Without even meaning to, our trip to Montana consisted of the ultimate mix of lodging. We started with a vrbo (vacation rental by owner), moved into motels along the remote parts of Glacier National Park, pricelined the standard hotel while in Missoula, then ended in a B&B back in Whitefish. What did I think?
It was the first time we had ever experienced a vrbo. Admittedly, I was cautious about it; how do you know what it will truly be like, and what if the place was a scam? One trick that I learned along the way, reinforced by another traveler, is to choose a vrbo that actually has customer comments. If you're conservative, as we are when it comes to lodging in places we aren't familiar with, this is a good barometer. Our Whitefish vrbo was called the Whitefish Homestead, and it was entirely delightful. It didn't have the modern uplift that many hotels are in the mode of doing, as evidenced by the palm tree wallpaper in the main bedroom, but for an equivalent price of a hotel room, we basically got a 2-bedroom apartment with the most amazing view of Whitefish Lake. Its location couldn't be beat. Walkable to downtown Whitefish, and with a great hostess who lived downstairs, who managed to keep herself accessible and yet not intrusive, it felt amazingly isolated. I slept solidly every night we were there. Awesome.
Motels, motels. I can't tell you the last time I stayed at a motel. But as I would learn on the East side of Glacier, not all motels are created equal. In Babb, where we wanted to stay close to the Many Glacier entrance, there's only one value choice. Yes, you could stay inside the park for a very pretty penny for sparse accommodations, but we wanted a great value, so we stayed outside - at Thronson's Babb. There, you can have the pleasure of spending your evening killing flies that seem to appear from nowhere, and find illicit drugs in the drawer right next to the Good Book itself. Yuck. The next day, we demanded $40 back - $1 for every fly we killed.
We skipped the next night in Babb and hightailed it to our next location - the Mountain Pine Motel. While not the lap of luxury, it was clean, quaint, friendly, and a great value. The benefit here was that the rooms were set up like a village of sorts, which lent itself to chatting with other visitors, and that is always one of my favorite parts of vacation. Perhaps it was because we enjoyed our East Glacier Park experience so much; perhaps because of Doris - the spunky 80-year-old matriarch of the motel who is hard of hearing and wears huge round white framed reading glasses. Whatever it is, I do have warm spot in my heart for that motel.
We moved on to the new Courtyard Marriott in Missoula. Eric pricelined it and nabbed the room for $70 per night - the best value we had all vacation. It was new, hip, clean, unused, altogether lovely. The hot tub, however, was the cool tub, the only thing that wasn't quite right. While I loved the amenities, there is something very impersonal with the hotel chain. No one really speaks or "hangs out." You stay to yourselves. Very different from our Mountain Pine Motel's informality which promoted engaging others, this was a very pretty room in which to lay your head each night.
We headed back to Whitefish and stayed at the widely acclaimed Good Medicine Lodge. It was a wonderful cross between the hotel amenities and the warmth and intimacy we felt at the Mountain Pine. The space was beautiful and comfortable. A pine tree was actually growing in the living room. The hot tub was actually hot. But there was something a little more formal to it all, where you felt like you had to behave yourself. The rambunctious night that Eric had with the hard-drinking, fun-seeking, adventurous world-traveling motorcyclists from England most likely wouldn't have happened at the Good Medicine Lodge. However, the cocktail hour was pleasant and encouraged everyone to meet each other. The first night, we met a group from France. The language barrier was an issue, but it didn't diminish the pleasant evening. The second night, we chatted with two other couples for hours. The diversity was fascinating, no topic was barred. Former FBI agent, Special Education Coordinator, Brand Director for the H1N1 vaccine, Guidance Counselor, Candy Maven, talking about terrorism, racism, flu epidemic, what it takes for students to succeed nowadays, and which place in town had good pizza. It was a great night. The only thing about a B&B is that your breakfast is dictated in the morning. Breakfast was a big deal during our stay, and while the food was definitely detailed and without exception, if you're watching what you eat, forget it.
The best? They all have pros and cons. Well, the motel in Babb only has cons, really, but if I had to choose just one, I'd take the vrbo. It had personality, great amount of space, and an unparalleled view. Ultimately, it was also the place that I felt the most rejuvenated, the most rested. I could sleep the whole night through, and that was no small feat.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
If you're gonna eat instant ramen noodles...
While indulging in one of my favorite pastimes - shopping at Costco - I walked by one of the food demos. They were cooking up a Hot & Spicy noodle bowl; just add hot water, and you're ready to go. Not one to pass up on free food, I took a sample.
Now, I am a it of a connoisseur of instant ramen noodles. Ever since I was introduced to the Maruchan brand of 10-cent instant noodles during my college years, and thought, my goodness gracious, is this awful stuff. I've made my way through the entire aisle at an Asian grocery store, trying a lot of different brands, just sure there was something better.
