The Flathead Police Blotter

In my real life, I live in the city. I love where I live, but... it's the city. Doors are locked as soon as you go inside. I do not walk at night. Someone escorts me to my car after work. My house has been broken into while I was at home. My car has been vandalized... several times. And I got used to hearing drunk people shout about killing me or kicking my ass. Point is, there's crime. Every day. All around you.

When I was in Montana, one of my favorite parts of the week was reading the Flathead Beacon's Police Blotter. Every Wednesday the free weekly paper of the Flathead Valley would turn up around town. I would grab one and sit outside on my balcony, the mountains framing said valley, and I would read. And laugh. I think the man who summarizes the police calls has a pretty great job, and like any great obituary writer, his words scream with personality.

Check it out: Flathead Beacon: police blotter

You'll note much irony, many kids misbehaving, drunken incidents with forks at bars, a lot of strange "activity" surrounding cars, and many complaints of spotted wildlife. The only real crime seems to happen in Evergreen, most of the crimes at bars have a woman in the center (who usually does the stabbing), neighbors fight a lot, and the whole thing manages to read like the modern frontier in bullet points.

I don't want to enjoy crime anywhere, but in the Flathead Valley of Montana, it at least makes for some pretty great reading.

Greetings from South Dakota

Hill City, to be exact. After wind that almost knocked me off the road en route to Billings yesterday, I had a much nicer drive today. I realized at one point the sky was no longer Montana blue. It was still bright and vivid, but it just wasn't the same. It's like living in black and white, getting the technicolor Oz, and then going back to monochrome Kansas. Everything is diluted, and soon it will be muted to shades of beige and fields of crop, the sky a white or pale blue stripe at the horizon. That's what it means to drive south, so that's okay.

Today, there were presidents enshrined in rock. Go on, can you name the four of them? If not, have shame and I am not helping you. So, welcome to the Black Hills of S. Dakota. Tomorrow, I am hitting the Badlands and thinking of Cissy Spacek and Martin Sheen all day, and I am definitely going to stop for some ice cream, at Wall Drug. My mom and I went there 14 years ago, and the signs have been beckoning me since Buffalo, WY. Then Omaha, and soon, back to STL.



I wore my other Royale shirt all over Australia, it seemed only right to wear one touring the west. And... I met people from MO while wearing it.


My trusty modes of transport in the foreground, Washington's profile in the back.

Many Glacier, in the wind

Grinnell Lake, below the glacier


The white patch of snow at the top... that's the glacier, kids.






The weather was not cooperating and I found myself wearing two pairs of pants, two fleeces, a Goretex coat, and a hat and gloves at the end of August. I was in Many Glacier at the northeast side of Glacier National Park. They had closed the Sun Road because of weather. The tops of the mountains were completely occluded by clouds, and where they were visible, the snow was starting to collect. The wind was gusting at over 40 mph and the temperature was in the forties. Bracing against the wind, I slammed myself down the hill and into the Lodge, looking for a few minutes relief from the cold.

I was camping, and there were few places to be that were not in the direct line of the wind. No one was hiking because of the weather. And we were so remote, it left few options. One could drive the 40 minutes to a neighboring port of Glacier, where the options would be the same. I settled into a warm couch by the fire, the wind whistling through the windows, and I read some of my book.

As I’ve traveled, I’ve found myself attending a lot of ranger-led events in the national parks. They curate really interesting programs. I’ve done some interpretive hikes, some nature hikes, slide shows, photography lectures, wildlife viewing... and on this trip I attended a history of Glacier’s people as well as a fun, family-oriented program on tracking (which amounted to footprints and poop, with the ranger acting out how various animals walk and run). But I’ve learned quite a few things. And the other night, it certainly beat being in the cold.

I took advantage of some hot tea at the end, then found my way back to the dark campground and put on every warm piece of clothing I had. I was warm enough, but sleep came roughly that night with my shoulder seizing up, making any position I tried excruciating. When I was brave enough to climb out of my sleeping bag the next morning and peek outside, I was hoping for signs of better weather, but no luck. It was slightly warmer-- maybe in the low fifties, but the wind was still whipping around. I pulled out all my warm clothing for my day-long hike up to Grinnell Glacier and hurried to the boat dock. The hike would be 8.5 miles of trails after two separate boats across two lakes.

The same ranger who had led the Glacier history program the night before, Diane, led the hike. She had worked at Many Glacier through college, and had returned as a ranger each summer since the eighties. A retired school teacher, she was an excellent source of information, and she led our huge group (40 people or so) up the 1600 feet of elevation gain to the Glacier. The trail wound alongside the mountain, exposed to the wind, crossing waterfalls as they cascaded down the rock. Behind us, there was a chain of glacial lakes-- each that deep turquoise color because of the sediment that washes off the glaciers, called “glacial flower”. We saw several rams as we hiked, and every 20 or 25 minutes, Diane stopped and gathered us up to tell us about some aspect of the glacier, the land, or the rock. I alternated putting on all my clothes and occasionally throwing everything off except my long sleeve shirt and hat. We never saw the sun on the way up, but the wind did give us a much needed reprieve.

