Montana and Stuff

RAFFI: Before entering Montana, I began this novel called A River Runs Through It by Normal Maclean. It’s actually more of a novella—an autobiographical novella—in which the author describes, in incredibly nostalgic fashion, his experiences fly fishing with his brother and father in 1930s western Montana. I didn’t actually know that much about the book except that it would work as a companion piece to our travels through Montana. And it worked well; actually, there were times while reading when an event would be depicted in an obscure Montana town just as we were driving through that obscure Montana town. But the real reason I’m bringing this book up is because never before have I read something that so perfectly illustrates the feeling that so many individuals, especially those traveling to places like Glacier National Park or Yellowstone, strive for: that feeling of one-ness between man and nature. There are momentary instances of natural beauty that I think we—Horea, Duncan, and I—felt and are still feeling based on the immense power of the natural wonders we have thus far bared witness  to; however, I’m incapable of accurately translating those feelings into words, so I’d like to let the masterful Norman Maclean do it for me. In this passage, he describes his brother’s physical motions while fly fishing on the Blackfoot River in Montana:

"Below him was the multitudinous river, and, where the rock has parted it around him, big-grained vapor rose. The mini-molecules of water left in the wake of his line made momentary lapses of gossamer, disappearing so rapidly in the rising big-grained vapor that they had to be retained in memory to be visualized as loops. The spray emanating from him was a finger-grained still and enclosed him in a halo of himself. The halo of himself was always there and always disappearing, as if he were a candlelight flickering about three inches from himself. The images of himself and his line kept disappearing into the rising vapors of the river, which continually circled to the tops of the cliffs where, after becoming a wreath in the wind, they became rays of the sun."

Damn. You probably wanna go fly fishing, which is wildly popular in Montana, right about now. By this time, I have finished A River Runs Through It, which contains, in addition to the above, some of the most beautiful and moving passages I have ever read. Ironically, am now reading Anthony Kiedis’s autobiographical Scar Tissue, which, set in the dirty metropolis that is L.A., details the singer’s disgustingly selfish descent into heroin addiction. Still, Kiedis may be the most likeable scumbag there ever was.

Day 11, 8/10: The Crash

DUNCAN: I awoke our second morning in Glacier National Park without the slightest inkling of the ordeal ahead of us. I had no idea that in the blink of an eye, the actuality of our trip would deviate so suddenly and so profoundly from our plans. Life, as it were, was about to throw us a huge fucking curveball.

But I didn’t know that yet, and so I contentedly helped cook some breakfast, break down the tent, and pack everything back into the car. Before long we were ready to head back on the road. I offered to drive, seeing as I hadn’t been behind the wheel for very long the day before. Thus, the three of us set out down the narrow gravel road that led to and from our campsite. Horea rode shotgun, and Raffi sat in the back seat reading. To the left a gentle hill climbed towards a cloudy sky, and to the right a steeper one descended into a thicket of dense scrub and trees. Horea put on some music, and we all sat in quiet anticipation of what the day would bring us.

Suddenly, there was a Jeep in the middle of the road fifty feet in front of us and closing fast. The subsequent events all seemed to happen in a fraction of a second: without time to even think, I swerved to the right, evading the Jeep by inches; I tried to correct myself onto the road once the car had passed; for a sickening instant, the Golf seemed to teeter on the edge of the road; the car started sliding sideways down the hill to our right; I realized we were going to roll; I started to brace myself for the first tumble.

 But just then, everything came to an abrupt stop.

The car lay motionless, almost vertical on the hill, and for a few seconds all any of us did was breathe. Horea, now more below me than to my right, broke the silence first.

 “Dunc, what should we do?” His voice was heavy with tension.

“Don’t get out that side,” I responded after a pause, equally as tense. It was understood that the car might roll any second, that if any of us so much as shifted our weight in the wrong direction, the whole works might go tumbling down the declivity with us inside. “I’ll get out first. Climb over through my door.” I looked to my left to see a man standing on the road looking down on us. He motioned something, but I was too deeply in shock to respond. I opened the driver’s side door and scrambled up the hill, with Horea following. Raffi climbed over our pile stuff on the left passenger’s seat, opened the door, and clawed his way up as well.

