Earthship Le Van Gogh Diary
Day 12 - Sheridan, Wyoming
I crossed into Wyoming today - or yesterday, I should say because it’s 1:53 a.m. on the 13th as I write this. I also couldn't get a signal so this will be late. Sigh.
On the way to Sheridan I couldn’t help but stop at the Custer Museum where they had all kinds of artifacts on display from the Battle of Little Bighorn and in general from that era. Fascinating! There was an Indian war shirt and an Indian spirit shirt, the first being of tanned leather and embroidered heavily with beads, quills, and human hair. The spirit shirt was hand-sewn of some kind of textile that sure did last well! It looked like either cotton or linen and there were no tears or shredded areas. Pretty amazing. There were beads on this shirt also but on the front in faded dyes were faint outlines of spirit animals seen as guides to this particular warrior.
There were beaded moccasins for both men, women and children, all heavily and beautifully beaded on the top and bottom of the shoes. And beaded bags for everything from sewing quills to tee-pee skin holders. Gorgeous pipe bags and a lovely Sioux woman’s dress for ceremonial wear. This latter was also tanned leather and heavily and intricately beaded with fringe. Fantastic! There was also an arrow holder with a skunk skin on the front. I would not have wanted to be the woman who had to skin that baby!
Did you know that bull elk each have two ivory teeth in the back of their mouths? I didn’t either. These teeth were highly prized for wear by the Sioux and since it could be years before enough could be gathered to make a decent necklace, they came up with a way to dye regular elk teeth to look like the ivory teeth. These were also carved and shaped to the same form of the ivory teeth and voila! A fine looking ivory tooth necklace for both the Sioux warrior and his wife.
There were several large paintings by artists of that time depicting the battle in which Custer lost his life (as well as the lives of all of his men). One was pretty accurate and based on the account of Curly, an Indian scout who worked for Custer and his guys (I‘m not sure which tribe Curly was from). He witnessed Custer’s death and described it as thusly: Chief ...(heck, I just whited out the name of this Chief) was wrestling with Custer for his gun since Custer was earnestly trying to shoot him with it and finally got it away from him. He then bashed Custer on the head three times with the gun and shot him with it in the head and the heart. I can well imagine that Custer would have died from those wounds. Anyway, Curly, the scout, managed to slip out of the crowd, “borrow” a Sioux horse and get the heck out of Dodge. He was the only one of Custer’s group to survive.
One of the paintings was by artist who had taken great poetic license with the facts of the battle and had come up with a pretty hilarious version of what happened. The painting shows the vain Custer with golden locks tousled by the gentle breeze and standing nonchalantly in his officer’s dress uniform with a natty red cravat (which was not what he wore into battle) at the top of the hill, one hand on his hip, one leg bent with the shiny booted foot on a rock. He appears to be shooting every so often as the opportunity arises just for sport before he walks back to the Officer’s Mess to have a spot of lunch. Around him are his soldiers shooting poorly armed Indians who wield only hatchets and knives (not so, the Indians were shooting repeating Winchester rifles or the outcome would have been different). All of the Indians are bare-chested in the painting when in truth they were wearing their warrior shirts because of their belief that these provided a spiritual protection from the soldiers’ bullets. This wasn’t true either since a large number of Indians perished or were injured that day but it made the painting very, um, typical of the white man’s general lack of understanding then (and sometimes now) of the Indians’ culture and customs.
To polish off this rather silly painting, there is a chicken wandering around in the bottom right corner and looking rather confused, as it should, since no self-respecting chicken would have wandered that far from its coop which was waaaaaayyyyy far away from the battle scene. I doubt that the chicken survived that day either, especially since it was looking pretty healthy and appetizing. It was most likely dinner that night for one of the celebrating and victorious Indians. Not that there were any chickens of any kind any where near the battle scene, which makes it all the more silly for one to be there and adds nothing aesthetic to the painting except as a compositional balance, I suppose. Who knows what the artist was thinking but since very little else was accurate in the painting, why not throw in a chicken? Why gum up the work with accuracy, for cryin’ out loud!
Anyway, I tore myself out of the museum after an hour or so of examining all kinds of fun stuff and moved on toward Sheridan, leaving Montana behind me and a strong desire to return and visit the state in its entirety. Wyoming is just as beautiful and, of course, has the Yosemite National Park which I will return to later. The land is just plain gorgeous in this area and words are a poor substitute for the scenic wonders around me. And this is just around I-90. Just think of how much more beautiful it is off the beaten track!
Tomorrow I’ll be in Gillette, Wyoming, and then on to South Dakota. Too brief of a stop but indeed, if I stayed longer I might never leave. Onward I push, however, still planning the day when I can return and explore to my little heart’s content.
Lessons Learned:
That when you lean over the bed in the night to pour more water into the kitties’ bowl, make sure that it’s the water bowl you’re pouring into.
That the kitties won’t drink kitty food soup.
That I don’t blame them.
Yuck.
Observations:
Wyoming has roads that are a deep reddish-purple that matches the red in the hills on both sides of the highway. Coincidence? I think not. I hope not, anyhow.
While passing a field with many beautiful horses grazing, I see one lone mule standing in the middle of the herd and smiling at the sun.
A prairie dog up on the shoulder of the road sniffing around and just begging to be turned into road kill. Just like the scattering of smished bodies of his brethren seen periodically along the route.
What I thought were odd looking deer grazing were actually some kind of antelope from around these parts. I didn’t think deer came in that shape and color…
An older couple whom I have seen off and on throughout my voyage smile and wave to me as we pass each other in the campground. They are heading to Minnesota so we take the same path for a ways.
Showing posts with label Montana. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Montana. Show all posts
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Day 7 - Butte, Montana
Earthship Le Van Gogh Diary
Day 7 - Butte, Montana
I’m in Butte today, where the slogan is “a mile high, a mile deep and everyone’s on the level.” Interesting. A collection of local pronunciations includes the following:
Howshegoin? A term used as a salutation.
Jeetyet? A term used to ask the question, “Did you eat yet?”
Jou? In answer to jeetyet?,“Did you?”
Gweet. To “go eat” if you haven’t.
Howzyermomandthem? Exactly what you think it says.
Ya’s Plural of ya. Most likely a contraction of “all of you” as in “How youse guys doin’?”
