Way Up North

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

Roundup, Montana, appears mostly dead as you enter town, though the bars and lone casino will likely serve the depressed-looking small population for some years to come, at least those who cannot afford to move on. I might suppose that as usual in impoverished areas, the women are the last members of a community trying to maintain the financial health of a place – this dumb assumption is based on that Jessica, and I only saw only men entering the bars and the casino here in the still early morning.

While the town’s former retail presence has faded and is but a dusty shadow of abandoned dreams, my research after returning home showed that this little town has become a kind of hub for Amazon. Third parties that sell things on Amazon are forwarding products to Roundup for repacking, allowing resellers to avoid state sales tax (Montana doesn’t have one), and this allows their packages to conform to Amazon’s shipping requirements.

There were more than a couple of shops with full inventories showing their age. Greeting cards bleached by the passing years and old sweaters with a layer of dark grime suggest that the shop owner’s departure was abrupt. Now I have to wonder if the people who operated these shops passed away, gave up, or moved. If they are still in town, do they ever visit these time capsules?

The local antique shop was closed long ago and strangely enough, remains untouched, same with the other shops. That the windows are intact and the doors not broken in might be a testament to people in small towns all knowing one another and the local hoodlums knowing they’ll be identified as the culprits, so they keep their noses clean and leave the relics of former prosperity alone.

We are leaving Roundup on U.S. Highway 87 and spot this “art project” with a For Sale sign. Of course, we had to stop. The phone number was cut out of the sign, and the house is a ruin, but like the buildings back in downtown, it hasn’t been ransacked. I called this an art project as I can’t imagine this was ever really for sale and that the sign was a prankster’s joke.

What an amazing day of contrasts this is turning to be as we left the bikers, Beartooths, and trees of Red Lodge on our way into the Great Plains here on Highway 87.

There were very few cattle out here and only a couple of oil wells being actively pumped that we could see from the road, but there’s lots of agriculture under cultivation.

Damn, we are foiled here on our adventure in the Great Flat Plains that we’ve been told are out here as we spot these hills.

I’m a sucker for abandoned structures as their decaying presence feels as though they contain hidden mysteries waiting to be discovered. The appeal is as strong for random farmhouses as it has been for exploring old castles across Europe or visiting the Eastern State Penitentiary in Philadelphia.

Some might ask why we’re out here traveling roads in the middle of nothing. Large expanses of wide-openness strain the eye to see further while filling the imagination with the potential that something might appear. And when that something emerges out of nowhere, we get to take delight that we have discovered maybe the only thing that might be seen today. And so we continue to crawl over the landscape, looking for treasures.

Highway 19 gave way, merging into Highway 191. Before long, we are back in the hills and encountering the Upper Missouri River Breaks National Monument. The Missouri River is one of the treasures we have passed over many a time and what qualifies it as such beyond simply being a river is the history of the Lewis & Clark expedition that traveled its waters.

Jeez, will we ever encounter the infinitely flat expanse of land where we are able to get lost in nothing at all? What are those mountains out on the horizon?

They are the Little Rocky Mountains, as seen from Montana Highway 191.

Warm brown grasslands offer ideas of being in the breadbasket of a country.

And where do all those seeds that feed us end up? In grain silos like these found in Malta, Montana. We were looking for hot food but only came up with a sausage and egg breakfast burrito at a gas station/farm equipment shop east of here that was pretty gross, to be honest. It turns out that burritos are not very sought after in this part of America. For the rest of the day, stopping at various gas stations trying to satisfy my craving for a good old meat, bean, and cheese frozen burrito was only met with disappointment. Too bad I wasn’t looking for beer and a can of tobacco.

Saco, Montana, has an old defunct gas station that plays host to a stupid amount of pigeons. That mound next to the pump is pigeon poop. In front of the door is another mound, while above our heads in the roof is evidence of a ton more poop. Squeezed between a couple of boards and a gap was a dedicated specimen existing in two worlds, that of the open air and an amount of avian feces I would never want to rain down on me…and so I stepped away from the building and my desire to peer into its windows.

More of those amber waves of grain.

And then, out of nowhere, a mirage appears in the form of a ton of ruins. In a previous life, the town of St. Marie was the Glasgow Air Force Base. Back in 1976, the facility was shuttered, and instead of condemning everything to clean it off the face of the earth, the government tried selling homes to the residents who wanted to stay. Most of the town never sold.

While there are a few handfuls of diehard residents living among the ruins, the school and all the businesses are long gone. The nearby airfield survives and is said to be used by Boeing, but the multitude of warning signs are all from a company called Montana Aviation Research. I’ve been stopped by law enforcement near a DuPont factory in Buffalo, New York, an airfield north of Tucson, Arizona, and a random road north of Las Vegas, Nevada, by menacing men who obviously meant business telling me to leave the area, I take signs for an area under surveillance seriously.

Entering these abandoned former military homes, I was constantly aware that at any moment, either a local sheriff or armed residents might interrupt our explorations and demand that we leave. So, as we dipped into places with open doors, I made sure we kept things brief so we would hopefully avoid being surprised by people who didn’t appreciate our snooping.

It turns out that back in 2012, the wacko members of a local sovereign-citizen movement called the Citizens Action Committee of Valley County attempted to take the town as their own, but fortunately for the people who were living there, they failed. Researching this history and learning of the Montana Freemen who, in the mid-1990s, tried something similar to maybe another Branch Davidians or Ruby Ridge-type incident, I have to wonder about the New Yorkers and Californians who are leaving behind one looney place for another.