While eating lunch below the moraine, sheltered by trees, I met a couple from St. Louis. We all moved on, making the last steep climb up to the glacier. It was breathtaking, but not at all what I expected. When I think of glaciers, I still see the pictures that were in my science books as a kid-- glaciers from earlier in the 20th century, or those in Alaska. Glaciers today in the US (at least the lower 48), they’re pretty small. I learned that the Grinnell Glacier recedes approx. 50 feet each year. It looked like little more than a small field of snow and ice in the shadows. Diane told us how it had looked when she guided hikes 20 years ago, and then she showed us photos of the exact place where we were standing from the 1920’s through today. The difference was astounding.

Still, it was a stunning view. The glacier with its dirty layered snow, then below that a lake (also a new feature of global warming) with iceburgs floating on it. There was rock with circles on it, formed from pillars that had once broken off... and then from all that, a flowing creek which would continue eventually cascading down the whole mountainside into a lake, and then on down again. I hiked down with my new friend, Marlene, who was going slowly after knee surgery a few months back. Returning on the boat, we saw a grizzly above the trail on the mountain. I had seen one the day before by the river, and after I returned from my hike, I saw two more on the mountain side behind the campground-- though they were far off and I needed my binoculars.

In addition to roads being closed and wind keeping hikers off narrow, steep trails, they had closed several trails when I was there because of “strange bear activity”. The Iceburg Lake and Ptarmigan Trails would remain closed for several days. Rangers had hiked up the day before to escort backpackers out of the area. Apparently, one of the incidents involved a bear cub having binoculars-- which sounds funny, but the rangers took it quite seriously, the obvious question being Where did the bear get the binoculars? Or, whose were they? The bears are trying to eat, eat, eat right now before they hibernate. So food is serious and anything getting in the way of that agitates them. Because of the wind and cold, they had been lower on the trails than usual.

All in all, it combined for an interesting trip. Many Glacier to me seems almost separate from the rest of the park, and indeed, it is separate. It’s so remote, and there are so few services that it seems a small little hamlet unto itself. In a few weeks, everything there will be shuttered and closed for the winter, Shining-style, which also adds to the strangeness of it all. It was wild and big, and certainly untamed-- the perfect way to end so many weeks of dropping in and out of the park.

A few weeks ago if you had asked me my favorite national park, I would have said Teton. But now, I’d have to say Glacier, with the caveat of Many Glacier being the place to go. The rest of the park is gorgeous, but it’s crowded and difficult to get around. But Glacier demands you hike, and there is only wide open sky and long trails to welcome you. Even with the wind shouting, it seemed a quiet place. I loved it, even in the cold.

Flathead River: Thrillkat

Be here now. I kept thinking that yesterday, the sound of the rapids bending through the canyon reaching me before I saw them. Jake, my guide, gave me a quick set of instructions and then his raft went down through the chute of rushing water, 9 people paddling on his boat and I was left on my own. I followed the line, my small Thrillkat bouncing into the rapids, water surging over the front past my shoulders and over my face. I dug deep with the oars, unable to see for a second, drenched, paddle paddle paddle... My boat bounced back up the other side of the wave and I followed the line out, water spraying and my oars windmilling into the river. The water smoothed out and then... I floated.

The sun was shining. The trains roared by. The river moved clear and turquoise and cold. A few clouds skipped through the sky. I was back on the Middle Fork of the Flathead River, at the very south side of Glacier National Park. I had rafted the same stretch 10 days previous, and while it was extremely fun, I was looking for a little more adventure. I found it in a Thrillkat. After seeing the river, my plan was to get a little closer to the action, to run it on my own-- well, sort of.

My vessel of choice was called a Thrillkat. Approximately eight feet long, it was a skinny inflated pontoon, the bright yellow floats like two big bananas surrounding the red cockpit. Like a small stretcher suspended between the floats, I sat on a small seat with a backrest, my feet stretched out in front of me, braced against a padded block, the whole thing barely two feet wide. I had a double-sided oar, as if on a kayak. Because of the short length of the craft, and the twin floats, there was stunning suspension, throwing me up and crunching me with the waves as they came. The craft was surprisingly manueverable, despite my lack of experience. By the end of the day, I could spin that baby on a dime.

I learned to use the oars as rudders, shifting direction slowly when I was drifting. I would switch up the paddling if the wind pushed me one way or the other, doubling strokes on my left or right to straighten myself. I could spin around and paddle backwards when I wanted to watch my counterparts hit the same rapids I had just run. The oar could be pushed in the water to arrest the boat and slow it down when I needed to wait for my guide. By the end of the day, on the slower parts of the river, I could paddle down and race back, the small current between the rapids almost negligible. My vessel glided by the rocks on the side of the river, in and out of the small pools and eddies where I watched people jump from the cliffs and fish.

Three of the rafts pulled over towards the end of the day and I joined them for a swim off the rocks. The water temperature barely fazed me for a change. I was already soaked and had been covered in spray and occasional deluges the past couple of hours. 55 degree water seemed normal by then, like a badge of honor I was wearing. We ran the last three sets of rapids, the bigger ones already behind us. Jake said I could go ahead and run them on my own without instructions. I thought of something my rafting guide, Nick, had said the previous week. “There’s a reason why we have the phrase go with the flow. Don’t fight the water. Go where it takes you and watch out for rocks.” That seemed the best advice I could ask for. I went with the flow.

I followed the river, and when it was all over, despite the pain in my shoulder from paddling, I wanted to do it all over again. Be here now. That’s what survival writer Lawrence Gonzales says is the key to making it through any situation-- being present. It’s also the only way to have fun.