All good to know information, I’m sure. There is another tradition with a long history here of everyone having a nickname. This supposedly came from the early miners who were immigrants from all over the place and nicknames were easier to pronounce then their actual names. In face most folks didn’t usually know a person’s real name until his/her obituary was published. Examples include:
Dutch McCrea, Ears Holland, Hula Kalafatich, Moose Pavlovich, Nichel Annie, Chicken Liz, Blonde Patrick and Booba Powers. Some of these obviously give a hint as to their ethnic background and how they got their nickname, but some just make you wonder where the heck that came from. Like Booba Powers. Wha…?
Anyway, mining is the game around here and there’s a huge, and I mean HUGE population of Irish in Butte. I haven’t seen so many Irish bars since I last visited Boston. And there’s an annual festival here which I will unfortunately miss called An Ri Ra with international Irish music performers and other Irish cultural activities celebrated for the next two days. I’m not happy that I will miss it but I will be back to this area in the future and will definitely stay for the festival. Being part Irish and all that I love to hear the music and traditions of the Old Home.
I wandered through a shop filled with more Irish stuff than I’ve seen in a long time. I spoke with the owner, who, like me, was a mutt of Gaelic extraction. She was Welsh, Irish and Scotch and I’m all that and a wee bit of English and French, to boot. She had black hair and fair skin and I have red hair with fair skin and freckles and we laughed about family histories with such a United Kingdom mishmash. Not unusual, of course, though combining English with anything Scottish and Irish must have been an interesting get-together.
You know, whether I use the last name of Cox (Irish), Tenn (Welsh), Clunie (Scotch), or Welborn (likewise Welsh), I’d be covered in this town. These are all last names I’ve had before for those who don’t know. I’m still using Cox, obviously.
Another local phenomenon was a colossal 90 ft statue of Mary, Jesus’ mum, high above Butte on the mountain marking the Continental Divide. Named “Our Lady of the Rockies,” the project to build it began in 1979 and both men and women of all walks of life and almost every religion worked to pave the way for the statue. It was dedicated to women everywhere, especially to mothers. (I’m relating this from a pamphlet in case you didn’t pick up on that.) Volunteers worked every day to blast a path for a road to the top of the Rockies. Must have seemed like it would take forever to get up there because sometimes they only got 10 feet in a day. Lordy!
The information I had didn’t name the person or persons who actually designed and forged the statue, amazingly, but it was the Nevada Air National Guard who lifted the four sections to the site with a Ch-54 Sikorsky Sky Crane. The Montana National Guard, the U.S. Army Reserve from Butte and lots and lots of civilians helped placed the final head-section atop the statue on December 20, 1985. Man, I sure would liked to have seen that! And I’ll bet they cleared the area below the mountain for miles while they were lifting these sections. Woe be unto the poor helicopter pilot who dropped that puppy!
The statue is lit at night and was beautiful to see in the twilight. It was visible from my little campground and I took a picture of it but again, without a zoom lens all I could get was this tiny white and glowing thing off in the distance. I took another picture at night but it just looked like a large star very close to the ground. Very pretty, actually, but it doesn’t give you the scale of this monolith.
I leave Butte with regret because there is so much to see here but I’ll be back - oh, yes, I’ll be back…
Lessons Learned:
That I can’t use my heating pad and Chopper’s heating pad at the same time on a 12V system.
That Chopper is much older than me, at least in kitty years.
That I respect my elders so her needs trump mine.
Which is why I like campgrounds with electrical hook-ups.
That I finally figured out how to join the sewage hose on the van and the extension I bought so it will extend to the sewer hook-up.
That I did this all by myself without the help of, indeed, in spite of the advice from several folks from the RV stores.
That it’s good to know that I can figure out these little problems.
As long as I don’t have to do this too often.
Observations:
A friend of mine kindly reminded me that Debussy did not write "Pavane for a Dead Princess." Ravel did. Dang. I knew that and brain cramped, but I sure sounded impressive there for a bit, huh?
A sign at a local restaurant advertising the future “Testicle Festival.” Not too unhappy I’ll miss that.
I’ve found my ‘tiger balm’ and have been rubbing it on my cracked thumb cuticles with tremendous relief. How am I going to get used to a different weather when I’m traveling so often between different kinds? I guess I’ll lay in lots of lotion, sun screen, light clothes, heavy clothes (both of which I already have), drink lots of water and hope for the best.
Since I entered Idaho and throughout Montana I’ve seen Clark Fords, Clark Rivers, Clark Forks, Clark Streams, Clark Lakes - Clark! Clark! Clark! Just who is this Clark guy, anyway?
Oh, wait. This is Lewis and Clark territory.
Duh.
So what does that make Lewis?
Chopped liver?
Fluffbutt was doing her squirm of joy on the passenger seat up front when I got up this morning, her signal that she’s happy and wants a belly rub. I was delighted to see that she was getting used to her new environment so I rubbed and played with her for a bit. She was feeling rambunctious and I had to pull out a cloth for her to snag and chew and kick instead of my hand and arm. I’ve been hit before with her “let’s see how many scars I can leave on you" mood and have learned to substitute something other than me.
I’ve seen three mountain silhouettes that look like Camelback Mountain in Phoenix, Arizona. Is this some kind of basic template for a range design?
T-shirt on motorcycle rider passing me on the left: “Fighting Solves Everything.” (???)
A Sinclair gas station with bright, colorful and obviously fake and how-did-they-get-here palms surrounding it. Besides buying gas you can apparently play at a casino inside. In fact, just about every local town has its own casino and liquor store. I forget I’m no longer in Washington where only the state sells anything beyond wine and beer. Now you can get anything anywhere. Weird.
Day 7 - Butte, Montana
I’m in Butte today, where the slogan is “a mile high, a mile deep and everyone’s on the level.” Interesting. A collection of local pronunciations includes the following:
Howshegoin? A term used as a salutation.
Jeetyet? A term used to ask the question, “Did you eat yet?”
Jou? In answer to jeetyet?,“Did you?”
Gweet. To “go eat” if you haven’t.
Howzyermomandthem? Exactly what you think it says.
Ya’s Plural of ya. Most likely a contraction of “all of you” as in “How youse guys doin’?”
