October 28, 2010 – Highway 93

I reluctantly admit to the unintentional killing of two large mammals in the last month. A raccoon met its maker on the grill of our Dodge Charger rental car in Halifax in September and a Montana deer succumbed while vainly attempting to broadside our Great West van moments after we entered America on October 10, 2010.

We slipped quietly past the Port of Peigan border crossing into Montana. The US Homeland Security guard nodded us through after a few cursory inquiries plus a close inspection of our registration. He didn’t ask about our last felony arrest.

Two days earlier we had hiked the famous Crypt Lake trail in Waterton National Park. Winds of 100km/hr at the quaint Prince of Wales Hotel propelled us out of the park. A few short miles down the road, in the quiet lee of Payne Lake Provincial Park, we enjoyed a day of foothills primitive camping.

Locals revealed their worm-baited secrets, my rod wiggled and we dined on rainbow trout poached in butter.

Après the deer incident — and despite the ungulate dent in the driver’s door — we bravely carried on into frigid Glacier National Park, the American cousin of Canada’s Waterton.

The clerk at the West Glacier RV Park was lonely, presumably because we were the sole occupants of the park. But perhaps also because he was a six foot four she-male, with sad puppy dog eyes, silvering pigtails, fuchsia blouse and hooped earrings. Kindly “Jan” also sported sagging manufactured boobs and a chronic back.

When we left in the morning he/she was wearing lime green and had swapped out the earrings for Native American styled featherings. The flopping breasts, recalcitrant back and downtrodden eyes were unchanged.

Highway 93 is a ribbon of asphalt extending from Jasper, Alberta, over the border into the US and terminating somewhere in southern Arizona. We made it our quest to journey this historic byway for as long as we could handle the monotony.

Oh, the monotony. The absence of a four-lane interstate fraught with zealous commuters, frenzied truck stops, confusing interchanges and Denny’s restaurants was disconcerting. Instead we encountered nothing but curving roads populated by bucolic hills, fast-flowing mountain streams, buttes, mesas and the high desert plateau.

We wandered aimlessly southward through the fall greenery of Montana. In Kalispell we sampled a mandatory beer in Moose’s Saloon (replete with shell-roasted peanuts, the remains of which litter the floor inch deep) before crashing for the night in Polson — with its great golf course adjacent to an RV park!

Hwy 93 soon becomes Idaho and follows the Salmon River drainage for hour after beautiful hour. Why do they call it the Salmon River? Is it because of the famous big, hungry steelhead that work their way up this waterway every October — the same fish that are renowned for striking on a large orange-red spinning lure. If so then the Salmon River has been misnamed. I didn’t catch a sniff. Perhaps if I had acquired the mandatory license the fish would’ve been more receptive.

Tired and salmonless we pulled into an RV stop. The proprietress lectured us on the park’s strict 9pm “light’s out” policy before handing us each a towel and thanking us in advance for carefully wiping down the shower in the restroom.

I wanted to say, “Are you nuts? Do you think I’m going to pay you to wipe some other guy’s phlegm from a grimy shower wall? How ‘bout you come over to my trailer and sponge out the toilet?” Instead I mumbled some platitude and stumbled off to the john to hork a loogie.

Our stop at the crazy lady’s camp spot turned out to be serendipitous, a travel highlight. She directed us to a little-known hot spring access, unmarked from the highway. Goldbug Hot Springs, an hour-long hike up through a desert canyon, was a remarkable find.

We showered under a 104f waterfall and soaked luxuriantly while overlooking the Bitterroot Mountains We enjoyed this spectacularly serene spot and hot, calming waters in the company of just one other couple, naturalists.

Actually no one else was there. We had the place to ourselves… naturally. On our way down through the narrow canyon trail, obliviously serene after our soothing afternoon bath, I stepped precariously near a rattlesnake, saved the poison of its bite only by the warning of its rattle.

Mid-term election signs dot the ditches of this quiet highway. As mere passersby — foreigners — we’re relieved from the quandary of deciding between Billy Stubbs Jr. and Elijah Mitchell for county coroner. Canadians are shamefully deprived of the right to cast a ballot to determine who will carve up our departed loved ones.

We must also make do without radio advertisements — such as that of KMHK, Twin Falls, Idaho — announcing on a “no tricks, no gimmicks” basis the offer of a “free gun with every new automobile purchased this weekend.” We are a backward Nordic nation. I want a gun with my new car.

We drove into Twin Falls unaware that within minutes we’d soon be embroiled in a life and death helicopter rescue mission. The road sign pointed to a scenic view of the Snake River… and I had to take a leak, so we stopped. Exiting the van, en route to the info center, we were nearly bowled over by three helmet-clad parachute-bearing lads preparing to toss themselves over the precipice to the river bottom 472 feet below.

They were base jumpers. The Twin Falls bridge span over the Snake River is (purportedly) the last place in the US where one can commit free-fall suicide without a permit. I took video as they plunged from the bridge. Steps away Evel Kneivel’s visage smiled from a plaque honouring his ill fated, rocket propelled motorcycle jump over the Snake River canyon in 1972.

Like Evel, one of the jumpers landed badly in the rocks. The paramedics were alerted and in turn called in the helicopter rescue team. The EMR guys up top were trying to ascertain the location of the jumper and the extent of his injuries. I had filmed the whole episode so I ambled over to the ambulance and relayed the good news (“film at 11”). The guy wasn’t hurt.

The emergency crew carefully scrutinized our video then sent the helicopter back to base. The taxpayers of Idaho were saved a tidy sum. Had there been a parade in Twin Falls that day I would surely have been invited to serve as honorary grand marshal.

The odometer tells us we’ve moved two thousand kilometers in the two weeks we’ve been on the road. Mountain highs and valley lows have produced queer mornings and fine afternoons of gay abandon. I guess we’ll tough it out a little longer.

Gerry & Florence