To deter squatters, the electricity has been cut to large parts of St. Marie, but appliances are often still in place, and I’d wager that with the gas, electricity, and water turned on, some of these homes that have been empty for 45 years would be habitable with just a few days of work. After scouring the better part of the abandoned corners of this old Air Force Base, it was time to get back down the road as we’d earlier entertained the idea of going further than our original destination. By now, though, we’ve likely lost about 90 minutes to roaming around Roundup and St. Marie.

Okay, I think we’ve finally found the flat part of Montana.

While the sun isn’t so low in the sky to threaten the arrival of the evening quite yet, we do want to reach the Canadian border for a selfie, proving that we’d made it that far north. So we drive.

We drive until another distraction rears its head just north of Baylor, Montana. This old farm had no fences and nothing suggesting we shouldn’t “trespass.”

All the elements of intrigue are on display, old wood, old machinery, old cars out back (beyond a fence). No windows, but there were signs of stuff inside the house as we approached.

The old house is barely a shell, and I could see it collapsing in the next ten years, but that didn’t stop us from wanting to go inside for a more intimate view. Our smarter selves were effective in dissuading our dumber voices, trying to convince us to take the risk as stepping on nails or falling through floors could be problematic so far away from phone and medical services.

Jessica did her best to lean into the window in the center of this photo, trying to snag the old pot on the stove I wanted, but it fell off and became unreachable. As you look at this image, you can see that the left side of the kitchen is listing. This structure was way too sketchy to attempt going in, but we did try to open the door on the right, behind which you can glimpse Jessica. I’m glad we couldn’t pry it open, as it did occur to me that it might be the structural support that was the glue keeping everything standing. By the way, the stove appears to be a valuable antique!

I’m in love with this bed and would gladly claim the frame and bring it home if that was possible. Even the cotton batting that is no longer in its mattress cover is intriguing. Where did the cloth that contained it go? I’m surprised that birds haven’t claimed all of the fluff for their nests, but then again, where would birds build homes in a place with so few native trees?

Over at the barn, I was incredulous to find the center third filled with barley. The closeup I shot of it was taken to avoid all of the poop that was atop the grain. Not only rodent poop but rather large ones (all very dried out) that were scattered about. The grain silo next door suggests that it was last filled and is still full of barley from a 1960 harvest. It’s inexplicable as to why the barley never sprouted, molded over, or was decimated by rodents and birds over the 61 years it’s sat here.

After Caroline saw this photo, she wished that I’d reached out to share an image so I could have snagged her one of these ancient bridles. Maybe she would have restored it and sent it to our niece in Germany, who loves horses but I couldn’t have imagined that she’d have been interested. Maybe she and I can travel through this corner of America next summer to collect a bridle, bed frame, an old stove, and that pot I wanted. Heck, there’s even an upstairs to the old home that might contain things of interest.

Instead of just bolting across the road it was moseying over, the deer and her fawns casually headed to the fence and then turned back to look at us with our window open, snapping photos of this beautiful family.

All the way up U.S. Route 24, we reached the Canadian border, and other than some border agents, there was nothing else out there. With all the ruins and this detour, we will not get further than my planned stop. Hey, Scobey, Montana, here we come.

Arriving in Scobey, Montana, after 12 hours of driving, we stopped at our hotel but didn’t check in as we learned there might be a restaurant still open over at the local golf course. It was dark as we passed what appeared to be an amazing history museum on the edge of town, but obviously, it wasn’t open. We’d called ahead to the Club House to verify it was open while on our way, and sure enough, it was open. Keep in mind that Scobey has a population of about 1,100 people and is seriously out in the middle of nowhere, so this was a real find after 8:00 p.m. on a Thursday night.

At dinner, we met Don and Laura Hagan while their daughter Erin was our server. We got to know a couple of other locals, too, but it was the Hagan family that made our night. Don has been farming about 4,000 acres of durum wheat, peas, and canola out this way while Laura works in the healthcare industry. If Caroline and I should ever pass through here, we’ll have to look them up. Thanks, Scobeyians, for making us feel so welcome.

Deep In The Beartooth Mountains

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

We stayed in Red Lodge, Montana, just for this reason, a hike in the area known as the Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness. Not a half-mile south of our hotel is West Fork Road, which dead-ends in the Custer Gallatin National Forest. Yeah, lots of names.

A relatively short part of the road was paved and a seemingly larger part of it is gravel, but Rock Creek that runs next to the road is nearly ever-present.

Somewhere out there is the end of the road and the beginning of some trail options.

A small wooden bridge took us over this view of the West Fork of Rock Creek.

Not far from the trailhead, we were greeted by this beautiful little marmot. Considering the burned log, Mr. Marmot is perched upon, you might be wondering if maybe fire has been through here recently. Well, we’ve been seeing the scars on the landscape, though there’s lots of regrowth in the area. Back in the summer of 2008, the Cascade Fire burned through about 10,000 acres southwest of Red Lodge.

We had planned to hike the Basin Lake Trail but decided to at least see what was at the end of the road and then decide if we might want to hike a mile or two in that area before tackling our 5-mile hike at the lake. We didn’t have a lot of water with us nor a backpack to carry it in, hence the consideration of a manageable 5-miler.

