Hippie/Cowboy/Scholar Funkytown

During my recent visit to Montana, I began to suspect that every single Montanan I spoke with was a Chamber of Commerce or Visitors Bureau plant.

It started in Billings with Carol, the owner of the KOA where I stayed. And then there was artist Tracy Linder, artist in residence at the Yellowstone Art Museum.

Bozeman rest stop.

Eileen, manning the coffee.

Next, on my way to Missoula, I pulled over to a rest stop. But it wasn't a typical quick pull off the freeway on the right and merge back on. No. I had to exit, wait at a light, turn left, go back over the highway, turn left again, then pull around to the parking lot of the prettiest little rest stop I have ever seen. Inside the lobby area (yes, there was a lobby area) were two tables set up with pastries, Danishes, muffins, doughnuts, coffee.  Steve and Eileen were manning the tables that day for the Lions Club of Bozeman. Steve told me that they do this every Wednesday and Thursday during the summer as a fundraiser. The Lions, in turn, donate eye glasses and hearing aides to students who need ,and award a scholarship each year to a graduating senior.  They have also given books to every single student in the primary grades for Christmas. I guess Montana doesn't have that church/state thing going on. My own dad was a Lion, and when Steve learned that, he admonished me to tell my father to "get active again." Ok - Dad - get active again.

View from the "M" on Mt. Sentinel above Missoula and the University of Montana.

But Missoula is by far the funkiest Western city I have been in so far.

A girl wearing dreds and riding a skateboard barefoot down the street, waves good morning to a guy in a suit, stops and talks briefly, then they both go on. It is clear that neither one knows the other.

Mattie, a University of Montana graduate, moves to New York City, dances professionally for five years, moves back to Missoula and opens a high-end women's clothing store. (And trust me, it's high-end. The lovely silk dress I lusted after was $625.) Not only is his business thriving, he's built a loyal clientele, just bought a house and dances with a local company.

Marilyn Parker, a charming lady I met at the U of Montana bookstore while she was looking for a Grizzlies t-shirt for the first football game (it had to be white because it is so hot at those first games - and she got sunburned last year) told me that there is no place better on earth. She's biased, of course. Marilyn was head of admissions for years once her husband stopped moving all over the world. (He was with the CIA. We can say that now that he's retired.)

And Chris Williams, owner of Alpine Canine, a dog hiking service. You make a reservation, Chris shows up with his burnt orange panel bus, loads up your dog with several others and takes them all up in the hills/mountains for a long-ass hike. The whole pack sleeps tangled up together during the ride home. He says he can't imagine being anywhere else.

Eric, who works in graphic services at the U, was kind enough to try to answer my questions about the University of Montana press. He said that he and his wife and kids moved back once his children were old enough to start school. He said he wouldn't live anywhere else.

And downtown Missoula is a real downtown. The original big square 19th century buildings are still there, with a few new ones thrown in, or extensive rehabs on the old ones here and there. I did not see a Walmart (important). I did not see a Bed, Bath & Beyond. I'm told that they're there somewhere. I just didn't see them.

The University of Montana was founded in 1893, its first five red brick buildings designed by the same architect. University Hall and its similarly styled siblings are happily situated on an oval, the U's version of a quad. Mount Sentinel rears behind University Hall and its still-working clock tower. The mount is adorned with a gigantic concrete "M" that the Forestry Club members formed in 1908.

University Hall at University of Montana in Missoula.

My last day in town I hiked the "M". The trail climbs approximately 620 feet up with 11 switchbacks. It took me about 20 minutes to get up there. Gasping. Then I decided to go on to the top of Mt. Sentinel. I didn't quite make it because I had to get back to the hotel and check out. But I know I was close.

Oh, by the way - the University of Montana has a first class Creative Writing department. I need more publications before I can be considered as an instructor, so instead I'm gunning for the University Press. Suffice it to say I could see myself in Missoula.

Next, on to Whitefish and Glacier National Park.

Bighorn Battlefield, Kamping with a "K" and the Visible Vault

Casper to Billings, MT was an easy drive, comparatively. Only four or five hours on Interstate. Speed limits out here are aggressive - 75 mph - and everyone drives like they mean it.

