The Middle of Nowhere

How many years can a mountain exist

Before it's washed to the sea?

Yes, 'n' how many years can some people exist

Before they're allowed to be free?

Yes, 'n' how many times can a man turn his head,

Pretending he just doesn't see?

The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,

The answer is blowin' in the wind.

--Bob Dylan

My campsite (the tent tried to blow away)
South Sandstone Reservoir
Taken 9/10/07 in Fallon County, Montana

Pulling back onto the red dirt road leading to South Sandstone Reservoir, I turned left at the pavement, instead of right, and drove south. According to my map, this road would eventually lead me to Willard, Montana, and Montana Highway 7, which in turn would get me to Montana’s southeastern most county seat, Ekalaka. Very quickly the pavement ended and I was back on red dirt roads. My GPS receiver told me that Willard was seven miles distant, but GPS units always measure in a straight line, and this road was anything but straight. The topography fascinated me and I stopped a few times to take pictures. Knowing that Highway 7 was east of my position, I was surprised to see a sign directing me to turn south on yet another red dirt road if I wanted to get to Willard. At this point, I began paying very close attention to my GPS unit, because the roads were not at all the way my map showed them. Garmin, however, assured me that I was approaching the “town” and sure enough, after a few more miles I came to a stop sign, a paved highway that crossed my path, and a collection of two or three buildings that make up Willard.

Who says Eastern Montana is flat?
Taken 9/10/07 in Fallon County, Montana

Now I have to insert a note to my friend Rosanna who has made more than her share of long distance drives. Rosanna once told me that in planning an itinerary, she avoided long stretches of straight road because that meant “flat and boring.” Not in Montana, dear. Highway 7 begins in Montana’s other “see how the outsiders pronounce this name” town, Wibaux (Wee-bow), and heads south to Baker. (You do remember how to pronounce Meagher, don’t you? If not, go back a couple of days. There will be a test later.) On this stretch it has a normal amount of curves, but on the thirty-five miles from Baker to Ekalaka, the road makes one slight turn about three miles south of Baker, and for the next 32 miles it is as straight as any road can be. Nary a curve to be seen—unless you count the ups and downs as it passes through the rolling countryside of southeastern Montana. And with the fascinating land forms caused by erosion of sandstone, the view was certainly not boring.

The road ends in Ekalaka. I’m not kidding. Most of Carter County (Number 42) is south of Ekalaka, but if you’re planning on heading south, be prepared for dirt roads and, according to one woman I spoke with, if you’re driving a truck, you’d best have 10-ply tires on it. The mechanic in town told me that most all trucks in the area rode on 10-plies. Even better, the dirt is what in Montana is called “gumbo,” meaning that if it gets wet, forget it. You’re not going to get through. In wet or winter conditions, the only way to get to the county seat from the other Carter County communities is to drive the long-way round, which means going through three other Montana counties, or three other states. Talk about a Sunday drive.

The town itself is a charming place, population 436 according to the sign on the historical museum, with perhaps the prettiest courthouse I’ve yet seen in Montana. That’s not to say grandiose. What I did not see was any new construction, and there were many homes, good looking homes, that appeared to be empty. The population trend since the 2000 census shows a 3.7% decline. The people I met were friendly, as is often the case in a small town, and willing to help out a stranger. The homes were neat and the yards well maintained. Would I want to live there? Probably not. It’s way too far from a good bookstore.

North of town right on the Carter/Fallon County line, sits Medicine Rocks State Park. The eroded sandstone formations grab the imagination, and it’s not hard to see why the native people of the area considered this holy ground. Driving through the park, I was reminded of a parody of Shelley’s poem Ozymandias. As in the original, the parody ends with the inscription on the base of the statue, “My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings. Look on my works ye mighty and despair,” but then adds the names of all the tourists who have felt obliged to add their own names to the plinth. Most of these sandstone formations were “signed,” in one case by “JEHOVAH.” I suppose that was done just in case we had forgotten who carved the sandstone in the first place.

Back on Highway 7, I drove into Baker, Fallon County’s seat, and, of course, looked for the Courthouse. What I found instead was a “County-City Administration Building” built in the mid 1970s. The original courthouse was torn down to accommodate the new building, which makes sense administratively, but is usually a mistake architecturally. The “new” building (it is thirty years old, after all) is well designed, and the complex includes the library as well as the police, sheriff and jail. Around the corner in the old jail is the O’Fallon Museum, where I was sent to see pictures of the original structure. The museum, it turns out, is closed on Mondays.

One of the many bizarre features
Medicine Rocks State Park
Taken 9/10/07 in Carter County, Montana

Twelve miles east of Baker I crossed into North Dakota. There was no sign to welcome me; the only way to tell you’d crossed a state line was that the pavement differed and the speed limit dropped by five miles per hour. North Dakota is one of two states that has no national forests (the other being Kansas). Like Kansas, and South Dakota, for that matter, North Dakota does have national grasslands. According to my map, I was driving through one, but again, there was no sign telling me that. The first town I came to was Marmarth, whose “downtown” was almost completely boarded up. There was one anomalous structure here, the abandoned Barber Auditorium—another very large building that was completely out of place in its current setting. I wondered why such a building had been built in the first place.

You’ll be pleased to know that North Dakota license plates do not designate the county, so I’ll spare you that bit of trivia. And while South Dakota, like Wyoming and Nebraska, follows the same county numbering system as Montana, I didn’t have to learn those numbers growing up, so I won’t pass the information along. I will say that as I cross a county line in those states, I do try to see what the number is for the county. Old habits die hard.

North Dakota did not feel like the West. These were not ranches in the Montana sense, but appeared to be very prosperous large farms. I stopped in Bowman to have lunch (a Rueben with tossed salad at Jabr’s Family Restaurant). There was a notice posted in the restaurant that a fund raising dinner was going to be held at the United Methodist Church. It turns out that a local family, identified only by their first names, had lost several buildings and much equipment in what was described as either a tornado or a high wind that passed through town in August. Yes, definitely farm country, with neighbors helping neighbors, and everyone knowing who Kurt and Kathy were. (Names changed to protect the innocent victims of this “Act of God.”)

Turning south at Bowman, I left US 12 for US 85. I was in search of the Geographical Center of the US, and I had two maps, one by AAA and one by Langenscheidt, which showed two different locations for that spot. (The Germans got it wrong.) In Finland, I had traveled north to Rovaniemi, the administrative capitol of Finnish Lappland, just to say I’d been to the Arctic Circle. It was the same force that drew me to see the marker denoting the center of our country. Yes, this took me off my planned route, but wasn’t the point of the trip to go where I was drawn, not necessarily where the highway maps said I should go?

Stopping in Crow Butte (which isn’t on the map) for a chocolate almond shake, I asked the proprietress which location was correct. She assured me that the AAA map was correct, and that there was a marker at the site. She added that the town of Belle Fourche had put up their own sign, which only makes sense. How much money is going to be spent out on the prairie. Much better to make it a tourist attraction where people can actually buy things.