The trails out here are about 12 miles and up, so with only 2 liters of water, we knew that we’d have to keep things brief. In addition to being dumb enough not to have bought more water in town, we took off down the trail without so much as a tiny snack.

No matter, though, as we’re not going far, and when we return up the road to Basin Lake, we’ll remember to take a couple of energy bars from the car with us.

Though all around us is evidence of the fire, the regrowth is drawing us in to see what’s just up ahead.

Are these berries a type of bear food, or are we the tastier morsels? Without bear spray, I’m feeling a tiny bit vulnerable. Also, while we were out here, we failed to recognize these as elderberries, so we didn’t stop to enjoy a few.

That didn’t stop us from gobbling up as many raspberries as we could. These would come in especially useful about 5 hours later.

We passed a guy loaded with camera gear that told us of a nearby waterfall. That was enough to pull us deeper into the mountains to at least see that sight with our own eyes. He thought we were relatively close at this point.

We were wondering whether we might have missed the falls the guy told us about, as this cascade didn’t look like the image he showed us on his phone. No matter, this is pretty enough, and maybe the falls are just up ahead.

No, we want waterfalls, not rockfalls.

Okay, a lake is nice and well appreciated, so we’ll take that as motivation to look just a little further up the trail. We also seem to be moving away from the burn area as we are seeing more trees that escaped destruction.

Things are becoming enchanting with this giant boulder that apparently arrived from high above as who doesn’t love swirly granite?

Although we’d been super conservative with our limited water, we were aware that we should turn around soon if we were going to make our 5-mile hike back to Basin Lake.

Just a little further, and that would be it, but first, we needed to luxuriate in the shade of the forest that was getting thicker with every step forward.

Well, I learned that this is a tachinid fly, which was first identified by Carl Linnaeus back in 1761, and that Carl is known as the “Father of modern taxonomy,” but other than that, all I can share is that this is a fly.

Indian Paintbrush is beautiful no matter where one may see it. While I could be wrong about where I first saw it, my memory of when I learned its name goes back to our 2012 trip on the Alsek River.

I’ve just spent the better part of the last 20 minutes trying to determine what type of butterfly this is. Google, with its image search function, is great, but I keep getting pointed to this being a dark green fritillary. The problem is that this butterfly is not found to be in North America. Then there’s the silver-bordered fritillary that is a species found over on this side of the earth so I guess I’ll go with that.

As we walk along the trail, the scenery is forever changing, with perspectives offering views that are never the same twice. At best, we can only glance over, take an impression, and keep going; such is the nature of limited amounts of time and resources. The original inhabitants and explorers of these lands would have been able to crawl over the environment to their heart’s content; I, on the other hand am not offered this luxury.

Ooh, the trail is fully green now, so we should be smart about this and turn around.

Have I ever shared with you that my middle name is Moss-Garden?

Come to think of it, maybe I should have named my daughter Cascade instead of Jessica.

I believe the 60% of me that is water senses when molecules of its kind are flowing nearby, signaling me to bring them closer to where their cousins are free to travel where they will as opposed to being my prisoners. Sorry water, but in order for me to walk the land, I have to carry my personal ocean with me.

But look at how seductive this appears. Your cells will dry out one day anyway, so why not set them free to spill back into the flow? Water nourishes all, and if you think about it for a second, why not ask yourself what exactly you are doing to benefit life as you sequester those 16 gallons of water so selfishly?

Mountain ranges often act as vapor dams where clouds bunch up to drop their moisture on one side of the range. Down their slopes, the water is carried by gravity past trees and plants to feed them while also filling depressions and pockets, which supports the various lives that are scattered across this environment that is too hostile for humans to live in. What isn’t captured for these purposes might join a stream below, carrying it to other locations where water works to sustain all living things on this planet.

These craggy mountains are not the most inviting when it comes to the idea of taking a hike up their slopes unless walking on scree is your idea of a good time. Maybe if I were closer to that side of the range we are walking in, I’d have a different opinion, but from my vantage point, that looks hairy.

Damn, these photos suck compared to my memories of how extravagantly beautiful this place is.

Have you guessed yet that we have not yet turned around? We have no food with us, and while there’s a ton of water flowing nearby, neither Jessica nor I am willing to risk a Giardia Party in our pants on the way back to the trailhead. You would be correct in your summation that we are being idiots out here trying to limit how much we are drinking compared to the length of our hike.

Going into the mountains short on the essentials is feeling like my predicament right now as I try to write a coherent blog post about our hike; I’ve included too many photos, and I’m short on words to describe all of this.

Tufts of thick green grasses reflected in the water made for a beautiful sight while I stood on the opposite side of the river in admiration. I took the photo as I knew I wanted the reminder to share with Caroline after our return that this trail is significant for us and that we should endeavor to come back. Of course, my enthusiasm should be enough to share with my wife the impact this area has made on me, but on the other hand, I’d like for her to see a tiny fraction of what I was able to see.

My daughter Jessica is shooting an excess of photos too, but for her husband, my son-in-law, Caleb, who couldn’t be here with us.

If I think about it, I might have to admit to a small fetish with drying bleached fallen tree trunks and limbs. There’s something about the grain, twists, and jagged edges that my eyes find particularly appealing.

Fetish number 2, lichen. I should just continue with admitting that moss has a place in my heart, dried leaves too, and while I’ve taken time to inspect a scat or two trying to identify the fur or berries in it, I can’t really say I’d stop for every pile of poo I pass. Lichen, moss, driftwood, fallen leaves, plants reflecting in the water, yeah, all those things I’ll never get enough of.

