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.

Facts and Figures

Google Map of My Travels


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Facts and Figures

Total Days on the Road: 13
Total Miles Driven: 2600
States Covered: 7 including Missouri (+ KS, CO, UT, ID, WY, MT)
National Parks Visited: 3 (Arches, Grand Teton, Yellowstone)
Hikes Taken: 9 (approximately 21 miles of trails)
Wildlife Viewed: elk (a lot), moose, fox
Prettiest Stretch of Road: 128 from I-70 to Moab, followed closely by Rt. 6 in UT or 26 in ID
Favorite Breakfast: pancakes and sausage made by my brother while camping in CO
Best Beer: Boulder Beer’s Hazed and Infused
Favorite Soundtrack: Bruce Springsteen’s “Magic” (works any state, any mood)
Wish I Would Have Had More Time: Ennis, MT (a small fly-fishing town)
Best Hike: Navajo Arch (No one was around and I lied on my back beneath it.)
Average Gas Price: $4.20
Current Location: Missoula, MT

Missoula

I love Missoula! Similar to other mountain towns, Missoula is located in a valley, by a river. i am learning that absolutely everything in Montana is located by a river, which is nice because I like the movement. The Clark Fork splits the downtown area (thriving and very cool) from the university and more residential sections of town. To the southwest is a long, newer stretch of chain stores and new subdivisions. It was in the mid-nineties when I arrived and I found myself getting oriented, and then wanting dinner and a beer. I found refuge at the Iron Horse Brewery, which had several local breweries on offer (Kettlehouse, Big Sky, Bayern). I enjoyed a Big Sky IPA, but I would have liked it if it had a little more hops and a slightly heavier body. Still, it was a nice outing.

As a result of the sun setting so late (late July, and we still have broad daylight until 9:30 or so), I find I end up doing things later at night. I slept the next morning until 8:30 (late for me), and then wrote a while. Before it got too hot, I went off for a bike ride. I had scouted some spots to ride by the river the day before and parked at the Missoula Recreation Center. I biked the riverfront on a great gravel trail, then continued it north out of town and into the mountains along the Kim Williams Trail. It was a nice ride, quiet, along and then above the river.




I spent the afternoon touring the Smokejumper Center in Missoula. Missoula is the training base for smokejumpers, and one of nine bases located mostly in the Pacific Northwest (Missoula is pretty far east for the smokejumpers). We had a great tour guide, Ryan, who was a 2nd year smokejumper and one of the younger ones at 25. I found the tour fascinating. Rather than show us the training process, which was what I had expected, they showed us around the base, explaining what they did each day and how it went when they got a call.

We saw the sewing room (they all sew their own gear-- everything except the parachutes, so that it can be better retro-fitted for their own needs). So, part of their rookie training is learning to sew. Ryan showed us the Ready Room.



Then, we saw the Loft, where they check their chutes; after that, the rigging room.


We were shown what they carry when they jump, how the rest of the cargo is rigged, and what they eat when working a fire (lots of spam, apparently). We saw a plane they use. It was just seriously cool. Our guide had just come back from several weeks in California. These men and women are truly the elite of the elite. It takes a lot of training and courage, and they hurl themselves out from low-flying planes to land in a very small area (typically on an incline) very near fire. And then they are left there, sometimes for days or weeks, to control the fire. It's crazy, but I am so happy we have them.

For more information:
Missoula Smokejumpers

I love Missoula. I could have happily just lounged about and hiked and ridden my bike there for several more days. It's only about two hours from whitefish, so I might be back this summer.

Southwestern Montana

BUTTE< MT



The Dumas Brothel in Butte, MT-- the oldest brothel in Montana and one of the few purpose-built brothels in existence...
Remind me to tell you a funny story about this one.





The 2 pictures above are both of the Berkeley Pit in Butte, MT. Butte is a mining town, or was. This pit has been filling with toxic water and is literally purple with a slick surface. Somewhat stunning, though not in a good way. I felt like I might become some kind of superhero (other than Super Allison) by just being near its toxic qualities.



