One surprise on this trip was just how hot it was in Montana. It was murderously hot with temps around 107 for a few days. I’d left Texas in it’s sweltering heat with visions of crisp morning temperatures and smoke from the chimneys of log cabins in the mountains of Montana, where I’d sit and snicker at my fellow Texicans suffering in the heat of the Lone Star state almost 3000 miles further south. For God’s sake I was almost in Canada and it was hotter here than in Texas. Something just ain’t right about that.
The reality that much of the colder weather clothing and gear I’d brought was never going to be used had become clear, so I decided to reduce the bulk and weight of my things on the bike. I pulled a few things and found a UPS store to ship them back to Texas. I struck up a conversation with the lone lady who was running the place and I asked how long she’d been in Montana. That led to the history of her and her husband, who’d lived in a travel trailer in Alaska when he worked on the pipeline. She said they’d been happy there, with the trailer allowing very little in the way of possessions. After he’d finished his work, they decided to return to the lower 48 and ended up in Montana, where he became a police officer and they bought a house. She said over the years they accumulated things but had realized they were far happier living in the travel trailer than being buried in the things that inevitably come with “successful” living. They were about to quit normal life and head back to Alaska. I wished her luck and shipped some of my accumulations back to Texas.
Spending some time in Stevensville, I began learning some of the history of the region. Lewis and Clark came through, of course, but I didn't realize there were missions and forts in the area. The folks were friendly and I really enjoyed the time.
That evening my friend and I were looking for food and found the only bar/restaurant in a little town south of Missoula. As I walked in, a man who appeared seriously drunk staggered past with difficulty and out the door. Waiting by a pool table to ask the bartender about getting some food, I looked out the front window and saw the man lying on the concrete sidewalk. I ran outside and helped get him off the concrete and onto a bench under the window awning. It was then that I realized he wasn’t just drunk, but had had a stroke in the past and was unable to speak and could barely walk. I told him to sit there while I went back in and tried to find out if anyone knew him. When I turned around, the man had attempted to walk away and had fallen again. I ran back out and picked him up, a passerby staying with him this time. It had begun to rain and he had gotten wet.
The bartender said he saw the man frequently and didn’t know him, but thought he lived nearby since he would struggle into the bar with great difficulty. We went back out, and I half carried him the direction the bartender had pointed. There was an old duplex about halfway down the street and I got him over to it, helping him sit on the swing before knocking on the next door. He couldn’t communicate in any fashion, so it was unknown if this place was his and I hoped whoever lived in the house might know more about him.
A young guy came out in tattoos and cut-off jeans, surprised by my knock. Then he saw the man in the swing and I asked if he knew him and he said yes, he was his neighbor. He helped me get him inside his house and we dried him off with towels, setting him in a recliner and covering him with a blanket as I knew he was cold and wet.
The young guy and I went outside and I asked him who took care of the man and who we needed to call. He said that he checked on him daily, as well as a visiting nurse and meals on wheels. He then told me the man had no family, because when he had the stroke his wife and kids left him. They left no numbers or anything and had completely abandoned him. The man could not speak and could barely walk, but went to the bar every day to try to drink himself drunk - I can imagine to dull the pain. It was heart-wrenching to hear and I went back inside to check on him. We said a prayer over him and made sure he was covered up and warm enough. By the time we walked back to the bar, the kitchen had closed and food was no longer being served. The waitress apologized but thanked us for helping him.
Uncle Leo - a real Montana character - adventurer/philosopher/gardener
My friend and I were invited to spend a day and night with a couple, Regis and Marilyn, who lived far back in the mountains and were homesteading in a cabin while they built a larger log home. They lived off the grid with solar and generator power, felling trees and milling lumber for their house - almost entirely self-sufficient and hard working. I really enjoyed the time with them and their hospitality.
Regis and Marilyn lived in their workshop while building their home, so guest quarters was the little tiny travel trailer they'd originally lived in while building the workshop. After touring around their property and hearing stories of bears, wolves and life in the winter, the day had passed and night was falling. Regis led us down to the little camper and after getting it opened up, said "Don't go out after it gets dark, there's a grizzly and two cubs who come through here frequently."