All good to know information, I’m sure. There is another tradition with a long history here of everyone having a nickname. This supposedly came from the early miners who were immigrants from all over the place and nicknames were easier to pronounce then their actual names. In face most folks didn’t usually know a person’s real name until his/her obituary was published. Examples include:
Dutch McCrea, Ears Holland, Hula Kalafatich, Moose Pavlovich, Nichel Annie, Chicken Liz, Blonde Patrick and Booba Powers. Some of these obviously give a hint as to their ethnic background and how they got their nickname, but some just make you wonder where the heck that came from. Like Booba Powers. Wha…?
Anyway, mining is the game around here and there’s a huge, and I mean HUGE population of Irish in Butte. I haven’t seen so many Irish bars since I last visited Boston. And there’s an annual festival here which I will unfortunately miss called An Ri Ra with international Irish music performers and other Irish cultural activities celebrated for the next two days. I’m not happy that I will miss it but I will be back to this area in the future and will definitely stay for the festival. Being part Irish and all that I love to hear the music and traditions of the Old Home.
I wandered through a shop filled with more Irish stuff than I’ve seen in a long time. I spoke with the owner, who, like me, was a mutt of Gaelic extraction. She was Welsh, Irish and Scotch and I’m all that and a wee bit of English and French, to boot. She had black hair and fair skin and I have red hair with fair skin and freckles and we laughed about family histories with such a United Kingdom mishmash. Not unusual, of course, though combining English with anything Scottish and Irish must have been an interesting get-together.
You know, whether I use the last name of Cox (Irish), Tenn (Welsh), Clunie (Scotch), or Welborn (likewise Welsh), I’d be covered in this town. These are all last names I’ve had before for those who don’t know. I’m still using Cox, obviously.
Another local phenomenon was a colossal 90 ft statue of Mary, Jesus’ mum, high above Butte on the mountain marking the Continental Divide. Named “Our Lady of the Rockies,” the project to build it began in 1979 and both men and women of all walks of life and almost every religion worked to pave the way for the statue. It was dedicated to women everywhere, especially to mothers. (I’m relating this from a pamphlet in case you didn’t pick up on that.) Volunteers worked every day to blast a path for a road to the top of the Rockies. Must have seemed like it would take forever to get up there because sometimes they only got 10 feet in a day. Lordy!
The information I had didn’t name the person or persons who actually designed and forged the statue, amazingly, but it was the Nevada Air National Guard who lifted the four sections to the site with a Ch-54 Sikorsky Sky Crane. The Montana National Guard, the U.S. Army Reserve from Butte and lots and lots of civilians helped placed the final head-section atop the statue on December 20, 1985. Man, I sure would liked to have seen that! And I’ll bet they cleared the area below the mountain for miles while they were lifting these sections. Woe be unto the poor helicopter pilot who dropped that puppy!
The statue is lit at night and was beautiful to see in the twilight. It was visible from my little campground and I took a picture of it but again, without a zoom lens all I could get was this tiny white and glowing thing off in the distance. I took another picture at night but it just looked like a large star very close to the ground. Very pretty, actually, but it doesn’t give you the scale of this monolith.
I leave Butte with regret because there is so much to see here but I’ll be back - oh, yes, I’ll be back…
Lessons Learned:
That I can’t use my heating pad and Chopper’s heating pad at the same time on a 12V system.
That Chopper is much older than me, at least in kitty years.
That I respect my elders so her needs trump mine.
Which is why I like campgrounds with electrical hook-ups.
That I finally figured out how to join the sewage hose on the van and the extension I bought so it will extend to the sewer hook-up.
That I did this all by myself without the help of, indeed, in spite of the advice from several folks from the RV stores.
That it’s good to know that I can figure out these little problems.
As long as I don’t have to do this too often.
Observations:
A friend of mine kindly reminded me that Debussy did not write "Pavane for a Dead Princess." Ravel did. Dang. I knew that and brain cramped, but I sure sounded impressive there for a bit, huh?
A sign at a local restaurant advertising the future “Testicle Festival.” Not too unhappy I’ll miss that.
I’ve found my ‘tiger balm’ and have been rubbing it on my cracked thumb cuticles with tremendous relief. How am I going to get used to a different weather when I’m traveling so often between different kinds? I guess I’ll lay in lots of lotion, sun screen, light clothes, heavy clothes (both of which I already have), drink lots of water and hope for the best.
Since I entered Idaho and throughout Montana I’ve seen Clark Fords, Clark Rivers, Clark Forks, Clark Streams, Clark Lakes - Clark! Clark! Clark! Just who is this Clark guy, anyway?
Oh, wait. This is Lewis and Clark territory.
Duh.
So what does that make Lewis?
Chopped liver?
Fluffbutt was doing her squirm of joy on the passenger seat up front when I got up this morning, her signal that she’s happy and wants a belly rub. I was delighted to see that she was getting used to her new environment so I rubbed and played with her for a bit. She was feeling rambunctious and I had to pull out a cloth for her to snag and chew and kick instead of my hand and arm. I’ve been hit before with her “let’s see how many scars I can leave on you" mood and have learned to substitute something other than me.
I’ve seen three mountain silhouettes that look like Camelback Mountain in Phoenix, Arizona. Is this some kind of basic template for a range design?
T-shirt on motorcycle rider passing me on the left: “Fighting Solves Everything.” (???)
A Sinclair gas station with bright, colorful and obviously fake and how-did-they-get-here palms surrounding it. Besides buying gas you can apparently play at a casino inside. In fact, just about every local town has its own casino and liquor store. I forget I’m no longer in Washington where only the state sells anything beyond wine and beer. Now you can get anything anywhere. Weird.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Day 6 - Missoula, Montana
Earthship Le Van Gogh Diary
Day 6 - Missoula, Montana
Aaaahhhh. One of my favorite works by Debussy is playing on the local NPR, “Pavane For a Dead Princess.” Macabre title aside, it’s simply a lovely and dreamy piece of music.
I’m parked in a super Wal-Mart parking lot between two pickup trucks with campers on their backs. There are a couple of other trailer-pulled campers nearby and several cars, but I know now that by tomorrow morning there will be more. Many more. Boon docking is very popular in the RV set.