These towers are still up all over Butte, which is built into a hill. A storm was coming in on Sunday morning when I visited and the towers looked awesome.

PHILIPSBURG, MT



Main Street, Philipsburg



This is the oldest schoolhouse in Montana still in use (1897, I believe). P'Burg, as it's supposedly called is a small town a bit southeast of Missoula. The building is granite, and while I was photographing it, a woman walked by who told me all about the school. She had gone there, and she told me about its additions, how they had rehabbed the inside a few years back to make it period again.



She also told me about fire drills, where they used to slide down the chute. She said they couldn't wait for the drills to get to slide. I wasn't sure at the time what she was referring to, but as I poked around the side of the building, I found this. sadly, it looks like it might be boarded up. I imagine it is, for safety. All the cool stuff gets removed "for safety"-- like the wrought-iron fence that used to be around the school and was replaced with wood. She said that was "for safety" also.



Looks like a shaft, but is actually an old trestle, fallen apart...

Yellowstone

Teton, The Second Day:

I woke up at 6:15 and felt the cold, deciding to stay in my warm nest of a sleeping bag, but 7:30 got me up and packing up my tent. I had gone to a ranger-led photography talk the night before, and had planned to go to another ranger-led activity that morning. On the back deck of Jackson Lodge, the rangers assisted in wildlife viewing. I began with breakfast at the Pioneer Grille, a diner original to the Lodge-- known for the longest continual counter space. Even at 8:15 on a Saturday, it was packed, but I was able to slide into a stool. I chatted with the man next to me who was there with his son. They had been coming to Teton once or twice a year since he was a kid. Outside, I heard people discussing that Grand Teton was their favorite of all national parks, and I thought I might be quickly coming to agreement.

As Teton stretched out before me, I saw a herd of elk. The antlers, giant and velvety of a bull moose popped up above the bushes. It was a great morning, and upon leaving, I felt like I wanted to return, which is always my mark of a great place.








Yellowstone:

Leaving Teton, it was really just about an hour into Yellowstone. I had been there many years ago (14, to be exact), and was planning on just driving through to Montana. I headed towards Old Faithful and West Yellowstone, stopping to see the geysers. Old Faithful was as its name implies: consistent and true. I walked the boardwalk to some of the other geysers, each of which was cool in its own sulphurous, explosive, venting way. What I really liked though was the pools-- Beauty Pool and Chromatic Pool. My brother had pictures from his recent visit of some that were larger and more stunning, their color more denoted and vivid, but I didn’t want to seek them out. The two I saw were just fine.


There were three elk grazing right by the boardwalk, people moving too close to them. Entering Teton, they give you information about bear safety; at Yellowstone, they give you information about bison, but there are signs everywhere about elk and moose and how far to stay away. Many people reacted like they were in a petting zoo, not like they were out in the wild. Same thing as I drove through Yellowstone-- people stopping smack in the middle of the road to photograph elk. I simply kept moving. I pulled over the eat lunch beside a river, and across the river a fox ran across the scree.

Grand Teton

View of the Tetons from Jackson Lodge


My campsite... My tent looks pretty good for being a high school graduation gift. (Thanks, Michael.)


Relaxing at Inspiration Point (overlooking Jenny Lake)


Be Bear Aware!


Moose Antlers, in the bushes



July 18, 2008

I am sitting at a picnic table, at a campground, at the top of a small mountain (a hill? with mountain-like features?). I am in Grand Teton National Park, and this is one of the most spectacular places I have ever seen.

I drove in this morning from Idaho Falls, which is sort of like coming in the back way. For the first hour or so out of town, I passed the greenest, rolling fields of what I presumed to be potatoes. I know what most other crops look like, but since potatoes grow underground, I am not sure what there above-ground counter-part looks like. Pretty though, it would seem. Then, I began following the Snake River, which wound down and around, then I rolled into the mountains.

