Little Bighorn

Last night found me in Hardin, Montana.  The big chains and the RV parks all were asking  far more than I could afford. There were no national forests nearby and the weather forecasters were talking about yet another storm. (They were wrong, of course.) I went further into town and found a mom and pop motel which had reasonable rates, a speedy wi fi system, so fast I could Skype with Gary.  It is always nice to see his smiling face.

This morning I was up early to go to Little Big Horn National Battlefield to beat the heat and the tourists.  I got there right at nine in time to hear a lecture by a Native American park ranger.  A few years ago, the Park Service added native Americans to their interpretive staff.

She gave a sprightly lecture on what went wrong for George Armstrong Custer.  He was there to get "untreatied" Sioux to move out of the area, either by getting them in reservations or simply killing them. 

He didn't listen to his Crow scouts, who told him there was an enormous Sioux encampment, some estimate at 8,000.  To sneak up on this village, he left the pack mules behind...carrying all the extra ammunition.  He instructed his troops to leave their sabers behind because they rattled.  Their rifles fired one shot at a time and often jammed. 

Then there were the troops, raw kids who were there because they needed the $13 a month, food and a place to sleep each night.  Forty-four percent were foreign born and didn't speak English very well.

Add to that that the other two generals didn't like Custer all that much.  Once the troops started firing on the village, their fate was sealed.

You might think the ranger was only telling us the Sioux side in the battle, but that wasn't true, because she was Crow and perhaps descended from one of Custer's scouts. 

It was a moving talk, full of descriptions of the battle.  Afterwards, I told her that my great-great-great grandfather was a German who was drafted into the Civil War.  In those days, they used non-English speakers as gravediggers, which made more sense that taking 125 Germans into battle with the Sioux.

I also noticed that recently, the Sioux, depending on oral tradition and the location of ammunition, now have their own markers.  However, theirs are made of granite while the soldiers markers are of marble.  Given that marble wears out faster than granite, in another hundred years, the site could well be a memorial not to Custer and his men but to their opponents.

By 10:30 the RVs were rolling in and I was driving out.  I was heading to a possible campground in the Custer National Forest but when I got there, I found one had been wiped out by flooding and was being worked on.  The other, Shale Rock, had improved campsites, but alfalfa had taken over.  Did I really want to spend the day in an alfalfa field?

I drove three miles back to Ashland, the closest town to eat lunch and think about my options.  I was waited on by a handsome boy who shared the newspaper he had been reading with me.  I asked him about Shale Rock. 

"I don't know," he said.  "I never go in that direction."

"Why not?"

"The reservation ends in Ashland." 

And there he was, a young Sherman Alexie, caught in his culture and afraid to move out of it.  I wonder what will happen to a boy like that. 

Have things changed so much since Custer?

Now I am driving east on the same highway that took me west.  Four more camping nights and I will be home.

West Boulder River Campground

There is a time in a trip when you figure it's just about over and you get anxious for it to be over.  Home sounds so good.

That is when the adventures start happening.

I wanted to camp one more time in the Gallitin National Forest, one of my favorites.  I stopped at the National Forest Ranger station here in Big Timber.  The woman at the desk said I probably should camp at an RV camp.  The campgrounds were pretty remote.

Sounded good to me.  It certainly sounded even better when I found out the children's librarian, Jacque, had camped there two weeks before.  I set out.  It is almost 30 miles to West Boulder Campground, much of it on gravel roads with many potholes.  I took it slow.  I found the river access but after four miles I became discouraged.  It was open range with cattle and horses everywhere.  Was I on the right road? I doubted it.

I turned back and met some guys working on a bridge.  Nope, you were right in the first place, they said.  I turned around and headed back.  The delay was perfect because two miles before the campground, a black bear and her yearling cub ran across the road right in front of me.

It was the second  bear sighting of the trip, the first being in Wisconsin on the day I left.