Missoula is either a large town or a small city - I haven’t checked the stats but it’s pretty cool, however big it is. Still having problems catching a roaming signal, drat it. Tell me again why I paid for my own wireless device and a monthly fee to boot when there aren’t enough towers to support this? Bleh.
I parked and took a walk in the downtown area and it was quaint and charming and picturesque and all that. Most shops were closed but there were plenty of folks just out and about to see and get exercise and feel the sun whenever it made a brief appearance. It was good to stretch my legs and see what was popular in this neck of the woods.
After I was tired from walking I returned to my car and asked Charmagne to find the local Wal-Mart. This she could do! And she didn’t dump me in the middle of the road, either! Yay, Charmagne!!
I parked near the gathering cluster of RV’s, set up shop for a 12V night and walked over to the store. I wanted to find a voice activated recorder I could use while I’m driving that was close at hand and that didn’t require me to look away from the road to grasp it. Trying to write down what I see as I drive along is a very bad idea; hence, a tiny recording device that holds about 200 hours of my lovely voice should I choose to not delete as I go. Since I have no intention of saving all of my little notes after I’m done transcribing them into the blog I found the smallest recorder for sale and got it. Now I won’t be such a driving hazard to myself and others.
Tomorrow I drive to Butte, about 125 miles from Missoula. I’m just setting Charmagne to get me to the city center and I’ll take over once I see a good campground for the night. I didn’t bother showering tonight and I’ll need (and want) one a lot tomorrow, for sure, so a full-service campground is required. I’ve become a KOA member and I know they have one close to Butte so I’ll probably stop at that one. I like KOA - it’s clean, has all services including a laundry (important!), the aforementioned showers, a dumping station (I sure hope so because my tanks are getting full again. So quickly! Off I go to beddy by with the kitties tucked in to their nightly areas and me tucked into my little bed. Night all!
Lessons Learned:
That my attempts to figure out how to use the recording device on my own have failed.
That I might have to read the instructions because I can’t figure out how to do it myself.
I hate it when that happens.
That Le Van Gogh doesn’t drive any better with the wind at my back than it did when I was driving into the wind.
That the van is still broad and high (relatively speaking, of course) no matter which way the wind is blowing.
That the van just doesn’t drive easily at any speed above 45 mph.
Which should keep me alert.
And should develop really strong muscles in my hands and arms.
I would think.
That parking in Wal-Mart is cost effective but noisy.
That some moron pulled up close by our little RV area with windows down and bass cranked as high as it can go.
At 12:30 a.m.
That I might have to dig out my hammer and go bash in his windows and side panels.
But that might hurt my hammer.
So never mind.
Observations:
A fenced in area with ‘High Voltage’ signs every five feet and a blackened scorched-earth area where some fool clearly tried to find out if the owners were telling the truth.
Strolling around downtown Missoula I see a mannequin in a store with a truly demented expression on its face. Scary.
A car in front of me with a faded red tattered towel spread across the back area just below the rear window and pink plastic roses scattered all about.
A young couple taking a walk in the downtown area with a large black lab carrying a thick, short branch in his mouth.
Three street kids holding signs saying “Traveling but broke, too ugly to get work.” I spoke to them about the kind of jobs they had applied for and one boy, who was quite nice looking, said that he was too ugly and no one would hire him. Uh huh. The other kid, who was kind of ugly, actually, had tried to find a job, any job no matter how humble, but no one would hire him. The two boys and the girl, all appearing to be anywhere from 15-19 years of age, were dirty and their clothes somewhat tattered which might have been the reason no one would hire them. That and they looked like runaways. Then again, the amusing sign was working and folks were giving them spare change so it could be just an easy scam. No obvious signs of drug use and no bruises or abrasions from being beat up. I wondered, though, how long it would be before some pimp rounded them up and forced them into prostitution. May the gods look favorable upon them! I gave them the two dollars I had in my pocket, wished them well and moved on.
I think I left humidity far behind me. My thumbs have started to crack at the corners of the nails and I’m constantly thirsty (hence, full holding tanks…) so I’m getting the hint that I’m now in dry country. Time to find some bag balm.
I passed a Cracker Barrel restaurant on my way to Missoula. Amazing! This extremely popular chain with delicious, artery-clogging southern cooking is usually found in the South. Or so I thought. It sure looked popular up here as well when I drove past it.
A highway sign saying, “9 Mile Road 1 Mile.”
Day 6 - Missoula, Montana
Aaaahhhh. One of my favorite works by Debussy is playing on the local NPR, “Pavane For a Dead Princess.” Macabre title aside, it’s simply a lovely and dreamy piece of music.
I’m parked in a super Wal-Mart parking lot between two pickup trucks with campers on their backs. There are a couple of other trailer-pulled campers nearby and several cars, but I know now that by tomorrow morning there will be more. Many more. Boon docking is very popular in the RV set.
Missoula is either a large town or a small city - I haven’t checked the stats but it’s pretty cool, however big it is. Still having problems catching a roaming signal, drat it. Tell me again why I paid for my own wireless device and a monthly fee to boot when there aren’t enough towers to support this? Bleh.
I parked and took a walk in the downtown area and it was quaint and charming and picturesque and all that. Most shops were closed but there were plenty of folks just out and about to see and get exercise and feel the sun whenever it made a brief appearance. It was good to stretch my legs and see what was popular in this neck of the woods.
After I was tired from walking I returned to my car and asked Charmagne to find the local Wal-Mart. This she could do! And she didn’t dump me in the middle of the road, either! Yay, Charmagne!!
I parked near the gathering cluster of RV’s, set up shop for a 12V night and walked over to the store. I wanted to find a voice activated recorder I could use while I’m driving that was close at hand and that didn’t require me to look away from the road to grasp it. Trying to write down what I see as I drive along is a very bad idea; hence, a tiny recording device that holds about 200 hours of my lovely voice should I choose to not delete as I go. Since I have no intention of saving all of my little notes after I’m done transcribing them into the blog I found the smallest recorder for sale and got it. Now I won’t be such a driving hazard to myself and others.