When I saw the sign for Little Bighorn Battlefield National Monument, I pulled in. For those of you who were passing notes to Jimmy Bowman during U.S. History when you should have been listening, the Little Bighorn is where Lt. Col. George Armstrong Custer and his 7th Cavalry met their demise under a hail of arrows shot by warriors of several Indian nations. Two highlights; the first, a stellar interpretive lecture by a park ranger complete with dramatic pauses and the conclusion, "Now you know more about the Battle of Little Bighorn than Custer did."

The second, a memorial to the Native warriors and all the different Nations that united for a common cause - to repel the blue coats and stop the white invaders. The U.S. Indian policy and resultant genocide still outrage my heart. This is a haunting monument, designed as a circular earthwork carved into the prairie. From inside, the Cavalry obelisk is visible through the "spirit gate" which symbolically welcomes the Cavalry dead into the sacred circle. The interior walls show the names/tribes of those women children and warriors who fell in the fight for their lands and way of life. The picture above is the iron sculpture on the monument by Native artist Colleen Cutschall.

Since I couldn't find the price I wanted for lodging, and The Warbonnet Inn didn't look too promising, I reserved a Kamping Kabin at the world's first KOA campground.  KKs are one room structures with room for four - bunk beds for the kiddies and a full-sized bed for ma and pa. It is, essentially, a tent with walls and an air conditioner - and a porch swing which made me decide I want one in my living room. (Note to landlord.) The KOA is just out of hearing range of I-90 by the Yellowstone River in Billings. A trail runs next to the Yellowstone, more primitive than what was in Casper - euphemistically referred to as a "nature trail." Lots of insectual wildlife (read: grasshoppers). Along the way I met Carol, the owner of the campground and two others, walking with her rescued Westhighland terrier, Buddy. Buddy was a cautious guy, but finally did sniff at my running shoes. Kabin impressions: The Mennonite family that camped behind me, mom and the girl in violet floral ankle-length dresses and small bonnets, Dad and sons in typical guy street wear. Nineteenth century meets cargo pants casual. They all camped in a tent, and not a peep after 10 p.m. quiet time.  But I noticed that both mom and dad had cells phones. Then there was the guy in the cabin next to me who pulled up the morning I left with a pickup truck, tarp pulled over the box. When I walked back from the shower, I noticed the tarp pulled back to reveal a whole box of plastic bags - grocery bags, department store bags - all full. And him, standing at the fire grate feeding papers into the fire. (I saw nothing, officer, really.) Kabin life was pretty sweet, especially that porch swing, but I've decided that I want a bathroom closer than 50 yards away.

One of Billings' treasures is the Yellowstone Art Museum (YAM). Formerly the county jail, an updated facade has been built onto the front of the original building. On the main floor, the museum boasts a young artists gallery full of art created by high school students (and it's good), a consignment gallery, and three galleries for changing shows.Currently, those three adjacent galleries host a Polly Apfelbaum show called "Mini Hollywood", referring to one of three places that spaghetti westerns were filmed. Wide swaths of fabric stretch across the floors as though just rolled off the bolt, irridescent or sequined strips that create a shimmering aura in peripheral vision as you pass by them. The effect is disorienting and disquieting, but for all that I confess that I have never been a huge fan of conceptual minimalism, and if too much has to be explained before I walk in, I'm already annoyed. It seemed that this exhibit was something akin to kids playing with fabric and saying, "hey, if I do this ... isn't that cool?" And it is. But three galleries?

The real attraction at YAM is on the second floor in the John Buck exhibit of kinetic sculpture and woodblock prints. Buck is married to Deborah Butterfield (creator of Ruanji at the Palm Springs Art Museum - she's a sculptress who does only horses) and they live in Montana.  Buck is an artist that takes on the universe - literally. One of his sculptures is literally a globe with several societal icons orbiting it. The whole thing is wild, all carved wood and moving parts. I tried to find an image but could not. You'll have to go to PSAM where they have pieces of his work, or search the Web.

The true delight of visiting the museum was going across the street to the Visible Vault where the permanent collection can be viewed. Also in that building is studio space for an artist in residence. The woman at the desk failed to tell me this, so when I walked in I think both the artist and I were a little startled. Collection? There's a collection here? I was too fascinated by what Tracy Linder was assembling - cow faces in 3/4 profile, all identical, molded from virgin white cotton paper fiber. Hard to explain, but striking to see. Four or five were complete and on the wall. A few more were in various stages of assemblage and Tracy and I chatted while she patted fiber into a mold, sponged it, patted it, strained more paper, repeated the process. Her work strips the context away from the mundane, elevating it to a spiritual level. Sugar beets made of resin suspended from the ceiling, worn leather gloves treated to stay in various poses, and wings (pictured above) from her show called "Windswept."  Tracy is fed by the Montana plains and lives near Billings on a farm with her husband. Go to her website to learn more about her - www.tracylinder.com. Fabulous, striking, thoughtful work. And a delightful person.