I was the only camper.  A few fishermen were at the river, but no one had taken a campsite.  It looked like a quiet day.  I sat in my folding chair and read most of the afternoon, then caught up on journaling.  After a bit, I started hiking around and ran into Tom.  Tom is the organizer of a group of ten fishermen who rent out the cabin in the campground for fourteen days.  They are long time friends from around the United States who come and go as they can find the time.

Tom took me over to see the cabin, which is an old log structure built decades ago.  Then he invited me to come over for supper.

That's how I found myself that evening with Tom, from northern Kentucky, Joe from Akron, and Keith from Michigan's Upper Peninsula. 

They fed me trout.  Gary had insisted that some time in this fisherman's paradise (remember the book and movie A River Runs Through It) I order trout at a restaurant in honor of Hemingway.  In fact, none of them serve trout, just the usual cod.

We laughed and talked and formed a friendship. 

Then I went back to my car.  With sprinkles now and then, I thought I would sleep in it, instead of having to pack away a wet tent.

I slept exceptionally well, and headed back to Big Timber to do my laundry.  On the way I saw dozens of deer, a flock of turkeys, and free range cattle and horses.   At one point I had to shush a cow and her calf off the road so I could pass.

But when I returned to Big Timber it was to find out that the laundromat had gone out of business and the new laundromat wouldn't open for another two weeks.  

I wish I had stayed at West Boulder campground a few more hours. 

Eastward Bound

Only four children came to the August library performance, and three of those came because I talked to them in the park the night before.  With only 274 people in the village and many of those on vacation, that was fine. 

Then it was Lincoln, Montana for a second performance and after that my final drive over the Great Divide.  Cool weather has come to the west so there were no car problems.

I drove through incredible scenery until I finally got tired at Wilsall.  I went to the grocery store and asked about camping.  Go to the motel the clerk told me. 

I don't want a motel, I said.

You can camp there, she said, and called ahead.  That's how I wound up at Fort Wilsall Motel, which is not historic, it just looks like a fort, with a wooden stake fence surrounding several small log units.  I could stay in one of them, rent a tepee, or just throw up my own tent.  I opted for the tent. 

What was amazing was the bath house.  Here was a shower, a flush toilet, running water all in a big room.  Here were the nicest toilet facilities I had in the trip.  The shower's floor was made up of slabs of rock.

I ate ate supper at the local bar.  In these small towns, the restaurants are fabulous.  Gary thought there might be trout considering all the fishing that goes on in these parts, but no, just the usual cod.  Still good.

I slept well with no rooster to slay.  The mosquitoes are horrendous in these parts, but none entered my tent.  This morning I watched tree swallows feed their offspring in one was supposed to be a bluebird house.  The youngsters made a racket and they vied for the tasty mosquitoes their parents brought.  Tree swallows are about the best mosquito preventative there is.

So now I am going eastward.   I will camp once more in the Gallatin National Forest, as I did so many years ago.  I am feeling euphoric as I get closer to home, but there is the sadness of knowing that by tomorrow, the white capped mountains will be behind me.  When will I see them again?

Augusta, Montana

I couldn't face another night in a motel.  Nothing ever happens in those cubicles.  You hardly talk to anyone but the desk clerk.  You get reacquainted with terrible television.  You catch up on the bad news.  Who needs that? 

So after two nights at Motel 6s, and no sign of decent camping in the vicinity of Helena, I was feeling desperate and a bit depressed.  Gary suggested that I talk to the librarians and ask their advice.  Good plan! 

Candice at the Helena library got on the phone and called the other branch libraries.  Susan, at the Augusta Library said come on up and camp in the city park.  What a relief.  So I finished my performance at Helena, bought a scone at the library's coffee shop, then stopped at a cart outside for a bratwurst.  I had my doubts.  Can you buy real brats outside of Wisconsin?  Apparently not, it was just a jumped up hot dog.

Then to East Helena for another performance and then a drive to Augusta.  I spoke too soon about crossing the Great Divide yesterday because Augusta is on the Pacific side of that dividing line. Still, no worries, because the great heat of the past few days was finally over, so the Sable behaved.

