Sarah Nigbor

Summer road trips. They are truly the best. Some of my best memories growing up are trekking across the country with my mom in her trusty Plymouth Acclaim.

Last week I wrote about our mishaps at a café in Glendive, Mont. My mom was brave enough to bring my best friend and I on a long road trip out West when I was 15. The memories are priceless and we still talk about that trip to this day. I don’t know how she put up with two 15-year-olds for almost three weeks, considering we bickered like an old married couple constantly, but she did.

Growing up in the 50s and 60s, my mother was a big Lawrence Welk fan. He was an accordionist and band leader who had hit radio and TV shows. You better believe she was excited to visit his birthplace in Strasburg, N.D. We were less than enthused.

Derek and I had no idea who Lawrence Welk was or why he was such a big deal to Mom. We liked the homestead and learned some interesting facts. For example, Welk didn’t speak English until he was 21 (his parents had emigrated from what is now Ukraine). But the tour, especially for two teens who preferred Nirvana or Bon Jovi over Welk, dragged on.

As the knowledgeable tour guide droned on about Welk’s childhood, I decided to have a little fun. Out of her view, I snatched a wig off a mannequin depicting Welk’s father and danced around with it on my head. As the giggles rippled through the crowd and the tour guide ceased speaking, I quickly plopped the wig back on the bald head. Just as the tour guide turned around and my innocent mask slipped into place, the wig slid off the head and onto the floor. As she stared me down, I was like a deer in headlights, praying that I didn’t crack a smile or let a giggle escape. The staredown seemed interminable, but she finally broke first and walked into the next room to continue the tour. The curators took the museum very seriously and I had escaped unscathed. Derek was shaking he was laughing so hard, trying to stay silent as tears ran down his face.

During this trip, I often begged my mom to let me drive. I had my learner’s permit and the open roads of the West were enticing. Near Cody, Wyo., our route took us through a mountain pass several thousand feet up. As I carefully navigated the hairpin turns, I soon realized something was wrong with the car. The engine was overheating, so we pulled over at a pull-off spot. We hadn’t thought to bring water with us and didn’t know what to do.

While traffic was a bit sparse on that stretch, occasionally a car went by and none of them stopped. This was before cell phones; I doubt we would have had reception anyway in the middle of nowhere Wyoming. A Wisconsin car even went by and left us in the dust. We were there for a few hours; late afternoon was creeping up on us and we were starting to get worried.

Suddenly a green van pulled over; it had Alaska license plates. A friendly, older man jumped out and asked if he could help. He wore a blue tracksuit and had boundless energy. As he and mom looked over the car, being the nosy teens we were, we peeked into the back of his van. There was nothing inside the van except for several jugs of water. No luggage, no nothing. That seemed a bit odd.

We overheard him tell Mom that he had just returned from a trip to the Arctic Circle as he poured water into the coolant tank (so we could limp down the mountain to a repair shop). When she asked what brought him to Wyoming, he said he traveled wherever he was needed. Their conversation was cut short when a cattle rancher pulled up in a rusty truck. We were soon distracted by the rancher’s dog, who had a face full of quills after tangling with a porcupine.

As we talked to the rancher, who agreed to lead us down the mountain so we didn’t end up stranded again, Mom turned toward the traveler to thank him for his help. He and his van were gone. We never heard him leave. The rancher seemed as dumbfounded as we were; how had he slipped away so silently? And why didn’t he have any luggage?

Whether or not the man was an angel or not, he was our angel that day.