On to Missoula to explore the University of Montana.

To Casper

The drive from Grand Junction to Casper was punctuated by rain storms, the clouds and I moving by each other like a big algebraic equation - if the storm leaves California at 3 a.m. and I leave Grand Junction at 11 a.m., at what time will I and my aging yet surprisingly nimble BMW have to pull off windy Hwy 13 in Hamilton, CO? The answer to that is approximately 1 p..m. at which time I sat with the fog lights on in front of the Hamilton Community Center, one of two buildings in Hamilton, the other a boarded up market peppered with For Sale signs.I spread peanut butter on a cracked wheat roll while 18 wheelers and Ford F-12million-something pickup trucks blasted by, swamping the car windows as they passed.

By the time I reached the mine stacks of Rawlins, WY, I needed gas and a potty break and pried my white knuckles off of the steering wheel.The Loaf'n'Jug pump rejected my card, and their bathroom not only had toilets that would not flush, but also stall doors that would not lock. I was not about to settle my lily white on one of those. So off I went through Rawlins, to the next Loaf'n'Jug on the other edge of town where the pumps weren't working because of a recent lightning strike ("Yeah, our power's been down so I had to re-boot everything. Try again.") My card still didn't work. But restrooms were immaculate-by Loaf'n'Jug standards, anyway. So off I went to the next outpost. Where, once again, my card was rejected. When I went to hand the attendant a $20 to pre-pay, he asked if I had been traveling a lot, and if I had, I might want to contact the card company.

Indeed, Wells Fargo's computer had noticed that my card had traveled to five states in less than ten days and had suspended its privileges. Why not? It had been zigging and zagging willy-nilly to Target, Big O, Ulta, Target, Conoco, Safeway, Target ...A smart yet inconvenient act to suspend it. Once I proved that I am who I am, and provided a loose itinerary for the next month, my card was reset and I moved on toward Casper.

The Casper La Quinta Inn is located convenient to the North Platte River Parkway trail and the ballpark where the Casper Ghosts (not making it up) play Legion ball. When I checked in, the young woman behind the desk asked me for my card for what she called incidentals.
"Incidentals?" I asked.
"Incidentals," she nodded.
"Incidentals." I stated.
"Yes, incidentals." She stared at me as though I were a not very bright child. "If you break something."
Ahhh. "Well in that case maybe you should call them accidentals."
She was not amused.

The next morning, after enjoying a run on the trail by the river, I was secreting cream cheese and ketchup packets in my purse from the complementary breakfast bar when a friend called. She was in the Phoenix airport, embarking on the first leg of a trip to Venice where she would meet a cruise ship. Istanbul, Greece, etc. - she was preparing to do it all. And then asked me where I was.
"Casper." I said.
"Casper? Casper where?"
"Wyoming." I answered. "On my way to Billings, Montana."
Silence. I could hear the smile in her voice when she replied.
"That sounds great. How's it going? Your adventure?"
I felt defensive. "Well, it's not Venice or anything."
She went on to say that it's all unfolding or something. Yeah, yeah, yeah. But it's not Venice.

Driving up I-25, I looked out at the landscape and it occurred to me that I have no real interest in being in Venice right now. Nor anywhere else besides right here. Venice can wait.

This land humbles me.

Exactly NOT like "Eat, Pray, Love"

For three weeks this summer I was a teaching assistant for a writing course at an academic summer camp. The program focuse on academically advanced kids; the ones I was teaching are in middle and high school. One student, I'll call her Francesca, began every workshop with, "I really liked it because it was about (blank) and I also have experienced (blank)." After hearing this a few times, the instructor told the student that while being able to relate to a piece of writing is a start, we must go beyond that and actually look at the work itself, at its guts, its craft. In order to understand it, we go beyond the surface. If the only comment I can come up with is, "I liked this because it reminds me of me," my powers of discernment are faulty.