Still wearing my REAL MEN CUDDLE t-shirt, I was approached by a man who pointed to the words and said, “If it said ‘Real Old Men’ I could wear it.” I assured him that he wasn’t that much older than I, and he told me that he was a ’43 model. When I told him that I was a ’49, he let me know that those six years were important. I was back in the Old West. This ’43 model cuddler was wearing a cowboy hat, jeans, fringed leather chaps—and I don’t mean the kind you see in an S&M bar or on one of the cyclists heading to Sturgis—boots and, I’m not making this up, spurs! I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone outside the rodeo arena wearing spurs. His companion had spurs as well, but no chaps. We chatted a bit about the land. “Best damn grass in the country,” he told me, and I replied that the antelope sure seemed to like it. That got him started on a rant. Unlike deer, antelope (OK, I know the proper term is Pronghorn) will not jump a fence. When I-25 was built across Wyoming, herds of antelope died because their traditional paths had been disrupted and they couldn’t get through the barrier fences. This South Dakota cowboy didn’t have one good thing to say for the animal. Too many of them, all bent on destroying his fences. You see, rather than jump over them, the antelope will run into a fence until it breaks it down. And there were more antelope by far than any other large mammal that I could see. From the state line (where there was a welcome sign on each side of the highway) to Belle Fourche and I-90, I saw only two herd of cattle. Antelope, however, filled the prairie on both sides of the highway. Personally, I love the creatures, and find them aesthetically preferable to other wild animals. They taste good too.

Pronghorn, commonly called Antelope
Most common large animal along US 85 in South Dakota
Taken 9/10/07 in Butte County, South Dakota

Just outside the one-building “town” of Crow Butte was an historical marker telling of what was arguably the most bizarre war ever waged—this one between the Sioux and the Crow. The Sioux attacked the Crow, killing men and raping women, and the Crow men climbed to the top of the buttes. The Sioux then proceeded to slaughter the women and children left behind and set up a siege, trapping the Crow men on the top of the arid, waterless sandstone. The Crow warriors eventually died of thirst, but they had their revenge. The Sioux who attacked and besieged them died of disease they contracted from the Crow. Truly a war nobody won.

North of Belle Fourche, I passed a small sign pointing west which said “Center of the US.” Hanging a U on US 85, I turned west on a dirt road and drove the 7.8 miles indicated on the sign to find an American flag and two USGS survey markers out in the middle of a field. This really is the middle of nowhere, I thought.

The Flag marks the geographical center of the US
(you may have to click to enlarge the picture)
Taken 9/10/07 northwest of Belle Fourche, South Dakota

Having snapped the requisite shots, I turned the Volvo around and drove back to US 85, turning south to Belle Fourche. I’d been here before so I knew how to pronounce the name of the town. Don’t ask me why, but for some reason the “r” is silent. Bell Foosh is what the natives say. From Bell Foosh, I entered the Black Hills and found myself lost in Spearfish. I know there was an entrance to I-90 somewhere, but I missed it. I love the Black Hills, and I certainly recommend spending time there. Home to Mount Rushmore, Custer State Park, Wind Cave National Park, Crazy Horse Monument, and much, much more, South Dakota’s Black Hills are a vacation destination in their own right. I, however, was getting extremely tired and just wanted to pitch my tent at one of the campgrounds near Rapid City. In the end, I opted for a motel room and a hot shower. Tomorrow I’d decide whether to stay in the Black Hills or press on to Pierre.

The Wild, Wild West

Away out here they got a name
For rain and wind and fire
The rain is Tess, the fire Joe,
And they call the wind Maria

--Allen J. Lerner (Paint Your Wagon)

Musselshell River near Roundup, Montana
Taken 9/9/07

Up around dawn, I wanted to get my blog posted, but was afraid of running the computer on battery power alone. OK, use the car’s battery to power the computer, the way I did last night, I thought. Turning the key in the ignition produced nothing more than the awful grinding sound one hears when the battery is dead. Great, I thought. Here I am, two miles out of Roundup, Montana, where my cell phone doesn’t work and there’s only one other car in the campground. To make matters worse, I hadn’t seen a soul in the vicinity of the other car, so I really wasn’t sure what to do. Well, I said to myself, you can’t wander off and leave everything out in the open, so at least get stuff packed up.

Once the tent was down and the car repacked, I noted that while I’d been very careful to lock the car the night before, I had left the driver’s side front window completely open. All those folk who were joy-riding through the campground at 1 a.m. could have taken everything I had: computer, camera, food, non-working stove, everything. But they didn’t. Wondering if there was enough juice to raise the window, I turned the key again and the car started. Didn’t know that car batteries could recharge themselves. Oh those crafty Swedes.

Since I was packed, and since the stove refused to light, I ate a breakfast of cold pizza and sliced peaches, then bid farewell to my campsite on the Musselshell. And by the way, we’re in cowboy country now, and I really wasn’t sure that the kilt would go over at all. Before departing, I put on a pair of 501s and what I hoped would be a provocative t-shirt, “Real Men Cuddle.” In my experience, women all love the shirt, and their husbands give me dirty looks—especially after the wife has elbowed her husband’s kidneys and pointed me out.

Driving through Roundup, a very pretty, very clean town, by the way, I began to think that maybe the kilt would have been ok. The first store I saw on Main Street was “Goddess Gifts.” Hmm, doesn’t sound very redneck to me. In front of the Musselshell County Courthouse was a statue of three children walking on a log. While I was shooting the statue and the courthouse, a man in a wheelchair rode by and greeted me. Sounded more like an aging hippy than an old cowboy. Oh, well, the Levi’s were on for the day. And man were they uncomfortable. This was the first time in 5 days that I’d worn anything other than a kilt.

Click to enlarge and watch the geese rising from the pond
Taken 9/9/07 in Musselshell County, Montana

Heading east on US 12, I crossed into Rosebud County (Number 29), heading for Forsyth, the county seat, the Yellowstone River, and I-94. The landscape drew me in as the first ten years of my life were spent in this part of the country, and it felt like home. The cloud formations were impressive too. You don’t see clouds like that on the northern California coast. Stopping to take a picture of a tree on an island in a goose covered pond, I passed the “Posted” sign. The gate was open. If they wanted people to stay out, they should close the damn gate.

I had placed my GPS receiver on the dash, and it told me I was approaching Vananda. Now while Vananda is on the map, I’d never heard of it, so I was curious. Then I saw a few “fixer-uppers” as we call houses that are falling down, and a huge building out in the middle of the prairie. I had to check out the building, and fortunately there was a dirt road leading to it. The Vananda School. Hard to imagine that there was ever enough of a population to require a school that size.

Vananda School, abandoned
Taken 9/9/07

After leaving Roundup, I had driven through Melstone, past Ingomar, and through Sumatra. Sumatra today consists of one house that is barely standing. Melstone looked like it held maybe a hundred people—if all the homes were occupied. Ingomar was about the same size, but off the highway. That was it for the hundred mile stretch of US 12 between Roundup and Forsyth. This part of Montana is rapidly reverting to open prairie land.