Speaking of reflections.

Meadows are yummies for the eyes in my world.

I’d go out and frolic, but we don’t have bear spray, and by this time we’d seen probably three other groups out hiking and a family or two, and they all had bear spray on their hip …jeezus, we were unprepared. Well, not totally unprepared as we are armed with cameras and various lenses with plenty of storage capacity that, if we had to, we could probably photograph a bear to death.

Walking through this rockfall, I’m the kind of guy who listens closely for the boulder heading down from the cliffs above at ballistic speeds, as I imagine that I might be right here at the wrong time, ready to dodge such a deadly projectile.

This is not a forest pancake; it was a crawling fungus triggering PTSD memories from that late 1950s sci-fi horror film titled “The Mutoid Space Creature With Two Radioactive Mushroom Pancake Heads.”

It’s been over 4 hours since we started down this trail, and our Fitbits are saying we are already nearly 6 miles into the mountains.

We are looking for something that suggests that this is the definitive turn-around point; I’m certain that something along the way will let us know that this is it.

But we just keep on going.

Okay, this is it. The path forks, and we certainly won’t be making the hike up a strenuous trail to get to Lake Mary, though it’s only a mile. We are both getting hungry, and we are thirsty which was to be expected after this many miles with an equal number yet ahead of us. The other side of the fork goes to Quinnebaugh Meadows, though a part of me wonders if we have already reached that point. On that other fork, enough water is flowing over the trail that we know that this is where we turn around.

How’d we miss this on our way up the trail?

Ooh, and how did we miss this?

Did we see these flowers earlier, or were we looking the wrong way?

The hike back is mostly downhill, so we are making great time on our retreat, but some nice cold water sounds perfect right about now.

Along the trail, after being in the thick of the forest, we will be back among the raspberries that sustain my growing hunger pangs. My eyes, on the other hand, are well-fed.

Thirsty and hungry I still can’t help myself taking photos.

I first spotted a small snake crossing our path, but neither Jessica nor I were quick enough to grab a photo. Not 15 minutes later, she spotted this specimen curled up and warming on a stone. It didn’t move a scale the entire time we snapped off a dozen photos.

I took more than a few photos of butterflies, but this one was my very favorite.

Seven hours and twelve and a half miles later, we were done with our hike into the wilderness in a state of total unpreparedness. It was great to sit down in the car only to discover there was an extra bottle of water on the floor behind Jessica. Food was also at hand as we’ve been traveling with an ice-chest stocked with what we’d need to avoid restaurants as often as we’d want to. The hard part here was only having a small snack, so we’d be prepared for what comes next.

Dinner was again at the Piccola Cucina Ox Pasture Italian restaurant, except this evening, we indulged in our first dessert of the trip with a tableside “deconstructed” tiramisu. The espressos turned out to be a big mistake, as sleep was difficult to find after getting back to our motel. All around, it was just a perfect day, and was terrific to be out of the car for so long exercising the legs. Just an all-around sense of “wow!”

Transition Zone

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

Yellowstone National Park in Wyoming

On our way out of Yellowstone, we are driving once more through Lamar Valley as the Northeast Entrance Road is technically U.S. Highway 212. Before we get to that point in the day though, we were stopped on the road by a herd of bison meandering from one side to the other. We definitely weren’t in a hurry (nor were the bison), but one California driver showed his disdain for some stupid animals and stopped cars as he pressed his Big Ass Truck through the waiting cars and past the bison while gesticulating wildly at us sheep who were observing these creatures’ right of way. Sadly, those of us who don’t (or no longer) live in California don’t really expect any different behavior from these elitist tools. And what did we get for our patience? This photo is of a beautiful young bison who personally came up to our car and thanked us for not running over any members of her tribe.

Yellowstone National Park in Wyoming

Then that very same baby bison offered to have its parents pose for us, Dad looking stoic and Mom gazing lovingly at her mate. Our fairy tale visit to Yellowstone is now complete, except for not seeing bears, wolves, herds of elk, bald eagles, lions, the largest eruption ever of Old Faithful, a helicopter view of Grand Prismatic, witnessing the super volcano hurling its guts over the Eastern United States, and Jesus appearing in the heavens above. Other than those omissions, our time here has been great.

Yellowstone National Park in Wyoming

Somehow, we ended up under the caldera rim as smoke started billowing from the rumbling floor of Yellowstone. Is this the big one? Are we about to be launched into the stratosphere to get that birds-eye view of the total destruction the tabloid press and Discovery Channel have been promising us for years? False alarm, we’re just passing through a mountain range on the way towards Cooke City, Montana.

Beartooth Mountain Range in Montana

We are in the Beartooth Mountains for my first-ever visit to this rarely accessible range. The southern end of this road is often closed due to snow which has stymied Caroline and me driving this famously scenic byway in the western United States on previous occasions. The rest of the images that accompany this blog post are seriously compromised as the smoke from California and Oregon wildfires were making for poor visibility conditions. The following photos have a judicious amount of dehazing applied to them.

