Monday, August 4

We left Coeur d'Alene later than usual, but timed it perfectly - the sun was out and as we headed through the upper Idaho panhandle we were rewarded with great views of lake Coeur d'Alene. This part of Idaho is heavily timbered, mountainous and apparently moose-filled.

a small finger of Lake Coeur d'Alene

Moose seem to frequent the highway and night driving must be a terror for man and moose. We climbed up toward the Montana border, though the northern Rockies, and seems to be going through endless passes. Ken was working online and internet service was spotty. Somewhere in the first hundred miles or so of Montana we crossed the Continental Divide and suddenly all that pristine water was heading east. And it is pristine - clear as can be, with rivers and streams and rapids all glistening in the sun.

We drove through Missoula, Butte, and Bozeman, finally arriving in Billings. The first three towns clearly were established to capitalize on the silver and gold in the surrounding mountains. Unfortunately the mining done today (the Anaconda mines are nearby) is nothing but an affront to Mother Nature. Somewhere after Bozeman, possibly near Livingston, the topography shifted from the foothills of the Rockies to the more open Great Plains. We were past the mountain passes and instead the dominant geographic formation were the mesas and canyon walls, carved into the beautiful yellowstone rocks. We crossed the Yellowstone River a few times. One river, the Clark, we easily crossed more than a dozen times as it meandered eastward - this has been Lewis and Clark territory ever since Oregon. And let's remember Sacajawea, too. At one point I wondered at the length of the Yellowstone realized it was instead the Missouri, which begins its course in Montana.

The Missouri River in Montana

 We both suffered from sniffles and sneezes as we entered the Great Plains. There wasn't much dust and no smoke, there didn't appear to be pollen wafting about, and we knew we weren't coming down with colds. Instead, to our horror, we understood that we would never be real cowboys: we were allergic to buffalo.

Bison on the edge of the Great Plains

Looking toward Yellowstone from the north

Livingston caught our interest: it was where the trains used to stop - it was the northern arrival point for visitors to Yellowstone Park. Both Ken and I had been there as kids; Ken remembered having (twice!) the fried chicken at the railroad station's restaurant. He insists it was the best fried chicken he'd ever eaten. He thought it as an eight-year old, and he thinks it still.

At one point near Livingston the mass of mountains seems to part and one can glimpse into the heart of northern Yellowstone Park, easily twenty or thirty miles away. The valley that unfolds, lined even in August with snow-capped mountains, is spectacular. One can only envy, no matter how grueling the traveling conditions, those first few people who set eyes on the western environments. Montana has been one breath-taking vista after another.

Cultural, there's not much out here: we encountered a Christian motorcycle club camping at one rest area, a very early wood station wagon (no later than, say, 1918) carrying three Moslem women in full purdah, and several billboards advertising the "Testicle Festival" later in August. We assume the festival is centered on castrating bulls, but were not inclined to inquire or linger. Today we head slightly northward through northeastern Montana and into North Dakota. We aim to reach Fargo this evening. Since we've all seen the Coen brothers' movie, we know that in Fargo we'll rejoin the culture of the East Coast.