Physical State of Matt #27: MONTANA

Montana was always going to be an emotionally complicated state for me to visit because I first dreamt up the idea of this 50 states trip while vacationing there with my former partner. But first I had to solve the challenge of how to get my car back from Alaska.

I had three possible options: 1) drive back through The Yukon and British Columbia, 2) take the ferry down with it, or 3) have it shipped. Remarkably all three options cost around the same.

I’d had the luxury of driving to Alaska without any work obligations, but I wasn’t so lucky for the way back. The drive would have been gorgeous, but I was still exhausted from the 4,500 mile drive to get there. There would also be long stretches without cell service and night driving was inadvisable, so I wouldn't be able to work.

As much as I really wanted to take the ferry, there was only one ship in the Alaska Ferry fleet rated for open water ocean sailing and it was out of service for a year to complete maintenance and upgrades. This meant there wasn’t a boat to Seattle running from Anchorage. The closest one I could catch was in Haines, a two day drive away. Even if I did that drive, the ferry had just launched their Wi-Fi pilot program a couple of months prior, so I doubted I could rely on it for reliable video meetings. This left shipping.

photo credit: Alaska Auto Transportation

The issue with shipping was that I wasn’t in Anchorage to prep the car and drop it off at the port. Flying back up there to do that, then back down to Seattle to wait for it would be expensive, time consuming, and challenging with work. Enter Brandon.

Brandon, who you'll recall is my friend’s colleague’s brother’s military buddy who had let me store my car at his place in Wasila, agreed to do it for me, once again proving that the generosity of Alaskans is peerless. After Brandon loaded pierogi onto the ship and it had left port, I flew back from Costa Rica, where I'd spent the month of April, to Seattle and waited for it to arrive. A short couple of weeks later, Brandon became a father when he and his wife Rachel welcomed little Corbin into the world. 

photo credit: Brandon

The ship with my car didn’t arrive on the day they said it would. All of the auto shipping services from Alaska had similarly middling reviews with some pretty awful sounding horror stories, so when it didn’t show up on time I got nervous.

When I called Alaska Car Transport to find out where the boat was, they had a very casual attitude. The estimate was, they said, just that - an estimate. The boat would arrive when it arrived. They had no way of knowing where the ship was, which smelled like bullshit to me, but what could I do? With much chagrin, I extended my hotel for another night. Thankfully the ship arrived the following day. 

After a short visit to Portland to drop all of my cold weather gear back off, I drove east along the Columbia River. The Columbia River, which is the largest US river flowing into the Pacific Ocean, is a defining feature of the area. The Columbia-Snake River System plays a central role in shipping agricultural goods grown in Washington, Oregon, and Idaho.

The Columbia River Gorge is also an area of stunning beauty that attracts visitors from all over the world. Multnomah Falls, just 40 minutes from Portland, is one of its most striking features. 

As I wound my way along I-84, sandwiched between the river and towering cliffs, I couldn’t help but think about the road trip my former partner and I took along this same route nearly two years prior.

As I talked about in my IDAHO post, my former partner and I packed the dogs into the car and drove to Glacier National Park in Montana a couple of weeks before we separated. It was during this trip when I came up with the idea for this trip.

It feels shitty to admit that I spent a vacation with my then wife dreaming about a solo trip without her. In my defense, I was really grappling with the idea of the divorce. After spending 11 years with someone, accepting the end of the relationship doesn’t come easily. My thought process went something like this: 

“I’m feeling confined and stuck in a life that doesn’t feel like mine, and I don't see a path forward for us. But am I really going to destroy what is objectively a decent, comfortable life? If I am going to break the heart of this person who I still love, I need to truly pursue a life that fits me better. The worst thing I could do is blow everything up then just get an apartment in Portland, wallow in depression, and never actually do anything.

So what could I do? What about a road trip? Something big, something epic. I love big road trips and, not withstanding being on one now, I've really missed them. How about all 50 states?

But I’m still working, I can’t be in and out of hotels non-stop, driving all day. What if I only drove on weekends? But that would take forever. Wait a minute - 52 weeks in a year, 50 states. That's epic and has a nice ring to it.”

It's not lost on me that yearlong road trip (which will have become two by the time it's complete) was a drastic overcorrection, but why half ass something? Whole ass all the way.