Now, in most mountainous places, you see wildflowers, maybe just a smattering on a trail, or a few here and there on the side of the road. But driving today, they were everywhere, and all different colors. There were wild sunflowers, big, and sometimes dotting the whole southern facing side of a mountain. I am not very good with my wildflowers (though I looked at guidebooks today so I could name the pretty long purple flowers I kept seeing (lobelia, I believe). And if I am not mistaken, I also saw Brown-Eyed Susans, Indian Paintbrush, and a lot of purple things. It’s highly likely I have the names wrong until I become better acquainted with my new surroundings, but you get the idea-- pretty, and lots of color.

I went over a monster pass with huge grades-- like 10%. And check it out, at the top of the pass, there were a ton of mountain bikers, which was confusing until I realized that there were trails... going down. And as i drove down in my car, shifting into way low gear, there were bikers pedaling up. And quite a few at that. Crazy.

At the bottom of the pass was a stunning little town just a few minutes outside of Jackson, called Wilson. And again, bicyclists everywhere. Jackson itself was also beautiful-- everything in wood. It looked like a true mountain town, but it was also a mountain town that has money. That much was obvious, otherwise you couldn’t ask each of the buildings to look so pretty and natural.

I drove into the park, and as soon as I saw the sign, those big mountains just rose up. Recently, someone asked me what was in Grand Teton, as in, why is it a national park. My answer: the Tetons. And as soon as I saw them, I was confirmed. They are stunning, unlike any other range, and truly deserving of their status. They rise, tall and huge, snow-covered in late July and craggly... and they rise up from the valley floor making them look even more massive.

I set up my campsite about noon and went down by Jackson Lake for a picnic. It had been sprinkling off and on, but was beginning to warm. Kids played in the water. An older couple sailed remote controlled boats. I ate a tuna salad sandwich and potato salad and basked in the sun. It occurred to me how nice it was to sit still, a reprieve from my constant driving.

I drove south again towards Jenny Lake to take the ferry across and do a quick hike that my brother had recommended. I recently watched video of when they were here in June and I was struck by how nice the weather had turned for me (sunny and 80 degrees), versus the snow and freezing cold he had. Once across the lake, I hiked up to Inspiration Point and then back to look at the falls. That water was cascading. I mean cascading in the truest sense of the word, furiously rushing downhill, all white water and bottled up. I loved that sound. I sat there thinking about why it is that as people we like water so much. We gravitate toward it, even when we cannot use it for recreation-- even in cold, or when it runs too fast. I guess a lot of people do so because it is pretty, but I think it must be some more basic instinct than that. Water means life-- it means vegetation and food. It takes us where we need to go, and that sense of movement and continuity must be underlying everything when we are near it.

After hiking back around the lake, I drove again. While driving in Tasmania last year, I learned I like paying attention to things more without any music. When something is truly absorbing, or when I want to think, silence is the way to go. So as the sun baked me and I thought of dinner (kippered snacks, cheese, bread, and iced tea-- yep, by choice) and I hurried to get an ice cream cone, which I ate as the sun began to set over the mountains.

Now, I am typing at a campsite, a first for me, and something I would not usually endorse, but I like writing at the end of my day. The wind is kicking up and it will be dark soon. I rejected the notion of a fire as I got back here only an hour before dark and am contemplating going to a ranger lecture in the campground ampitheatre at 9:30. And fire danger is high. The mountains are all eclipsed by the haze from California. I had forgotten that living in the Midwest, that fire states away will change the way the sky looks for weeks, even months.

So, I’m chilling, waiting to sleep in my little tent, hoping to get up early and take some pictures of the early sun over the marina and then go wildlife viewing with the rangers just like I saw on PBS. And then to Yellowstone. After that, I think I am headed to a small little town called Ennis (the name makes me think of the character in Brokeback Mountain everytime), and then work my way up to Missoula by the end of the weekend. I have loved everything I see, and each day’s drive seems more beautiful than the day before. I don’t want to rush it, but I am eager to be in one place, and I can’t wait for that place to be my condo. Montana, here I come.