Loneliness is like a specter that haunts the mind and gnaws at the weak framework of the human psyche. Solitude can foster incredibly rewarding internal reflection but left unchecked, it can also raise the hideous emotions of doubt and uncertainty, and make one question personal worth and purpose. This I've experienced. Even someone like myself, seemingly on a permanent vacation, needs a change from the monotony of the road and the blur of a hundred different trailheads and vistas left unshared. My quest is certainly different from the regular 9-to-5 but no less taxing. OK, everyone let out a collective, "awwwwwww." But you can't blame me for not wantin' to be held, locked down in a cell where the soul can't dwell.
And what's the best remedy? Get the cutie you adore
to visit you in one of the most beautiful places on earth for a few days of revelry and cuddlin'. Flathead Lake is, in some respects, like California's Lake Tahoe. From cute shops to skiing, boating to partying, it is a silly good place to be on a weekend in the Big Sky State, especially on the 4th of July.
I got there on Thursday to make sure that I secured a good camping spot near Bigfork, which is ground-zero for Flathead's playground. I was scheduled to meet my girlfriend, Tara, the next afternoon to begin a ten-day dally in a portion of the world that feeds the spirit like Betty Crocker. Tara, who grew up in Montana, was so excited to show me the places in which she used to stomp, that I thought she might pop during our pre-trip phone calls. So go to sleep, the day will change; I'll see you here tomorrow, Independence Day.
The plan was to meet at the Garden Bar in Bigfork on a Friday night. I was holed up in my tent at about 5 p.m., napping in preparation for the expected American binge, when her voice lilted anxiously, "Is there anybody in there?"
She peeled back the rainfly and I peered at her eyes for the first time in three months. I was like, "Me bigfoot, you girl." Luckily she was prepared for my
grizzled grill. Kiss me, please kiss me. Kiss me out of desire, baby, no consolation. It was a Buckley moment.
The next three days were a brief, but mad return to the normal celebratory activities of the civilized public. Tara's mother and her mother's friend, Jerry, took us out to fantastic dinners (Thank you Lorraine & Jerr!) and we all bumped around Bigfork havin' fun. Tara's old friends drifted periodically in and out of my beer impaired existence during the weekend. The highlight was shaking some serious ass to the funkadelic tones of Bask, an original Montana State party band. Think
I'm gonna fall out in a club tonight. Please note the sweet headbands.
Bigfork doesn't have an official fireworks show, so the locals stock up their own arsenals that rival the military's firepower. The funny thing is that there are a ton of booths selling everything from Roman Candles to SCUD missiles, but bottle rockets are illegal. Luckily that doesn't deter the peddlers. The kid behind the counter told me, "Well, I'm not allowed to sell you a dozen bottle rockets, but (pause and look around), if you don't tell anyone, I'll sell you twelve dozen for $7." Now there's some logic for ya.
With rockets in hand, Tara and I went to a friend's fabulous BBQ, I jammed my grill with chicken and when the lights went down, WWIII was
unleashed on the lake. Light up the night, like the Fourth of July, people know when I let go, things gonn' fly. There's nothing like pledging your allegiance to America with a good buzz and a glowing punk to light shit off.
The weekend at Flathead was capped off with a blazing campfire, some good company, and a massive sugar-high from about fifty sticky s'mores. In all, it was all a well needed departure from the cerebral jugglings of a man swallowed up by the eternal tick of the land. Squirrels make a good audience, but they don't talk back.
Departing the din and hustle of a million different agendas on the lake, we bolted for the comforting silence in the hills of Flathead National Forest. The clunk of boots on snaky mountain trails and the accumulation of new layers of dirt in my chonies brought me swiftly back to that comfortable world of the outdoors. But this time I had some shapely gams to admire along the way. A four hour jaunt to the apex of Mt. Aeneas (top of page) was a pleasure most divine. The last portion of the bony ridge which leads to the peak yeilded the tremendous sight of
Flathead Lake on one side and a view of sparkling, snowmelt-fed valleys on the other. Far to the north, the imposing humps of Montana's ancient ranges invoked romantic thoughts of travels to come and destinations yet to be reached.
After the hike, and much searching, we found a perfect campsite in the depths of the forest west of Whitefish. Like the prow of a boat, The Rig plied the dense underbrush of a forgotten logging road to reach our resting point. With fourscore and seven smooches, Tara and I settled in for the night, perfect in every way.
In the morning, I was awakened by the sound of hooves. "Damn it," I thought, "another herd of cattle is mashing through camp." (The delicate illusion of a spot free from human influence can be easily broken.)
