In a one-horse town with two bars, FOOTNOTES Journal-ista Esther Darling and her mate Gypsy met a weekend warrior called Tracey and two absolute angels - of the Harley variety.

I'll start this story right after our near-death tubing incident on the Portneuf River in Lava Hot Springs, Idaho, known to locals as simply Lava (pronunciation key: rhymes with 'have-a'). I'm starting the story here because although no one needs a excuse to beeline it for a bar called the Wagon Wheel and straight away order shots of tequila and multiple Coronas, doing so does make the sting and shock of being dragged across rocks, held under water by rushing currents, losing your inner tube, and emerging from the river with one shoe and no top a bit more bearable. Too much information? Perhaps. But when you are two girls from California on a road trip across the western United States, there are no rules.

There were two bars in this two-block town, and the Wagon Wheel was forty paces closer to our motel. Sara and I walked in, grabbed two stools in the corner of the bar, and ordered shots and Coronas before our eyes had even adjusted from the bright sun to the darkness inside. A burly biker sat in the opposite corner: big arms, tattoos, bald head. There was a jukebox behind me, and hundreds of dollar bills signed by their former owners and stapled to the walls and rafters. A local tradition while enjoying a good night, obviously. One directly above me said, "Thanks for the best 21st birthday, Mom!" Clearly, the Wagon Wheel was a place where families really come together.

The biker moved to our side of the bar, bought a round of shots, and whispered one of his secrets of life on the great American highway. "I use self-tanner on my eyes," he said, "to hide the tan lines from my goggles." Sure enough, you could see the white outline where his thick biker goggles protected his squinting eyes. The rest of his face and head were quite tan, if not slightly reddish. The idea of this big guy using self-tanner was nothing short of endearing, and gave us all a good laugh.

Max

"I'm Tracey," he said. "What's your name?"

"Max." I answered. my go-to name for guys in bars.

"Max?" said Tracey.

"It's Maxine," I groaned, as if I didn't like the name. "But everyone calls me Max. funny, You have a girl's name and I have a boy's name!" Tracey laughed and turned to ask Sara her name. Sara looked up at the ceiling for a brief moment and, catching a glimpse of one of the dollar bills stapled there, was instantly transformed. "I'm Gypsy," she said. And so she was.

This was going to be a good night.

In bar-time, friends are made in an instant, and we soon learned that "big" did not just describe Tracey's stature, it also applied to his heart. Tracey was from the Badlands in South Dakota, but he was no bad ass. He talked of his relationship woes and shared photos from his wallet of his two little pups, Jerry and Kramer, named for characters from his favorite TV show. He worked in a cubicle as a loan processor, and every year he took his two weeks of vacation and went touring around on his motorcycle, keeping within the states where there were no helmet laws. He aimed to end up at the Testi Festi, an annual biker and trucker festival where they celebrated, well, you guessed it, the almighty testicle. Gypsy and I put the Testi Festi on our list of things to see - although parhaps from a distance; Gypsy wasn't sure she actually wanted to attend.

The conversation flowed, stopping briefly only when two other bikers walked in. They were Hells Angels and sat down at the head of the bar, backs to the door, sipping their beers silently. They seemed interested in our little group, but made no attempt to join us. After a bit, I got up to inspect the jukebox, and, moments later, one of the Angels did too.

"Now, how does this thing work?" he asked me.

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