Frontier Dispatch

The Flathead Police Blotter

2008-09-17T15:12:00.002-05:00

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

2008-08-31T22:44:00.003-05:00

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

2008-08-31T22:34:00.003-05:00

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

2008-08-25T18:33:00.004-05:00

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.

2008-08-19T18:31:00.003-05:00

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

2008-08-07T16:55:00.004-05:00

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...

2008-08-07T16:39:00.002-05:00

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

2008-07-31T16:26:00.003-05:00

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

2008-07-29T17:36:00.004-05:00

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!!

2008-07-29T17:30:00.002-05:00

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

2008-07-28T13:59:00.005-05:00

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

2008-07-24T10:30:00.003-05:00

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

2008-07-21T11:30:00.002-05:00

Google Map of My Travels

View Larger Map

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

2008-07-21T11:29:00.006-05:00

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

2008-07-21T11:29:00.004-05:00

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

2008-07-21T11:28:00.008-05:00

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

2008-07-21T11:28:00.007-05:00

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.

Moab to Idaho Falls

2008-07-21T11:27:00.002-05:00

Moab:

Thursday morning and I was leaving Moab. I wanted to go find some petroglyphs on the canyon walls, so I followed directions I had received from the visitor’s center and wound my way into Moon Flower Canyon. It was a little after seven and the shadows made the drive cool. Windows down, dirt road, mountain bikers riding to their morning downhills, a stream winding through the canyon. After about fifteen miles (and three sites I should have seen), I never saw any rock art. I did see several cave dwelling homes, some great mountain bike trails (Cliffhanger being one of them), and had a gorgeous mornig drive. I capped off my stay in Moab wishing I had found the time to ride my bike, but settled instead for a great omelette and fantastic service at Moab Diner, highly recommended by my brother.

Idaho:

There are less than a half dozen states I have not been to, and Idaho used to be one of them until last week. I was heading up to Grand Teton and Idaho seemed the best way to go. I debated myself repeatedly about my route though. Pure direction dictated one route, AAA gave me another, and then I tried to weigh in. Eastern Utah does not have a lot in it. It’s desert and it’s desolate. There are huge stretches of nothingness-- no services, no drivers, almost even an absence of landscape. My route to Idaho Falls would likely include several of these stretches. My concern, as a woman driving alone, was to get those stretches without services to as few miles as possible. I settled on route 6 north from I-70. There were plenty of cars and an old Indigo Girls CD helped me head out of the desert. As I continued north, between about Price and Provo, the drive became gorgeous. I followed a river up into the mountains, curving and winding, the road flowing.

I did not like Salt Lake City. Construction for miles and hours. I never once saw a sign for the lake, which I did not understand. And everyone kept cutting me off, and yet no one sped. Annoying.

Eventually, the dullness of Northern Utah gave way to Idaho and I did a little dance. Idaho opened up, its huge rolling hills like pale green potatoes bunched together, small trees dotting it like eyes. The wind beat my car, shears shoving me to the side of the road. I landed in Idaho Falls and stayed right on the river. I grabbed my bike off the top of my car and headed down towards the Falls in the afternoon sun. The falls in Idaho Falls are not very big at all, but they were pretty. Residents were out tubing, swimming, walking.

The next day, leaving the Falls, I drove west towards Jackson. The potato-looking hills gave way to potato fields, as I followed the Snake River around its bends. Idaho was gorgeous, and remains one of the nicest surprises of my trip so far.

Arches National Park

2008-07-17T21:55:00.009-05:00

Cairns mark the trails at Arches. This trail was in the Devil's Garden section, leading up to Double O Arch. (And yes, this trail was like most of them, steep incline, shimmying up the rock.)

Me, in an arch. Partition Arch. Yep, I scurried up the slickrock to get there; it was a long way down the other side. (Don't worry, I was perched, not sitting in the opening. I like safety.)

Navajo Arch

Upon entering the park, you wind your way up a long ridge. As soon as you round the corner to the other side, it all unfolds before you: red rock, massive structures unbelievably balanced, and then those arches. I stopped counting I saw so many.

I went straight to the very back of the park first, to the Devil’s Garden section, thinking I would get my longest hikes in before the desert sun was high overhead. 8:45am, my CamelBack was strapped on full of water, and I was ready to hike. As the trail wound its way up and through the sand, the numbers of people trickled off. I began regretting wearing my running shoes and not my hiking boots. The red sand was seeping into the fronts of my shoes through the mesh, and I felt it sloshing around like one might feel water sloshing after slumping through puddles.

As I hiked, a storm loomed over the mountains in the distance, and I kept tabs making sure I didn’t get caught out on the rock. The trails were primitive, deep sand like walking on a beach, steep inclines of slickrock which we scrambled up sometimes on all fours, and boulder ridges 3-5 feet wide and very high up. Parts of it reminded me of climbing at the top of Zion years ago-- the steepness of the ridges and the changing nature of the trails. Cairns were used for markers, and they were well placed about every thirty feet, always within sight, and usually right when you would begin to think which way do I go? Aside from erosion, it was easy to see why you should stay on the trail: there was nothing for miles, and in a level area everything looked much the same.

