Driving to Tibet

My cousin Ron arrived from West Virginia one week ago today, just in time to attend the Missoula Gay Men's Chorus Christmas Cabaret on Saturday, December 10th. We had purchased eight tickets, and the tables seated ten, so there were a couple of extra seats at our table. A dear friend, Randy B., took one of those seats, and when he learned that Ron was a masseur, Randy asked if he could get a massage from Ron. One thing led to another, and we scheduled a trip to Moiese, to visit Randy in his own home. Tuesday morning, we hit the road, heading north and west onto the Flathead Indian Reservation north of Missoula. Little did we know that we were really driving to Tibet.

Clouds covered the sky in the Missoula valley, but as we climbed Evaro Hill, the clouds dissipated to be replaced by a pale blue sky above Montana's shining mountains. US highway 93 north of Missoula has to be one of the most scenic drives in the country, with the Mission Mountains rising on the east. Snow covered jagged peaks form the eastern horizon for a good seventy-five miles, and this is one of the drives I take when introducing out-of-area friends to western Montana.

Leaving Interstate 90 at exit 96 (96 miles east of the Montana/Idaho line), approximately ten miles west of Missoula, we drove north on US 93, climbing Evaro Hill and leaving the Missoula Valley behind. At the top of Evaro, we entered the Flathead Reservation of the Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribes. Covering much of Lake County, along with portions of Flathead, Missoula and Sanders Counties, the reservation extends over 1.317 million acres and includes much of Flathead Lake, the largest alpine lake in the US. Created by the Hellgate Treaty of 1855, the reservation became the home of the Bitteroot Salish (Flathead), the Pend d'Oreille, and the Kootenai tribes. In 1910, the reservation was opened to white settlement, and today the population is largely non-indigenous people. Just north of the reservation boundary, we drove under the Animals' Bridge, a conduit designed to keep the suicidal deer and elk from meeting their maker at the hands of a passing Hyundai or Ford. Just north of the "bridge," we passed a sign in English and Salish noting that we were now in the Schley Area.

Cabin in the Schley Area, Flathead Reservation, Montana

The Schley Area is one of my favorite spots to stop for photo-ops, and Ron and I took advantage of having some time in our schedule to stop and shoot the roses, as it were.

From Schley, the highway drops down off Evaro Hill to the first reservation town, Arlee, then just north of Arlee it crosses the Jocko River which it then follows north to the community of Ravalli. Just after crossing the river, we took a right turn onto White Coyote Road, heading toward the Garden of One Thousand Buddhas. The Garden's web site explains the purpose of this bit of Tibetan Buddhism found in western Montana:

The purpose of the Garden is to bring about positive transformation within those who visit, in response to the negativity that abounds in the world today. One thousand hand-cast Buddha statues will be arrayed around the central figure of Yum Chenmo, or the Great Mother, the manifestation of the perfection of wisdom. One thousand stupas, representations of the enlightened mind, will line the outer circle. Each will enshrine an image of the female deity, Tara. Elegantly adorned with native trees and flowers, it is hoped that the Garden of One Thousand Buddhas will instill lasting impressions of peacefulness and compassion.

Yum Chenmo, The Great Mother

Back on the highway, we drove past the Bison Inn in Ravalli and climbed the hill that separates Ravalli from St. Ignatius and the Mission Valley. As you drive north, the National Bison Range is on your left, and the Mission Mountains come into view in an ever widening panorama of snow-capped, shining mountains. If the sky is blue and the sun is shining, as it was for us, new visitors almost invariably gasp as the view ahead becomes more and more filled with jagged peaks rising thousands of feet above. One of the native names for the land we now call Montana was "the land of shining mountains," and it was certainly an apt name in our opinion.

The Mission Mountains as seen from the top of the Ravalli Hill

or are they the Himalayas in Tibet?

After a U-turn to get us back to Ravalli, Ron and I stopped at the Bison Inn for lunch. Normally I would order their Indian Taco, as I feel they have the best in the area, but an Indian Taco is so filling, that I passed in favor of a mushroom-swiss burger made with bison meat. Ron had the same, and we joked with the host/waiter/owner? of the establishment while enjoying a delicious lunch.

Ravalli is where Montana highway 200 coming in from the west merges with 93. We headed west on 200 toward the town of Dixon and what, to my knowledge, is Montana's only herd of Tibetan Yaks. If you've never seen a yak, believe me, they look like giant ambulatory dust mops. I'm told that they are also rather angry beasts, not at all like the ones Hilaire Belloc wrote about in his Bad Child's Book of Beasts, and More Beasts for Worse Children. Belloc's poem "The Yak" has long been one of my favorites.

Montana's Yaks--not friends to the children

Montana secondary highway 212 runs north from Dixon, through the town of Charlo, and connects to US 93 just north of the Ninepipes National Wildlife Refuge. We drove north as far as the entrance to the National Bison Range at Moiese, but alas, there were no bison to be seen. We had passed a herd a few miles back, so we turned around and headed back toward Dixon. Sure enough, our eyes hadn't deceived us, and we were finally able to assure ourselves that we were, indeed, in western Montana, and not on the "plains of Tibet." Having filled our memory cards with these iconic plains undulates, we continued on to Randy's home on the banks of the Flathead River, where we spent a very enjoyable afternoon and evening. Both of us are looking forward to another trip to "Tibet."

Isn't there a nickel around here somewhere?

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To be left for L.A. ...

Aechmea ‘Alegria’

Bromeliad planted around the entrances to the Westin Bonaventura

"To be left is one thing, but to be left for L.A. ..." -- Miss Elmira Gulch

If you don't know Fred Barton's wonderful one-man show, Miss Gulch Returns, you are certainly missing out. Click here for YouTube's version of Fred speaking about Miss Gulch and here to hear one of the songs from the review, Pour Me A Man. Long before Gregory Maguire started the Wicked series, Fred wrote his show about Margaret Hamilton's other character, Elmira Gulch. In a song titled "Give my best to the blonde," Miss Gulch laments that her lover Joe has left her to go find himself in L.A. Unfortunately, I could not find an on-line recording of that song, but if you click on the link at the bottom of the page, you'll be able to buy the CD and enjoy the entire show, at least aurally.

On Wednesday, November 2nd, 2011, Kevin and I boarded Delta flight 4632 headed to Los Angeles with a change of planes in Salt Lake City. We were off to the city of Fallen Angels to attend a three-day conference sponsored by the Drug Policy Alliance, an organization dedicated to ending the disastrous 40-year old War on Drugs. I'll say nothing more about our flight down except to note that the Chinese restaurant located between Salt Lake's concourses E and D serves the best orange chicken I've ever had. We arrived at LA International around 4 p.m., grabbed our bags, got on the wrong shuttle, transferred to a cab, and one hour and $50 later checked into our hotel, the Westin Bonaventure in the heart of downtown Los Angeles.