The man at the top was the other driver. He had stopped, thankfully. A short, portly, mustachioed man with glasses and a heavy Midwestern accent, he asked us if any of us were hurt. None of us were.”It’s just a miracle that you’re all alright,” he said. “It could’ve been so much worse…”

And he was right. It could have been so much worse. As we surveyed the situation, we realized just how lucky we had been. The car was tilted at a fifty-something degree angle and all that had stopped it from sliding or rolling any farther down the hill was a single small tree. Had we had gone off the road any sooner, nothing would have stopped it from falling all the way down the hill; had we gone off any later, we would have smashed into a thicket of trees. Furthermore, the car seemed to have sustained minimal damage. Discounting the obvious misfortune of the situation as a whole, we were incredibly lucky.

The man introduced himself as _____ Gillespe, gave us water, and put in a call to 911. His hands were shaking. He told us that he just hadn’t seen us coming as we rounded the light curve in the road on which the accident had occurred. The aforementioned thicket of trees had blocked our respective lines of vision, and by the time we did see each other, it was simply too late to do much about it; he had been too far over toward the middle of the road, and both of us had been going too fast.

We ended up waiting over an hour before any help arrived. We told Mr. Gilespe more about our trip, and he told us about his. He had been a software engineer for most of his life, but last year he had decided that enough was enough and taken an early retirement. Since then, he had been travelling around the country with his dog, pursuing his passion of photography with the intention of eventually getting his pictures published. Though this man was overweight, apparently companionless (his dog aside), and had just caused me to crash one of my best friends’ car, I couldn’t help but admire him in a way. After what sounded like a lifetime of drudgery, he was finally striking out to follow his passions. He was trying to live the romantic life all of us wish we lived, wished we were brave enough to live.

A Park Ranger finally showed up, issued an impressed whistle as she surveyed the scene, and gave us accident reports to fill out. She then called in a tow truck, which took another forty minutes to arrive. That’s when we met Jeff.

Jumping out his tow truck (or “wrecker”, as they call them in Montana), Jeff had the looks of a gangly seventeen-year-old. He had the bare minimum of peach fuzz on his face, oil-stained, baggy jeans, a Hurley hat, and a whole lot of spring in his step. We would later find out that he was twenty-two years old, but my first thought when I saw him was “Woah, this kid is younger than me, should we really be putting the fate of Raffi’s car in his hands?” His skills proved more than adequate, however, and he had the Golf back up on the road in forty minutes of cheerily baseball-sliding down the hill, attaching various hooks, working the winch, and joking about the situation. He quickly inspected it once it was on flat ground. The verdict: a cracked oil pan and minor body damage, which was a fairly light toll for so severe a crash. However, nearly all the oil had leaked out, and the car was rendered temporarily undrivable. Jeff would have to haul us and the car back to the garage at which he worked, Jim’s Body Works in the nearby town of Browning, Montana, until the oil pan could be repaired or replaced. We hopped in the truck and drove off, oblivious to the ways in which Browning would change our perspectives on the country in which we lived, ignorant of the lasting memories we would form there in the next two days.

Days 9 & 10, 8/8 - 8/9: Glacier National Park

Duncan: Thus, after an unexpectedly eventful night in the little-known city of Spokane, we ventured for the first time this trip into a state that shares no border with the Pacific. There was a certain sense of unease perched in the back of my mind as we crossed into Idaho; we definitely weren’t "in Kansas anymore". Still, the scenery was pleasant as we drove through the pine-covered mountain passes of the state’s panhandle. We stopped in Kellogg, Idaho to experience the self-proclaimed “longest gondola ride in the world” up to the top of some mountain. At the summit we took a few pictures, climbed on a dormant ski lift, and just hung around for a while. Upon our return to the foot of the mountain we ducked into a restaurant to see if Idaho potatoes really lived up to their hype. They tasted just like any other potato to me, but hey, what do I know? We returned to the car and our long eastward haul.

