Rocky Mountain Highs
The day seemed even smokier. The mountains to the west were totally obscured as I drove north from Choteau and through the Blackfeet Indian Reservation (Blackfeet, Blackfoot -- they seem to be used interchangeably). [According to http://www.native-languages.org/blackfoot.htm, Blackfeet is the official name, but is a misnomer given by whites; in the original language the term is singular.] The terrain became more and more hilly, and by Browning (home of the Blackfeet Nation) the impressive peaks of Glacier National Park were too big and too close to be hidden by the smoke. I stopped in Browning at a concrete teepee that said "Expresso" over the door and got a latte. I've already mentioned that Montana is big on expresso. It seems every establishment that purveys any kind of food or drink -- cafes, bars, drive-ins, gas stations -- has an "expresso" sign. By that, they mean expresso-based drinks -- lattes, cappuccinos, etc. The one time I ordered a plain expresso, it seemed to confuse the owner. "What kind of expresso? . . . You mean just the expresso by itself???!" With this culture, it is just amazing that I saw no Starbucks between Minot, North Dakota and Sandpoint, Idaho. Those of you looking for an entrepreneurial opportunity, take note.
Highway 89 had been reopened, so I followed it through foothills and ever-thickening forest to Saint Mary. There were sections where fire had turned the landscape into a forest of gray telephone poles stuck in gray soil, and the air smelled like freshly doused campfire. Two big columns of yellow smoke rose out of a valley where the fire lived, and numerous wisps of smoke rose from scattered spots on the mountainsides.
In St. Mary, my resolution to lay off the carbs dissolved, and I had a scoop of huckleberry ice cream. Glacier and the surrounding area is huckleberry heaven. The signs on most every establishment since Glacier have advertised not only expresso, but also huckleberry ice cream, shakes, cobbler, jam, etc., etc. The huckleberry is much like a blueberry, but more purple in color and a little tarter in taste. It is gathered in the wild and commands a premium. For example, my scoop of ice cream was 50 cents more because I got the huckleberry flavor.
Thus fortified, I headed up the Going-to-the-Sun Road, which runs along Saint Mary Lake on the east and Lake McDonald on the west and traverses Logan Pass over the Continental Divide in between. An immediate stop was for a sign pointing out we were at the very edge of the prairie -- beyond the sign the grass ran up to the edge of the forest and that was it -- the end of this prairie I have been roaming for nearly two weeks. At that stop I saw a helicopter flying over the lake towing a huge water bucket at the end of a cable -- the water is for dumping on the forest fire. Against the mountains, the helicopter looked like a fly and the bucket like a gnat, and the idea of being able to fight the fire with that the equivalent to trying to put out a house fire with a squirt gun. But I guess it works, because the fire is largely under control.
I will not try to describe the Glacier peaks and valleys. The words fabulous, fantastic, wonderful, stupendous, majestic, breath-taking and "Awesome, Dude!" all clunk on the floor like a handful of nickels, totally inadequate to the task of conveying the beauty of the place. Everything was veiled, due to the wildfire smoke, but the splendor of the peaks came through nevertheless. If it hadn't been for the fire, it would have been one of those impossibly clear western days with mountain details sharp against deep azure sky. It would have been so perfect it probably would have stopped my heart, so just as well there was a bit of haze. There was only one place where the smoke totally obscured a sight -- the view of Triple Divide Peak from St. Mary Lake. It is so named because precipitation from one of its three faces flows to the Pacific, from a second face to the Gulf of Mexico, and from the third to Hudson Bay.
It took me about 5 hours to complete the Going-to-the-Sun Road, which takes 1.5 hours without stops. I took a short hike to see the Baring Falls and of course stopped at the Logan Pass visitor center. And I made many other stops for pictures. I kept saying, "OK, Ann, enough pictures, just drive," and then around the next bend there would be something I just had to have a picture of. I had harbored a hope that, despite being there at peak season, because it was a Sunday night, I might get a lodge or motel room or a camping spot. Dream on. At West Glacier, I called and was able to get a room at the Izaak Walton Inn, and so backtracked along the southern boundary of the park about 30 miles to Essex.
I learned of the Izaak Walton Inn from a friend who had traveled much the same northern route as me this summer, but in the opposite direction and, despite being on bicycle, in much less time. The Inn originally was built to house snow removal crews for the Great Northern Railway. It is now a train buff's delight. Its porch commands a view of the Essex multi-track rail yard, and you can sit there and watch many trains go by. Engines idle there, waiting for when they are needed to boost a train over the Continental Divide at Marias Pass. An activity of the Inn is to gather on the porch and lawn and wave at the Amtrack as it rolls by at about 9 am and 9 pm. The logo of the Great Northern -- a mountain goat standing on a rocky crag, enclosed by a circle with the words "Great Northern Railway" -- is everywhere in the Inn -- on the bed cover, in stained glass in the "dining car", in iron cutout for the napkin holders, etc., etc. A showcase in the lobby has samples of GNR dinnerware. But you can't see the Great Northern roll by -- it was acquired by Burlington Northern in the '70's or so.