The Westin Bonaventure Hotel
Downtown Los Angeles

Now I have to say that I don't much care for Los Angeles. I grew up in San Francisco, after all, and it's a matter of faith that all things angeleno are unclean, uncouth, unwanted. I have been known to drive from San Diego to San Francisco without ever going through Los Angeles County--and that's quite a feat, believe you me. But all that Bay Area jingoism aside, I have to admit that our time in L.A. was pleasant, and with the exception of one rainy day, we had picture postcard perfect weather. Just look at the clear blue skies in the architectural photos I've added.

The Drug Policy Alliance put on a fact-filled conference, with several break out sessions designed to catch the attention of just about anyone involved in drug-related areas. I sought out those sessions specifically addressing the medical marijuana industry, and was pleased with the information imparted during the first day's sessions. I did come to the realization, and rather quickly, that while medical marijuana provides my living, it is not my life. After burning out as a gay rights activist, I am not ready to take on the world once again as a medical marijuana activist, and unfortunately, that is what is needed today. The United States declared war on drugs forty years ago, and all that has happened is that millions of dollars have been spent, thousands of lives have been ruined, the U.S. prison population is now the largest in the world, and Americans continue to use and abuse drugs.

The View from the 23rd Floor

Downtown Los Angeles

After one day of hearing more and more disheartening news, frankly I couldn't take any more. My guts were churning and the pain in my legs greater than normal, so I stayed in bed Friday morning, then took the day for myself. This allowed me to walk a bit around the downtown area, heading first down Flower Street to Wilshire Boulevard, then climbing the hill to the west, crossing over I-110, then north on S. Beaudry and back cross I-110 on 4th, returning to the Westin. I got a few good photos on my outing, and was impressed by some of the buildings I saw, and some of the people I saw on the street, but I didn't have the nerve to photograph the guy dancing in front of Walgreen's.

By Saturday, Kevin had also had enough of the conference we were supposed to be attending, so we skipped the day's sessions and caught the shuttle to the Los Angeles Convention Center where the BlogWorld conference was being held as well as the Franchise Expo. We paid to visit the exhibits at both, and came away with goody bags from both, filled with lots of handouts.

The Los Angeles Public Library

Just a block from our hotel, the Los Angeles Public Library stands behind a beautiful garden. There is a large blue banner promising that the Library is open on Mondays. I wasn't sure if the banner meant that the building was open ONLY on Mondays, or if this was a new day for the library's service. Etched in the stone over the entrance is the Latin motto: "Et quasi cursores, Vitai lampada tradunt." OK, much as I hate to admit it, my Latin isn't what it used to be, and I can't speak for your own, but the line comes from the Roman poet Lucretius, De Rerum Natura (On the Nature of Things), book II, line 79, and can be translated, "and like runners, they pass on the torch of life." The grounds around the library are planted heavily with Birds of Paradise, a tropical plant that only grows indoors in Montana, and I took advantage of the situation to capture this beautiful blossom.

Strelitzia reginae or Bird of Paradise

Returning to Missoula, we got back to work, just in time to watch while the Federales raided more Montana medical marijuana businesses, including two in Missoula. In reaction to those raids, two of our largest colleagues closed their doors before the Feds could close them. Kevin and I vowed to continue on, and accepted patients who were now unable to get their medicine due to the closures. Our vow notwithstanding, the pressure and intimidation from the Federal Government finally got to us. At 4:00 a.m., Wednesday, November 30th, I lay awake wondering how we would manage financially if we closed our shop. While I was pondering, Kevin said, "Do you really want to stay open." And I answered truthfully, "No." And that was that. We cut down all our plants, and went through four days of telling our loyal patients that we could no longer serve their needs. I have mixed feelings about this, but in truth, I'm not strong enough to fight the Feds. Of our decision, more later.

Should you be at all interested in Fred Barton's Miss Gulch, or Gregory Maguire's Wicked series, I've put links below for you to order the books/CDs from Amazon.com. Enjoy!

Joe goes to school

Joe in front of the old Superior School building
Taken 6/3/2011 in Superior, Montana

NOTE: Clicking on any photo will open it in a new window. Clicking on the photo in the new window, will expand the photo to full-screen size. Also, all links open in a new window. With the single exception of the photo above, all photographs were taken on Saturday, June 4th, 2011, in Superior, Montana.

Superior, Montana, the county seat of Mineral County, holds the distinction of being the place where the first Gideon Bible was placed in a hotel room, back in 1908. I recommend reading the Wikipedia article on the Gideons, if only to see just how ubiquitous that maroon book has become in our popular culture. Almost a century after that first Bible placement, two local families started an annual car show in town, and this year marked the twelfth annual Old Schoolhouse Rock Car Show, now run by the Mineral County Community Foundation.

Having brought the Frazer home on Monday, I headed to Superior on Wednesday morning to open our shop there. (We are only open one day a week in Superior.) Of course I took my pictures of the "new" car as I love to show off such beauties. As I was bragging about my good fortune, several people told me that there would be a car show in town that weekend. Now I've attended lots of car shows over the years, but I'd never heard of the one in Superior. Small town meant small show, I figured, and where better to make the car's debut. There wouldn't be a lot of pressure, and a fun time should be had by all. That is assuming that the car was up for a 60-mile one way drive. At this point, I'd only driven around the block a few times.

Parenthetical note: My cars almost always tell me their names. The most insistant was my 1986 midnight blue Cougar who let me know in no uncertain terms that his name was Curt, unless we are all dolled up and headed for the Opera in which case he was to be called Curtis. The Frazer was no exception. Once I started on my way to Superior, he let me know his name was "Joe." Not "Joseph" or "Joey" or anything else but "Joe." And that's how I'll refer to the car from this point forward.

Now I've never really driven anything as old as Joe before. Back in college I tried to buy a 1953 Packard, and I test drove it. I also test drove a 1940 Plymouth--boy was that a test on me. To start the thing, you needed to have a foot on the brake, a foot on the clutch, a foot on the accelerator, and a foot free to press the starter button located on the floor. I didn't have that many feet, so didn't get very far with my "test" drive. My biggest fear in buying Joe was that I wouldn't get the hang of driving the car, and indeed, the first few times we started him up, I had to have Kevin get him running. But now, I think I understand the tricks necessary to wake him up, and we'll find out this morning when I sit behind the wheel for the first time since Monday.

Jeff Stephens' 1959 Ford Fairlane Skyliner is always a show-stopper

Doing some on-line research, I learned that the show in Superior was scheduled for two days, Friday and Saturday, the first weekend in June. I decided I'd drive out on Friday, register the car, participate in any activities that afternoon/evening, spend the night, and be there all day Saturday for the actual show, the awards and the closing pig roast. I called Mary Jo Berry who has a shop, Iron Mountain Graphics, right across from our shop. Mary Jo runs the local Chamber of Commerce, and was one of the contacts listed for the Old Schoolhouse Rock Car Show. I wondered if it was too late to sign up, and she assured me that there would be no trouble. I, in turn, assured her that as long as Joe could get me to Superior in one piece, we'd be there Friday afternoon.

