Exotic birds, antelope, bison, elk and grizzlies. There is nothing quite like a Montana Sunday out under the big sky.
Hugging the older three goodbye Monday night was bittersweet -- we'd all experienced a little of what we used to do, when they still lived here, and a lot of what their future is, now they live there.
Meanwhile, Julia and I had to leave them there and fly back here.
Our trip home was eventful. The weather in the Bay Area was frightful -- windy, with a very low fog/cloud level. First our flight home from Seattle (after our prop plane made it that far) was delayed, according to an urgent text message I received from Alaska Airlines, then cancelled, then diverted to San Jose.
Okay, so off to San Jose it was. As we descended into the Bay Area, which I have done hundreds of times over the years, it was obvious this was no normal landing. Our big jet bounced around like a bathtub toy on the turbulence all the way to the ground, which we hit in a very hard landing.
Whew.
We had been promised that a bus would meet us at the airport and transport us back north to SFO, where we were supposed to have loanded.
But there was no bus. What there was was confusion and then chaos.
Eventually a woman supposedly representing Alaska Airlines showed up and told us that some shuttles would be arriving soon to transport us to SFO.
One soon did, a little shuttle, I would say, capable of carrying maybe five people. The most aggressive passengers rushed to get seats in that one.
At this point, I positioned my daughter and myself where the next shuttle would seem likely to arrive. It worked. We were among the next seven boarded into an ancient van driven by a Pakistani man who seemed to be at the center of whatever operation was unfolding.
I still understand enough Urdu to know he was Pakistani even if no one else did.
It turns out he was the head of a private shuttle company that Alaska had contracted with to get all of us wayward passengers back to our original destination.
As head man, he coordinated the rest of his fleet, several more vehicles, to swarm into the spot where we were waiting, to ensure that everyone would get to SFO.
Thus, when all of that was finally accomplished, we were the last to leave.
As he drove us north on the notoriously crowded 101, I held on for dear life, and more specifically, for my daughter's dear life. He was weaving in and out of traffic at high speeds, answering texts and calls on his cellphone in his right hand, speaking Urdu and Hindi through his headset, and steering our ancient van with his left hand.
It felt at every moment that we were on the edge of disaster but ultimately we made it to SFO okay.
Then, Julia and I managed to hail a taxi. The ride home to the city was even more ridiculous. Our driver barely spoke English so I had to help him enter our address in his GPS because he really didn't know how to type.
Even with that he obviously didn't know the route well enough to sense where we were going.
The taxi he had been issued must have been from the bottom of the pile. It felt like the flywheel was broken, as we sashayed down 101, frighteningly close to cars on our right and our left. Allah Ackbar, I whispered.
As I succeeded in getting him off the freeway and onto a route that would reach my house, I asked him where he was from. We spoke in a mixture of my broken Arabic and his broken English.
"Yemen. I from Yemen. My first day as taxi. I pay $40,000 to come to this country."
Christ, his very first day. We are probably his first fares.
We made it home safely. The fare was $36. I tipped him $6 and told him to stay safe. In Arabic I told him "May God be with you." We exchanged our final Salaam Alekoms.
That started the rest of my week watching the Giants reclaims the National League pennant for the third time in five years. And last night I witnessed and wrote about what may have been the greatest game in baseball history.
I am still trying to wrap my mind about that.
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