So as I took my first taste of the Hot & Spicy, I was NOT impressed. It was rather bland, the noodles without any remarkable texture to note, and yet, I saw shoppers all around me loading up their oversized carts with their new noodle purchase. What?!? Did they think this was actually good?
Here's my favorite instant noodle. It's made by Nong Shim, a Korean conglomerate, so it's got that spicy Korean kick to it. But the noodles, as long as they aren't overcooked, have a good bite to it, and the soup is spicy and flavorful. Often, I'll add in broccoli and some tilapia fillets, which complement the spicy broth very well, in an attempt to make it a little bit of a more well-rounded meal.
Certainly, I realize that none of these noodles-in-a-flash are good for you. They're fried, packed with sodium, and I can't pronounce 75% of the ingredient list. And it's not exactly gourmet. But there is something strangely alluring about instant ramen noodles. They're fast, and if you eat certain brands, like the one to the left, dare I say, I actually like the taste of it!
So that's why I say - if you're going to eat instant ramen noodles, at least pick something that actually tastes good!
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Big Sky, Big Eats!
I'll admit it, I didn't have huge expectations when it came to food in Montana. Yes, I expected steaks to be good, I mean heck, it's CATTLE country, for goodness sakes. But other than that, I was just hoping to get some decent grub here and there. Boy, did I get a wake-up call. Big Sky Country has got it goin' on! Well, except for one meal... Here's the rundown:
I started with the Gorgonzola and Pine Nut tart. Um. I appreciate the creativity, but it's just too much. Take the Tomato Bisque, instead. That thing is smooth, creamy, and as tasty as tasty can be! Brick oven pizzas are quite good, but don't get it if someone else gets the Buffalo Steak, because you'll just kick yourself and pine for your company's fare.
Capers in Kalispell - My, my. They had a Buffalo Steak special. If they have it again when you're there, GET IT. Ordered medium rare, it was like a perfectly seared filet. If this is what "lean" tastes like, if this is what "better for me" tastes like, I'm in. All the accompaniments of the grilled vegetables, wild rice, potato cake. Don't tell me you're not drooling at the viewing of this picture!
Taste of Whitefish - the first night we were there, we happened upon a food festival. Can you believe my food karma? I swear. Two very notable booths. Latitude 48 in downtown Whitefish had homemade gnocchi panfried and then combined with a light wild mushroom (including some black truffle shavings!) and truffle oil cream sauce. Yum!! I went back for a second helping after going through everything, and one of the servers said, "Back for more, eh?" Out of all the people who go through this booth, I can't believe they called me out. The other restaurant is Cheffy's a bit outside of town. They had a nice, delicate tuna tartare that was Asian inspired and just delightful. I would like to say that I went there for a second time, and no one gave me a hard time...
Tupelo Grille in Whitefish - If you have anything in Whitefish, it must be the LowCountry Shrimp & Grits at Tupelo Grille. And might I recommend, spice it up! It is UP THERE with the Buffalo Steak. I wish I had a picture of it, but it didn't last that long. 6 large beautifully grilled shrimp sat atop and aside a cake of grits. Over all of it was a creamy, luscious creole sauce that brought everything together so wonderfully. I wish I had some here...
Breakfast Joints - In Whitefish, the breakfasts were big, but not the best. You'll find them to be fine, but know that elsewhere in Big Sky, there are more kickin' places. Buffalo Cafe, Swift Creek Cafe, Bean Hive - all fall into this category. We heard that Loula's is a local favorite. We didn't try it, but you should.
In East Glacier, Whistlestop is GREAT. They specialize in stuffed French Toast. Delicious, but hope your arteries are prepared. Omelettes are quite good as well. Two Medicine Grill is closest to a diner than anything else in town - it's narrow with a counter and stools and some tables set up in the back.
In Missoula, we ate at The Shack twice, and we had three breakfasts to be had. The varieties of omelettes is quite a lot, and their Chorizo sausage one is piquant, leaving you wanting more. The other day I had the wild chantrelle and jack cheese with spinach and onions added. Yum!
Serrano's in East Glacier - Who would have ever guessed that in the "blink and you missed it" town of East Glacier Park, there is one of the best Mexican restaurants? 3 nights in town, we ate there for two. Party Nachos are like a frat party gone totally out of control. Lots of all sorts of stuff layered with cheese upon cheese. It was ridiculous to think we could eat that as our appetizer. You've been cautioned. Chile Relleno is sublime. Deep fried, so easy with it, but you can get it ala carte, and you should. The Mole is one of the most complex and developed I've ever had. And I KNOW chocolate. One night I also got the Diablo Stew. Moist, braised pork that was incredibly tender was in a spicy tomato-based soup, only I didn't think it was spicy enough. So they brought out a Habanero paste, the hottest pepper around. I kept adding, thinking, hey I have some left, I should use it. Dummy. It went to a nuclear level, and I thought I might die after 10 minutes. But ever the glutton for punishment, I kept eating. By night's end, I was crying, sweating, sniffling, but all the while, smacking my lips. Really good.