I have noticed a similar phenomenon in my personal life. When I decided to travel after my teaching stint, a few well-meaning friends said, "Oh, just like Eat, Pray, Love!" It is true that I am similar to Elizabeth Gilbert in a few ways. I am blonde. I am a writer. And there may be even more commonalities between us. Yes, my divorce was final June 25th. And yes, I love to eat and am beginning to deal with that compulsion. I also enjoy an expanding spiritual life. And yes, I am a writer working on a project that requires traveling. But my trip resembles "Eat, Pray, Love" as much as my brother's last camping trip resembled Krakauer's "Into the Wild."

If this experience is compared to anything, I would rather it be compared to Annie Proulx's "Fine Just the Way It Is," or Ian Frazier's "Great Plains." Or Richard Ford's "Rock Springs." William Least Heat-Moon's "Blue Highways." This trip is not just about me. It is about place, about family, about environment. Saying one experience or one piece of writing is "just like" another is dismissive and devaluing and indicates that the work is no longer itself, but a brand; evocative, but essentially meaningless. A caricature of itself. Suddenly when a woman between the ages of forty and seventy takes a trip, it is dubbed "Eat, Pray, Love."

With 7 million copies of E,P,L in print, Gilbert has reached writer rock star status. I won't say that being on just about everybody's best seller list for a year or more isn't appealing. But I will not devalue my work by saying it's just like someone else's.

Altitude, 2

Powderhorn ski area lift 1, about 10,000 ft.

We started in GJ at 4,600 feet, drove up the Grand Mesa (the largest flat-topped mountain in the world) to 9,800 feet, then hiked for three hours. Screaming headache by the time we got back down the mountain, but according to the calorie calculator, I burned 787.31 calories trekking those six miles. On the trail, we gained about 1,300 in elevation, so by the time we got to this point, we were slightly over 10,000 feet. Moving on to Casper, WY today where I'll stay one night (is there anything of interest in Casper? I'm sure there must be) then I'll drive on to Billings, MT where I will stay at the first KOA campground in the world for two nights. I'll visit the University of Montana and see if they'll give me a job at their small press. Then on to ... I don't know. But I'm still thinking about Eat, Pray, Love and how much my trip does not resemble hers

Just below Powderhorn, most photographed in Colorado

Altitude

Santa Cruz on Monterrey Bay - elevation 0. Sea level.  Through the Sierras - highest elevation I passed was 9,000 feet. Now I'm at 4,600 feet. I know, the image is stunning and no, it's not fake. This is the view from my father's front window - Colorado National Monument in Grand Junction, CO which is about 6,200 feet. Currently, I am visiting my father (who retired here after a 30+ year education career in Minnesota) and my brother, who moved here after Scottsdale became entirely too ... well, Scottsdale. I admit I love it here, even though somebody famous referred to it as "Grand Junkyard." Can't remember who. Or what the occasion happened to be. No matter. Awesome hiking and running, even though I gasp like a beached carp. More to come about eating, praying and loving. Really. Look out.

Day 1, Mountains

My ex-husband (wuzband) said that when he saw downtown L.A. from the 10, his gonads tried to migrate upwards back to where they were prior to his puberty. This is how I feel when I look down from heights, including, but not limited to, mountains, world's highest buildings, stepladders. I read somewhere, years ago, that we are born with two fears: loud noises, and falling. In general, a person falls from a height. Unless you are a klutz, in which case you can fall from a kneeling position.

Despite this fear, when I left Santa Cruz I decided that I would drive through Yosemite on my way to visit my father in Grand Junction, Colorado. I understood that there would be heights involved and did it anyway.

Road, Prologue

On Saturday, August 7, I drove my not-quite-loaded-yet BMW to W. Cliff Drive in Santa Cruz, CA to say goodbye to the Pacific Ocean. That is, I went to say good-bye to my ocean, since I had become possessive of it in my two months. I would say good-bye to my redwoods the next day.

I didn't understand at first my connection with the ocean. Having grown  up as a land-locked Midwesterner, I had seen the Pacific exactly once before moving to California in 2005. And I didn't move to a beach front - I relocated to Palm Desert, which is, as the name indicates, a desert. On the surface, it appears that I should have absolutely no affinity for wet, salty waves, since I object to being anywhere that I become part of the food chain as soon as I dip in a toe. What eventually became obvious was this: horizon. I grew up in a tabletop flat river valley, moved to another flat river valley, then to a flat desert valley. Clearly, I crave the wide open space, and the ocean is just another wide open space.

So I said good-bye, and left at 8:30 a.m. Sunday, August 8 to venture east.