Prairie Skies
Taken 9/9/07 in Rosebud County, Montana

Although I could see nothing to the south but sandstone bluffs, the GPS unit was showing a broad stripe running parallel to the highway. I surmised that it was showing me the Yellowstone River, but that was just an educated guess. The Yellowstone is Montana’s third largest river (after the Clark Fork and the Missouri). It flows north out of Yellowstone Park, then turns east at Livingston, to flow past Billings, Forsyth, Miles City and Glendive, eventually joining the Missouri just across the state line in North Dakota. Sure enough, I turned a bend toward the south, and there was the river of my childhood.

Immediately after crossing the Yellowstone, I saw a sign welcoming me to Forsyth and telling me to turn left if I wanted Main Street. Of course I wanted Main Street. Twenty years ago I had the idea of doing a photo essay book on the 56 County Courthouses of Montana. I started the project, but time and events got in the way and my Montana Centennial Courthouse book never saw the light of day. Rosebud County had one of the courthouses I had missed. And boy, what an edifice. According to the Historic Landmark sign by the front doors, there was quite a controversy surrounding the building of this monument to civic chutzpah. The people wondered if they were getting their money’s worth and took the county to court. The court ruled in favor of completing the structure, and today, even while the dome is being repaired, the Rosebud County Courthouse is a perfect example of why I wanted to do the book in the first place. I had been captivated by how even the smallest counties had opted for grandiose edifices when erecting their courthouse. This one fit the bill. And, appropriately enough for Rosebud County, there is a beautiful stained glass window depicting a rose in full bloom above the front doors, and the grounds are planted with rose gardens.

I had hoped to get to Miles City before filling the tank, but as distances are vast and towns few, I decided to fill up at the Forsyth Town Pump at $2.939 per gallon. East then toward Miles City, with another 45 miles of interstate. I pulled off at the rest area near Hathaway (well, that’s what my GPS unit said—personally, I didn’t see any town), and checked the maps. I did not check the local history signs, which was a mistake. Apparently they talk at length about our old friend Jedediah Smith. That guy was even more peripatetic than I.

Pulling off the interstate in Miles City, seat of Custer County (Number 14), I pulled into the parking lot of the local 4Bs restaurant. 4Bs is a Montana institution, and while there are better restaurants, I have a soft spot in my heart for the chain. The first restaurant I remember eating in was a 4Bs in Deer Lodge, Montana. Missoula, the corporate headquarters for the chain, used to have 4 of the restaurants. Their tomato soup is wonderful, by the way, and that’s what I ordered along with a grilled cheese sandwich. As I was finishing my meal, I asked the waitress where she would choose to eat if she wasn’t coming to the 4Bs. She recommended a couple of other places, and when I asked why, she said “The food is better.” I then asked if I would find the Courthouse easily, and she gave me directions. A man sitting at another table told her that she should have given me a different set of directions, ones that would have directed me to his place of business. I stopped to talk with Eric Brandt, gave him one of my misprinted business cards, and he invited me to stop by his shop and he’d print me up some new ones as a “Welcome to Miles City” gift.

The Courthouse was, indeed, easy to find, and so was Brandt’s business. The man is a one-person Chamber of Commerce. Every question I asked about Miles City elicited a full and thoughtful response. When I asked what I dare not miss, he immediately told me to go to the Range Rider Museum on the western edge of town. Looking at his watch, he told me I’d have two hours before they closed. He gave me directions and also a few other suggestions, as well as several websites to check out concerning Miles City. He also told me that on a per capita basis (in Montana we always use per capita bases), Miles City has more parks than anywhere else. Three things I know: 1) I have to go back and spend time in Miles City. This is a fascinating town, and contrary to what is happening elsewhere in eastern Montana, Miles City appears to be thriving and growing. 2) I have to visit the Range Rider Museum. I did drive over there, but (sorry Eric) I chose to take a few photos and then drive on. Two hours wouldn’t do it justice, and now I have a strong reason to return. 3) I have to write up a travelforaday page on Miles City. The town is impressive with a very large historic district full of monumental churches and neatly kept up mansions, most of which have Historic Landmark signs by their front doors. I have to say that thanks to Eric, I now have a much different view of Miles City than I’d had previously. I also have 100 beautifully printed business cards. By the way, Eric’s business is not a print shop. He told me that he doesn’t do cards as a rule. Rather he is an IT expert and sells and repairs computers. From what I saw, next time I replace the desktop, I’ll be calling Eric. You might consider doing that too! I’ll be happy to give you his contact info should you ask. The business is Brandt Information Technology Consultants, 911 Main Street, Miles City MT 59301.

Back on the highway, after photographing the First United Methodist Church of Miles City, I took the US 12 exit and turned east toward Baker. According to my AAA camping book, there was no campground near Baker, the seat of Fallon County (Number 39), but there was one seven miles out of Plevna. It had been raining hard off and on ever since I left Miles City, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to camp in the rain, but turning on the radio to KFLN, the AM station in Baker, I heard that there was only a 20% chance of precip overnight, so I drove down a red-rock road to a great little campground and fishing access site on South Sandstone Reservoir. Sitting in my car waiting to see if the rain would stop, I caught up on reading some e-mail, but chose not to send any as the speeds I was getting were incredibly slow. What a concept, and what does it say that I am sitting facing a reservoir, a million miles from anywhere, and I’m complaining about the speed of my internet connection? We’re really spoiled these days.

The rain did stop, and I got out the gear, set up the tent, and by 10:00 was in bed. There were a lot of frustrations in getting camp set up, but this morning, as I look at the sunrise over the reservoir, the frustration all fades away. It’s been a glorious trip so far, and I’m really looking forward to continuing on.

More tomorrow (assuming that I can still find an internet connection, of course.)

Did I say we were in cowboy country?
Taken at the Range Rider Museum, Miles City Montana
9/9/07

Out of the Mouth of Hell

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

--From The Charge of the Light Brigade
Alfred Lord Tennyson

MacDonald Pass--where US 12 crosses the Continental Divide
Powell/Lewis & Clark Counties, Montana
Taken 9/8/07

It’s fitting that I should leave Missoula via I-90 and the Hellgate Canyon. As I was sitting in the hot tub this morning, I saw Orion shining bright and clear to the east. As I’ve always had a special affinity for the hunter, I took his appearance as a sign that it was time to continue eastward. By the time I got my morning work done, the car loaded, the kids and Gary kissed goodbye, it was almost noon. By the time I filled the tank at Costco ($2.85/gallon), it was noon and I merged into the flow of east-bound traffic on I-90, saying good-bye to the burnt landscape and smoky air.

The canyon east of Missoula was a battlefield where the Salish and the Blackfeet met and fought over hunting and fishing rights. When the first French trappers reached the area, they were so stunned by the sight of human bones covering the ground that they cried out, “Mais c’est la porte de l’enfer.” Missoula’s first name was Hellgate, and the downtown high school is today Hellgate High. (Many of us felt that our own high school was one of those portals as well.)

By leaving town, I missed the annual Hemp Fest held in Caras Park downtown. Driving east, I drove right by the location of the annual Testicle Festival, and didn’t stop to buy any tacky souvenirs, such as the t-shirts that read “Testicle Festival 2007: I had a BALL!” Besides, I’ve bought a ton of those shirts in the past. Never attended the three day drunken brawl though. Just not that fond of Rocky Mountain Oysters.

