Our original itinerary had us flying from Denver to Dallas. But early one morning my cousin Muriel called us into her dining room, opened up her beautiful china cabinet and said, “Jamie, I’d like you to have my antique china collection. I’ve already spoken to my daughters and they agree that you should have it.”

Jamie’s lower lip started to quiver and tears rolled down her cheeks. She loves my cousin Muriel and her husband Bill (and vice versa), and she was overwhelmed by their sweet, generous offer. Muriel’s had this collection for 65 years. It’s worth a small fortune (I know because while Jamie was busy wiping her tears, I was busy looking it up on eBay.)

But there was a problem. There was no way for us to carry the entire set onto the plane and we knew it would never survive being shipped no matter how carefully we packed it. So we changed our plans, canceled our flight, and decided to drive two more days from Denver to Dallas to make sure that the entire collection arrived safely.

Thanks, Muriel. Jamie promises to cherish it as much as you have.

We started this little road trip with a stop in Moscow, Idaho to visit with goddaughter Kendal and we’re ending it (sorta) with a visit to her older sister, goddaughter Avery, in Loveland, Colorado. Avery’s just finishing up her teaching credentials at University of Northern Colorado. That’s her boyfriend Jake with a firm grasp on her shoulder. (Good idea, Jake. You’d be crazy to let her get away.)

I can almost remember being as young as Avery and Jake, but I have absolutely no recollection of ever being as attractive.

Damn it.

The western side of Montana is mountainous and green. The eastern half of the state is completely different with low, rolling hills and vegetation that’s brown about half the year. This half of the year, to be specific.

We thought Cody, Wyoming, which calls itself the eastern entrance to Yellowstone National Park, would be mountainous and forested. No such luck.

Cody was a pretty little town, but between the coronavirus and the end of the tourist season, we were just about the only people on the streets.

We’re not sure which state we were in. Could have been southern Montana. Could have been northern Wyoming. It doesn’t really matter. We saw hundreds and hundreds of deer. Or antelope. Or elk. Or whatever these are. And look at the blue of that sky.

Kalispell is nestled up in the northwest corner of Montana about thirty miles south of the Canadian border. My mom and dad both grew up here. We had a little mini-reunion with mom’s side of the family on our way between goddaughters Kendal in Idaho and Avery in Colorado.

Starting at the bottom left and working clockwise around the table:

Cousin Jody – He was once a hunting and fishing guide in the wilds of Alaska. Now he runs a casino. Oh, my god, does he have stories.

Cousin Rhonda – Lives in Alaska and runs an organ transplant organization.

Jamie – Best wife ever.

Cousin Muriel – One of a kind. No one else like her in the world. Her mom and dad were always my favorite aunt and uncle.

Cousin Bill – He’s been married to Muriel for 65 years and they’ve been together since junior high school. Another aunt always said, “You’re a saint, Bill.” Everyone who knows him agrees.

Me – The least interesting person at the table.

Cousin Wanda – She once told me, “We gotta stick together, Jimmy. We’re the troublemakers in the family.”

Cousin Sally – When I was five and she was seven, I told her Santa Claus wasn’t real. I don’t think she’s ever forgiven me.

Cousin Cliff – Sally’s husband. They’ve been married 50 years. Another Great guy who’s led an incredibly interesting life.

The route from Kalispell to Bozeman took us along the eastern shore of Flathead Lake. Jamie took all these shots as we drove along at 65 miles per hour. I can’t believe they turned out so unblurred and pretty.

I’ve always had it in my head that Flathead is the United States’ second largest natural freshwater lake (excluding Lake Michigan). Must have been something my Montana relatives told me when I was a kid, because very few people outside of Montana have ever heard of Flathead Lake.

So I Googled “largest lakes in the United States” just to see if it was true.

Not even close.

According to Wikipedia, an unimpeachable source, it ranks 30th. But if I do a little Flathead Lake Chamber of Commerce-like analysis, I can move it much higher on the list.

Of the Great Lakes only Lake Michigan lies completely within the United States, and we already said it was excluded. Then we can eliminate the Great Salt Lake because it’s not a freshwater lake. Let’s knock Lake of the Woods off the list because it lies mostly in Canada. Likewise, Iliamna Lake is in Alaska, not the continental United States.

By the time I was done whittling away lakes that aren’t freshwater, don’t lie within the contiguous United States, lie partially in Canada, or are man-made, we’re down to a very short list:

1. Lake Okeechobee in Florida (662 square miles)
2. Red Lake in Minnesota (427 square miles)
3. Devils Lake in North Dakota (300 square miles)
4. Lake Winnebago in Wisconsin (215 square miles)
5. Mille Lacs Lake in Minnesota (207 square miles)
6. Flathead Lake in Montana (192 square miles)
7. Lake Tahoe in California-Nevada (191 square miles)

So there you go. Flathead Lake is not the United States’ second largest freshwater lake (excluding Lake Michigan). But seventh ain’t bad. Especially when you realize it’s one square mile larger than Lake Tahoe.

