Where the Buffalo Roam

Being in Montana is a little bit like being in love, at least in that you don’t sleep much.

Or at least, I don’t. Light sleeper that I am, the sun pretty much dictates my waking hours — and up here, it’s out from 5:30 a.m. until well past 10 at night.

I’m no longer in Montana proper, actually. I’ve been holed up in a town called Felt, Idaho since Monday. My Airbnb hosts here have a garage crammed floor to ceiling with adventure gear ranging from mountain bikes to motorcycles to skis; they lived first in a Sprinter van, and then in the RV I’m staying in, while they built their house from nothing. I was invited inside this morning to see a stunning modern space with poured concrete floors and a natural wood counter, all lit by the sunlight streaming in through rows of half-wall windows. The image of the Tetons from their kitchen sink is literally postcard perfect, entirely unobstructed.

I kind of want to be them when I grow up.

It may not be Montana — which I’ve waltzed around for the past week, bouncing from Bozeman to Whitefish to Missoula — but in most ways, this place is the same: the mountain west. People here wear cowboy hats and say “you bet.” If you’re at a fancy enough grocery store, there’s ground elk in the freezer.

I’ve met so many people here who have a “came for a weekend and never left” story, and they were eager to invite me to join them. A woman at an art gallery in Whitefish told me her daughter was looking for housemates and offered me her number; a man at another art gallery in Whitefish told me about the phone call he made to his wife back home in Connecticut, placed from the hotel where he’d arrived for a business conference: pack our stuff, honey. “All the people here are beautiful,” he said, meaning nothing about facial symmetry. “They’re all high on the mountains,” he said, meaning nothing about elevation.

I recruited a local to come along with me into Glacier; I was afraid to hike alone in grizzly territory. Matt, whose good company I shared for a whole day and something like fifteen miles, explained the difference in introductory small talk between here and in his home state of New Jersey. The first question is always what do you do, of course. “But back home, they mean — what’s your job? What kind of money do you make? Here, they mean, what fun thing are we going to get into today? Fly fishing, white water, what?”

I can see the appeal. People here stay outside all year long, skiing and snowshoeing through the cold (but dry! and bright! they tell me) winters until summer lets them switch to kayaks and trekking poles. Almost everyone I’ve met has been genuinely wholesome and friendly and enthusiastic, without a shred of the east-coast irony I’m steeped in.

My Whitefish host greeted me with a warning that a robin — Cecily, she called her — was nesting in the garage rafters, and so I should give that part of the property a wide berth. She then explained that a bear had broken into her compost bin, walking me across half an acre to exhibit a dug-through pile of grapes and coffee grounds beside her garden, caged by chain link so as to discourage just these kinds of raids.

Then there was Leigh, the Glacier park ranger with piercing blue eyes whom I asked for day hike suggestions; she hand-color-coded a map of the park for me, marking the trails by difficulty level, brimming with genuine excitement for what I was about to discover. Or the woman at the gas station in teeny-tiny Ovando, which you’d miss if not for a large sign on highway 200 announcing that the town is “open.” She went to the back of the building to get real milk for my coffee — which is free with your fill-up — and explained that she’d been there for 27 years, teaching in the two-room schoolhouse. (Ovando’s population, per the 2000 census, is 71.)

On the way from Whitefish to Missoula, my car — the same 2005 Honda Element I drove as a sophomore in college — started up an old habit we’ve spent years and thousands of dollars trying to break it of. Every time I run up on third gear, the accelerator dies and the vehicle starts bucking, only catching again once the motor has slowed to about 2000 RPMs. Basically, this translates to accelerating slowly and a speed cap of about 65-70 miles per hour. So I limped down to Missoula, wondering how I’d fit getting the car fixed into the mere three days I had there — especially since, if history were any indication, it would probably involve ordering an expensive part they wouldn’t have in stock.

But as it turns out, slowing down is looking like a better and better idea. I went into Yellowstone yesterday and ran smack into summer crowds — a line 30 deep at the park information desk and a traffic jam in which we moved, seriously, half a mile in one hour. I ended up doing far more driving than hiking.

And so, I followed my car’s example and changed gears a bit. I’d been planning on taking the week between now and the 13th, when I’m due in Santa Fe, to hop around the Utah national parks, which have always been high on my list. But having been on the move at least once every third day since May 20th, I’m starting to grow really tired of vagabonding. I keep having nights where I wake up completely baffled, not sure where I am or whether I’m supposed to be there, my heart rate running high in the dark until the latest move resolves around me. I feel like a spoiled brat, gifted with more freedom than most people can ever hope for and surrounded by some of the most beautiful landscape in America, and yet — I find I kind of just want to sit down and watch a movie. Or go to a coffee shop more than once. Or just not drive five-plus hours every goddamn day.

So tomorrow, I’m heading to Ft. Collins, where I found a cheap place to hunker down for a week. Then, it’s off to New Mexico, where I’ll be for more than a month, giving me ample time to recharge my batteries. (And to eat things other than almonds, jerky, and protein bars for a while.)

I’ll probably even get a chance to fix the car while I’m there — and to take advantage of sunset times a full hour earlier than they are up here in the mountains.

What can I say? Every lovesick infatuation has to end sometime. Everyone’s got to get some rest. But Montana, I’m definitely not done with you.