Being a Texas boy, the concept of having to live in fear of being eaten is not something I'm used to. Initially, I thought he was kidding until I realized he was most definitely not. I decided to retrieve the .44 Mag pistol and keep it with me.
Darkness came and our conversations covered many things in the little camper, that is until my friend said her little Yorkie needed to pee. "Too bad" I said, as it was well after dark and we'd been warned not to leave the camper. She kept complaining about how the little dog had been trained not to pee indoors and got up from her end of the camper to open the door. Great.
Climbing out of the berth on my end of the trailer, I grabbed my flashlight and went to the rescue, cracking the flimsy aluminum door about two inches and shining the flashlight out a few feet into the blackness, illuminating the bark of a couple of pine trees. I listened and then opened the door almost all the way, pausing again and peering into the black forest. My friend squeezed past me to the first step and set the tiny Yorkie down on the ground. Rather than peeing, it ran off into the dark with her calling after it. At that moment, Darwinism seemed appropriate. Of course the little fart didn't come back and I sure as hell wasn't heading out into a pitch black forest to find it.
Luckily my friend remained rational and didn't take off looking for her baby. I was about to close up the camper and write a short poem about the death of a dog, when it came running back up to the steps. She grabbed it and we closed the door, each retiring to our end of the camper. We talked about the incident for about 4 or 5 minutes, when the conversation was interrupted by a loud scraping sound on the textured aluminum camper door. I can only describe the sound as big claws dragging down the door. In the silence, I could see my friend's eyes as big as silver dollars. Suddenly the entire camper shook and bounced, as if something very was jumping on the steps of the camper.
I had never known that women could fly until that moment, when my friend exited her berth next to the door and somehow landed in mine in the blink of an eye. A good 12 feet of airspace was covered in a flash and I do not remember seeing her feet on the floor. My heartbeat shot through the roof and I grabbed the 44, standing up with it and my flashlight pointed at the door. It seemed like a dream, my heart pounding and holding a 44 magnum waiting to see if a bear was about to rip off the door and try to come in. I simply could not wrap my brain around what I was doing.
There was total silence, only the sound of my heartbeat and heavy breathing for what seemed like 15 minutes and maybe it was, but there was no further shaking or clawing. We remained silent and looked at the windows and wondered if the bear was planning something else. It was at that moment I realized just how flimsy and thin campers really are. We were just two Pringles in a Pringles can.
We whispered for a while, as if that would make a bear not know we were inside, until enough time passed that we felt reasonably safe. Neither of us slept the rest of the night. I was so incredulous that I decided Regis had done the entire thing as a prank, setting me up with his warning then sneaking down and shaking the trailer, getting a good laugh in the process.
When the sun was up and high, we slowly exited the trailer with swiveling heads and headed quickly for their cabin. Regis was drinking coffee and Marilyn was making pancakes. They asked how we slept and I responded "not so well after your prank". Regis looked at me in confusion and I could tell he really had no idea of what had happened. Then I had to face the reality that a bear really had inquisitively tried to get inside the camper. We told them the story and he said "I told you not to go out after dark down there. I wouldn't kid about bears." I believed him.
That launched a series of bear stories that had occurred in their lives as well as the lives of friends for the next hour while we drank coffee and gorged on pancakes with huckleberry syrup.
The next day was spent in Missoula, exploring the town and getting to meet up with a fellow Texan rider named Buddy. Buddy had followed my travel posts on advrider.com and was coming through Missoula on the way back to Houston after a trade show in Oregon.
I swung by his motel in town to meet him and since he was heading south the next day, we agreed to meet and ride together for a distance. I was going to follow him for a few hours then reverse back to Stevensville. The previous day Buddy had ridden up and through Glacier National Park on his most excellent Moto Guzzi.
Buddy and his Moto Guzzi
Missoula Farmer's Market
Bicycle powered scroll saw
Buddy was heading for Texas the next morning so we hooked up early and went south on 93 until Hamilton. From there we headed east over Skalkaho Pass towards Anaconda. The morning was cool - so much so we each had to don our warmer jackets - and headed into the pass.
