Loaded Mrs. Cat and Cub into the Catmobile, waved goodbye to the palatial Cat Estate, and headed up the road to retrieve Kitten from Mama Cat’s cottage in the mountains.It was a perfect day for traveling: crisp blue skies, not a great deal of traffic, good tunes on the radio. As much as we love Kitten, we enjoy being able to listen to our music when we’re on the road, which we can’t do when she’s in the car.
We leave the lowlands and the uplands, and enter the mountains proper. I take the back roads, and we watch the temperature leave the low-90s and hover at the top of the 70s. Off with the AC and open all the windows. I’m not one of those that feels compelled to blow the car horn every time we go through a tunnel, but Cub enjoys the experience anyway.
The mountains are stoic and timeless, with swaths of green slowly making their way to the tops. We hear birdcalls, rushing streams, crickets and frogs and, as we enter the valley, the gentle susurration of 50,000 Harley Davidson motorcycles.
Oh…it’s that weekend.
We drift into the homestead right about dusk. Mama Cat, having been alerted to our approach via the cell, has a country dinner awaiting us. We eat too much and enjoy ourselves thoroughly. We repair to the rocking chairs on the porch, but have to abandon the space to the predatory, bird-sized mosquitoes that are attempting to make off with Cub.
Soon after that, we all go to bed and drift off to the sound of the creek outside the windows. It’s a good day.
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