I was in those waves yesterday. And rather than running the rapids, I feel I ran with them, my small boat part of the whole mechanism of the river’s movement. I got my adventure, that’s for sure. But rather than being unnerved by it, I loved each moment. The deeper the better. I liked it fast and found some great pleasure in dodging rocks and navigating turns in the middle of water rushing at me. There’s a difference between riding above the water on a raft and feeling like you are in the water experiencing everything as it happens, not just watching-- but part of the movement itself. That's how I felt, part of the river.

When I beached my Thrillkat at the end, I felt like I had just done something. After a beer and a burger (much deserved), I headed away from Glacier and back up the mountain to my place. As I drove, I looked at Big Mountain, and my first thought was I climbed that. And then I thought of the river, and realized I paddled that. Alone. It’s not about conquering the landscape, but I have to say that there is a lot to be said for being a part of it, for feeling it, and for navigating it under your own power.

I’m happy I had a guide on the river, but I am even happier I paddled it alone. Now I just need a kayak, and some good whitewater in the Midwest.

Logan Pass, Glacier N.P.

a goat, in a meadow at the bottom of the trail


Hidden Lake


long-horned sheep in the snow


a marmot, so you know what they look like


a river pool, glacially cold even when warmed by the sun


I've been hiking in Glacier about once a week since I got to Whitefish. It's 45 minutes from my door to the gates and it seems a shame to not take advantage. Last week, I headed into West Glacier to raft, which was fantastically fun-- so much so, that i am planning on going again before I return home. But yesterday, I felt like hiking and I wanted to see some good wildflowers. I bought some field guides last week so I could get better at naming flowers and trees. I used to be able to do it when we lived in Colorado, and somewhere along the way, the information just got booted out of my head.

So I headed to Logan Pass, where the views and the wildflowers were renowned. I left early to miss the construction traffic on the Sun Road, and I got to the pass a little after 10am. It was already sweltering, but I was rewarded with prairie dogs and mountain goats in the meadow at the bottom of the trail. I was headed up to Hidden Lake, a trail recommended to me by a few of the rangers the first day I hit Glacier. I was hoping to do a ranger-led nature hike, but they had just switched their activities out of full summer mode and cut back. So I grabbed some water and struck off up the mountain to see Hidden Lake. Along the way, I saw herds of long-horned sheep below me, several other lakes tucked into the navel of mountains, marmots, waterfalls flowing into snow-covered morraines, lots of wildflowers, and more sheep. As I walked, it was stunning to see how closely one had to look to see the wildlife-- even when they were just a few hundred feet away. The sheep blended so seemlessly into the rock, and the goats' white fur was the color of snow. But at the end, there was the lake, its turquoise water shining below me in the sun. Even several hundred yards lower than me, it was possible to see the rocks at the bottom of the lake, the logs that had been felled into it. It's still just amazing to me the clarity of the waters in Montana-- all that same deep turquoise, all clear, and all stunningly cold.

You get lured by the color. When I was rafting, the intense heat was getting to me, and like several others, I jumped intot he river in a calm part, quickly swimming straight back to the raft before my arms were covered in gooseflesh. Yesterday, after hiking and sweating for a couple of hours, I had the idea to drive back down the pass, eat a picnic lunch by the river and then wade in. Even knowing how cold the water would be, this seemed like a good idea. I found a great place and pulled off, my feet dangling off a rock in the fast moving water. There were pools periodically-- what we would call shut-ins in the Midwest-- and I scurried over some rocks towards the shouts and laughter of other people. What I found was a deep pool. People were jumping off the rock croppings, going in the water in their clothes-- anything to get cool. I watched until I couldn't stand it. I went and changed into my suit and I dove in, knowing this was not the kind of water one joked with. It was all or nothing, and before I knew it, I was under water and gliding to the other side.

And then I came right back. The phrase "glacial" to describe extremely cold water is pretty spot on. And considering these were glacial waters, the sun was just a far away cousin-- related, but having no real impact on the character of the other. A little girl asked me if it was cold, and I said yes, but I had the feeling it would warm up when you got used to. I, however, was not waiting to find out. Even swimming the length back, the cold seemed to make my limbs slower and tighten my chest. Imagine swimming in a huge pool filled with ice. When you're hot, it sounds great, but the reality of it is something else. I was satisfied after to bask on the rocks, like a river otter, warming in the sun, looking at the snow on the peaks down the river.

It's amazing the national parks I have seen, and none of them a one-trick pony. Each as different from the next as possible, and each seemingly different from one side of itself to the other. Just the four I have been to on this trip-- Arches, Teton, Yellowstone, and Glacier-- each have their distinctive features. Glacier is growing on me. The beauty and its features are certainly unparalelled and not found anywhere else in the USA. I just wish it was slightly easier to navigate. Still, I can't even complain about the construction stops at the top of the Sun Road. It's one thing to be struck still on the interstate in Kansas, the heat pushing down on you; it's quite another to be stopped for 15 minutes at the top of a mountain, looking straight down at rivers, across to waterfalls, glaciers behind the mountains, and snow-crested tops. And then, at the end of it all, there's no shortage of ice cream (or huckleberry shakes for those not allergic-- I still have not risked it).