As I drove, I replayed scenes from that vacation two years ago in my mind. Although I made the right decision could I have handled things better? I was so scared at the time, so full of shame and guilt and doubt. The trip was cut short because of wildfires, but we had a really nice vacation together despite the fact that I had spent much of the time in my head.

So much had changed in two years. Past Me would barely recognize Present Me’s life. 

Something else really big had changed pretty suddenly - I was no longer working. This was a double-edged sword. On one side, it meant I could untether myself from a single place in each state. On the flip side, I no longer had an income. One one side, I had a lot more time to take side trips and see things during the day. On the flip side, that would mean longer posts and more time required for writing. 

I didn’t think that getting a new job while I was on the road made the most sense. The time and effort it would take me to get up to speed on a new product, new company, and new market would keep me from doing much of anything at each stop. I made the decision to do the last 24 states without working. This introduced new financial pressure, and ratched up the urgency to finish.

Crossing over the Columbia River I traded the arid high desert of Eastern Oregon for Washington's rolling hills of green wheat.

MOSCOW, IDAHO

My first stop was Moscow, Idaho, pronounced “mos-coe”, not like the Russian city. I chose Moscow because coincidentally my father had recently sent me a picture of a bookmark from the 1970's he'd discovered with a note from an unknown person. It was from a bookstore in the city - BookPeople. He had found the bookmark in a book while cleaning out the house of his late partner's mother after she passed. Moscow was a geographically logical place to stop after the first day of driving, so I did. 

In addition to being a college town for the University of Idaho, Moscow is also the home of Christ Church, a highly influential evangelical church. Its controversial founder and pastor Doug Wilson has overtly stated for years that his mission is to infiltrate the local government and institutions to make Moscow a Christian town on the way to making America a Christian nation.

photo credit: Politico

Wilson and Christ Church have been garnering national attention recently because of outspoken supporters in the Trump administration including Pete Hegseth. I was curious if their efforts would show to the casual observer and if so, what a Christian town looked like. 

I arrived in the early evening after a long day of driving. Not having the energy to explore right away, I enjoyed the German fare at the Countryman’s Bierhall and crashed.

The following morning I made my way downtown to find BookPeople and stumbled upon the Saturday morning farmer’s market. Throngs of people browsed dozens of booths along the main downtown streets which had been closed off. I grabbed a bite at The Breakfast Club (as a good Gen Xer it was my solemn responsibility to do so) and found the bookstore right in the middle of the hubbub. 

Inside it was a well laid out, modern bookstore. I spoke with one of the young store clerks and told them the story of the bookmark. They thought it was amazing and asked me to share the picture so they could tell the owners. I grabbed a couple of small things, got a new bookmark for my dad, then returned to my car. 

Although I didn’t spend long in Moscow, it seemed like just any other college town, albeit maybe cleaner - I didn’t see any graffiti anywhere downtown. Pride flags hung on houses around town, the bookstore had sections for banned books and LGBTQ+ voices. Bars and breweries abounded. If Christ Church had been successful with their push to make the town super conservative, it didn’t show on the surface.

On my way to Missoula, I stopped at the St. Regis Travel Center. Fifty miles of their billboards advertising the world’s best huckleberry shakes had finally worn me down. Montana and Idaho are known for their huckleberries, which are in a lot of the treats they sell at tourist spots.

The travel center was massive and well stocked with the type of stuff you would expect. In the back they also had a giant fish tank with several species of trout. I’ve eaten my share of trout, but not being much of a fisherman, I’d never seen them up close and live before. And the huckleberry milkshake was damn fine.

MISSOULA 

I arrived in Missoula in the early evening. As I was checking in, I asked the guy working the front desk for recommendations of things to do. He mentioned the KettleHouse Amphitheater had some big upcoming shows. I checked out venue's site and found that Lord Huron and Kings of Leon were playing soon.

Unfortunately I was leaving before Kings of Leon was playing so I checked out Lord Huron on Spotify and was pleased that I recognized a couple of their tracks. I grabbed a ticket to see them the following evening. 

It was late spring, so the days were long that far north and the sun was still out. The mountains that dominated the view from my room glowed orange in the evening light. I walked through the cute downtown and across the bridge over the Clark Fork River. 

