Kalispell, MT to Bellevue, Idaho (via the Sawtooth Mountains), 456 miles

Sawtooth Mountains

Montana in the morning light was a whole different place from the disappointing day before. Today's route would take me south through Missoula, all way to south central Idaho, a total of almost nine hours of driving...but first I got to circle around Flathead Lake, a glorious, serene, and perfect antidote to the previous day's raw and unhinged shenanigans.

There were many homes tucked beside the lake, with gravel or dirt driveways dipping down through the trees to each homestead, some barely visible or not at all. This was the Montana I dreamed about, nestled in the foothills of the northern Rocky Mountains and girded by the unyielding mass of water called Flathead. I wonder what that kind of dream costs? I'm too scared to even guess, let alone find out. Maybe for a braver day.

As I drove, with the Rockies unfolding to my left, forever and ever seeming without end, I suddenly realized where I was. Yes, Montana, but also right near the location of the events portrayed in one of my favorite books, Fools Crow, by James Welch. While the book depicts the lives of the Pikuni (Blackfeet) people in the mid-1800s—a people who lived on the eastern side of the Rockies and whose reservation now stands there—an unmistakable understanding of the landscape finally brought my sense of place into focus. Making my way through the Flathead Reservation on the western side of the Rockies, the shape of the mountains took on a very uniform shape, like the sharp, spiked spinal bones of a mammoth being, laid long slain and resting partially submerged in the earth. The backbone of the world. And it clicked. This was how the Pikuni described the Rockies. The weight, wonder, and horror of history in this region coalesced and struck me hard in the chest.

If you've ever read Fools Crow, you know it is a vibrant, incredible insight into one Native American tribe's culture and world as it stood on the precipice just before the despicable, shameful encroachment of Euroamericans destroyed almost everything they had or were, and stole nearly every scrap of their lands. It portrays the oncoming interlopers, their uncompromising, backsliding, greedy, and opportunistic mentality, and the fatal disease they brought with them (smallpox). But it also portrays the Pikuni as they were, migrating with the seasons, hunting, raiding other tribes, growing up, marrying—their whole lives before everything changed. The first time I read it, I could not help but feel a sense of hopeless fury and despair—it was so real, so authentic, I wanted to reach through the pages and grab them, tell them to do something, run, fight, something. It's a stupid and naive notion, but true. They never stood a chance.

Near Salmon, Idaho.

But, in the now, as I drove through Montana, I noticed many of the road signs feature not just the English words for places, but the Native American words, as well. An article from 2006 explains the initiative, which incorporates the Kootenai or Salish languages in road signs, representative of the peoples who live in the Flathead Reservation. It is a small thing, but it is something. I both love and hate that many tribes have embraced the craven capitalistic side of our worst natures, building casinos to rob the (primarily) white man dry. But truth be told, I mostly love it—whatever you have to do, do it. And take back as much as you can in the process. I hate that it's gambling, but whatever. We gave them one ugly addiction—alcohol—so the least we can do is succumb to the one they can make work for them so readily. 

What I loved more was the cultural reintroduction...something true and tangible and honoring not just the present but the past. The native people's names for lakes and ridges and mountains predated our own—it's wonderful to finally acknowledge this in some official way that everyone will see as they visit Glacier National Park and other area tourist spots. 

I had the opportunity to drive through Missoula, which was a darling town—obviously a college town, you can always tell even if you never see the college or signs for it, I swear—and another notch in the positive direction for my overall impression of Montana. It's not all bleak hatred and religious hellfire!

Hello, deery!

There was a point in Idaho where I lost track of where I was or who I was or what I was. It was a very, very long drive, brought to an abrupt halt every once in awhile by men and women in the road, with their hard hats and orange vests, fixing some thing or another, with one always brandishing the sign that says either SLOW or STOP. There was a lot STOP. And otherwise almost no traffic to be seen in either direction...for hours. Oh, there would be a truck(yeah) here and there, but otherwise it was just me, my Rogue, my water bottle, and lots of winding roads, through flatlands, hills, and mountains.

By the time I got to the Sawtooth range, a point of interest I had put on my itinerary (hence the long drive), it was already sundown. I thought for sure I wouldn't be able to capture this beautiful scene to my satisfaction, but I'm actually very happy with what I managed to photograph. I've been a photobug since I can remember—my first camera was a 110 film Le Clic that made semi-blurry color photos where everyone looked great (HD has been both a blessing and a pimple, pock, and scar covered curse, hasn't it?). The first phone photography (mine was a flip phone, clamshell thing, which I looovved) produced similar quality to the old 110 Le Clic, but these days camera phones can do things so extraordinary, so out of this world precise and clear, it's almost unbelievable. The fact that the phones we use to commemorate our daily bagel or a guy flossing on the G train can take more sophisticated photos than the Hubble should be humbling, but we slide these devices into our back pockets and unceremoniously sit on them with our bootylicious asses every single day. The wonders of this world.

When I finally arrived at the predetermined rest stop just south of Bellevue, Idaho (Timmerman Junction) I was too tired to think beyond getting to sleep as soon as possible. I was aware, however, that this rest stop was more remote and empty than I liked, with only a couple of big rigs far on the other side of the vast rest area, and one other car next to mine. It was cold and I was beat, so I launched into the back of the Rogue, shut and locked the doors, and settled in for the night.

One last look at the Sawtooth Range.