Somewhere along the way in Montana, we discovered the speed limit signs on the interstate said “Night limit 65” with a black backdrop. Curious to understand what that meant, we stopped at a local gas station and queried the attendant. She advised us there was no speed limit, except at night. She cautioned to keep it under 90 mph, but there was no real speed limit on stretches of Montana interstate. Truly the wild west, I thought.
We visited Missoula, which obliged the basis for the aforementioned movie A River Runs Through It. We visited the University of Montana and moseyed around downtown a bit. The next day, up in the Blue Mountains in some random spot off the road, we hiked our packs up to the top of a hill. We discovered a perfect open space of about one hundred square yards to lounge around, have a fire, and spread out. On a wooded hilltop, surrounded by towering evergreens gave no views or prominent features, but invited a fresh quietude of beautiful Montana. We spent most of the day just unwinding a bit as this allowed the first prospect to avoid sleeping in the back of the van since Chicago. And we already developed a distinct sickness of each other’s company and aroma.
That night, after properly packing away our food supply fifty yards away, suspended from a tree as trained to do, we settled into our sleeping bags in the tent. It was a glorious night’s sleep until it wasn’t. I woke to loud steps. I froze to grunts. The telltale sounds of a bear emerged just outside the tent. I shook Vice. “Bear. Bear,” I whisper-screamed. He apparently did not feel it was noteworthy and mumbled himself back to sleep.
The night turned quiet. I thought to myself, “He’s not interested in us. Just the food.” And that food hung high, fifty yards away from the tent. In that silence, I reached down to my pocket, hoping what I had was a knife or flamethrower. Something to defend in the event of an attack. For we were defenseless inside that gift-wrapping paper of a tent. This was, after all, Grizzly Bear country. What I discovered in my pocket was not a knife. Or bear spray. Or a Glock with a round already in the chamber. It was a half-eaten package of cheese crackers. I had failed to sanitize the inside of the tent of food particles.
The steps started back up again. The grunts started back up again. I shook Vice again. “Wake up! It’s a f*#$ing bear!” The steps got louder. So did the grunts. Closer. Then quiet. At any moment, I could visualize the tent collapsing. Armed only with cheese crackers, I lay ready. Vice was not ready because he remained dead asleep, perhaps dreaming about gummy bears.
The silence continued. I slowly displaced another cheese cracker. One for each hand to steady my fortification. The steps resumed, this time getting quieter and quieter. The steps vanished. Until that point in my life, I had no idea that cheese crackers would mean life or death in bravely thwarting off an imminent bear attack. I felt invincible. No survival manual paid any mention to the value of cheese crackers. What the hell do they know, after all? If that worked, then imagine what a comically large “barrel-o-pretzels” could defend against.
Those moments were the extent of my first-ever Montana visit, but later on, we ventured through Idaho, Utah, and Colorado. We visited the University of Idaho, the University of Utah, and Colorado State University. These states provided opportunities for some salty lake swimming, few showers, getting lost in the desert without water, and many beef stews consumed over a portable stove.
