I’ve been clean for eight years now. But I live with the knowledge that relapse is always just one slip away. And even though the opportunities in Northwestern Montana are limited, it still takes only an oblique stimulation from the environment to bring the memories and that inextinguishable lust rushing back.

It started a few weeks ago and the sign was unmistakable. The unexpected part was how insidiously it appeared. An auto parts store I’d passed almost every day for eight years on my way to town ... but now the sign was different: “We have radio-control airplane and helicopter parts.”

Yes, I used to be a radio-control addict. Airplanes were my weakness. Big, fast, or big and fast. I craved them all. I built them. I flew them. I crashed them — sometimes deliberately in combat. And these were real airplanes. They weren’t drones. We didn’t have autopilots. That little box in my hands had conventional stick and rudder controls and while my feet remained firmly on the ground, my surrogate bored holes through the sky.

The addiction took over my basement, my time, my life. Carolyn, my wife of then almost 40 years, never threatened divorce over my addiction. But she admits to feeling a burden lifted when I broke the habit.

It wasn’t a 12-step program that did it. They’re not effective for this kind of addiction. You get to that “Greater Power” part and the first thing that comes to your mind is a bigger engine. No, I attribute my recovery to the move to Montana, where supply and the ability to associate with other addicts was restricted.

I ignored the sign for several weeks. But then it got worse. “We have Nitro,” it read. Nitro refers to nitrobenzene, a component of the fuel used in model airplane engines. My habit had been based on lithium polymer, a type of battery used for airplanes. But a lot of my friends used nitro, so I knew about it. Compared to lithium, I’d always considered nitro a dirty habit. But who was I to moralize?

The sign changed again: “Traxxas is coming.” I didn’t know what Traxxas was, but it was time to find out. It sounded like a model helicopter.

I didn’t tell Carolyn I was going. Some things are best left unsaid. And with the auto parts cover, I felt safe. She’d never raised an eyebrow when I worked on the car. (Which I’ll admit was infrequent after I got addicted.)

Inside, the place looked and smelled remarkably like an auto parts store. Mud flaps, wiper blades, oil filters. I searched the store finding nothing that flew. I was thinking about leaving when the attendant noticed me and I expressed my interests. “Oh,” she said. “You need to talk to him.”

A fellow at the computer stirred and motioned me toward the basement. It all felt a little clandestine. And once there, it felt strangely familiar, yet somehow not right. Trains, planes, cars. But mostly helicopter parts and cars. I was beginning to connect the dots: An auto parts store that sold parts to big automobiles and small ones.

I’ve never owned a hobby shop, but I have known some owners and even worked in a hobby shop for a while. And the realities are these: You sell trains because you love trains. Hobbyists build train layouts and run their trains on them. But purchases are slow because no one ever wrecks a train and needs parts to fix it. Airplanes crash occasionally, but not very often once the customer learns to fly. And they are usually fixed with glue and a few pieces of wood. Cars, on the other hand, take a tremendous beating all the time. They always need replacement parts to keep running. Helicopters have a lot of parts too. Cars are the bread and butter of the hobby business. Cars and helicopters.

And Traxxas? Yes, it’s a car.

I exited through the side door of the basement. And took a deep breath of the fresh Montana air. This had been a close one. If they’d stocked anything with wings that weighed more than five pounds, I likely would have gone through that door with a big box and a lot of explaining to do. But I dodged that bullet and I’m still clean.

Carolyn probably doesn’t need to know.

David Vale retired from the world of psychology and statistics and now owns the Pocketstone Cafe in Bigfork. All that remain of his airplanes are photos. And memories.