It is the largest river in Montana by volume. It’s a central feature of Missoula and runs right through the middle of the city. I settled into GILD Brewing, where I spent a couple of enjoyable hours eating incredible tacos and catching up on my deep backlog of postcards.

The following evening I took an Uber to the concert, arriving fashionably late. I had assumed, quite reasonably I thought, that there would be some time after the listed start time before the first act. As it turned out, I arrived between sets and completely missed the opener. As the headliners got ready to play, the sun slipped behind the mountains surrounding the amphitheater. It really was a stunning location. 

The band was great, their music a flavor of indie rock with folk influences. They were on tour for the 10 year anniversary of their hit album “Strange Trails”, and played the whole album through.

It’s an odd feeling going to a big concert of a band that you don’t know. Everyone in the crowd sings along passionately, but no matter how much you like the music, it’s hard not to feel a little left out. I’d listened to their music a little in preparation for the show, but certainly not enough to recognize many songs. 

Caught up in the vibes of the music and the balmy night, I had a wonderful time and sampled quite a few of the delicious local microbrews on offer. 

FLATHEAD LAKE

The following morning was Memorial Day and I woke up with an IPA hangover. It’s like a regular hangover but it has an extra thickness to it, like your brain is soaking in a soupy bath of dank hops. I dragged my struggling ass out of bed and crawled straight into the car because I’d booked a boat to take me to Wild Horse Island on Flathead Lake. 

As many road signs reminded me, the drive from Missoula to the lake was also one of the main ways to get to Glacier National Park. My brain was depleted of dopamine from the night of drinking, so I spent the first part of the drive in a dark place thinking about that trip again.

My former partner gets motion sick, so she's not a fan of long road trips. I, on the other hand, love a good drive (duh). She was really excited about the Glacier trip. She’d finally found the right balance of medicine to manage her road sickness without making her pass out. She put a ton of effort planning it and was really proud of herself for managing a multi-day drive. I felt extra guilty for leaving her right after such a high point.

As I drove the two hours to Big Arm where I was meeting my ferry, my curiosity was sparked by a number of small white crosses that appeared along the highway at irregular intervals. They reminded me of the homemade roadside memorials you see everywhere, but these were uniform and unadorned by flowers or other decorations.

photo credit: Distinctly Montana Magazine

After six people died in car crashes over Labor Day in 1952, marking 141 road deaths in the state that far into the year, members of the American Legion Hellgate Post #27 created the White Cross Highway Fatality Marker Program to remember those who died and to remind motorists to drive safely. The Montana Highway Department endorsed their plan in 1953, giving them permission to erect them. There are over 2,500 markers today.

Although it is possible for the family of a deceased person to opt out of having a marker or to ask for a cross to be removed, it struck me as incredibly presumptuous to erect a cross for someone who can’t speak for themselves - possibly even offensive if they are of another religion or none at all.

photo credit: Places Journal

In 2007 a group of civil libertarians challenged the program in court. The outcome was that it was renamed to the "Fatality Marker Program", removing the mention of crosses, the state assured it wouldn’t provide materials or any other support to erect and maintain the markers, and that personal items were not allowed to be placed at the site of any cross, thereby preventing them from becoming “personal memorials”. 

About halfway to the lake the Mission Mountain Range loomed above me on the right. The mountains' beauty pulled me out of my dour reverie but my head remained clouded.

I arrived at Boat Rentals and Rides 30 minutes before we departed. I learned that they are only open from Memorial Day to Labor Day, so I had fortuitously caught them on the very first day of their season. There were only a few other people who had booked the same time slot.

Flathead Lake is the largest lake by surface area in the western US, and is one of the cleanest lakes in the world. The combination of crystal clear water and a lakebed made up of multi-colored rocks has made it a favorite spot for Instagramers in recent years.

It was a sunny day in the mid-70s and the lake lived up to its reputation. Although the water was in fact shockingly clear, there was some seasonal yellow pollen that had collected along the edges, which hampered photography from the shore in many spots.

