Montana Impressions

Googlemaps does not do a general survey of Montana’s landscape justice. The wonderful thing of Googlemaps is the ability to trace your route mile by mile if you want. It seems that Montana should be mostly flat, right? Sure, the mountains do not count, but much of Montana is plains. Plains implies more or less flat, and not more less-flat! I have spent that past 430 miles or so prepared to refute any claim to flatness. But along the way, some observations also took hold, which I now share: 

The Golden Triangle 

I was grinding away on a terrible gravel road out of the Bear Paw Mountains to Big Sandy, walking my bike because the gravel was like ball bearings and I was afraid of falling over at the end of a long day. Rusty, a rancher stopped and offered me a ride, which turned out to be a mile until paved road again. But in the 3 miles to Big Sandy that I effectively gave up on, he told me about his ranching and the benefit of being in the Golden Triangle. No, this is not an old freemason secret society. It is the triangular area of fertile farming land between Shelby, Great Falls and Havre that produces wheat, barley and other crops, effectively a bread and beer basket. So much so that one Great Falls brewer, Jeremiah Johnson Brewing Company, proudly posts this fact on their bottles, the contents of which, cold and refreshing, did seem to bear Rusty out. 

Cowboys Need Horses . . . and Cows (or maybe an ATV?) 

I cannot say for certain of the ATV has effectively replaced the horse for ranching purposes. But Montana does pride itself on the horse and the cowboy, and posts monuments to their champion bronco busters in many of the small towns I passed through. Nevertheless, grind through the ranch country, horses would often see me riding, likely wonder what this kind of a creature is, and trot toward the fence along the road to observe me. We chatted, horse talk you know. They seemed agreeable to let me pass, glad they don’t make bicycles for horses to use. Cows, always glancing my way, looking kind of glum, just stood and watched, with a few herds taking to trotting away from me as quickly as they could. Hard to think of them as future steak, these docile beasts. 

Indian Country 

I spent quite a bit of time in high school reading and studying up on the Indian way of life – I am not certain what is the best descriptor, but I use the term Indian with honor. As I was pedaling along the grassy plains, I was imagining a time when there were no barbed wire fences, where encampments were strategically located to serve their nomadic life. With this, and the dark history of our treatment of the Indian and their relegation to reservations, I am always curious to ride through the reservations. I can see their reverence for the land, for the animals, for the lore of their ancestors. What I do not see, or perhaps better, understand, is why there is so much decay. So many mobile homes or even regular small homes sit in fields rotting. There are so many cars parked hither and yon that have not seen a roadway in quite some time. And there is more trash along the roadsides than I have seen anywhere else along those many miles. In fact, I barely saw any. 

Ken Nerbern, in his excellent novel Neither Wolf Nor Dog, attempts to answer this question from a tribal elder that this accumulation is part of the resources used by the Indian, returned to the earth. I get that. But so many of these resources would take hundreds of years to disappear, yet in the meantime despoil that landscape which is held so dear. Further, can the retention of housing not serve a larger community purpose? Or is it simply that the former inhabitants, and perhaps their children, are moving off the reservation in search of a “modern” life? 

What I did find on the reservation communities, such as Hardin, Lame Deer and Busby, was a sense of community and protection. In Lame Deer, following a long day’s ride, I was looking to find a campsite. I was greeted at the main entrance to town by some young men at a table with one holding a sign that said ‘Slow’. I jokingly admitted to them that I know no other speed. What they were doing is taking license plates of those coming and going to protect the community from COVID. The entirety of the community was much more attuned to protection measures than anywhere in Montana. I, of course, had no license plate, perhaps had some visible sign of fatigue, and merely wanted to get some provisions at the IGA store up the street. Mentioning I had been fully vaccinated, they let me pass. 

Parking my bike in front of the IGA, and with my mask on, two younger women saw my loaded bike and me and exclaimed astonishment that I would do this, and thought it would be cool. I offered them to try my bike out which they quickly declined, having never learned to ride one. I asked them where I might pitch a tent, and visibly rolling some possibilities in their minds and discussing it between them, they finally agreed that the small park with picnic tables by the main entrance to the village “would be safest”. 

That final comment before parting ways, with thanks, startled me greatly. I contemplated this all evening. Was this community not safe? Was it me as a white person not safe in this community? Was it the poverty and idleness of youth that gives rise to mischief that somehow these women knew about? 

 As I was having dinner, a car drove by on the small gravel drive toward the cemetery, stopped, and rolled down the window. With a big smile, he gave me a welcome, asked of my journey, and said of course I could camp there. I would have liked to have had an extended conversation with this man, maybe to seek some answers, to build a connection I was missing. Instead, we both went along our separate ways. 

The next morning there were ice crystals on my tent! 

