“The toughness I was learning was not a martyred doggedness, a dumb heroism, but the art of accommodation. I thought: to be tough is to be fragile; to be tender is to be truly fierce.”

 — Gretel Ehrlich, from The Solace of Open Spaces

About five nights a week so far, ideally before dark, I’ve found some place along the road where camping is permitted to raise my little Marmot tent, store my gear, cover Harley with a tarp, fix a meal — then retire inside for a little writing, sip of something, reading and sleep.

Once each week I’ve had to seek refuge from pouring rain in some hotel. And about once a week I’ve been able to rely on the kindnesses of strangers. Not strangers in the I-don’t-know-them sense. More like dear old friends and family I haven’t seen for ages.

Like the two big-hearted sisters of a brother (who’s since passed away) who married a woman who happens to be the sister of the woman who I married. Those kinds of relations. One of them, Penny, has a home with her husband Buddy high in the pine tree country of Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. The other, Tori, lives with her own husband Barrett in the handsome high prairie land of Bozeman, Montana.

What they each seem to have in common, however, is a natural tendency toward a kind of no-nonsense western generosity. And their husbands aren’t far behind them. Each couple welcomed me into their home and gave me food and drink and a place to spend the night — and much more. They quickly rearranged their schedules to accommodate me.  They implored me to tell my stories and then they told me theirs. They offered good advice when requested. And when it was finally time for me to go on my way, each family slipped me a little something extra for the road.

A good place with very good people.