Tomorrow I drive to Butte, about 125 miles from Missoula. I’m just setting Charmagne to get me to the city center and I’ll take over once I see a good campground for the night. I didn’t bother showering tonight and I’ll need (and want) one a lot tomorrow, for sure, so a full-service campground is required. I’ve become a KOA member and I know they have one close to Butte so I’ll probably stop at that one. I like KOA - it’s clean, has all services including a laundry (important!), the aforementioned showers, a dumping station (I sure hope so because my tanks are getting full again. So quickly! Off I go to beddy by with the kitties tucked in to their nightly areas and me tucked into my little bed. Night all!
Lessons Learned:
That my attempts to figure out how to use the recording device on my own have failed.
That I might have to read the instructions because I can’t figure out how to do it myself.
I hate it when that happens.
That Le Van Gogh doesn’t drive any better with the wind at my back than it did when I was driving into the wind.
That the van is still broad and high (relatively speaking, of course) no matter which way the wind is blowing.
That the van just doesn’t drive easily at any speed above 45 mph.
Which should keep me alert.
And should develop really strong muscles in my hands and arms.
I would think.
That parking in Wal-Mart is cost effective but noisy.
That some moron pulled up close by our little RV area with windows down and bass cranked as high as it can go.
At 12:30 a.m.
That I might have to dig out my hammer and go bash in his windows and side panels.
But that might hurt my hammer.
So never mind.
Observations:
A fenced in area with ‘High Voltage’ signs every five feet and a blackened scorched-earth area where some fool clearly tried to find out if the owners were telling the truth.
Strolling around downtown Missoula I see a mannequin in a store with a truly demented expression on its face. Scary.
A car in front of me with a faded red tattered towel spread across the back area just below the rear window and pink plastic roses scattered all about.
A young couple taking a walk in the downtown area with a large black lab carrying a thick, short branch in his mouth.
Three street kids holding signs saying “Traveling but broke, too ugly to get work.” I spoke to them about the kind of jobs they had applied for and one boy, who was quite nice looking, said that he was too ugly and no one would hire him. Uh huh. The other kid, who was kind of ugly, actually, had tried to find a job, any job no matter how humble, but no one would hire him. The two boys and the girl, all appearing to be anywhere from 15-19 years of age, were dirty and their clothes somewhat tattered which might have been the reason no one would hire them. That and they looked like runaways. Then again, the amusing sign was working and folks were giving them spare change so it could be just an easy scam. No obvious signs of drug use and no bruises or abrasions from being beat up. I wondered, though, how long it would be before some pimp rounded them up and forced them into prostitution. May the gods look favorable upon them! I gave them the two dollars I had in my pocket, wished them well and moved on.
I think I left humidity far behind me. My thumbs have started to crack at the corners of the nails and I’m constantly thirsty (hence, full holding tanks…) so I’m getting the hint that I’m now in dry country. Time to find some bag balm.
I passed a Cracker Barrel restaurant on my way to Missoula. Amazing! This extremely popular chain with delicious, artery-clogging southern cooking is usually found in the South. Or so I thought. It sure looked popular up here as well when I drove past it.
A highway sign saying, “9 Mile Road 1 Mile.”
Day 5 - St. Regis, Montana
Earthship Le Van Gogh Diary
Day 5 - St. Regis, Montana
I’m sitting at Rose’s Restaurant, a nice little home-cooking-just-folks kind of stop right off of I-90 not far from the border of Idaho and Montana. I’m enjoying my excellent breakfast as I tippity tap on my laptop and sip heart-stopping coffee. Espresso has nothing on this! I decided to take myself out to a restaurant this morning since I haven’t eaten in one since I left. That and I’ve run out of yogurt and need to restock. Ok, that’s a really lame excuse - I just wanted to eat out but I do need to get more yogurt. Fluffbutt likes to lick the edge of the cup when I’m finished and appears to prefer Black Cherry, as I do, so that’s what I’ll get.
A group of age-enhanced motorcycle riders are at a table near me. No long, gray hair pulled back in a tail with tattoos and Harley Davidson leather jackets - just regular guys and their wives, most older than I am, or at least so it appears, all riding cycles big enough to lie down on. In fact, the rear seat riders look like they are lying down. Amazing! And they have heaters and gloves thick enough to pick up dry ice with. Since it was cold enough to get goose pimples in the morning chill, I can only imagine what it must feel like to ride in the open. My tender little body would not tolerate that for long!
I heard them discussing 40° below weather in the area, which reminded me of a couple of winters I experienced in Maine. I wonder if Montana gets that every winter? Having your nose hairs freeze is an interesting experience but not something I’d want every time the snow fell. It got cold in Maine during the January/February months, but it didn’t always get so cold you couldn’t start your car without an engine block warmer. Here, I think that’s the norm.
After finishing my breakfast I hit the road and made my way back on to I-90 with Charmagne giving me approving nods every so often. I swear her accent is becoming British even though I didn’t change it. I do wonder where she’ll dump me out today. As usual I inputted (sp?) the exact address of my next campground but I reckon I’ll just wait and see. (Microsoft Works didn’t tell me to correct “inputted” so I guess it thinks that’s a word. Huh.) Inputting the exact address hasn’t worked before but since I don’t mind getting lost when I see such beautiful scenery as I wander around, it’s not really a problem. I only have a Rand McNally Atlas to guide me but it doesn’t have specifics for these small towns. And I haven’t been able to get a wireless connection here in the mountains so I’m left with asking for help. Fortunately I don’t have a problem doing that…
As usual I stayed in the far right lane tucked in between much larger rigs forced to go slowly down some pretty steep grades. There was no runaway truck lane and I prayed fervently that none of these huge trucks would lose their brakes as we careened madly down the hills going a terrifying 45 mph. Ok, laugh, but it was damned scary to me when my van was doing its usual lumbering back and forth across the lane and the truck behind me was getting waaaayyyy too close for comfort going into some of the sharper turns. I was hugely relieved when we finally reached a gentler grade and I could relax my hands which had been bolted to the steering wheel. The mountains are gorgeous but driving them in Le Van Gogh is just a wee too bit interesting for my heart.
About 15 miles before I knew I would see signs for St. Regis Charmagne piped up and announced that I had reached my destination. Oh, for cryin’ out loud! I could buy the dump-in-the-middle-of-the-road scene since at least up to now she had been within 200 yards of our goal. Fifteen miles seemed really over the top. Either Charmagne is just mentally defective or they haven’t updated the GPS coordinates in quite awhile. Sheesh.
