Doug Blough

Just turn left on the Badger Basin Road and go about 4 or 5 miles,” he said. “It’s the Mountain View Club, surrounded by pine trees; you can’t miss it,” he said. I missed it. Quite a few miles later, I angrily pulled over and called Corey Forman with, “Happy 40th birthday. Now tell me again where this God-forsaken place is?”

I think he finished with another “can’t miss it,” and I didn’t this time. In my defense, I was looking for a grove of trees I remember once parking by to catch a ride to Red Lodge, but as I now know, that gaggle of pine trees was near that right turn to Powell, surrounding nothing but a private residence.

I finally arrived just as my gas gauge was spooning with the “E.” I stuffed myself till my last belt hole struggled, played a little corn-hole and met some real nice country folk including Ma and Pa Forman and sisters, Haley and Abby. I must say, that Abby is a real dear.   

All advice column humor aside though, if you know Corey personally and not just from the famous grill he patented, I’m sure you love him. What’s not to love … a big ol’ hunk of jovial warmth and integrity seldom seen outside of a Quaker barn-raising. I could tell his little buddy Matt Pool sure loved him, hugging the big lug as Corey blew out the candles — and blew the cake halfway across the room.

All birthday cake humor aside though, Corey and I share two glaring communalities — we’ve both been in better physical condition at a certain point in time, and neither of us resemble a calendar, which has dates. I’d like to take credit for that corny observance, but can’t because it’s always Corey’s favorite thing to tell people about ME. “… a calendar  has dates,” he tells ‘em. Well, hardy-har-har!

But getting back to my struggle finding that clubhouse, I’m well-ridiculed by family and friends for never being able to find anything — often to the point of being eerily lost. The best example of receiving directions and fearing I’ve fallen into a Pac-Man game would be when I found myself on a series of what they call “Roundabouts” at the west end of Billings’ King Avenue. What crack-addict engineers are responsible for creating that horror movie?

It was challenging enough finding my way through a twisted maze to the Scheel’s parking lot, but finding my way back really did have me close to sobbing! I see a vague sign warning, “Roundabout ahead,” and I’m thinking, “OK, whatever that means.” Before I know it, I’ve come upon a chart with various route names and a busy little arrow map seemingly drawn by a first-grader to hang on the refrigerator.

At the second roundabout, hopelessly confused after a missed connection, I take a left into the little arc connecting said “shortcuts.” Now horns are honking with motorists coming directly at me, swerving out of my way while frantically pointing in the opposite direction. I can’t read lips, but could tell it wasn’t, “Well, hello. Are you from the area?”

Like a dream, I found myself on Monad Road with no idea how. A couple roundabouts and beeping horns later, I pass a sign saying “Shiloh Road.” I’ve heard of both routes, but no idea how either coincided with King Avenue I originally thought I had entered. Twenty minutes later, I somehow really am on K.A., assuming I’d miraculously stumbled upon my desired route.

Now I’m driving for miles with signs of civilization far less frequent — passing feed mills and grazing cows before I angrily screamed, “Is this the Twilight Zone or what?” Finally I pulled into a subdivision and knocked on a door of an older couple who apparently thought I was Charlie Manson. Turns out I was on King Avenue, but the wrong end.

Reversing course after a wasted hour, I passed Scheels again. How I went from driving east and miles later being further west, we may never know. All I know is they can take them roundabouts and shove ’em ’round about where the sun don’t shine.

All direction-challenged jokes aside though, how is Corey Forman like a roundabout? They both have misleading signs, with no dates. BaZING!