Right back to where we started

How did we—my trusty wife, who has endured countless painful challenges because of me—end up here? On a packed motorcycle, caught in a full-blown snow blizzard, scaling Bitterroot Pass. I couldn’t see the road anymore and fully expected a Yeti to lumber out of the snow-covered bushes to snatch us. The ice-encrusted wasteland from The Empire Strikes Back seemed like a warm, tropical retreat compared to this place.

Possibly—just possibly—this might have been ever so slightly my fault. As always.

Hamilton, Montana, May 10th, 2016

We—my wife, my bike, and I—were on a journey: coast to coast, east to west, from Manhattan to Malibu. Six thousand adventurous miles, braving the great land of the free.

So far, so good.

It feels like yesterday we were basking in a perfect day of 80-degree sunshine.
Probably because it was yesterday.

Even doing the laundry had been a joy, thanks to a swinging bench in front of the laundromat that lent a faint whiff of honeymoon nostalgia. The evening, spent at a campground by the fire with bagels and beer (as always), was an idyllic way to close out the day.

However, unbeknownst to us, this was the very moment when the course of events began to shift, subtly at first, and disaster started to unfold.

After a cheerful reunion with the campground host—who, judging by his demeanour, was either tipsy, stoned, or enthusiastically both—we set up our tent. This particular campground, nestled just two miles outside Hamilton in a lush forest, was a marvel. A picturesque little river meandered through the trees, completing the scene of serene perfection.

What we failed to realize, however, was that this idyllic spot had recently undergone a transformation. What was once a cozy, intimate retreat had morphed into a bustling hub of alternative commerce. A drug market of sorts, to put it bluntly.

Our misfortune became painfully apparent as the night wore on. Numerous times, potential "customers" approached our tent, eager to conduct transactions. Armed with nothing more than my oversized Bowie knife and a dwindling sense of humor, I managed to deter most intruders. The more persistent clientele, however, were unceremoniously dragged away by our hospitable campground host—who, as it turned out, was not only the manager but also a passionate purveyor of recreational substances.

Morning brought no relief. Any attempt to lodge a formal complaint was thwarted by the sight of the host sprawled on the ground in front of his battered trailer, snoring loudly and surrounded by what I could only assume were the remnants of last night’s quality control session. Apparently, he’d sampled a little too much of his own inventory and was now paying the price.

After confirming that he was still breathing and that immediate medical attention wasn’t necessary, we packed up the bike and rode off into the horizon—leaving behind what may well have been Montana’s most scenic black market.

A health-giving breakfast at McDonald’s—what better place to satisfy one’s craving for nourishing sustenance—was in order. After devouring stacks of pancakes alongside scrambled eggs that, I’m fairly certain, had never been within clucking distance of an actual chicken, we cheerfully set off south on Highway 93 toward Bitterroot Pass, straddling the border with Idaho.

The weather was still pleasant, though a few ominous clouds were beginning to gather in the distance. Naturally, I chose to ignore them.

An opening excerpt from What Could Possibly Go Wrong? Chronicles of Chaos and Courage remains available here. The full book can be ordered here.