Small town in western Montana

We passed miles and miles of not much at all as our route turned north toward Montana’s Glacier National Park. There were cows, endless miles of rolling grassland, and very few people. We stopped only briefly to clean the floor of the Golf after our noses alerted us to a monumental spill of laundry detergent under the driver’s seat. Luckily, our first-aid kit was the only casualty of the deluge of sticky blue liquid. We were soon back on our way, and the scenery grew progressively more remarkable. We made stops at bold-looking rock formations and swiftly flowing rivers as the sun steadily descended, and I began to develop and awe and even a love for Montana's vast, untamed landscape. I kept wishing we had more time on our itinerary to stop and hike and explore and enjoy every inch of the wildly beautiful terrain. We arrived in Glacier at around 10 pm. After a quick dinner of frank ‘n’ beans prepared on our propane stove, we put all our food and dishes in the Golf (on account of the park’s population of hungry bears), pitched our tent, and quickly fell asleep.

I awoke the next morning in a puddle of sweat—our tent acts as a sort of greenhouse when the weather is hot—and walked outside to find Raffi whipping up some oatmeal. We ate, packed up our camp, and began our drive up Going-to-the-Sun Road, a mountainous route world-renowned for its stunning views of ancient glaciers and jagged mountain peaks. We cruised past thickening pine forests, meadows carpeted with vivid wildflowers, and crystalline rivers, stopping frequently to walk down to the bank of the stream our road followed and mill around for a while. The water was cold enough to make your bones ache.

As the road climbed higher and higher into the Rockies, the view of the mountains surrounding us and the river valley below us grew preposterously beautiful. Waterfalls would periodically wind their way from the still-frozen heights above downthe cliff faces adjacent to our route. I won’t do it injustice to the place by attempting to describe it any further. What I will do is tell you this: sometime in your life, make the trip to Glacier National Park. I know I'll be making at least one more.

We arrived at the Eastern part of the park around 3:30 p.m., but the campsite at which we had intended to stay was full, so we instead fished for a while in the St. Mary river right above St. Mary Lake. We caught nothing, but I did succeed in losing a lure and somehow breaking my fishing rod. About an hour later we hopped back in the car and headed 20 miles south to another campsite tucked away in some woods along Cutbank Creek. Finding plenty of campsites open, we set up our tent and explored the place a little bit. We decided to hike a nearby trail despite the fact that it had started to drizzle, a decision that I’m glad we made as it soon cleared up and we got to enjoy seven or eight miles of the park's nature in relative solitude. After we returned to camp, we fished in the creek by our campsite for a while, but to no avail. Troutless, we settled for Chef Boyardee ravioli. It started hailing (strangely enough), and soon after we all climbed in our tent and went to sleep. It had been a wonderful day.

Day 8, 8/7: Spokane, WA

HOR: Wuddup my bitches and hoes, it’s your nigga Horea here to update you guys on our little adventure.  We be chillin’ in a motel room just outside of Yellowstone. Word. Anyways, let me catch you guys up. Shiiiiiiiit—where to start? After our two-day stay in Seattle, we headed east for Spokane, the town of Gonzaga. We drove almost all day, and stopped at an incredible sandwich place called Jimmy John's. I really wish they had that in Cali ‘cause that place is the In-N-Out of sandwiches. If you guys see one, go. After our dinner, we started searching for our future campground, a task much harder than expected. We drove around Spokane and went to two different campsites and both were taken. We kept trying to look for other sites but we were stranded. We finally found an open campsite but the gate to the campsite closed at 10. We got there at 10:10. Nice. We decided to try and open the gate by ourselves and we found out it was not locked and a simple push would do the trick. Still unsure of what we were doing, we entered the campground, without seeing a single welcoming campfire. We walked to the camp registration center and out of nowhere a group of slightly overweight 50-something-year-old women shouted at us, “Don’t walk near here anymore.” Quite a menacing first impression. We were quick to explain that we were only searching for a place to stay the night, and their attitudes quickly changed. “If you guys need a place, you can pitch your tent next to ours and pretend to be our nephews.” Pretty weird, but we needed a place to stay so we accepted the offer. We started setting up our shit and they started engaging us in conversation. “Where are you guys from? How old are you guys? Where are you headed?” They even offered us their s’mores. We were all a little taken aback with the recent change in attitude, but still decided to indulge in some s’mores. After a few minutes, the conversation switched to their teenage years, and of their experiences with acid and shrooms. What the hell? These women were old enough to be our moms.  Feeling more comfortable around these women, we started to find out more about them and learn that they were all pretty crazy in their teenage years. They would go to acid and shroom parties, and everybody would be absolutely out of this world high. This would be a birthday party...