Glacier National Park

Avalanche Creek

Last week, I went to Glacier National Park for the first time. It was a windy, cold day-- one of the few I have seen this summer-- and I intended only on a fact-finding mission. Glacier is set up differently than many other national parks. It has one main road (Going-To-The-Sun Road) which runs through it, effectively bisecting the park. There are a handful of other entrances around the park to access its jagged edges, and then Waterton, to the north, in Canada. Unlike Yellowstone or other parks which are almost oriented to the roadside and the driver who wishes to access the park, Glacier is for the backcountry enthusiast. Only one problem: I am alone.

So, for me, there are many limitations to the beauty of Glacier, or rather, to experiencing that beauty. Because of the usual safety considerations involved in long or remote hikes or backpacking for days, I have to steer away. An additional concern in Glacier is the bears. Northwest Montana is bear country pretty much everywhere. It is not uncommon to see them on the mountain where I live-- and by bears, I don't mean regular bears, I mean Bears. Grizzlies. So, I am well-versed on bear safety and precautions. Make noise. Travel in groups. Be extra vigilant in certain places (streams, around bends, near berries-- basically anywhere in the woods here). So, for me, this double concern means certain hikes are out.

So, the first issue in Glacier was where could I hike alone? The second, how to get there. By virtue of there being only one road, it is highly trafficked (and there's construction, June and July being the only months without snowfall). So Glacier provides shuttles. The only problem: they don't seem to run remotely as planned. However, while waiting several lengthy waits for shuttles, I did meet some nice folks.

It seems everyone in Northwest Montana has a history here. Some grew up here, left, and have returned. Many moved here in retirement after vacationing here. And others simply come here every year. I met a retired Navy man and his wife who come here every summer for several weeks. They roam around the Flathead Valley (I imagine in an RV, as he was quite familiar with campsites) and see the west. I asked them all sorts of things and they told me where to fish (Thompson Chain of Lakes), where to canoe and camp (Wild Horse Island on Flathead Lake), where to see a rodeo, where to find great (and safe) campsites, and not to miss hiking around Logan Pass in Glacier. I spoke to a bunch of nice rangers (all of whom I met were easily over 65 and ridiculously spry and fit). A couple of hikes that were more popular were suggested for me to do alone, and off I went.

I headed towards Avalanche Creek to hike up to Avalanche Lake. If nothing else, I loved the name. The trail definitely had people, but rarely was I toe-to-toe with them. The first half mile swept gently upwards, following the line of Avalanche Creek, a stunning turquoise fast-moving river. It moved downhill from the lake at quite a fast pace, spilling over rocks in huge bursts. Looking down from the rocks, you could see that the fast-moving water had literally bore a hole into the rock, rounding it as it went down the mountain into the valley. Following that, there were huge woods of cedars, the undergrowth knocked down, the land dark and dense. 2 miles up was Avalanche Lake, a small-ish glacier lake surrounded by huge mountains on its far end, with 5 sets of steep falls towering down the rock face.


Avalanche Lake

I ate an apple in the wind by the lake, marveling at how far the water fell to reach the lake. The ranger had told me that in a matter of weeks, the falls would begin to dry up, so it was fantastic to see all 5 barreling down. The sky was grey and small raindrops came down as I pulled my fleece pants on and buttoned up my raincoat. It seemed that my hike was a lesson in how the land was made.


The view from Going-To-The-Sun Road

A week later, I returned to Glacier. Most of the glaciers are in the backcountry (there are 5 remaining in the park, down from 27 at the turn of the century). Grinnell Glacier can be reached via a longer dayhike (8-12 miles, and about 6-8 hours). Fortunately for me, there was even a ranger-led hike, making it possible for me to go. The only problem, the hike begins daily at 8:30am, and it's on the far side of the park, about 3.5-4 hours from my house. Because I wanted to go to different activities and lectures and hikes within the park, I needed a better idea of how best to get from place to place. Since the shuttle system had worked so poorly last time, I decided to try my luck driving, leaving early in the morning in the hopes of catching parking at Logan Pass.

Going-To-The-Sun Road is an appropriate name. I expected the drive to Logan Pass to be steeper, but it swept upwards rather gentley, tracing the rise of the peaks and leaving other cars and rivers on the valley floor. I climbed and climbed, the road eventually becoming one-lane because of construction. The road itself is a marvel. It was built several decades ago (the 30's, I think) and features two tunnels bored through the rock. It rests on the side of the mountain, clearly a ledge that has been created with explosives for our enjoyment, and it moves straight, right across the peaks, perpendicular to their ascent. There were huge waterfalls careening down over rocks and tunneling under the road. There was Weeping Wall, a stretch of 40 or 50 feet, at least, with water cascading down in solid sheets to the road. There were wildflowers, and everywhere, there were views.

I was going to stop at Logan Pass and hike, but because of construction, it was right around noon and crowded. I decided to feel the zen of driving and head on. I drove the whole road, stopping occasionally for pictures, and to eat lunch on a wall overlooking one of Glacier's many turquoise lakes.


Looking out over a lake, after lunch on the roadside.

Eventually, I headed out the other side of the park at St. Mary and went north to Babb ( a great small town consisting of a supper club, a gas station, two cafes, a motel, and a huge bar) and on into Many Glacier. Right before re-entering the park, I could see the big red bus up front and several cars stopped. I slowed, assuming an elk or some sheep in the road (I had seen many BigHorn while driving). Nope. It was a bear. In the woods. About ten feet from my car.

