Sandpoint, elderberries, plums, and RAG's: October 9

Oh, the joys of owning a 30-year old classic car… Butter had her manifold redone back in Springfield, which cost me a pretty penny.  This morning, after climbing trees to reach the gianormous clusters of black elderberries that dangled from the wiry limbs on our route through Montana and into Idaho, we started her up.  She sounded like a Harley, again.  Apparently, there were just 2 bolts holding on her manifold, keeping the guts of her exhaust system from falling into the road.  So, we spent a large part of the afternoon trying to find someone who would work on her in the tiny little town of Sandpoint.  Together, Andre and I must have made 20 calls, including one to the mechanic in Springfield who clearly didn’t tighten the bolts properly.  I was in tears after that conversation and ready to have her towed to Spokane, the closest actual city.  A shop there would be able to look at her in a few days, the best response we’d gotten by that point.  Finally, Andre found a shop, well, sort of a shop—Rag’s (repairs and general service, owned by Jim Ragland and his father).

Rag’s was an interesting place, extremely well kept, clean, and decorated with classic car parts and memorabilia.  It was situated next to Jim’s father’s house, and was kind of a do-it-yourself type of place.  Andre and Jim worked side-by-side, tidying up little issues (welding a piece onto the tailpipe to divert the diesel smoke, etc.) after the manifold was properly bolted and tightened.  I could write an entire book about this guy and his life, but for now I’ll just say that we regular humans can only dream of living such a full and exciting life—from his travels around the world to some of the most remote places, to his inventions, to his connections with people in nearly every small town and major city… we even learned that we a mutual friend, Spoon (Spooner, as Jim called him).  Jim’s shop used to be above Kona brewery in Hawaii, and he would sometimes go down to have a beer with his dad and Spoon after the shop closed.  Now, Venice Alehouse is one of my favorite places to go, and Spoon is one of my favorite Venetians.  This small world just keeps getting smaller! The best part about this mechanic is his ability to entertain you with story after story, but the second best thing are his prices.  He claims that he only needs to make $100 per day to make having the shop worth his time.  We were lucky that day because the woman before us paid $50, so our bill after nearly 2 hours of work (maybe half of that was chatting and laughing) came to only $50.  I couldn’t in good conscience pay that small fee, so I gave him $80 and two generously filled sacks of dried porcini and hawks wings.  I hope that was a fair deal.

After Butter was all better, Jim invited us back to his house to forage plums from the trees in his backyard, and we ended up with nearly 15 pounds after it was all said and done, which we later preserved along with elderberry pancake syrup… right in the bus.  He said the plums would be going to waste otherwise because of his impending move.  We stayed another hour, talking, learning, and listening to stories about his adventures and his life.  I could have stayed forever, but we had adventures of our own to enjoy.  If you ever break down in Sandpoint, or anywhere near Sandpoint, stop in at Rag’s.  Heck, even if you’re just passing through, it’s definitely worth the stop!  You might just decide to stay!

Back to Bozeman: October 5-7

We finally landed in Bozeman after a lovely drive along the Beartooth Highway that forms the northern border of Yellowstone National Park. As we were promised, the diversity of wildlife and colorful bubbling hillsides were impressive, and definitely slowed our journey to the farm we were so excited to return to.  We were visiting the farmers, new family, we met earlier in the trip when it was still summer. 

Now in fall, production on the farm was winding down.  What used to be a garden full of greens was being mulched over to prepare the land for winter. Food was being harvested and put into storage for use in the cold months.  Spring would come again.

My favorite part of the weekend was playing with Lily, their adorable and curious daughter, jumping on the trampoline, tossing hoops, getting prettied up and having my portrait drawn. We cooked with Laura and Josh, amazing and beautiful souls, sipped coffee over long and leisurely morning breakfasts, and hiked around the land and the hills nearby.  Andre and I used this time to process our acorns into flour, taking advantage of their dehydrator and kitchen equipment.  

I also taught Josh how to brew herbal beer, which is always a pleasure for me. We whipped up a batch with rosemary plucked from their garden, and added a little of the lemongrass I foraged with Nick at the VA where he lives, along with a touch of dried nettle I picked on the Mookie and Roger’s goat farm in Oregon.  I’m looking forward to hearing how it turned out because it was really quite delicious when we started the primary fermentation.  Throughout the weekend, we shared heaps of love and laughs and time together.  We also swapped acorn flour and plum bombs for some greens and fresh eggs from their chickens.  Otherwise, there wasn’t a whole lot of foraging to be done.  I can hardly wait to go back in the summer!  Thanks for a beautiful weekend, and I’m sure we’ll have many more in the future!