By Friday morning, I'd driven Joe to our Missoula shop a couple of times, and around the block here at home a couple of times, but that was it. The shop is one mile from home, and while Joe hadn't given me any trouble, I just wasn't sure what would happen when I got on Interstate 90 and approached highway speeds for sixty miles. I figured I'd take it easy, let everything on the road pass me, and if I had any problems, well I had my cell phone with me. But you can't go to a car show without seeing the proud owners working on their cars in every spare minute, buffing, shining, tinkering, or else sitting in the shade with a cooler close by. So, before hitting the road, I headed to Walmart.

A bit more about Joe--specifically his dash. There are six round ivory colored knobs on Joe's dash. They are marked, from right to left, "V," "H," "L," "T," "AC," and "OD." There are also two knurled chrome knobs just under the windshield, on either side of the center pillar. And two black knobs on either side of the in-dash AM radio. On the floor, to the left of the clutch, there are two metal buttons, one closer to the firewall than the other. There is no owner's manual that I have yet found. So what do all these buttons and knobs do? Well, just guessing now, but let's assume that "V" stands for "Vent," and "H" stands for "Heater." "L" should be "Lights," but "T"? Might it be some kind of throttle control? Not sure. And since there isn't any Air Conditioning, the "AC" must stand for something like "auxiliary choke." The one closest to the driver, marked "OD" really had me scratching my head. In the first place, the knob is the only one in the car that is dirty--seemingly covered in some kind of oil residue. The letters are only partially visible and could as easily read "Oil" as "OD." And since nothing I had found on-line to date indicated that this model ever had overdrive, I had dismissed that possibility. Of the two knurled knobs, the one on the right seemed to control the defroster vents, and my guess is that the one on the left controls the windshield wipers, but that remains a guess as the wipers don't work and the knob doesn't seem to do anything except sit there and look pretty. The buttons around the radio were pretty obvious, even though the radio doesn't work. Finally, of the two buttons on the floor, I was pretty sure that the one closest to the driver was the dimmer switch, and it did work, but what the heck was the other one?

Jeff Carlson's 1940 Oldsmobile, now owned by a couple in Missoula

I mention the dash because I was truly stumped by some of these gadgets and just how they worked. I'm also spoiled because both of my daily drivers, the Volvo and the Saab, have lights that come on when I start the engine, and go off when I turn off the engine. I don't worry about my lights these days. If I'm driving, they're on. If I'm parked, they're off. I don't have to think about them. Driving the three miles from the house to Walmart, I pulled the "L" knob and Joe's lights came on. Hurray! Got to Walmart, found a place to park where I didn't think anyone would hit the car (out by where all the campers are parked), and went into the store. I headed immediately for the car care section to buy polishing cloth, cleaner, air freshener, a basket to hold it all, some Armor All, etc., etc., etc., then to the camping section where I got a folding chair, a new air mattress, pillows and sheets, and a case to carry them all in, to men's wear for a new fedora (ya gotta wear a fedora when you drive something like Joe), and then to checkout. Back out in the parking lot, I couldn't find Joe. How can you lose something that large and distinctive? Ah, there, behind that SUV. Sigh of relief. A fellow seated in his pickup in the next lane, called out to me. "Nice car. You're blind in one eye." Oh fun, I forgot and left the lights on. Will Joe start for me? The fellow watching said, "No problem. I'll make sure you get started." "But it has a six-volt system," I cried. "We'll figure something out," he replied. After packing everything away in the trunk, I climbed in, put in the key, pushed the starter, and prayed. Joe coughed a bit, but he started, and we were on our way.

1966? AMC Marlin, a "Personal Luxury Car"

Heading out of town, while stopped at a red light on Reserve Street, I got into a conversation with a young man in the next lane. He must have been all of eight years old. "Neat car! Did you know green is my favorite color?" It's just amazing how people of all ages respond to a car like Joe. Once on Interstate 90, I kept up my resolve, stayed in the right lane, and let everyone else pass me--even the semis. Joe's speedometer doesn't work, but I drive this stretch of road every Wednesday, and I have my mileposts down cold. I figure that because of the time it took me to reach Frenchtown (1/4 of the way), Alberton (1/2 the way), and Tarkio (3/4 of the way), I was driving pretty close to a steady 60 mph. From Tarkio to west of Superior, the highway is under re-construction, and travel is restricted to one lane in each direction. The speed limit for this zone is 55, and I wasn't holding anyone up. Joe got me to Superior in fine shape, and I headed straight to the old schoolhouse to register my car.

Once registered as number 23 (there were 21 pre-registrations), I took my packet and went back outside where I met Liz Gupton, one of the event's organizers. Liz asked me to park on the lawn in front of the school, and introduced me to Jeff Carlson, one of the founders of the show. Jeff proceeded to go over Joe from top to bottom, and I learned more from listening to him (and yes, I took notes), than all my on-line research had taught me. Jeff confirmed that I was right in my guesses about the knobs marked "V," "T," and "AC." I had personal experience with "H" and "L" by that time. And the oily knob that wouldn't move? Yes, indeed, this car had factory installed, extra cost, overdrive--and the car was stuck in overdrive. A good transmission shop should be able to fix that problem in five minutes, according to Jeff. I was correct in my guesses about the knurled knobs, and that other button on the floor? Well it's your windshield washer, of course. I had noted that the car had washer jets, but I hadn't figured out how to activate them. Now I knew.

I had great fun listening to Jeff and a couple of other "old codgers" tell me about my car, and the afternoon passed quickly and pleasantly. The schedule called for a "cruise" out to St. Regis, fifteen miles west, where Jasper's Restaurant had planned a special dinner just for the car show registrants. The cruise started at 6 pm, according to the schedule, but so far I was the only car on the schoolhouse lawn. I saw other classic and custom cars driving around town, but none of them stopped at the school. Liz came outside and asked if I was planning on participating in the "Cruise." When I said yes, she explained that as no one else had shown up, I would probably be the only car involved. I would have graciously backed out myself, but Liz suggested that if I were willing to wait for her to close things up, she'd go with me and some of the other organizers would meet us at the restaurant. How could I say no? On the way out to St. Regis, Liz explained that she'd never been able to go on a "cruise" as she was always handing the registration duties. On the way back, after a delicious enchilada dinner, Liz told me the history of the Old Schoolhouse, and how it came into her possession. It was a fascinating story, one that should be told, but I won't do it here. Suffice it to say that a lot of small-town politics came into play. 'Nuff said.

The owner of this car didn't register it, so I have no idea what it is.

Saturday presented us with the nicest weather we've seen in western Montana this year, and I parked Joe next to a 1948 Studebaker pickup owned by a fellow from Helena. All told, some 70 cars were registered for the show, but a number of folk parked their cars on the grounds, but didn't register them. Even more classics were parked on the street around the venue, unregistered, but with "For Sale" signs in their windshields. With a registration fee of only $35, why wouldn't people cough up the bucks for a good cause? I just don't understand. Late in the afternoon, Kevin arrived, got to talk with Jeff about the car, and joined me for the best roast pig I've had.