Beartooth Mountain Range in Montana

The short stretch of Beartooth Highway, a.k.a. U.S. 212 that I’ve traveled on in the past I thought might be indicative of the entire highway, and I therefore assumed that the beautiful photos I’d seen from deep in the mountains required hikes far away from the road, but today I would learn that this idea was wrong. This was the first stop along U.S. 212 that was so enchanting that I had to pull over. Mind you, I wanted to pull over a dozen times before this, but convincing myself that I wouldn’t get a reasonable shot left me with so much doubt that I hadn’t given in. Reflecting upon even this image, I feel cheated as we were near the top of a pass in a large meadow, and there was so much more that captured the eye than this photo represents that I’d like to exclude it, but then I’d have to also end this blog entry right here.

Beartooth Mountain Range in Montana

In-person, the pink and gray granite against the green meadow was so vibrant that it encouraged me to attempt grabbing images that avoid the hazy horizon, but without direct sunlight, my camera just didn’t do the job that my eyes were able to glean.

Beartooth Mountain Range in Montana

I should share that I took very few notes about this day while Jessica and I were out on our road trip, and so here I am eleven days later, looking at the images and considering what I want to say and finding it difficult to grab words that will be vibrant enough to convey how profound things appeared. This tight crop betrays the nature of what’s up here, though maybe that’s a good thing as it should press me even harder to bring Caroline on a return visit with the hopes of catching this range on a clear day.

Beartooth Mountain Range in Montana

I shot this as a panorama, but the blue haze towards the right of the lake obscured too much, so here’s the left corner. With this final bit of lament regarding air conditions, I’ll try to move on.

Beartooth Mountain Range in Montana

Every corner up here in the Beartooth Mountains begs the visitor to leave the car behind and go for a hike, but without knowledge of trail length, bear spray, or even somewhere to pull over, it’s not so easy as just venturing into the landscape. If a return visit is ever going to be possible, it should be with the idea that we will remain in the area for three to five days with a number of trails already selected.

Beartooth Mountain Range in Montana

Like our visits to the glaciated area along the Alsek River in Canada and Alaska, I’m in awe at the profusion of wildflowers which have the briefest of windows to explode on the scene before the snows begin to fall again and the days grow short.

Beartooth Mountain Range in Montana

Why isn’t this area a national park? I’m guessing that the main reason would be that the designation would then require a better effort to offer visitor services in a place that might only be intermittently visitable for 60 to 90 days a year. Jumping ahead in our drive through here, I got the impression in Red Lodge, Montana, where we were staying for a couple of nights, that there are parts of the Beartooth range that are accessible for a good part of the year. So, the problem of access might be restricted to the highest elevations and coming in from the southerly entrance.

Beartooth Mountain Range in Montana

If you suffer from a fear of heights, avoid this road. Being simultaneously drawn to look out at the horizon and demanding that I maintain tunnel vision can produce moments of panic as it feels like my eyes are drawn too deeply into what lies beyond the safety of the road.

Beartooth Mountain Range in Montana

Live cams need to be placed throughout the area, or better yet; I need to photograph a couple of dozen or more locations once a month for a year so everyone can see how these places change throughout the year.

Beartooth Mountain Range in Montana

One has to wonder why this road is even here. On one side is Cooke City, Montana, and entry to Yellowstone, but there are plenty of other ways into the park. On the other side is Red Lodge, Montana, with a small population of 2,200 that really doesn’t gain a thing having this road wend its way through such treacherous terrain. That must mean that this road is only here for the pleasure of those few travelers who learn about its existence and need to revel in such extraordinary sights.

Beartooth Mountain Range in Montana

Along the road, we encountered a construction site where a primitive single-lane dirt road must be navigated behind a pilot vehicle that takes us past a bridge being built. $27 million in improvements elevate the roadway over the landscape so animals will have a better path through the environment. As construction can only proceed during the short summer season, there’s no completion date in sight, but when it is finished, it promises to add to the nail-biting experience of being out on the edge of the earth.

We are obviously above the tree line here at 10,947 feet (3,336 meters) above the sea far below. Sorry, but I must lament that with the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally starting soon, the roar of the bikes hauling ass up here is a bit annoying. Of course, to them, the incredible vistas make for an exciting ride, but those who get out of the car and want to spend a moment in admiration of the solitude in such a remote area find it difficult with the constant racing by of so many bikers. Not only do we hear the noise of their stupidly loud exhausts, but we must also contend with radios blaring classic rock and country anthems.

To belabor the point, this public performance of these songs from motorcycles is my equivalent of hearing the Horst Wessel Song on a hike through the Zugspitze in Germany. Mountains are for quiet contemplation, not listening to AC/DC sing Thunderstruck or Lee Greenwood asking God to bless the U.S.A. Yeah, I’m that curmudgeon.

Beartooth Mountain Range in Montana

The expanse is nothing short of awe-inspiring; the scale exceeds any ability of the photograph to portray what is seen beyond the haze. For the rest of our drive out of the mountains, the weather was turning dark due to storms in the forecast, and I just wanted to exit the strenuous side of the drive, so this was the end of photos.

Arriving in Red Lodge, Montana, it was raining as we checked into the hotel, but we were quickly gone to find a restaurant. Just a few minutes later, the rain stopped again, and instead of grabbing a bite to eat, we dipped into the local coffee shop that was closing at 6:00 to catch up on some note-taking and ensure we’d be awake past 8:00 p.m.

Dinner was at Piccola Cucina Ox Pasture Italian restaurant. What this place is doing in a town of 2,200 is beyond me, as their other locations are in New York City and Ibiza. Real and I do mean real Italian cuisine is to be found here. When I ordered the Cacio e Pepe I would have never dreamed that they actually make their pasta here locally and that my dish would be served from a cheese wheel at my table instead of a plate of something they call Cacio e Pepe.

