July 21, 2007
Vistas, grand beyond simple descriptions, have filled our last two days of travel. We climbed out of Sheridan, WY. into the Big Horn Mountains in gentle swoops on the northernmost highway west. A feature of this drive was the recurrence of mountain meadows filled with wild flowers in purples, yellows, whites and pinks. Cattle were grazing along with herds of elk. When we reached the Medicine Wheel National Monument, we drove up the narrow gravel road to the entrance 1 1/2 miles from the Wheel. Because of the walk at the end, there aren’t a huge number of people who choose this place, though the whole drive is spectacular. The view from the top looks out over the 100 by 140 mile elliptical valley to the west and south, so it is easy to imagine the native Americans finding this place one of mystic power. I walked up the path about a third of a mile, then sat on a convenient bench and watched Charles continue onward and upward. After a bit of a rest, I walked very slowly back down to the gates – contented and happy to look closely at the wildflowers and the butterflies and moths that were busy around them. I visited with the Forest Ranger; found out that she was from New Jersey, a history student at Rutgers, and interested in the history of the West. She told me that when her mother drove her out in June, it was snowing and her mother kept saying, “I can’t leave you here, I just can’t leave you here” because of the isolated vastness. Of course, the young woman stayed though she admitted to some hard won adjustments to solitude. She concluded that the beauty of the place trumped everything else, and that she would likely return for another summer.
We drove on, down through a hot and dusty Cody and on northward to Red Lodge, MT. On this part of the journey, the mountains stood off on both sides of a broad, semi-arid valley and the road went north in a straight line; occasional ranches appeared near the green line of trees that outlined the river. As we were driving mile after mile, suddenly a large red sign with the words, “Wonderful Banana Cream Pie Up Ahead!” appeared on the side of the road. The thought came that this had to be someone who was lonesome and bored and wondering how to make a little cash. Another sign appeared several miles on, “You Are Closer to Having Wonderful Banana Cream Pie!” Not having thought about banana cream pie for a very long time, it seemed very desirable on this late afternoon, driving across the wide dry plain, and visions of the lovely meringue atop a fine creamy custard were appearing in the mind’s eye. Finally, just as we began the upward climb into the western mountains we saw a few buildings on the roadside, and on the face of a faded café with a “Closed” sign in the door the last notice still called out. “Get Your Wonderful Banana Cream Pie Here!” With regrets, the vision died as surely as the dream of serving such culinary delights must have died some time ago.
We arrived at Red Lodge in the evening, and as we came closer to the town, we noted an ever increasing gathering of motorcycles. By the time we drove down the main thoroughfare, there were hundreds of them parked on both sides of the street, and we read the signs strung across from one side to the other that said, “Iron Horse Rodeo, July 19-21.” Since the appearance of such a large number of “Hogs” tends to alarm older citizens of rural Nebraska, it was gratifying to find that these were the more refined and orderly types, including a goodly number of the BMW brand of cycles that went “Hmmmmm” as they drove by, instead of the “Brrrrrrrrrrrrr!” of the Harleys. Charles assured me that this was obviously a gathering of mostly doctors and dentists and accountants rather than the Hell’s Angels variety. When we heard a loud peal of female laughter, he said, “Dental Assistant. Showing off her molars.”
On Friday, we drove over the Bear Tooth Pass which leads right into Yellowstone Park from the northeast. The pass was high and grand, though the vistas were becoming hazier with a yellowish color around the edges as the smoke from the numerous forest fires to the west and north came closer. Now a constant stream of motorcyclists became a part of the day, many without helmets and all in a hurry. When a large group came by, passing us one after another, Charles said, “Here comes a swarm of cyclists” because most of them were in the black leather and did bring to mind hornets heading out. We drove through Yellowstone Park with the only delays caused by the usual tourists armed with cameras who would stop in and on the road to photograph any moving creature. After seeing this a number of times, I am convinced that one could stop, leap out with a camera and rush to the side of the road, and immediately, many would also stop, arm themselves with cameras and follow, saying, “What, where?” (And one could say, “There! Just behind those trees! The biggest white buffalo I’ve ever seen!” Oh my.)
Now, this afternoon in Ennis, MT., we are in the guest cabin of good friends looking out the windows that frame the Madison River just outside. There are hummingbirds at the feeders, and finches singing in the willows. It’s a scene and setting that one usually sees in tourist brochures and we are delighted to be a part of it. My cough has been receding and my energy seems to improve. Our leisurely manner of travel is ideal though now Charles is saying that we have to begin to get serious about getting on toward California.