On the ride to Wild Horse Island, I chatted with the woman driving the boat. I asked about the water temperature since I had worn my swim trunks just in case. It was in the low forties she informed me, so I quickly scratched that potential plan off the itinerary. She said that in the coming months it would drop into the high 30s when the majority of the snow runoff flowed into the lake.

We were lucky to have gotten such a lovely temperate day. It’s not uncommon for it to snow this time of year she said. They’ve had snow at one time or another in every month - even July and August. It hadn't quite occurred to me until that moment just how far north Flathead Lake really is. It’s three degrees further north than Minneapolis in fact. 

Along the left side of the boat we passed another island. Atop a hill overlooking the lake was a massive stone building all by itself. I asked if it was a private home or hotel.

The whole 350 acre island was privately owned by one person, she told me. The house, which by the way has 18 bathrooms, was built at an obscene cost but never finished because the owner passed away during construction and the island was caught up in probate. Especially considering that the island has three miles of coastline, she said, its property tax bill is insanely high - millions of dollars per year. 

I have since found the island listed for sale, so if anyone has a spare $72 million dollars lying around you could give it to me or, I suppose, buy Cromwell island. 

At 3.4 square miles, Wild Horse Island is the largest island on Flathead Lake, the entirety of which is a state park. The Kootanie and Salish tribes used to swim their horses over to "The Big Island" to pasture them where they were safe from theft. Explorer John Mullen is credited with giving the island its English name after seeing the horses on it in 1854. After years without horses, Montana Fish, Wildlife and Parks reintroduced a herd of five horses back onto the island in 2009. 

There is one main 4-mile loop trail on the island which I set off right away to tackle. The boat, we were told, would be back in four hours to pick us up and we should not be late or get lost. The trek started on a moderate uphill through towering pines with explosions of yellow balsamroot flowers across the sun-dappled ground. 

My head was still foggy, but I was determined to be present and enjoy the gorgeous scenery all around me. I took the hike at a brisk pace, hoping to sweat out the hangover. After a short time, I emerged from the trees onto an expanse of rock and grass. A few old shacks, remnants of attempted homesteading in the early 1900s, appeared along the path. 

Just as I crested a hill to jaw dropping vistas I heard a whinny in the distance ahead of me. I pushed on toward the sound until I spotted two of the island's five horses through the trees ahead of me. I ventured off the path a short way so I could get a clear view of them. Although I tried to be quiet, by the time I got to a good viewpoint they had already started walking away. The brown and white horse turned back to eyeball me, seemingly perturbed by my presence. 

The path continued up. At the highpoint of the trail I was on, a small offshoot switchbacked further up to the summit. Although I was already huffing and puffing, I couldn’t refuse. Atop the hill I could see the lake on all sides. A lone tree, dead and gnarled, stood sentry over the island. 

I rejoined the main path and started the downhill half of the loop, back through the trees. Since it was the beginning of the season, the ground cover was so grown up that it was easy to lose the path. Although I was following AllTrails, I still wandered off trail a few times, once going several hundred yards in the wrong direction before realizing it.

At the bottom of the hill, I clambered down a short drop onto the rocky beach and saw several wild deer down along the shore. I meandered along the beach and sat on a rocky outcropping for a while admiring the aqua water with snowcapped peaks in the distance. 

The remainder of the wooded trail followed the shore. At one point I turned a corner and came face to face with a deer. The startled young buck, its short antlers still covered in felt, jerked its head up and stared at me. I froze, admiring him. I’d never been that close to a wild deer and didn’t want to spook it. After a tense couple of minutes it lowered its head and began eating again. I inched my way past it along the path without scaring it away, getting as close as twenty or thirty feet. 

A short while later I spotted another deer through the trees enjoying a private moment. It turned its head to watch me while completing its business. The eye contact made me feel awkward, like I’d intruded, but not so awkward that I didn’t take a picture. I mean, you don't see a deer pooping every day.

I arrived back at the beach with over an hour before the boat arrived. I sat quietly on a fallen tree and caught my breath. After a few miles and hours of gorgeous nature I felt better. A small orange butterfly alit on my hand to enjoy the salt from my sweat. 

During the ride back to the shore, the air cooled and the wind picked up. I had caught the day's sunny window perfectly and a storm was blowing in behind me. 