Whistlestop in East Glacier - Okay, I know I already talked about this, but we also went to this location for dinner the one other night. Their BBQ is really quite good. The chicken is of the dark meat variety, keeping it ever moist. Pork Ribs rock, too. Platters are plentiful, and you should be happy at the end of it all. But what you should really get? The Polish Dog. Bart, the Polish guy who's been "stuck" in East Glacier for about 8 years, brought the best of his culinary arsenal along. He covers it with a sauerkraut that is a great blend of sweet, sour, salty. He knows what he's doing. Get it.
Silk Road in Missoula - This place is new, and Missoula should be happy it's around. The concept is food from all along the Silk Road, tapas style. So you can taste a whole bunch of different things. It's a wonderful culinary adventure! We got the Pork Chilaquiles - tender, moist, tasty. Ceviche - with watermelon! Great addition. Shrimp and Mushroom dumplings - the dough casing was a tad dried out, but overall, a very nice dish. Lasty, the Shanghai Beef Noodle bowl - not the best I've ever had, but certainly good enough to be enjoyed. It's a GREAT concept, a GREAT place.
Scotty's Table in Missoula - One of the places I kept reading about. Not everything on the menu is worth the high price you will pay, but the Pork Duo and the Ratatouille certainly are. The Pork Duo consists of two HUGE tender, fall-off-the-bone Pork Ribs with meat that came 2 inches off the bone. When I say HUGE, I mean HUGE. Nestled in between them was a cube of Pork Belly that was equally delicious but totally dwarfed by its rib brothers. An adobe sauce and a tomatilla sauce, creamed corn and corn on the cob accompanied it, and it was a dish worth its price. As much as I like the movie Ratatouille, I had never had it. Finally, I did. A vegetable lasagna, and I imagine this is close to what Anton Ego tasted in the movie that moved him so much. It was quite delish. Skip the Pork Ragu Papardelle. It's disappointing in comparison.
Nara in Missoula - This is a Korean BBQ and Sushi place. They have the grills inside, just as they should for a real Korean BBQ place. But besides the sushi, which was decent, don't get anything else. The Banchan, which included kimchi, spicy cucumbers, spinach, and bean sprouts were awful. Just awful. Kimchi is supposed to be fermented in all its spicy glory, not rotten. Awful. I can't say it enough. The BBQ was okay. Marinate beef slices in bottled teriyaki sauce, and there you have it. The udon noodle soup was bland bland bland. Yuck.
And a last call out to the Microbreweries out there. Special nod to KettleHouse and their Cold Smoke brew. I could use some of it right now. So awesome!
Accomac Inn-deed!
Across the river and through the woods, as the Susquehanna River unfolds before you, you come upon an old, charming building – the Accomac Inn.
The view is spectacular, and as we were seated in the screened-in patio, I couldn’t take my eyes off the wide river with its gentle movement underpinning the untouched forest of trees. I was tempted to tear the screens down for an unspoiled landscape, but then I thought – bugs…scene…bugs…scene. And I had to give the bugs the edge.
The Accomac Inn’s history is wealthy and colorful. When it burned down in 1935, they rebuilt it so that it captured the essence of yore. Now, it sits in all its former resplendent glory, with the benefit of modern amenities, and shares the road with a biker bar down the street. If you didn’t know that before you got there, you would in a matter of a few minutes when the bikers rev down the road that sits just below the patio as you sip a summer cocktail. One of the hosts thinks some do it on purpose, but I think it’s pretty neat that you can get two very different experiences in such close proximity.
The chef of the Accomac Inn has done a masterful job of varying his menu so that there’s something for everyone, and yet amply creative so that you can only get that something there. Further, I always appreciate a menu that wastes not a part of the animal and includes things like terrine and sweetbreads.
Alas, I was much more interested in the foie gras appetizer special ($14.75) and the roast duck, flambéed tableside ($32.25). Regarding foie gras, I find myself caught in a dilemma. I still remember the day I found out about its horrible little secret. I was 16, at a fabulous, now-defunct restaurant, enjoying my first foie gras experience when my older brother started telling me, in gory detail, how it all goes down. Today, I occasionally order it lustfully, then enjoy it guiltily.
At the Accomac Inn, it was seared, served with an apricot chutney, roasted fig, grilled peach, and toasted brioche points. Put all together, balanced on a bite of brioche, the combination was stellar. The rich, creaminess of the foie gras, the sweetness of the fruit, the lightness of the brioche, all came equally to the dance. But even alone, because there wasn’t enough foie gras in ratio to the other items, each element solidly stood on its own.