Update: I just realized there is a completely different way to view the phrase “second largest lake.” I hadn’t considered the volumes of the lakes. After all, if you compare a very shallow lake with a large surface area to a smaller lake with much greater depth, the latter could have a far greater volume of water.

So I googled “largest American lakes by volume.” And sure ‘nuff, it gave me a completely different list. If I whittle away those results using the same filters as above we come up with:

1. Lake Tahoe (California/Nevada) 122,160,280 acre feet
2. Lake Pend Oreille (Idaho) 94,111,488 acre feet
3. Pyramid Lake (Nevada) 23,660,000 acre feet
4. Flathead Lake 18,788,243 acre feet

So we’ve managed to get Flathead Lake up to a respectable fourth largest natural lake entirely within the contiguous United States, but still can’t figure out how to get it up to the second spot.

And here are a few stock photos that make Flathead look like the fourth largest lake in the contiguous United States.

Here’s Jamie, my cousin Muriel, my cousin-in-law Bill, and me on their farm.

Muriel has always been my favorite cousin. I love all my other cousins, too, but Muriel spent every December at our house when I was a kid so I got to know her better than any of the others. And then, of course, she married Bill which really sealed the deal.

Muriel’s dad was a real estate agent in Kalispell. He couldn’t sell much land when it was covered with snow, so he came up with the brilliant idea of bringing Montana Christmas trees down to Southern California. He was a smokin’, drinkin’, gamblin’, cussin’, dirty joke tellin’, incredibly charismatic guy. He seemed really exotic and fun compared to my parents‘ milquetoast circle of friends and I couldn’t wait until Uncle Dick and Aunt Noma and Bill and Muriel and the rest of the cast of characters showed up at our front door every year. It was the best day of the year, even better than Christmas.

Muriel prides herself on being tough as nails. No one who knows her would dispute that self assessment.

For some reason, she stayed behind here in Montana one year after the rest of the crew headed down to California to sell Christmas trees. She was supposed to drive down later with her two infant daughters. Well, a major blizzard hit the Canadian border just as she left Kalispell driving one of those tiny, rickety, original VW bugs.

She reached the Rocky Mountains just as night fell. So much snow was falling that she couldn’t see twenty feet in front of the car. Most rational drivers pulled over and didn’t even attempt to cross the mountains at night. But family lore says that snow and darkness didn’t deter Muriel.

She pulled into a gas station on the eastern side of the Rockies and approached the drivers of two 18-wheelers.

”Would you two be willing to guide me across the mountains in the dark?” she asked. “If one of you drives in front of me I’ll be able to follow your tail lights, and if the other one drives in back your headlights will light the road in front of me.”

They agreed to her crazy scheme. And that’s how Muriel and her two infant daughters crossed the Rocky Mountains and got to California in time for Christmas dinner with our two families.

Yeah, she’s tough. And Bill has had to put up with that toughness for seven decades now. They’ve been married for 65 years and together since junior high school.

My Aunt Sarahjane always said, “You’re a saint, Bill.”

She was right, of course, but I have a feeling he wouldn’t want it any other way.

Huckleberry pie is one of the highlights of visiting Montana in the summer and autumn. Bill and Muriel went out before we arrived and bought us one, but it apparently called to them a bit too seductively from the refrigerator. They ate the whole thing before we arrived.

We stopped at a roadside huckleberry stand to buy another one.

You might remember cartoon character Huckleberry Hound. Or Mark Twain’s novel Huckleberry Finn. Or if you grew up in Southern California when I did, a great disc jockey named Huckleberry Chuck Clemans.

But what the hell is a huckleberry? I thought they were fictional until I had my first piece of huckleberry pie.

They look a lot like blueberries but can range from bright red to dark purple to blue. Red huckleberries are a bit tart, but the purple and blue ones are sweeter.

I’ve always wondered about the origin of the phrase “I’m your huckleberry.” If you say “I’m your huckleberry,” you’re saying you’re the right person for some task. Wonder where that meaning came from.

We loaded up on a selection of huckleberry jams and jellies to take back to Texas.

My cousin’s farm is pretty damn pretty. Here’s the view as the sun comes up.

And here’s the view as the sun goes down. Six of one, half dozen of another.

My cousin Muriel lives on a farm a few miles outside Kalispell, Montana. Soon after our arrival we were sitting around her living room talking when Muriel casually said, “Here come the wild turkeys.”

Sure enough, a band of wild turkeys strutted across Bill and Muriel’s back yard as if they owned the place. Turns out they make the same journey every afternoon just before sunset.

Every time I jumped up to take a photo, they’d scatter and I could only capture one of them.

Whenever we visit Kalispell we bring Bill a bottle of Texas whiskey. Maybe in the future we should just go with a bottle of Wild Turkey.