The narrow road turned out to be a great ride. It was hard packed gravel, twisty and climbed up through tall trees high into the mountains. The actual pass road was about 40 miles and at the midpoint we hit Skalkaho Falls, a beautiful waterfall that sits right on the road. We hung out there for a few minutes in the cool air - Buddy's temp gauge had shown 51 degrees at one point - then continued on after the obligatory pics.
Buddy at Skalkaho Falls
Eventually we dropped out of the pass and back onto blacktop, catching Hwy 1 to Anaconda. There was good scenery and I enjoyed watching Buddy flick the “Gootzi” through hairpins and sweepers as I chased him down the road.
Anaconda was a copper mine town with huge slag fields on the east side, the point where we found Hwy 569 / 274 and headed south. It was poorly maintained but a neat ride with few cars and excellent scenery.
We eventually hit 43 and went east towards I-15. The scenic road was torn up with loose piles of gravel to keep the ride over "interesting". Yet another beautiful area following a large river. We reached the interstate and stopped for a breather. Buddy suited up for the heat and the southern route towards Idaho. As we were about to part ways, Buddy spotted my rear turn signal hanging down by the wires. It had vibrated loose and bounced against the funky low mudguard for a long ways, turning the orange lens black and wearing a spot on the guard. Grrrrr. Got it put back in place and we took off - Buddy for Idaho and me back the route through the pass.
I was merrily riding back for Stevensville when I realized I had ridden farther than expected and wasn't sure if I had enough gas to make Anaconda where the first fuel stop would be. I slowed to conserve fuel and wondered if I'd make it. There was almost no signs of habitation in the region I was in.
Eventually a set of old buildings appeared, but the least derelict one looked to be the only chance of human activity. It said "Bar" but there were no cars. I pulled up and walked in. From a tiny back room, an older man came up and asked what he could do for me. His eyes were bleary and red, and it was obvious he was half drunk. He looked terrible. I asked him where the nearest gas was, to which he answered "Anaconda", not what I wanted to hear. By this time he realized I hadn't come in to drink and since he'd make no money, no longer was interested in conversing.
I stepped back out, disappointed and continued on, thinking of how sad it was that an obvious alcoholic would own a bar. Many are the reasons people drink, some of them good ones, but it was hard to see someone whom you knew probably wouldn't live much longer.
The road back to Anaconda and the fuel I desperately needed was plagued with concern, but I made it to gasoline and breathed a sigh of relief. I carried a couple of fuel bottles in my side cases, however I’d left the cases off the bike while running around the Missoula area and had assumed there would be gas at the intersection of an Interstate and another highway. Being in Montana, I’d assumed wrong…
The route:
The next day, the weather was beautiful and my friend wanted to explore, so we jumped in the truck and took off, going from Missoula up to St. Ignatius and passing the National Bison Range. We didn't get a chance to go through it however.
Clarks Fork River
The route from there to Thompson Falls was beautiful following the Clarks Fork river. Excellent area. Got a piece of peanut butter pie and coffee that was to die for at a little cafe in Thompson Falls. The waitress told me they had a lot of grizzlies in the area. From there it was on up to Trout Creek.
The next day continued to Ross Creek and "The Cedars". The Cedars is an ancient forest of massive cedar trees that you can walk through. The trees are so large they almost rival the redwoods.
It has an almost magical feel and is a beautiful quiet area with brooks, moss and ferns flowing amongst the trees.
After the walk through the massive cedar trees, it was hot and I needed a cold Coke, stopping at a local bar and cafe. The front door to the bar was freshly painted and intentionally blocked by a bench, so I went to a screen door on the side and entered into a dusty, junk-filled storeroom. On one wall there was a glass cooler with canned drinks, which I opened and grabbed a warm Coke. Looking to my right I saw a very stern woman glaring at me through a small doorway. "What are you doing?" she said bluntly. I stammered a little about needing a Coke and stepped through the little doorway where she'd appeared, only to find myself standing behind the bar. Four crusty locals sat directly in front of me across the bar, shocked at the sudden appearance of a huge man with a ponytail behind the counter. A long silence ensued as they unblinkingly stared, unsure of what to make of me. In the pregnant pause I jokingly said "Well, since I'm here, can I get anybody anything?"
