We began a day early. I traveled to King to stay overnight with Sister-Sister-in-law Cindy so we could blaze the trails as soon as the sun popped over Pilot Mountain. But. Wait. We were going glamping. Instead of blazing trails, we were coloring hair, polishing nails, loading the gourmet coffeemaker into the trailer, and selecting the appropriate jewelry for our trip. Once our priorities were in place, we saddled up and hit the road jack. We were on our way to our second Sister gathering of the year, Horsin' Round the Bluegrass. Our destination? Whispering Hills RV Park in Georgetown, Kentucky.
First on our agenda was a ghost tour of Buffalo Trace Distillery in Frankfort, Kentucky. Now, being as me and Thelma are both seasoned bourbon aficionados, we didn't feel the need to hightail it to Kentucky for yet another distillery tour and bourbon tasting. But, this one was different. It was haunted. With that in mind, we stepped up our pace, gave Bella a swift kick with a spur, and giddy-up'd with the goal of getting drunk with the ghosts. Juuuuuust kidding. I don't believe in ghosts, ha.
My old pappy used to always say, "it's not about the destination. It's about the journey." No truer words... This journey, by far, was one of our most memorable.
With bounties still on our heads since fleeing Tennessee a couple of months earlier, it was imperative we quietly and inconspicuously slip over state borders into Kentucky. Well...as inconspicuous as one can be towing a 12' giant polka dot'd tin can. Our first brush with the law occurred when Bella made an illegal pass through a West Virginia tollbooth.
"Oh my shit, Thelma, we just went through the Speed Pay lane!"
"Put yore quarters up, Louise. Nothing we can do about it now."
Omigod, we're fugitives.
Certain the authorities at the next tollbooth station would be on the lookout for Thelma and me along with our sidekick bandit,
Not far from our destination, we agreed we should stop once more for a splash of gas and a cold soda. I went inside to pay when, suddenly, I was being scolded by the gas station attendant. The hell?
"I just want to pay for this drank and twenty dollars worth of gas on number... on number...shit."
I looked outside the window to where I had gotten out of the truck to find it was no longer there. Where the hell is Bella?
"Is that your truck and trailer pulled diagonally between the two pumps there?" The attendant asked.
"I'm sorry. Say again?"
See, there's a reason why there are no pictures this time to corroborate my story. It's called admissible evidence in a court of law.
With the attendant still jabbering, I pretended I couldn't hear, ha, and boogity'd back outside. Well, shore as shit, I looked and Thelma had parked Bella in the oddest of ways between two gas pumps.
I'm like, "cool, Thelma, how'd you do that?"
"Shut up, Louise."
We called ahead to find out when the other Sisters would be leaving the campground for the distillery. We knew we were cutting it close even with the pedal to the metal. Gurlfriend had Bella in the wind, yall. We arrived at the campground and went into the office to check in. Pleased we had made it in time, we hopped back into the truck with instructions to follow this nice little fella on a golf cart to our reserved site. Thelma fell in behind him atop a hill when, unexpectedly, the engine cut off. Because we were on a decline, she continually attempted to crank the engine, all the while rolling in neutral down the hill. And we rolled. And we rolled, stopping some 100 yards later directly in front of our campsite.
"How cool is that?" Thelma proudly boasted.
We had arrived fashionably on time but on fumes. See what had happened wuz...we done run plumb outta gas. By then, we had draw'd a crowd of Sisters who, knowing our shit for luck, high-five'd us for our grand, history-making entrance into the park.
"Not just anybody can do this shit, Thelma."
"I know, Louise."