We both sat up and peered out of the tent. To my utter delight, a moose and her calf stood at the edge of the clearing, staring at us with languid eyes. The beasts' goofy legs churned forward and in a moment they were gone again, safe amid the canopy of familiar trees. I wiped the sleep out of my eyes and thanked God for all that I've been privileged to witness.
And what's the best remedy? Get the cutie you adore
to visit you in one of the most beautiful places on earth for a few days of revelry and cuddlin'. Flathead Lake is, in some respects, like California's Lake Tahoe. From cute shops to skiing, boating to partying, it is a silly good place to be on a weekend in the Big Sky State, especially on the 4th of July.I got there on Thursday to make sure that I secured a good camping spot near Bigfork, which is ground-zero for Flathead's playground. I was scheduled to meet my girlfriend, Tara, the next afternoon to begin a ten-day dally in a portion of the world that feeds the spirit like Betty Crocker. Tara, who grew up in Montana, was so excited to show me the places in which she used to stomp, that I thought she might pop during our pre-trip phone calls. So go to sleep, the day will change; I'll see you here tomorrow, Independence Day.
The plan was to meet at the Garden Bar in Bigfork on a Friday night. I was holed up in my tent at about 5 p.m., napping in preparation for the expected American binge, when her voice lilted anxiously, "Is there anybody in there?"
She peeled back the rainfly and I peered at her eyes for the first time in three months. I was like, "Me bigfoot, you girl." Luckily she was prepared for my
grizzled grill. Kiss me, please kiss me. Kiss me out of desire, baby, no consolation. It was a Buckley moment.The next three days were a brief, but mad return to the normal celebratory activities of the civilized public. Tara's mother and her mother's friend, Jerry, took us out to fantastic dinners (Thank you Lorraine & Jerr!) and we all bumped around Bigfork havin' fun. Tara's old friends drifted periodically in and out of my beer impaired existence during the weekend. The highlight was shaking some serious ass to the funkadelic tones of Bask, an original Montana State party band. Think
I'm gonna fall out in a club tonight. Please note the sweet headbands.Bigfork doesn't have an official fireworks show, so the locals stock up their own arsenals that rival the military's firepower. The funny thing is that there are a ton of booths selling everything from Roman Candles to SCUD missiles, but bottle rockets are illegal. Luckily that doesn't deter the peddlers. The kid behind the counter told me, "Well, I'm not allowed to sell you a dozen bottle rockets, but (pause and look around), if you don't tell anyone, I'll sell you twelve dozen for $7." Now there's some logic for ya.
With rockets in hand, Tara and I went to a friend's fabulous BBQ, I jammed my grill with chicken and when the lights went down, WWIII was
unleashed on the lake. Light up the night, like the Fourth of July, people know when I let go, things gonn' fly. There's nothing like pledging your allegiance to America with a good buzz and a glowing punk to light shit off.The weekend at Flathead was capped off with a blazing campfire, some good company, and a massive sugar-high from about fifty sticky s'mores. In all, it was all a well needed departure from the cerebral jugglings of a man swallowed up by the eternal tick of the land. Squirrels make a good audience, but they don't talk back.
Departing the din and hustle of a million different agendas on the lake, we bolted for the comforting silence in the hills of Flathead National Forest. The clunk of boots on snaky mountain trails and the accumulation of new layers of dirt in my chonies brought me swiftly back to that comfortable world of the outdoors. But this time I had some shapely gams to admire along the way. A four hour jaunt to the apex of Mt. Aeneas (top of page) was a pleasure most divine. The last portion of the bony ridge which leads to the peak yeilded the tremendous sight of
Flathead Lake on one side and a view of sparkling, snowmelt-fed valleys on the other. Far to the north, the imposing humps of Montana's ancient ranges invoked romantic thoughts of travels to come and destinations yet to be reached.After the hike, and much searching, we found a perfect campsite in the depths of the forest west of Whitefish. Like the prow of a boat, The Rig plied the dense underbrush of a forgotten logging road to reach our resting point. With fourscore and seven smooches, Tara and I settled in for the night, perfect in every way.
In the morning, I was awakened by the sound of hooves. "Damn it," I thought, "another herd of cattle is mashing through camp." (The delicate illusion of a spot free from human influence can be easily broken.)
We both sat up and peered out of the tent. To my utter delight, a moose and her calf stood at the edge of the clearing, staring at us with languid eyes. The beasts' goofy legs churned forward and in a moment they were gone again, safe amid the canopy of familiar trees. I wiped the sleep out of my eyes and thanked God for all that I've been privileged to witness.
No comments:
Post a Comment