Buffalo Jump and Cooke City: October 4

The hot springs were much hotter in the morning than they were last night, and soaking felt amazing.  I didn’t even have breakfast before going in.  Today we drove to Cody, an adorable western town with a fantastic new winery, Buffalo Jump, which we were lucky enough to stumble upon.  They offer free tastings, and the pours seemed like they nearly filled the glass.  After talking about our foraging adventure, we got the star treatment from owners, Scott and Beckie. They took us on a tour of their operation, a small warehouse and production facility where grapes are brought in, fermented on site in small batches, and the bottles are, corked up, and labeled—all of this by the hands of Beckie and Scott!  Beckie talked about her experience growing up on a ranch, where her family raised Buffalo (hence, the name of the wine).  They cared greatly about their animals, and still do, being mindful of who they sold them to, how they were transported, and how they would be processed.  It was so refreshing to see the care instilled by her family going into the wine she and Scott brewed.  Not only was it made with love, it was absolutely delicious!

After nearly 2 hours at the winery, we decided it was time to move on.  The drive to Cooke City brought the snowstorm we’d been anticipating, as well as the cold temperatures.  It was predicted to be 14 overnight, so we decided it would be best to book a hotel room, and found openings at the Alpine Lodge.  Before settling in, we cleaned out the entire bus of all potential freezables, nearly filling our spacious room with boxes, bottles, and food.  How did all that stuff come out of Butter?  Andre settled in immediately following the completion of our only chore, and turned on the television.  For the next hour or so, he was fixated on Patrick Swayze, not even noticing when I spoke.  Completely zombified.  This is why I threw out my television when I was 18.  It just sucks you in, and the only point of commercials is to tell you that you suck if you don’t buy the latest and greatest new thing.  Who needs that?  It was the best thing I ever did for myself, and certainly accounts for why I spend so much time outdoors.  After a while, I was able to capture his attention with a bottle of our new wine and  some yummy Bozeman cheese. 

In the morning, I woke up from a dream about the bakery up the street and offered to treat Andre to breakfast.  We walked there, in the cold, watching our breath fill the air with moisture. Me in my slippers, my clown feet as Andre says.  When we arrived, we learned that they were closed for the season.  Next door was the only other hotel in town, the Super 8, and I joking suggested we go in to forage free breakfast.  Andre went straight in and asked if we could have a coffee. The friendly clerks kindly said yes, and we ended up talking politics, farming, and homesteading with a native Alaskan for nearly an hour.  Connecting, so much of this trip has been about beautiful people.

Butter didn’t want to start when we got back to our hotel.  It took more than 20 minutes, what felt like 100 turns of the engine, but finally she got going.   Phew… on the road again.

Thermopolis: October 3

Our quest for warmth brought us to Thermopolis, again.  It was the first time we’ve gone back to the same place twice.  A symbol of being homeward bound.  Immediately, we retreated to the hot springs, were we warmed up and strategized about how we’d get through the cold night.  After a failed attempt to stay warm on the short walk back to Butter, we started her up and drove into “town” for margaritas and dinner at Las Fuentes Mexican restaurant, an adorable little spot – and one of less than a handful of restaurants - that offered local beef as their specialty.  The menu informed us that they killed each cow one at a time, by hand.  They also had an array of organic vegetables, handmade tortillas, and boasted the hottest wings in the world.  If you could finish all 8, you’d get a photo on the “Wall of Flame” and a $25 gift card.  Their secret ingredient, ghost peppers.  We thought of trying them, but the waitress talked us out of it.  Instead, we just enjoyed our dinner and wonderful margaritas that we hoped would keep us warm at least until we fell asleep.  On the way out, we grabbed an organic lollipop… two each, actually.  I loved this place.

Tensleep: October 1-2

Dashing out of the lakeside campground just after dawn, we stopped in Moorcroft at a little hotel where Andre asked if we could cook breakfast. We took advantage of the free wifi and had a lovely meal of fresh fruit and oats, our usual, topped with a splash of maca, pine pollen, and roasted dandelion root for that extra umph.  On our drive out of town, we stopped at a local market.  I took this opportunity to peruse the isles, oggling the eclectic selection of food and food-like products they offered.  I was most impressed by sardines canned in pure maple syrup, an odd combination, sold as a breakfast treat, as well as the wide selection of local products they carried. But, alas, we’re foraging, so we moved on towards the Bighorn National Forest. 

