In the spring of 2007, I went on a road trip. I had lost my job, but had some money saved up, and intended to find seasonal work later in the summer so I drove back east visiting friends and family along the way to fill time and sate my wanderlust.
This particular event takes place on the second day of my travels in eastern Montana along Highway 2, but I cannot recall which town. Perhaps it was Brockton, but it may have been Culbertson, Bainville, or some other small town in that vicinity. At any rate, my econobox car was thirsty, so I stopped for gas at a service station and went in to pre-pay before filling up. Ahead of me in line was an old native buying a six-pack of beer. This same individual accosted me as I was pumping gas into my car, and asked whether I wanted to buy his dreamcatcher.
At first, the story and price for his merchandise were equally quite outlandish. He said it could sell for hundreds of dollars. He said it had a great legacy in his tribe. Apparently my skepticism was poorly disguised, so his price kept dropping. I decided eventually that a souvenir at this relatively early stage of my trip would be OK, so I took it when he dropped his asking price to $20. He assured me that it would bring me good fortune on my travels, and I went on my way.
As I continued driving eastward, just a few miles shy of the North Dakota border, I noticed some odd litter along the road. There are always beer cans, fast food wrappers, and the like here and there along any highway, but something about this particular cluster of refuse caught my attention. I pulled over and walked back about 100 yards along the highway picking up what looked like mail, business documents, and a car title.
There were names and addresses on the paperwork, so when I reached Williston to catch up with a distant relative, I also borrowed their landline and a local phone directory to contact the owners of these documents. Before leaving town, I backtracked a couple miles to the address they gave, and returned what I had found. They insisted I accept $20 for my trouble.
For the record, even if it is somehow responsible for that reward, it has not at all fulfilled its alleged purpose of preventing bad dreams. And I was hit by a forklift on my 3rd day at the new job I got after returning home.
The star of the story, somewhat the worse for wear after nearly 10 years and several moves. But then, so am I.
