The long-awaited visit to Missoula to visit nieces was finally happening. Departure time was agreed upon Thursday night as 11:30 a.m. To my surprise, at 9:15 on Friday morning as I’m sneaking in a last game of Scrabble, my sister Marnie announces that we are behind schedule and need to leave at 9:30. I have not packed.

Somehow, we pull it together and get the bags and the car packed with elk meat, jars of pears and salsa and my dulcimer, not to mention the snack bag and water, by 11:00 a.m.., half an hour before our original leave time. Sam waves us off after giving Marnie a last tutorial about mirrors, back-up camera, etc. And off we go – OOOOOOOOPS! Just about hit the 87-year-old neighbor as she was driving down the alley to her garage.

Whew. Take a deep breath. I am determined to remain calm and supportive in Marnie’s attempt to become more independent. Down the alley we go past the school to Main Street. All is well until Marnie attempts to turn left onto Main Street, cutting in front of a truck, or rig as it’s called in Montana, coming from the right. Narrowly escaping being t-boned, I breathe a sigh of relief, only to be told by Marnie that the reason she didn’t see the truck was because I was sitting up too far and I needed to sit back. Little did she know that I was sitting back as far as possible, my spine glued to the back of the seat by the sticky sweat of fear.

Did I mention that it was icy and snowy on the streets? We had been assured by Sam that the roads out of town would be dry and clear, and when we hit the highway, his prediction turned out to be true – dry, clear, and one of those beautiful Montana days with the sky a brilliant blue, and the snow sparkling from the sun’s rays. As Marnie drove, her confidence level rose, and I began to feel that we might actually reach our destination.

My first inkling that she might be becoming a little TOOOO confident was when we hit the town of Vaughn – a sudden sneeze and you’d miss it, but it did have a speed limit of 45. Marnie turns to me when she sees the sign and announces that she is doing just exactly 45 – she is so proud of herself. As she explained later, the reason she sped up immediately was that she knew the resume normal speed sign was ahead, and she wanted to be going the proper speed when she got there. “Oh, no, I just got a ticket,” she exclaimed when the sheriff’s deputy made an abrupt U-turn in the middle of the road, got behind us and turned on his blue lights.

“Ma’am, do you know why I stopped you?”

“Well, no, I don’t.”

“You were going 59 mph in a 45 mph speed zone.”

“Oh, no, I don’t think so, because I just told her” – gesturing confidently – “that I was going the speed limit.”

A little more back and forth ensued, with Marnie trying the ploy of explaining that the van was brand new and perhaps the speedometer was off, but she just knew she couldn’t have been going 59 miles an hour. I am horrified, as it seems that she is trying her best to talk him into giving her a ticket. Little did I know that my discomfort level was going to rise sharply when he asked for her driver’s license. Then began the digging into no less than eight zippered compartments of the purse. When she finally handed the officer her license, she helpfully added that that one was expired, but that she had another one somewhere. I tried to shrink into the background as he waited patiently for the second search and then examined both licenses. He carefully explained to her that she really should dispose of the expired license and keep just the current one.

Then came the interminable wait while he did whatever it is that officers do when they’re trying to determine the threat level of two old ladies in a minivan. By this point I was really getting nervous, as I had been looking for the vehicle registration in the usual spots it could be located in, and was coming up empty-handed. However, he hadn’t asked for it yet. As I watched him doing the slow walk back up to our window, I braced myself. Marnie then explained to him that his radar equipment must not be functioning properly. His face flushed, the officer informed her that he was going to give her a warning, and not a ticket. I thought he displayed admirable restraint.

Flash forward to the next morning, when Marnie announced that she felt she had been unfairly profiled because the minivan is red. Thus began my daily prayer that I would be allowed to drive on the return trip.

This picture was taken on our way to Missoula in Lincoln, MT, where the infamous Unabomber, Ted Kaczynski, hid from the authorities for years in a ramshackle cabin.