 It was only a matter of time before we learned they were under the influence of not only alcohol, but marijuana as well. One of these women (we didn’t get any of their names), would reserve this campsite every year and invite a couple close friends to drink and smoke for a weekend. With all this talk of drugs, it was inevitable that they would offer us some of their narcotics. The pipe started going around the campfire and the s’mores were going faster than ever. They claimed this was their twentieth bowl of the day (I do not believe this at all, but who knows, they were some pretty crazy women). We conversed with them late into the night, discussing everything from arts and culture to the effects of various narcotics. Around 12:30 we decided we had had enough; it was time for bed. Only when we woke up the next morning did we fully realize what had happened: we had been smoked out by 50-year old moms. The next morning, they still treated us with hospitality, offering us their food. We returned the favor by buying them wood and ice, and thanked them for letting us stay with them. My only regret is that we did not get a picture with them.

Hor out.

Seattle

RAFFI: We entered Seattle knowing about as little of the city as we did Portland, which turned out to be a really great and “weird” experience. Our first taste of Seattle was at nighttime to the tune of an extremely annoying song by Owl City, called, not surprisingly, “Hello Seattle.” Once we got that out of the way we checked into our Motel 6, went to sleep, and headed back toward the city the next day. Our first stop was at the Experience Music Project museum, a big steel, oddly-shaped structure designed by famed architect Frank Gehry, to see an exhibit my parents have always talked about called “Experience Hendrix: The Evolution of Sound.” The exhibit was really everything a Hendrix fan could ask for, as it documents Jimi’s youth growing up in Seattle to his beginnings with mid-‘60s R&B acts and finally to his time in London that allowed him to fully realize his potential as a musical innovator. In addition to his well-documented history, the exhibit has on display several of Hendrix’s most famous guitars, including a few of the ones he burned or smashed and the one he played at Woodstock. Even if there is three feet and a glass panel between the surveyor and the guitar, I felt really exhilarated to be so close to something that has had such an incredible impact on the world, the same feeling an appreciator of art might receive standing in front of a Van Gogh. Another great part of the exhibit was this mixer that walks you through each separate audio track (vocals, lead guitar, rhythm guitar, percussion, etc.) of a Hendrix song, allowing you to really understand the complexity of his music and exactly why is he so influential as not only a performer, but as a musician. After the Hendrix exhibit, we walked through another exhibit chronicling the history of Nirvana, almost an afterthought to the coolness of Hendrix; however, the Nirvana showcase turned out to be very great as well and gave me a stronger appreciation for a band that spearheaded an entire musical scene—grunge—and gave life to Seattle. Regardless of the fact that I’ve never really gotten into grunge, it seems like gold by comparison to today’s shit, which, between Li’l Wayne and Katy Perry, sounds like a combination of bad ‘80s music, bad rap music, and, the clincher, techno. Wow—what is our generation thinking? After the museum, we roamed the outdoor/indoor market at Pike’s Place and the streets of Seattle’s downtown. In addition to the original Starbuck’s located at Pike’s, I think we saw at least 10 Starbuck’s in the span of, like, two square blocks. Neat. At the end of the night, we ascended the famed Space Needle to look out over the Seattle cityscape, a fantastic end to an enjoyable day. In summary, Seattle was very cool. I just wish I had had more time to see more of it—less of the commercial, touristy areas and more of the areas where the hip, young urbanites congregate.

A Familiar Place

RAFFI: I’m pretty surprised by the frequency of our updates on this blog; I really doubted three eighteen-year old dudes were collectively responsible enough to keep a blog up to date. I hope someone out there is actually reading it. If not, that’s cool, too; we aren’t that interesting.

