Banff and Glacier, July 7, 2015

We left Calgary late this morning after sleeping in, for once.  Both Paul and Wade are early risers.  Barbara and I, not so much.  But even the husbands slept in after the very awesome and very late show at the Stampede last night. 

After breakfast we meandered our way toward Banff.  For anyone not sure what meandering means, well, imagine yourself a dandelion seed drifting whichever way the breeze blows.  We drove through the park trying to soak up all the snow-capped mountains, streams, waterfalls, and beauty our senses could absorb. Originally the plan was to cross back into the states around noon. One cannot "do" Banff before lunch.  At least not if one wants to pause now and then in appreciation of the Creator's handiwork.  And we saw a bear!  A grizzly moseying its way across an open field.  It's the black dot in the photo.  I promise.

It was after 8:30 pm before we finally made it to the states, entering at the Roosville border crossing into Montana.  Our re-entry took about thirty seconds and did not involve the loss of any food supplies.  We were almost out of gas but it meant a great deal to the menfolk to save a few dimes on fuel. I think it’s the modern day equivalent to the caveman’s need to kill the biggest musk ox.  By the time we found a town with an open gas station, even Paul was getting nervous.

We were all pretty tired so decided to stay in the first sign of civilization after the border, a small collection of buildings, two hotels of suspect quality, the aforementioned gas station with an adjoining Subway and a diner purported to have “the best breakfast around.”  The hotel was older than I am and had a big sign that said to check-in at the Subway.  There were no hairdryers or coffeemakers, but it was clean and that’s the one essential.  Second to cleanliness by the merest fraction is the bedding. Those nasty old bedspreads that are shiny on one side and snag your fingers on the other make me shiver. 

The husbands have taken to mocking my obsession with nice bedding.  At one hotel Paul walked into our room and with deep emotion announced, “These are the nicest bedspreads I’ve ever seen.”

“You making fun of me?”  I asked.

“Yes,” he said without hesitation or apology.

After unloading suitcases we pulled our tiny tables onto the deserted upper balcony fronting our rooms and ate Subway sandwiches and chips.  Fortunately we pulled in just before closing or we would have had to make do with snacks from the van.  Sitting there at dusk in Big Sky Country, mountains barely visible in the distance I was happy to be back in the USA and content with my lot. 

Breakfast at the little restaurant the next morning was everything we’d been told it would be.  Our waitress had probably been there since the beginning.  She was like Flo without the beehive. The menu was entertaining as well.  The Dolly Parton special: two slices English muffin with an over-easy egg on each. What’s not to love?

After breakfast the meandering continued.  Glacier Park is irresistible whenever we are within a hundred miles of it.  We convinced Wade and Barbara to drive the Going To The Sun Road and, as always, it was breathtaking.  Especially when an oncoming dually (or something equivalent) with over-sized side mirrors tries to crowd you off the road. With majestic peaks on every side, sheer cliffs around every corner, weeping rocks with no visible sign of their water source, and cascading waterfalls of snow melt, the drive is worth the risk.  And I'm not aware that any motorists have actually gone over the side but then I'm not certain they haven't.  Probably better not to know.

We drove all the way through the park, exiting in St. Mary, the invisible town.  Route 89 was the curviest road we'd encountered thus far.  Besides concentrating on keeping lunch down one also has to watch for cows.  Yes, cows.  There are even signs warning motorists, with pictures and everything.  Hitting a deer is no fun; I’ve done it. Several times.  Hitting a cow is much worse I’ve been told.  Comparable to hitting a brick wall.  Fortunately there was no grass growing in the road so the cows we saw were grazing out of our path.

After the worst of the curves, which seemed to go on for a very long time, we came to what looked like the literal end of the road in the middle of nowhere.  A highway worker was holding up a stop sign.  Closer inspection revealed a dirt path and when we were waved through we bumped along for quite some time, a long line of cars, trucks and one poor biker in our wake.  Eventually we hit pavement again.  We repeated this scenario later, further down the road.  And out here when you’re stopped for road construction it’s not uncommon to wait for twenty minutes before the flagger gives you permission to move forward.  At one place we pulled bags out of the back, found our stash of wine, cheese and crackers, and had ourselves a little picnic while we waited.

Eventually we found our way back to roads that allowed for speeds higher than 35 and we rode them into Bozeman for the night.  It was the first hotel with a “Motorcycle Wash” provided sign.  Great idea, I thought.

It was high time to do some laundry and I was up until 1AM waiting for our clothes to dry.  One poor lady was still a long way from done when I stumbled off bed.  I believe I will be intentionally thankful for my own washer and dryer when I’m back home; things I take for granted until I am toting around bags of dirty underthings wishing for a river and a washboard.