Pistol Packing Padre and the Pentecostal Parish 

The scenery of the vast reservation lands was beautiful, but US212 a bit weary to ride upon given all the trucks and the inconsistent shoulder. I was overdue for lunch and thought perhaps Busby, on the Cherokee reservation, may hold some promise of a small store where a fella could get a cold drink. Sometimes these communities have small, local canteens. 

A small village, the only promise for a spot of respite was a small frame building with a cross on it, a sign indicating its Pentecostal faith, a picnic table thereby under the welcome shade of a tree. I decided to stop there and have my lunch. It wasn’t too long before I was visited by two identical black dogs looking at me, keeping their distance, with obvious interest in my consumables. A few moments later, a young boy peeked his head around the corner of the church (the parish house was adjacent) with obvious curiosity to whom I asked if it was OK I had my lunch here. He of course said yes. A few minutes later, a pickup truck pulled up and out pops an engaging fellow, tall, forthright and clearly not an Indian. He stuck out his hand and welcomed my to have lunch at his table, and in fact joined me and introduced the boy as Jeremiah, his 8 year old grandson (the gracious beneficiary of two of my beef sticks). 

A few years older than me, it turns out that he grew up in St. Paul, rolled around in college at University of Minnesota Duluth with a degree in Education and found his way out to Busby in the 1980’s where he landed a teaching job in industrial arts at the local school. That, and his feeling of a calling to help this community has kept him here ever since. Clearly not an Indian, he did marry into the community, has several children, and grandchildren, and even a great grandchild. And his church has grown to 18 parishioners, though many are not attending Sunday School as he would like. And he has a side gig delivering mail everyday along a rural route. 

All this over lunch. But I could not help but notice the pistol holstered on his left hip. I did not ask about it (a matter of regret as I look back). After all, this is Montana, guns are everywhere. But it seemed inordinately curious that a man of faith would need a tool that I am certain the “faith” would not endorse? I confess my ignorance of religious doctrine other than “pax’ is everywhere – this seemed unusual. 

Or, was the community inherently unsafe? Even for a padre? I wish I had asked. 

He and Jeremiah put their hand on my shoulder and prayed for my safe journey.

Little Bighorn 

It was Memorial Day, a clear blue windless sky, perfect for the gentle 15 mile ride to Crow Agency from Hardin where I had camped, and the climb to the Little Bighorn National Monument entrance. I had been here some many years before, a quick stop as I recall with young (and likely impatient) kids, not remembering so much of the detail as the perspective. 

It was actually named the Custer Battlefield at the time, reflecting its one-sided Anglo Saxon perspective. “Custer’s Last Stand” is indeed a hilltop where he met his fate, and all of those around him, marked by small white stones where a soldier fell. Is it wrong to feel guilt at thinking that Custer had it coming? Is it wrong to read the narratives and think the Indian had every right to defend their way of life? That this was their moment to rise up? 

History finished this story in other ways, relegating the indigenous to reservations that I now ride through. I could not help continuing to reflect on this. Some form of reconciliation is what I was seeking, and was not disappointed to see told of a “bury the hatchet” meeting at the fifty year anniversary in 1926. I was pleased to  see the “new” Indian Memorial to this event , and also brown granite markers where Indians lost their lives in defense of the Cheyenne and Sioux way of life, as it is so marked. The memorial, a circle of stones set partially below the surrounding hillside in keeping with Indian heritage, has a wire frame silhouette of fighters that cleverly depicts their bravery. 

I was glad of this, glad to see this better representation of native perspective. Thanks to George H.W. Bush for making that happen. It was too long overdue. What was particularly impressive on this day were the flags at all the headstones of the federal cemetery, fluttering in the breeze against the clear blue sky. A fitting way to recognize Memorial Day, for both white and Indian forebears. 

Signs of Death 

I have peddled slowly past hundreds of little white crosses that line the roadsides, each a sobering reminder of an event past, a marker of a story unknown to most that pass it. Some are brightly decorated; others are showing signs of age. 

But why? How? I was riding on some fairly remote country roads where the danger of death by automobile seems so remote. Was it inattentiveness? Was it alcohol? Did a deer or antelope endanger? 

Like a scene investigator, I was looking for tell-tale clues of terrain, skid marks, or residual auto parts nestled now among grasses. Nothing. All I could harbor were thoughts of the life lost, and the lives affected by those lost. It seems such a waste. But is Montana unique in marking these memorials? Or if one could see all the “ghosts” of accidents past on any roadway, we would be flooded with these little white crosses? 

They are a sobering reminder, even to a bicyclist, leading to countless events of wonder. 

Two Half-Moons

Not once, but twice did I note remote outhouses with not one but two holes side by side, sharing space and one door.  I know social distancing has taken root as a concept, which clearly puts these facilities at a disadvantage.  I am not sure if this is perhaps a new Montana unisex facility?  Plenty of opportunity to think on this subject when appropriately throned.

 

Big Sky 

Montana is Big Sky country. I fully agree.