McKale was a die-hard fan of Christmas and, as she had in so many of her passions, converted me as well. Even in spring I couldn’t resist the allure of the season. Since I hadn’t seen Pamela for more than an hour I went inside.

The place was indeed full of Christmas. Tinny, banjo Christmas music played from overhead speakers, and the room smelled of pine and buttercream scented candles. The walls were shelved and piled high with hundreds of unique holiday decorations, knickknacks, and collectibles, from Betty Boop Christmas ornaments to Elvis stockings to miniature porcelain Christmas villages.

There were a few things I wanted but since purchasing anything I’d have to carry would have been absurd (although I did consider purchasing a Marilyn Monroe ornament to hang from the back of my pack) I left empty-handed. My stop wasn’t a waste of time, though. The visit had distracted me from the emotions stirred up by my encounter with Pamela. Whatever the season, a healthy dose of Christmas lifts the spirits.

As I opened the door to leave I looked both ways to see if Pamela was there. She was. I don’t know how she knew I had gone into the store—she was nowhere in sight when I’d gone in—but she was there, standing across the road waiting for me.

I started off again, walking even faster than usual. Within fifteen minutes Pamela was out of sight, though by now I no longer assumed that she’d given up her quest.

A few miles past Hill City, the highway split. I continued on 16 east until it ran north again. Around noon I reached the historic Rockerville Café, where I stopped to eat a hamburger and failed to learn what made the place historic. Actually, I didn’t care what made the place historic. After traveling through Idaho, where everything was historic, the label had lost its luster.

I didn’t stay long. I hoped I had lost Pamela where the highway split, but in case I hadn’t, I didn’t want to give her the chance to catch up. I was relieved she wasn’t standing there as I left the café.

A couple miles from the café a Forest Service sign informed me that I was leaving the Black Hills National Forest, though you wouldn’t know it by looking; as far as I could see, the road continued to be lined with forest, as well as tourist attractions, hoping to catch the crumbs from Mount Rushmore’s table.