I had a blast at the Old Schoolhouse Rock Car Show. Lots of folk stopped to talk to me about Joe. Most were very impressed by his history, and by the fact that I had owned the car less than a week. I got some nice photographs, met very interesting people, and learned a lot. This was my first time as a car show participant, but it won't be the last. This coming Friday and Saturday, I'll have Joe here in Missoula at the Montana Benefit Car Show hosted by Karl Tyler Chevrolet. I'm pre-registered for that event as number 152 (they're expecting over 400 cars). In closing, I want to use this forum to fill out the feed-back form included in my registration packet.

What I like about the show: The small town friendliness and the chance to talk with people knowledgeable in the mysteries of old cars.

What I disliked about the show: This has nothing to do with the show's organization, but I was very disappointed to be the only car in the Friday night "cruise." I honestly don't know what could have been done to get more participation.

What I would like to see included in next year's show: More of the same. It was a great event and I thoroughly enjoyed myself.

It Followed Me Home, Daddy--Can I Keep It?

"What is it?"
"It's a Frazer."
"Yeah, but what is it?"
"It's a Frazer."
"Yeah, but is it a Chevy?"
"No, it's a Frazer."
--Actual conversation I had with a car buff about my new car.

NOTE: Clicking on any picture will open a new window with a full-screen view of the picture. Also all links open in a new window.

As most of my regular blog readers know, I'm in the process of putting together a photo book about Montana's fifty-six counties. That book is currently a work-in-progress and I've been sharing it on line in a separate blog site. Over the past four years, I've crossed Montana numerous times, camera in hand, and there's always something that I've missed. Go figure. Easter weekend this year, Kevin and I took to the road heading for the north central part of the state so I could fill in the blanks on Phillips and Hill Counties. We actually took the long way round, driving first to Billings, then north to Havre, and back along the hi line home. Now most of you are probably aware that I love photographing cars, especially old cars, and I'm always on the lookout for a car or truck, sitting out in a field, just begging to be photographed.

A bit of history here. The first car my father bought new was a 1947 Kaiser. 1947 was the first year that the Kaiser-Frazer Corporation sold cars, and for some unknown reason, my father, who owned more Fords than any other make, bought one. Parenthetically, it was also the only car he ever bought "on time," and the experience of having to make regular payments on a car that was depreciating taught him to ever after pay cash for his vehicles. My dad normally kept a car for three years, and so it was that when I was born in October, 1949, my dad was still driving the Kaiser. I can't say that I remember the car at all, but I do have a few of my dad's pictures where the Kaiser shows up in the background.

I'm sure at this point that I have hundreds of different car photos in my portfolio. I recently had a one-man show that featured twenty-some cars and trucks, neatly matted and framed. One car that I have never seen to photograph is an original Kaiser. Now I've asked my friends to be on the lookout and to alert me if they should ever see a 1947 Kaiser so I could add its image to my collection. No, I didn't want to buy one, just grab its portrait, as it were.

As things happen, on Good Friday 2011, as Kevin was driving east on Montana Highway 200, approaching Lewistown and the geographic center of Montana, I spotted a car and yelled "Stop! Turn Around! There's my Kaiser!" And sure enough, in a field on the north side of the highway, parked with several old (1930s old) pickups, was what at first appeared to be a first-generation Kaiser. Kevin pulled off the road and I jumped out, camera in hand, running toward this beautiful emerald green vehicle which turned out to be, not a Kaiser, but its up-scale brother, a Frazer.

My first view of the Frazer (note the snow)

I was so excited to find this car, that I barely noticed the fact that it was snowing heavily, and in fact I was trudging through knee-deep drifts to get to the car. I happily shot the front, back, both sides and the hood emblem (first image above) before moving on to the old pickups and eventually to the heat of the Volvo. Even though we had been driving through blizzard-like conditions, I failed to register the snow as I was happily clicking away. It was only back home, as I processed the digital images, that I noticed all the white streaks crossing the green car at an angle. Talk about being caught up in the moment.

Now remember, I didn't want to buy a Kaiser, only photograph one, so I didn't really pay too much attention to my surroundings. I did notice a sign indicating that a nearby business was engaged in welding, but that was it. We drove on, turning north at Lewistown to cross the Missouri and enter Phillips County where we stopped at the almost ghost town of Landusky which I wrote about in my Phillips County blog post. From Landusky, we continued on to Havre, and a couple of days later, were back home in Missoula.

Somehow I couldn't get that beautiful green car out of my mind, and once home, I went on-line to find any welders in the Lewistown area. Finding one that was located west of town, I gave them a call. "You may not be the people I need to talk with, but I know you'll know where to send me." I explained about seeing the car, and yes, they weren't the right welders, but also yes, they knew exactly with whom I should be speaking. A second call got me to the man who owned the field where the Frazer was parked. No, he didn't own the car, but yes, it was for sale. The welder told me the sale price, and I said, thanks, that's a bit more than I have to spend right now. So much for buying the thing. Remember, I was only looking for a photograph--and I had that.

Fast forward a couple of weeks, and I get an e-mail from the welder. It seems that the car's owner had decided to auction it off, with no reserve. What that means is that if a person bid one dollar and no one outbid him, he would get the car for one dollar. This is a risky move to take with anything of value, including old cars in beautiful shape, but the owner had decided that he just didn't want to deal with the car any longer. I wrote the welder back. "Tell me when and where, and I'll be there bidding."

A very classy interior

Fast forward another couple of weeks, and Kevin has decided we need a vacation, so we're back in West By Gawd Virginia, and the auction is fast approaching. Oh well. I didn't need another car. Kevin and I own more cars than we can possibly ever drive, and why for all that's high and holy do we need to take on one more project when we don't even know if we'll have an income after July 1st? I was willing to let the matter drop, but Kevin went on-line, found the Lewistown auctioneer, and called him. Claiming to be me, Kevin told the auctioneer that while we were 2,000 miles away, I wanted to bid on the Frazer. He named a top bid, and the auctioneer said that Jason would be bidding in my absence. And that was that.

The auction was scheduled for the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend, and due to other business concerns, we were racing home. It was even possible that we'd be able to attend the auction, if we drove straight through and didn't stop to sleep. Forget that. We'd been told that the auction would be held from 10 to 5, and that the Frazer would go on the block around noon. By six thirty we still hadn't heard anything from Lewistown, so concluded that the car had sold for some figure more than my maximum bid.

Out of curiosity, Sunday morning, I called the man who had been bidding for me to ask what the car sold for. When told the final bid amount, I asked, "So why didn't I get it," as the sale price was lower than my top bid. Jason replied, "You did get it." Turns out the auction had been packed, had run to after 10 pm, and Jason hadn't gotten around to calling me yet. While I was on the phone with Jason, Kevin called our friend Mike, and arranged for Mike to pick up a trailer and drive to Lewistown to bring home our new car.