The vehicles in my lane slowly started moving again, and I continued at a slow pace. You are not supposed to stop in the middle of the road unless wildlife are crossing, and the road at Many Glacier was pretty crappy, so I thought I would abide. As I passed, a woman in the opposite lane had her head sticking out the window and was pointing. She was clearly not happy that I was driving by, and as she pointed, she began to say quite loudly, "A bear! A bear! A bear!" And when I looked at her with a mixture of amusement and caution, she seemed to get more unhappy with me. "Right there. Other side. Right there! A bear!" She was not concerned for the bear's safety, nor mine. I was barely rolling by. But she really wanted me to stop and seemed very confused that I didn't. I did see the tail end of it as it ran quickly up the side of the mountain, further into the breadth of aspens. Mostly, I was stunned the bear remained that long with her shouting and pointing. There were several other cars, but everyone else seemed relatively composed. I trudged off wishing I had seen it better, but laughing regardless.


Many Glacier, view from the road to the Lodge

At Many Glacier, I had arrived too late (half an hour early, but too late) to get on a boat for a hike with a ranger. No bother in the end. It was hot and I watched as people rented canoes and took out rafts to swim. I walked down by a huge waterfall, though not too far, as the woods were dense and I figured possibly bear-laden. And then, after a while of looking at the glaciers that looked more like plain mountains (global warming, folks-- and summertime), I got back in my car for what would now be a long drive home.

Instead of heading through the park, I drove around, which was well worth it and half an hour quicker. The first stretch was through a burned out mountainside, the trees bald, like an army of naked soldiers. Wood rising up in profile, no branches or leaves. And below me, in the valley, other lakes, that same gleaming turquoise. Later, the drive rounded out near the Middle Fork of the Flathead, a big whitewater rafting area. The trains rolled by and the sun beat down. It was a long day, but a nice one. I stopped for ice cream on the way home and decided maybe I would hit up the east side of Glacier on my way out of Montana.

Maybe it was a bust of a day in some ways. I didn't hike at all, but I did see a whole lot of land. It's funny to drive in what I know to be such a small patch of the state. But after hours and a couple of hundred miles, I expect I have driven halfway across the state. The sky so huge and those mountains coming and going, alternately holding you close and then beckoning from far away. You are hemmed in, but with such a deep sense of freedom because you understand size in a different way. Scale becomes completely relative. And you move within that world, slowly, waiting for whatever comes, but also not wanting to leave any of it behind. And you drive...

By the numbers...

National Parks Visited (this trip): 4 (Arches, Grand Teton, Yellowstone, and Glacier- twice)
Miles Driven: 3,6XX
Cheapest Gas: $3.99 yesterday in Hungry Horse, MT (across Glacier NP, it was $4.60)
Laps Swam: a lot
Miles Cycled: 42 (I think)
Miles Hiked: 31 (over 5 hikes)
Elevation Gained and Lost While Hiking: 6000 feet (best guess)
Favorite Montana Beer To Date: Big Sky Moose Drool (brown ale)
Pints Consumed: 5 bottles and a mug
Favorite Spot in Whitefish: City Beach
Amount of Hours Spent on Beach Reading: 9-10 (a couple of hours a day; I burn)
Longest Hill on Favorite Bike Ride to Date: 1.2 miles
Minutes it takes to drive from town to Big Mtn: approx. 15
Quilts I have seen: approx. 440
Books I have read in full: one (For some reason, I almost never read while traveling.)
Number times per evening I look out at the mountains from my balcony: 6-10 (outside)
Huckleberries Eaten: zero-- I am still afraid I will be allergic; they look too similar to blueberries
Canadian Motorcyclists Seen on Road: a few hundred
Number of times I have done laundry while traveling: 2 (the third will be tonight)
Postcards Sent: 13 (if you want one, send me an email with your address)
Times in my life I have had this much time off from work: never-- Even if you added up all the days I have taken off, it would have taken me about 2-3 years to have that many days off over the regular course of work, including all holidays and vacations taken.

Whitefish

View of condos and homes on Big Mountain, and Whitefish Lake below, as seen from Danny On Trail.


Whitefish, according to the stuff I read, seems the best example of a town controlling its own destiny. Once a big railroad town (and still a daily stop for Amtrak, as well as home to huge train yards), Whitefish seems the kind of place which could have just fallen off the map. Except that its enterprising, surrounded by huge mountains, adjacent to a lake and river, and less than an hour’s drive to Glacier National Park. So they fashioned themselves anew and built a ski resort and became a tourism destination. And I am so happy they did.

Whitefish is gorgeous. Driving up on 93 from Kalispell, the cutout slopes of Big Mountain are front and center. 93 dumps you straight into downtown, and if you don’t know enough to turn, it takes you to the train station (where incidentally, a deer was just chowing down in the grass, in the middle of the day, and no one seemed to think anything of it). Downtown, there are several blocks filled with stores, saloons, a brewery, restaurants, a diner (made from a Caboose), ice cream shoppes, and people everywhere. They do theatre, and I love the library (where I am right now). And then, a little farther from downtown is City Beach-- you guessed it, a public beach on the lake. There are bike trails, and everyone-- and I mean everyone-- rides their bike seemingly everywhere.

I am staying about fifteen minutes outside of town, up on Big Mountain. It’s a steep drive uphill (where some people are stupid enough to bike up for fun), and then as close to the lift as you can get is my condo. My balcony looks out over the valley, and at night the lights twinkle like little land stars. From upstairs, on the other side of my condo, I have a view of the slopes, and I love watching mountain bikers dart across the trails from way up high.