Escaping Nothing

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

From Craig, Colorado, the Wyoming border is maybe 30 miles away, and while we were offered a beautiful sunrise, it was going to be short-lived as rain was on the horizon. Until that point, we’ll try to see as much of our environment as possible. Before we reached the border we had to contend with a stretch of road that I was happy we didn’t attempt to drive last night. Five miles of dirt with a few deep ruts from heavy trucks taking the trek were dry by this morning, letting me sigh in relief that I didn’t chicken out and turn around for a long-haul detour.

I’m in love with these bucolic scenes and ideas of pastoral life, but beyond the terrific landscape, people are living angry lives right now. Funny how decades ago the problem was damage being done by DDT; today, it is DJT (Donald J. Trump).

Always trying to avoid the highways that, while fast, offer little in the way of scenery and, of course, little opportunity to stop for a photo of curiosities and sights of interest.

Then again, on a highway, you’ll never run into a single-lane gravel road regulated by a red light, and you get to drive through a trough where a new bridge is being built out in the middle of nowhere.

After our nearly 6 miles of bumpy, slow driving, we encountered paved road again and maybe 10 miles after that, we reached the Wyoming state line. This is looking back into Colorado at that spot.

What have we escaped by leaving Colorado and entering Wyoming? The same things we left behind in Arizona and New Mexico, just about nothing. Everywhere, there are things to discover unless you’re one of those who feel trapped and cannot see the opportunity all around them. The state line we are crossing is where road number 13 turns into the 789.

We have a lot of miles to cover today on our way up to northern Wyoming, but easily distracted by nearly everything, we’ll stop again and again. These distractions are known as pronghorn antelope.

Looking west, we are near Interstate 80, which we’ll have to contend with as there’s no way to avoid it. But if I turn around…

…and look east there was a train approaching far in the distance. So, we waited about 10 minutes for this multi-engine, nearly 2-mile-long train with an additional engine about two-thirds of the way back to reach us here at the bridge. Jessica commented that she couldn’t remember ever seeing a train from above, come to think of it, I don’t know if I ever had either. I should add when those diesel engines pass right below your face, the power they are exerting feels quite intimidating.

We only had to cover a 20-mile stretch of the freeway before reaching Rawlins, Wyoming, where we could reconnect with Highway 789, also known as the 287. It’s raining off and on out this way, leaving few opportunities for photos. Even though we are far away now from Interstate 80, nothing slows down the impatient on their way somewhere other than where they are. So I just try to mind our safety, and when a car in the rearview mirror is closer than about a half-mile, I pull over and wait as where we are going will still be there whether we arrive sooner or later.

It was just one such stop that I noticed a sign of roadside interest, but you couldn’t see it from the main road, so I turned down a street, and we walked over to read this. Welcome to the modern ghost town of Jeffrey City that sprung to life in 1957 as a uranium mining town but less than 30 years later would lose thousands of residents. A biker rode up to collect his mail from a central mailbox still operating for the few who remain and told me that there are still about 20 people living there.

Another 50 miles up the road, we finally stopped for a proper coffee in Riverton at the Brown Sugar Coffee Roastery on Main Street. Taking a few minutes to sit down away from the car and write in this small town is a great luxury celebrated with grabbing a pound of coffee beans and a little snack. With our goal to get to our next destination earlier than the previous two days, it’s time to hit save and get moving again.

Another 22 miles north, and we have arrived at our destination, Shoshoni, Wyoming, but something looks amiss.

Shown our room, we weren’t the least bit pleased as not only things don’t look like the brochure they mailed us, but we’d asked for a room with two queen beds. Management at the Shoshoni Motel was unrelenting in insisting they had a 24-hour cancelation policy and wouldn’t refund our money. So, Jessica slept in the chair, which was probably a better deal as she didn’t have to rest her head on that filthy pillow.

Of course, that motel was NOT where we were staying. But nothing is at it seems out here. The river in this photo is the Bighorn River, while the area is called Wind River.

This is my daughter’s look of confusion as she was trying to solve the puzzle of exactly where she was, though it might have also been the latent effects of that wicked, powerful joint we bought yesterday in Colorado, where weed is legal for recreational use.

I have a soft spot for granites and schists.

Pulling into Cody, Wyoming, with a few hours of daylight remaining, the draw of Yellowstone National Park was too much to ignore. Fortune struck on two counts for us: first of all, we didn’t have a reservation for tonight; secondly, after calling Old Faithful Inn, I was able to tack on an extra night a day early. So, instead of waiting till morning for the drive into the park, using a park entry I’ve not driven before, we’ll be heading in under gray skies this early evening.

Here we are, cruising ever closer to Yellowstone, passing through Wapiti, when I spot a lone Bob’s Big Boy statue standing guard in front of the range. That’s some loving care out there as someone gave this nearly forgotten icon a beautiful home, mounted it on concrete to thwart its theft, and is keeping it painted so it looks as fresh as ever.

We passed through the entrance of the park but skipped the crowded entry sign as the selfie-a-gogo party was in full effect. So instead of our smiling faces noting that we’d dropped into Yellowstone, I present you flowers and water.

I smelled this bubbling hot spring before seeing it; it’s not a smell I find awkward at all; as a matter of fact, I quite love the reminder of where I’m at.