Because of the storm in the distance, there was a decent breeze and clouds, which kept the desert heat bearable. Small drops even fell as I came back down the mountain. After hiking several trails and close to eight miles, I went to hike to Delicate Arch, perhaps one of the most famous. I got out of my car and my legs started shaking from the strain, and I thought, nope, I’ll settle for the lower viewing point.

After 7 hours of hiking and looking at arches, I was ready for a rest. The sun came out as I descended into the valley, and I found myself jumping into the pool at the campground, and then lounging in the “cold” tub (a hot tub filled with desert cold water... Yay!).

Day 7: Ft. Collins to Moab

2008-07-17T20:58:00.003-05:00

Miles Driven: 1500 ???? (exact reading yet to be taken)
Hikes Completed: 1, at Hanging Lake(I’m not counting the “walks” while camping)
Highest Gas Price Paid: $4.28 (Grand Junction, Colorado)
Most Stunning Drive to Date: the 47 miles between I-70 and Moab, on 128
Favorite Soundtrack For Heading Into the Mountains: Springsteen’s latest, Magic

I hopped out of bed, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to get to the desert. I was contemplating a hike in my old high school stomping grounds (literally, across the street) in Evergreen, Colorado. But as I drove, I felt a nice flow, and decided not to stop. I had forgotten how stupidly steep the grade is coming up out of Denver and towards Genosee, and then again at Loveland. Often, I forget about Colorado in the summer. As a kid, summer always annoyed me because I wanted to be snowboarding, so I took it for granted and spent the whole time thinking about winter in my head. As an adult though, Colorado is beautiful in the summer, and today was a nice day to drive.

I was taken by just how many trees were blighted by the beetles. There were whole mountainsides affected, the trees brown and decaying as they stood. From about Frisco to Glenwood, it was really noticable, then it eased up a bit. Both my sister-in-law and my best friend kept telling me I should stop in Glenwood on my way and hike Hanging Lake. I remembered the pictures my mom took when she hiked it like 20 years ago. It was pretty, but didn’t strike me as anything overly special. Still, I hit it before noon and decided to give it a go.

What no one told me was the freakin’ hike is about 1000 vertical feet over 1 mile. Translation: it’s pretty much straight up. Lots of stone stairs and hand railings as you climb up the side of a mountain with a long waterfall (creek spilling vertically downward?) to your side. My sea-level loving self was huffing and puffing, but then I’d get passed by kids in jeans and old people with walking sticks, and once, by a two year old. Jeez... When I hit the half-mile mark (meaning only halfway there), I thought I might keel over and die. Despite damping at a high altitude, I was nowhere near acclimated, and I was silently cursing those who suggested the hike without giving me the crucial piece of info.

And then, after it all, I got to the top an hour later. And there, after all that work, what had looked like a normal lake in pictures more than half my life ago, was a stunningly clear lake. Aptly named Hanging Lake, it rests at the top of the mountain, pools up, and then begins to flow down the side in a series of waterfalls (or, downward moving creeks, whatever--). The water was blessedly cool and a clear green. And then I got it.

After nearly killing my right knee on the descent, I packed my sweaty little self back into my Mazda and again headed west on 70.

My brother had suggested a bunch of Moab things, one of which was to drive 128 south from 70 instead of taking 191. And man, was I happy I did. Immediately off 70, the road opened up into a wide valley of dusty colors. Then, it got even better.

128 follows the Colorado River, and eventually, it opened into a wide swath making me feel like I was in the best roadtrip movie ever. Huge sandstone and red rock cliffs towered around me, and the lazy Colorado moved somewhat slowly beside me. I drove slowly, pulling over often to take photos. It was the best drive I think I have ever taken in my life.

And now, I am sitting in the AC in a one-room cabin in a pitch black campground, with an almost-full moon riding high in the sky. Oh, and I am having a beer... simple, but it doesn’t get much better.

Day 5: Camping at Pawnee, CO

2008-07-17T20:49:00.003-05:00

Menu: Beef Kabobs, Mashed Potatoes, Salad, Fat Tire (in a can); Pancakes (fluffy and perfectly golden brown, cooked by my brother) and sausage; Super-Good Turkey Sandwiches, Ripe Strawberries, Boulder Slaw, and Chips n’ Dip

We drive up through Estes, the hot air cooling as we went. One of the benefits of camping with a camper is pulling over at the side of the road when hungry. At a pulloff, we opened up the camper, got out the chairs, made some sandwiches and looked at a meadow and the back of Long’s Peak while the girls entertained themselves in the camper playing. The side of that road felt a long way away from STL.

The temperature dropped as we climbed to 10,300 feet, the road opening to a view of a lake with snow-covered peaks behind it. We set up camp at a wooded site, cracked open a beer, and then went for a walk. I say “walk” because hiking is not exactly hiking with two kids under eight and a dog that has been cooped up in the back of a truck all afternoon. Still, the walk was nice. It’s easy to forget how awesome, in the truest sense of the word, mountains can be. Mountains are obvious, and very few people will ever argue against their beauty, and yet we take it for granted. It’s stunning to think how long it takes them to form, how they do so by the plates crashing and rubbing against one another, how they are further sculpted by water rushing down them...

