26 Sep Roadtrippin’: Montana to the Border
This blog is part of a Roadtrippin’ series. To start at the beginning click here.
Our initial plan to camp in between Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons was thwarted by a nasty snow storm rolling in. It was almost June, so that, of course, was to be expected. Eddie and I decided to head north to Bozeman and catch up with some old friends on our way to Glacier National Park at the Canadian border with Montana. Even my dog, Shakespeare, was excited to relax for a couple of days.
Upon arrival in Boze-Angeles, we headed out to the Water of the Gods hot springs to relax and chat over a few Moose Drool drafts. A plexi-glass bubble protected the bluegrass band playing music for the drunken slew of relaxers in the naturally heated pools. After that, it was clear that what was needed was more beer. So we hit up a local pub and tacked on a few tequila shots while we were at it (I am a tequila enthusiast, you know.) About this time the bartender tells my friend Katie she looks just like her grandfather who used to be a barfly there. “Thanks …I guess.” Next thing we knew, she was spatting stories about painting the legendary Further Bus with Neal Cassidy.
The following morning we hit the Madison River. The clear blue Montana sky (an abundance of Pabst Blue Ribbon) inspired me to dare Eddie to do something stupid with me. The challenge was to walk out in the freezing cold river first and sit in their inner tube, immersing their poor un-suspecting ass in what should have been frozen solid. Well, off we went. I took a quick tumble into the icy waterway and came out bruised, but unfazed. I’d won. The pain was dulled by the cold water (and the copious amount of beer.)
We fell asleep to rain, but woke to snow. It was time to get moving. We went supply shopping and began organizing our stuff. Just about the time we were saying our goodbyes I turned to Eddie, sheepishly and said, “Hey, where’s my sleeping bag?”
“You’re kidding, right? Oh sweet Jesus, tell me you’re kidding.”
“Umm …” About this time I’m imagining my sleeping bag sitting on the dining room table, my roomie tossing it on the floor to eat.
“This is what I get for traveling with a poet!”
“I remembered the camping box …” It was true. I had the tent, the tri-pod stove with interlocking pots, the headlamps, even the lightning bugs for chrissakes. But without a bag (and worse in the Montana snow) I was screwed. So unexpected expenditure aside, I bought a cheap bag to make it through. This was an indefinite road trip and I had to be prepared for whatever was to come.
This blog is part of a Roadtrippin’ series. To see the next entry in this series click here.