Loaded on the trailer for the trip home

We were home by mid afternoon on Sunday, so we met Mike at U-Haul, rented the trailer, attached it to Mike's Excursion, and got set to drive to Lewistown early Monday morning. Springtime in the Rockies. Driving east on Montana 200, we encounted so much snow on Roger's Pass that a rear-wheel drive Mustang heading west had lost control and was unable to move forward up the mountain. We determined that we would not return via Roger's Pass. Not pulling a trailer holding a 3500 lb car.

Once in Lewistown, we located the car, handed Jason a check, received a packet of information from Jason, including the title, and loaded the car on the trailer. I was not able to get the car to start, but Kevin, who grew up driving old farm equipment started it right up, drove it around the fairgrounds, and up onto the trailer, where it just barely fit. I didn't take any photos out the back window of the Excursion, but every time I looked back, that big green nose was right up against us. It truly followed us home.

Ok, I hear you asking, "So just what is a Frazer?" Well, here's a bit of automotive history. At the end of World War II, Henry J. Kaiser decided he wanted to build cars instead of battleships. He'd been remarkably successful at shipbuilding. His ship yards in places like Richmond, California and Vancouver, Washington were churning out a battleship a day. But with the end of the war, there wasn't much call for more battleships. And there was a tremendous market for new cars. American automotive production had turned to strictly military vehicles in 1942, and it wasn't until 1946 that civilian production resumed. Kaiser, recognizing that while he knew construction, he didn't really know cars, got together with Joseph W. Frazer. Now you may not have heard of Mr. Frazer, but he had a long history in the automobile industry. It was Frazer who suggested the name of Chrysler's new low-cost model. "Why not call it a Plymouth?" Frazer supposedly said. Frazer left Chrysler to go to work with Willys-Overland, and was there when that company got the U.S. military commission to produce the Jeep. In 1944, he bought an interest in the Graham-Paige corporation and was named President of that firm. He announced that after the war, Graham-Paige would produce a car named for himself, the Frazer. But Graham-Paige transferred all their assets to the new Kaiser-Frazer Corporation, and when the Frazer appeared, it was under the KF banner. To all intents and purposes, the new Frazer was an upscale model of the basic Kaiser, much as Cadillac is a big sister to a Buick. In fact, when new the Frazer cost as much as a Cadillac and was considered a luxury vehicle.

My Frazer now sits at home. I've driven it a bit around town (yes, I can start it now), and have even taken it on the road to a car show in Superior, Montana (of which more later). It's definitely a project car, with some major problems to solve, most notably replacing all the wiring, but what a beauty. You'll be seeing much more of this car in the future, as I intend to enter it in as many car shows as possible, and write up each and every one of them.

Till later.....

The Frazer parked at home by the lilacs

Hello, and Goodbye, Ohio

Hello Ohio
The back roads
I know Ohio
Like the back of my hand
Alone Ohio
Where the river bends
And it's strange to see your story end
--words and music: Karin Berquist

To hear Over the Rhine sing Karin Berquist's song, Ohio, click here. I have to admit, that this is not a song I had ever heard before, but my shtick is to always open this blog with a song, and in searching for something about Ohio, I found this lovely ballad. I hope you enjoy it.

I have no idea what this is, but they appear all over the mid-west
My cousin Ron suggested that it's a storage unit for highway road salt
Taken 5/20/2011 in Peoria, Illinois

After breakfast in Peoria, we continued eastward with the goal of spending the night in Richmond, Indiana. Richmond is the eastern-most city in Indiana on I-70, and a mere 30 miles from Dayton, Ohio, where Kevin was planning to attend the largest Ham Radio gathering in the U.S. (for all I know, in the world), the Dayton Hamvention. The trip across Illinois and Indiana was uneventful, and we arrived in Richmond mid-afternoon. After checking in to our motel, we rested a while, then decided to see what the town had to offer. The first thing we noticed was an extremely long detour as the main street into town was closed due to construction. According to Wikipedia, the population of Richmond is 36,812 with 68,917 people living in Wayne County, of which Richmond is the seat. As our detour led us further and further afield, it sure felt as if the population was quite a bit larger.

Richmond was founded by Quakers moving west, and even today the town is home to many Quaker institutions, including Earlham College. It also hosts branch campuses of Indiana University and Purdue University. The campuses appeared lush, green and quite prosperous as we drove by. The grounds of the Reid Hospital were also inviting, with a large pond and fountain separating the facility from the highway. Once again, Kevin did all the driving, and I didn't ask him to stop for photo ops, my bad.

The Wayne County Government Center
Taken 5/20/2011 in Richmond, Indiana

Getting up early on Saturday, we drove directly to the arena where the Hamvention was being held. The good news is that we had no trouble getting a parking place, even though every thing was blocked off and the police were directing traffic so that you could not turn left into the arena's parking lot. The bad news was that we were there hours before anything opened--and hadn't yet had breakfast. In time, the outdoor flea market opened, and we wandered through the almost endless rows of vendors selling everything from sun shade hats to a full-sized Dodge van. Mostly radio stuff, which was to be expected, but also camera equipment, clothing, leather goods, crafts, food, and even leather chaps and vests. Note to Keith--I almost bought a cap and had it embroidered to read "W1KGK/3rd Party/Bryan," but the vendor didn't accept plastic and I didn't have the cash. (Ham operators will get the joke.) At nine, the exhibition hall opened, and we entered the mass of people filling the aisles between the vendors' booths. A week earlier, Kevin had purchased a new Kenwood radio which we had installed in the Volvo, and he wanted to get the navigation system that connected to that radio. The Kenwood booth had none in stock--they had sold out on Friday, and the Ham Radio Outlet booth gave us the same response. A third vendor did have them on hand, and we picked one up, paying the sales tax and taking it with us rather than having it shipped to Montana. As Kevin continued to roam the hall, I left for what, to me, was more interesting--the flea market. After a couple of hours, even Kevin had had enough, and we met at the car to head on toward West Virginia.

The main exhibition hall at the 2011 Dayton HamVention
Did I mention I hate crowds?
Taken 5/21/2011 in Dayton, Ohio

It's a straight shot from Dayton to Columbus and on to Wheeling, West Virginia on I-70, and that's the route we took. While sitting in Dayton waiting for Kevin, I got a message from Michele Holloway, the woman who served the Smith River United Methodist Church at the time of my mother's death. The Smith River parsonage is right across the street from my house there, and Michele and I became friends while I was staying in California. She left to pursue her degree in divinity, and as it turns out, she was graduating from the Methodist Theological School in Ohio at the same time we were driving across the state. I would have liked to stop and see her, but with her commencement and our time schedule, things just didn't work out. I do want to say "Congratulations on your graduation, Michele!" (She's a faithful reader of this blog.)