The gondola goes up all day, and music streams from the restaurant and bar across the street. There is a popular (and somewhat long and steep) hiking trail that goes up and around the mountain to the summit. And soon, when I have five full hours to hike, I will do the whole thing. For now, I have only made it about halfway up(ok, maybe just a third-- it’s 2500 feet of elevation gain!). There are other condos and residences built into the mountain side, with a string of roads connecting everything, which I like to walk on early in the morning and after dinner. (The sun doesn’t begin to set until well after 9pm, giving decent light outside until close to 10pm. It’s lovely being so far north again.)

I am eager for the Farmer’s Market downtown tonight, and still looking for good “me-level” trails to ride my bike on. I don’t like riding in traffic, so I am awaiting a good recommendation. On Thursdays, they have mountain bike races on the mountain, and soon, I am going swimming (I just bought goggles).

I rode a rather boring ride yesterday morning that was too short. Then, later in the afternoon, hoping to get some better exercise, I decided it was a good idea to bike downhill for a while. The problem with going down is it happens fast, and it doesn’t occur to you just how much you will have to ride back up. About 5 minutes and a quarter mile into the ride back up, I just kept thinking this was like that stupid half marathon I ran when I was a kid. What was I thinking? I made it all the way back up, but I had to stop three times and rest my sad legs and lungs, then at home I collapsed with a Big Sky Moose Drool beer.

The weather is gorgeous, and I’d say it’s quiet, but it never is. I hear things I would never hear in other places. There is always water moving everywhere, and the wind. And animals, and occasionally the sounds of far away people or music, but I don’t mind. Those are the kinds of things I want to hear. And typically, I am content to sit outside and watch it all, or the nothing, as it comes.

PHOTOS FROM THE DANNY ON TRAIL, On Big Mountain


huckleberries, I think...


the mountains that surround me, in layers

Rodeo Dusk

This past winter I went to a PBR event for the first time. Even in a big arena in a big city, I found the thrill of the bull riding palpable... and I cursed a lot under my breath as an involuntary reaction to what I was sure would be mortal wounds to the riders. I had been to a small town rodeo in the Colorado mountain town where I grew up, but I don’t remember being vaguely excited by it. I’ve never much liked horses, which I imagine has colored both my expectations and reactions to rodeos in the past. But after seeing the PBR, I was sold on rodeo events and the passion with which most participants compete.

One of the big things on my list for this summer was hitting a rodeo or two, and without even looking for one, I found the NRA event at the Blue Moon in Columbia Falls last weekend (during the Heritage Days celebration). I grabbed my camera and the big lens and motored back across the valley to see some cowboys (and cowgirls) and horsies and bulls.



The stands filled quickly, and the local brigade of the Outlaw Cowgirls came riding into the ring with American flags during the national anthem. There were lots of hats and boots, and not just amongst the riders (though it was mostly kids and older men in full western wear). Whole families turned out and the riders were from a good dozen of the neighboring and northwest regional towns. There were about eight events ranging from team roping (which could be mixed sex) to women’s barrel racing, bull riding and bareback riding-- with junior events (girls under 14) mixed in. The bareback riding and saddle bronc were exciting and new to me, as well as exceedingly dangerous it seemed.

In the bareback, several people got re-rides because their harnass was thrown off. Somewhere in there, a man went down with the horse, and another was hit in the head by the horse, a big red bloody spot appearing in the shape of a hoof as he walked from the ring, assisted. Later, during the bull riding, a man was thrown off and his cast (or perhaps a brace) remained stuck in the harnass on the bull. He was dragged for what felt like minutes, hanging from the bucking bull by this cast, not even by the grip of his hand. The animal bucked and ran in circles, and no matter how hard they tried, the bulldoggers and clown and other men could not get the animal to stop or corner him, nor could they help the man escape. It was difficult to watch. When the man was released, he fell to the ground, a look of pure exhaustion on his face. As they tried to get him out of the ring, his legs buckled, and he was half-dragged to the paramedics by the two men assisting him. I was sure at the very least that his shoulder must have been dislocated, if not other major damage done to the arm muscle and tendons after being dragged like that.

The mood of the audience seemed to shift a bit after that, but it soon got back on track. The sun had begun to sink lower in the sky and the ring now seemed the same uniform color of dust. There were just a few riders left, as talk in the stands shifted to the dance later that evening-- one at the Blue Moon and one at the Bandit in town. Little Miss Rodeo, a young girl of maybe fifteen, hair curled in big ringlets, wearing a western shirt, hat and tiara, came around selling 50/50 tickets. In the middle the Outlaw Cowgirls performed again, the four of them in black shirts with white fringe, riding in formation and then shooting standing targets as they rode (their guns sending sparks into the air as they shot, like firecrackers of the rodeo ring). And then, less than two hours after it began, and another full hour before it would be dark, it ended and I found myself wanting more. I could go see a rodeo each week, and in fact, I might.

It was thrilling to see the women turn those horses around the barrel, so tightly that the horses appeared to be almost parallel to the ground. They could make those three turns in less than 16 seconds. The roping and tying and steer wrestling I could have done without. I saw the tradition and skill, but it lacked the thrill for me. As much as I found myself looking away and cursing, sure someone would be terribly hurt, I was also riveted. For many of these competitors, this is their lives.

It felt like I was truly in Montana. Now, I just need a hat.

A parade! A parade!!