The next morning, I headed back west, visited the Alberta welcome center in West Glacier, failed to be lured across the border, and continued westward to Columbia Falls. Just past that town, there was a wayside stop across from the Flathead River with spring water gushing from a pipe. A man was there filling up gallon jug after gallon jug, despite the sign declaiming: "Not an approved water source. Drink at own risk." The man said the water was perfectly potable -- he'd been drinking it for 20 years. He said the city just wants you to pay for their water; I'm guessing the lawyers made them post the sign. Putting my trust in the man's assurances, I filled up my water bottles. So far so good, but if the blog goes silent you'll know what happened.
Next stop was at a roadside stand where I selected the perfectly ripened, succulent cherries over the fresh huckleberries, but did get some huckleberry jam and syrup for an upcoming family gathering. Then into Kalispell, where I spent a fair amount of time on some administrative tasks plus a picnic lunch by the county courthouse. Then south along the shore of Flathead Lake. This is a huge lake -- 200 square miles, the largest freshwater lake in the lower 48 west of the Mississippi. It was a beautiful blue, and the far shore was flanked by the Rocky Mountains, still hazy from smoke. (I've probably inhaled the equivalent of a pack of cigarettes in the past few days.)
At Route 28 I turned west and then south through the Flathead Indian Reservation. At the sign to Hot Springs, I decided to drive the 2 miles in just to see what was there, and ended up spending the night at the Symes Hot Springs Hotel and Mineral Baths. This place is on the National Historic Register. It was built in 1930 and did well until the 50's, when hot springs vacations fell out of fashion. It has now been revived as something of a community center. The lobby has several chair groupings, an expresso bar -- The Daily Grind, and a gift shop -- Soul Intuition, which fills a small room and then spills into the lobby with racks of gauzy clothing and cases displaying jewelry. When I turned on the hot water faucet in my room, there was the unmistakable rotten egg odor that accompanies many hot springs, and I realized that the sulphur accounted for the faint odor that permeated the whole hotel.
Hot Springs, pop. 500, is truly a byway. Despite the historic hotel, it is not mentioned in either the AAA guide or the Travel Montana vacation planner. People arrive here in random, mystical ways. My excellent massage therapist, Kathy, came here from California via a wrong turn. Lori Anne, who sells "body rocks" in the hotel lobby, was led here by a red tail hawk. It sounds like the town consists of Native Americans, ranchers with roots several generations deep, and Rainbow people, New Agers, etc., drawn here by power of the springs. At the Symes, members of the community as well as hotel guests wandered in and out, hung out in the lobby or on the porch, maybe took a soak in the mineral baths, and wandered away.
Lori Anne's body rocks are fired clay pieces molded to fit comfortably in the hand to be used for massage on yourself or another. I bought one to reinforce the previous evening's Swedish massage with a self massage while taking my third mineral bath. Oh, I feel so much better. (You can get your own body rock on eBay; search on body rock or massage rock.)
What with blogging, bathing, chatting, I left Hot Springs after lunch. I continued west on 28, and then turned northwest on 200. Just past the intersection, I stopped at God's Country Expresso. The wall was covered with graffiti praising God and proclaiming His love. My double-shot iced latte was only $1.50. Then it was into the just beautiful canyon of the Clark Fork River. The road followed what was known to the pioneers as Bad Rock Trail; thanks to the railroad and the Department of Transportation, the way is now smooth. The river was alternately a beautiful dark teal and a dark aqua, depending on the angle of the sun. Pine-covered mountains lined both sides; some high peaks were bald but grass covered. There were a number of motels and bar & grill establishments along the road, all looking in good condition, and a number of signs pointing to U.S. Forest access (Lolo and Kootenai National Forests). The river became quite wide before Noxon dam (that is not a typo), then narrowed and widened again before Cabinet Gorge Dam. In keeping with my penchant for weeds, I have been enjoying a yellow flower that lines the roadways and fills vacant lots. Turns out it is tansy ragwort, a Class B noxious weed that poisons cattle and horses, but is pretty to the uneducated eye.
