This gem was written by my good friend, Mystery Guest Blogger. When I first heard her tell this story, I knew I wanted her to write it down. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!
This summer, I was in Winthrop, WA, which many people know for its quaint Old West theme, with wooden sidewalks, Little House on the Prairie-style hand-painted false fronts on very modern stores, and hitching posts. I love Winthrop, but not for it’s kitchy charm; to anyone who loves the outdoors, the entire Methow Valley surrounding Winthrop is a veritable Mecca of outdoorsy adventure – hiking, climbing, swimming, paddle boarding, river kayaking, mountain biking, road biking, rafting, you name it. This summer, I was there to conquer the 5400’ Washington Pass on my road bike. My friend and I started from Winthrop, pedaled 30 miles and 4000’ up to the pass, then turned around and headed 30 miles back to Winthrop. Covered in sweat, sunscreen, car exhaust and road dust, we stopped to dip our sore legs in the pleasantly cool Methow River, which winds right through the center of Winthrop and meanders south through the small towns of Twisp and Carlton. This makes it very convenient – and popular - for the locals to drop a car in one town, put in rafts or inner tubes in Winthrop, and float downstream back to the car.
For a moment, dear reader, I would like you to imagine the typical local who lives in a town 100 miles from anywhere and snowed in for months at a time. True, there is the quaint and slightly eccentric 50-something artist who owns a boutique in town, paints sunset scenes with watercolors, and dresses in flowy dresses and scarves, a la Stevie Nicks. And yes, there is the ruggedly handsome man with a close-cropped beard and plaid shirt who makes his own wooden furniture. Oh, and let’s not forget the power couple with the custom-built summer home overlooking the Sawtooth Range and the valley. But then, there are the flabby, tanned, cut-off sleeved, beer-swillin’, snuff-dippin’, hard-fightin’, course-tongued folk who populate the dilapidated huts and deteriorating single-wides that litter the back roads of the Methow Valley. As my friend and I sat on the river rocks in our bike shorts, enjoying the fingers of cool water massaging our aching muscles, we were treated to a glimpse inside the life and times of this latter type of Methow local.
First, we heard the guttural roaring of un-muffled engine behind us. I turned toward the noise, and saw a beat up Suburban spit out five guys of varying ages, clad in cut-off T-shirts and swim trunks, clutching cold cans of Busch Ice with cigarettes perched between their stubbly lips. Amused, we watched the guys unload several tubes, including one tied to a cooler, and make their way down to the water, which took a few trips. Thankfully, there were no mothers of small children around to recoil in horror at the barrage of swearing and dirty jokes that followed in the wake of these trips. As the guys gradually relocated to the water’s edge, I noticed that there were two extra inner tubes, and for a fleeting moment thought they might be meant for my friend and me – but who carries two extra inner tubes with them just in case they happen to meet two athletic and attractive ladies at the riverside? Soon, the tardy occupants of the extra tubes came on the scene.
I have to pause here to justify myself for the remarks I am about to make. Though I am athletic, by no stretch of the imagination do I have a bikini-worthy waistline. I have a tattoo in a very visible location. I love ice cream cones. I have floated rivers while drinking cheap beer many a time. I have nothing against any of these activities.
My friend alerted me of their presence by tapping me on the shoulder and whispering, “Is that girl pregnant? Because if not, she really shouldn’t be wearing that shirt.” I turned and looked back toward the parking lot. Making their way toward the river were two women wearing bikini bottoms, battered flip-flops, licking rapidly melting ice cream cones with pierced tongues. One of them was wearing a T-shirt cut off at the midsection, which exposed a vast expanse of what my friend had thought was a pregnant belly, but indeed, it was not. It was so vast, in fact, that it was folded over her bikini bottoms so that from the front, she appeared to be wearing nothing below the ragged T-shirt. She was licking her ice cream cone with gusto, trying to catch the drips of melted goodness before they touched the fingers holding the cone, which in a feat of multitasking balanced both cone and a cigarette. As I watched, she shifted the cone to her other hand, took a drag, then replaced the cone, all the while waddling her way to the river’s edge and to the group of men that awaited her. I grimaced a little at the thought of ruining such a delicious treat with ashy cigarette flavor. The cone was gone by the time they reached their companions, but her hands were quickly filled with a Busch Lite tallboy, which she enthusiastically cracked open. However, she had not considered the logistics of wading into the river and settling into the tube while holding a full, open beer and a lit cigarette. As she lumbered into the river and contorted her body to mount the tube without spilling or burning herself, her cut-off shirt slipped even further up her large backside, and there, dear reader, I witnessed the tackiest tramp stamp I have ever seen.
In the middle was the most cliché of all tramp stamps: a butterfly with purple, pink, and turquoise wings, obviously not modeled after an actual butterfly. Flanking the outstretched wings on both sides sprouted a series of mushrooms, which I’m sure someone thought was the cutest drug reference ever. These mushrooms went the edge of either side of her love handles. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “you’re right, Mystery Guest Blogger, that is one trashy tramp stamp!” And oh, dear reader, I wish the description ended there. Stretching above the fleshy field of butterflies and mushrooms were two words, written in inch-tall, Old English lettering. Those words, very close to the anatomical region to which they referred, were BAD ASS.
Stay classy, Okanogan County.
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