Dream Jurney Day 4

I woke with a start at 3:30 AM dreaming that I was late for school. Instead, I was freezing in the driver’s seat while Chris snoozed with a blanket over his head and white noise greatest hits pumping in his ears. One of the signs of becoming an old man is your internal clock working better and better. It was 5:30 at home which meant it was time to get up and start the day. I blasted the heat and tried going back to sleep, but there was just no way. After laying there over an hour doom-scrolling on Reddit about the shutdown, I finally decided to start the car, waking Chris still deep in the dream chamber of static TV sounds and passenger princess repose. I drove for a couple of hours before I was sleepy again and found a nice little gas station in the Northern Cheyenne Reservation, but it didn’t open for a while. Thankfully, I went back to sleep.

Soon the horizon lit up from the approaching sunrise. We woke and settled on the “freshly ground” coffee inside. Dirt roads shot off Hwy 89 in perfect lines, nothing like the randomness of roads in East Tennessee, built around mountains, and rivers. We pulled off on one to fly the drone. An Australian Shepherd stood in the middle of the dirt road barking at us the entire time. A man in a large truck pulled over to ask if we needed any help. We were strangers.

If you travel only on the interstate, there’s a lot you’re going to miss. That morning, we found ourselves on an vacant road, deep in the wheat fields of rural Montana. Emptiness filled the lonely highway. By then, the sun was up, and golden hour was in full swing. We got some more amazing drone shots before we continued into the unknown.

Billings, MT is a sprawling town in the foothills of the mountains that smells like a forgotten unflushed toilet. The Evil Knot still haunted every mile we drove, threatening to explode and send us careening into the empty shoulders of rural Montana. So when we got to Billings, we had to get a new tire. Walmart was out of the question after their grift yesterday, so I called every local tire place in town to find the best deal. Eventually, I found a place on the edge of toilet-town that had a tire with install for $80, truly, a steal. We told them we were travelling through and needed a tire as fast as possible, as cheap as possible, and where was the best place to get a good breakfast around here?

Behind the counter, the bright red-haired lady typed away as she listened and told us that there was a shady looking dive up the road called Lucky Cuss Casino where we could get the best breakfast in town, especially if we wanted home cooking, and to come back in an hour to get our car. We thanked her and walked through the gravel parking lot, across the interstate overpass, through a truck stop intersection and found good ol’ Lucky Cuss Casino.

The front door to Lucky Cuss Casino had no windows, and was covered in information about being underage, gambling, drinking, and liability. Inside, the walls were wood grain particle board, with twenty or so gambling machines crammed into the space, leaving at least thirteen inches to walk between the cushioned gambling chairs. A few people sat at the shiny flashing dopamine dispensers. I was unsure whether they were there for the morning or lingering from last night.

A man sat at the bar drinking coffee. We found an empty table, and a lady who had been working at Lucky Cuss longer than I’ve been an adult came to get our order. I had chicken fried steak, toast, and hash browns, while Chris had the biscuits and gravy. The meal rivaled any fake-butter grill breakfast from Cleveland, TN. Lucky Cuss was a happening place at 8 AM. People shuffled in and out while we ate, some sitting and gambling, others eating the same buttery goodness we were.

Back at the tire shop, we were disappointed, depressed, but not surprised that the tire wasn’t on yet, but Red Hair assured us it would only be twenty minutes. She also told us to go see this rural town in Idaho where celebrities roamed the street without makeup on, which neither of us cared about at all. Once the tire was on, we sped out of Toilet Town, stopping only for a moment to capture the Rockies from the small cliffs on the north end of the city.

There isn’t much in Montana other than farms and unused lands until you get into the mountains. Small towns, settled only a hundred years ago, zoomed by with populations of two or three hundred, settled by old timey entrepreneurs, miners, and farmers. I could not comprehend why anyone would choose to live here whether native or not. the land is unforgiving. How privileged we were to drive through in our heated car.

