Bozeman
BOZEMAN, MT, March 30th, 2005. Well, since I’ve been getting multiple requests as to where the hell I am, and what the hell I’m doing, here’s an update:
I’m holed up in Bozeman, Montana for now. I’ve got myself a room in a downtown motel, plenty of space for papers and assorted travel junk like cooler, coffee machine, computer, wet ski boots and other crap. The room’s over the office, so I’ve got a wireless internet connection, and a good view of the trucks rolling down the main street. The bed’s a bit itchy though, so I may have to review my domicile.
There seems to be two kinds of town here in Montana – university towns, which have female patrons in the bars, and shit-kicker, fur-trapping, mining towns which don’t. Mining town Butte, where I got snowed in, is notable for its many bars. Sixty, according to my bartender. That’s about one for every ten residents. The mine shut in 1982, coincidentally the same year the whore-house closed, most people left, the bars however remained.
I crossed Monida Pass last Tuesday, about a week ago. The pass separates Idaho and the rest of the world from Montana, and was icy, snow-packed and desolate -- my first taste of just how remote it is up here. I had to double back for a bit, as a well-advertised, promised gas station was bloody closed – disconcerting, because I knew that a storm was only a few hours behind me. Transpired it was indeed a good idea to get down I-80 fast, even if it meant I didn’t get time to stop at the Crazy Horse and get myself some 'rest & relaxation' and a beer. In fact, all the interstate passes through Nevada, which I had just barreled through got hit hard by that storm. You quickly get used to maintaining at least a quarter, or half-full tank around here. Unlike L.A., where we all run around on fumes.
Slithering down the other side of the pass into Montana I realized what everyone was talking about -- this state is staggeringly beautiful with huge, rolling orange and burnt-umber valleys with glacial mountain backdrops; and the founding fathers weren’t kidding when they called the towns names like Big Sky and Big Mountain. It’s all very ‘river runs through it.’ Not touristy though -- it’s pretty much all geared towards skiing, killing animals, drinking hard liquor, building Wal-Marts, the exploitation of Indians and the plundering of mineral wealth.
Easter night was fun. I was sheltered-up in the fur-trapping, glacial outpost of Whitefish, in yet another storm. At least there are plenty of bars in Montana, unlike the bible belt, not a bad state to get snowed-in. I missed the furniture races at the ski resort Easter afternoon. The locals strap old sofas and recliners to skis and charge down the black runs to celebrate end of season. I missed it due to the fact that I was in town yakking to a bewitching bartender called Wendy, who unfortunately had a fiancé in Myrtle Beach, where she was going to move to. The prime benefit to moving to Myrtle Beach, other than that her fiancé lived there, was that there are malls -- unlike in Whitefish, where you can just about buy some fishing tackle and a tent, maybe a bowie knife to skin a beaver (if there were any left,) or a few gallons of bear-hide tanning oil, let alone all the stuff Wendy was dreaming about. Anyway, she was great, and it was my first female contact in a week, so sofa races came second.
I successfully managed to chip a back tooth last night on some fine, but rock-hard French bread here in town. It doesn’t hurt and I think I’m going to skip the dentist for a bit. I’ve got a feeling this is the kind of place where dentistry involves a set of rusty pliers and a bottle of whiskey. I’ll wait until I’m back in the south. Anyway, it adds to the authenticity of the expedition. Lewis & Clark’s men were bothered by all sorts of boils and matters medical, I’m sure teeth was one of them.
In fact, I’m having a bit of a problem with the diet. It’s basically meat, or more meat – elk, bison, cow, but meat nonetheless, and I’m getting sick of meat. What with all the rivers around here, you’d think they could cook up a trout once in a while. Maybe the trout hibernate along with the grizzly bears? as any sensible animal should probably do. I will investigate further.
I’m holed up in Bozeman, Montana for now. I’ve got myself a room in a downtown motel, plenty of space for papers and assorted travel junk like cooler, coffee machine, computer, wet ski boots and other crap. The room’s over the office, so I’ve got a wireless internet connection, and a good view of the trucks rolling down the main street. The bed’s a bit itchy though, so I may have to review my domicile.
There seems to be two kinds of town here in Montana – university towns, which have female patrons in the bars, and shit-kicker, fur-trapping, mining towns which don’t. Mining town Butte, where I got snowed in, is notable for its many bars. Sixty, according to my bartender. That’s about one for every ten residents. The mine shut in 1982, coincidentally the same year the whore-house closed, most people left, the bars however remained.
I crossed Monida Pass last Tuesday, about a week ago. The pass separates Idaho and the rest of the world from Montana, and was icy, snow-packed and desolate -- my first taste of just how remote it is up here. I had to double back for a bit, as a well-advertised, promised gas station was bloody closed – disconcerting, because I knew that a storm was only a few hours behind me. Transpired it was indeed a good idea to get down I-80 fast, even if it meant I didn’t get time to stop at the Crazy Horse and get myself some 'rest & relaxation' and a beer. In fact, all the interstate passes through Nevada, which I had just barreled through got hit hard by that storm. You quickly get used to maintaining at least a quarter, or half-full tank around here. Unlike L.A., where we all run around on fumes.
Slithering down the other side of the pass into Montana I realized what everyone was talking about -- this state is staggeringly beautiful with huge, rolling orange and burnt-umber valleys with glacial mountain backdrops; and the founding fathers weren’t kidding when they called the towns names like Big Sky and Big Mountain. It’s all very ‘river runs through it.’ Not touristy though -- it’s pretty much all geared towards skiing, killing animals, drinking hard liquor, building Wal-Marts, the exploitation of Indians and the plundering of mineral wealth.
Easter night was fun. I was sheltered-up in the fur-trapping, glacial outpost of Whitefish, in yet another storm. At least there are plenty of bars in Montana, unlike the bible belt, not a bad state to get snowed-in. I missed the furniture races at the ski resort Easter afternoon. The locals strap old sofas and recliners to skis and charge down the black runs to celebrate end of season. I missed it due to the fact that I was in town yakking to a bewitching bartender called Wendy, who unfortunately had a fiancé in Myrtle Beach, where she was going to move to. The prime benefit to moving to Myrtle Beach, other than that her fiancé lived there, was that there are malls -- unlike in Whitefish, where you can just about buy some fishing tackle and a tent, maybe a bowie knife to skin a beaver (if there were any left,) or a few gallons of bear-hide tanning oil, let alone all the stuff Wendy was dreaming about. Anyway, she was great, and it was my first female contact in a week, so sofa races came second.
I successfully managed to chip a back tooth last night on some fine, but rock-hard French bread here in town. It doesn’t hurt and I think I’m going to skip the dentist for a bit. I’ve got a feeling this is the kind of place where dentistry involves a set of rusty pliers and a bottle of whiskey. I’ll wait until I’m back in the south. Anyway, it adds to the authenticity of the expedition. Lewis & Clark’s men were bothered by all sorts of boils and matters medical, I’m sure teeth was one of them.
In fact, I’m having a bit of a problem with the diet. It’s basically meat, or more meat – elk, bison, cow, but meat nonetheless, and I’m getting sick of meat. What with all the rivers around here, you’d think they could cook up a trout once in a while. Maybe the trout hibernate along with the grizzly bears? as any sensible animal should probably do. I will investigate further.
posted by Patrick Nelson at 3:08 PM
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