Anyhow, the trip:

Since the first time my family and I drove its curvy roads to “The City”, driving on the Pacific Coast Highway, also known as Highway 1, has been my favorite drive. When my brother enrolled at UC Berkeley in 2007, trips by way of the 1 became more frequent, and, as a result, I couldn’t have been happier. But the more I’ve traveled the 1 over the past four years, the more my yearning to drive other scenic highways has grown, especially to drive the 101--seemingly a brother to the 1 because it runs parallel to and continues where the 1 leaves off not far from the Bay Area and still runs beside the Pacific all the way up to Washington’s Olympic Peninsula. Perhaps this yearning explains the scenic nature of the route of this trip, strategically chosen by three of this country’s finest route planners (if there is such a thing): yours truly, Duncan Conley, and Horea Porutiu.

And… the actual trip (backtracking to day one):

Upon escaping the gorgeous smog-and-trash-infested lanes of L.A.’s world-renowned stretch of the 405, we entered the 101, drove past that weird college in Santa Barbara that Duncan and I are to attend, and in San Luis Obispo, next to that other weird college, we took a turn onto Highway 1. Its two-lane stretch is a sight I’ve seen many times; nevertheless, its presence bears the unique quality never to tire a person. The first stretch of the highway is mostly flat and mostly straight. To our right there was an only-slightly familiar sight: rolling hills—the same ones we are accustomed to at home, only these ones reveal their bare selves—bare and grassy and completely dry, decorated sporadically by a few trees. To our left was the Pacific—another familiar sight—decorated with a variety of weathered black rocks, which are constantly sloshed by the whitewash of a fierce swell. On that day, the climate was foggy and cloudy, which, depending on your mood, can be a good thing, but on a clear, sunny day, this stretch of the 1 is breathtaking in that the vibrant gold of the hills is contrasted with the rich, deep blue of the ocean. Eventually, the hills graduate to mountains, and the 1 ascends, winding and clutching to the periphery of the mountains, composed of rocks and even larger rocks that sit precariously looking down on your car and waiting for the day they’ll fall and hit it. But the hills aren’t the only things that grow as the road ascends, the rocks in the ocean evolve into giant boulders, and, in this way, very small islands. All this continues on until the nice little city of Carmel. I’m probably getting too in detail, but all this is truly a sight to behold every time I see it, and this time was no different.

Day 6: 8/5

Duncan: In one day, I developed a strong affinity for the city of Portland. Its quirks, its people, its places, and its culture created an almost magically unpredictable atmosphere. Horea and I started the day with a quick workout at Portland’s 24 Hour Fitness (infinitely better than Torrance’s) while Raffi walked around the Pearl district, and then we all got delicious Italian food at another cart. We perused record shops, sat down and read a while at Portland’s famous Powell book store (home to over 3 million different titles), went to Buffalo Exchange and bought some discounted yet hip’n’happenin clothes, and just generally soaked in the vibe of the place. I was pleasantly surprised by how lucid and alert strangers on the street seemed; pretty much everyone I met, even store clerks, were completely willing to engage in conversation and seemed genuinely interested in other people. People were accepting of pretty much anything and anyone. They were also incredibly stylish for the most part.

But seriously, in Portland I found a much more open and positive society than I was used to living in PV. I think Palos Verdes could use a little dose of Portland.

In the late afternoon we left north toward Seattle and passed downtown on the freeway just after nightfall. That was definitely a sight to remember, Seattle at night. We passed right through it and checked into a Motel Six five miles outside of the city. I immediately proceeded to break a part of our room’s window off as I was trying to open it. Fearful that it would be charged to the room, I threw it up onto the roof, only to have it slowly unfold and hang from the rain gutter directly above our door. Horea and Raffi were in hysterics. I ended up having to fish it down (haha) after five minutes of trying to capture it with my fishing pole. I threw it in a bush, the lady in the room told us to “shut the fuck up”, and we all three went to sleep dreaming of the what our next day in Seattle might bring us.