After arriving in Bozeman, we had an extra day to kick around so we drove here and there a bit. Ever forgetting something, we made a trip to the local Wal-Mart to pick up a couple of things that we found we were in need of. As we walked through the parking lot, there was a sign in a spot right next to the handicapped parking. I got so tickled when I saw this sign (I’ve never seen this before!):
It’s not that uncommon to see an airport, even in a smaller community, but I’ve never seen such a scenic route taking you there:
We also knocked around the historic part of town, and I found just the perfect house:
Here is another sign that was on that very residential street, and it is certainly not something I’ve ever seen in Texas:
Bozeman seems to be a very “organic” and green town in many respects. I saw a lot of people riding bicycles – not wearing biking pants and helmets via Lance Armstrong, but even wearing skirts and sandals with their groceries safely secured on the back. I had visited the very large organic food co-op on my first visit, but I hadn’t noticed this little co-op tucked among the quaint shops on Main Street. I wonder: how many organic food co-ops are there in town?
We spent some time in our room, and a very antsy Alan passed the time by keeping connected on Facebook:
I love watching local news when I am visiting an area, and I have been struck by the local news anchor. While still attractive, she is not a blonde, 20-something, contact lens wearing slip-of-a-girl (which seems to be a major requirement for Fox news anchors -- Hooray for women of wisdom and substance!):
On “Yellowstone” day, Alan was up a little before 5:00 a.m. He was supposed to be at the bus station across the street no later than 7:15 a.m. (not too bad), but at 6:00 he announced that he was going to go on over. He had stepped out for a while and had noticed that several people were already there. I was instructed that I was NOT going over with him (as I did last time) to wait for the bus; he would just say his good-byes in the room so as not to be the butt of “mama’s boy” jokes for months to come. It reminded me of the day that my kindergartener told me not to kiss him in front of school, and in fact, I could just drop him off at the corner. Oh, the pain in a mother’s heart! Once he was gone, I figured I might as well get going myself, so I prepared to leave. As I was loading the car I noticed that the bus was there. I couldn’t help myself – I had to hide behind the bushes and take a picture of the bus. I thought I was ready for all of this (after all, we did it last year), but I found myself unprepared for the incredible sense of sadness that I experienced as his bus pulled away. I ended up crying like a real nit-wit. My heart certainly goes out to any mother who sends her child away to war – I can’t even imagine how they must feel. They have my utmost respect and empathy.
Once he was gone, there was no sense in dallying, so I hit the road. I couldn’t drive past Sheridan, Wyoming, without stopping at this scenic turnout overlooking a beautiful valley:
Spending the night in Cheyenne, I have put my beloved mountains behind me. I am on my way home.