Two Novembers ago, I went up to South Bend, Ind. to see a friend and go to a Notre Dame football game.

On the way home, I was passing through Louisville, going a nice 80 on the interstate. I was cruising along above the speed limit, trying to avoid the highway patrol and thinking about how lucky I was that I hadn't fallen asleep behind the wheel in nearly two hours.

It was getting dark, and up ahead I saw three or four cars tap their brakes, the tail lights glowing red in the distance. I was just about to slow down when a flash of brown shot up out of the median on my left.

WHAM. CRASH. BOOM. SHRIEK.

I slammed on the brakes, screamed like a banshee and spun sideways in the interstate, covered in airbag dust and broken glass.

My heart didn't explode, but it nearly did.

After a few seconds, my eyes focused and I realized that I just smashed into Bambi's mom, totalled my dad's car and was watching 18-wheelers swerve around me with little to no regard for my life.

My fear slowly faded as I sat there, giving way to an even worse feeling - knowing that I needed to hitch a ride and I hadn't showered in two days.

Simply put, it was a disaster.

A week and a half ago, up in Glacier, I was speeding around a turn near Logan Pass when I saw another flash of brown on my left.

I slammed on the brakes, yelped like a kicked puppy and narrowly missed getting a face full of bighorn sheep and steering wheel.

I don't know if I've ever been that relieved before.

Predictably, I hadn't showered that morning and knew what I was in for if I had to hitch another ride - an awkward look from the driver and a lecture about cleanliness from my mom.

The thing that scares me about Montana is that everything is bigger. I know that's a Texas motto, but they also have "Don't Mess With Texas," so I figure it applies here.

Hitting a small deer with a car is one thing, but slamming into a bighorn sheep or a moose in the middle of nowhere is completely different.

Montana natives could probably field dress a roadkill like that and then carry it 75 miles home. I could do the same thing if I had to, but realistically, I'd probably huddle in my car crying until someone discovered me weeks later, a pathetic blob of bad driving ability and poor hygiene.

The lesson here, as always, is this:

Don't speed and never leave the house without showering. You never know who is going to have to pick you up when you crash your car into a big game animal.

It might be me.

John Van Vleet is a reporter for the Hungry Horse News and one of the worst drivers in history.