Month: August 2006 Page 2 of 3

Clark’s John Hancock

Woke at 5:30 to get James to the bus. Unfortunately, there were no seats available. Due to scheduling constraints, James had to be back in Portland by the next day, so he paid out the wazoo for a flight. I departed Missoula, and began the long drive east, alone. All the way through Montana, passing the western mountains, and into the plains, through Butte, Billings, and Bozeman. Stopped at Pompey’s Pillar, where Clark signed a rock on his journey through.

Junction Saloon

Had lunch at the Junction City Saloon in Custer, MT. A one street town, with a prominent warning about the dangers of meth, the saloon was the only open establishment. No swinging wooden doors, but there were three burly men who looked at me askance as I entered. The barkeep asked me what I wanted, and I had the special pork chop sandwich. I perused the wall of tickets to hard-rock concerts (Judas Priest, Scorpions, et al); this was a real classy joint. I brought in my Sunday New York Times and read the magazine while I ate the the terrible sandwich. The experience was worth every penny.

Impending storm

Stopped at the National Grasslands, which as far as I can tell is a National Park without any trees. Had dinner with the very friendly rabbits around my camp. Watched a thunderstorm roll across the plain, and proceed to rock my tent. I let the sound of the rain wash away the seven hundred miles of driving I’d done that day.

Arising to the shrieks of our Japanese neighbors at the campsite, we struck camp, left our bags, and ascended to the Bonner Pass. Up 2000 feet to the Continental Divide, we could see into the next glacially carved valley. Impressive enough, but we decided to continue upward, climbing the col to Mt. Helen, at 8500 ft. There was no trail to the summit, but it was above treeline, and we figured the views would be worth risking our lives. Actually the weather was clear and the incline wasn’t severe. We did stay away from the cliff edge, and kept an eye on the horizon for threatening clouds. The pictures speak for themselves.

After the morning’s hike, we trekked back to the car, and drove across the Going To the Sun Road. The vistas here were spectacular, but somehow less satisfying than the ones we earned with our sweat earlier that day. Eventually, we became tired of awe-inspiring terrain, and left the park in search of huckleberry milkshakes. We found salvation at a roadside stand, where a boy of perhaps 11 played James for a fool. He claimed that their prices had gone up substantially because “their cows were sick.” He calmly gave James about half the change expected for a $20. James told him they should update their signs. Then the boy smirked, and gave us the rest of the change. James guffawed, and congratulated the boy on his budding hucksterism.

Huckleberry Heaven

Had buffalo burgers for dinner, and drove south trying to find the real thing. We arrived at the National Bison Range near closing, and were unable to find the campsites there that the map promised. We cursed the Montana Department of Transportation, which seems to be very good at tearing up roads, but not so skilled at mending them. So we left, bison unseen, through interminable construction and found a commercial site for far too much money. An early morning loomed, so James could catch the 7:30 bus, and so I slept fitfully again.

Departing Yaak, we drove further into Montana, and up to Glacier National Park. My parents still talk about the hike they took here thirty years ago, so I figured it was a must see. We got our backcountry permits, having to sit through an instructional video detailing exactly how to avoid seeing, and then be mauled by, or fight back against a bear. The message wasn’t entirely clear. Around to the other side of the park, where our assigned campsite was, and five miles in, we didn’t see any bears. The scenery, though, was spectacular.

No Name Lake

The lake (which apparently has no name), sits at the base of a tremendous sheer cliff, the subject of much later discussion as to its climbability. The consensus was no, although our 25 feet of food-hanging line might be good enough to attack an imagined Nazi bunker on the other side of the lake. Those Germans are everywhere. As the stars appeared one by one, and the temperature dropped precipitously, we postponed our assault for the morning.

Got on the road at 11, which was pretty good given the previous night. We went to an excellent breakfast place in Portland, and began the drive east. Along the mighty Columbia, past the dams that tame it, and the requisite reminiscing about the MECC game Oregon Trail and the rafting of said river. Into Washington, and had dinner at Jake’s Cafe, where I got a heaping pile of roast beef, and an equal amount of sass from the waitress. She threatened to sit on James because he ordered a milkshake; her mass was sufficient to cause him serious harm.

James Peeing on Idaho

Across the panhandle of Idaho, where I took an excellent picture in which James happens to be peeing. He claimed a need to mark his territory. Just across the border in Montana, we stopped at Yaak campground, where there wasn’t another soul.

Yaak

We scrounged wood from other campsites and made a fire. Neglecting to take any bear precautions, I began getting a little anxious as the night wore on, and we munched chocolate cookies by the fire. Then the train came through, which I swore was bearing down right through the campsite. We wandered toward the river, and saw the next train illuminate the valley with its headlights, reminding me of the Polar Express. There was also the claim that we saw the Northern Lights. We did each see the same colors, of the same shape, in the same area of the sky. However, our minds were not completely clear, and one cannot dismiss the power of persuasion. Either way, the sight was breathtaking, before I remembered that we were being stalked by bears. James tells me I slept fitfully.

Devil’s Bumpass	Boiling Lake
Fumarole	Wildflowers

I was awakened by the voice of the Park Ranger, demanding my campsite fee at 7 in the morning. Why it couldn’t wait until I had pants on, I’ll never know. I paid the man my $14, and departed poste-haste. Driving North on I-5, I reached Lassen fairly quickly: up and up and up the mountains, past fields strewn with lava rocks. I took one quick hike into the Devil’s Bumpass, joining countless German and Indian tourists on the boardwalks, safe above the sulfuric gases. The boiling ponds and churning fumaroles partly sated my need to see Yellowstone.

Leaving Lassen, I stopped at a neighborhood (read: empty) Pizza Joint in some mountain town. The teenaged pizza girl shyly took my order, and I waited for the pie. In my haste to go to the bathroom, I neglected to lock the door, leading to an exceedingly awkward encounter, with a now even more shy girl. I tried to make light of the situation, but she just blushed and handed me my food, never to speak of it again.

Further north on I-5, I passed by the staggering mass of Mt. Shasta. I stopped in the rest area in Weed, CA, but wasn’t brave enough to ask a fellow tourist to take my picture in front of the sign. I thought they’d infer that I’m the immature college student that I am.

On to Portland, where I met James at the Mexican wedding he was bartending. I had expected a certain level of stereotypes at this event, but nowhere near the level of the truth. All James was dispensing was a keg of Coors Light. The men all wore polyester pants, gigantic belt buckles, and cowboy hats-cum-sombreros. The dancing seemed to consist of the women whirling and the men whooping. I resolved to serve only cheap beer at my wedding, to ensure the appropriate level of enthusiasm displayed by this crowd.