I ignored her, indeed I turned her off since what good was she to me now? I continued driving until I saw the turn-off for St. Regis. I pulled into the Visitor’s Center which had a sign outside that said “Visitor Friendly.” Well, that’s good, considering that’s what it’s there for. Inside I found all kinds of information on Montana but nothing on St. Regis. I asked the lovely lady on duty and she looked a bit embarrassed as she searched for a pamphlet amongst the hundreds on display. She finally found a tattered map of the area which showed a town of very small proportions, most of which was centered around the turnoff right here by I-90. She did find a brochure for the St. Regis Campground I was staying in tonight and I thanked her heartily, making her feel a little better for not being able to give me any useful information about the immediate area. Perhaps there wasn't any to give.
I left with a friendly wave and stopped at a nearby grocery store (everything here is “nearby“) intending to stock up on yogurt and fresh veggies. After seeing the prices I restarted my heart and left hastily to go find a veggie stand. The prices were enormous! I guess the store manager had to raise them to make up for the costs of paying for the health care of the truck drivers who made it this far down the mountain. I did find a lovely little stand, however, and bought peaches and cherries and headed out to the campground which came with a 5-star rating and a Good Sam discount. There was also a discount for military, retired, active or veteran, so I was covered both ways (I joined Good Sam quickly when I saw how many sites discount for membership).
I checked in and was given a nice spot in the ‘quiet’ area, whatever that means. Perhaps they don’t put families with more than one child nearby. Whatever, I had it all to myself when I closed up everything and went to bed. Of course I took advantage of the showers and scrubbed and washed my hair, etc, before I went to bed because I planned on a Wal-Mart stay in Missoula. And although it is convenient to have my own shower, it is definitely not convenient to use it. You have to really want a shower to get this one ready and rinse your hair, turn off the water, add shampoo and lather your hair and scrub the rest of you, turn on the water, rinse everything very quickly, turn off the water, etc. And then towel dry your hair and your body, and make sure the drain area gets dried and then hang your towel on the miniature clothes line that can be strung across the van on this side of the lavoratory and kitchen. And check to see how much water you have left and if it will last you until you reach your next campground where you can refill your fresh water tank. And check your holding tanks to make sure you haven’t filled the gray water up yet. And don't forget to duck beneath the clothesline or you will strangle yourself in the night. All in all, if I’m desperate I’m glad it’s there. If I have a choice, however, I’ll take a full shower that doesn’t require so much work.
It was deliciously quiet after I returned to my little camper, for which I was doubly grateful that I had been placed here. The children section had been placed at the other side of the campground where there was a pool and other playground attractions, but over here was nothing but beautiful pines and grass and quiet. Just quiet. Camp fires were springing up all around me in the twilight and campers and tents alike were softly lit from within by lamps or overhead lighting. No stars shone above because it was overcast, but that was OK. I actually heard a rumble of thunder as a few drops of rain fell with a passing storm. I was delighted to hear it since Port Angeles rarely gets any thunder storms and I had only heard one once since I had arrived there. There had been more than that but I had always been asleep when they occurred, dang it. This was lovely to hear, like an old friend calling to me from the skies.
And now it is 7:00 p.m. and I’m tucked into my little baby trailer across from two monster motor homes. My rig would look like a golf cart between two hummers if I was in their middle. I’ve plugged in the electricity and water so I’m not using mine and I can turn on the microwave and air conditioning. Inside I’m laying on my back, laptop propped up on my knees, Jesse Cook strumming a Moroccan theme on his guitar with fantastic percussionists thumping a complicated beat to his melody and I’m loving this experience! Off to sleep I go and a good night to all.
So much for quiet. When I woke up this morning, my quiet spot had morphed into a more-than-one child spot overnight. Next door to me was a large tent with a young couple, two very small children and grandparents just climbing out with two very sweet doggies already happily sniffing around. The older dog was a shepherd/something mix but the younger was a black lab puppy with big feet and clearly not yet trained. Both ran over to me to say hi and I rubbed, petted and was licked thoroughly by them before the parents noticed and called them back, apologizing for their dogs’ behavior. Not at all, I replied, I love dogs and these are obviously very good dogs. They smiled and began setting up breakfast for their kids, putting the youngest, who appeared to be less than a year in age, in his(?) high chair. The little boy picked up his rattle and proceeded to pound his tray and screech loudly, doing what babies do naturally, which is make noise. His older brother, who looked to be about three, shyly came over to say hi and I smiled at him and waved but his father ordered him back and told him to stay put and go nowhere. I had a feeling that order wasn’t going to stick.
But a high chair? Camping??? Two babies??? The mind boggles! I confess that the thought of my niece, Melissa, camping with me when she was five years old, brings visions of total premature gray to my mind. Brian, who would have been three years old to Melissa’s five, would have been just fine sitting on a blanket and looking around raptly, but Melissa when she was a wee thing was curiosity and energy personified. The horror of it, oh, the horror! (Sorry if I’m embarrassing you, sweetie, but you know darned well that it’s true. LOL!)
Before I ate breakfast I went for a walk with my camera tucked in my pocket. I needed the exercise and planned to walk a minimum of 30 min a day whenever I could. Might as well take some photos while I was doing so.
I had seen some lovely fields with farm houses scattered about on my way in to the campground and I headed in that direction to see what lighting there was to be had and if I could see something I could reproduce without screwing it up too much. I saw much to be admired and shot several photos of fields, mountains and cows (leas) in an area that was so peaceful and quiet that I could hear nothing but the wind blowing in the pines. That’s one of my most favorite sounds in the world, second only to the sound of snow falling in the woods. Subtle but oh, so lovely.
And just as I was turning to walk back, I saw an owl sitting on top of a telephone pole. I thought it was a fake owl meant to scare away some kind of bird or rodent, or what have you, but it turned it’s head to look at me and that was enough to pull my camera out again. The picture of course didn’t turn out as well as I wanted since it was overcast and early but you can at least see the silhouette. Pretty cool, huh?
Anyway, I performed my morning ablutions, tidied up, stowed everything tightly and took off. All in all, St. Regis, what I got to see of it at least, is tiny and smack in the middle of some gorgeous country. And I was not able to pick up a wireless connection, so this blog is going to be late in uploading as well as yesterday’s. Oh, well.