The road crossed into Idaho; with that, I have finally entered the Pacific time zone! Shortly after the town of Clark's Fork, the river entered Lake Pend Oreille. This is another huge lake, but is only a shadow of the huge Lake Missoula that covered this area in the Ice Age. The name is French for ear drop and is pronounced Ponderay. That is the name of the little town outside of Sandpoint where I spent the night. I was in a Motel 6; my room had a window seat and a view of Schweitzer Mountain -- I could have lounged there all day. Dinner was delicious enchiladas at Fiesta Bonita. I sat on their patio in the perfect-temperature evening air, enjoying the fading light behind the mountains above the Wal-Mart and Home Depot. Right before dinner I had driven east of town and experienced another 360 sunset, with golds blazing over the mountains to the north and east, and pinks over the lake and mountains to the west and south. It hardly gets better than this.
Happy highs to you. Ann
Highway 89 had been reopened, so I followed it through foothills and ever-thickening forest to Saint Mary. There were sections where fire had turned the landscape into a forest of gray telephone poles stuck in gray soil, and the air smelled like freshly doused campfire. Two big columns of yellow smoke rose out of a valley where the fire lived, and numerous wisps of smoke rose from scattered spots on the mountainsides.
In St. Mary, my resolution to lay off the carbs dissolved, and I had a scoop of huckleberry ice cream. Glacier and the surrounding area is huckleberry heaven. The signs on most every establishment since Glacier have advertised not only expresso, but also huckleberry ice cream, shakes, cobbler, jam, etc., etc. The huckleberry is much like a blueberry, but more purple in color and a little tarter in taste. It is gathered in the wild and commands a premium. For example, my scoop of ice cream was 50 cents more because I got the huckleberry flavor.
Thus fortified, I headed up the Going-to-the-Sun Road, which runs along Saint Mary Lake on the east and Lake McDonald on the west and traverses Logan Pass over the Continental Divide in between. An immediate stop was for a sign pointing out we were at the very edge of the prairie -- beyond the sign the grass ran up to the edge of the forest and that was it -- the end of this prairie I have been roaming for nearly two weeks. At that stop I saw a helicopter flying over the lake towing a huge water bucket at the end of a cable -- the water is for dumping on the forest fire. Against the mountains, the helicopter looked like a fly and the bucket like a gnat, and the idea of being able to fight the fire with that the equivalent to trying to put out a house fire with a squirt gun. But I guess it works, because the fire is largely under control.
I will not try to describe the Glacier peaks and valleys. The words fabulous, fantastic, wonderful, stupendous, majestic, breath-taking and "Awesome, Dude!" all clunk on the floor like a handful of nickels, totally inadequate to the task of conveying the beauty of the place. Everything was veiled, due to the wildfire smoke, but the splendor of the peaks came through nevertheless. If it hadn't been for the fire, it would have been one of those impossibly clear western days with mountain details sharp against deep azure sky. It would have been so perfect it probably would have stopped my heart, so just as well there was a bit of haze. There was only one place where the smoke totally obscured a sight -- the view of Triple Divide Peak from St. Mary Lake. It is so named because precipitation from one of its three faces flows to the Pacific, from a second face to the Gulf of Mexico, and from the third to Hudson Bay.
It took me about 5 hours to complete the Going-to-the-Sun Road, which takes 1.5 hours without stops. I took a short hike to see the Baring Falls and of course stopped at the Logan Pass visitor center. And I made many other stops for pictures. I kept saying, "OK, Ann, enough pictures, just drive," and then around the next bend there would be something I just had to have a picture of. I had harbored a hope that, despite being there at peak season, because it was a Sunday night, I might get a lodge or motel room or a camping spot. Dream on. At West Glacier, I called and was able to get a room at the Izaak Walton Inn, and so backtracked along the southern boundary of the park about 30 miles to Essex.
I learned of the Izaak Walton Inn from a friend who had traveled much the same northern route as me this summer, but in the opposite direction and, despite being on bicycle, in much less time. The Inn originally was built to house snow removal crews for the Great Northern Railway. It is now a train buff's delight. Its porch commands a view of the Essex multi-track rail yard, and you can sit there and watch many trains go by. Engines idle there, waiting for when they are needed to boost a train over the Continental Divide at Marias Pass. An activity of the Inn is to gather on the porch and lawn and wave at the Amtrack as it rolls by at about 9 am and 9 pm. The logo of the Great Northern -- a mountain goat standing on a rocky crag, enclosed by a circle with the words "Great Northern Railway" -- is everywhere in the Inn -- on the bed cover, in stained glass in the "dining car", in iron cutout for the napkin holders, etc., etc. A showcase in the lobby has samples of GNR dinnerware. But you can't see the Great Northern roll by -- it was acquired by Burlington Northern in the '70's or so.