Home-built gazebo at one of the "Seasonal" cabins at Roseland
Taken 5/21/2011 at Roseland Resort, Proctor, West Virginia

Following Derwin's directions (Derwin is Cousin Ron's partner of 25 years), we left I-70 on the Ohio side of the river, and followed Ohio Highway 7 south till we crossed the river on the Moundsville (WV) bridge. Once at Moundsville, we began the trek up into the mountains to get to Roseland Resort, the gay men's campground I had first visited back in 2007. It was at Roseland that I was given the business card that led me to meet my first cousin, Ron Stephens. I wrote about Roseland and about meeting Ron four years ago. If you wish to revisit that post, you can find it here. There have been a lot of changes at the resort since I last visited, but the staff is still friendly, the men handsome, and the grounds well tended and in full bloom. The one disturbing addition is a plant on a neighboring ridge where hydraulic fracturing is being performed. This process, usually called "fracking," enables energy companies to more easily remove oil and gas from the ground by beating the earth into submission. The process is noisy, dangerous, and has potential long-term risks. The short term damages include the way the pavement on these mountain roads has been broken by the weight of the trucks carrying materials into the plants, the visual pollution of seeing a 24-hour a day plant operating just across the holler, and the constant noise that continues day and night as the underlying rock is ground up for gas. Does it say anything that this process was first developed by Halliburton? Still, I was able to stop and smell the roses, er irises, and we spent the night in Ron & Derwin's camp trailer.

Just one of the irises in bloom at Roseland
Taken 5/21/2011 at Roseland Resort, Proctor, West Virginia

All I Owe Ioway

An Iowa farm viewed through the windshield
Taken 5/19/2011 somewhere in western Iowa.

I've got Ioway in my hair!
I've got Ioway in my ears and eyes and nose!
Oh, I know all I owe I owe Ioway,
I owe Ioway all I owe and I know why.
I am Ioway born and bred,
And on Ioway corn I'm fed,
Not to mention her barley, wheat, and rye!
--Music by Richard Rogers, Lyrics by Oscar Hammerstein II

There are lots of videos on Youtube of what appear to be various high school musical performances of Rogers & Hammerstein's State Fair. If you wish to go look for them yourself, be my guest.

Day three of our drive east consisted almost entirely of crossing Iowa. Now Iowa isn't all that wide, from west to east, and Des Moines sits almost dead center as you cross the state on I-80. Our intent was to stop there and stay overnight with my friend Fred who was so gracious to me when I first crossed Iowa (that time north to south) back in 2007. We left Sioux City, driving south on I-29. Sioux City is located on the Missouri River where South Dakota, Nebraska and Iowa all come together. Before we could head east on I-80, we first had to drive an hour or so south, following the river all the way.

Bridge over the Missouri connecting Iowa and Nebraska
Taken 5/19/2011 south of Sioux City, Iowa

Turning east on I-680, we crossed seemingly endless rolling hills covered with farms. Kevin did most all the driving, which allowed me to aim my camera through the windshield, but he never stopped so all my pics have a bit of window glare. Not up to my usual standards, but you get the idea of what the countryside looks like.

Something new rising above the corn fields
Taken through the windshield in western Iowa, 5/19/2011

We got to Des Moines about 11:30, and Fred took us to lunch at the Des Moines Art Center. If you're in the area this summer, by all means stop and see the great large-scale pieces of Bear art. (No not the ursus kind, the hairy gay man kind of bear). The Center has a stunning collection of 2-D and 3-D art and we enjoyed the time spent wandering the halls perusing the paintings and sculptures. Leaving the Center, Fred drove us downtown to see the Pappajohn sculpture collection. This outdoor sculpture garden is filled with some magnificent work, but it was also filled with three bus loads of school children, so we chose to drive around the park, rather than walk through it. Unfortunately, I had left my camera at Fred's home, so no pictures to share.

Back to Fred's for dinner with our friend Harold, the owner of the Raccoon River Retreat--a gay men's campground about twenty miles west of Des Moines. Checking the map and the clock, we felt that it best to continue on our way rather than spend the night with Fred. We promised we'd stop on our way west, and got back on I-80 eastbound.

Another farm viewed through the windshield
Taken 5/19/2011 in eastern Iowa

Kevin did all the driving across Iowa, and in time we got to the mighty Mississippi at Davenport. Crossing into Moline, Illinois as darkness fell, I fell with it into a deep sleep, awakening only when Kevin pulled off the highway at Peoria where we spent the night.

One final look at Iowa farmland
Taken 5/19/2011 in eastern Iowa

Like a Bird on the Wire

Stylized Tipi found at every South Dakota Rest Stop
Taken 5/18/2011 at Chamberlain, South Dakota, overlooking the Missouri River

Like a bird on the wire, Like a drunk in a midnight choir,
I have tried in my way to be free.
Like a worm on a hook, Like a knight from some old-fashioned book
I have saved all my ribbons for thee.
If I, if I have been unkind, I hope that you can just let it go by,
If I, if I have been untrue, I hope you know it was never to you.
--Words and Music by Leonard Cohen

To hear Leonard Cohen sing Bird on the Wire, click here.

Now why would Leonard Cohen's classic come to mind as we're driving across southeastern Montana? Well, the Montana state bird is the Western Meadowlark, and they were singing so loudly that I could hear them over the CD I had playing, over the noise from Kevin's Ham Radio, and over our own conversation. But I couldn't see any of them until Kevin suggested I look at the fence posts along the highway. Sure enough, there they were, both on the posts and on the barbed wire between the posts. What song would you think of at that point?

Our second day on the road started with breakfast at the only restaurant in Broadus open at that time of the morning. I don't know if the waitress was having a bad day or if she just liked to joke with her customers, but it was an interesting meal. At one point I questioned the slogan that Broadus is the "wavingest town in the West," and she gave me the one finger salute, saying, "I can wave at people." One of the things I like about small town cafes is the local crowd that comes in for coffee every morning. Just beyond our table was a round table set for eight. One by one, five people (four men and one woman) came in and sat down, probably in the same seats they always took. I watched for quite some time and the five just sat there, not talking, not smiling, not really acknowledging each others' presence. They've probably been meeting like that, every day, for years and have nothing left to say to one another.

After breakfast, we hit the road, traveling east on US 212 toward Alzada, the southeastern most town in Montana. Leaving Montana, we crossed a twenty-something mile stretch of Wyoming before entering South Dakota near the town of Belle Fourche. The highway in Wyoming was in excellent shape, which surprised me as it doesn't connect to anything else in Wyoming. Who maintains this road? Does Wyoming contract that out to South Dakota or Montana? I don't know, but just before we left Wyoming, we passed a large industrial complex. At first we thought it was a cement plant, but the signs told us otherwise. It was a processing plant for Bentonite. Now I'm not exactly sure just what Bentonite is--some sort of clay, I gather--so I went to Wikipedia and read their article. I'm still not sure what it is, not even sure what some of the words used in the article mean. If you're brave enough, you can read about it here. The maintenance question was answered when we saw the name of the company processing the clay--Halliburton. OK, it's obviously your tax dollars at work.

