Day Nine: Livingston, Montana, to Spokane, Washington

The view from the Livingston, Montana on-ramp to Interstate 90

Tuesday 1 October -- There’s a pool at the Rodeway Inn, but I chose to start my morning with a bit of a walk.  Again, I arrived in Livingston in the dark, so walking out into the early morning... I gasped.  I gasp a lot, okay?  I just do.  In every direction, the horizon is comprised of high and plentiful hills, sloping and surging under forests of evergreens – and behind and between them, sharp, snow-topped, rock mountains stab the sky.  The neighborhood was residential, but residential with the twists of dramatic views, nearby train tracks and a mossy creek meandering under wooden-plank footbridges here and there.  Three little dogs in a fenced yard barked hysterically at me, tails wagging like they were motor-driven, which I took for a friendly greeting.

Breakfast at the Rodeway is officially cold, unless you want to pay extra in the restaurant.  Don’t bother; the 60-ish-year old woman who staffs the breakfast room is a sweetie, the ceiling is (at least according to her) a continuous sheet of copper, and there’s instant oatmeal for those who need to warm up after a walk.   The hostess told me about the copper dome on the statehouse in Helena, which got polished a few years ago.  She says it looked really beautiful, and I expect it did.  The city hall in Taunton, Massachusetts, outside Boston, had a seriously tarnished dome, and I used to want to climb up there with a case of Noxon and just let the stuff flow.  (Incidentally, I did get in a brief swim after breakfast.  I don't stay out of water really well.)

This is the first day that one of the several sweaters I packed came in handy. 

The highway through this part of Montana, which is hilly when it’s not being mountainous, curves and switches much more than anywhere I’ve been to date.  So it’s harder to jot notes when I see something interesting.  But I did write, “Sheep!” in my journal, just outside Bozeman.  It seemed like a big herd to me.  There were no handsome cowboys (sheep-herds?) hiding seething secret passions, though, at least that I could see from the highway.

Fewer fields under cultivation now, though there’s a long train with those bucket-like cars that is presumably carrying something quarried or mined in the area.  The cars are brown, and blend in effectively with the brown, rocky hills, like someone deliberately camouflaged the train.  And then, somewhat west of Bozeman, there’s a flat field at the base of some hills, and it is thickly planted with some short-ish, bright green vegetation, under irrigation.  Think hot green, if there is such a thing; citric green, inside-of-a-lime technicolor lime green.  I think CJ back home has a bathroom this color.

The road keeps straightening out and then curlicue-ing again.  On one of the twisty stretches, I round a bend to see a black-and-white bird, the size of a magpie, in the middle of the road.  I hit the horn and it flies up and away, thankfully.  While you couldn’t guess it from the state of my windshield, I really hope to perpetrate the bare minimum of deaths as I drive.

I cross the Continental Divide at 6,393 feet above sea level.  No gasping, no squeaking – I really don’t understand what the Continental Divide is or why I should care.

So here’s an interesting thing to me:  there seems to be a casino in every gas station, most motels, and many convenience stores in Montana.  I get gas at a Sinclair’s and the pump tells me I have to get my receipt from the clerk.  Guessing the clerk is more likely to be in the nearby casino than in the nearby Thai/Chinese restaurant, I step inside.  There’s a heavyset, cheerful young woman sitting at a bar with a glass of water, looking at a phone screen, and a couple dozen flashing slot machines, and that’s the casino.  No gamblers.

A bit later, a sign on the highway alerts me to the imminence of a turn-off to the Missouri Headwaters State Park.  I debate the wisdom of stopping, and the accelerator loses quickly and completely.  Turn signal on, brakes on, and off I go to the headwaters of the Mighty Mo.  I feel thoroughly vindicated when the next sign tells me the park is only two miles from the interstate.

Mostly Madison, with some Jefferson, I believe.

The Gallatin City Hotel, fully modernized ca. 1868.

I don’t know why I romanticize this particular river.  As much as I admire and appreciate the Charles, the Seine, the Thames, the wilder bits of the Potomac, the Schuykill and occasionally the East River, only the Missouri gets a nickname from me.  So I am elated to see its headwaters, where the Jefferson, Madison and Gallatin rivers join together (and then apparently break apart again, to re-join and get re-named the Missouri a mile or two farther south.  I may have misunderstood this.).  There are also the extremely moth-eaten remnants of a small town that thrived on riverboats and died when the railroad came, too many miles away.

A kindly couple agree to take a snapshot of me standing by the beloved headwaters of the beloved big river.  They are from Florida, but he went to “MSU,” which I assume means Montana State University around here.  In my head it’s Michigan State, where K.R.’s husband went, and where a DC friend went, and at least one of her offspring is now.  They came up to Three Forks for nostalgia, foliage, and to escape the heat and humidity.

Couldn't resist...

Winding, winding, through the Montana hills and mountains.

The official highway roadsigns that tell you how far you are from the next town, and how far from the next important town (e.g., “Smallville 11 – Metropolis 78”) have listed Coeur d’Alene as the next important town for over 200 miles.  Finally I reach the place itself, and am mildly pleased.  It’s a small town and a pretty lake, even very pretty, to the west and south.  After a couple more bends in Route 90, I gasp again.  The lake has expanded; it’s beautiful, huge, ringed in evergreen mountains, with water turning deep indigo in the light of sunset.

It doesn’t hurt that the sunset takes up the whole big sky, with stacks of deep pink and deep violet clouds on a pale blue sky over a white fire horizon.  I am singing along to kd lang’s version of Leonard Cohen’s “Alleluia,” and it feels just right.

The border is next, Spokane is just over the Washington line, and the GPS knows which one-way streets to take to the hotel.  The Hotel Ruby, that is, and very groovy.  It has an arts theme, and a polyurethane, swinging pod chair with silver cushions outside the lobby, and a gorgeous light fixture on the ceiling of my room, and an artisanal cocktail bar.  I was tempted by the Hemingway daquiri, but went with the Grapefruit Drop.  Alcohol does not help you sleep, but tonight it certainly can’t keep me awake.