Then the duck made its entrance. Served with baby beets, turnips, and a wonderful potato gratin, I asked for the blueberry au jus sauce on the side – I had a bad purple-fruit sauce experience in the past, and I was tentative. I shouldn’t have been, though, because not only did I give up on the tableside flambé, which piqued my interest in the dish to begin with, but the sauce was the delicious amalgam of the sweet, yet subtle, flavor of the blueberry, and the salty, meatiness of the au jus.
And then the duck breast. The crispy skin cloaked the moist and tender meat such that the experience was fulfilled with both a textured, yet juicy surge that engulfed my mouth. It was, perhaps, the best duck breast I had had in a very, very long time. A brilliant dish.
As we continued to sip at the Navarro Correas Malbec ($50), looking out into nature that seemed to have changed in personality as the setting sun’s rays danced new colors onto the scene, I thought, what an amazing treat that lies just across the river.
Accomac Inn
South River Road
Wrightsville, PA 17368
(717) 252-1521
The view is spectacular, and as we were seated in the screened-in patio, I couldn’t take my eyes off the wide river with its gentle movement underpinning the untouched forest of trees. I was tempted to tear the screens down for an unspoiled landscape, but then I thought – bugs…scene…bugs…scene. And I had to give the bugs the edge.
The Accomac Inn’s history is wealthy and colorful. When it burned down in 1935, they rebuilt it so that it captured the essence of yore. Now, it sits in all its former resplendent glory, with the benefit of modern amenities, and shares the road with a biker bar down the street. If you didn’t know that before you got there, you would in a matter of a few minutes when the bikers rev down the road that sits just below the patio as you sip a summer cocktail. One of the hosts thinks some do it on purpose, but I think it’s pretty neat that you can get two very different experiences in such close proximity.
The chef of the Accomac Inn has done a masterful job of varying his menu so that there’s something for everyone, and yet amply creative so that you can only get that something there. Further, I always appreciate a menu that wastes not a part of the animal and includes things like terrine and sweetbreads.
Alas, I was much more interested in the foie gras appetizer special ($14.75) and the roast duck, flambéed tableside ($32.25). Regarding foie gras, I find myself caught in a dilemma. I still remember the day I found out about its horrible little secret. I was 16, at a fabulous, now-defunct restaurant, enjoying my first foie gras experience when my older brother started telling me, in gory detail, how it all goes down. Today, I occasionally order it lustfully, then enjoy it guiltily.
At the Accomac Inn, it was seared, served with an apricot chutney, roasted fig, grilled peach, and toasted brioche points. Put all together, balanced on a bite of brioche, the combination was stellar. The rich, creaminess of the foie gras, the sweetness of the fruit, the lightness of the brioche, all came equally to the dance. But even alone, because there wasn’t enough foie gras in ratio to the other items, each element solidly stood on its own.
Then the duck made its entrance. Served with baby beets, turnips, and a wonderful potato gratin, I asked for the blueberry au jus sauce on the side – I had a bad purple-fruit sauce experience in the past, and I was tentative. I shouldn’t have been, though, because not only did I give up on the tableside flambé, which piqued my interest in the dish to begin with, but the sauce was the delicious amalgam of the sweet, yet subtle, flavor of the blueberry, and the salty, meatiness of the au jus.
And then the duck breast. The crispy skin cloaked the moist and tender meat such that the experience was fulfilled with both a textured, yet juicy surge that engulfed my mouth. It was, perhaps, the best duck breast I had had in a very, very long time. A brilliant dish.
As we continued to sip at the Navarro Correas Malbec ($50), looking out into nature that seemed to have changed in personality as the setting sun’s rays danced new colors onto the scene, I thought, what an amazing treat that lies just across the river.
Accomac Inn
South River Road
Wrightsville, PA 17368
(717) 252-1521
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
The Spoon Carvers - East Glacier, Montana
Another short essay from my People of Montana series.
I’m more convinced than ever that a visit to a location, no matter how perceivably small or desolate, must be allocated 3 days, 2 nights minimum. East Glacier is one of those towns where if you blink, you will have passed by some of the most interesting characters I’ve ever met.
There’s a store in East Glacier called “The Spiral Spoon.” It’s got a huge purple spoon, perhaps 20 feet high, and in proportion, that sits outside a small, cluttered storefront. It’s hard to miss this store, but easy to pass right by it. Of the several people whom I’ve spoken to who have told me they passed through East Glacier, all have said they saw the spoon, but no one said they walked into it. Shame, because the store is one of the quirkiest, laid-backest, funnest stores I’ve been to in a long time, and the owner Jo, and her band of carvers the most jovial, do-I-look-like-I-give-a-f***, lived-a-hard-life-and-now-I’m-going-to-do-what-I-want-to-do folks I’ve ever met.