"Free beer" was the quick response.
"OK, free beer for everybody!", I said laughingly, to which the old bartender lady to my left said "You do and I'll kick your ass" in her gravelly smoker's voice. She reminded me of a piece of jerky, small and with dark, leathery skin from a very rough life no doubt. Now I'm 6'4 and 250 lbs, and she was about 5'2 and 95 lbs, but I had no doubt she could have kicked my @ss.
I sheepishly paid for my Coke and a cup of ice and left.
At least the Montana Department of Transportation is honest...
Humiliated by a little old bartender lady but glad to still have my ass attached, I continued on up through grizzly country to Kootenai Falls. It was an awesome set of roaring rapids off the main road with a suspension foot bridge over the water. I was told this is where they filmed "The River Wild". The wind and cold spray off the roaring river was refreshing in the heat. You could sit there for hours and watch the massive power of the river.
What an awesome place.
After staggering around the trails and over the bridge in the sweltering heat, it was on to Libby and then Kalispell. From Kalispell it was 83 south to Missoula.
Libby still had a working drive-in movie
The exploratory drive had been nice and the choice of a pickup truck in the heat was a good one!
Though I had no desire to, I knew the time was approaching where I had to head back for Texas. The trip had been a life changer and what I wanted to do was stay in Montana much longer. Hell, I was ready to move there permanently. Nonetheless, I had a home and many other responsibilities almost 3000 miles away.
One of the best things about the ride had been the people I'd met on the trip. Some were riders who’d followed my postings online, and this day I'd been contacted by Steve from Florence who'd followed me online. He'd returned from a business trip before I had to leave and wanted to say hello.
We agreed to meet in Florence and Steve rolled up in a beautiful black Mustang. Not that I was jealous.
We grabbed a cold drink and talked bikes until he had to leave for his son's baseball game.
I continued on north to Missoula and dropped the GS at Big Sky BMW to get a new fuel pump installed before heading back to Texas. While there I checked out all the GS's in for service or just parked around. There were 1100's, 1150 GSA's, 1150's and 1200's. Tony in sales told me GS's were the main bike of choice around Montana.
After dropping the bike off, we hit Ft. Missoula and timed it such that the Vietnam traveling memorial - the "Wall" - had just opened for exhibit at the Fort. I've seen the real one in D.C. and this was a really moving experience to see as well.
While resting in the shade from the heat, one of the workers from the came over to chat. His name was John and he was from the Aspen area. John was a Viet Nam vet who had taken a year off to volunteer to travel with the exhibit. He said there are so many requests by cities for the traveling memorial to come through that it's years on the waiting list. They were about to have a ceremony in which the governor of Montana and other dignitaries would be speaking. It was a great experience to see the memorial and talk with John.
From there we headed up to a cabin being built in the mountains by Regis and ended up working on the cabin, of course. Installed a little rough cut siding and stained a wall, but mostly enjoyed the incredible views over the Bitterroot valley. From the gorge below I heard lots of gunfire and steel plates being rung by the bullets. After a bit, I heard a 4 wheeler fire up and in a few minutes a Can Am 4 wheeler pulled up to the cabin. It was a V Twin 800cc that sounded fantastic!
We were invited down to visit and after finishing up at the cabin stopped in to check it out. We met Randy the property owner and got a tour of the place. Randy was a 3 Gun Master shooter and firearms instructor and we talked shop for a long time. His buddy Dave was visiting from Alaska and they had been sitting on the porch enjoying a few beers and plinking at targets and steel plates.
Randy was selling his place, a 20 acre tract with all the buildings, including an original settlers log cabin and running spring. When I asked him why, Randy told me his story. He'd worked in Manhattan for a large company and one day, a floor above them painters had been repainting offices. After this, Randy and all his officemates began to get sick and some died. Randy was very ill and upon investigation, the painters had used some highly poisonous chemicals and not properly vented them. The air ducts had poisoned the entire department. Randy survived but was permanently disabled and had ongoing issues, with the knowledge he would eventually die. After a lawsuit, he received monies and bought a fifth wheel to travel in, eventually living between Montana and Arizona. His health had deteriorated to the point he couldn't continue the Montana upkeep.
