Sometime after we moved to the Reinhart place on the edge of White Sulphur Springs, Montana, I was introduced to Clay Butte. I think it was either Jack or Chester James, two of my cousins that I went with the first time, but I’m not certain. We were probably eight or nine when I first went there. Clay Butte was perhaps a half mile or so from our eastern fence, and we rode our bikes there, rode our horses, or hiked to it. It was a wondrous place for young fellers to be. Riding our bikes didn’t happen often after...

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