Belle Fourche is the closest town to the geographic center of the United States, and I've written about it before. We stopped in town so that I could use the rest room and Kevin could get some Pepsi. On the way out of the store, I saw a large display of truck balls. Surely you know what I mean by "truck balls." They're the plastic (or sometimes metal) scrotum and testicles that people attach to their trailer hitches on the backs of their pickups. That got me to thinking of my patient who told me last Wednesday about how her husband had gone in for surgery due to his testicular cancer, and how the doctors removed the wrong ball. It also got me to thinking about the diner in the Wolf Lodge Steakhouse who on Sunday had ordered "Rocky Mountain Oysters" without knowing what they were. Even the menu's hint that "They're not served on the shell." Didn't help her to understand. When she could not persuade her date to try some, I suggested across the aisle, "It's a guy thing."

Next stop after Belle Fouche was Rapid City, the Presidential City due to its proximity to Mount Rushmore, where we filled the tank before continuing east. This is the fourth time I've driven (or been driven) across South Dakota, albeit only the second time taking Interstate 90. There were two stops I wanted to make, but figured we'd make good time on the crossing. What I hadn't counted on was just how long a trip it is, and how empty South Dakota is along its route.

We didn't stop at Badlands National Park; I'd driven through the park on my last trip in 2007, and Kevin thinks that the Montana landscape is more interesting. I did, however, insist on stopping at Wall Drug, in Wall, SD.

As a child, I recall seeing signs on every highway telling you how far you were from Wall Drug. I may have even seen one in Rovaniemi Finland when I went to visit the Arctic Circle. Those signs are now history, along with the other ubiquitous highway signs advertising Burma Shave. Wall Drug, however, is a thriving concern, and, I would guess, the only reason that Wall, South Dakota hasn't dried up and blown away in the wind. Somewhere in my collection of slides taken by my father, I have a picture of me, age 3, standing in front of Wall Drug. Now, thanks to Kevin, I have one of me, age 61, standing in front of Wall Drug. What goes around, comes around, or so they say. According to the company website, Wall Drug is "America's Favorite Roadside Attraction!" I won't say we visited all 76,000 square feet, but we did spend a bit of money on souvenirs at this tourist trap before getting back on the highway.

Me, age 61, in front of Wall Drug
Taken 5/18/2011 in Wall, South Dakota

It was becoming obvious that my prediction of us making Des Moines was a bit premature. Kevin responded that we were on vacation and who cared how long it took us to get somewhere. With that in mind, when I started seeing signs for the Pioneer Auto Museum in Murdo, SD, I suggested that we had to add that to our itinerary. What can I say about the Pioneer Auto Museum? Well, they sure have a lot of junk. Some really nice things too, including one of Elvis's Cadillacs and a Lamborgini tractor. All told there are something between 250 and 300 cars on display, but the sad part for me is that they're all crammed together. It was nearly impossible to get a good photograph of a car as there was no room to back up and focus. Still, we spent a couple hours wandering from building to building, seeing the 1902 curved-dash Olds, the 1914 Beardsley Electric (everything old is new again), and many, many more. I finally gave up on my photographic amibitions, saving my pixels for shots of radiator badges from unknown or forgotten marques (Franklin, Apperson Jackrabbit, Saxon, Velie Touring, etc.) Lunch in the GTO Cafe following the tour, then back on the highway.

1913 or is it 1914 Beardsley Electric--look out Chevy Volt
Taken 5/18/2011 in Murdo, South Dakota

Next stop, Mitchell, SD. It began to feel as if every town along I-90 was vying for our attention with some reason or other to get off the road, but Mitchell had been on my radar for several years. Mitchell is the home of the Corn Palace, a multi-use facility that in 2011 is hosting everything from the Mitchell High School Graduation to Loretta Lynn in concert. A large, ornate building that fills one city block, the exterior façade features murals redone every year "painted" entirely in corn cobs. Yellow corn predominates, but blue corn, red corn and other colored cobs enable the artists to get quite detailed images up for your enjoyment. One of the main murals on the front this year celebrates the 125th anniversary of the founding of Dakota Wesleyan University, also located in Mitchell. Ornate, yes. Ostentatious, probably. Worth a stop while driving I-90? Definitely.

The Corn Palace--yes that really is all made of ears of corn
Taken 5/18/2011 in Mitchell, South Dakota
(This one you really need to see enlarged)

East of Mitchell, we continued on and on (and on, and on), until we finally reached South Dakota's largest city, Sioux Falls. Roughly one quarter of the state's population lives in Sioux Falls and the surrounding county. This is where we left I-90 for I-29 which heads south to Sioux City, Iowa (and eventually to Omaha, Kansas City and beyond, though those cities were beyond the scope of our travels).

Minnehaha County Farm
Taken 5/18/2011 near Sioux Falls, South Dakota

We stopped for the night in Sioux City where we visited the Odyssey Casino, a structure built entirely on barges in the Missouri River. After losing some money at the Poker and Black Jack tables, we ate dinner in the casino's restaurant and found suitable accommodations at the downtown Ramada. And thus ended day two. Those of you who have been following my peregrinations over the past four years may recall that I wrote about crossing South Dakota back in 2007. On that trip I took the back roads across the state, and if you wish, you can read about the drive through the Badlands from Rapid City to Pierre here, and from Pierre to Des Moines, Iowa here.

Please Mr. Custer

OK, It's not a tipi, not an A-frame, and definitely a fixer upper
Taken 5/17/2011 on the Northern Cheyenne Indian Reservation

NOTE: Clicking on any picture will open a new window with a full-screen view of the picture. Also all links open in a new window.

Please Mr. Custer, I don't wanna go
Hey, Mr. Custer, please don't make me go
I had a dream last night about the comin' fight
Somebody yelled "Attack!"
And there I stood with a arrow in my back.

---Words and Lyrics by Fred Darian/Al DeLory/Joseph Van Winkle

Larry Verne recorded "Please, Mr. Custer" in 1960, and you can hear him sing the whole song
on YouTube.

I apologize for the fact that the text seems too big for the window.  I've tried to adjust it three times,
and it still isn't working.  Part of the problem is that the lines normally adjust themselves, but for
some reason, now I'm having to put in line breaks by hand.  If I have the time/energy, I'll go back
through it a fourth time and readjust everything.  If not, just bear with me.  With luck, this won't
happen next time.

Last weekend, the second weekend in May, 2011, Kevin and I drove to Portland,
Oregon for our monthly nutrient run.  Apparently we can now buy the nutrients we
use in Missoula, but not in the size containers we need, so we're still on the road
once a month to buy fertilizer.  On the way, Kevin suggested that we needed to
take a two week vacation.  Now isn't it convenient that the largest Ham Radio
gathering in the country is in Dayton, Ohio, which is not all that far from West
Virginia--at least not in western U.S. thought patterns.  So, I readily agreed as
long as we could spend about a week with my family in the Mountain State.
Over the course of the weekend, we talked quite a bit about the trip, and whether
it made any economic sense to do it at this point, as we're facing losing our shirt
if our law suits against the State of Montana don't go our way.  On the other hand,
if we do lose our court cases, we won't have the money to make a trip anyway,
so why not do it now and use the time to try and figure out just what our best
"Plan B" is.