Lessons Learned:
That I need to get a new fitting for the end of the sewer hose that fits older dumping stations.
That today was much better than the last time I dumped.
But still a weensy bit of spillage.
Which will get better.
That when I hose down the van I need to make sure all windows are shut, not just the driver’s side.
Oops.
That the gloves I bought for working with the sewer hose aren’t as waterproof as they claim.
That I need to buy another decidedly waterproof and skinny set of gloves to fit inside these.
That I’m glad I brought a whole lot of antimicrobial cleaning agents with me.
Eew.
That I can’t figure out how to set the correct time on the van radio.
That I have user manuals for everything in the van.
Except the radio.
Doesn’t matter, I’ll be changing time zones anyway.
But it still drives me buggy.
Oh, well.
Observations:
A large, very sloppy nest perched precariously on top of a telephone pole. An eagle’s nest, perhaps? I know they’re lousy housekeepers. And I don't expect to see an osprey's nest in the area. They're pretty messy, too.
A warning side by the road that says, “Watch for ice.” Not far behind this sign is another that says, “Watch for rock.” Okay, make up your mind, will you? I can’t watch for both and keep the van straight too, so which one is it going to be? How silly.
I saw a spotted fawn almost at full growth with no mommy in sight. That doesn’t mean the mommy wasn’t nearby, just that I didn’t see her. The fawn ignored me completely and didn’t even look up as I walked by but continued to nibble some grasses under her feet. Pretty little thing and graceful as only a deer can be.
Day 5 - St. Regis, Montana
I’m sitting at Rose’s Restaurant, a nice little home-cooking-just-folks kind of stop right off of I-90 not far from the border of Idaho and Montana. I’m enjoying my excellent breakfast as I tippity tap on my laptop and sip heart-stopping coffee. Espresso has nothing on this! I decided to take myself out to a restaurant this morning since I haven’t eaten in one since I left. That and I’ve run out of yogurt and need to restock. Ok, that’s a really lame excuse - I just wanted to eat out but I do need to get more yogurt. Fluffbutt likes to lick the edge of the cup when I’m finished and appears to prefer Black Cherry, as I do, so that’s what I’ll get.
A group of age-enhanced motorcycle riders are at a table near me. No long, gray hair pulled back in a tail with tattoos and Harley Davidson leather jackets - just regular guys and their wives, most older than I am, or at least so it appears, all riding cycles big enough to lie down on. In fact, the rear seat riders look like they are lying down. Amazing! And they have heaters and gloves thick enough to pick up dry ice with. Since it was cold enough to get goose pimples in the morning chill, I can only imagine what it must feel like to ride in the open. My tender little body would not tolerate that for long!
I heard them discussing 40° below weather in the area, which reminded me of a couple of winters I experienced in Maine. I wonder if Montana gets that every winter? Having your nose hairs freeze is an interesting experience but not something I’d want every time the snow fell. It got cold in Maine during the January/February months, but it didn’t always get so cold you couldn’t start your car without an engine block warmer. Here, I think that’s the norm.
After finishing my breakfast I hit the road and made my way back on to I-90 with Charmagne giving me approving nods every so often. I swear her accent is becoming British even though I didn’t change it. I do wonder where she’ll dump me out today. As usual I inputted (sp?) the exact address of my next campground but I reckon I’ll just wait and see. (Microsoft Works didn’t tell me to correct “inputted” so I guess it thinks that’s a word. Huh.) Inputting the exact address hasn’t worked before but since I don’t mind getting lost when I see such beautiful scenery as I wander around, it’s not really a problem. I only have a Rand McNally Atlas to guide me but it doesn’t have specifics for these small towns. And I haven’t been able to get a wireless connection here in the mountains so I’m left with asking for help. Fortunately I don’t have a problem doing that…
As usual I stayed in the far right lane tucked in between much larger rigs forced to go slowly down some pretty steep grades. There was no runaway truck lane and I prayed fervently that none of these huge trucks would lose their brakes as we careened madly down the hills going a terrifying 45 mph. Ok, laugh, but it was damned scary to me when my van was doing its usual lumbering back and forth across the lane and the truck behind me was getting waaaayyyy too close for comfort going into some of the sharper turns. I was hugely relieved when we finally reached a gentler grade and I could relax my hands which had been bolted to the steering wheel. The mountains are gorgeous but driving them in Le Van Gogh is just a wee too bit interesting for my heart.
About 15 miles before I knew I would see signs for St. Regis Charmagne piped up and announced that I had reached my destination. Oh, for cryin’ out loud! I could buy the dump-in-the-middle-of-the-road scene since at least up to now she had been within 200 yards of our goal. Fifteen miles seemed really over the top. Either Charmagne is just mentally defective or they haven’t updated the GPS coordinates in quite awhile. Sheesh.
I ignored her, indeed I turned her off since what good was she to me now? I continued driving until I saw the turn-off for St. Regis. I pulled into the Visitor’s Center which had a sign outside that said “Visitor Friendly.” Well, that’s good, considering that’s what it’s there for. Inside I found all kinds of information on Montana but nothing on St. Regis. I asked the lovely lady on duty and she looked a bit embarrassed as she searched for a pamphlet amongst the hundreds on display. She finally found a tattered map of the area which showed a town of very small proportions, most of which was centered around the turnoff right here by I-90. She did find a brochure for the St. Regis Campground I was staying in tonight and I thanked her heartily, making her feel a little better for not being able to give me any useful information about the immediate area. Perhaps there wasn't any to give.
I left with a friendly wave and stopped at a nearby grocery store (everything here is “nearby“) intending to stock up on yogurt and fresh veggies. After seeing the prices I restarted my heart and left hastily to go find a veggie stand. The prices were enormous! I guess the store manager had to raise them to make up for the costs of paying for the health care of the truck drivers who made it this far down the mountain. I did find a lovely little stand, however, and bought peaches and cherries and headed out to the campground which came with a 5-star rating and a Good Sam discount. There was also a discount for military, retired, active or veteran, so I was covered both ways (I joined Good Sam quickly when I saw how many sites discount for membership).