I crossed the Granite County line (Number 46 on Montana license plates) and drove right by Drummond, where the “World Famous Bullshippers” live and work. Entering Powell County (Number 28), I passed Camp Mak-A-Dream—a campground facility for children with terminal cancer. After driving seventy-five miles on the Interstate, I took the exit at Garrison Junction, where the sign reads “State Capitol Next Right.” Note it does not say “Next Exit.” Do you suppose it has something to do with the Christian Coalition holding roughly the same percentage of legislative seats that gave Germany to Hitler?

Climbing up and over MacDonald Pass, I stopped to take a few pictures. Unlike the Fords of my childhood, the Volvo had no problem with the pass and I can state most emphatically that I did NOT stop because of vapor lock. MacDonald Pass crosses the Continental Divide, and I passed from the Columbia River watershed into the Missouri River watershed. The river that I’d been following all the way from Missoula is the Clark Fork of the Columbia—the river that carries the most water out of Montana. Once past Helena, I would following the Missouri itself for a few miles.

MacDonald Pass is also where I crossed from Powell County into Lewis and Clark County (Number 5). Helena, the seat of Lewis and Clark County is also the capitol of the state of Montana. At the turn of the twentieth century, Helena had more millionaires per capita than any other place in the US. The operative phrase, of course, is “per capita,” but if you drive through the residential areas on the western side of town, you’ll be amazed at the size and number of mansions there—mansions built over a hundred years ago.

The Montana State Capitol Building
Click to enlarge and see Thomas Frances Meagher
Taken 9/8/07 in Helena, Montana

While in Helena, I stopped at Costco to retrieve some enlargements I had sent ahead. (Isn’t the internet wonderful?!?) I also bought a few staples for the trip and got out with my dignity pretty much intact. Do I need to say that I’m still wearing that leather kilt? Helena is the first place anyone has looked at me twice.

East of Helena, I crossed first into Jefferson County (Number 51) and then into Broadwater County (Number 43). Townsend is the seat of Broadwater County, and the broad water itself is the Missouri, which I crossed just before entering town. The clouds over the Little Belt Mountains were beginning to look threatening, and there was fresh snow on the ridge line.

I love the drive through the Little Belts as US 12 runs from Townsend to White Sulphur Springs, and I got to really appreciate the drive because the state is rebuilding the highway. Much of the way there was no pavement and a 35 mph limit.

White Sulphur Springs sits in the Smith River Valley, and is seat to Meagher County (Number 47). See how things all line up. Meagher County (and you do know to pronounce it Marr, don’t you? The gh is silent.) is named for the same Thomas Francis Meagher, and the Smith River is named for the same Jedediah Smith who gave his name to Smith River California where this journey began. The most interesting building in town is currently the home of the Meagher County Historical Society, and is known locally as The Castle.

The Castle
Taken 9/8/07 in White Sulphur Springs, Montana

The mountains to the south of town are also called the Castle Mountains, and as I drove through them I thought back to all the trips we took along this route when I was a child. Some of the more fanciful Montana place names are along this road, including the fishing resort town of Checkerboard and the town that was named for a cattle ranch brand, Twodot. The Bair family lived near Martinsdale, just off US 12, and while father Charlie made his money in petroleum products, his spinster daughters became philanthropists and amassed enough of a collection that their ranch is now a museum with an art collection that makes it worth your while to get off the road for a bit. The performing arts center in Billings is The Alberta Bair Theatre, in case you wondered where the money came from. My first dean at the School of Fine Arts tried to get me to go to work cataloging the Bair collection, but warned me that Alberta Bair drank most men under the table. Sounds like a Montana ranch woman to me.

The clouds continued getting darker and I did drive through a bit of heavy rain. Crossing over into Wheatland County (Number 44), I noted how the terrain was broadening and flattening. Nowhere in Montana will you find truly flat land, but the valley here was wider than any I’d seen so far on the trip, even if the Judith Mountains to the north showed fresh snow. I was also passing through Hutterite country, and the prosperous communal farms of this sect of German Anabaptists were lush with corn ready for harvest. They also seemed to have quite a crop of wind turbines on many of the ridge lines. Corn and wind. Sounds like politics, doesn’t it.

Retired Electric Locomotive
Chicago Milwaukee St. Paul and Pacific Railroad
The Milwaukee Road
Taken 9/8/07 in Harlowton, Montana

The railroads brought settlers into Montana, and to entice people to come to this unknown land, towns were named for familiar places in Europe, and counties were set up with Chamber of Commerce names. Towns like Havre, Kremlin, Malta, Belgrade, Amsterdam were all named to make them sound familiar to the immigrants who came west on the railroad. Counties like Wheatland, Golden Valley, Petroleum, Sweet Grass, were all set up in the hope of attracting farmers. The settlers came, farmed the land, and were wiped out by drought and temperature extremes. Montana’s dust bowl preceded by ten years the better known national experience described so well in Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath. Eastern and central Montana counties, never heavily populated, today are losing people at an alarming rate.

I picked up the Musselshell River at Checkerboard and have been following it across Wheatland County and into Golden Valley County (Number 53). When I was 8 or 9, my father served as interim pastor to the Methodist churches in Ryegate (Golden Valley County’s seat) and Lavina, a small town at the junction of US 12 and Montana 3 which leads down to Billings. I will never forget the experience of riding an “English” bike for the first time in Lavina. As I approached the highway on a side street, I tried to break, the pedals just spun backward. I couldn’t stop, never having experienced hand breaks before. I don’t remember what happened, but I think I fell off the bike rather than ride it into traffic. In any event, I’m still here some 50 years later.

Central Montana Landscape
Taken 9/8/07 in Golden Valley County, Montana

Roundup, the seat of Musselshell County (Number 23), got its name as it was the northern terminus of the Chisholm Trail—or at least of one of those cattle driving trails. Winter ‘em in Texas, but bring ‘em north to Montana for the summer. Seems like an awful lot of work for some steaks and roasts. For Montana’s statehood centennial, a group of entrepreneurs put together a mini-drive, and herded cattle fifty miles from Billings to Roundup. It was a great publicity stunt, and one enterprising town not on the drive, Reedpoint, decided to capitalize on the event by running a sheep drive. The Reedpoint Sheep Drive was so successful as a money maker, that the town continued holding the event for several years. The first year so many people showed up in this tiny town, that the Highway Patrol gave up trying to keep people from parking on the Interstate. For one day, Reedpoint was one of the largest cities in Montana. The next day it was back down to a few hundred folk.

I didn’t see much of Roundup as I was looking carefully for Cowbelle Campground. That’s where I have my tent set up and my computer working. Lo and behold, tonight I even got an internet connection using my Verizon Wireless Air Card. I have no cell phone service here, but three bars on the Air Card. If I still have the connection in the morning, I’ll add my pictures and get this posted.

It’s 10:20 p.m., I’ve driven 329 miles, and I’m ready for bed.

From Portland to Hell

Fountain in City Park, Arlington Oregon

Taken 9/6/07

After yesterday’s extremely long post, today’s will be relatively brief. Also unlike previous posts, this will cover a couple of days on the road.

