There was
no
way I was going to figure out when I was little how I would ever trick
the American government to make me an American citizen. And so, my dream was
that one day, I will find a way to “swim” across that Big Pond, and make it to
the Promise Land, and once here I will just hitch a ride to Montana, work on a
farm as a hired hand, and no one will ever, ever find me or worry that I am
staying here illegally. No one will ever check papers there. No one will ever
care. To me, Montana was like the last shore. End of the world. Not in a
punishing sense, but in a “go no longer” kind of a sense. The shore of freedom and
of no authority.
Well,
many moons later, and 7 years after I earned my citizenship, I made it to
Montana. This was my second visit, but, in a sense, it was my first one, as
this one targeted the heart of the state, instead of its outskirts bordering
Wyoming and Idaho, as before.
And
what I found is that although pretty scarce in population, Montana is not totally
void of people. I am pretty sure one could still live incognito in that state,
but I am also pretty sure that one or two neighbors would notice, too!
We were
headed to White Sulphur Springs, for the annual Red Ants Pants Bluegrass Festival (I know: isn’t the name great?!),
but we ended up staying 70+ miles out, in Helena, as there was no place at the
inn anywhere closer. The drive between the capital city and White Sulphur
Springs is a wild one. Literally. You cross through Helena National Forest and
there is nothing there, for many, many miles. The Montana (and Idaho, and
Wyoming) staples of farmland are nowhere to be seen. Nothing but woods and
streams. And mountains, of course. Just the epitome of peaceful, wild country.
Another
“dream” I was chasing was the band Donna
the Buffalo. Originally from Upstate
New York, they don’t come out West often, so when they make it to … Montana, at
said festival, one must drive to share the oxygen with them for a bit. It was
probably the quietest festival I have ever partaken in. Montana people are ever
so happy, quiet and respectful, really. Just the most organized and subdued
crowd.
Happy crowds under Big Skies - Red Ants Pants Festival in White Sulphur Springs, MT
Helena
is actually a pretty urban spot, as small cities go. We walked about the
streets, had some Greek food, some local beer, visited The Capitol, which is
gorgeous for its scarcity of official business (only two legislature meetings a
term, one, every 2 years), and we tried to find some trout! We saw fly fishers everywhere
in the state. They even built statues for them, to celebrate the … Montana
sport of choice, I suspect! But no trout on any menus. Anywhere we looked. I
have officially decided people can’t fish in these parts, or trout is smarter
than fishermen.
The roof of The Rotunda, inside The Montana Capitol building
For all
its mountainous, lush green beauty and fresh air, Helena failed to feel like
home, for some reason. Now, notice that I didn’t say “Montana”, but just …
Helena. It did feel cozy when the bells at Cathedral of Saint Helena started
tolling for the wedding and the whole city echoed with peace and good news. But
there was something amiss on this trip. Something I wished I found but was
elusive.
"For Whom the Bell Tolls" - Cathedral of Saint Helena - Helena, MT
With
its “last chance” culture all around (the Last Chance Gulch
is going like a main artery right
through the heart of the city), Helena does have sort of the “end of the world”
kind of nostalgia I was picturing when thinking about Montana. There is a
feeling that once you get here, you’re pretty much reached the end of the road:
you have what you need or you’re going to have the resoluteness to find it
within you to survive! There are no resources, other than human brains. You’ve
got them, or you turn around and go back. This survivalist call spoke to me.
Montana lore
Back in
the more earthy, superfluous realm of my travels, yet another dream I have
chased for years, and still am, are mailbox shots. You think I am crazy, but I
love to shoot (as in Canon, not Smith & Wesson) mailboxes lined up in the middle
of nowhere. Equal only to the middle of the Nevada Desert, Montana offers great
opps for this! We tried finding Spring
Meadow Lake State Park (which we never did), and en route there, we drove
through this suburban area which in Montana means farm after farm after farm,
or one 10 acre lot after another. We never did see a cookie cutter kind of
neighborhood, where houses are clustered together in this uncreative,
lets-cut-all-the-trees, the-only-way-the-builder-could-afford-to-make-a-profit,
with-total-disrespect-for-human-privacy kind of way… It was refreshing to not
see the natural beauty of the state poisoned by such sights.
And when
you have large lots+scarce houses+middle of nowehere+dirt roads, you have a
recipe for incredible mailbox shots! I feel like each box says a story about
each proprietor. Each one, as unique as its people, waiting for news, any news,
from the wide world, to reach these lonely and scant parts. They are a
testimony of patience to me. Mailboxes are. All of them. Just waiting,
together.
I’m
still looking for my getaway, end of the world spot, here in America. And for
my home, really. The Helena area of Montana was not it. But the beauty is in
the journey, and I’ll keep looking, chasing one mailbox after another, or one bluegrass
band after another, whichever comes first. One of these days, the eyes of the
soul will see and the ears will hear …
Click on the picture to browse the complete album of this trip.
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