It was nice to remember. Camping, like several other things in life (fireworks, fireflies, batting cages, laughing with your family) remains the same no matter how old you get. Bugs still bite you. Everything still tastes better when cooked over a flame (even when you don’t like marshmallows). You’re bound to be too hot or too cold (it went from super hot to cold, cold, cold-- about 50 degrees). And yet, you just don’t care. We played Uno with the girls. The adults had beer by the fire. When it was time to sleep, I bundled up in my fleece and sleeping bag and loved that just my face was cold (and loved having a bathroom in the camper, eliminating the need to put on shoes and a headlamp to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night). It was fantastic... and the food even better.

Day 4: Ft. Collins with the fam

2008-07-17T20:47:00.000-05:00

Miles Driven: 915

Visiting my brother and his family. Fish tacos at La Luz. Things I needed bought at Performance (new bike shorts), REI (new headlamp to replace my old, battered one) and Jax (marshmallow poker, which I prefer to call a “potato fire fork”, since that is how it will be used). There were beers and bocce ball in the backyard with my sister-in-law, and much laughter.

Day 3: Boulder

2008-07-17T20:46:00.000-05:00

En route from Denver to Ft. Collins, I stopped in Boulder to see another old friend from the Illinois days, and to meet his wife. Noah and I spent a ridiculously hot (95 degrees) day walking along Boulder Creek, up into the foothills, and then back down into town. It was the hottest day of the year and Friday afternoon to boot, and everyone-- I mean everyone-- was in the creek. People were tubing, lying in the grass, swinging on ropes and jumping. It was the kind of thing you think only happens in small towns, and then... here it is, smack in the middle of Boulder just blocks from the hustle and bustle. It was one of those afternoons that makes you want to live in Boulder even though you know you don’t want to live in Boulder. And the conversation was pretty fantastic, too.

Day Two: Colorado

2008-07-17T20:42:00.003-05:00

Day Two: Free Land in Kansas
July 10, 2009

Yesterday, I drove across the prairie, and here’s what I thought...

1.) When I was 11, we moved to Colorado and I remembered my mom waking me up as we crossed the Mississippi so I could see the Arch. I didn’t really get why it was a big deal, but she kept saying it was the gateway to the west and we were headed west. I think in some weird way, she was trying to tell me we were almost there, but little did she know. She had never driven through Kansas.

2.) Kansas is long when you go straight across, and there ain’t a whole lot there. The camels were nowhere to be found. (Usually, they are just outside of Lawrence.) The fields were very green.

3.) In parts of Kansas (and Eastern CO), they give away free land. Can you imagine-- in 2008-- free land! The dream of the frontier is still alive. I thought of Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman in that movie I can never remember, but they go west and they fight for their land. And in Kansas, they just give it away. I’ll be darned if the American Dream isn’t still alive... it just takes a lot of driving to get there.

4.) I stayed in a town in Kansas where I was referred to this morning as “The Bicycle Lady” (because I had one on top of my car) and was also told that too many men ride bikes and there need to be more pictures of women in Moab riding. Well, the picture of me may not look too good, but I liked the sentiment.

5.) Denver still has a crapload of pollution and fog. I couldn’t even see the mountains until I was about five miles away from them. Still, right there, standing at the conversion of two distinctive places, the wonder of the mountains. It still makes me shake my head.

And finally, today, in Colorado with old friends and their new baby. It could not be more full circle from the place (and the self) I left here 15 years ago. Oh, and Boulder Beer’s Hazed and Infused was pretty good if you like a hoppy treat.

The new addition, Miss Amelia

Dispatch Beginnings

2008-07-06T08:28:00.003-05:00

This is the beginning of my dispatch, my stories of my travels along the frontier.

Like those who have lit out across the prairie before me, I am not totally sure what I am looking for. I just feel motion will help me find it. I think this is how I push against what I know and stretch my own landscape. I used to live in the west, in the mountains of Colorado for many years, so I am not exactly planning on being surprised by the geography, just by the life within the space.

I do hope to be surprised by myself, by what I see and hear when there is nothing else competing.

I have a love affair with explorers. Not even just the Cabeza de Vacas and Magellans-- they get all the glory. But I have a love of the quieter explorers, those who find things we didn't even know we were looking for. The explorers who somehow turn their personal missions and obsessions into something for the rest of us. And I love that even when we think we have mapped all our lands, people still explore. I'd argue it's our nature. As Americans, we explore by pushing against our boundaries. Movement is ingrained within us.

And so we drive. We look towards possibility and open range, and we move westward, pushing towards a place we can create while we leave the spaces that have created us.

Quitting only matters if there is no point. Quitting can feel like a dance, like an art form, a vessel waiting to be filled. And for the last several weeks, it has begun to taste of freedom. I'm ready to hit the road.