day 33 -- coram, MT to havre, MT

the gear didn't exactly dry off in the heater-less room, but I still wanted to avoid the rain and tried to wait it out. by 7am it hadn't let up much, and I had to get to havre. so a rainy and cold run along the flathead river until I passed into the glacier rain shadow. just on the edge of have-to-stop bonechilled...completely inadvertently (as with everything on this trip) I packed just enough warm clothes to get by...helly hansen long underwear and a sporthill 3sp top underneath the leather works down to about 50 degrees, it turns out. barely. and it was critical that I bought thinsulate gloves in the middle of summer and thought to bring them along. almost enough to reconsider the 'I'm too cool for a windshield' attitude. damn you teehay. from that first stifling night in the tent to this last cover-my-face-with-the-sleeping bag night.

the montana plains come up abruptly, likely because the mountains of glacier are an overthrust of older rocks on top of younger strata. indian reservations are stacked up against the park with spectacular views but dry country. standard markers on the edge of the res...fields of abandoned ford pickups, still lots of 80s american cars on the streets, scattered trailers like the one val kilmer visits in that movie. communities that are heavily native with a smattering of visiting ranchers. a macdonald's full of blackfeet families, a blackfoot on the corner all in denim and dark sungalsses.

when the clouds cleared the ground turned brilliant gold under that biggest sky. sweeping swells and broad swales, staggering and immense but easy to scan, somehow welcoming despite the scale. windmills casting spinning shadows on the grass. no resistance to wind power here, apparently...people who have unlimited sky aren't as defensive of their beachfront views as those usually surrounded by cityscape? there's no way to oversell this landscape, even if I can't explain why exactly this sky is so big. on this post-rainy day the contrast of sky with brown grass was exquisite, and cinder cones on the horizon in whitlash. and the towns along the way almost reveled in this beauty, welcoming visitors with chirpy wrought-iron signs with snappy slogans (in rudyard, '596 nice people, one old sore head,' referring to a 1960s resident with dubious social skills). that or these towns are relatively thriving, still tethered to the hi-line, the northernmost american rail line that's crowded with BNSF freight trains coming one after another, those headed west backed by helper locomotives for the long push over the divide. US2 follows the line all the way through montana, and each town has a co-op grain elevator complex smack in the middle of downtown on the trackside of main street. in chester, superior feeds was proud of five -- count 'em, 5 -- accident free days.

passed by kremlin, which had to advertise its 'USA style' with a stars-and-stripes painted sign, and then into havre (thankfully not pronounced 'harve'). checked into the sierra motel and unloaded gear, then out to the yamaha dealer. then lots of exploring on foot. out toward montana state-havre, downtown for a haircut in a barber shop full of farmers discussing who'd cut his wheat and who hadn't, pizza in an empty pizza-pro and ice cream in an empty ice cream parlor until a youth group on a scavenger hunt started to burst through the doors in groups. I was hoping to while the evening away in a bar, but all were attached to casinos, so I turned in early and slept on and off while neighbors lurched in and out, made loud threats to 'smoke' someone, puked occasionally, and burned holes in the room's carpet.