giant anatomically complete blue moose!” Of course, I could be
wrong, but that’s how my mind was working at the time so humor me.
since it was a man, and men have a tendency to express themselves in
ways that symbolize themselves, or at least their notions of themselves,
and that usually means something phallic, like constantly swinging a
baseball bat or making grunting noises to replicate huge, fierce
grizzlies, why couldn’t it be that the guy decided to build a giant
symbolic replica of himself in the form of the king of the wilderness
beasts! What’s stronger than a moose? What’s more fearsome, more manly,
Well then it would stand to reason that
rather than have a Ken and Barbie like moose representing him, he would
make sure the moose was well endowed, as he is (even if he isn’t; in
fact more likely even though he isn’t) and then lookin out his
business’ front windows every morning would be just like looking in the
mirror, sort of, presuming the mirror was behind him and hung below his
Needless to say, I laughed out loud, thinking about
this self made man, self making himself into a giant blue moose with
giant blue testes. Luckily, Marie just assumed I was laughing at the
same thing she was laughing at, and I never did have to explain to her
that I was insane; until later, just before the divorce.
soon after our laughs wore thin, just as the sky grew thick, and black.
Within a few miles it began to rain, that cold drizzle kind of rain that
says “I could be snow but that would be too easy for you so I’ll be
below freezing temperature rain instead and soak you to the bone”. Rain
is such an ass sometimes.
Marie was a champ. She just snuggled in
behind me and kept her whining to herself for the hour and a half ride
in the dark and what turned into a good pour. I have no doubt I wouldn’t
have made it, save the afternoon sex behind a grove of young spruce,
the giant cotton long undies that now soaked in all the water from
within ten feet of me like a paper towel on steroids, and the vision of
the restaurant owner, designing a thirty foot tall blue moose with giant
balls, setting down his pencil and muttering “yup, don’t let anyone
tell ya Jim Bob Chokterwhump aint a hell of a man!”