Faithful readers will recall that I went to bed Wednesday night, with my car still in the shop and a rented Kia Sorrento sitting outside my motel room in the Hollywood District of NE Portland.

Thursday morning I woke early, feeling rested, and was able to get some writing done. Concerned about travel time and not having the car, I decided to pack up the Sorrento and be ready to go as soon as I heard from Jennifer at Swede One. My absolute deadline for getting out or staying another night was 11:00 a.m., although the folk at the Banfield Motel have always been very good to me, and this time was no exception.

When 10:30 came and went with no word about the car, I tried calling the shop myself. Every time I called I got the answering machine. It must have been a madhouse there. Finally, with the Kia fully loaded, I locked the room, turned in my key, and headed out figuring that if nothing else, I could just sit in the parking lot while waiting to transfer all my bags.

Arriving at Swede One just before noon, I found that, indeed, the office was terribly busy. My car, on the other hand, was almost completed, and was just going through the final checks. There were no major mechanical problems with the car, but if I was to drive 10,000 miles, I’d probably want to get new tires. A quick call to Roemer’s Tire Factory in Missoula where Russ assured me that if I had the car to him by 12:30 on Friday, he’d have new rubber on the car that afternoon.

At 12:30 Thursday, I had a clean car, loaded and fully ready for the trip, thanks to the good folk at Swede One, and I hit the road headed home to Missoula. Rather than take the back roads, I chose my “fast” route: I-84 from Portland to east of Umatilla, I-82 from that point to Kennewick, US 395 to Ritzville, and I-90 to Missoula. I’ve driven this route so much that I could probably do it in my sleep—which is a good thing because once behind the wheel I felt incredibly tired.

Troutdale Oregon is at exit 17 from I-84 east of Portland, and is known primarily for its outlet mall, its relatively cheap gasoline ($2.54/gallon), and for a small but historic downtown where I have enjoyed great lunches in the past. Stopping for lunch again, I tried a place that was new to me, Siam Sushi (Yes, I know), where I ordered lunch combination C: sushi and chicken pad thai. That meant seven pieces of sushi, pad thai, and something else I couldn’t recognize, but seemed to be some sort of grilled chicken, all served in a large bento box. It was all very good, if a somewhat unorthodox combination, and I’d recommend the restaurant to anyone passing through the Portland area.

Leaving the restaurant, I saw a woman on the street carrying a small chocolate dog that I mistook for a MinPin. Turns out it was a Chihuahua, but lovely, and I introduced Gypsy to the woman and her dog before getting in the Volvo, turning on Paul Theroux, and heading east on I-84.

The trip home was uneventful. Even though I kept feeling as if I were falling asleep, somehow I made it all the way home, stopping only a few times. The first was at Arlington, Oregon where Gypsy had a pee and poop break and I took a few pictures in the city’s waterfront park.

I stopped again at Kennewick for dinner, but didn’t go to my usual Mexican place. Instead, because I was really feeling a time crunch, I stopped at my new favorite fast food burger place, Carl Jr’s, where I ordered a traditional six dollar burger and a orange creamsicle shake. Did I mention that I’m still wearing the black leather kilt? Even in Kennewick, no one said a word, or even looked at me strangely. You can read my impressions of Kennewick at www.travelforaday.com/kennewickwashington.php.

In one of those “timing is everything” moments, I looked to my right as I entered I-90 and saw what would have made a spectacular sunset shot. The sky was pink and pale blue, and there was a large brilliant orange semi-circle around the setting sun. No place to pull off and capture it digitally, so I had to chalk it up to what my friend Carl calls AFS—which is shorthand for Another Sunset. (You can fill in the F word.)

On I-90, I pulled off at Coeur d’Alene to get a large iced tea, and then again at Fourth of July Pass to rid myself of the iced tea and let Gypsy out for a bit. One more stop along the St. Regis River in Montana, and then clear sailing all the rest of the way home. Of course it was dark by the time I reached Spokane, so if it weren’t for the messages I’d received from Gary, and the highway reader boards all warning of Extreme Fire Danger, I wouldn’t have realized that I was driving through a landscape that looked like hell. Literally.

I pulled up to the Missoula house at half past midnight, and immediately went to bed. Friday morning I rose early, climbed into the hot tub, then started pulling stuff out of the car. I had some errands to run, and had the Volvo to Roemer’s in time for my 12:30 appointment. Choosing to stay and wait, I saw several friends come in, and I figured that if I sat there long enough, I’d see everyone I know in Missoula. Roemer’s is that good.

If I got off cheaply at Swede One (the bill was half what I was expecting), the tires I bought at Roemer’s made up the difference. But then my life is depending on those tires. I’m not interested in pinching pennies with this much driving ahead of me. Still the bill was over $200 per tire, so in the past two days I’ve spent around $1300 just on the car—and that doesn’t include gas. Living in a city with a good rapid transit system begins to become very appealing.

For some reason, Volvo specifies a very high torque for the lug nuts on my model of car. Most Volvos have their lug nuts torqued at 60-80 foot pounds, but my model requires 105 foot-pounds. Twice I’ve had a tire come off, or threaten to, because tire people didn’t torque the nuts sufficiently. This is the only car I’ve ever had that happen to, so now I’m probably obnoxious when talking to tire people. I insist that they check, double check, then check again to make sure my tires won’t come off the car. Russ, Shane and the guys at Roemer’s were very careful to do exactly what I asked, and even suggested that I take the car out for a 15 mile drive and then bring it back and they would recheck the torque. That’s how I got to see hell for myself.

Recently burned hillside
Evaro Hill, US Highway 93, Missoula County Montana
Taken 9/7/07

Evaro Hill is where US 93 heads north from Missoula to the Mission Valley. The road itself is about 10 miles west of Missoula, and is the most heavily traveled highway in the state of Montana. I first drove out I-90 to the Wye where US 93 turns north, and drove up to the top of the hill. The burnt land came right down to the roadside, and there were places were smoke was still rising from the ground. Gary had told me that the highway was closed earlier because of the fires.

Having seen that devastation, I took the frontage road to Frenchtown, the next town west of Missoula. The fires there had burned out of the forests, through the grasslands, and again, the burnt land reached all the way to the Interstate. This is an area with a lot of new, expensive construction, and the pattern seemed to be new homes, surrounded by very wet, very green lawns, which in turn were surrounded by burnt earth. I certainly would not have wanted to be the new owner of one of these homes, trying to save my investment while fire was raging all around me.

Scorched earth from recent fire activity
Taken 9/7/o7 in Frenchtown Montana

Say what you will about global warming, but I’ve been coming to or living in western Montana all my life. There have been years, 1962 comes to mind, when the fire season was terrible. But those years were in the minority until recently. Since 2000, we have had three years when the regional fires were so intense that the street lights in Missoula stayed on all day—there was so much smoke in the air. Three extreme fire seasons in seven years is a bit much for my taste. This year the smoke was preceded by a month of 100+ degree temperatures, another extreme that western Montanans aren’t used to. It could well be that the only reason the temperatures finally dropped is that the sun couldn’t get through the smoke. Things are not the way they used to be.

