Most rides, Sean had a destination in mind. On this particular day, he was heading to Camp Scheideck – a roadside bar that was a destination for many riders. Scheideck was rustic, low-lit and tattered. Bras, dollar bills and Mardi Gras beads hung from the ceiling. Budweiser posters that alternated between images of Clydesdale horses and bikini-clad women peeled from the walls where they had been thumbtacked years, if not decades, before. A set of deer antlers hung above the mirrored bar, a pair of lacy red underpants slung from one antler point to another like a summertime hammock. Someone had tucked a Papa Smurf figurine into the cotton crotch; its perpetual plastic smile leered down at the barflies below like a Peeping Tom.

Mind yourself, Shelly’s mother warned. All those boys and that face paint can only lead to trouble. Shelly ignored her mother entirely. Rolled her eyes, even. She had never been happier. How can you doubt such an experience, she wondered? Shelly felt as though she were blossoming, as though her life was an unrolling red carpet that ran down long corridors of endless possibility.

“Call me crazy,” she said, “but it seems to me that like and trust go hand in hand.”

I’ll never forget the Christmas morning that my mother surprised us children with a 16 foot, Old Town canoe.

“Hey there, cowboy.”

“You sure you want to jump?”

I was on my knees in the dirt when I heard the rumble.