Wisdom to Hamilton, Montana

The freezing, arid cold air snapped us, like a rubber band hitting the skin, awakening us with a jolt. Brian covered his skin with easy-to-peel layers, as the temperature was to soar in the upper 90’s in a few short hours. He left Wisdom with a trail of little puffs of cold air as he chugged along at 15 miles an hour.

I stay buried under the covers as Shelley enjoyed her daily sixty-minute walk. Once the temperature reached a more tolerable level, I promptly perched myself in the driver’s seat.

Stopping for propane, I gathered more insight into the psyche of the local residents. The storeowner claimed Wisdom’s winters are so cold that "your smile sticks to your face" and I envisioned my upwardly curving lips sticking to my gums, like a tongue sticks to frozen metal. Shivering at the thought, I got a cup of hot coffee. I accepted his offer for a lid, stating the infamous multi-million dollar McDonalds lawsuit over spilled hot coffee.  The owner replied if anyone tried to sue him, he’d just shoot him to put him out of his misery. Wisdom. Montana.

Driving the beautiful route, we soon encountered a herd of cattle being rustled by 3 cowboys and their herding dogs. The cowboys hooted and whistled as the dogs obeyed their commands, moving the hundreds of cattle into higher pasture. The herd collectively voiced their opinions, mooing their disapproval in a well-orchestrated chorus. The herding dogs ran furiously around a stand of trees and successfully found 2 hiding cows.

Watching the dogs enthusiastically perform their duties, Shelley claimed to now know why the dogs in Montana are so mellow… a hard day’s work zapped their energy.

We drove to the grocery in Darby where we met an adorable 91 year old woman behind the wheel of her pristine yellow ’57 Chevy, a further testament to the good clean life here. After a leisurely lunch with Brian, Shelley mounted a bicycle and I proceeded to the tiny but busy Darby library to catch up on email.

Meeting in Hamilton, town of 2700, Brian announced his displeasure with the congestion and traffic. Logging trucks appeared. So did stop lights. The near 100-degree heat heightened his misery.

Finding a tranquil place along the Bitterroot River, we enjoyed the scenery, especially the refreshingly frigid water into which Brian plunged, cooling his emotion. We watched several rafts of fisherman waving their magic wands, plucking and releasing trout from the shallow waters. I was so moved by the beauty, I announced my intention to learn to fish. Hmmm …five weeks and 3,000 miles and I’ve morphed into a RV-driving, fishing, cowgirl. If we don’t soon file our 1998 tax return, I’ll really become a bonafide resident of Montana.