I checked in and was given a nice spot in the ‘quiet’ area, whatever that means. Perhaps they don’t put families with more than one child nearby. Whatever, I had it all to myself when I closed up everything and went to bed. Of course I took advantage of the showers and scrubbed and washed my hair, etc, before I went to bed because I planned on a Wal-Mart stay in Missoula. And although it is convenient to have my own shower, it is definitely not convenient to use it. You have to really want a shower to get this one ready and rinse your hair, turn off the water, add shampoo and lather your hair and scrub the rest of you, turn on the water, rinse everything very quickly, turn off the water, etc. And then towel dry your hair and your body, and make sure the drain area gets dried and then hang your towel on the miniature clothes line that can be strung across the van on this side of the lavoratory and kitchen. And check to see how much water you have left and if it will last you until you reach your next campground where you can refill your fresh water tank. And check your holding tanks to make sure you haven’t filled the gray water up yet. And don't forget to duck beneath the clothesline or you will strangle yourself in the night. All in all, if I’m desperate I’m glad it’s there. If I have a choice, however, I’ll take a full shower that doesn’t require so much work.
It was deliciously quiet after I returned to my little camper, for which I was doubly grateful that I had been placed here. The children section had been placed at the other side of the campground where there was a pool and other playground attractions, but over here was nothing but beautiful pines and grass and quiet. Just quiet. Camp fires were springing up all around me in the twilight and campers and tents alike were softly lit from within by lamps or overhead lighting. No stars shone above because it was overcast, but that was OK. I actually heard a rumble of thunder as a few drops of rain fell with a passing storm. I was delighted to hear it since Port Angeles rarely gets any thunder storms and I had only heard one once since I had arrived there. There had been more than that but I had always been asleep when they occurred, dang it. This was lovely to hear, like an old friend calling to me from the skies.
And now it is 7:00 p.m. and I’m tucked into my little baby trailer across from two monster motor homes. My rig would look like a golf cart between two hummers if I was in their middle. I’ve plugged in the electricity and water so I’m not using mine and I can turn on the microwave and air conditioning. Inside I’m laying on my back, laptop propped up on my knees, Jesse Cook strumming a Moroccan theme on his guitar with fantastic percussionists thumping a complicated beat to his melody and I’m loving this experience! Off to sleep I go and a good night to all.
So much for quiet. When I woke up this morning, my quiet spot had morphed into a more-than-one child spot overnight. Next door to me was a large tent with a young couple, two very small children and grandparents just climbing out with two very sweet doggies already happily sniffing around. The older dog was a shepherd/something mix but the younger was a black lab puppy with big feet and clearly not yet trained. Both ran over to me to say hi and I rubbed, petted and was licked thoroughly by them before the parents noticed and called them back, apologizing for their dogs’ behavior. Not at all, I replied, I love dogs and these are obviously very good dogs. They smiled and began setting up breakfast for their kids, putting the youngest, who appeared to be less than a year in age, in his(?) high chair. The little boy picked up his rattle and proceeded to pound his tray and screech loudly, doing what babies do naturally, which is make noise. His older brother, who looked to be about three, shyly came over to say hi and I smiled at him and waved but his father ordered him back and told him to stay put and go nowhere. I had a feeling that order wasn’t going to stick.
But a high chair? Camping??? Two babies??? The mind boggles! I confess that the thought of my niece, Melissa, camping with me when she was five years old, brings visions of total premature gray to my mind. Brian, who would have been three years old to Melissa’s five, would have been just fine sitting on a blanket and looking around raptly, but Melissa when she was a wee thing was curiosity and energy personified. The horror of it, oh, the horror! (Sorry if I’m embarrassing you, sweetie, but you know darned well that it’s true. LOL!)
Before I ate breakfast I went for a walk with my camera tucked in my pocket. I needed the exercise and planned to walk a minimum of 30 min a day whenever I could. Might as well take some photos while I was doing so.
I had seen some lovely fields with farm houses scattered about on my way in to the campground and I headed in that direction to see what lighting there was to be had and if I could see something I could reproduce without screwing it up too much. I saw much to be admired and shot several photos of fields, mountains and cows (leas) in an area that was so peaceful and quiet that I could hear nothing but the wind blowing in the pines. That’s one of my most favorite sounds in the world, second only to the sound of snow falling in the woods. Subtle but oh, so lovely.
And just as I was turning to walk back, I saw an owl sitting on top of a telephone pole. I thought it was a fake owl meant to scare away some kind of bird or rodent, or what have you, but it turned it’s head to look at me and that was enough to pull my camera out again. The picture of course didn’t turn out as well as I wanted since it was overcast and early but you can at least see the silhouette. Pretty cool, huh?
Anyway, I performed my morning ablutions, tidied up, stowed everything tightly and took off. All in all, St. Regis, what I got to see of it at least, is tiny and smack in the middle of some gorgeous country. And I was not able to pick up a wireless connection, so this blog is going to be late in uploading as well as yesterday’s. Oh, well.
Lessons Learned:
That I need to get a new fitting for the end of the sewer hose that fits older dumping stations.
That today was much better than the last time I dumped.
But still a weensy bit of spillage.
Which will get better.
That when I hose down the van I need to make sure all windows are shut, not just the driver’s side.
Oops.
That the gloves I bought for working with the sewer hose aren’t as waterproof as they claim.
That I need to buy another decidedly waterproof and skinny set of gloves to fit inside these.
That I’m glad I brought a whole lot of antimicrobial cleaning agents with me.
Eew.
That I can’t figure out how to set the correct time on the van radio.
That I have user manuals for everything in the van.
Except the radio.
Doesn’t matter, I’ll be changing time zones anyway.
But it still drives me buggy.
Oh, well.
Observations:
A large, very sloppy nest perched precariously on top of a telephone pole. An eagle’s nest, perhaps? I know they’re lousy housekeepers. And I don't expect to see an osprey's nest in the area. They're pretty messy, too.
A warning side by the road that says, “Watch for ice.” Not far behind this sign is another that says, “Watch for rock.” Okay, make up your mind, will you? I can’t watch for both and keep the van straight too, so which one is it going to be? How silly.
I saw a spotted fawn almost at full growth with no mommy in sight. That doesn’t mean the mommy wasn’t nearby, just that I didn’t see her. The fawn ignored me completely and didn’t even look up as I walked by but continued to nibble some grasses under her feet. Pretty little thing and graceful as only a deer can be.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
