Missoula, Part 1: Mongols
"We travel, initially, to lose ourselves; and we travel, next, to find ourselves....And we travel, in essence, to become young fools again--to slow time down, and get taken in, and fall in love once more." --Pico Lyer
I have no memory of leaving Butte. I recall glancing over my shoulder at Johnny and his Mom standing arm-in-arm in front of their little white house and wondering what would become of them, then wondering the same about the kids from the Hard 8, and the young mother from the Rabbit Ear, and Jen from Bozeman, all of them looking for something. My mind is racing all over the place but definitely not concentrating on driving. We're pokin' along on a highway somewhere in Montana and absent mindedly drift into the passing lane just as an 18 wheeler comes up fast from behind. He sits on his air horns and blasts past us on the left, shaking The Turtle and bringing me back to reality, leaving me wondering where we are. I begin looking for some point of reference and soon we pass a sign saying Deer Lodge and the Montana State Prison are a couple of miles ahead, then a much bigger sign advertising the Montana Auto Museum, "One of the 10 best auto museums in the country." I'm relieved to see that we're on Interstate 90, because apparently I've been daydreaming for the past 30 miles and have no clue where we've been or how we got here. Thanks to The Turtle's auto pilot, and blind luck, we're headed in the right direction, northwest toward Missoula. For a moment I'm tempted to make an unplanned stop at the auto museum, but it's been a very long day and I'm eager to settle in for the evening. I've already decided to stop overnight in Missoula rather than driving in the dark and pressing on to Spokane. Peace and quiet and a soft bed are sounding pretty good, and I fully intend to be flat on my back vegetating in a motel room by sunset.
Another 30 minutes of driving and I've lost all feeling in my butt. Even worse, I've also developed a painful cramp in my buggered up left knee. No way we'll make it to Missoula without a pit stop and some stretching, so I start looking for a spot to pull off the highway. Almost on cue a sign for Gold Creek Rest Area appears. It's only a mile ahead. I'd read that some of the Montana state rest stops were only open seasonally, and this place looks deserted, but the entry isn't blocked so we pull in and park near the only building in sight. I'm hoping it houses restrooms. The rest stop is basic--a big paved parking area, a few picnic tables, the little green building, and a wooden historical marker. I check out the green building, which does contain restrooms and a water fountain, visit the latrine, then take a few minutes to read the historical marker, the story of the first gold discovery in Montana here at Gold Creek. I walk around the grassy area, do some basic stretching movements, jump up and down a few times, and my knee still isn't cooperating. I can't fully bend it and I'm anxious to get back on the road so I'll need to try something else, possibly jogging around the parking lot a few times. So I take off running. Well, maybe it wasn't actually running, but more of a spastic combination of staggering, hopping along on the bum leg and flapping my arms like an epileptic chicken, trying to keep from falling on the ground. I'm not concerned about how ridiculous it looks. There's no one in sight, and I figure if I keep moving and ramp up my circulation, the cramp will eventually go away. After all, this isn't my first road trip rodeo, and movement usually works.
Approaching a shady area at the far end of the parking lot I hear someone laughing, look up and see two very large men, bikers in black leather, and they're obviously laughing at me. They're leaning on their bikes enjoying the spectacle, and I'm the featured entertainment. I start thinking about all the cheesy movies where sadistic biker gangs roam the countryside raping and pillaging and terrorizing innocent citizens purely for the hell of it. Then I think heck, that's just Hollywood fiction. That stuff never really happens...Right? For all I know these guys are a couple of mild mannered accountants who happen to like riding big motorcycles on weekends, when they aren't doing tax returns. And it is late April, the end of tax filing season, so it's not out of the question. On the other hand, maybe they just came from visiting their compadres at the state prison? Or maybe they were just
released from the state prison? I have no idea whether I have a problem brewing, but there's no one else around and no way I could outrun them on foot or in The Turtle. It seems like the best course is to mind my own business and keep going, so I look straight ahead and continue hobbling along. By the second lap I'm almost moving normally and as I pass they start hooting and clapping, like I'd just won the Olympic marathon. I wave back like a gracious winner would have waved, stop at The Turtle and start to climb in when I see one of them strolling my way, the smaller one. He's a half head taller than me, has at least 50 pounds on me, and he's not smiling. I brace myself for the worst but he walks past me and into the green building. On the back of his jacket, at the top in big letters, is "MONGOLS," and at the bottom "NEVADA." In the middle is a cartoon figure of a biker who appears to be Mongolian. He's sitting astride a chopper with the initials M.C. underneath, which I assume stands for motorcycle club. I've never heard of the Mongols, but at least they aren't Hell's Angels. Which is good, right? Maybe I'm overreacting. I make a mental note to Google Mongols when I get back to civilization, provided I make it out of here alive. He comes out in a few minutes and as he passes, without even looking over, says "Nice Jeep man!" Now as every Land Cruiser owner knows, the mandatory response to this sort of comment is something like "Actually this isn't a Jeep. It's a Toyota Land Cruiser. In fact, this is an FJ40, the most rugged four wheel drive vehicle in the history of mankind, blah blah blah..." I consider the situation for a split second, and immediately reject the impulse to deliver a lecture. I don't care if he thinks it's a Jeep or a Chevette. In fact, I wouldn't even object if he'd said "Nice Yugo, Dude!" I manage to mumble "Thanks." After all, things are going well and there's no need to provoke a stranger paying a compliment. Moments later I hear engines turning over, then the distinctive pop-pop....pop-pop....pop-pop of big Harleys idling. This must mean they're leaving. If my Grandmother was here, she'd look upward toward the heavens and blurt out "Thank You Jesus!" But not me. I keep my head down and my mouth shut. The Mongols ride by slowly, passing within three feet of me and The Turtle. As they pass I get a closer look at the other biker, a scary looking guy, massive bald head covered with tats. He looks toward me and bares his teeth in what I hope is a smile, showing a gold grille, and he looks vaguely familiar. He's so massive that the bike underneath him looks like a kids tricycle, and now I remember why he looks so familiar--he's a doppelganger for that guy who played Jaws in the old James Bond flicks. Jaws sticks up his right thumb, which looks about the same size as my forearm, says "Adios champ," and they rumble off toward the highway entrance ramp. Whew...
After my biker friends leave, it occurs to me that I don't know where I'm staying tonight. All I care about is a cheap room with clean sheets, which reminds me of the old Tom Bodett commercials for Motel 6. Sometimes advertising does work, even with a cynic like me. I rummage around under the driver's seat and locate the Motel 6 directory that I'd picked up in Sheridan, and I'm in luck--in Missoula I have two choices. One is near the University of Montana and the other is on the west side of town, just off I-90. The directory says the second location is new. Both are priced the same, so I pick new and call for a reservation. When the girl asks if I have a room preference, I make a lame attempt at humor and tell her I need a single non-smoking room, and it has to have an unobstructed view of the mountains. She's not amused. In a monotone voice: "Sir, this is Montana. All our rooms have views of the mountains. I only have non-smoking doubles available, but I can give you one at the single rate. Do you wish to make a reservation?" D'oh. Next time I'll know better than to ask about the view.
Me: "Yes please. And don't forget to leave the light on for me."
Reservation Chick: "Pardon?"
Me: "Never mind. I'll be there in a hour."
....to be continued
