WxMiles: 65
Elevation gain: 2500ft
Temperature: high 80s at the lake. Low 90s in the city.
The zoom of cars never ends on this freaking road. Well maybe for the split second where in between the sound of rubber gripping asphalt for dear life, you hear a cow mooing for apples in the background. Wondering where in the world the never ending flow of flying metal, plastic, glass and gasoline is headed, we realize we are approaching a famous world attraction, Glacier National Park. There is something I must have missed in my upbringing about mobil homes and RV parks. And I thank my mom and dad for that. If it isn't a fat campervan trying to squeeze in the dotted yellow and white lines, it's a pick up hauling a trailer home. People towing beds, sinks, satellite tvs, lawn chairs and toilets around for hundreds of miles. We meet their metal bodies at these paid parks we pitch tent in, but we somehow cannot find their owners. They buzz up and down into some of the most beautiful lands to plug into electric outlets, sit inside, and watch tv. A bit boggled and lost with this concept, our strange road sharing inhabitants are so encased in their metal moving boxes, that engagement with this species is impossible. Wanting to understand, maybe I should start with purchasing some bug spray and then a television.
The cars crop dusted us all day on the awful yet so gerogous 2 laned swervey hwy 35. The road hugged the ocean sized misty blue lake for 50 miles. Lined with cherry trees draped in deep red blasphemous fruit it, was like riding through a good dream. The ones where every house pitched a fresh fruit stand outside their orchard and plump juicy berries were picked for cities worldwide. It was cherry heaven. Of course we stopped to devour this healthy sugar. Ralph got the first question as our posse pulled up - if he liked cherries. I knew the words about to come out of his mouth, he wanted carrots. But that look of silence from mom was enough to quiet anyone, and minutes later we were eating 120 cherries. Oh boy! These red balls only come to snobby Californians at $10lb, their wound colored blood red juice dripped with energizing sugars. Pits scattered the grass as our mouths turned candy red from a gifted 3lb bag of these blobs. Good news, had my cherry fill for the rest of the year. Bad news, we were about to pass 30 more cherry roadside stands within the hour and I wanted an lifetime's fill of these tree picked berries.
Leaving the cherry hut, logging truck hustled by without empathy. Frustration turned to anger at these big diesel-mobiles unwilling to give us our rightous road space. We had been fighting their suction winds and rumble for two days now and their powerful force that is dumped when they swish by. Fed up, Zeb and I took over the hwy. They either were forced to now slow the fuck down and pass us gracefully, or blantently run this trio over. It worked, to Ralph's terrifing fear. See, he sits backwards starring all thoes logging and diseal monsters tearing down. They hate us, we hate them. Screams wafted off the back of Zeb's rack as though death was certain. "Chill Ralph, we're gonna live, just close your eyes and hang on." For the most part it worked on angry truck drivers who were forced to slow down for some hippy cyclists carrying a stuffed reindeer.
But every spur moment there would be the one trucker wanting to play chicken. Maybe a mini dare devil, but educated enough to understand mass and ratios, we were the chickens interfereing the madmen. Oh how it stirred an anger, when shoved to the gravel, to catch that mother fucking 18 wheeler at the next town gas station. Gerta, our 1900's six inch buck knife blade of steel, would be waiting to slash right through that asshole's back tire. Not just a slash, but a churn so damaging he better have a spare. Imagining that pitch of a sound as air gasps out of over inflated rubber, revenge would have been served. "Oh sorry, were you in a hurry?" would be my last words to them as we roll off at our 12 mph pace.
We finally made it half alive to our dear friends mother's house in Kalispell. For once we were also 1/2 ready to enter civization, practically showered, full of cherries, and functional from a shorter 60 mile day. Mrs Karen Dean we call her, and she hugged us all the way to the table of hummus, chairs, and beers. I didn't even know this lady, but within minutes we were somehow home again. After demanding baby photos of her marvelous daughter, and showering with a real fluffy towel, we finally made it to dinner at the old town saloon, scattered with peanut shells, sawdust, and real cowboys. Mrs. Dean was the hippest mom in town as we ate pizza and drank beers like we were in the rowdy old Wild West. Sleep soon followed, and 18 days later, we slept the deepest sleep, unwakable like thoes rum soaked pirates in a home that felt like home. Thanks Mrs. Dean.
And sorry for the typos, my editor is still snoring.