Once back in Missoula, I called my cousin Ron in Parkersburg and warned him
that we're headed his way.  I also left a voice message for my cousin Sharon
telling her to be ready to fix a pitcher of margaritas and have some Pepsi in the
fridge, but I didn't tell her why.  She'll figure it out.  She's a smart gal.  I didn't call
my cousin Vicki, but if she reads this blog she'll know we're on the way, and she'll
be expecting my call.  She'll get one, too.

Monday I spent getting prescriptions filled, the oil changed, the gas tank filled, and
taking care of business at home.  Tuesday morning, Kevin was scheduled for a
colonoscopy, but figured we could be on the road by noon.  Actually, we made it
by 12:30, so I can't complain.  As he had been sedated for the hospital procedure,
I got to do most of the driving.  Heading East on Interstate 90, we had much better
weather than the last time (Easter weekend) we made the run to Billings.  Blue
skies, sunshine, beautiful scenery.  Who could ask for anything more.  As I was
driving, I chose the music, and as we drove, we listened to the McGarrigles,
Joan Baez, and David Walburn.  (Who, I hear you ask, is David Walburn?)  Well,
he's a Montana singer/songwriter, and I just happened to have one of his CDs in
the case.  In a show that there is no such thing as coincidence, as we approached
Big Timber, with the Crazy Mountains to our north, David started singing "Headed
For the Crazies."  You can learn more about David and even hear a clip of
"Headed For the Crazies" on his website.  On our trip at Easter, I had tried
repeatedly to get a good photo of the Crazies, and wasn't terribly successful
due to the weather.  Today, the weather was picture perfect, wouldn't you say?

The Crazy Mountains (AKA The Crazy Woman Mountains)
Taken 5/17/2011 near Big Timber, Montana

There are many stories about how the Crazies got their name, but the most
common seems to concern a woman who got lost in the range and went insane. 
A more erudite reason for the name is that the Crow Indians considered these
mountains an important venue for vision quests.  When they tried to explain that
to white settlers, the whites, unfamiliar with the concept of a vision quest, thought
that the Injuns were saying that the mountains were where you went crazy.  Now
that certainly sounds plausible to me, don't you agree?

We reached Billings around 5 p.m. and decided it was time for dinner.  A bit early,
perhaps, but Kevin hadn't eaten since Sunday (preparing for the colonoscopy) and
I had skipped breakfast, so...  The eternal question, "Where do you want to eat?"
One place that we both can agree on is the Olive Garden, so I programmed
TomTom to get us there easily.  Creature of habit that he is, Kevin said, "You
know what I want," and left for the men's room.  I did, indeed, know what he wanted,
so ordered his Shrimp Alfredo and got myself a serving of Stuffed Chicken Marsala.
mm-mm-good!  After dinner, we filled the tank at the adjacent Costco and were
quickly back on I-90 headed toward Hardin.

I have no idea what this is, but thought it beautiful
Taken 5/17/2011 in Hardin, Montana

Hardin holds many childhood memories for me as my father served as interim pastor
at the Congregational Church there when I was a child.  Every Sunday we'd drive
from Billings on the old U.S. 87, and I still have clear visions of an Easter basket
(think I still have the stuffed bunny from that basket), eating at the home of Mrs. Ping,
visiting the Custer Battlefield (now called the Little Bighorn Battlefield), and, most
especially the time I threw up all over the church steps.  I used to get so car sick
on that ride.

Approaching Hardin, Kevin saw a sign for Dairy Queen and started chanting "There's
a Dairy Queen in Hardin, There's a Dairy Queen in Hardin."  Well I know a mating call
when I hear one, so of course we stopped at the Dairy Queen.  Waiting at the drive up
window, I looked over and saw two trees planted next to the neighboring Taco Bell.
The trees were in full bloom, and were so astonishingly lovely, that I had to grab my
camera and jump out of the car.  I have no idea what it is, but maybe one of you can
tell me.

Hardin is the county seat of Big Horn County (number 22 if you're following my 
Montana Counties blog), and Big Horn County is Crow Country.  The Crow Indian
Reservation covers most of the county, and parts of some adjoining counties as well.
The Crow were a friendly tribe, and served as scouts for Custer's 7th Cavalry.  Hmmm,
maybe they weren't so friendly... NO, the Crow were our friends.  Their great chief
Plenty Coups had a vision early in his life where he saw all the bison of the plains
running into a hole in the ground and disappearing.  Once the bison were gone, a
smaller breed, similar to the bison but spotted black and white, came out of that hole.
He interpreted this dream to mean that the way of the Indian was passing away, and
the time of the white man had come.  From that point on, the Crow welcomed
the whites and worked with them.  In return, they got a reservation on a portion of
their traditional homeland.  If you can find a copy, I heartily recommend Frank Bird
Linderman's biography of Plenty Coups, American.

On these rolling hills, the men of the 7th Cavalry met their maker
Taken 5/17/2011 at Little Bighorn Battlefield
(formerly Custer Battlefield)

We could have stayed on Interstate 90 and driven through Wyoming, but there is a
shortcut in the form of US Highway 212 which crosses southern Montana heading
toward Belle Fourche, South Dakota.  212 leaves I90 at the site of the Battle of the
Little Big Horn, and crosses both the Crow and the Northern Cheyenne reservations.
It passes through Big Horn, Rosebud, Powder River and Carter Counties in Montana,
but the only town of any size is Broadus.  It was there we intended to spend the night.

In March, 2010, I had driven through Rosebud and Powder River Counties, looking
to add photos and stories to my on-going work, Glory of the West--a Photographic
Portrait of Montana's Fifty-Six Counties, a work I am currently publishing as a blog.
I had fallen in love with the red hills covered by dark green forests, and the friendly
people I had met along the way.  In writing up Powder River County (number 9 on
Montana license plates), I had determined that I would have to return and check
out some of the places I'd missed in 2010.  Now was my chance.  I especially wanted
to eat at the Judge's Chambers, but alas, we arrived in Broadus only to learn that
the restaurant doesn't open until June.  Just my luck.

We checked into our motel, the only one in town, and retired for the evening.  At
2 a.m. I was wide awake and in pain, a pain that only occurs when I'm lying down.
Nothing to do but get up, grab the camera and the computer, and put together this
little travelogue for you.  Hope you enjoy it.

I intend to keep you all informed as we cross the country.  Next stop will be Des
Moines, Iowa, where we'll visit our friends Fred and Harold.  They're expecting us on
Thursday, but I fear we'll probably get there a day early.  It's not that far from Broadus
to Des Moines--well, except in terms of culture, geography, topography, and mindset. 
Still, guess I'll have to call Fred and warn him.

Till later....

The Red Hills of Powder River County
Taken 5/17/2011 between Ashland and Broadus Montana
Please enlarge this one, it's worth it.