Jo, in particular, is brash, unapologetic, and has a very effective dry sense of humor. For example, the sign in front of her store says, “World’s Largest Wooden Spoon Store…[then in small letters] (if you don’t get out much.” She hails from Georgia, and still has the accent to prove it. She started carving “stuff” when she was 9 years old, and she says, “Thank goodness I didn’t know failure was bad, otherwise, I would have stopped carving. My first carvings were horrible.” Or something to that effect. In any case, she kept right on going. Soon, her husband got into the action, and her cousin, Carlton, moved out from Georgia, too. The three of them carve spoons now, and every year, they’ve made more and have sold out. Then, because of the craziness of Harry Potter, they started carving wands. Every wand has a number and a story behind it, and when one gets sold, the buyer gets a long dissertation on how the wand was made, during what time of the day, and has to ceremonially sign their name and where the wand is going into the Wand Log. It’s really fascinating. On the day I was watching a ceremony, a couple had just bought a wand for a friend. The wife was totally into all of the explanation and what-nots. The husband? He couldn’t wait to get out of there.
So what’s up with the Spiral Spoon? Well, the spoons are durable and meant to be used as demandingly as you would a regular wooden spoon in the kitchen. But these are beautifully carved, which would be enough, in and of itself, but then you hold them, and you realize they’ve been carved to correspond with your fingers, your hand, and there’s such a natural fit that you can’t believe that this extraordinary form and function could exist.
We had some hours to hang out, so I asked if she had any spoons she would carve that day. “You bet! Come on back!” She gave me a dust mask. “Make sure this is a tight fit. No gaps.” Easy for her to say. She doesn’t have a tiny Asian nose with no bridge, which is not how these dust masks are developed.
She started with a rough shape of a spoon that her husband had rough-shod for her with a table saw. It was white and pale. “We won’t know what kind of color this wood has until we dip into the water for the first time.” So she started with a half-ball wood shaver. She roughly carved into the wood, flattening out here, shaving off there. She handled the spoon a few times as if she were stir frying a dish on the stove. “See? Not flat enough here at the bottom.” All the meanwhile, she muttered and talked to the spoon. “Now hold on there, you’ll be done soon enough.” The spoons are her babies.
Then she said, “Here, hold this. Just like how you would hold it at home.” I took it into my hands, and was suddenly thinking, wait. Really, how would I hold this? Like this? Like that? You never really think about it too much until someone is making a spoon that’s ergonomically correct, and then you just have no idea how to hold a spoon. I finally settled on a position just as Jo started to look at me over her glasses, her youthfully wrinkled brow indicating she was at the brink of saying something like, “Come on, now, for Pete’s sake, it’s just a spoon. Don’tcha know how to hold a spoon? You’ve cooked before, haven’t ya?” She marked the spoon between my fingers with a pencil, and started shaving away with a cylindrical sand papering tool.
Finally, when she had gotten it to the shape she would ultimately want, she said, “Okay, it’s time to see what color this baby is going to be.” She dunked the spoon into painting bucket filled with water, browned from the week’s sawdust dancing and floating their way into it. It was a beautiful transformation from a pale, dusty block of wood, into a gorgeous, warm color that exposed the natural grains of the wood. “Look at that. A honey-gold. Oh! See how the grain is coming through here? What a shame, had I known that, I would have made the spoon the other way. But you just don’t know until you get to this point.” It’s a like a surprise every time, I said. She responded, “Yeah, I never get tired of it.”
From that point on, the spoon is continually refined, with finer and finer sand paper being used to finish and polish it off. Three water dunkings, enough to ensure even smoothness, and then she soaks the spoons in her Snake Oil. It’s actually a concoction of mineral oil and wax, but Jo says she always wanted to sell Snake Oil…
I came back the day after to see the finished product. It was beautiful. I had to buy it. After all, I had a history with this spoon. It was fitted to my hand. It was my baby.
Monday, September 21, 2009
The Guy in the Road - East Glacier, Montana
As we hugged the hairpin curves of the road from St. Mary’s to East Glacier Park, we couldn’t get over how beautiful the scenery was, and how terrifying some of the turns were. I mean, how can they expect cars to actually navigate along this road when the 4 inches of white line does nothing but delineate the area where your right tires should be, and steep precipice of which there is no survival if there is just the slightest misstep? Anyway, we were experiencing a sort of elated nausea of having battled the white line and won. As we turned another corner, we quickly sobered up. There, in the middle of the road, was a young man, wearing only a pair of jeans and cowboy boots. His entire body was covered in a film of dust. I could see deep scratches in his back and shoulder. He was staggering across the width of the road, stumbling as he went along, knees barely able to hold him up, tentatively holding out his right thumb to hitch a ride. He couldn’t walk a straight line, would inevitably fall down, and then, with great effort, would pull himself from the magnetic gravity of the earth to resume his swaying. Cars in front of me swerved around him and went about their merry way. I was shocked, scared, in disbelief. As I drove slowly by him to better assess the situation, he looked at me. He was Native American with a wild and crazy look in his eyes. As he staggered toward the car as it passed him, I could hear an indecipherable yelling that effectively conveyed his agony. I drove another hundred yards to the next available shoulder, and Eric got out of the car.
