He was the quintessential American guy: tent, truck, dog and a beer. Traveling through the Rockies alone, I couldn't do anything but appreciate it when he drove up with those unbelievable blue eyes, parked in the campsite next to mine and offered an evening of fire-roasted corn, stars and a cold Sierra Nevada. When morning came, we hiked to a series of hot springs with his little white mutt prancing up and down the trail, ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and skinny-dipped.
For the next three days we knocked around the wilderness playing. Alas, we had to get back into town and headed toward Salt Lake City. The drive was interrupted every 50 minutes to "let Max stretch his legs." We could only stop at McDonalds for lunch and dinner because "Max" liked Quarter Pounders better than Whoppers or Wendy's, never mind I detest McDonald's almost as much as I detest mayonnaise. Oh, Max, of course, is the dog.
After making a 6-hour drive a 12-hour ordeal, we finally found ourselves smuggling Max into a Best Western. When the dog decided he would get my bed and started pushing and nipping, I'd had enough and picked the dog up and tossed him into the bathroom. At which point, American blue eyes howled and demanded to know what was wrong with me. "I'm sorry, but I can't hang with you any more . . . this is over . . . you're jealous of my dog!"
So, at four am, I found myself packing up, getting my own room and vowing to supply my own fire roasted corn and beer in the future. I guess psychos can lurk behind blue eyes.