While in Frenchtown, I took a couple shots of St. John the Baptist Catholic Church. One of the older churches in the area, and on the historic register, this church is another example of just how fiery Frenchtown can be. Local legend tells of the time that the bishop in Helena excommunicated the entire congregation of St. John the Baptist. Why would he take such a drastic step? Well, it seems the parish tried to lynch their priest. I have no idea why, but it does seem that with all the troubles the Roman church is facing these days, maybe other parishes would like to revive this practice. Oh, I probably shouldn’t have said that.

St. John the Baptist Catholic Church
Built 1884
Taken 9/7/07 in Frenchtown, Montana

Back home to pick up maps, travel and camping guides at Triple A, and on to Roemer’s to have the torque checked one last time, then home to write up the long post about Portland.

This morning, sitting in the hot tub, I saw Orion in the sky and that told me that it was time to pack up and head out. So, as soon as this gets posted, I’ll be packing the car and heading for Helena, White Sulphur Springs, Harlowtown, Ryegate, Roundup, Forsyth, Miles City, Baker, and eventually Pierre. Mapquest tells me that it’s 14 hours from here to Pierre, and I’ll break that into two days. Whether I camp at Roundup or at Forsyth remains to be seen, but you can count on hearing all about the drive either on Sunday or Monday at the latest.

So for now it’s Cheerio, Pip-Pip, or as we used to say in Scottish Dancing Circles, TTFN.

It's called a kilt because.....

An Evening Primrose, growing by the highway
Taken 9/2/07 in Smith River, California
This picture has nothing to do with the trip.

Wednesday morning got off to an early start. I was taking the Volvo into the good folk at Swede One for its 90,000 mile check up. Swede One had moved since my last visit and I had no idea how much time to allow. Having slept poorly, I headed out the door about 7:15 for an 8:00 a.m. appointment. Need I say that it took only fifteen minutes to drive to the shop?

Was I prepared? Me, the consummate reader? Of course not. With nothing to read, I resorted to window shopping. Nice Volvos for sale at Swede One, but nothing better than what I was dropping off, so I moved on. Across the street I saw a sign for Lanvin French Bakery.

This really caught my eye, and only in part because I hadn’t yet had breakfast. My first partner, Steve, was a grad student studying Math at The University of Montana. His major professor was Hien Nguyen. Professor Nguyen’s father had been a physician in Viet Nam, but his family left for France before the fall of Saigon. After living in Paris, the family moved to the United States, and Professor Nguyen ended up at UM. His father was not allowed to practice medicine in the US, but felt that he and his wife had picked up a new profession while in France, that of bakers. As the parents were named Lan and Vinh (I have to admit that I’m not sure just how the given names are supposed to be spelled), they opened a wonderful French bakery in Missoula, Lanvin. In time, Professor Nguyen started his own software company and left the university. His company was so successful that his parents no longer had to work, and sadly, Lanvin French Bakery closed. Seeing the name in this Vietnamese section of Portland made me curious, so I paid them a visit.

The pastries in the cases were not nearly as appealing as what I remembered seeing in Missoula, but tbat didn’t stop me from getting a Paris-Brest and a type of cream puff. I saw a sign on the wall honoring someone named Nguyen, so I asked if they used to have a shop in Missoula. The woman serving me had to go into the back room and send out a teenaged boy to answer my questions in English. He had never heard of Missoula, and had no idea that once upon a time, another Nguyen family had opened a business under the same name as their shop. Oh well. I guess that Nguyen is about as common a name as Smith—at least among the Vietnamese. Oh, and that software company that Professor Nguyen started? My current partner, Gary, works there as a software tester. Wasn’t I just talking yesterday about it being a small world?

The Volvo being prepared for the trip
(The handsome man washing the car is the owner of Swede One,
Dave Davis. See why I like to take the car to Portland?)
Taken 9/6/07 in Portland, Oregon

Having dropped off the car, I planned on a car-less city day. Taking Portland’s wonderful rapid transit system was a matter of walking a half mile to the station, buying a ticket, and riding the train all day—or as much of the day as I cared to ride. And all for only $4.25 for a full day ticket. Arriving at the station, however, the first thing I see is a transit authority cop handcuffing and frisking a young man. Next I noticed several transit authority workers spread around the station. Finally I noticed the “out of service” sign on the ticket machine, or rather, on both ticket machines at the 82nd Street station. Not wanting to end up in handcuffs myself, I asked one of the workers what I should do. She assured me that Tri-Met was aware of the problem, and I should just get on the train and explain to anyone who asked why I did not have a ticket.

At this point I should note that all the times I’ve ridden Max, never have I had anyone ask if I had a ticket. I was sure that this one time I didn’t have one, someone would ask. But no, I rode the train from 82nd Street NE to Chinatown across the river and left the train with no one the wiser that I was riding without paying.

As I mentioned in yesterday’s post, I planned the service call so that I could participate in two activities, the men’s massage group on Tuesday and Line Dancing on Wednesday. Once I arrived in Portland, however, I could find no information about current line dance instruction. Having been let down by the web, I took matters in my own hands and decided to stop by the bar and ask directly. I knew it was somewhere near Chinatown, but wasn’t sure exactly where. And of course, I hadn’t written down any addresses.

There are three shops I always visit when in Portland. All three are within walking distance of each other in or near the Pearl District. Powell’s City of Books claims to be the largest bookstore in the country. I have no idea if they are justified in that claim, but I do know that I’ve never been in a larger bookstore. The Tea Zone has more blends of tea than anyone could possibly want, and Spartacus Leathers, well, what can I say about that place in a family-oriented site?

Off the train, and walking around looking for C.C. Slaughters, the bar where we danced the last time I was in Portland, I found many interesting shops and restaurants, but not the bar I was seeking. Giving up that search, I headed across the city, walking from first to tenth, where Powell’s sits on Burnside, taking up the entire block from tenth to eleventh. Powell’s however, doesn’t open until nine, and once again, I was early.

I continued walking up Burnside to twelfth, Spartacus’s corner, but that toy store doesn’t open until ten. Having had two French pastries at Lanvin, I felt it was too soon to head to the Tea Zone, so I killed time by walking around a few more blocks, eventually using up minutes by reading about every book in the Powell’s window displays. By the time I reached the front door, it was 8:55, only five minutes to wait.

Looking around at the group of people who were assembled waiting for the store to open, I thought back to my days as a grocery clerk for Lucky Stores, Inc. Our store also opened at nine, and there was always a group of people, almost always men, waiting outside for someone to unlock the door. These men had one goal in mind—get the nineteen cents a quart Franzia wine. Yes, the winos were waiting, and so were we. In one of those aha! moments, I realized that we were the same. Just as the winos couldn’t wait to get their morning fix, we bibliophiles couldn’t wait for the next literary fix served up so nicely by Powell’s. When the doors were finally unlocked, there was a rush, an orderly, polite rush, but a rush none the less to get inside and start shopping for books. I was no different.