Tucked into a nice spot in West Tensleep campground, elevation 9100 ft, we parked Butter for the next 3 days.  There, we spent our days doing leisure activities—processing the acorns we gathered back in Wisconsin, shelling and soaking them in a nearby mountain stream, baking bread on the fire and cooking, fishing, chatting up the forest ranger, reading, being creative, and hiking around the beautiful lake and hillsides.  The days were fairly warm but the nights were very cold, freezing as a matter of fact, and on our last morning it began to snow just as I pulled a fresh loaf of bread off our breakfast fire.  Butter had a little trouble starting up, but nothing serious.  We stopped for a short hike, knowing we’d be car-bound for the next several hours. Gorgeous 6-pointed snowflakes fell on the ground around us.  They landed on our shoulders and atop my hat, making me feel happy enough not to notice my cold fingers.  We hiked along the creek, taking pictures, enamored with the snowflakes and the quiet that winter brings to the forest, and to my mind.  A quiet mind can hear the trees whisper to each other.  The imminent storm filled me with excitement and, I’ll admit, a bit of fear.  Butter doesn’t do so well in the cold.  She’s a California girl… We needed to find some heat.

Devil's Tower: September 30

Today was Roger’s day, a best friend, a trusted elder.  We headed to Devil’s Tower, WY, the first National Monument. I was never all that interested to seeing the Tower, but it was on Roger's bucket list and it sounded like something fun to do together.  It felt like we still did. 

On the drive there I was wishing that I'd taken Erika, his daughter, up on her offer to send the feather that their family decided was meant for me to my dad’s house so I’d have it for this experience.  It was a beautiful feather adorned with colorful beads that Roger used on me twice to do a feathering ceremony, cleansing me of all worries and negative thought.  It was one of the most beautiful gifts he’d ever given me, a cherished memory.  Since I'd been talked out of having it mailed, I went featherless.

When we arrived, we walked around to the backside away from other visitors.  It was nearing sunset so there wasn’t much time to hang out.  We hiked up to the base, watched some climbers descent the vertical wall, and found ourselves a nice spot to sit and take in the last rays of warm sun. I sat, attempting to conjure up memories of Roger, his powerful words of wisdom, the sound of his voice, thoughts of our time together.  Nothing came.  I sat longer.  Still, nothing.  Then, coming down from the sky I saw a feather floating in the wind.  I watched it sail in the air, back and forth, slowly, like feathers do. It landed right beneath a ponderosa tree (sugar cookie tree, as Rich and I say) a few feet in front of me.  I walked over and picked it up.  The feather was perfectly white, small and beautiful.  I looked up.  There wasn't a bird in the sky.  Afterwards, memories came, his voice and love flowed through my mind and body.  I put the feather in my bag and we started to walk out, now nearing dark.  I heard a dove cooing in a sandstone cubby and stopped to listen for a minute.  I couldn't see it, but I have a feeling it was white.

Hocus pocus woo woo shit. Yeah, I know.  But it makes for a beautiful memory.  This stop was for you, Roger, con amor y gusto.

We drove to Keyhole State Park and slept on the lake that night in a quiet little campground that we had all to ourselves.

Bison in the Badlands: September 29

This morning we woke up to 100 bison grunting and growling and grazing around Butter.  We were in the Badlands of South Dakota, and were told explicitly not to get closer than 100 feet.  Apparently, they weren’t told the rules.  We watched them from the upstairs bedroom, dipping our heads down, stretching, to see them from the backseat window.  I crawled down, groggy but excited, and snapped some photos, wondering if they’d mind, if they’d come at us like they did the poor chap yesterday in the Land Rover.  They didn’t even bother to look up.

We drove to find a nice sunny spot with good views to make breakfast, and afterwards prepared for our long drive to WY.  On the way, Butter got another flat tire.  Her 4^th (Andre thinks her 5^th) on this trip.  A tribute to all those backcountry roads.  We pulled over to change it, and met Don, a 78-year old farmer who works 1200 acres by himself.  He grows oats, wheat, and millet, the latter of which goes mostly for bird feed but he sprinkles it in his oatmeal every morning.  Don talked about the pipe that transports water 6 miles to his house, his 3 sons, 2 of whom are cowboys, and his experiences working the land.  He lives in the same house he was born in, the house his parents built in 1908.  He’s been farming since before he could even form memories.  He also told us about the miles and miles of sunflowers growing along the road on which we were parked.  The seeds were harvested to make oil, which made sense after tasting them—they were tiny and not all that flavorful.  I was tempted to take a few, but thought better.  Why eat bad food when we’ve been living like kings?  Despite our political and philosophical differences, Don and I had so much in common, reminding me that the “us versus them” dialect is one of war, and should just be considered silly by now.  We’re all in this together.

The tire was changed, we said goodbye to Don, and headed to Mt. Rushmore to play tourist.  Too thrifty to pay for parking, and went for a pull-out about a mile or two away.  A steep trail led right up to the walkway meant for the tourists who paid the fat parking fee.  We took in the views, made lunch in the bus, and moved on.  We were on a mission.