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Sandbars of Time
“Do you want to camp this coming weekend?” I asked Brenna several days ago. “Can we ride the motorcycle?” she asked in return. “Yeah,” I affirm, “for sure.” “Oh yea,” she said with drawn out enthusiasm. So I knew it was a go. Or so I thought. Yesterday she was invited to a B.S.U. football game with one of her school friends and now she’s indecisive. I let her know it’s time to choose. “I think I want to camp,” she concludes after considering it for a while. That was a close one. She’s at the age where I know I’m on borrowed time against the pull of peers and pre-teen predilections. I am glad I won this day since I already bought food and packed the motorcycle. These little trips are a highlight of my life. I have in mind an easy ride to somewhere along the Boise River North Fork where I know if it’s busy we can cross the bridge to Barber Flat that doesn’t allow automobiles. It is a typical late summer day in Southern Idaho as we begin up Highway 21 — hot under a smoke hazed sky.
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