Long Ago and Faraway

Excerpt from my journal, one year and 3 weeks ago...

People who want to be philosophers or poets should come to Montana. The air, the water, the mountains, and the forests – at least one of these are bound to inspire reverence.

It is the water and the mountains that inspire me. Once I hit the Missions and Flathead Lake in the northwestern tip of the state, I immediately yearn to stop my car, grab a few things out of the back, and head out to see where the wind takes me.

After spending six months in Montana, I feel only the most superficial familiarity with all the landscape has to offer. After all, as a native easterner, I have no point of reference or comparison for such topography.

In order to get to Kintla Lake, we crossed the ice-cold rushing waters of the Flathead River. The water was waist deep and with a full pack and skis sticking up the back, we were glad we made it across. With each step our confidence drained as the power of the water and sheer coldness made it impossible to feel or think about anything. We hiked up an embankment of snow that was also waist deep. We only had to go about a quarter of a mile to get to the trail. The sheer difficulty of moving through snow that deep took us over two and a half hours. When we finally reached the trail to begin skiing the sun was heading west down below the mountains. We skied in four miles and set up camp.

It was a cold night, as one would expect from a Montana winter. For nights such as these, whiskey was invented. In our tent, with all the layers we owned on, a flask of whiskey was passed around, and shortly after, we felt warm and exhausted enough to sleep.

The next morning we woke up stiff from the cold. As we skied on, we saw three sets of fresh mountain lion tracks – our hosts had known we spent the night. Farther up, was a fresh white tail deer antler shed, the blood and smell still lingering on the end that dropped. The deer was not more than a few years old but it was well fed and the antlers had begun to branch, indicating that if this deer lived, he would grow into a large buck.

Upon return to the front country, it is Montana culture to go to the nearest town and go into the first bar. To uphold this ritual, we stopped in Polebridge, which does not constitute much of a town, although it technically has its own zip code. Polebridge consists of the Northern Lights Saloon and the Mercantile. Around these two main establishments sits a few cabins inhabited by the family that runs the town. In the summer, the saloon serves the finest pizza on Fridays often with impromptu live music from one of the regulars. However, this visit to the saloon consisted of the three of us and the bartender, Heather. Drinks were had we left to drive up the North Fork Road.

Some mention must be made of the North Fork Road in the sense that to anyone of northwest Montana, it remains the truest representation of the state. The closest town is anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour depending on how far up the road you are. Closer to town the road becomes paved but the “true” North Fork is still dirt and dust. There exists a magical moment every time the pavement ends and the car hits the dirt.