When a town measures its size in traffic lights, it doesn’t matter how many there really are. One, two, three – it doesn’t matter – you know the town is small. My sister decided to move to one of those-sized towns after college. She found a job as a forest fire fighter and became a local in the small town of Kooskia, Idaho. I visited her there numerous times – first during her years living in the bunk house, a few more times at her trailer in the campground by the ranger station, and then many more times at her house on the pristine Clearwater River surrounded by national forest.

Usually during these visits we explored the woods or simply enjoyed time together, but at least one night we dedicated to hitting the town. Just two sisters – going out – on the town. We dolled up, which in Kooskia means *maybe* putting on a clean shirt. We jumped in the pickup and rolled through the one traffic light to the Selway Bar.

Now, if you’ve ever been to a one-traffic light, depressed logging town, then you can probably picture the decor and clientele of the Selway. If not, I’ll paint a quick picture:

• Sight: Deer, elk, moose, and bear heads mounted on the walls as well as trophy antlers
• Sound: Country western pumping out of the antique jukebox that wasn’t purchased because it’s “vintage”
• Smell: A giant wood fireplace heats the whole bar, leaving your clothes smelling like you’ve been camping in the woods for days
• Taste: Cheap beer
• Feel: Well, it feels like an experience 

Meg and I strolled in and grabbed the first seats at the bar. Meg said her hellos and we did some standard introductions as the sister in town. We settled on a couple beers – no options, just “give me a cold one, Sue.” Just to clarify, we were hitting the town to do some afternoon drinking. Since we, too, were day drinkers I can’t comment on the other patrons and honestly I didn’t put much thought into our fellow drinkers – not my place to question who needs a beer at 2:00.

The Rainier went down just like the water that makes it. As we were ordering the next round and discussing the huge life decisions one makes in their early 20s, we were interrupted by a lanky gent with a weathered face slightly hidden by an equally weathered cowboy hat at the opposite end of the bar. The seasoned cowboy slammed both palms on the well-worn bar top while simultaneously shooting up out of his seat, causing his bar stool to topple backwards. At that moment, the jukebox ceased to play music and the Selway Bar came to a complete silence. The enlivened man declared, “I’m gettin’ a monkey!” He lifted his beer and in one swallow the half-full glass was empty. He grabbed the newspaper that was neatly folded open to the classified section and the clomp of his cowboy boots were the only noise  in the Selway as he made his way out the front door.

Meg and I looked at each other, eyebrows raised and jaw dropped. The bar remained quiet for a few moments and then – like nothing unusually had happened – we all resumed the afternoon activities. “Give me a cold one, Sue!”