Montana

It was night and I was about 500 miles from Montana when I picked up a hitchhiker. I drove on toward Montana and we talked. He was from Montana and that’s where he was headed. He was going home and I could get him part way there. There were thunderstorms ahead of us; I could see heat lightning on the sky but it was far away. I had already driven many hours and soon realized I was too tired and sleepy to drive; I needed a break. He offered to take over driving. By then, we had talked enough that I had a good idea of what kind of person he was. I pulled the van to the side of the road, and I moved to the sofa behind the driver’s seat, and my hitchhiker acquaintance took over driving. For a while, I lay on the sofa and looked through the windshield, watching the heat lightning play across the dark sky ahead of us. The next thing I knew, I was waking up. It was morning and we were in Montana. I dropped off my hitchhiker, now hundreds of miles closer to his destination, and I drove onward.

On that trip west, I drove to many places in Montana. The hottest was Helena. The van had no air conditioner and the August sun through the van’s windows was merciless. The most beautiful place was Glacier Park in northwest Montana near the Canadian border. It was picturesque with lots to see and do. And if a roadside attraction called the Montana Vortex near Columbia Falls wasn’t the weirdest place, it wasn’t for lack of trying.

My trip was east to west so eventually I had to drive over the Rocky Mountains. There are interstate highways, like I-90, that cross the Rockies, but I didn’t take an interstate highway. I took a small highway over the Rockies. It was scenic but steep and laden with switchbacks. I was amazed to see people pedaling bicycles in the opposite direction. Think of the strength and stamina it requires to pedal a bicycle over a mountain range.

At the top of the pass through the Rockies I pulled my van off the road. Beside the road was a vast and level mountain meadow. There were no trees here; I was probably above the tree line. However, there were beautiful flowers in this meadow: small, delicate, violet flowers, probably native to high mountain meadows. There were small yellow flowers that resembled black-eyed susan. My dog Shadow ran and romped, and I trudged a long way across the meadow until my van was a dot in the distance.

Eventually I resumed my journey. I was descending now. As night fell I entered Red Lodge, the first town I had seen in quite a while. I didn’t linger there. I put gas in the van and a bite of food in my stomach. Then I eased the van back onto the highway and sped down the road. I was putting Red Lodge behind me, putting the Rockies behind me, putting Montana behind me.

I was headed toward Wyoming. I wanted to see Yellowstone Park. I wanted to see some of its treasures: geysers like Old Faithful, hot springs like the Paint Pots, and who knows, maybe I would cross paths with a bison. I didn’t mind putting Montana behind me; it’s a magnificent place to visit, but it isn’t home. Besides, there were yet many wonders to see and people to meet. Life awaited me just up the road.