The next morning, I headed back west, visited the Alberta welcome center in West Glacier, failed to be lured across the border, and continued westward to Columbia Falls. Just past that town, there was a wayside stop across from the Flathead River with spring water gushing from a pipe. A man was there filling up gallon jug after gallon jug, despite the sign declaiming: "Not an approved water source. Drink at own risk." The man said the water was perfectly potable -- he'd been drinking it for 20 years. He said the city just wants you to pay for their water; I'm guessing the lawyers made them post the sign. Putting my trust in the man's assurances, I filled up my water bottles. So far so good, but if the blog goes silent you'll know what happened.
Next stop was at a roadside stand where I selected the perfectly ripened, succulent cherries over the fresh huckleberries, but did get some huckleberry jam and syrup for an upcoming family gathering. Then into Kalispell, where I spent a fair amount of time on some administrative tasks plus a picnic lunch by the county courthouse. Then south along the shore of Flathead Lake. This is a huge lake -- 200 square miles, the largest freshwater lake in the lower 48 west of the Mississippi. It was a beautiful blue, and the far shore was flanked by the Rocky Mountains, still hazy from smoke. (I've probably inhaled the equivalent of a pack of cigarettes in the past few days.)
At Route 28 I turned west and then south through the Flathead Indian Reservation. At the sign to Hot Springs, I decided to drive the 2 miles in just to see what was there, and ended up spending the night at the Symes Hot Springs Hotel and Mineral Baths. This place is on the National Historic Register. It was built in 1930 and did well until the 50's, when hot springs vacations fell out of fashion. It has now been revived as something of a community center. The lobby has several chair groupings, an expresso bar -- The Daily Grind, and a gift shop -- Soul Intuition, which fills a small room and then spills into the lobby with racks of gauzy clothing and cases displaying jewelry. When I turned on the hot water faucet in my room, there was the unmistakable rotten egg odor that accompanies many hot springs, and I realized that the sulphur accounted for the faint odor that permeated the whole hotel.
Hot Springs, pop. 500, is truly a byway. Despite the historic hotel, it is not mentioned in either the AAA guide or the Travel Montana vacation planner. People arrive here in random, mystical ways. My excellent massage therapist, Kathy, came here from California via a wrong turn. Lori Anne, who sells "body rocks" in the hotel lobby, was led here by a red tail hawk. It sounds like the town consists of Native Americans, ranchers with roots several generations deep, and Rainbow people, New Agers, etc., drawn here by power of the springs. At the Symes, members of the community as well as hotel guests wandered in and out, hung out in the lobby or on the porch, maybe took a soak in the mineral baths, and wandered away.
Lori Anne's body rocks are fired clay pieces molded to fit comfortably in the hand to be used for massage on yourself or another. I bought one to reinforce the previous evening's Swedish massage with a self massage while taking my third mineral bath. Oh, I feel so much better. (You can get your own body rock on eBay; search on body rock or massage rock.)
What with blogging, bathing, chatting, I left Hot Springs after lunch. I continued west on 28, and then turned northwest on 200. Just past the intersection, I stopped at God's Country Expresso. The wall was covered with graffiti praising God and proclaiming His love. My double-shot iced latte was only $1.50. Then it was into the just beautiful canyon of the Clark Fork River. The road followed what was known to the pioneers as Bad Rock Trail; thanks to the railroad and the Department of Transportation, the way is now smooth. The river was alternately a beautiful dark teal and a dark aqua, depending on the angle of the sun. Pine-covered mountains lined both sides; some high peaks were bald but grass covered. There were a number of motels and bar & grill establishments along the road, all looking in good condition, and a number of signs pointing to U.S. Forest access (Lolo and Kootenai National Forests). The river became quite wide before Noxon dam (that is not a typo), then narrowed and widened again before Cabinet Gorge Dam. In keeping with my penchant for weeds, I have been enjoying a yellow flower that lines the roadways and fills vacant lots. Turns out it is tansy ragwort, a Class B noxious weed that poisons cattle and horses, but is pretty to the uneducated eye.
The road crossed into Idaho; with that, I have finally entered the Pacific time zone! Shortly after the town of Clark's Fork, the river entered Lake Pend Oreille. This is another huge lake, but is only a shadow of the huge Lake Missoula that covered this area in the Ice Age. The name is French for ear drop and is pronounced Ponderay. That is the name of the little town outside of Sandpoint where I spent the night. I was in a Motel 6; my room had a window seat and a view of Schweitzer Mountain -- I could have lounged there all day. Dinner was delicious enchiladas at Fiesta Bonita. I sat on their patio in the perfect-temperature evening air, enjoying the fading light behind the mountains above the Wal-Mart and Home Depot. Right before dinner I had driven east of town and experienced another 360 sunset, with golds blazing over the mountains to the north and east, and pinks over the lake and mountains to the west and south. It hardly gets better than this.
Happy highs to you. Ann
posted by Annventurer | 4:45 PM
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