I asked about Dave, who'd wandered off to the old settlers cabin soon after our arrival. He said Dave had been a sniper in the Viet Nam war and when he returned, couldn't integrate into society so he moved to Alaska and built a log cabin, living alone in the woods. He said Dave wasn't too comfortable around a lot of people and not to be offended by him retiring. I wasn't. Randy went into his trailer to show the others something.
Robert came back out of the old sagging cabin and walked over, sitting beside me at the shooting bench. I started asking questions relating to shooting and Dave engaged easily. We ended up shooting some together and laughing. Dave told me a story about Alaskan grizzlies. He said he and 3 others had been hired to build a big cabin in a remote area and when they set up camp, they found that grizzly bears would frequently come through, ignoring the shouts and even gunfire of the men who were attempting to scare them away. The number of grizzlies motivated them to quickly fell enough trees for a large one-room cabin to live in while building the other. He said the grizzlies continued hanging around their cabin.
Dave then described how they had a rope hanging inside the cabin that went out a hole above each door at each end. He said, "You never went out that door without first pulling on the rope a few times." He laughed and said they'd discovered that the only thing that scared the grizzlies away was banging rocks in a coffee can, so they'd hung an empty one gallon coffee can with rocks in it above the doors at each end and before you opened it, yanking on the rope rattled the can and scared away the bears.
I'd read many accounts of American military snipers, enough to realize how rare the man was who could do all the things required, far more than just being an extraordinary shot. I said "Dave, I just want to thank you for what you did in Viet Nam, and also wanted to let you know how much respect I have for you, you're a rare man." From deep within him came a sound I can only describe as a howl of pain and he quickly staunched it, unable to speak and unable to look. He got up in silence and walked away to the cabin. Unknowingly, I had touched such a deep wound that it almost scared me. Yet, I hoped that somehow he had heard my appreciation and could know that someone respected him. How many others bear such things silently, carrying weights we never see.
I have to say I have met the most interesting people in Montana. Folks are friendly and the common thread that seems to run through is the desire for freedom and independence with common sense and a desire to live a good life left alone.
A couple of days before leaving, Regis and Marilyn decided to show me a bit more of the area. We all piled into a car and headed out for Philipsburg to check out the town and an old mine. Philipsburg had a cute little downtown with souvenir shops where we scored some chocolate and other things before wandering over to the Granite ghost town.
Mine outside Philipsburg - aka Granite Ghost Town
There were a lot of abandoned buildings and equipment in the area and we had a lot of fun playing in the ruins of the huge place.
The last day before leaving Montana had arrived, with Regis and Marilyn inviting me to a huckleberry picking party near their cabin. Knowing that bears loved berries, I wasn't entirely thrilled at the prospect. Even less so when Regis handed Marilyn a revolver and strapped his on. I shoved my 44 in a fannypack and decided it would not leave my side. Ever.
We all piled in a pickup truck and rumbled our way up the mountain on the clear, sunny day, thankfully cooler since we were high in elevation, and picked our way down a trail to a large clearing. Following along, I looked more like Arnold Schwarzenegger carrying a machine gun through the jungle in Predator, slowly spinning and searching for bears.
We were each handed metal pails and they showed me what the berries looked like and proceeded to spread out over the meadow, bending down and picking them right and left. When we all assembled a little bit later, their pails were half full while I counted about 8 or 9 berries in mine. I'd spent my time watching for bears.
As the picking continued, I wandered a little ahead and then found an old stump torn open. A few feet away was a pile of poo that looked like what I'd imagine was bear poo. My senses went up for dang sure as did the hair on my neck.
Regis, who was an experienced outdoorsman was a ways away, so I looked ahead at a batch of trees. About the time he caught up with me, all the birds who'd been chirping away in the batch of trees went totally silent and when they did, his attention suddenly went to the wooded area I was watching. I hadn't had time to show him the bear sign or even speak to him, but he turned around and said "It's time for us to leave." Didn't have to tell me twice.
As much as we enjoyed the fresh huckleberries over ice cream, I had begun to wonder if they really were trying to kill me using a bear for an alibi - I mean first the camper incident and now the berry picking?