Augusta holds 274 souls, but a lot of heart.  I stopped in the library before it closed and Susan began to tell me about the artists who came here to paint the scenery and stayed.  There are three restaurants, an art gallery, a small school (four students in the ninth grade), a post office, and of course a library.  There are all kind of cultural events, including a short story reading group at the library.

The city park, directly behind the library, provides free camping.   I would be the only camper.  I set up the tent and went off to grab a salad at the Buckthorn Cafe after stopping to let the guys at the garage know I was going to be over at the park.  The owner is the president of the VFW, which maintains the park, and he was soon over to check things out.  He warned me about  big storm that was coming, but  by now I've camped through more than my share of thunder and rain.  My tent is fine as long as I am in it weighing it down.

As I sat at the picnic table reading a book and drinking tea, the residents of Augusta began to wander through the park.  A fellow brought his dog and three children.  Two guys in pickups circled around.  Two girls rode their horses through though the signs specifically forbade horses.  I suppose they were all talking about the crazy woman camping solo in their park.

A storm did hit that night, but did no damage.  I woke as I often do in the middle of the night.  I usually read a bit or do a sudoku puzzle until I can drowse off, but every time I turned on my little lantern,  three dogs began to bark.  OK, I did without that.

But at 5:00 a.m. a nearby rooster began to crow.  I have a camping hatchet, and if that bird had come anywhere near, he would have been an ex-rooster.

In the morning, Susan treated me to breakfast, I stopped at the gallery/boutique, finding a book I hadn't read,bought groceries at the well stocked and reasonably priced grocery store, and did a fun performance for the three children who had been in the park the night before.

I left with fond memories of Augusta, population 274. Isn't that better than yet another stay at a motel?

Another Motel

Yesterday was one of those days on the road that was purely frustrating.  Here's how it went:

I left Missoula late yesterday after bookkeeping, laundry, and re-packing the car.  That late departure was a mistake because the temperatures had mounted while I was busy, up to 89 degrees F..

The mechanics in Reno thought I would have no trouble crossing Idaho and Montana because it would likely be cooler that far north than in Nevada.  In truth, I had no trouble with the car overheating along the coast and across Idaho...until today.

As I climbed higher and higher into the Rockies on Highway 12, the temperature rose and rose, until it was 98 degrees.  I kept an eye on the rivers which were still heading west as I traveled east.  I thought about one of my favorite songs, Kate Wolf's "Across the Great Divide."

It's gone away, yesterday, and I find myself on the mountainside
Where the rivers change directions, across the Great Divide.

Once I got across the Great Divide and the rivers started emptying toward the Mississippi, the slopes would take me downhill to the Midwest. 

But as I started up MacDonald Pass, I watched the heat gauge climb, too.  At the very top of the pass, in 100 degree heat, I had to pull over and go through the coolant ritual.  I was well prepared but it meant staying at the site of the highway for half an hour in that awful heat.  Then some fellows stopped by to offer help but by then, I had things well in hand.  I took some photos and kept going down slope, figuring my troubles were over.

Helena was right ahead.  I stopped for lunch and queried about the location of campgrounds. 

I have commented before about men giving directions whether they knew anything or not.  They first suggested the campground on MacDonald Pass.  However, that's where I was stalled and I knew the campground was closed. 

Where's the forest service located I asked.  They immediately started giving me instructions that had something to do with a helicopter.  I went off trying my best to follow what they told me and wound up in East Helena where I stopped for gas and got more instructions.  I finally asked the clerk for a map of Helena.  They all helped me locate where I was and where that ranger station was...behind a tire company.

OK.  I followed the map, went past that helicopter and found what they had been steering me towards.  Except it wasn't there.  A sign gave the new address.  Using the map, I finally found the National Forest Service, near the airport.  There the ranger in charge told me that the campsite I originally wanted, Park Lake, had been denuded of trees.  There had been a blight in the area and most of the trees had to be cut down.  "Moose Creek would be good," he said.  It seems most of the trees were gone but the first few sites still offered some shade.