We spent a much needed hour at Eddie’s Corner in Moore, MT, where we showered, played guitar, and rested. The showers were nicer than any truck stop where I had showered in the past, with very hot, high pressure water, and gold trim on the glass door. The lady at the check out was from Knoxville and she asked if I was a Rubik’s cube master because of my super cool hat. I am not.

Chris and I got back on the road feeling clean and prepared, our only lunch apples and granola bars. Then to pass the time, Chris and I had a heated discussion about the importance of being truly ourselves in the face of all opposition, even if we love the opposition, vs. censoring ourselves to accommodate the feelings of others, even if they are critical of us. People, PLEASE! vs People pleasing.

Hours passed of rolling hills, windmills, fences, outcroppings, and then, we were next to the Rockies, signs for Glacier National Park dotting the shoulder. Anticipation mounted our hearts and souls as we edged closer to our Northern destination. When you think about how far Glacier is, you are not thinking far enough. Double it and add some more, my old friend Joe Grow used to say. It is very, very, very far away from Cleveland, TN.

By the time golden hour returned, we were famished. We day dreamed about juicy ribeye for dinner. Minuscule towns along 89 blipped by, and we doubted anything would be available. Then the heavens parted, angels sang in six part harmony, and we gazed upon the beauty of JD’s II Wildlife Sanctuary Bar and Casino. Rated 4.8 and ribeye steak too!? Yes.

We sat at the bar. I was surprised to see that the most prominent liquor displayed was from the Smoky Mountains. When we asked for menus, the bartender pointed to a chalk board on the wall where the options were homemade crunchwraps, soft shell tacos, and hardshell tacos. No ribeye, which depressed me, but only for a moment, because the man next to me got off the phone, turned his fuzzy attention to me, and spun this story about finding out he was inheriting an old cast iron saw.

His name was Rory, but his friends called him Chink. Crags covered his face through which his sharp sky blue eyes slashed. When I told him I was a teacher, he spent ten minutes complaining about teachers getting summer jobs, taking opportunities from people like him who could be working the summer job instead. His tirade against my career choice was cut short by twenty Anabaptist women in bright blue bonnets and ankle length dresses ranging in age from twelve to forty. Chink told me they were Hutterites as if I should already know, and then started rambling again about his five generations of ancestors from Norway.

Blue solo cups appeared on the bar, and the bartender made a slew of bloody Mary style drinks called a Caesar. When all the women had been served, the bartender told them she was covering it tonight. They all took their solo cups and left the establishment. Chink named a bunch of them, saying they were in here all the time, that there was a community up the road that’s been here forever. He left. The crunchwrap was perfect, and I bought a snickers bar to wash it all down. It was a shame we couldn’t spend the night there.

The roads wound through aspen stands marching through our periphery in the dying light. A moose momma and her two calves crossed the road right in front of us, and in the fading horizon glow, we stood on the edge of Looking Glass Hill looking down into the valley of Lower Two Medicine Lake. We had made it.

East Glacier was abandoned. All the motels, inns, ice cream shops, and campgrounds were closed up tight. We found one lonely motel open called the Dancing Bear. Chris worked his frugal magic, and twenty minutes later came back saying he had talked them into letting us stay the night for sixty bucks, but we had to go get cash. The one open gas station had an ATM plus hand scooped Caribou Caramel ice cream, and Big Sky IPAs.

We got the old grandpa room. Leaves covered the floor by the window where the forty year old AC unit hung off the sill. Moose and Oar patterns covered the full size bedspreads and throw pillows. A mountain goat jumping between two rocky spires leaned against the wall, the smell of grandpas the world over permeated the 1960s national park aesthetic.

What a long day it had been. But we were here, exhausted, fulfilled. Happy. I worked on Dream Jurnal stuff, and Chris practiced guitar. In this moment, how easy it was to envision this as a viable way to live. I missed my wife, my children, even my job a little bit, but I was thankful to be thousands of miles from home, sleeping in the car, showering in strange places, eating in stranger places, adventuring with my best friend. I was thankful for the beautiful, harsh land that had waited all these years for me to come back.