This unnamed hot spring was our welcoming thermal feature, and though it’s no Old Faithful geyser, it was perfect for me this late day.

Ran into our first traffic jam caused by gawking at wildlife with a small group of elk standing next to Yellowstone Lake. It was dark as we arrived at Old Faithful Inn and found the parking lot packed full. Over near the gas station, we were able to find a spot and hauled our stuff up the short incline. Not that short, though, as at 7,300 feet of elevation, this old man was huffing and puffing, trying to drag everything up in one go. At the iconic red doors of the inn, signs were added yesterday that required everyone entering to wear a mask; back to this routine as things seem to be spiraling out of control in America.

Not That Miami

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

Miami, Arizona

We arrived in sunny Miami, and our first stop was the now-defunct Gomez Tortilla Factory. What happened, guys? It turns out that they closed last February because the business was no longer profitable. After 62 years of operating this little place, the family locked the doors and walked away. It feels like it was just yesterday when, upon our arrival in Winkelman further south from here, the owner of Giorsetti’s Market gave us the bad news that Maria’s Tortilla Factory down in Mammoth turned over the shop to a restaurant/bakery. Sadly, for us, it was Maria’s or nothing as they were just the best. Someday, all the mom-and-pop shops will be gone, and we’ll be left with the most mediocre crap ever.

Miami, Arizona

I predict that within ten years, weed will be legal in at least 20 states. Okay, time for some truth; I’m writing this post in the future to post in the past because these images languished in hard drive hell for a decade before I resurrected them from that purgatory, and so, as I write this in 2023, marijuana is, in fact, legal in 22 states.

Miami, Arizona

If you are starting to wonder which version of an alternative universe kind of Miami we’ve landed in, your quick-witted observation of being confused would be appropriate as we are, in fact, in Miami, Arizona. Since I’m writing this in the future, I can share what I’ve learned from my first encounter with Google’s Bard AI service. You see, I first asked ChatGPT about the Gomez Tortilla Factory, but its intelligence proved deficient, so with some reluctance, I turned to my current nemesis, Google, and asked their AI the same question, and it delivered. Next, I asked Bard about when Miami started falling into decline, and I was informed that it began in the late 1970s but really accelerated in the early 1980s. By then, the copper industry had already crumbled because mining operations had moved offshore.

Miami, Arizona

I’m intrigued by this old building because it appears that someone is still living there. The doorbell for this place at 422/424 W. Gibson Street appears to be in working order, and the trashcans likely belong to this house. It turns out this place was built in 1915 and is huge inside, with over 6,700 square feet (625 sq. meters). As of 2023, it’s valued at just under $28,000, though it’s not on the market.

Miami, Arizona

You might wonder what we’re looking for here in Miami. We are looking for nothing beyond simply having gotten away from Phoenix for a time. Does this imply that holes in walls are more interesting than the city we live in? That’s a certainty.

Miami, Arizona

A perfect balance of decay.

Miami, Arizona

Somehow, this ruin at 518 W. Gibson Street is showing up on real estate sites as a two-bedroom, 1-bath, 2,518 sq. ft, 2-story house valued at $39,000. Excuse me?

Miami, Arizona

Today’s photos were all shot by my daughter Jessica Aldridge, which is evidenced by the fact that I’m being reflected in the glass on the right with my hands in my pockets, and in another couple of photos (not posted here), you can see me in the shot, which never happens unless I’m shooting a selfie.

Father and Daughter Time

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

This is my dear daughter Jessica Aldridge nee Wise, who’s visiting us over spring break, and today is one of the moments we’ll leave the experiences Caroline, Jessica, and I have been exploring together to take a journey a deux into the absurd out on the road. My daughter, a troubled soul, in her attempts to find a direction, is throwing the proverbial monkey poo at the wall, trying to see what sticks, but so far is simply all over the place. Considering that she has an inordinate amount of time for herself, we’ve been encouraging her to consider delving deeper into her creative abilities. To that end, we lead by example, hoping Jessica might discover some level of fun in one of the many things we share with her, but nothing seems to stick. Sure, she’s started enjoying photography and has taken to writing but the hit-and-miss nature of paying attention to it is limiting a rapid evolution and growth.

Roadside in Arizona

So, on a spur of the moment, the two of us jumped into the car for a road trip east with no plan or idea of what might actually come out of our jaunt down the highway. Whatever it was going to be, it was likely to end up in a book we were putting together as a keepsake of her time in Arizona with Caroline and me.

Jessica Aldridge nee Wise in Arizona

I almost forgot to share with the reader that I’m rather tardy with posting this sequence, as in a dozen years late. I posted a few bits and pieces back in 2011, but I was too busy showing Jessica other creative endeavors, and then we were also overwhelmed trying to knock out the hardcover book that was evolving day by day. We’d even recruited the help of my son-in-law Caleb to make a contribution from afar so when he sees the book; he can feel like he was a part of the adventure with his wife.

Jessica Aldridge nee Wise in Arizona

I suppose my desire to lend influence to my daughter has a lot to do with not having the most active role in her childhood because her mother and I divorced. Twenty-two years ago, I followed a love that was never really present between her mom and me. That obviously meant there would be a delta between us, especially after she moved back to the United States some years before I eventually did, too. By the time I was landing in Arizona, she was over in Texas, and her mom had remarried. To be frank, and Jessica will be the first to admit the same, my ex-wife married a half-wit, and on more than one occasion, in conversation with Sheila, my ex, she as much as said so but felt economically trapped. The anti-intellectual stance of Jessica’s stepfather, with a propensity for psychological torture, conspired against everyone in their household (there were six in total) to accept mediocrity reinforced by deep poverty.