Having found an acceptable way to spend time by looking at and buying books (only 11 this trip), when I left Powell’s, Spartacus had already been open for a while. In the toy store, I found nothing that I needed, and quite frankly nothing I wanted that I didn’t already have, except for… Oh my gawd, is that a leather kilt? (You were wondering about the title of this epistle, weren’t you!) OK, I’ll admit it, I’ve wanted a leather kilt for quite some time, but I’ve never found one I liked. Spartacus had several kilts (or rather kilt like garments—these have no real pleats), but I couldn’t make out the sizes from the codes used on the tags. A friendly clerk suggested I try two differently marked kilts on in the dressing room. How could I refuse? The smaller of the two was definitely too small for my frame, but the larger fit only if I tightened it to the last hole in the strap. (I’m not about to describe how you put on a kilt. If you’ve never done it, use your imagination.) As I would rather lose inches, not gain them, I passed on the kilt purchase, and went into the back room where I found one thing I did want—a book. Of course. What were you thinking?

Beasts is a compilation of ninety-nine photographs by fifty-two photographers “reflecting on the relationship between men and animals and that of man as an animal himself.” The cover image is a cute blond boy holding what appears to be a malamute pup. Craig and Apache, by photographer Robert Emery Smith, was taken in 1993 in the San Francisco Bay Area. It is available in a variety of sizes at prices ranging from $200 to $600, with the edition limited to 10 prints. As I have started my own Men With Dogs collection, I deemed this book an important addition to my professional library. If you’ve forgotten my own men with dogs, all but one are currently on display at the Bank of America in Crescent City, California, or you can see them on Picasa.

Alan and Ivan
(Man and dog not in BofA show)
Taken 10/29/06 at the mouth of the Klamath River, California

Walking back toward Chinatown, guidebook in hand, I now had an address for the line dancing bar, which, it turns out, has changed format. Turning the corner, I entered another bar, the Fox and Hound. The bartender was very eager to be of help, even phoning to find where I might go to dance, but he came up empty handed. I ordered a shrimp salad and, since I wasn’t driving, a gin and tonic, and had lunch.

After lunch, I boarded Max, returned to my motel room, took Gypsy out for a walk, and then napped. It had been a stressful, but rewarding morning, and now I was just waiting for a call to come get my car. The call came around four, but rather than tell me that my car was ready, Jennifer told me that they hadn’t even started my car, and would need at least three hours, which meant finishing up Thursday morning. To compensate me for the inconvenience, they were renting a car for my use. Hertz would be calling me shortly.

At this point, I had two concerns. First, would my car be ready early enough on Thursday to allow me to drive to Missoula. It’s a ten hour drive between point P and point M, and there’s a time zone crossing that makes things even worse. My other concern was that knowing how much stuff I had taken out of the Volvo and stashed in my motel room, including Gypsy, her box and her travel bed, would Hertz have a car large enough? As it turned out, I said thanks but no thanks to the Ford Focus Hertz was offering, and took instead a Kia Sorrento. Who knew the Koreans made such large vehicles?!? I didn’t really need a car as I was content relying on public transportation, but I was concerned about getting all my stuff back into the Volvo in a timely fashion.

Parking the Kia at the motel, I climbed back on Max and went to buy myself a kilt. Amazing what having time to think about things can do. Well, that and some on-line research I did which showed me that if I wanted a leather kilt, and I did, I wasn’t going to find one for less money than what Spartacus was asking.

Once in my kilt, I told the clerk I was going to wear it, and to put my walking shorts into the rainbow beribboned man-bag I bought as well. Kilts don’t have pockets, don’t ya know. Well, the Seattle made Utilikilts do have pockets, and pockets, and more pockets—so many that you can carry all your electronic gear with you, if you don’t mind looking like a mal-formed kangaroo. This little leather piece has one small pocket which looks for all the world like the key pocket in a pair of Speedos. Nothing that will hold car keys, wallet, change, Swiss Army Knife, not to mention cell phone, PDA, and a good book to read on the train. The manbag held it all, including my walking shorts. The clerk kept trying to put things in a bag, but I was wearing the kilt and carrying the manbag. What on earth did I need any other bags for?

I did practice sitting down a few times with a mirror handy. Didn’t want to scare the horses, of course, and the leather kilt-like garment didn’t have as much “fabric” as my authentic Scottish-made wool kilts. Once I was sure that I could sit and still be decent, I headed out walking through downtown Portland in a skirt. OK, I guess it’s time. You know why it’s called a kilt, don’t you? Because the first ten to call it a skirt all got kilt! (That’s a joke son, you’re supposed to laugh.)

Portland is a large, metropolitan city, and only one person looked at me strangely as I traveled home in my bit of leather. A few stations after I boarded the train, the train itself came to a halt between stations. And there we sat. For quite some time. With the doors closed. Finally, a voice came over the intercom announcing that we would be backing to the previous station as the tracks ahead were blocked. It turns out a semi-tractor had managed to stop a Max train just ahead of us by running into it. It would be quite some time before the tracks were cleared, but Tri-Met would be sending us a bus. It turns out that Portland, as well run as it appears, is not terribly good at taking care of breakdowns in the transit system itself. My trip back to the motel, which should have taken 20 minutes, took closer to two hours.

At that point, I decided the Kia was a definite plus, and drove to Mudai, my favorite Ethopian restaurant for dinner. As there was no line dancing to be had, I went back to Steam for some restful time in the steam room and hot tub. I was still wearing the kilt.

And I'm still wearing it!
Self-Portrait in Black Leather Kilt
Taken 9/7/07 in Missoula, Montana

You now know more than anyone would want to know about how I spent my day in Portland. It was a fun-filled, if occasionally stressful, day, and when I finally hit the hay, I slept like a baby.

No miles traveled, but I went to bed feeling that I had indeed progressed in my travels.

Oh, and by the way, if you ever want to ask, make sure you phrase the question exactly this way: Is there anything worn under the kilt?

That’s the only question I’ll answer on the subject.

The Adventure Begins

This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine
This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine
This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine
Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine. Hallelujah!
---Traditional

Coquille River Light House, Bandon Oregon
This has nothing at all to do with my trip.
Taken 12/19/2006

After two weeks of unrelenting blue sky and sunshine, Tuesday, September 4^th, brought overcast and rain to the coast. What can I say. Undoubtedly it has to do with photography and travel. Why else would beautiful weather turn to mush?

A year ago, in August, 2006, I was fortunate to be able to spend time with a professional photographer and Adjunct Professor of Photography at New York’s School Of Visual Arts, Richard Rothman. (You can see some of Richard’s work on his website, www.richardrothman.com). Richard is in the process of documenting Crescent City—its landscapes, its architecture, and its people. Last year I spent a few days driving Richard around the area while he fought the coastal overcast in his attempts to get the perfect image on his large-format film. This year Richard returned for his fifth visit to the coast, and I was privileged to have him in my guest room for a part of that time. Our morning and evening conversations and the wonderful dinners that Richard fixed and which we shared, sitting on the patio as the sun set slowly in the West (remember those Merry Melody cartoons, kiddies?) came to an end on Tuesday as Richard left to fly home from the Crescent City airport and I headed north in the trusty Volvo stopping at Brookings, Port Orford, Florence, Heceta Head and Depoe Bay, ending my day’s drive in Portland.

