I drove up to Kin to pick up Michael and we zoomed down the expressway, found the club, because Mike knew where we were going, and had lunch and a leisurely visit with Walt, the manager. He’s a friendly man from Conrad, Montana, just a short drive from where I live, who was eager to show us the facility and to share some of his war stories.
Mike remembered the road, the trees, the tunnel, the entire experience of having been there, but one memory had faded – how to get there. Undaunted except by waning sunlight, we drove on. At one point we happened upon a local villager with whom Mike spoke and the man agreed to ride along with us in order to guide us. But where he took us wasn’t Waitui. Apparently, he hadn’t understood what Mike asked for.
Too eager to admit defeat I continued driving on and on, up and down farm roads, any track that held potential promise of reward.
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