I couldn’t tell you the last parade I went to, but I am pretty sure it has been fifteen or twenty years. I have always loved parades. The gathering, the food stands, the seeing and talking to everyone. I wish we had more parades. It’s such a funny thing, that we celebrate things with objects moving in front of us, one often having little to do with the other. This weekend I felt up for a parade, and a small-town parade seemed the way to go. In the neighboring town of Columbia Falls, it was Heritage Days.

I drove down the mountain and over through farmland, making me feel like I was back in the Midwest... and the parade lent the same feeling. In what must be a town of around 1000 people, there were definitely more bodies packed onto the sidewalks, sitting on curbs, resting in chairs and drinking waters and eating ice cream. The pride and joy of the parade seemed to be the Budweiser Clydesdales, which seemed somehow ironic to me-- that I would come 2500 miles away from home to see the horses that reside a mile from my house.

It was a fantastic parade, almost an hour long. There were trailers of hay with members of the Columbia Falls class of 1958 riding (and other trucks with the classes of 1968, 88, and 98, though the seventies seemed conspicuously absent). There were classic cars (and then a car show), ambulances and firetrucks, and every local business. There were random semis and logging trucks. The Shriners drove their small little cars. People rode on horseback, many dressed in character. There were kids doing gymnastics and three pretty talented kids riding very tall unicycles. There was a gorgeous stagecoach and a cowboy throwing a lasso. And then the Clydesdales, for which finally, many people took out their cameras. There was not one float, but I did love the variety of transport used; it felt like almost every part of the town was represented.

Following the parade, there was a wild horse drive down the highway to the rodeo grounds. Sadly, I missed it. There were dances and carnival rides, competitions and community meals. And later, a rodeo.

The Miracle of America

I waited for the rain to fall when I was in Superior, a small town between Missoula and the Idaho border. I was staying at the Big Sky Inn, an old two-story motor court by the interstate. Every time a big truck went by, my bed would shake, and I thought of my old friend Richard Newman’s poem “Highway Sounds” about him living in Soulard.

The next morning I awoke and took off for Hot Springs, Montana, thinking I would spend the day taking a relaxing soak in the 1930’s resort town. Even a few miles out, I knew that Hot Springs would be like many other places in Montana, half as big and twice as old as I expected. Some places show charm with their age, but for some reason, I just wasn’t feeling it. All the pictures I had seen showed front porches and rocking chairs shaded by trees, which belied the truth that Hot Springs is roughly in the middle of nowhere in a long valley. It was just past lunchtime and the sun was beating down, heating up the few blocks of which the town consisted. I had decided earlier while driving that I would stay at the “fancier” motel, the one with the restaurant and the pools, but upon seeing it, there was not a tree in sight and the exterior of the compound seemed to be peeling and falling apart. The pool was small, in full sun, and with three people crowded around the one small umbrella. I drove a few more blocks, saw the other motel, and then opted out of staying in Hot Springs, my soaking dreams dashed.

I thought I’d continue on north and hit Flathead Lake. After all, it was hot. I rounded past Elmo and on through the part of the lake that is Native American land, crossing the bridge on 93 into Polson. I pulled into the Port Polson Inn, another old motor court, though this one in much better shape. The Inn was two stories, with flowers out front and an unobstructed view to the lake across the road. The rate was a little steeper than I could swing, but then the nice lady cut $35 off, and it was do-able. I asked for a suggestion for lunch and I was steered towards Isabelle’s.



Downtown Polson consists of a few blocks of a Main Street. There are shops and the ever-present Montana saloons, and then at the end of it, Main Street intersects with 93, and a block or so down the road lies a little cottage that is Isabelle’s. The sign out front has an enormous cowgirl on it, saying that they specialize in burgers, but the menu inside seemed all cafe, focusing on fresh and local ingredients. I chose a Philly sandwich with a salad and iced tea. There were boots all over the inside.

After reading and having a great lunch, I took off away from Main Street an towards the Miracle of America Museum. Somehow, I hadn’t even thought of visiting this great roadside attraction until I had found myself unexpectedly in Polson. I am guessing that the name threw me off; I don’t think I ever even read a description of the place, thinking it somehow religious. And in fairness, the experience was somehow akin to church, in an awe-inspiring sort of way.





The Miracle of America Museum exists as something like the independent Smithsonian of the Northwest Rockies. There is a large warehouse-like structure that houses room upon room of collection (toys, weapons, dresses, housewares, motorcycles, military memorabilia, Native American artifacts, instruments, etc. And then... there are 35 more buildings out back. After I paid my $4 admission, the lady gave me a laminated map, in what looked like a plastic menu holder. Outside, in addition to the buildings, there were icons for helicopters, planes, cars, boats... and some of them were even marked as okay for kids to climb on. I set off to see America.

Map of the Museum

A few of the items had signs saying who they were donated by, and most were donated by locals of Polson and the Flathead area of Montana. Within each collection inside, there was usually a small sign with a paragraph or so explaining the significance of the collection or of the items. Around the military paraphenalia, there were a lot of signs about freedom and responsibility... and a lot of donations. But for the most part, everything just existed as it might in someone’s grand collection, simply placed together, like with like, and left for the viewer to interpret, question, or admire.

