In part one of her adventure, Winona and her travel companions discover that they’re in for more than they bargained for on a mysterious trip from Portland, Oregon, to White Fish, Montana. Today, read the conclusion of her trip.
We were silent for a moment, examining the dimly lit Spokane skyline in the distance. “I didn’t even know Spokane had a skyline,” I said, and the boys nodded in agreement.
An hour passed. And then another. The train remained stopped at the abandoned station. Our cellphones, laid out on the table, let out their last beeps and chimes before succumbing to dead batteries. “Why aren’t we moving?” Nick muttered. “Why won’t this damn train move?” Devin left to brave the restroom. Corwin’s leg fell asleep and he started pacing the cabin. Cuyler and I entered the stage of fatigue that induces fits of giggling and rocking back and forth in the fetal position.
A few minutes later we heard the door open and saw a figure stumbling toward us… Keep reading »
Not so long ago, my mom, my brothers, my boyfriend and I decided to go to Montana. We yearned to see the endless skies and the imposing beauty of Glacier National Park; the only question was how to get there–flights were expensive and my family has a long and horrifying history of road trips gone awry. We considered canceling the trip altogether, but then my mom called me and said, “Listen, there’s a train that goes from Portland, Oregon, to White Fish, Montana. It’s about half the price of a flight but it takes 14 hours to get there. Is that crazy?”
“No,” I said. “It’s perfect.” Keep reading »
Last week, when The Frisky held its fancy party, one of the snacks was lamb served on a stick, which got me thinking about the last time I ate interestingly stabbed meat. It started with a bang the day I arrived in Peru — I passed out onto my face. I woke up on the hotel bathroom floor, surrounded by and smeared with blood. Then I was revived, mysteriously back in bed, and staring at the ceiling, which I thought was breathing. My adventure had begun. Keep reading »
I recently crossed something off my bucket list. At 29-almost-30, I finally learned how to surf. Despite growing up in sunny San Diego, I’d never learned, and after a failed attempt to teach myself in Hawaii as a teenager — resulting in bloody knees and feet after a detour through a coral reef — I never tried again. Until this summer. Keep reading »