T+55: We Leave the Mountains

Mile 1422: Chinook, MT

After leaving the home of the Snyders’, we travel up US 2 to Columbia Falls.  It is a fairly busy, four-lane road, but it has wide shoulders and is pretty flat, so we scoot along.  About eight miles outside of town, there is an old gold Dodge truck parked in the shoulder.  We check to make no cars are coming and move into the lane to pass the truck.  As I go by, I see that there are people in the truck.   Something is obviously wrong.

I go up to the driver’s window on the truck to ask if they need help. There are two young people inside and the young woman wakes up, startled, but has the presence of mind to ask if I have a cell phone.  I go around to the passenger side.  A young, handsome, Native American male, shakes awake.  I pull out my cell phone and hand it to him.  He is unfamiliar with the workings of my Windows Phone, and cannot get the numbers in, so I end up entering the numbers.  While all this is going on, they explain that they ran out of gas at 3 a.m. the night before, and had been sleeping in the truck until they could get some help.  While he tries to get someone in Columbia Falls to come bring them some gas, I have chance to get a good look at them and make small talk.

The driver is a young woman, quite small and slender, with tousled blonde hair. She has big hazel eyes, deeply sunk into her sallow face.  When she smiles at me, she has a pretty, orthodontically correct grin, but it is marred by the tell-tale black edges of heavy meth use. She is probably 25.  He is shirtless, and his smooth chest has numerous scars and scrapes.  His smile is not yet marked by black, but his eyes are not focusing correctly.  He cajoles his correspondent to bring him some gas, “C’mon man, I’m just out here by the airport…just bring me some gas, ok?”  It is clear that the person on the other end is reluctant, but eventually agrees to bring them some gas.

Hearing that someone is coming to help them, we take our leave, and wish them well. They thank us effusively.  As we pedal, we ponder.  The truck ran out of gas in a fairly busy area.  There are gas stations and phones within easy walking distance.  It is well after 10 am, so they have been in that truck for more than 7 hours.  We speculate that they ran out of gas, then ran out of high at about the same time, and just fell asleep there.  We wonder if we are being unfair.  We don’t understand why they didn’t leave the truck to make a call, or walk to town, or do anything to change their situation.

When we get to Columbia Falls, and stop to update the blogs, we encounter more signs of rampant meth. Wes watches, in horror, while one young man who appears to be the brother of young woman, attempts to get her to eat something and then get in the truck with him.  She is cadaverous and wild; he is doing all he can to stay calm and not make a scene. 

Here we are at the gateway to Glacier Park.  There are scads of vacationers, recreation vehicles, trailers---families out for a final hurrah before school begins.   They pass by, fully self-enclosed, most likely oblivious to the street level destruction taking place around them.

The bike route takes us off busy Highway 2 to a back way to West Glacier.  As we ride along, we realize that this is very route that we had taken into Columbia Falls, years ago, when we had taken our wonderful Great Parks tour.  On that trip, we traveled from Jasper, Alberta to Yellowstone.  We went the back way through Glacier.  It was one of the most trying, but ultimately wonderful parts of trip.  We laugh and re-tell our stories of the rain and the train in the deer graveyard, having to hoist our bicycles over a giant scree pile, following the bear, and then finally passing into huge magnificent, empty mountain valleys where the only noise is the greeting call of a giant bald eagle.

This route ultimately turns away from the back country and through a hidden little housing development, then turns to gravel right at the confluence of the west and middle branches of the Flathead River.  We pause and look at the many, many people coming off their float and fishing trips right at this point.  A few more miles and we are back at the roaring traffic on Highway 2.  Our bad timing has us going to Glacier on one of the last weekends before school starts.  It is busy, so we better find a place to camp, and soon. 

Most of the campgrounds are full, but we happen to see one that says, “ RV Campground Full, Tents Only.”  It advertises something called a “Backcountry Bistro”.   It is a hard climb up to the site, but when we get there, we are very tickled.  It is run by two no-nonsense middle aged women, who from their accents and demeanor, could be Jewish matrons from Brooklyn.  They deal with a never-ending stream of vacationers, “How was your trip…oh you drove from Medicine Hat…that’s a long drive… you must be tired…well let us get you into your site.  It’s a good one.  You’ll have lots of trees.  Do you know where the restrooms are…”  Unlike so many campgrounds, there are flowers, a commons room with magazines and thoughtful seating arrangements around the children’s play area.  Attentive womanly touches. 

Although we are perched on a hill, and completely surrounded by other campers, there is privacy and it is a good camp.  Wes and I make our way to the bistro.  Wes says he is looking forward to being inside and that is one of the things he has discovered on this trip.  We laugh when we see the “bistro” is a bunch of picnic tables under a wood awning.  There is an open kitchen at the end.  The menu is pure Southern food.  We choose the catfish, grits, and greens.  They apologize profusely and tell us they couldn’t get the greens this week: would a salad do?  The food is delicious, if surprising, in very northern Montana.  Back at our campsite, I play my penny whistle and visit with the 70 year old New Yorkers who have come for the umpteenth time to backpack into the backcountry of Glacier.  I am filled with admiration at their gumption.

The next day, we are up early to begin our push over Marias Pass, which will take us over the Continental Divide and end our mountain sojourn.  Traveling in the mountains and trees, which have been doing pretty much since we left Portland, has been both beautiful and challenging.  We have been traveling very slowly and can see the time ticking away.  Once we cross this Continental Divide, we enter the miles and miles of the Great Plains.  We know the terrain will be easier, but it will probably be some of the hardest miles of the journey.  We are ready, but also nervous.

Marias Pass is the lowest pass on the divide at only 5200 feet.  We climb steadily, but fairly easily from West Glacier.  Through the park, there are minimal shoulders and it is not very pleasant.  We are following the Flathead River and seeing lots of floaters and fishers.   When we stop for lunch, we are warned to stop at the Halfway House in Essex.  If we leave there, we will be committed to make the rest of the pass without stopping as there are no services.  When we get there, it is still early afternoon.  We know we do not have the wherewithal to go another 20 miles over a pass.  There are no rooms at the motel, so they let us camp in their backyard.  We hang out in the restaurant, visit with the locals and travelers.  We are worried at how slow we have been traveling.

 

We got to Whitefish on Wednesday.  It is now Saturday: as the crow flies, we have only come about 50 miles.  This is not good.  The next morning, we are up early, have a hellacious climb out of the Flathead Valley, then a completely smooth and rideable, if long and uphill, amble to the Continental Divide.  We take the mandatory pictures and expect a big downhill to East Glacier.  No, the ride down is like the ride up.  There are no long coasts.  In fact, there are a variety of big hills. 

We make to East Glacier and decide to stay in the last Glacier Park Hotel, one of the grand edifices in the “Parkitecture” style.  We revel at the lobby with its twenty-four 40 foot Douglas Fir pillars, but are not so pleased with the high-priced, but less than average food, and the general lack of amenities and service in the expensive, old fashioned room.  We are not surprised when we read in the local paper that the concessionaire will be replaced in the next season.

When we climb out of the valley, we stop at look back at the mountains which rim the skyline from north to south.  Wes sings, once again, “So long, it’s been good to know you…”  We face the treeless east and push on.

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Posted from Saco, MT