Another car with California license plates pulled up next to us, and we rolled down the windows. “What is going on?” the male driver asked. “I have no idea, we just stopped, too,” I answered. Good people that they are, they pulled over into the shoulder ahead of us, and he got out of his car.
“What happened, my man?” Eric loudly asked the injured soul as he stumbled toward us. I was scared for Eric. I was scared for both of them. I ran through scenarios in order to better prepare for a response. Damn AT&T, I didn’t have coverage here. It seemed only Verizon worked in the remotest part of Montana. So then should we lay him down into the back seat and drive him to a hospital that we didn’t know how to get to? What if they guy was crazy? What if he attacked us while we were driving? What would I do if he attacked Eric right now? I’d heard stories of individuals on drugs having superhuman strength. I was sweating.
Eric and the other driver were trying to get the guy to calm down and sit down for a moment. “We’re going to get you some help. You need to just sit down, man. Just sit for a moment, right here, okay?”
Instead, he kept walking in between the cars, cursorily looking for a way to get in and yelling, “It f---ing hurts! It f---ing hurts!” That’s when I saw that the left elbow he had been favoring was severely disjointed and he was bleeding from a number of superficial scratches. He finally fell to the ground, right onto the sharp stone gravel, and rolled about, yelling and cursing.
Meanwhile, the female passenger of the other car had called 911 and they were dispatching someone. When the Sheriff showed up, he had a look as if he had seen this before. Story goes that the guy was severely inebriated, and had gotten thrown from a horse. Hmm. I guess that can happen out here in Montana. As the Native American continued to roll around in agony, the Sheriff called for an ambulance and waved us off. Eric got back in the car and said, “For a guy to be that drunk, and still be in such pain, that arm has GOT to be messed up.” True that.
The incident bothered me greatly that evening, so much so, that I couldn’t sleep. First, I was bothered that someone could get so wasted as to not only harm himself, but to put himself in such great danger. Walking along a highway of high speeds could have ended up in a tragedy far greater than a broken arm. Second, I couldn’t believe how many people were so calloused that they just passed right on by. There had to have been at least a dozen cars that passed by that man, and only two cars stopped. How can that be? Third, I was ashamed of myself. I was so scared of the situation that I didn’t even get out of the car. The compassion I thought I would have for another hurting human being is far less than I would have thought, and I found it inexcusable. Of course, I wouldn’t want to be stupid about it all, and if I were alone, as a single female, unsure of the situation, I believe it would have been warranted to keep driving and finding help at the next possible juncture. But when there are four of us around, cowardly acts are not acceptable. Truth be told, I wasn’t scared about my physical being. I knew my husband wouldn’t let anything happen to me. Instead, I was scared about what I was going to witness. I didn’t want to have the image of another human being in that kind of severely distressed state burned into my mind.
I thought about the parable of the Good Samaritan in the Bible. As a child, I always questioned and judged the ones who passed the injured man. I thought they were shameful and vowed that I would be the Good Samaritan. Turns out that I’m more like the others than I thought, and it made me search deeply into my heart. Turns out that I learned a very important lesson not only about compassion, but about judgment as well. In the next few days, I would have another wake-up call about this very issue.
On a long hike up to Cobalt Lake in the Two Medicine area of Glacier National Park, we found a fresh pile of huckleberry-filled bear scat, which instilled in us an abrupt desire to sing and dance. The irony of all of this is that when you’re on the trail, you anxiously want to see a bear. Black or Grizzly, who cares, it doesn’t matter. “I want to see a bear! I want to see a bear!” you chant, delirious in your desire. Then you see signs of recent bear activity, and suddenly, it’s the LAST thing you want to see. “Bear, Bear, go away! Come again some other day!” What a difference a pile of poop makes. In any case, another hiker, Karen, ahead of us had seen the same thing. She was alone and feeling quite skittish about continuing on to the top of Two Medicine Pass, so she turned back, and just as she did, she ran into us. After which, of course, we said, “What the heck! Let’s continue on for 6 more strenuous miles, how hard can that be? (It’s hard.) Come along with us! It’ll be fun! (It IS fun.)”
The wonderful thing about meeting interesting people on the trail, is that if you want to, you can continue hiking with them for hours, and learn all sorts of things about their lives; things that they may not have exposed to another, say, mall shopper. But the trail encourages you to bare your soul, and allows for others to take it in in such a way that it’s almost transcendental.
We ended up mentioning to Karen that we wanted to learn more about the Native American people, but not in a touristy way. We didn’t want to load ourselves up into a van and get a tour of “sites.” We wanted to get more integrated. We wanted to really get to meet the people. She mentioned that her son-in-law, Brian, taught on the reservation and hey, she was meeting him and her daughter for dinner that night, and would we want to join them? For sure!