Roadside in Arizona

Jessica knew she wanted out of Texas and even asked seriously if we’d bring her permanently to Arizona so she could escape the psycho named Barry, her stepfather. We denied her for both selfish reasons and in deference to her mom, who invested as much as she could to give my daughter the best life she could, and it was Jessica who helped offer Sheila a semblance of refuge, most times. After a time, it started to appear that Sheila was sacrificing her own sense of self as she obliged her husband and his increasingly peculiar behavior. Well, it turned out that on top of everything else, Barry had early-onset dementia.

Roadside in Arizona

By the time Jessica was turning 17 she decided that she was going to try joining the Navy. Initially, I wanted to talk her out of serving in the military as I didn’t see a good fit, but she convinced me with the argument that she wanted out of Florence, Texas, before she was pregnant or on meth. It’s hard to argue with that kind of logic when those are the options for many in small-town America. Military life proved to be a constraint she wasn’t ready for, and fairly early on in her soon-to-be-over naval career, she went AWOL. Sheila contacted me about the situation, but I had no more information than she or the Navy had. Jessica hadn’t contacted me while hiding out. To be honest, my initial impression was that there was some likelihood that my not-very-angelic daughter might have turned to a life of ill repute.

Jessica Aldridge nee Wise in Arizona

Luckily for all of us, my daughter wasn’t taking starring roles in porn and developing that meth habit she feared in Texas. She was simply hiding and playing video games while her then-boyfriend covered for her. Somehow, the Navy let her go without her spending a single day in jail; how that worked out is beyond my imagination. So, here we are today, and Jessica is about 25; I’m not good at remembering what year she was born, as I was distracted at the time by my own dramas. I suppose I’d like to save her from distraction, but I also understand that we all have to fall to earth on our own terms.

Jessica Aldridge nee Wise in Arizona

Help me, Dad, I’m asking for a hand to drag me out of the desert of the woman I don’t know yet! Sorry, daughter, but you will have to struggle, likely for some time, as learning who we are is a traitorous, unmarked trail through ambiguity and hurt. My apologies for not having this knowledge myself when I was younger, so I might have better been able to convey to you something valuable about how to negotiate one’s self, but the good stuff arrives with age if one is able to cultivate such things.

Jessica Aldridge nee Wise in Arizona

Go forward and nosh on the bitter experiences as they present themselves as you are cursed with a curiosity that might get you in trouble, but unless you are willing to roll over and accept an existence you resented your mother for taking on, you might walk in an old pair of my shoes and just have to try everything because why not?

Jessica Aldridge nee Wise in Arizona

You’ve already learned that doing what others demand of you tastes like shit, but the balancing act between self-exploration and the need for survival takes a lot of work. You are finding indulgence at too young an age and are simultaneously lucky and unlucky that you are able to wander so far and wide.

Jessica Aldridge nee Wise in Arizona

You desire to fashion yourself into a kind of Thinker; you love reading, traveling, and new experiences. You don’t shy away from discomfort but only on your own terms. Be careful, as this is a means to finding yourself stewing in a heap of nothing very meaningful. Discomfort and struggle make the wins so much sweeter.

Jessica Aldridge nee Wise in Arizona

Today, though, we’ll go out and catch up with the play we lost when your father, for all intents and purposes, turned away from you. Love and happiness are evolving things, just like adding a new book and another trip to your repertoire of tools you pull from to shape how you see the world. We learn to find in others those attributes we’d like to see in ourselves and hope that they might love similar things within us. Those aspects of becoming human should find entanglement in ways that make your soul sing, but this can be elusive, and if and when it shows up, will it really be the right time?

Jessica Aldridge nee Wise in Arizona

It’s all fun and games when we don’t yet understand the things we aren’t yet ready to know.

Jessica Aldridge nee Wise in Arizona

The enthusiasm of my daughter to find what she hasn’t seen or places she’s not been is great, if only she could attach that to some extended learning about skills that can catapult her further down the proverbial road. Then again, maybe Caleb and this half-crazed girl in a woman’s body who appears to be pushing against the idea of growing up will find the symbiosis to explore the world together.

Jessica Aldridge nee Wise in Arizona

The story behind these photos, if it could really be called a story, is found in the book we put together, but as I looked at it with the idea of transferring it to this entry, it just wasn’t going to work out. That idea is dead, like the body below my left wheel.

Jessica Aldridge nee Wise in Arizona

After all my lecturing and criticism, my daughter jumped into a vehicle in Duncan, Arizona, with the idea of escaping her father; little did she recognize that the abandoned truck wasn’t going anywhere and hadn’t in many years.

Jessica Aldridge nee Wise in Arizona

So she took off on foot, determined to get back to Florida rather than suffer another moment with Mr. Critical.

Jessica Aldridge nee Wise in Arizona

There’s so much we wish for our offspring but at the end of the day, if they are happy, we should be on their side for finding some of that. I think that, for the most part, Jessica is excited about her prospects and lacks any fear about jumping into new adventures. All the same, I do worry about her financial future as she meanders through life.

Jessica Aldridge nee Wise in Arizona

Yes, this was her reaction to the idea that I’d had enough of her and that she needed to return to her husband; spring break was over.