BUTTE & BOZEMAN

The following day I made my way south from Missoula to Bozeman. I had heard wonderful things about Bozeman and was excited to check it out. I stopped for coffee on the way in Butte. Okay, the real reason why I stopped there is because I am an eternal child and insist on saying “butt” whenever I see the word “butte”.

Butte is a small city of about 35,000 people, but was at one time the largest city in Montana. It was known as “the richest hill on earth” due to the copper mining it supported.

Today a hollowed out mountain, part of the old Berkeley Pit mine, looms over the quaint downtown. Mining is so important to Butte’s identity that it hosts the World Museum of Mining.

I arrived in Bozeman late afternoon and grabbed an early dinner on Main Street in downtown. The street was lined with boujee boutiques, restaurants, and outdoor shops. I tucked into Pub 317, an ordinary looking establishment, where I was shocked to find the basic burger had a $19 price tag. Much to my disappointment, Bozeman has become a pricey little town that caters to wealthy tourists who come to fly fish and have their very own “A River Runs Through It” experience. 

I found hotels similarly overpriced, so I backtracked to stay instead at a small rural motel in Three Forks located just off the highway. After checking in,  I wandered to the edge of the parking lot to admire the view and spotted a fox hunting in the tall grass. As I watched, it pounced on a bird then trotted off, pleased with its catch. 

Later, at dusk, I took another walk and was treated to one of the most spectacular purple sunsets I have ever seen. I was glad I had decided to stay outside of the city.

BIG SKY & WEST YELLOWSTONE

In the morning I kept heading south to Big Sky. Montana is unofficially known as the “Big Sky State” or “Big Sky Country”. I had presumed this was because of its vast plains and wide open vistas, which it is, but the name has an interesting origin. In the 1930’s the Montana State Transportation Department had completed the first 1,000 miles of highway through the massive state. With all these new roads, they reasoned, they needed to get people out to use them so they brainstormed tourism campaigns. 

Montana was then known as the Treasure State, still its official name, and the unfortunate “Stub Toe State”, due to the rocky terrain in its western part. The Transportation Department eventually came up with Big Sky State, which they felt had a more majestic ring than Stub Toe. This name was further cemented into the national lingo by A. B. Guthrie Jr.’s 1947 novel “The Big Sky” in which the protagonist journeys from Kentucky to the American West. 

photo credit: L. W. Currey

The town of Big Sky was formed in 1970 and received permission from the governor to use the name. It’s a ski resort community on Lone Peak Mountain. I went there to see Ousel Falls, which had been recommended. The town had that eerie stillness you get in seasonal tourism towns during the offseason. Lodges sat vacant, parking lots mostly empty. A few golfers putted in the distance.

The hike to Ousel Falls was a short 1.6 mile out & back along a well manicured path that criss-crossed the Gallatin River. For some senseless reason I had decided to wear jeans, so by the time I reached the falls I was overheated and sweaty. 

The river was swollen with snow melt and the falls crashed ferociously, sending up plumes of spray which cooled me off quickly, but did nothing to help my dampness. 

The one hour drive from Big Sky to West Yellowstone wound along the river the whole way, which was wildly picturesque. Thankfully the road offered frequent pull-offs so I could admire the scenery without taking my eyes off the road and becoming one of those white crosses.

West Yellowstone is a small tourist town right at the edge of Montana. Its sole purpose, as far as I could tell, is to offer people a place to stay right near one of the main entrances to the massively popular national park, which straddles three states but sits mostly in Wyoming. 

Thankfully it was still early in the season and most schools were still in session across the US, so it wasn’t completely overrun. That said, rates for accommodations were still steep. I found an acceptable price at the Holiday Motel and treated myself to some exceptional brisket at Firehole Bar-B-Que. 

photo credit: Firehole Bar-B-Que

I turned in uncharacteristically early and found that the motel was trying to complete some renovations before peak season began a couple rooms down from mine. After thirty minutes of unsuccessfully trying to muffle the grinding of a sawzall under my pillow, I finally texted them to complain. The noise finally stopped thirty minutes later at 10:00. 

Normally I am not excited about early mornings, but I happily set my alarm set for 6:30. I was hoping to be one of the first in the morning to make the short drive over the border into Wyoming and see Yellowstone National Park. 

Yes, and…

Matt