That night, Eric and Brian, as two educators, had a meeting of the hearts and minds. Brian was working with kids who were about to graduate from an alternative ed high school program, and was desperately trying to get them to understand that college is a great next step. Eric’s passion is working with first-generation college students to make the transition to college so successful, they are of the 50% of Freshman who graduate within 5 years, nationwide. Brian invited Eric to speak to his class the next day, and I saw in Eric’s eyes the excitement of a child waking up on Christmas morning.
The next morning, we drove up to Browning, Montana. The kids sat in a rough circle around Eric, who started talking about himself and his fascinating, but difficult life story, and about different things they could expect when going to college, trying to engage them in dialogue. Boy, was it a tough crowd. Teenagers are an interesting bunch of people. They don’t want to care, so they act as if they don’t, but then you can tell that they do and that they’re listening. I hope I remember that if we ever have kids.
Eric talked about the Native American in the road, and how they needed to respect themselves enough to not let that happen to themselves, and also that they need to stop and help people who are in need, that it’s not okay to disrespect another human being. Of the few things they said that day, one of the kids raised his hand and said, “Well, here, that kind of thing is totally normal. We see it all the time.”
It took me a moment to register that. This kind of thing is normal to them. They see this kind of thing all of the time. I thought about how I might just drive by a drunken and injured Native American on the road if it were a regular occurrence. At what point would I stop caring? Eric responded by saying, “Guys, you need to know that in a lot of other parts of this country, that is NOT normal.”
I left the room so I could gather my thoughts. I ran into the drug and alcohol counselor and the school counselor, a Native American herself, who had not only finished college, but went on to grad school at Harvard, and was now coming back to her community to make it a better place. She said, “It’s so important that they are hearing an outsider’s point of view. It’s one thing for me to say that what they see here is not normal, but to hear a person from the outside say it’s not normal is another.”
The other counselor asked, “Hey, was the guy a really young guy? Because I had a high school student taken to the hospital drunk, hurt, just like how he was saying.” “No,” I answered, “this guy was probably in his mid to late 20s, and his left arm was pretty busted at the elbow.” “Oh,” she said, “a different one, then.” She continued, “You know, it’s always the tourists who stop. They’re the ones who can’t believe it’s happening.”
So it did happen often, and I felt a pang of sadness, not only for those who were injuring themselves, but for the students who had been exposed to too much at a young age and were trying to figure out what was next for them, and for those of them who might be the next injured person stumbling along the road.
Another car with California license plates pulled up next to us, and we rolled down the windows. “What is going on?” the male driver asked. “I have no idea, we just stopped, too,” I answered. Good people that they are, they pulled over into the shoulder ahead of us, and he got out of his car.
“What happened, my man?” Eric loudly asked the injured soul as he stumbled toward us. I was scared for Eric. I was scared for both of them. I ran through scenarios in order to better prepare for a response. Damn AT&T, I didn’t have coverage here. It seemed only Verizon worked in the remotest part of Montana. So then should we lay him down into the back seat and drive him to a hospital that we didn’t know how to get to? What if they guy was crazy? What if he attacked us while we were driving? What would I do if he attacked Eric right now? I’d heard stories of individuals on drugs having superhuman strength. I was sweating.
Eric and the other driver were trying to get the guy to calm down and sit down for a moment. “We’re going to get you some help. You need to just sit down, man. Just sit for a moment, right here, okay?”
Instead, he kept walking in between the cars, cursorily looking for a way to get in and yelling, “It f---ing hurts! It f---ing hurts!” That’s when I saw that the left elbow he had been favoring was severely disjointed and he was bleeding from a number of superficial scratches. He finally fell to the ground, right onto the sharp stone gravel, and rolled about, yelling and cursing.
Meanwhile, the female passenger of the other car had called 911 and they were dispatching someone. When the Sheriff showed up, he had a look as if he had seen this before. Story goes that the guy was severely inebriated, and had gotten thrown from a horse. Hmm. I guess that can happen out here in Montana. As the Native American continued to roll around in agony, the Sheriff called for an ambulance and waved us off. Eric got back in the car and said, “For a guy to be that drunk, and still be in such pain, that arm has GOT to be messed up.” True that.
The incident bothered me greatly that evening, so much so, that I couldn’t sleep. First, I was bothered that someone could get so wasted as to not only harm himself, but to put himself in such great danger. Walking along a highway of high speeds could have ended up in a tragedy far greater than a broken arm. Second, I couldn’t believe how many people were so calloused that they just passed right on by. There had to have been at least a dozen cars that passed by that man, and only two cars stopped. How can that be? Third, I was ashamed of myself. I was so scared of the situation that I didn’t even get out of the car. The compassion I thought I would have for another hurting human being is far less than I would have thought, and I found it inexcusable. Of course, I wouldn’t want to be stupid about it all, and if I were alone, as a single female, unsure of the situation, I believe it would have been warranted to keep driving and finding help at the next possible juncture. But when there are four of us around, cowardly acts are not acceptable. Truth be told, I wasn’t scared about my physical being. I knew my husband wouldn’t let anything happen to me. Instead, I was scared about what I was going to witness. I didn’t want to have the image of another human being in that kind of severely distressed state burned into my mind.