Outside, I was stunned. Over what had to be a couple of acres, there were original buildings (period schoolhouses, jails, etc.) and replicas, as well as barns, huge buildings holding dozens of classic cars, boats, and tractors. And then there was just an odd coupling of UFO props. It had the feeling of a backlot of a movie, except less organized. you could go inside each building, but then there would be wire corralling you to the doorway; inside would be stuffed with everything (period or otherwise) that fit within the context of the building. There were beauty parlors and doctor’s offices, post offices and banks.





I was overwhelmed. I left, actually, after a little over an hour. It seemed one of those places where you either look at everything or you “look” at everything; I chose the former. I left, amazed that I had never seen this place in any of my roadside books, or seen it on PBS, or found it online. Montana, surprisingly, has proved a hotbed of great (and odd) roadside attractions. The only thing is, I am not sure that they see the kitsch factor, which in a weird way, makes it all the more endearing. Here, these are not gimmicks or strange eccentricities. The Miracle of America Museum was started by someone who thought there should be a good museum of material culture accessible to people in Montana, and man, did he make that happen.

Miracle of America Museum website

Route of the Hiawatha

At the beginning of the trail, after I shed my fleece and raincoat from the tunnel...



The Taft Tunnel, the beginning and end of the trail. 1.7 miles of complete darkness (and I only passed 5 people, all in the beginning).



Looking down, through the trestle boards. It's hard to comprehend depth or height when looking straight up or down, but it was pretty darn high.



One of the longer trestles, seen from another one, across the way.

THE TRAIL
I lugged my bike (or my Mazda did) across the country specifically so that I could ride one trail: The Hiawatha. I read about the Hiawatha a bunch of places, but I think I might have originally found it online this past winter during some random search. The Hiawatha is a rails to trails project that crosses from Montana into Idaho (at Lookout Pass, off of I-90). There is a very long tunnel at the beginning, which you do twice, and then over a dozen more tunnels and trestles. The view looked stunning, and I wanted to do it.

Hiawatha Trail info
Check out the pictures on their website.

It was supposed to rain on Tuesday, so I went early hoping to miss the storms and hail, figuring they would be worse up high. As it was, it was overcast, which I figured would actually be nice, and cool. I went to the Lookout Mountain Ski Area to buy a trail pass (which you could also get from a trail marshall while riding), get some more info., and buy a shuttle pass for the ride back. 32 miles, with half of them uphill, is still a bit out of my riding range at altitude. So, about 10am, I was off.

The first tunnel, The Taft, was the longest, darkest, strangest thing I have ever done. I knew it would be dark, and they require headlights. I had enough foresight to also bring along my headlamp, in case of headlight failure, but I ended up needing both and then some. About fifty feet in, it was like being in the belly of the beast. It was cold, about 40 degrees, damp, dripping. There were puddles of mud on the gravel trail, and gulleys for drainage on the sides that i was worried I would somehow pedal into. Now, the tunnel is pretty straight, I think, but I had no concept of what straight meant when I was in complete darkness. Even with two lights, I only got about six feet of poor light in front of me. I was worried about coming up on people, but when I did, their lights were visible from pretty far away (and they were walking their bikes). It was difficult to ride, because you could not go fast or you would outride your lights. It was creepy, and even though there was a lot of sound (the gravel, the water dripping), it seemed like one of the most silent things I had ever done. I could see my breath occasionally in the light. My glasses were fogging up. And it seemed almost interminable. I did not look at my watch, or even look at I shifted gears. I was very focused on riding straight, staying in the center, and looking out for things. The light at the end of the tunnel has never been a more appropriate phrase.

Immediately upon exiting, there was a gorgeous waterfall, and then I rode. The trail is comprised of all gravel, washed out and rutted more than others in some spots, but very good condition, and wide (like a jeep trail). 3 miles at the top, right after the first tunnel) is shared with traffic. In the second tunnel, which was probably the second longest, I saw a sign before going in that cars should honk their horns before entering. Luckily, I was not too far in when I heard the honk, though still in pitch blackness in a one-lane, train-size tunnel. I pulled all the way over and the truck passed.

In the next tunnel, about a third of the way in, I encountered a deer. I think we startled one another. I did not want him to panic and run towards me, so I spoke softly and pedaled slowly, very slowly, and he would walk a ways. Then, I would not be able to hear him. It was so dark, I was worried that he would stand still and then I would ride up on him, startling us both. But eventually, we both made it out of the tunnel, though that was slow going. The tunnels after that were shorter, with very few pitch black spots. The challenge then was letting your eyes adjust enough to keep going.

The trestles were pretty awesome. The whole trail had signs telling its story as a railroad. I rode over a valley with a stream, wildflowers on the sides. I saw some stunning birds, and deer upon another occasion (the deer running 50 feet ahead of me for a mile or two, stopping occasionally to look at me, and then running on-- our own small game). I passed other people occasionally, knowing two groups were behind me, three in front, and some headed the opposite direction.

The rain only came at the very end, and only in small droplets. I caught the first shuttle, went back up the mountain, and then rode the long tunnel again back to my car. The second time, it felt much different. There were more people in it, so the light was bit better, or at least it was not so solitary. I knew better what to expect and found myself riding much more quickly. It felt a little more exhilarating and a little less like riding through a coffin. On the shuttle, I was the only person who had completed the ride (everyone else was headed up to start). An older woman (yep, there were kids and grandmothers on the trail) told me she had gotten into the tunnel and had to turn around., True, it is not for the claustrophobic, or the faint at heart.

But it was one of the coolest rides I have ever taken. Well worth the bike.