So off I went, finding Moose Creek fifteen miles away.  The fee station said $5 a night, which for those of us with senior access passes, meant $2.50.  But when I got into the campground, those shady places had already been taken.  No reservations, it's first come, first served in most national forest campgrounds.  I found only three sites left and all of those were covered with the detritus left by the logging companies.  It would take me at least an hour in the 100 degree heat to clear a place for my tent. 

As I walked around, I looked at the campers who had come before me.  My nearest neighbor had a crying baby and two small dogs that Gary calls "yap and crappers", the kind that bark all night.

Most of the other sites had cars with University of Montana stickers.  More arrived carting cases of beer.  These were older than the Mormon teenagers I had scared with a blast of my car alarm in Utah. As I drove out of the campground, two pickups approached dragging trailers with ATVs.   $2.50 was way too much to pay for a campground like that.

 I spent the next two hours trying to find a place to pitch my tent, but all I could find was an RV camp with only a spot of grass and no trees. 

So here I am at yet another motel, hoping for cooler temperatures and a suitable campground tonight.

Motel 6, Missoula, Montana

This is my fifth motel stay since I left Seymour on June 20.  Those first motel stays had to do with terrible weather and lack of suitable camping spots.  Then I hit my stride about two weeks ago and kept to the national forests and state parks. 

This stay has more to do with getting caught up with paperwork.  I needed to have several hours of uninterrupted Internet access, something I never got at libraries, coffee shops or McDonald's.  Last night I checked in with my bank, justified my checkbook (I forgot to make some entries), and figured out how I am doing financially.   I find I am pretty much on track and should make a small profit from the trip.  Some things cost more than I expected, others less. 

Then there are a few postcards to write out, some of them purchased two weeks ago. Best get at that.

This morning, I am taking a look at some of the photos I've been taking.  I plan to turn them into a travelogue "slide show" to present as adult programs at Wisconsin libraries this winter. 

This stay also gives me a chance to do some laundry and stay out of the 100 degree F. heat for a while.  By the time I leave here at noon it will be beastly hot but should cool down by tonight so I can sleep in the national forests once again. 

There are six more performances, three states, nine days before I pull into the driveway on Lincoln Street in Seymour. 

Gary has been keeping his own records.  He remarked that when I was in Moab, it would take him 43 hours of driving to come and rescue me.  Each state means less time for him to deal with any disasters I might encounter.  So far, nothing has needed his ministrations.

I look forward to hugging my hero in nine days.

Homeward Bound

When I was a little kid, my grandparents went West with a Nash sedan, one that pre-dated the Nash Rambler and who remembers either of them?

When they returned, my grandmother's right arm was red and blistered.  The temperatures had been ungodly high so she stuck her arm out the passenger window to get some cool relief...except it got horribly sunburned.   She told me never to do that and I didn't.  During the entire trip west, I kept my left arm in the car.  That arm is darker than the right, but it was never burned. 

Today, I realized that the sun wasn't shining in the driver's side at all.  I am heading home. 

Gary told me to take Highway 12 from Washington State to Missoula.  It would be shorter than my original plan and would be the scenic route along the Clearwater River, the route Lewis and Clark took.

Scenic it was.  Mileage wise it was shorter....as the crow flies.  I began the drive around 8:00 a.m. Pacific time and arrived here in Missoula before 4:00 p.m. Mountain time.  In between, I drove through coils of curves.  There were few barriers between cars and the precipices.  Look at the magnificent scenery?  Seldom, I kept my eyes on the road.  RV's, pickups, motorcycles came speeding up behind me and I would have to find the "turnouts" which were unmarked and short.  Misjudge and I could go flying into the river. 

There were three such accidents.  There was a twisted wreckage of a semi-trailer against the rock face on the other side of the road. The truck driver must have chosen crashing into the stone over going into the brink.

Then there was that accident with a full group of workers as I cam around the bend.  They were dealing with bits and pieces of something.  They had signs that said "accident" but I wasn't sure what it was.

I was sure about the car wreck.  The car obviously had rolled down rocks because the windows were broken out, but the car was 1/3 under the Clearwater River.  

I don't get scared easily, but this drive gave me the willies.

Pretty though.