I thought about the parable of the Good Samaritan in the Bible. As a child, I always questioned and judged the ones who passed the injured man. I thought they were shameful and vowed that I would be the Good Samaritan. Turns out that I’m more like the others than I thought, and it made me search deeply into my heart. Turns out that I learned a very important lesson not only about compassion, but about judgment as well. In the next few days, I would have another wake-up call about this very issue.
On a long hike up to Cobalt Lake in the Two Medicine area of Glacier National Park, we found a fresh pile of huckleberry-filled bear scat, which instilled in us an abrupt desire to sing and dance. The irony of all of this is that when you’re on the trail, you anxiously want to see a bear. Black or Grizzly, who cares, it doesn’t matter. “I want to see a bear! I want to see a bear!” you chant, delirious in your desire. Then you see signs of recent bear activity, and suddenly, it’s the LAST thing you want to see. “Bear, Bear, go away! Come again some other day!” What a difference a pile of poop makes. In any case, another hiker, Karen, ahead of us had seen the same thing. She was alone and feeling quite skittish about continuing on to the top of Two Medicine Pass, so she turned back, and just as she did, she ran into us. After which, of course, we said, “What the heck! Let’s continue on for 6 more strenuous miles, how hard can that be? (It’s hard.) Come along with us! It’ll be fun! (It IS fun.)”
The wonderful thing about meeting interesting people on the trail, is that if you want to, you can continue hiking with them for hours, and learn all sorts of things about their lives; things that they may not have exposed to another, say, mall shopper. But the trail encourages you to bare your soul, and allows for others to take it in in such a way that it’s almost transcendental.
We ended up mentioning to Karen that we wanted to learn more about the Native American people, but not in a touristy way. We didn’t want to load ourselves up into a van and get a tour of “sites.” We wanted to get more integrated. We wanted to really get to meet the people. She mentioned that her son-in-law, Brian, taught on the reservation and hey, she was meeting him and her daughter for dinner that night, and would we want to join them? For sure!
That night, Eric and Brian, as two educators, had a meeting of the hearts and minds. Brian was working with kids who were about to graduate from an alternative ed high school program, and was desperately trying to get them to understand that college is a great next step. Eric’s passion is working with first-generation college students to make the transition to college so successful, they are of the 50% of Freshman who graduate within 5 years, nationwide. Brian invited Eric to speak to his class the next day, and I saw in Eric’s eyes the excitement of a child waking up on Christmas morning.
The next morning, we drove up to Browning, Montana. The kids sat in a rough circle around Eric, who started talking about himself and his fascinating, but difficult life story, and about different things they could expect when going to college, trying to engage them in dialogue. Boy, was it a tough crowd. Teenagers are an interesting bunch of people. They don’t want to care, so they act as if they don’t, but then you can tell that they do and that they’re listening. I hope I remember that if we ever have kids.
Eric talked about the Native American in the road, and how they needed to respect themselves enough to not let that happen to themselves, and also that they need to stop and help people who are in need, that it’s not okay to disrespect another human being. Of the few things they said that day, one of the kids raised his hand and said, “Well, here, that kind of thing is totally normal. We see it all the time.”
It took me a moment to register that. This kind of thing is normal to them. They see this kind of thing all of the time. I thought about how I might just drive by a drunken and injured Native American on the road if it were a regular occurrence. At what point would I stop caring? Eric responded by saying, “Guys, you need to know that in a lot of other parts of this country, that is NOT normal.”
I left the room so I could gather my thoughts. I ran into the drug and alcohol counselor and the school counselor, a Native American herself, who had not only finished college, but went on to grad school at Harvard, and was now coming back to her community to make it a better place. She said, “It’s so important that they are hearing an outsider’s point of view. It’s one thing for me to say that what they see here is not normal, but to hear a person from the outside say it’s not normal is another.”
The other counselor asked, “Hey, was the guy a really young guy? Because I had a high school student taken to the hospital drunk, hurt, just like how he was saying.” “No,” I answered, “this guy was probably in his mid to late 20s, and his left arm was pretty busted at the elbow.” “Oh,” she said, “a different one, then.” She continued, “You know, it’s always the tourists who stop. They’re the ones who can’t believe it’s happening.”
So it did happen often, and I felt a pang of sadness, not only for those who were injuring themselves, but for the students who had been exposed to too much at a young age and were trying to figure out what was next for them, and for those of them who might be the next injured person stumbling along the road.
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