After 9 glorious days living like real people again, we packed-up and headed out. The drive east showed Washington at its best. Apple orchards gave way to small, red-brick towns with main streets right out of Disney. We stopped for the night in Clarkston. It was a casino town but what a treat to be able to go for a walk the next morning. It never feels right to roll out of bed and climb straight into the sidecar but that’s the routine usually. It’s the hardest thing for me to get used to, the lack of exercise. We strolled along the Snake River with Clarkston behind us and Lewiston up ahead across the state line. Driving the Idaho panhandle, we went through the Nez Perce Indian reservation. We stopped for a quick sandwich on a patch of grass and a jeep belonging to the tribal police drove up. The beautiful white feathers painted on each black door transfixed me. Such a gentle symbol for what is normally an intimidating force in America. Hills gave way to mountains dense with dark firs and a green river flat as a mirror. First it was on our left as we hugged the rocky cliffs, later on our right, reality and reflection interchangeable. The waters became rougher and as the rapids raced by, scenes from ‘Deliverance’ crept into my mind and plucked banjo strings rang in my ears. Wrong state, but same atmosphere.
We stopped for gas and met 4 Californians on motorbikes. They were very excited to see the Ural and took pictures. One was heading back south and on to Argentina on his Guzzi so we exchange contact information. After that it got bitterly cold. We stopped at a lodge in the National Park to gas up and oh was that place warm and inviting. It took all our willpower to get back on the bike. We snaked thru the forest for miles with no other traffic in sight. Lolo Peak kept moving further away and though only 5000+ ft. we had freezing rain and hail at the summit. With fogged-up visors and a steep downgrade, we inched our way into Missoula, Montana.
The next day was just as bad. We took the freeway to avoid most of the mountains but 30 miles outside of Helena the temperature dropped and rain quickly turned to hail. We had to climb the last pass and it began to snow. My windshield and our visors turned white. Fran had to open his to see and his face and hands were freezing. Then his pants began to leak. They were definitely not the most ideal conditions to approach an 8% downgrade into town.
The next morning we woke-up to 3 to 4 inches of Winter Wonderland. After stocking-up on calories at the breakfast table, we dug-out my heated vest (oh bliss) and brushed the snow off the bike. Only one more 5200 ft. pass to go. We prayed we’d make it to Billings.
For goodness sake, it’s only October 2nd!
Mountain Men
We weren’t the only family visiting so alternative accommodation had to be found. It turned up unexpectedly 20 miles outside of Billings. A friend of Fran’s nephew offered his “Man Cave” for several nights. On a patch of sunny land opposite a white ranch house sat a large steel building. It housed all the family vehicles, at least one for every season, as well as hunting and camping expeditions. At the front end of the structure was a unique log cabin apartment. The Man Cave! Upstairs was a loft bedroom and downstairs a living room and fish-decorated bar. And lots of furry friends. Every wall had mounted deer heads, their spiky antlers vying for space. On the loft perched a fat turkey and beside the bed lay a bleached skull (a long-horn cow, we think). And in case we were still lonely, a massive bison head with black glinting eyes hung from the opposite wall and watched us, all night long. The piece de resistance was a full grown bear standing in all his upright glory on his mount of fake grass. Every single specimen had been shot or caught by our host, his wife or daughters.
We slept the sleep of innocents and each day the sun rose red and fiery through the window behind the bed. The garden was vivid with autumn colors and the morning air fresh and crisp. We listened to the cocks crowing while drinking our coffee in the shade of the porch. On the second cup we would wander down the lane to the train tracks. The rails stretched into the infinity of the Montana wilderness. It was a lesson in sheer contentment.
Even after moving into Billings, daily life remained rural. There were plenty of wide open spaces and fast moving rivers within minutes of the house. Life in Big Sky country was a different world and its hospitality knew no bounds. Back home our garages house cars, here theirs have freezers bursting forth with elk and deer, pheasant and fish, sausage and salami. Eating food that's been hunted, killed, butchered and cooked by the kid who once laughed at The Ren and Stimpy Show with you makes shopping at Von’s meat counter something of a non-event. However will we go back to styrofoam-packed steak?