I had packed the car the day before, leaving only the computer, the camera, and my books for the last minute. Around 10:30, Gypsy and I hit the road, the odometer reading 98910 miles. As I noted above, the sky was heavily overcast, and it did not take long for the rain to start falling. I stopped in Brookings to send Richard’s exposed film home via FedEx, and then again to fill the Volvo’s tank at Fred Meyers: $2.92 a gallon for regular. Between Brookings and Gold Beach it started raining in earnest, and I had to turn the wipers on full to keep the windshield clear. This did not look to be an auspicious start for the 6,000 Mile Sunday Drive. As I left Brookings, I turned on the computer and hooked up the Verizon Air Card in a test to see how well the thing worked while driving down the highway. My test was to log on to www.audible.com and stream J. Maarten Troost’s Getting Stoned with the Savages. I also plugged in my trusty little TuneCast which attempts to send the computer’s audio to the Volvo’s FM receiver so I can listen to the book over the car’s sound system. What little I heard of Troost’s book was intriguing, and I’m really looking forward to hearing the whole thing, but the Verizon signal waned as I headed north, and went dead altogether by Pistol River. Wanting some audible stimulation during what promised to be a dreary day’s drive, I called up a work by my all-time favorite travel writer, Paul Theroux, which I had loaded onto my hard drive many months earlier. Dark Star Safari, the story of Theroux’s journey from Cairo to Capetown got me to Portland and Ethiopia at the same time. As I was looking forward to dinner at Mudai, my favorite Portland Ethiopian restaurant, I felt this was propitious.

The rain slowed north of Gold Beach, and eventually stopped altogether. Hoping for lunch at The Crazy Norwegian, I pulled into Port Orford only to find my favorite Norwegian Mexican restaurant closed. Having read about another Port Orford restaurant, the Paradise Café, I looked for that establishment as I drove through town. For lunch I ordered breakfast—corned beef hash and eggs with a glass of ice tea. Counting the tip, lunch was just over ten dollars. My hash and eggs was not the most expensive item on the menu; that would have been the shrimp basket at $7.75. My breakfast was fine, and I wouldn’t have any trouble recommending the Paradise Café AND Ice Cream (they’re proud of their Umpqua Ice Cream) should you find yourself in Port Orford needing breakfast or lunch. The customers seemed, for the most part, regulars, and the walls were covered with historic photographs of the sea and coast. For more about Oregon’s oldest coastal town, I refer you to my own writing at www.travelforaday.com/portorfordor.php.

As I left the restaurant, a woman noticed my Montana plates and stopped to talk. She was from Kalispell. And as I pulled back onto US 101, I saw a car with Ravalli County plates. (Montana license plates tell you the county in the form of a one or two digit number. Missoula County is “4” and Ravalli County, where my cabin sits, is “13.” There are fifty-six counties in Montana and the numbering system is based, as near as I can tell, on the political clout the county had in 1930. That may be the subject of another essay.) Two Montana experiences within 5 minutes on the remote Oregon coast helped bring home, once again, what a small world this is.

Driving north while listening to Theroux heading south, I passed through Bandon, Coos Bay and Reedsport without stopping. Over the past year I have made many photo excursions to these towns and have posted those photos in various places on the web. But as I approached Florence, I realized that I had never taken a picture of the US 101 bridge across the Suislaw River. Those of you who have been following my writing over the past year will remember my trip up the Suislaw, and if you’d care to revisit that trip, here is the URL: http://mtbearded1s.blogspot.com/2007_06_01_archive.html. Stopping to take the picture also allowed me to put Gypsy on her leash and get her out for a pee and poop break.

Siuslaw River Bridge, US 101, Florence, Oregon
Taken 9/4/07

Between Port Orford and Florence, US 101 is just far enough inland that you never really see the ocean. This hundred mile stretch of highway runs on the east side of the Oregon Dunes National Recreation Area and passes several beautiful lakes. But for over a hundred miles, you catch glimpses of the Pacific only if you are very fool hardy, or if you get off 101 and head west a few miles. North of Florence, the road turns back to the coast, and you pass the Sea Lion Caves and Heceta Head.

My father was dead set against anything he considered a tourist trap. He would never stop at Frontier Town on US 12’s MacDonald Pass, even though our car was always stalled on the side of the road with vapor lock just at that “internationally famous” site’s entrance. I remember begging him to stop at the Ice Caves near Twin Falls, Idaho, but while he did stop the car, no one got out and the Ice Cave people made no money from us. But for some reason, he did stop at the Sea Lion Caves. I’ve stopped there several times since. They’re certainly worth a visit. Just eleven miles north of Florence, they are billed as the “world’s largest sea cave.” Next time you’re on that stretch of US 101, stop and see for yourself. Be sure and take your camera along. The sea lions are photogenic in their own right, and the coastal scenery is truly awe inspiring.

Heceta Head (with Light House on right side of photo)
Taken 9/4/07

Just north of the Sea Lion Caves is Heceta Head and its lighthouse. Were I to choose the quintessential coastal light station, Heceta Head would be my choice. Unfortunately, the view points are all on the southbound side of the highway, and almost all are located at blind curves for those of us heading north. If you, like me, are heading north, by all means stop at the Sea Lion Caves and use your telephoto lens to get the perfect lighthouse shot. I didn’t do that on this trip, but I did pull into the parking area on the beach below the lighthouse to get a few shots of the area.

The sun had come out between Reedsport and Florence, and driving north from Heceta Head I was driving past one picture postcard view after another. This stretch of coast is every bit as scenic as California’s Highway 1, and Oregon has put plenty of turn outs and picnic areas so that you have no excuse for driving on. No excuse, that is, unless you’re trying to get to Portland by seven p.m. and you got a late start out of Smith River. I drooled as I passed one photo op after another. In all the years I’ve been driving 101 I’ve never seen such blue sky and water. This was everyone’s dream beach vacation weather. Well, if your dream beach vacation includes needing a wet suit to be in the cold Pacific waters.

Alsea Bay Bridge, US 101, Waldport, Oregon
Taken 9/4/07

At Newport I waved at my favorite seafood restaurant, the Port Dock, and at Lincoln City I saluted the Tanger Outlet Mall where I’ve spent many an hour and dollar, but ever mindful of my schedule, I kept driving, stopping only to get a few out of the car shots of the bridge over Depoe Bay. North of Lincoln City, I turned off US 101 onto Oregon 18, heading for Grande Ronde and its Indian Casino, McMinnville and its Aviation Museum where you can see Howard Hughes’ Spruce Goose, and Tigard where my friend T.J. Blakeslee built his first Fantasy for Adults Only outside of Missoula and Portland. Strictly speaking that is, for Tigard is just across the county line from Multnomah County and Portland.

I pulled into my hotel’s parking lot at 7, unloaded a bunch of stuff (including my faithful traveling companion, Gypsy), and headed down Sandy Boulevard for the Radical Rubdown at Steam Portland. After over eight hours on the road, I could use a full body massage, and the Radical Faeries do a truly blessed work every Tuesday evening. After my massage, and a stint in the steam room and hot tub, I was ready for bed. All in all, it had been a great day. A truly wonderful start for the 6,000 Mile Sunday Drive, and the odometer showed 350 miles for the day.

Stay tuned for more adventures on the road.