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“Probably a bit of both,” Scott says.
We consider going to the mall, maybe eating at the restaurant where I used to work, but decide against it. We’d rather keep going.
South of Fargo, we turn off the freeway and on to a secondary highway. Back on the back roads. We pass through fields and little towns, each with a population of less than a thousand, and one with some sort of processing plant that fills the air with a nauseating stench. We wonder how anyone could possibly get used to a smell like that. But they do. People have homes and families and some probably live out their whole lives here.
Soon, we come to a lush green valley, strange and out of place in this wide, bare land. It must have looked like an oasis to the settlers who crossed this land in covered wagons. We glide down a rolling hill where cows graze next to the road. At the base is a sign for Little Yellowstone Park.
“Pull in,” I say. “Let’s check it out.”
Scott turns the jeep around and backtracks to the entrance. We fill out the form at the self-sign-in station, drive into the park, and peer in to each campsite.
“There’s hardly anyone here,” Scott says.
“There’s somebody.”
An older man and woman stand next to a beat-up camper. They stare at us as we pass.
The next three sites are empty, and then there’s one with a small grassy meadow next to the fire pit. “This one looks good,” Scott says, pulling in.
No sooner do we have the tent set up than we hear a “hello there!” behind us. It’s the man and woman we passed on our way in.
“Hi.” I turn and give them a smile.
“Welcome!”
“Thanks. Are you the campsite managers?”
“Oh no,” the woman says, “we’re just here a lot.”
“Every summer,” the man adds. “We come every summer.”
They introduce themselves as the Johnsons. They’re from Jamestown, and they’re here for a week. It’s supposed to be a family reunion, but they’re the only ones who showed up.
“Ten years ago,” Mr. Johnson says, “this whole place was filled with us. Kids and grandkids. Then they all stopped coming. Say they're too busy.”
“Why don’t you two join us for dinner?” Mrs. Johnson offers. “We’ve got plenty of food.”
Scott and I look at each other. It would be nice to have a meal that someone else prepared. It’ll beat cheese and crackers.
We follow them back to their site and accept the two chairs they pull from underneath the camper. Mr. Johnson grabs steaks from the cooler and places them on the grill over the fire. Mrs. Johnson disappears into the camper and reemerges with gin and tonics with lime for everyone.
“So what’re you two doing out on the road?” Mr. Johnson asks.
“Just taking a break,” I tell him.
“From what?”
“Life, I guess.”
He chuckles. “Life sure does get crazy, don’t it? So crazy that pretty soon no one even takes time for reunions anymore.”
“Were you expecting people to show up?” I ask.
“Well, yeah.”
Mrs. Johnson speaks up. “Well, not for sure. Mary said she hoped to come, but that don’t mean the same thing as a promise. I’m sure she wanted to. She’s just too busy, with her job and kids.”
“We offered to pay her gas money,” Mr. Johnson says.
A short silence falls. We sip our drinks. Ice clanks against the side of glasses and wind rustles through trees.
Then Mr. Johnson pulls the steaks off the grill. “Take your pick, Scott,” he says.
Scott chooses a steak, and we all fill our plates with the prepared salads Mrs. Johnson pulls from the camper’s fridge. Coleslaw, jello salad, taco dip. I smile, realizing the chunks of fruit in the jello salad are distinguishable only by their color. I leave most of it on my plate, untouched.
After dinner Mrs. Johnson offers to refill our drinks. My glass is empty, but I hesitate to accept. I don’t want to take advantage of these people, having just met them and all. I suggest that maybe Scott and I should go back to our tent site.
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Johnson says. “We like the company. Come on and help me with the drinks.”
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